Message in the Sand

by Hannah McKinnon

  “Yes, Your Honor. I stand by all of those statements.”

  “Very good. There are, however, challenges. You are a single man, which the court does not hold against you, but it does place added burden in that you do not have a partner or spouse with whom you can share parenting responsibilities.”

  Wendell nodded, but his will began to sag. All of his years of staying away and staying alone might not be to his detriment alone.

  “You have no children of your own, and I don’t think I need to tell you, Mr. Combs, that parenting is the toughest job you’ll ever love. As a parent of four, I cannot imagine doing it alone, or starting out as a brand-new parent, not of a baby but of a teenager and an elementary-aged child.” The judge held up a piece of paper. “Plenty was reported about you from the guardian ad litem. But I have only one question. What have you learned about parenting during this process?”

  Wendell had answered this question before: during interviews with the guardian ad litem, with DCF, with Bertie, when she tried to help him prepare for this moment. But now he found himself speechless. “It will be a challenge,” he managed finally.

  “Is there anything else?”

  Wendell cleared his throat. “What I can tell you is that when I served my country in the National Guard, which is its own sort of institutional family, I learned basic principles to survive. The first was teamwork. I can only do so much as one. But as a team, I have members who count on me, as I do them, and who make me stronger as a result. When I returned from Afghanistan, I rejected that notion. I had lost loved ones, and I didn’t want to feel that pain again. So I cut myself off from the rest of the world. And as I was doing so, I came to meet the Lancasters.

  “They wouldn’t let me cut myself off. Sure, they respected my privacy, but over time, Alan and Anne invited me in. And their girls—Julia and Pippa—well, they just wouldn’t take no for an answer. They would follow me through fields when I worked, or call on me to help when the horse bucked them off. No matter what I did, they were always hanging around, asking questions, telling me stories, testing my patience. Somewhere along the way, they got under my skin. They grew on me. When Julia asked me to be their guardian, I thought it was crazy. I thought I was better off alone and they were better off without me.

  “But now, after all I’ve been through with them, I don’t want to be alone. I like the commotion and the chaos they bring. I like the quiet moments when Pippa grows heavy against my chest right before she nods off. Even the angry moments when Julia cries foul because she disagrees with a decision I’ve made. It’s raw and real. And hard. And now that I’ve had that experience, I can’t imagine spending the rest of my life without it.”

  Judge Bartlett listened to all of this, his face expressionless and still. Finally, he pushed his chair away from his desk, but he did not get up.

  “I think I’ve heard all I need to. I will recess for fifteen minutes and deliver my decision.”

  As the courtroom emptied, Wendell remained seated. He wasn’t sure whether he’d said the right thing or not, but he’d told the truth. He was not seeking guardianship of the girls out of honor or a sense of duty. He needed them.

  Thirty-Eight Ginny

  Six Months Later

  Wendell Combs was always a private man, but she suspected he had very little privacy these days. He was also a traditional man who did not like change. But he had no hope of avoiding that any longer, either.

  Wendell Combs had moved out of his family’s farmhouse on Weller’s Road for the first time since the day he came home from the hospital as a newborn in his mother’s arms. Ginny never thought that she would see it, and she was pretty sure if you had asked him, Wendell would have said the same. But Wendell had grown up and grown out in ways she also could not have imagined, and in doing so, he had finally outgrown his childhood home.

  When Wendell brought Julia and Pippa home that fall, it was not happily ever after. First there was the before, and then came the after. At first Wendell was granted temporary guardianship of the Lancaster girls while their aunt sorted out the affairs of the estate. There were many to attend to, most notably the presence of a certain turtle in the wetlands.

  When the development for White Pines eventually fell apart, the deal did, too. Scooter Dunham did not walk away from the deal; he ran. The main house was swiftly removed from the Feldman Agency’s representation and listed with another broker in town. But the market had slowed with the arrival of fall and then winter, and eventually, Candace pulled it altogether.

  Ginny’s parents had been disappointed by the loss of the White Pines listing, but they also understood it was the right thing to do. “Your mother and I have been thinking of retiring for a long time now,” her father tried to reassure her. “Maybe this is a sign.”

  Nina did not argue, though Ginny couldn’t help but feel she’d let them down. “You drummed up some good business for us this summer,” her mother insisted. “You reinvigorated the agency, even if we don’t stay open.”

  But Ginny had another idea. “What if I stay on?” she asked.

  “In Saybrook? Or with the agency?”

  “Both.” She’d had a lot to contend with that summer, from the closing of one chapter in Chicago to the opening of another back in her hometown. And revisiting a page from the past with Wendell. Now that page had new additions, with the Lancaster girls. And Ginny was still not sure exactly where she fit into all of it just yet. But she knew one thing. She wanted to stay a little longer to find out. Whether that meant what was unfolding between her and Wendell or taking over the agency, she could not say. She would make only one promise, and that was to herself: “I’d like to stick around awhile. And let things unfold.”

  The agency remained open, and she and Sheila would continue to work there for the time being. Just as she’d continue to rent the little cottage perched on the lake. Finally, she’d gotten around to turning it into something more like a home. As her mother had suggested, she’d put her personal touch on things. She’d even let her Nina buy her some throw pillows for the couch.

  Meanwhile, Wendell had his hands full, and while Ginny sorted her own life out, she gave him space to do the same. The girls moved in with Wendell full-time, and Candace returned to London. For the first time in seventy years, White Pines stood empty. There was no crew to manage it and no caretaker to oversee it. Wendell found a new job on the Saybrook town crew, working regular hours that allowed him to be home when the girls returned from school and on weekends. The girls put their own stamp on his farmhouse. Some of the antiques were put in the basement in storage. There was a comfy new couch, and the walls were painted in light colors. The heavy drapes on the windows were taken down, allowing light to spill in. The kitchen cabinets received a fresh coat of white paint, the ancient appliances updated. Wendell was no longer living in the past. Julia and Pippa had launched him firmly in to the present, and he had no time for second guesses.

  In the end, it was not the loss of two young parents or the arrival of an estranged relative with an ax to grind. Nor was it about the greed of a developer or the attachment of a veteran soldier to a place, and ultimately the people in it. In the end, it was the plight of the turtle that ended the chapter of upheaval at White Pines. The same brown turtle with the garnet-spotted shell that had once delighted a young mother and her two sons who liked to walk along the riverbank in the town meadows. And later, the turtle who climbed slowly up the side of the rock that two teenage lovers sat upon, too shy to confess their feelings. The odd-looking creature that had once lived and swum and reproduced in the lush wetlands of a small corner of western Connecticut and later become endangered. Who had almost slipped into extinction, as easily as it slipped into its shell, had it not been for the cool moss and the shadowy shoals that hid it, protecting one generation enough that it could survive. Go on. Plod forward.

  Around Christmas, Geoffrey Banks came to see Wendell. He brought with him some paperwork. Candace Lancaster, who’d long since returned
to London, had no sentiments toward White Pines. As a child, she did not possess good memories of her summers there, as her brother, Alan, had. But in the end, she did possess some heart. The house had always been part of the estate, which was managed by Geoffrey Banks and herself, as trustees, and since the proposed development had fallen through and it had languished on the market, she did not have further interest in procuring a sale. If the children wished, the house could remain as part of the estate until they turned of legal age to decide what to do with it themselves. It was a burden Candace wished to relieve herself of, and if it served the girls as well, so be it.

  And so, with much discussion and some guilt over the fate of his own childhood home, Wendell listed the family farmhouse for sale. By the New Year, the Lancaster girls were set up back in their own childhood bedrooms. With Radcliffe back in his barn. And Wendell settled into a room of his own.

  Wendell Combs did not take Alan’s seat at the head of the table. Ginny had been invited to enough family dinners since then to know that. Nor did he claim any interest or ownership in White Pines, though she knew it gave him great solace being back in the wilds of the estate he had loved. But he did begin to sleep through the night. And for the first time in years, he was able to go to the movies without fear of his PTSD being triggered, though that may have had something to do with the girls’ preference for Disney. But what Ginny noticed most about Wendell Combs was that he was finally content.

  When she pulled up to White Pines one January morning, Ginny could hear them the moment she stepped outside the car. She zipped up her coat, scanning the frozen landscape. The estate was no longer as austere; the fields and forested areas had returned to their wild state without a crew on site to tame them. In no time the tall grasses had taken over, sweeping across the once-closely clipped expanses. Over the summer, wildflowers had filled in barren spaces, and now, in winter, were the color of dried wheat. The silhouettes of shrubs and hedges were more rangy than sharp. In a way the landscape had softened, as had the man who now lived there.

  Ginny could see him now, a handsome figure in a brown coat in the distance, walking through the orchard. There were no leaves on the trees, only snowy trails along the boughs and branches. The whole property was blanketed in white. Suddenly, a small figure in a bright red jacket popped out from among the trees. Darting after Wendell. Ginny watched as the man bent and scooped the little girl up and threw her over his shoulder. As they ran toward the lake together, peals of laughter broke the winter silence and rolled across the snowy expanse between them. Ginny could not wait a moment longer; she grabbed her skates from the passenger seat and ran after them.

  Down on the lake, a handful of teenagers skated slow circles across its milky surface. They took turns pulling each other along. Stumbling. Teasing when someone fell. All bundled up, Pippa teetered across the ice toward them, holding tight to Wendell’s hand. When he saw her coming, Wendell gave a hearty wave.

  “Come join us,” he called, his words turning to white puffs on air.

  At the edge of the lake, Ginny sat down on a stump and kicked off her boots. Her fingers worked quickly against the cold as she hurried to lace her skates. When she was done, she stood, and took one tentative step on to the ice. Wendell’s voice closed the frozen expanse between them. “Don’t look down,” he called.

  Ginny looked up. Despite the bitter cold, the scene warmed her.

  Out on the ice the skaters made slow sweeping arcs, their sharp blades scraping rhythmically. Someone laughed. A bluster of wind, and a wool mitten tumbled across the surface. Beneath them all, nestled in deep somber layers, the spotted turtles slept on.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  If 2020 has taught me anything it’s about the depth and magnitude of gratitude.

  The past year has changed all of us, there is no getting around that. Professionally, it changed the nature of how my book found its way out in to the world. Gone were the book tours and Indie bookstore events. Gone were the gatherings where I get to meet readers face to face and hear their own stories. Gone were book talks and getting together with other authors to celebrate, commiserate, talk shop. For many months, we couldn’t even walk in to a bookstore and pick a book off the shelf. And yet those were small things.

  For many, it has been a year of loss. Personally, my family lost a beloved member during the year of Covid. My children were home from school. It was a year of the great unknown as the world distanced and waited and hoped.

  Yet, there were heroes. From those in hospitals to those who taught their students from their own living rooms to those who drove delivery trucks and stocked grocery store shelves and picked up garbage. Every day heroes all around us.

  The publishing industry also pivoted. We swapped book tours for Zoom events. Bloggers and reviewers hosted online book talks. Authors rallied. Indie bookstores delivered and did curbside. Books were still shared. Pages were still turned. Readers, like you, were still there for us. For all of these reasons, I am indebted and grateful.

  Thank you to my brilliant editor, Emily Bestler, who gathered her team to brainstorm, share, and collaborate. To associate editor, Lara Jones, always of good cheer and forward thought. To Isabel DaSilva, associate marketing manager, who bolstered publicity and inspired me to do the same. To publicist, Gena Lanzi, for getting the good word out. To Sonja Singleton, production editor, and copy editor, E. Beth Thomas, for their careful review and keen eyes. To art director, Jimmy Iacobelli, and designer, Emma Van Deun for the gorgeous work, once again. To Atria publisher, Libby McGuire and associate publisher, Dana Trocker, and managing editor Paige Lytle. A village, indeed!

  Tremendous thanks to my beloved and creative indie bookstore owners, my author friends, the countless reviewers and bloggers and big-hearted hosts of book events who continue to spread the good word, share the book, and connect us authors with our treasured readers. You came together this year, and in doing so you kept all of us together.

  To my friends, who know who they are and why, I am grateful beyond words. If a person’s worth is measured by her friends, I am one rich girl.

  Finally, thanks must always go to my family. To my parents, Marlene and Barry Roberts, whose encouragement and love is endless. To my brother, Jesse, who has long supported my aspirations and always put up with me. To John, who continues day after day, and year after year, to show up and fill me up in ways too numerable to count. And always, to Grace and Finley: my eternal reasons for everything. I love you all, and not one page in this crazy, raw, beautiful life story would be worth writing without you in it.

  More from the Author

  The View from Here

  Sailing Lessons

  The Summer House

  Mystic Summer

  The Lake Season

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Hannah McKinnon is the author of The Lake Season, Mystic Summer, The Summer House, Sailing Lessons, and The View from Here. She graduated from Connecticut College and the University of South Australia. She lives in Fairfield County, Connecticut, with her family, a flock of chickens, and two rescue dogs.

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  OTHER BOOKS BY HANNAH McKINNON

  The View from Here

  Sailing Lessons

  The Summer House

  Mystic Summer

  The Lake Season

  FOR YOUNG ADULTS (AS HANNAH ROBERTS McKINNON)

  Franny Parker

  The Properties of Water

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  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2021 by Hannah Roberts McKinnon

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