No Beach Like Nantucket

by Grace Palmer

  “She is not your daughter,” Eliza said unsteadily.

  Clay’s head tilted to the side. “The law would beg to differ, I think,” he said softly. It was like he knew how vicious the things he was saying were, so he said them softly, as if that would take out some of the sting.

  “What do you want?” Best to cut to the heart of the issue. With Clay, it was all about equivalent exchange. He was a finance man to the heart, concerned only with give and take. If he’d come here, it meant he wanted something. She should find out what that thing was sooner rather than later.

  “I want us again,” he answered simply. That was the craziest thing he’d said yet.

  “You’re delusional.”

  “I miss you, Eliza.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “You don’t.”

  “I do!” he insisted with a fervent nod. “We were good together. We worked.”

  She couldn’t believe her ears. Shockingly, this was the most romantic thing he’d ever said to her in all the years she’d known him, ever since they’d first met at Goldman Sachs, a lifetime ago. But, given the context, it didn’t feel loving or romantic at all. It felt like the boogeyman was trying to get her to move in with him. It felt so utterly, horribly wrong. Make it stop, make him leave, let me wake up, she begged to whichever deity was in charge of this nightmare. Please, God, make him leave.

  But when she opened her eyes again, he was still there.

  “We didn’t work. You’re a drug addict.”

  “No, no, no,” he said, waving a hand as if to say that that was all illusory. “You misunderstood what was happening that day. I am not an addict.”

  That was a pitiful attempt at an explanation. It didn’t matter, though, because she wasn’t interested in his explanations anyway. She’d ended things because of the drugs that day she walked in on him snorting a white powder in their home, but the truth was that she should have ended them for other reasons long before then.

  “I’m leaving,” she said. “Don’t follow me.” She started to walk around him for the exits. Behind her, Oliver’s voice filled the air, amplified a thousand times over. He was nearing the peak of his show. The crowd was loving it. If she closed her eyes, she could just pretend that everything was fine and she was merely watching her love sing for her and her alone. She could hold her baby to her chest and believe, if only for a moment, that Clay had never appeared, that this wasn’t happening.

  But then Clay seized her forearm in his grasp and jolted her back to the ugliness of the present.

  “You’re hurting me,” she hissed. In her arms, Winter was fussing. She could sense the unease in the air. Eliza heard the first few whimpers that preceded a wail.

  “I want my daughter,” Clay said. His face was up in hers now. It was all she could see. He didn’t look angry, or hateful, or anything at all, really. He just looked like Clay. Like he was stating simple facts.

  “Not a chance,” Eliza shot back.

  He nodded and repeated himself. “I want to see my daughter.”

  “Let. Go.”

  He released her. She tucked Winter close and ran.

  31

  Holly

  Pete and Holly had been busy as all get out for a month and a half straight. It continued to amaze Holly how much stuff one accumulated in a lifetime. Kids’ stuff and clothes stuff and junk stuff. Treadmills and old coats and plates they’d been given for their wedding and never, ever used because they were objectively and irredeemably hideous. Boxes mounted up to the ceiling, each labeled neatly and taped closed, and yet it felt like Holly had barely even scratched the surface of all the stuff that needed to be sorted and moved.

  It was a daunting task. But Holly didn’t care. Because she felt amazing. Ever since Pete had told her the news—well, actually ever since she’d gotten over the shock of all the fear and worrying that had preceded Pete’s news—she’d been on cloud nine. Even now, surrounded by the chaos of a half-packed house and two energetic kids who were three days into their summer vacation, she was serene and smiling.

  “Grady, don’t pull your sister’s hair.”

  “But Mom, she pinched me!”

  “Alice, don’t pinch your brother.”

  “Mommy, he said my American Girl doll had an ugly face!”

  She turned to them, hands on hips, Stern Mom expression in her eyes. “If I have to say one more thing to either of you, you both lose TV privileges for three nights. Am I clear?”

  That snapped them both to attention. They grumbled under their breath in that little kid way, but Holly knew better than to pay any mind. With the living room temporarily at peace, she turned back to the boxes she was loading up and labeling.

  The peace lasted about all of five minutes before the front door opened and Pete walked in.

  “Daddy!” came the shrieks from the kids, who sprinted towards him. He scooped both of them up—which was fairly impressive, considering Grady’s recent growth spurt—and ran full-tilt down the hallway making revving noises like a race car. Holly smiled and shook her head.

  It certainly didn’t hurt her mood that Pete had been so loving and attentive lately. He had an infectious enthusiasm for everything. Kids’ laundry needed doing? Pete was on it, separating colors and darks, running the whites through a bleach cycle. Holly had her hands full and it was getting close to dinnertime? No problem—the Daddy Special was coming up. It was awesome to see him in husband-and-father mode again.

  “Whatcha doing, hon?” Pete called from down the hall a few moments later. Alice and Grady had scampered off into the backyard. He walked towards her, loosening his tie, and planted a kiss on her cheek.

  “Kitchen supplies,” she answered. “Did you know we own three separate blenders?”

  “Of course. What serious household doesn’t have a backup blender and a backup-for-the-backup blender? Anything less would be irresponsible parenting.”

  He flopped onto the couch next to her. She looked up at him and frowned. “What’s that smile for?”

  “What smile?” he said innocently.

  “That one,” she answered, pointing at his face. “That mischievous, ‘I’m up to no good’ smile you’ve got on. I know that one.”

  He put a hand on his chest like he’d been frightfully offended. “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.:

  “Peter Lowell Goodwin …”

  “Uh-oh,” he said, looking alarmed. “She busted out the middle name. All right, all right, you got me.”

  “Well?!” She was biting back a smile but starting to lose the battle.

  Pete leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. He was wringing his hands in front of him, which was what he always did when he was excited about something. He checked his watch, then pointed at the door. Right then, the doorbell rang. He punched a fist in the air. “Ah, flawless timing!”

  “Who on earth is that?” Holly asked, bewildered.

  “Nancy!” Pete called over his shoulder as he went to answer the door.

  “Nancy? The babysitter? Why is Nancy here? It’s a Monday night!”

  She heard Pete welcoming Nancy inside. Nancy was their go-to babysitter, the daughter of the neighbors a few doors down. CPR certified, a student at the local college, and an all-around nice, trustworthy girl.

  “Hi, Nancy,” Holly said politely. “Pete, what’s happening?”

  “Nancy is here to watch the kids. And you and I, my love, are going out on the town.”

  Holly’s jaw fell open. “Are you taking me on a date, Peter Goodwin?”

  He grinned. “Play your cards right, and it might even include dessert.”

  She stood up and wiped a bead of sweat off her forehead. “Am I supposed to go to a nice dinner looking like this?” She gestured towards the old, ratty mom jeans and paint-splattered white T-shirt she was wearing. “I’m a mess!”

  Pete laughed. “You’ve got fifteen minutes. Any longer than that and the lobster is going to get cold.”

  Holly’s e
yes sparkled. “Did you say lobster?”

  “I did indeed, darling.”

  Without saying another word, she turned and sprinted down the hallway towards their bedroom.

  “To us,” Holly said, raising a glass of wine.

  “To our family,” Pete corrected. They toasted and drank.

  Dinner was incredible. Steak and lobster at their favorite restaurant in town, along with a bottle of Holly’s favorite cabernet sauvignon. Life didn’t get much better than this.

  “Think the kids are being good to Nancy?” Holly mused when they’d set their glasses down.

  “I think she’ll lock them in cages if they’re not. She don’t mess around.”

  Holly nearly spit out the bite of food she was taking as she laughed.

  They talked about anything and everything while they ate. The upcoming move, Pete’s plans for the new law firm, Holly’s excitement to get involved in the Nantucket community. It all felt new and fresh and thrilling.

  When the check came at the end of their meal, Pete’s smile suddenly turned mischievous again. “Guess what I found?” he said.

  Her brow furrowed. “What?”

  When he pulled out a Batman wallet from his back pocket, she burst out laughing again. “Oh. My. God.”

  It was the same wallet he’d brought on their first date all those years ago. Stuffed with sweaty fives and tens from his summer job cutting lawns, he’d thrown it proudly on the table to pay for a lobster dinner at a fancy, white tablecloth restaurant back when they were, what—fifteen? Sixteen? She couldn’t believe her eyes. Her stomach did a funny little flip. She looked at Pete again with renewed love in her eyes.

  “I love you,” she murmured.

  “I love you too, Hollyday,” he said back, smiling as he signed his name to the bill with a flourish. “Let’s go home and rescue Nancy from the rug rats.”

  She took his arm as they exited the restaurant. Pete went up to the valet stand to retrieve their vehicle. Meanwhile, Holly’s phone buzzed. It was Judy, the realtor. This must be good news. They were due to finalize closing in three days, so Holly was sure that Judy just needed to confirm some detail or another.

  She was very wrong about that.

  When Pete came back up, whistling a happy tune, he saw her jaw hanging open and all the blood gone from her face. Holly let her hand fall by her side, still clutching her cell phone tightly.

  “Babe?” Pete asked, face wrinkled with concern. “Everything okay?”

  She was so hurt and angry that she could barely get the words out. “The seller got a higher offer,” she told him. “They reneged. We don’t have a house anymore.”

  32

  Eliza

  Eliza wasn’t sure how long she sat in the darkness, clutching Winter tightly to her chest and rocking back and forth in the seat. She’d fled from the VIP mezzanine to the little broom-closet-sized room that served as Oliver’s private dressing room for the night. The members of the Fever Dreams were each tuning their instruments and gearing up to go onstage once Oliver was finished performing. They’d given her a quizzical glance as she ran in, but she just waved and smiled and acted like everything was fine.

  Only when she got into Oliver’s room and shut the door did the panic attack truly set in.

  It was a flashback to almost exactly a year ago, when this precise thing was happened. Then, she’d been freaking out over the prospect of being pregnant while trapped in a loveless engagement. Clay seemed to have a borderline sinister sense of timing, showing up here, tonight, and sending her spiraling back down into the darkness she’d spent twelve months scratching and clawing her way out of.

  “He’s not taking my baby. He’s not taking my baby.” She said that to herself over and over, like a mantra. Saying that made it feel real. It was like swinging a torch at the wolf-like bad thoughts that kept trying to crowd into her brain. Those wolves were all the many ways in which it was, in fact, possible for him to take her baby. He was Winter’s father. He was employed. He had rights. Even if family courts would favor a mother, Eliza knew well that Clay would hire the most expensive lawyer he could and wring her dry until he got what he wanted. He was relentless in that way.

  And his sights had now landed on her.

  Winter, thank the Lord, had fallen asleep after just a few minutes of a minor meltdown. Eliza’s frayed nerves couldn’t handle dealing with both a crying baby and a vengeful ex. So the only sound in the room was Eliza’s panicked breathing, the squeak of the chair as she shifted her weight back and forth, and her repeated words, mumbled at breakneck speed over and over.

  “He’s not taking my baby. He’s not taking my baby.”

  The door opened a little while later. Oliver stuck his head in. When his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he realized it was Eliza and Winter sitting in there. He breathed out a sigh of relief. “Jesus, babe, I’ve been looking everywhere for you. No one knew where you went. Are you okay? What’s happening?” He flicked a switch and the fluorescent lights overhead shimmied into life.

  Eliza squinted her eyes against the sudden intrusion. She looked up at Oliver and said, “He’s not taking my baby.”

  “Liza, what? What’s happening?” He came over and knelt next to her, grabbing her hand in his. “Your hands are freezing. Are you okay?”

  Only when his skin met hers did she realize how badly she was trembling.

  “Clay was here.”

  Oliver’s eyes bulged. “What? Here? How—I mean, why? What?”

  “He found me. I don’t know how. It doesn’t really matter. He said he wants Winter.”

  He stiffened. She felt the news hit him like a car crash. Or maybe that’s just how it felt to her, because his face actually didn’t change that much. “You’re scared,” he said. It was half a guess and half a diagnosis. “You need to breathe, babe.”

  “He’s not taking my baby.”

  “Babe, babe, shh,” Oliver said. He stood and cradled Eliza’s head against his torso, smoothing her hair back in a calming repetitive motion. “Take it easy.”

  It suddenly felt very important for Oliver to agree with her. She wasn’t sure why. It didn’t really make any sense. But it would mean everything in the world if he could just look at her and say, No, he’s not taking your baby.

  “He’s not taking my baby. Right? He’s not. Say he’s not. Please say he’s not.”

  “Shh, babe,” he repeated. He kept smoothing back her hair. “Just breathe for a while.”

  “Say it, Oliver. I need you to say it.”

  “Say what?”

  “Say that Clay is not taking my baby away from me.” She was staring at him with wide Bambi eyes, searching his face. Why was he not answering her? Why did he look so—haunted? Uncomfortable? Frozen? She wasn’t sure what the word was, but he didn’t look the way she wanted and expected him to look, which was comforting, reassuring, confident.

  “I can’t.”

  What? “What?”

  “I can’t say that.”

  “Why not?” She wanted to scream, punch him, shake him until he said the words she so desperately needed him to say. If Oliver just said everything was okay, then she would be able to believe him and breathe normally again. Her heart rate would come down. Her skin would stop alternating between hot and cold, hot and cold.

  “Because he’s her father. He has a right to see her, too.”

  Her blood was frozen. She could almost swear that there were ice floes in her veins. Had the air in the room gotten colder? Why did she suddenly have goose bumps pricking up along her arms, the backs of her thighs, the nape of her neck? “What are you talking about?” she whispered.

  “Every child deserves to have a father, if that’s possible.”

  Oliver had knelt again, so that he was eye level with Eliza in her chair. He’d let go of her hand, too, she realized. “Oliver, please tell me something different. Anything but what you’re saying.”

  “I’m saying what I really believe,” he answered firmly. “Eve
ry child deserves to have a father. If Clay is her father, then he has a right to her. And you owe it to Winter to give that to her. That chance. That relationship.”

  “You—You’re …”

  “No,” he cut her off, shaking his head. “I can’t. I’m not.”

  “Oliver, please …”

  He raised a palm up to her. “I mean what I’m saying. I wish I had that chance.”

  “What are you …”

  “I’ve never told you any of this,” he said, with the tone of someone staring down the barrel of their past, “but I’m not actually from Connecticut. I grew up there, mostly, but that’s not where I’m from.”

  Eliza held her breath. Her world had narrowed down to this—the warmth of Winter sleeping against her chest contrasted with the frigid air in the room, and Oliver’s words, slipping one by one from him like he was fighting a losing war against the story trying to burst from his chest.

  “I was abandoned. I had a drug addict mom and dad. They didn’t want me. They left me. A dumpster or a fire station, I’m not sure, the story changed every time I heard it. Doesn’t really matter though. They gave me up like trash. I went into foster care. It was … ugly. I was one of the lucky ones, though. I got adopted sooner rather than later. You pass age eight or so and it gets near impossible to get out of there. But I got lucky.”

  He’d always told her he came from a lower-middle-class family in Connecticut. “Nothing notable” were his exact words whenever she pried into his past. “Not worth talking about.” She’d always figured it was just one of those Oliver eccentricities. A forward-looking kind of man. Now, she saw that there was in fact a story in his past. One he was ashamed of.