by Olivia Miles
But it did matter, because some strange part of her needed this place to be exactly as it had always been, right down to Gran sitting on the front porch rocking in her chair. She needed one place she could rely on to always make her feel better. One place that promised good things, like Sunset Cottage always had.
She knocked, which seemed like a strange thing to do considering that she owned a third of the house, the same share as Ellie, but still, knowing Ellie, there was no sense in predicting what state Gemma would find her in. Ellie had always been free with her body, not shy about walking around the house in underwear or changing with the door open.
The need to knock was not for Ellie’s sake. It was for Gemma.
Ellie answered right away, her cheeks flushed, her brown hair braided into a long rope that slung over her shoulder.
Before Gemma could stop herself, she blurted, “What happened to the yard?”
Ellie frowned. “Looks fine to me,” she said with a shrug.
“The planters. The weeds,” Gemma said. She mentally kicked herself for saying anything.
Ellie narrowed her eyes, her chin jutting in defense. “I have a career, you know. Besides, you own a third of this house. If you’d like to do something about it, I won’t stop you.”
She had a point. And Gemma had crossed a line. “Sorry. You’re right. Now that I’m here, I can help.”
She’d never mowed a lawn before, but how hard could it be? Sure, she’d hoped to get an hour of writing in before dinner, but maybe she’d spend the time helping Ellie instead. She’d cook her dinner, too, as a thanks for taking care of the house.
Except…she wasn’t so sure that Ellie was taking care of the house. She willed herself to keep her expression neutral as she left her bags in the front hall and followed Ellie to the back of the house, where the kitchen was bright and sunny, with a view of the backyard, which was starting to resemble a field.
“Don’t you just love wild flowers?” Ellie stared at her in the most challenging way.
Gemma swallowed hard and returned her gaze to the window where knee-high weeds that did indeed have some form of white and purple petals on them lined the fence and hugged the hammock she had hoped to use as a reading spot. Oh, dear.
She turned, glanced around the kitchen, which was virtually unchanged from when they were kids: white cabinets and wood floors. A fridge that had seen better days and a butcher block island where many cherry pies had been made.
But her eyes trailed to the overflowing wastebasket, the evidence of frozen meals and take-out containers on full display, along with paper plates and cups.
“Trash day is tomorrow,” Ellie said quickly.
Gemma walked to the fridge, hoping to find a pitcher of cold lemonade waiting for her, like Gran always had on hand, but instead she found the light inside had burnt out and there wasn’t even a container of milk on the shelf—only a bottle of white wine, which might be nice if she wasn’t here on a mission.
She shut her eyes. This was the side of Ellie that drove their father crazy. Their mother was more protective of Ellie, if not a little dismayed. They didn’t know what to do with her. While Gemma and certainly Hope had been predictable, willing to follow in the footsteps of the life that had been chosen for them, Ellie was not. It wasn’t that she was a rebel; it was that she was simply not interested.
Gemma closed the door to the fridge. She’d go to the store. She’d buy groceries. Then she’d mow the yard. She’d cook dinner for Ellie as a sign of good will, and then she’d clean up the kitchen and get the house in working order. She’d wake up tomorrow and start writing. In fairness, she was probably too tired from travelling to get much written today anyway.
And who was she kidding? She hadn’t written a word in five months.
“It’s the first time back since Gran…” Gemma faded away, feeling her grandmother’s absence more than ever before. She hadn’t been back here since her college days—the last summer before she’d started working full time, and even then, her time here was cut down to only two weeks. Hope hadn’t come back in years by then, and it was just her and Ellie. They’d gotten along fine, always had, until now. Because now, well, now the house felt like Ellie’s house. Her paint supplies were all over the farmhouse kitchen table. The yard was full of weeds that only Ellie could find beauty in. And there was no food, because Ellie didn’t cook.
Not that Gemma had room to judge, she thought, thinking of her recent habits. Still, her apartment was always clean, even if it was because she used cleaning as a way to release her stress. And procrastinate.
She could only assume there wouldn’t be fresh sheets on her bed, either. Laundry. Another item on her list for the evening.
Ellie nodded. “It’s been a long winter.”
“The tourists are back now,” Gemma pointed out.
“And you! Although, you’re not the only one back in town,” Ellie announced, her tone was distinctly giddy as she wandered barefoot down the hall and began lugging Gemma’s luggage up the stairs.
“I’m not?” Gemma lifted her computer bag, precious cargo, and ran through a list of possibilities, people they knew who came and went from the island, like they once had. “Are the Taylors here?” she asked hopefully. She knew from the gossip that Gran and Ellie had shared over the years that the other family still attempted a family reunion for at least a week or two each summer. The two sets of sisters had always been so close, but after college, they’d lost touch.
Gemma glanced at Ellie now. They’d all lost touch in a way, she thought sadly.
Ellie stopped at the first landing and turned to face Gemma squarely. “No. Simon is here.”
Gemma couldn’t help but smile. Well, that explained her sister’s good mood, not that she was complaining. Simon had been Ellie’s first love, and from what Gemma knew about her sister’s personal life, her only love. They’d been more than a summer romance in Ellie’s mind, and Gemma knew just how deep the pain of their breakup had been for Ellie.
But now, from the joy in her sister’s expression, it would seem that a second chance had presented itself. Like something straight out of one of Gemma’s stories.
“Is he still cute?” Gemma tried to conjure up a clear image of him, hoping to find some inspiration for the book that was causing her so much struggle.
“Cuter,” Ellie said matter-of-factly.
Wow. Simon had always been on the adorable end of the spectrum, if a few years too young for her, and Gemma tried to imagine what he might look like now, as a man. “So you’ve seen him?”
Ellie was nodding as she climbed to the second floor. “Yesterday. In town. He’s here for the entire summer.”
“The whole summer? Doesn’t he have a job?”
“Of course he has a job.” Ellie’s smile slipped in defense of her first true love. “He went to Colgate, you know. And after that he went to Georgetown for law school. He’s been living in Philly, working as an attorney.”
Gemma arched an eyebrow, and Ellie said in a huff, “Gossip kept Gran occupied. Besides, you know how this island is.”
Yes, Gemma did. And she wondered if any of the locals were already aware of the change in her relationship status. Gran had been very excited when she got engaged, after all. No doubt she’d told everyone she knew. Now, unless Ellie had set them straight, Gemma would be forced to.
And that was just…great.
She stood outside a row of open doors, suddenly feeling very tired. “Do you care which bedroom I take?” There were five in total, making it far from a cottage in the traditional sense of the word, and each one still held the same floral-printed wallpaper from when they were young girls.
“The one at the end is mine,” Ellie said. It was the room their mother had stayed in each summer.
“Of course,” Gemma said. “The biggest.”
“Gran’s was the biggest,” Ellie replied. “Besides, I’ve been living here for six years. It’s my home.”
Gemma held up a hand at
the edge in her tone. Clearly, there was still tension between them that would need to be resolved, but not tonight. Tonight she needed to get this house cleaned up so that tomorrow she could work through the day without any distraction.
“I was just joking,” she said, hoping her tone was convincing. “You live here. You should have the biggest room. Besides, I was hoping to take the third-floor room. Is the desk still there?”
“I think so,” Ellie replied. “You do know it’s hot as heck up there, right?”
“Not at this time of year,” Gemma said. “And not in the mornings and evenings when the windows are open.” That was when she did her best writing, after all. When she wrote.
Ellie shrugged. “Suit yourself. It’s better for Hope to be on the second floor anyway.”
Gemma paused. “What?”
“Didn’t you hear?” Ellie asked, her blue eyes shining. “Hope is coming too.”
Gemma’s pulse skipped a beat. “Hope is coming here? But…” But so many things! She settled on one: “But I just saw her. Last night.”
“Well, I just spoke to her today,” Ellie said rather proudly, betraying a note of sibling rivalry that had once been the only thing that had troubled them growing up. Hope was so gracious, so clearly the favorite, that garnering her approval was nearly as special as earning their father’s, but far more achievable. “And she’s coming tomorrow with the girls.”
“With the girls?” Gemma tried to understand what Hope had been thinking. She knew that Gemma was in trouble with this book, that she needed space to write, and think clearly. Coming here had been Hope’s idea in the first place! How was she expected to push out another two hundred fifty pages of publishable material with two four-year-olds running around the house?
“Well, it’s not like she can leave them,” Ellie said with a laugh. “She knew that you were coming, so I think she thought, why not? All of us together at Sunset Cottage again. Like old times!”
Like old times, Gemma thought. If only.
Chapter Five
Ellie
Ellie dashed to the studio first thing Monday morning, only it wasn’t because she was eager to finish the painting of the South Bay lighthouse or because she wanted to get the coffee brewed before the fishermen pulled in from another early morning out on the lake.
The truth of the matter was that Gemma was already posing a problem—something that Ellie had convinced herself wouldn’t happen. She’d told herself that Gemma wouldn’t come here if she wasn’t sorry, that the argument they’d had last summer had been the stress talking. Being at their parents’ house was always tense, and this visit had been a sad time too. Emotions were charged. They’d argued. They’d left without saying good-bye.
She’d told herself that she could have been a better sister too. Could have sent a card or something more than a voicemail when Gemma’s engagement ended.
She’d been prepared to let everything go. To start fresh. But then Gemma had come in like a tornado, stripping beds and doing laundry, the machine making an awful noise and the dryer shaking so hard that Ellie could feel the floorboards vibrating. Really! Why hadn’t Gemma just taken her up on the offer to hang the linens outside to dry, to let the sun do what it was meant to do?
But Gemma was too busy mowing the lawn to think about hanging clothes, and she’d taken a weed whacker to those lovely wildflowers, too, leaving only a handful which she had at least been thoughtful enough to put in a vase and set on the center of the kitchen table—after she’d banished all of Ellie’s painting supplies to a corner of the living room.
Ellie had been about to protest, until Gemma returned from town with a bicycle basket full of groceries and got to work making a simple dinner of chicken salad and fresh bread that she set up on the front porch, with a citronella candle to ward off the bugs. That had been lovely, and because it was possibly leading up to a peace offering, Ellie had said nothing. They chatted about the island and reminisced about their happy times here, and Ellie had gone to bed feeling nervous but hopeful that the worst was behind them.
But this morning, when she woke to the horrible smell of cleaning detergents and ammonia and the sound of buckets clanking and Gemma cursing under her breath, even though she insisted that she hadn’t, well, Ellie knew she had to get out of there.
And so here she was. At seven in the morning. In her studio.
She decided that she may as well be productive.
She brewed a pot of coffee and finished her painting and then went through her recent inventory to see which ones she might drop off later this afternoon at the gift shops in town. On a good week, she could sell a dozen, on a bad week, none. On average, she was happy to sell five or six. They didn’t go for much, a couple hundred each, some of the smaller ones less, but each sale made her heart swell, validated her effort, her time, her passion.
And it made her curl her lip, just a little, and think, Told you so.
After all, her father—and Gemma—couldn’t exactly accuse her of being a starving artist if someone was paying for her work, could they?
It would be better when Hope arrived, she told herself. Then the dynamic would be balanced. Dinners on the porch, sisterly bonding. A carefree summer. It would be like old times, just like Hope had promised on the phone.
Thinking of old times, Ellie’s mind wandered to Simon. He was on this island, at this very moment. She barely suppressed a squeal, and made a promise to herself that no amount of tension between her and Gemma could ruin this good feeling. Besides, Hope was such a calm, maternal force, always so in control and diplomatic—she’d smooth everything over in no time. She always had that effect on things, always had an eye out for Ellie when she was younger; even if it was just silent solidarity, she had been a comforting presence.
Ellie decided to bring three of her newest watercolors with her into town, before the shops opened for the day. They were cheerful, showing the island in the spring, with new buds on the trees and colorful flowers sprouting up from the fresh green grass. A few she couldn’t part with, and those she hung in her studio, for a premium price, or kept with her at home, back at Sunset Cottage. Most were landscapes, all of the island, or the boats in the water surrounding the island, or some, just of the water (blue was one of her favorite colors to work with), but she sometimes felt inspired by the old homes along the coastline, the quaint architecture that was so unique to this location, and the feeling of simpler times that could only be experienced by biking through its winding paths.
The paintings she’d chosen for today were easy to carry, all done on the same size canvas, a popular seller, she’d been told, because the large ones were simply too difficult for tourists to transport home via the ferry, and she walked down the cobblestone street that led directly into the center of town. Mandy, a year-round resident who had grown up on the island, was already stirring fudge in the window of the candy shop that had been owned by her family for three generations, and Ellie could smell the waffle cones baking, as Mandy no doubt prepared for another unseasonably warm day that would hopefully stir up some desire for ice cream.
It was Monday, so there was bound to be less street traffic, but Ellie didn’t mind. Who needed tourists when she had Simon looming about? She held her free hand to her stomach at the thought.
The sign to Lakeside Gifts read closed, but she knew from experience that the door was technically open. She turned the knob just as Naomi was stepping out from the back room, her brows up in surprise that relaxed into a smile when Ellie greeted her.
Ellie greeted her friend as she always did, with a “hi” instead of a “hello.” Still, she glanced over at the large birdcage near the entrance, where Naomi’s pet parrot, Jewel, was perched. The large, handwritten sign warning patrons not to say hello was fair warning, even if often missed. Or ignored.
Luckily, Jewel showed no reaction to Ellie’s greeting. He blinked his beady eyes and stayed perfectly quiet.
“Dropping off a few more paintings, if you’re intere
sted,” she said.
Naomi smiled. “We sold two yesterday. A set. So yes, let me see what we have here.”
Two in one day. To the same buyer. Ellie imagined them side by side in a sunroom, or maybe in a guest room. She tried not to think of them hanging in a bathroom, though she knew that some of them ended up there nonetheless. Just last week a woman had popped into the studio after noticing her work at the gallery on Hill Street and had decided the stunning painting in shades of yellow and peach that Ellie had taken particular pride in and had risen before sunrise to capture would be “perfect” over the woman’s master bathroom toilet.
Ellie set down the paintings, telling herself she couldn’t take offense if Naomi chose only one.
Naomi studied each canvas and then said, “I’ll take all three.”
“Really?” Ellie felt her heart begin to pound. She’d assumed that Naomi would take two, to replace the pair that had sold. “Great!”
Naomi gave her a rueful look as she moved the paintings to the side of the counter. “Don’t look so surprised. You’re really talented.”
“If you say so,” Ellie sighed. She couldn’t shake the feeling of needing to be something more than what she was. All she could be was herself, she knew, and she’d remained true, even when it hurt, but sometimes it felt like it would never be enough.
“I do say so,” Naomi said. “And if you don’t take my word for it, ask the client who bought your set. She had plenty to choose from.”
It was true. There were many other paintings and prints for sale in the store—most by local artists that Ellie respected.
She felt a swell of pride. She couldn’t wait to tell Gemma about this, even though she knew that Gemma, being creative as well, had always supported her work more than any other member of her family. But Gemma had street credit: a major publisher had invested in her work. In her parents’ eyes, Gemma’s work was legitimate.
