“Here, here! Give it here!” he said encouragingly, a big grin on his face.
After she passed Ben the baton and he took off, Skye was surrounded by people patting her on the back and congratulating her. Even Charlotte’s buddies, Cricket Belmont and Darby Palmer, were excited. We heard Green was behind! You must have been so fast! That was awesome!
Charlotte took longer to come out than Skye expected. When she did, she was half jogging, half limping.
Faker, Skye thought.
Up until the last bend in the path, she had been able to hear Charlotte running behind her. Skye figured she was using her skinned knee as an excuse for falling behind.
As it turned out she had bigger plans.
* * *
The Green Team won the relay. There was a party at the country club that night, a kind of end-of-season thing. When Skye arrived, she got more congratulations from friends of Gran’s, and when she was at the table getting cheese and crackers, Ben Barrows walked up and gave her a high five.
“Good run! You clinched it!” he said.
Skye was having a decent time until Charlotte showed up with a massive bandage on her knee.
A little Band-Aid would have done the trick, Skye thought.
When a group of girls surrounded Charlotte, it dawned on Skye that she was probably going to pay a price for her victory. It seemed she had beaten the Gretchen Hathaway of Haven Point. A few minutes later, Nora Ormsby confirmed her suspicion.
“Way to go today,” Nora said.
“Thanks,” Skye said.
“Get this,” Nora said, laughing. “Charlotte’s telling people you tripped her.”
Skye looked at Nora, appalled. “I didn’t trip her. I tried to help her up. And I heard her running just fine after that!”
“Duh, of course you didn’t trip her. No one believes her. She’s just mad because we won!” Nora said, high-fiving her.
When Skye glanced toward the corner of the room and saw Charlotte sitting at a table, “injured” leg resting on a chair, she knew Nora was wrong. Skye couldn’t hear what was being said, but Charlotte gave her more than one dirty look, so she could guess. Even Cricket and Darby glanced at Skye a couple of times with oh my God how awful expressions on their faces.
Skye knew running the relay would not make her instantly popular on Haven Point, but she thought she’d at least found the portal to the parallel universe there. Now the portal door had slammed shut, and she wondered if it had been better when she was invisible.
She suddenly felt desperate to leave the party, so she hunted down Gran and Georgie. Fortunately, they were also ready to go.
They reached the door just as another woman was entering. She was about Gran and Georgie’s age, but skinny and stiff, with pursed lips and short curled hair that looked normal until you realized the curls didn’t move at all.
“Maren, Georgie.” The woman nodded.
“Hello, Harriet,” Gran said coolly, while Georgie just nodded.
The woman stopped and looked down at Skye. “Harriet, you remember my granddaughter, Skye Demarest. She passed the baton to your grandson today. Skye, this is Harriet Barrows.”
Skye was about to extend her hand, but Harriet kept her arms stiffly by her sides.
“Yes. I remember,” Harriet said. Her eyebrows came together in a question. “That red hair. You didn’t get that from your mother.”
Skye felt a prickle at the back of her neck. She didn’t know what this woman was up to, but she was sure it wasn’t anything good.
“I assume that came from your father’s side?” she continued.
The prickle at her neck turned into a shiver down her spine. Skye could not have replied if she tried, but Georgie saved the day.
“Harriet, you never met Maren’s brother. Anders has red hair, just like Skye’s.”
Harriet’s mouth opened halfway then closed, like she wanted to keep interrogating her but couldn’t figure out how. She mumbled something like Mmm … I see … then walked off without another word.
“I’m sorry about that, Skye,” Gran said as they headed for the causeway.
“Don’t people here know how my mom got pregnant?” Skye asked.
“Some, but not her. Not that there’s anything to be ashamed of, because there’s not. She’s just a bitter old woman, and ridiculously old-fashioned.”
“Don’t let that old dragon get under your skin, Skye,” Georgie added.
“I won’t,” Skye lied. It was too late. The old dragon had indeed gotten under her skin. Just about everyone on Haven Point had gotten under her skin.
A couple of days later, Gran told Skye her mom was out of rehab. Gran had talked to both Anne and Flora, and she felt comfortable taking Skye back to Washington.
Skye had been dying to leave Haven Point. As soon as Gran told her the news, though, her heart sank as she realized she dreaded going home just as much.
* * *
Skye mostly divided her mom into two categories: Drinking Mom or Sober Mom. She had forgotten about the third version: Post-rehab Mom—fragile and so eager to please, it made Skye feel horribly uncomfortable.
The first night Skye was home, her mom tried to make a casserole. An actual dinner at something like an actual dinnertime was weird enough. When it came out of the oven a liquidy mess and Skye saw tears in her mom’s eyes, she couldn’t bear it.
When they sat down at the table to eat the terrible casserole, it was painful how hard she was trying to be cheerful. Skye didn’t care if her mother never tried to make another meal as long as she lived. All she wanted was for her to stop acting so weak.
But then her mom asked the perfect question.
“How was Maine?”
Skye felt a wave of relief. Now she could make things right again. Skye skipped over every part of the trip that had been good and went straight to the story about Charlotte and the baton relay.
As she told it, she watched her mom’s face transform. First came a smile at Skye’s account of passing Charlotte in the sanctuary, then an eye roll and an Oh, come on … seriously? when she described Charlotte limping out at the end of the race and her drama-queen act at the party.
When she got to the part about the rumor Charlotte had spread, Skye was surprised to feel tears in her own eyes.
“Even Darby and Cricket were looking at me and whispering. And they’re on my team,” she said as one of the tears rolled down her cheek.
Skye had not expected to feel so bad when she told the story, but it was worth it. Her mom put her fork down and looked directly at Skye, one hundred percent sure of herself again.
“Skye, that place only has one team that matters. If you’re not one of them, you’re not on it.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
August 1945
Haven Point
MAREN
“It’s amazing,” Maren said. Everything on the cliff seemed to be standing guard. The gables on the houses looked like shaded eyes, the porches like mouths stretched in grim determination. The spruce and fir trees were the grenadiers. Even the seabirds perched on the granite cliff had a martial appearance, as if unwilling to believe that Nazi U-boats had surrendered at Portsmouth Harbor.
It was Maren’s first glimpse of the Atlantic Ocean, of any ocean. She felt she could look at it all day.
“I thought you would like it,” Oliver said, smiling as he gently urged her toward the house.
Gideon Douglas, the Demarest caretaker who had driven them from the train station in Bath, stood by the car, eager for her reaction.
“So? What do you think?” He was a great Siberian husky of a man, down to the snowy head of hair and crystal blue eyes.
“I’ve never seen anything like it before.”
“Nor will you, except right along this coast. There is nothing like it,” Gideon said knowingly, as if he had traveled the world to compare, though he admitted earlier he’d never left the state.
“People must have been nervous here during the fighting. It seem
s so exposed.”
On the map Oliver had showed her, Haven Point looked like a clenched fist, brandished southward into Casco Bay. From where they stood, she could see the islands to the south and west, but nothing to the east except the vast ocean.
“We were. The North Atlantic Fleet was headquartered at Portland Harbor,” Gideon said, pointing toward the city to the southwest of them. “Closest big port to Europe. Ships refueled over there at Long Island before heading out. We never knew what might be under that water. Folks still got bored here during the blackouts. They covered the windows of the yacht club and started a sing-along on Sundays and bingo on Wednesdays. Anything to keep them from turning the lights on.”
Gideon turned to Oliver. “I put your bags inside, Dr. Demarest. I’ll be off now. Mrs. Douglas left you some dinner.”
After Gideon drove off, Maren followed Oliver through the front door, her nerves jangling. Oliver’s father would not arrive until the next day, but she was about to meet his mother for the first time.
Wartime had provided a neat excuse to do what Oliver wanted to do anyway: get married quickly. Travel challenges made it impossible for their parents to be there, so with a handful of friends in attendance they had married just before Christmas in the little stone chapel on the grounds of Walter Reed.
Maren’s parents had been kind and understanding when Oliver called to ask their blessing. Though Oliver’s father said all the right things to Maren, she had detected little warmth. His mother sounded vague and a little unwell. Oliver assured her they were fine with it. It was too soon after Daniel’s death to expect ebullience, and quick weddings and understatement were the way of things now. She was still worried.
Maren followed Oliver through the front door and to the kitchen. As they passed the seemingly endless main room, she took in the great wall of windows overlooking the sea.
“Mother?” he called. “Mother, we’re here!”
Silence.
A white handbag sat on the kitchen table, and Oliver touched a yellow cardigan that hung over the back of a chair. He seemed to be reading these as Mother is home signals. He called out again as they walked back to the big room, then opened a door that faced the ocean, and she followed him as they traded the quiet inside for the gusty outdoors. They walked around the porch, which spanned three-quarters of the house.
Finding no one, they reentered through the front door. Oliver sat on a sofa in the living room. He looked confused. Maren sat quietly. She knew better than to prod Oliver when he was puzzling something.
After a moment, she thought she heard a sound upstairs. Oliver looked up. He had noticed it, too. It was muffled, hard to make out. Then it came again, this time louder, a thump. Maren watched as Oliver’s look of mild confusion was overtaken by a more forbidding expression.
Slowly, but with purpose, Oliver got up and headed for the staircase. He neither told Maren to come with him nor to stay put, so she followed in his wake up the stairs, through a large hallway space at the top, then into a corner bedroom.
Half-opened windows faced east and south. The breeze seemed to blow in every direction. Thin white curtains billowed out, almost perpendicular to the walls. The large bed had a brass frame, ruffled pillow shams, and a heavy quilt folded at the foot. Medicine bottles cluttered the nightstand. A yellow dress draped over a faded upholstered chair in the corner looked small enough for a child.
Oliver seemed unaware of Maren’s presence. She had never seen him so tightly coiled, and it gave her a bewildered, disoriented feeling.
His eyes scanned the room and stopped at the closet in the far corner, from which a dim light emanated. He moved in that direction with Maren close behind. The closet was large and deep, almost a room in itself. Inside, a rickety fold-down staircase led to an attic.
They peered up into the opening. Maren could see nothing but an empty rectangle of space lit by one bare bulb. Oliver was fixed to his spot. By the look of his jaw, his teeth were tightly clenched. His tension was contagious. Her heart was beating like a trip hammer.
“Mother?” Oliver said again, more slowly.
A few long seconds of silence followed.
“Mother!” Oliver said more loudly.
There was silence again, then a flash of motion. Maren jumped backward as a thin arm flopped across the opening of the attic. A small hand dangled flaccidly.
Horrified, Maren was ready to run for help, but then she heard Oliver let out a long, slow breath. It suggested resignation, perhaps irritation, but definitely not alarm.
“Please wait here, Maren,” Oliver said. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if to summon forbearance, then opened them and climbed the stairs.
“Hello, Mother,” Maren heard Oliver say, his tone sardonic. Though Oliver was out of view, she saw the limp arm rise from the opening as he lifted Mrs. Demarest.
He turned as he began his descent, careful to keep the small figure draped over his arms from hitting either side of the opening, then continued down the remaining stairs in an awkward sideways movement. Given his light burden, Maren suspected the flush she saw in his face was from annoyance rather than exertion.
Maren stepped from the closet entrance to let him pass. As he did, his mother looked hazily in her direction and lifted her hand in vague greeting. Maren caught a sticky-sweet whiff of alcohol.
Oliver laid his mother on her bed, carefully, though without tenderness. She was tiny, the skin on her arms and face almost translucent, as if there was nothing between it and the bones beneath. Though her short brown hair was tousled, Maren could see the suggestion of leftover styling. Even in her diminished face, Maren saw Oliver’s lashes and cheekbones. She was frail and insubstantial, but pretty.
She mumbled something, perhaps his name. He took the blanket from the end of the bed and unfolded it with a shake more vigorous than necessary, the only outward sign of emotion in an otherwise frighteningly controlled demeanor. He spread the blanket over her, and she fell asleep.
Oliver went back up the attic stairs, returned with two empty liquor bottles, and moved to the staircase without a word. Maren followed him down in much the same way she had followed him up, with him scarcely aware she was there. He moved to the kitchen and threw the bottles in the trash can.
“I’m going to bring the suitcases to our room and go for a sail. Would you like to settle in?” His jaw was still set, his coloring high. He looked around the kitchen, avoiding eye contact.
Maren was stung. She would not have wanted him to feign a smile or extend a half-hearted invitation to join him if she wasn’t welcome. She just wished more than anything she was.
“Yes, I’ll settle in.” She thought for a second before adding, “Will your mother need anything?”
“What she needs is to sleep it off,” he said, his tone laced with contempt.
After Maren unpacked, she sat on the window seat in their room. Oliver had said little about his mother, but while Maren had sensed something was amiss, she had never pressed. Daniel had just died, and she assumed Mrs. Demarest was grief-stricken.
Now, however, she recalled the party for the Dutch ambassador, and the strange emphasis she had heard in Mrs. Bell’s voice when she had asked about Oliver’s mother—that had been before Daniel’s death.
As she looked out at the water, she saw a sailboat with what appeared to be one man aboard. It might have been Oliver, but Maren wasn’t sure. She couldn’t tell from this distance.
She wondered, not for the first time, how well she knew him, even up close.
* * *
On the hunt for clues and insights, she decided to give herself a tour of the house.
When they had pulled into the driveway earlier, Maren had been rather daunted by the house, so large that even from fifty feet away, it spilled over the frame of the windshield. The fieldstone foundation and faded gray shingles made it look like it had sprouted organically from the cliff, held fast by a half century of root growth.
Her first impression of the inter
ior, however, was that it was not particularly imposing. It seemed reasonably well maintained, if a little shabby, with bare floorboards and an eccentric mix of furniture and accessories.
After a while, in bits and pieces, Fourwinds began to speak to her. The living room stretched almost the entire length of the first floor, and its windows offered a breathtaking view of the ocean. But she spotted little touches that lent an unlikely coziness to the cavernous space—comfortable furniture arranged in front of the large stone fireplaces at either end, needlepoint pillows, baskets of blankets, and a collection of quirky wood bird feeders. The room had been designed for loafing.
She peered at the spines of books and looked over the trophies, photos, and children’s art projects that lined the built-in bookcases. As she waited for Oliver to return, she wished whoever had filled these shelves with memories was there to fill in the gaps.
He walked in a few hours later. She had hoped his mood would be easier, but he was still tense. She kept up an easy banter as they ate Mrs. Douglas’s casserole by lamplight in the dining room, but as she cleaned up, she wondered if they should prepare a tray for her mother-in-law.
“Do you expect your mother to wake up this evening?”
“I don’t.” Oliver sat at the kitchen table with his long fingers tightly interlaced between his knees. He hesitated a moment, looking down.
“My mother has had episodes like this before,” he said finally. “I’d hoped we had seen the last of them, but perhaps Daniel’s death was a setback. I apologize.”
“You have nothing to apologize for, Oliver.” Maren used her best matter-of-fact nurse’s tone. “I only want to know how and if I can help her.”
“I expect we will see her in the morning, and if past is prologue, she will behave as if nothing happened.”
“And we…?”
“We do the same.”
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