This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to locations, events, or people (living or dead) is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 Elizabeth Bromke
All rights reserved.
Cover design by Red Leaf Book Design
The reproduction or distribution of this book without permission is a theft. If you would like to share this book or any part thereof (reviews excepted), please contact us through our website: elizabethbromke.com
HOUSE ON THE HARBOR
Published by:
Elizabeth Bromke
White Mountains, Arizona
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1—Kate
Chapter 2—Amelia
Chapter 3—Clara
Chapter 4—Megan
Chapter 5—Kate
Chapter 6—Clara
Chapter 7—Amelia
Chapter 8—Megan
Chapter 9—Kate
Chapter 10—Amelia
Chapter 11—Megan
Chapter 12—Clara
Chapter 13—Kate
Chapter 14—Amelia
Chapter 15—Megan
Chapter 16—Kate
Chapter 17—Clara
Chapter 18—Kate
Chapter 19—Amelia
Chapter 20—Nora
Chapter 21—Megan
Chapter 22—Kate
Chapter 23—Amelia
Chapter 24—Clara
Chapter 25—Kate
Chapter 26—Nora
Chapter 27—Clara
Chapter 28—Amelia
Chapter 29—Kate
Chapter 30—Nora
Chapter 31—Megan
Chapter 32—Clara
Chapter 33—Amelia
Chapter 34—Kate
Chapter 35—Clara
Chapter 36—Nora
Chapter 37—Kate
Chapter 38—Clara
Chapter 39—Kate
Chapter 40—Amelia
Other Titles by Elizabeth Bromke
Acknowledgements
About the Author
For my sisters, Kara and Erin.
Chapter 1—Kate
A light breeze curled in from the window. On it, the scent of lavender. Faint but sweet.
In front of each window in her suburban Michigan home, Kate Hannigan had strategically positioned fragrant plants of many varieties.
When the weather was just right, Kate would throw open the windows and revel in the aroma like a newly appointed florist.
It was a trick her mother had taught her four daughters. Why use candles when you have flowers and a breeze? Nora Hannigan had often chided her daughters.
Kate happened to love candles as much as she loved taking in the earthy smell of Mother Nature. But still. It was a good thought. A good reminder of her mother. A happy one.
She smiled to herself, swept up the last pot—the one at her bedside window—and carried it downstairs, where her sisters waited.
“Last one?” Megan asked, tugging at a stiff, black pencil skirt.
“Last one,” Kate replied, handing the lavender to her.
Megan transferred the purple-budded flower to a long, narrow folding table that stretched in front of the sitting room window.
Every single one of Kate’s little potted plants was now re-situated tastefully for the reception. Kate was good at that sort of thing. Adding the perfect touch to a space. Bringing it to life.
And yet, together, in the front room, all of that lavender and jasmine and gardenia achieved more of a funeral parlor effect than that of a florist shop. Though appropriate, it didn't sit well with Kate. For, this event was meant to be less funereal and more floral. Even if it was a funeral.
She frowned.
Clara stole a cube of cheese and popped it into her mouth. “I’m starving,” the youngest Hannigan sister mumbled through a mouthful.
Kate snapped her fingers. “I know.” She strode to the window, unlatched the levers, and slid it wide open.
The cool morning breeze lifted her blonde, shoulder-length tresses up off her neck and blew in some much-needed fresh air.
“Good call,” Amelia said. “It was feeling a little... ”
“A little funeral-y?” Megan read Kate's mind. Of the four sisters, Kate and Megan resembled each other the least, in part because Megan insisted on dying her hair to match her wardrobe: black. But they shared one important commonality: a critical nature. It was a trait passed down from Nora, no doubt.
Amelia, the second oldest, was something of a silly heart, even as she ascended in age. The lighthearted nature was a characteristic that originated with their father and one that only Amelia had been gifted.
Kate was more like Megan (and Nora), discerning—though less morbid and more grounded.
Clara was neither silly nor critical. She fell somewhere in between. Anxious and, well, young.
Presently, Clara grinned at Megan’s morbid joke. Then Amelia chuckled. Soon enough all four of them were laughing together. And then, crying.
Again.
“Will we ever get over this?” Clara asked, pushing her thumbs along her lower lash line to clear away remnants of the spontaneous sob session.
Kate smiled at her and pulled her in for a hug. “No, we won’t,” she replied, locking eyes with Amelia, whose smooth pale face was scrunching again into a fresh round of tears. “But,” Kate went on, “that doesn’t mean we’ll never laugh again. Or be happy again.”
Clara nodded into Kate’s shoulder and lifted her head. “I’m fine,” she said. “We’re fine.”
“True,” Megan replied, tugging Clara onto the love seat with her and leaning back into the pillowy cushions. “We’re fine. It was her time. Oh, boy, was it her time, you know?”
Kate eyed Megan.
After a brief sigh, Megan brushed a black strand of hair out of her eyes and offered an explanation. “She was going downhill. Deteriorating, even.” She stopped and smiled, a sentimental, weepy smile, her green eyes turning glassy. “For all we know, the poor thing was driving herself mad. I’d imagine the disease does that, right? Anyway, I don’t think Nora would have wanted to be what she was becoming.”
Megan had called their mother by her first name since Megan was a teenager, and Nora had long given up the fight against it. It no longer felt disrespectful, in fact. Just one of those quirks a family had.
Regardless of the name matter, Megan was right.
It was their mom’s time.
And it was also time for the reception to begin. Kate and her sisters had left the burial ahead of everyone by a mere ten minutes. All they had to do when they got to her house was set up the food and flowers. Relatives had agreed to handle everything else.
Kate wasn’t sold on the paper products and plastic utensils, but the others overruled her, arguing that the last thing they needed after Mom’s funeral was to do dishes.
Kate would argue that dishes would be the exact sort of thing she’d need.
Cleaning, to Kate, was therapy.
She checked her wristwatch, a thin leather strap with a silver face. “They’ll be here soon,” she announced and glanced around the room, anxious.
On the folding table, now framed perfectly by two sentinel lavender plants, sat orderly trays of cold cuts and cheese, a platter of fruits and vegetables, and a bald spot at the far end dedicated for everything else due to arrive with their aunts and cousins.
Amelia fussed with the memorial setting, which she had first established on a second square folding table, only to move it to the coffee table, and then
finally to the back of the upright piano that took up the far corner of the room. “Does this work?” she wondered aloud.
Kate joined her and tweaked the centerpiece—a glass frame, behind which preened their mother in a formal portrait.
No husband sat next to Nora.
No daughters crowded in behind Nora.
Just Nora.
And that sort of photograph was perfect, because it was Nora’s day, Kate had reminded her sisters.
Not theirs.
Only Amelia had argued, but now she seemed pleased enough. “I remember when Mom had that photo taken,” she murmured.
Kate felt her throat close up a bit but swallowed it down.
The crying was supposed to end with the funeral. She promised herself that, as hostess and eldest daughter, it was her duty to see to the perfect reception. A light, happy affair.
In fact, it would be the last event she would have in her home. Because soon she’d be moving. Though to where, exactly, was still unclear.
“I'm not trying to gossip, but did any of you see Matt Fiorillo’s date at the service last night?” Amelia asked, pushing a strand of her long brown hair back into position behind her ear as she went for a cheese cube, too.
Matt Fiorillo was, if recent reports were accurate, a local property investor. Also, an old family friend. An old flame, too. One who Kate hoped would stay squarely in her past. But there he was, at the funeral. Typical.
Megan chimed in next. “She might be a prostitute.”
Kate shook her head and glared. “Enough, you two,” she threatened through a tight voice, then pressed her fingers to her shoulders, ensuring her bra straps were in position squarely beneath the black fabric of her chiffon dress.
Kate hated chiffon.
But her mother had loved it.
It was important to make sacrifices for family. Even chiffon-loving ones. Even dead ones, too.
Kate shook the thought just as the doorbell rang.
“They’re here,” Amelia announced, her face morphing into a Picasso painting, yet again.
“Keep it together,” Kate hissed, holding up her palm. “We can do this.” She nodded at the three women, each of whom was on the brink of hysterics.
Kate willed herself to stay sane in the face of grief.
Smoothing her dress and taking in a deep, calming breath, she answered the door.
***
In poured a steady stream of well-wishers, many of whom had attended the wake the evening prior, some who’d also shown up for the burial that morning.
Both the wake and the burial had been formal affairs, drawing oversized attention from Birch Harbor locals. The usual suspects, really. Those of the Actons—their father’s side—who were still alive and then Nora’s own strained relations.
The strain had begun years back, when Nora refused to take (or give) her husband's last name. Apparently when she'd married, the Hannigans and relatives hoped to shake her loose and prevent the black sheep that Nora was from soiling a good family name.
They were unsuccessful.
In addition to the Actons and Hannigans, Megan’s daughter and Kate’s sons were also there. Grandchildren were better capable of handling funerals. They were young and distracted. Full of hope. Far separated from the reaching hands of death, to be sure. They’d been catching up together in the backyard, like old times, and Kate had left them to do just that.
Nora was survived by her country club cronies and church friends, too. And other, more anonymous men and women, clad in dutiful black, their expressions appropriately ashen, arrived for the service and would leave after tight goodbyes with Kate and her sisters.
Even Birch Harbor’s mayor made a somber (if opportunistic) appearance, bringing with her several members of the town council, the same town council their mother had frequently come to blows with over any number of local dramas.
Others showed up, as well. Local business owners and shopkeepers, like Matt Fiorillo’s extended family. And, Nora’s lawyer, Michael Matuszewski and entourage.
They drove in a slow convoy all the way to Kate’s house out on Apple Tree Hill. It was a solid forty-five-minute drive inland, away from the harbor and closer to Detroit.
Kate was impressed.
She ushered them in politely, accepting rehearsed lines at the front door while Megan lingered behind her, ready to help if Kate faltered.
Megan was a good sister that way. Austere, sure. But stable. Helpful.
Clara had disappeared into the kitchen as soon as the first group arrived, no doubt hiding. Clara was something of a hider. Kate chalked that up to her relative immaturity. She was sixteen years younger than Kate, after all, and only now in her twenties.
Kate watched in amusement as Amelia, predictably, played the receiving widow. Or widower. Or... orphan? Whatever her label, the chestnut-haired actress shined in the role, greeting each visitor with grace and gratitude, blinking away tears at the very mention of their mom. The tears were surely genuine, but Amelia’s earnest nods at every memory each of the near-strangers tried to evoke was an act. She was a good person to have on hand.
The reception began easily, with extended family taking on the role of hosting, more or less.
“Matt’s here.” Clara had reappeared at Kate’s side, her attention now entirely fixed on any opportunity for distraction. All four sisters stood together on the threshold between the foyer and the parlor. It was the perfect people-watching position.
“Are you going to talk to him?” Amelia asked.
Kate shook her head and narrowed her eyes. “I haven’t talked to him in years. Now’s not the time for a reunion.” The sisters gazed together across the room. Kate gestured discreetly with her drink. “There he is. By Mom’s picture.”
“Why is he wearing a turtleneck in May?” Clara asked.
“I like turtlenecks,” Megan replied, taking up for him.
Kate scoffed. “He never had good fashion sense.”
“It’s not the turtleneck,” Clara whispered conspiratorially.
The three others leaned in closer.
Clara went on. “It’s the woman.”
Kate bit the insides of her cheeks and caught Amelia nodding gravely. “Yes, I saw her, too.”
Finally, Kate broke. “Where?” She lowered her plastic cup of lemonade and scanned the room.
Amelia lifted an eyebrow and thrust her chin to the far corner, just behind where Matt stood.
Kate took in the woman, and she was surprised to see her sisters’ estimations proved valid. Clad in a black spaghetti-string top, black jeans, and black flip-flops, the poor thing was decidedly out of place.
“I suppose a black outfit isn’t enough to fit in at a funeral,” Megan mused behind them, her voice appropriately lifeless.
Kate narrowed her eyes on the woman, a realization hitting her. “That’s not even a woman,” she hissed, turning away and facing her sisters out of mortification. “It’s a teenager.”
“Teenager?” Clara craned her neck around Kate. “Oh my word, you’re right. She must be in eighth or ninth grade!” Clara, Megan, and Amelia’s eyes grew wide.
“Sh, sh! It’s not his girlfriend. It’s got to be his daughter.”
Again, Kate’s three sisters looked past her with sharp affects.
Finally, Clara relaxed back into position and sipped her lemonade. “You’re right. That girl is no older than fourteen. Maybe even thirteen now that I'm looking. She must go to St. Mary’s. I’ve never seen her at school.”
“What is he even doing here?” Amelia asked, breathing deeply, for Kate’s benefit, probably.
Megan shook her head. “Everyone wants a piece of the pie.”
At that, Kate snorted. “Come on. As if. Matt doesn’t care about money, anyway. At least, he didn’t when I knew him.”
“Maybe Matt has a heart of gold. But look around you, Kate.” Megan lifted her plastic cup in appraisal of the packed room. “As far as the locals know, Nora Hannigan was the Queen of Birch Ha
rbor, a glittery benefactor, primed to dole out her estate to anyone who so much as waved at her. As far as they know, Mom was rich. And generous, too.”
Kate swallowed Megan's words, her eyes lingering on Matt. Down deep inside, she wanted to go to him. She wanted to ask why he showed up. Who his little girl was. Where he'd been.
But she knew. He'd been right there. In Birch Harbor. Matt, unlike Kate, wasn't one to run from the past.
Chapter 2—Amelia
One week later.
Amelia-Ann Hannigan stood in front of her foggy bathroom mirror and patted her face dry. Raw skin glowed back at her. It had taken far too long to scrub away every last bit of rouge and kohl she’d painstakingly applied for the wrap party the night before.
No, she wasn’t the star of the show. Or even a supporting player. But Amelia considered herself to be a professional. And despite her pitifully tiny role as an extra in Little City Theatre’s production of Oklahoma! she wanted to prove to her director that she had potential. Even at the ripe old age of forty-something. Hah.
Anyway, the makeup helped to conceal the bags beneath her eyes from traveling to and from Birch Harbor for her mother’s funeral.
Still, it shouldn’t take nearly half an hour of washcloth-rubbing to get rid of her “face.”
Quietly, she promised herself to scale back a little on the makeup, even for rehearsals and performances and wrap parties. Amelia really wasn’t old enough to “put on her face” for any event.
Maybe she should lose five or ten pounds. Then, the struggling actress wouldn’t have to obsess over adding hollows to her cheeks with shadowy browns and angles to her cheekbones with shimmery highlighter crayons.
Amelia was too young for a full face but too old for trying to look twenty.
It was a hard spot to be in. Part of her wished to age enough to nab those “north-of-fifty” roles, part of her contemplated premature plastic surgery to better achieve the fresh-out-of-college-cover-girl roles.
Fat chance.
Amelia was due back in Birch Harbor that evening. Instead of flying this time, she planned to drive. Jimmy, her boyfriend of six months, was supposed to stay at her apartment and watch after Dobi, Amelia’s paunchy Weiner dog.
House on the Harbor Page 1
