by Grace Palmer
Then it was just her and Cecilia.
Oh, no.
She looked down at her lap. What happened next surprised her.
She got mad.
Holly could count on two hands the number of times she’d really blown her top in the last few years. She was a calm person by nature, and when she did get upset, she was more prone to tears than anger.
This was an exception to the rule. She was seated here, under her sister’s roof, with a woman who had stolen from her. A rude, nasty woman. Maybe she shouldn’t say quite everything that was on her mind with regard to Cecilia, seeing as how that included a few choice words about the kind of person who steals a home under contract or insults a realtor to their face. The two of them had husbands who worked together, after all. This certainly wouldn’t be the last time they interacted.
But Holly couldn’t let sleeping dogs lie.
“I like your home very much,” she began in a low voice.
Cecilia looked over to her. “Oh?”
“Yes, quite a lot. In fact, Pete and I were going to purchase the very same one.”
“Is that a fact?” Up until this moment, Holly hadn’t ever fully understood the phrase “talking down one’s nose.” Now, though, she saw exactly what it meant. Cecilia had her chin tilted high and was gazing at Holly with equal parts curiosity and disdain. Almost like a “Why is this person talking to me?” kind of look.
“Yes, it is a fact. We were going to purchase it, until someone else came in and convinced our seller to pull out of an agreed-upon deal.”
Cecilia folded her hands on the white tablecloth and leaned forward. “Do you expect me to apologize, Mrs. Goodwin?”
Holly gritted her teeth. Her spine was an iron-rod, her hands were clamps, squeezing the daylights out of the arms on her chair. She’d never hated someone as much as she hated this woman right now. “That’d be a start,” she snapped.
To her shock, Cecilia just laughed. It was an ugly, grating sound, like throwing silverware down the garbage disposal. “I will not apologize for getting what I wanted.”
“You stole something that wasn’t yours.”
“I paid a fair price for a home I desired. I see nothing wrong with my actions. If you wanted it so badly, you should’ve tried harder.”
“We had a deal. You swept in like the Wicked Witch of the West and snatched it away.”
“You’ll have to try harder if you want to rattle me, love. That is hardly the nastiest name I’ve ever been called,” she remarked. “If you are going to be such a petty child, I don’t think you and I will get along very well.”
Breathe. Breathe. Okay, forget that. “If you are going to be such a heartless wench, I don’t think we will, either.” The words felt so. freaking. good. coming out of Holly’s mouth. Like a bullwhip, lashing through the air with vicious intent.
But Cecilia merely laughed again. It was just as jarring the second time around. Holly winced. She leaned forward and fixed Holly with the coldest glare she’d ever seen. “If you are this upset about me getting that house, then I suggest you watch what you say to me. I am capable of doing much more to get the things I want.” She straightened back up and sniffed. “Heaven forbid that our paths should cross again. I don’t think you’d be very happy with the result.”
Billy came back before Holly could figure out what to say to that. He sat down in his chair with the groaning oomph that every big man Holly had ever met seemed to do. Then he grinned at the two ladies who sat staring daggers at each other across the table. “You ladies getting along already, I’m sure? Beautiful! Best friends forever. Here’s to Nantucket!”
He raised his glass to the center of the table. Pete strolled up just then and sat down with a weak smile. He must’ve seen the fury on Holly’s face instantly, because the smile disappeared as fast it had come. Like it or not, though, Billy’s glass was hanging in the air, waiting for them. So Holly and Pete clinked their glasses together and echoed, “To Nantucket.”
Holly drained her wine and immediately flagged down the waiter for another.
It was going to take a long time to calm down from this night.
46
Sara
The frenzied dance of a restaurant in the middle of a dinner service reached its crescendo and then began the slow unwinding towards close. Sara let the work consume her thoughts. Just cook, coordinate, take dishes out, greet guests. There was plenty to do. She didn’t have to think about Gavin’s disgusting offer if she didn’t want to.
But how could she ignore it? He was there at the end of the bar every time she looked over. He looked so utterly wrong sitting in her restaurant. He didn’t belong here; he’d forced himself in.
Everything she’d ever loved hung in the balance of this one stupid decision. Say yes or say no? Keep the key or throw it back in his face?
How could she choose?
As she thought, her anger bubbled up. She sliced a little harder during the periods where she was helping out on the prep line. She scrubbed harder when she was lending the dishwasher her aid. When she shook the hands of her guests, she squeezed a little tighter and spoke a little firmer. She could feel the steam building in her chest.
The little bull was raging.
Guests began to leave, one by one, thanking her profusely and lavishing her with compliments. This was supposed to be a night of celebration and triumph. Of pride. Of family.
But Gavin had stolen that moment away from her.
Suddenly, the decision crystallized in her head. She couldn’t ignore the guilt over what would happen if the restaurant failed and wasted away Mom’s money with it. That was a problem for tomorrow. If she failed, she failed, and she would do that on her own terms. She didn’t need Gavin’s help and she didn’t fear his threats. Not anymore.
He no longer held any power over her.
The trickle of departing guests continued until there were just a few scattered tables left. She saw the dining room staff clear away the plates in front of Martin Hogan and Gavin. Whether they looked satisfied or displeased, she didn’t care. Let them think what they wanted. She knew her worth.
Now was as good a time as any for doing what she wanted to do. She marched up to Gavin and said his name. He looked at her and grinned broadly. Oh, how she had once swooned over that grin! It used to mean the world and more to her.
Now—nothing.
Sara grabbed Gavin’s hand, turned it palm up, and slapped the room key down in his grasp. She kept a tight hold on his wrist as she looked him in the eye and hissed, with as much icy ferocity as she could muster, “Never come to my island again.”
When all the guests were gone, the staff was dismissed, and the lights were turned off, Sara stood in the silence and darkness of her restaurant, closed her eyes, and breathed.
She could still smell the food. The brine of the lobster, the tomato tang of pasta sauce. That sticky malaise of beer, cut through by the tannin acidity of a beautiful cabernet wine blend. It was intoxicating. She’d built this, brought it to life, and now she had earned the right to stand in the midst of it all and just breathe.
So what if it all ended tomorrow? She’d made her choice and she knew deep in her soul that it was one she could live with. She would not fail; she felt that so powerfully and confidently. But even if she did—even if Gavin and the rest of the world teamed up to drag her down—she would be okay. She would hold her head high.
No matter what happened next, Sara Benson had already won.
But there was something else she wanted to do tonight. Stepping back into the kitchen, she hurriedly put a pile of leftovers into a Styrofoam box and wrapped it in plastic wrap. Then she scurried back outside, pulling the back door closed behind her. It locked into place with a clink, and she smiled at the memory of a week ago. She dashed through the rain to her car and got in, shivering from the damp.
The engine coughed to life. Sara pulled out, headlights slashing through the precipitation, as she drove down the road.
&nb
sp; When she pulled up in front of the fire station, she hesitated for just a moment. There was just a tiny droplet of doubt mixed amongst the ocean of emotions roiling in her stomach right now. What if this turned out badly, too? She’d made so many mistakes over the last year. Could she survive another one?
The answer came from deep within her. Yes. She could handle anything. Gavin. Russell. Heartbreak. Shame. Building something from scratch and throwing it out into the world like a kite into heavy wind. If it flew, it flew. If it crashed, it crashed.
But she couldn’t spend the rest of her life afraid of flying it to begin with.
So she grabbed the Styrofoam takeout box and went up to the front door of the fire station. She rang the doorbell and waited with bated breath. Footsteps approached from the other side. The door swung inward to reveal Joey Burton, the rook, standing there with a surprised look on his face.
“Chef Sara!” he exclaimed, taken aback. He checked his watch. “It’s awfully late. What’re you doing here?”
She stuck out the box of food towards him. “Since you’re always hungry, I thought I’d bring you some food.”
He looked down at the box, then back up at her. His grin was broad and infectious. Sara felt something she hadn’t felt in some time—butterflies in her stomach. Not fear, not anxiety. Just the butterflies of maybe, maybe, maybe. That was a good thing.
“Do you want to come in?” he said.
“Yeah,” Sara told him, returning his smile. “I’d like that.”
47
Brent
The truck hung in the air for what seemed like forever.
And then all four wheels slammed back into the ground, the engine roared, and the vehicle straightened out.
It gripped the road again and bore him away towards Rose’s house.
He didn’t die. He didn’t flip the car.
He just kept driving towards the place he’d always been meant to go.
A few quick turns later, he pulled up in front of Rose’s house. He was out of the vehicle before it had even come to a stop. He left the keys in the ignition, engine running. He’d get it later. It didn’t matter right now.
He ran up to the door in five quick bounds. He pounded on it, closed fist, as loud as he could. “Rose!” he bellowed. “Rose!” He could barely hear himself amidst the rain on the eaves overhead. Maybe she wasn’t home. Maybe she couldn’t hear him. Maybe she was out on a date with another man, embarking on her own happily ever after that didn’t involve him, or maybe she just didn’t want to answer the door at all.
Those questions and a million more ran through Brent’s head in seconds flat.
Then the door opened.
“Brent?” gasped Rose. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“You made a mistake,” he said. The words fell out of his mouth like he’d been meant to say them for his whole life. Like they were prewritten and he was just reading the lines he’d been given. “We both did. Because I’m vulnerable too, you know. Just like you. My heart’s been broken, just like yours. But I can’t let this go, Rose. I just can’t. I know I’m stubborn as a mule sometimes, and you’ve got every right to kick me off your front step. That’s just fine if you do; I understand. But there’s something between us that’s worth risking everything. I can’t ignore it. I can’t let it go.”
She said nothing, just stared at him with her mouth hanging open.
“You don’t have to say a word,” he continued. “Just shake your head yes or no. You say no and I’ll be gone. You won’t ever hear from me again. But you gotta give me something. I need more than a letter. I need an answer. A real one. Right here and right now.”
It felt like the world hung in the balance as he waited. Rose looked frozen in place.
“Brent …”
That was all the answer he needed. He stepped forward, soaked to the bone from the endless Nantucket summer rain, pulled Rose into his arms, and kissed her.
Her kiss tasted like coming home.
48
Mae
Brent’s sudden departure had left Mae sitting at the table alone. Truth be told, she didn’t mind having a second to sit and think, though she was of course worried about where her son had jetted off to.
Her mind was full as it was. Dr. Hoffman had left two days prior, thank heavens, but the stress of his week-plus stay at the Sweet Island Inn—and all the other horrors that had accompanied him—were still wreaking havoc on her sanity. She felt frazzled in a soul-deep kind of way. Little things made her jump—plates clicking too hard, an unexpected laugh from the table behind her. She tried to smile her way through it. She’d spent her whole life doing just that, after all. But sometimes smiling through it wasn’t enough. She needed something else to calm her down. Something more.
She needed Dominic.
She had neither seen nor heard from him since he left. That in itself was hard on her heart. She thought perhaps he’d call. He wasn’t a texter—“the written word deserves better,” was his concise summary judgment of the whole concept of text messaging. But a phone call or a postcard would have put such a smile on her face. If only. That would’ve been nice.
Of more concern was the fact that he had said he would be gone for six weeks, but they were nearing eight weeks since his departure and he still had not reappeared. Was something wrong? A car accident, a heart attack, one more cruel twist of fate thrown in Mae’s face? If something had happened, would she ever even find out about it? Who would think to call her—his innkeeper? What even was she to him? “A treasured friend.” They’d said that to each other before. Maybe the news of some unspeakable tragedy would eventually wind its way to her. But she had no choice but to sit and wait.
Sitting and waiting was the worst.
Mae had enjoyed the last of her dinner alone. She had checked in on Holly’s table a few minutes before Brent had left. Her middle daughter seemed awfully flustered. Mae suspected it had something to do with the couple she and Pete were dining with. The man appeared friendly enough—he certainly laughed loudly, though—but the woman he was with had a tight, puckered face like she had just tasted something quite sour. Mae was never one to judge a book by its cover, but something about that woman unsettled her.
Sara, too, seemed to have problems swirling beneath the surface, though it could have easily just been the stress of opening night. Mae didn’t know much about restaurants, but to her eyes, this had been a resounding success. The room was filled with the “mm” and “ahh” of satisfied diners. The food looked gorgeous; the décor was fabulous. She was so proud of her daughter. Sara, though, did not seem quite as pleased. Mae would have to find out later what was troubling her girls.
All of her children, actually. Brent, Holly, and Sara all looked to be so disturbed this evening. It was as though the storm had brought bad vibes washing over this little island. Her mind went out to Eliza. She hoped her eldest was happy. That had been quite the doozy of a phone call to receive. She and Oliver had made up, apparently, and gone flying off to Bermuda, of all places. And something about a proposal … It all sounded very exciting, but they hadn’t had much time for conversation.
The world was just moving so fast these days. Mae wanted to close her eyes and pause everything for a moment. She missed the slow pace of her life from years ago. She had always known that her children would grow up and live rich lives of their own, full of drama, triumph, tragedy. But it was one thing to know that and quite another thing entirely to see it firsthand. There was also the fact that her steadying rock was no longer with her. She was alone, or so it felt.
And she just felt so tired.
When Sara came back around again, Mae beckoned her over for just a moment. “I think I’ll go home now,” she said. “I’m feeling so tired all the sudden. Do you mind having one of your staff call a taxi for me?”
“Of course, Mom,” Sara said.
She looked concerned, but Mae waved her off. “I’m fine, dear. Just sleepy, that’s all.” Fortunately, there
were no guests booked at the inn tonight. Mae would be able to rest easily. She might even sleep in! Oh, who was she kidding—that was never going to happen. But the thought was reassuring in its own strange way.
A few minutes later, Cassandra, the hostess, came over and guided Mae to the taxi. Mae thanked her profusely. She was such a nice girl. Mae was really very fond of all the staff Sara had chosen.
The taxi brought her home to the Sweet Island Inn. She paid the driver and thanked him. But when she went inside and hit the light switch, nothing happened. Mae frowned. She went and checked the circuit breaker in the basement and found to her surprise that the power was out. “Oh, goodness me,” she mumbled under her breath. The storm must have knocked a tree into a power line or something like that. What fortuitous timing that Dr. Hoffman was gone. He would’ve had a field day with this latest complication.
Mae lit a candle and carried it up to her bedroom. She brushed her teeth and washed her face by the light of the quiet, flickering flame. Outside, she heard the rain slow down. By the time she was ready for bed, it had stopped altogether. What a miraculous sound that was! All week long, the rain had devastated the island. She had come to accept the sound of raindrops crashing into the roof as a permanent fixture in her life.
Now, it was gone. The clouds broke apart faster than expected, leaving slats of moonlight shining down. One came in through the space between her curtains, casting a soft white light throughout the room.
Mae blew out the candle and laid down to go to sleep.
But sleep would not come.
She tossed and turned for some time. She’d been so bone-deep exhausted at the restaurant. Now, when she could slip away into a happy slumber, it evaded her. She kept at it for at least an hour before she sat upright.