She slipped into the crowd next to Tita Harwood, whom she knew slightly.
“Hey, Skye.” Tita glanced at her quickly, then looked back toward the beach.
“Is that Ben Barrows and Ryan Donnelly?” Skye asked.
“Yeah,” Tita replied, with a sigh that suggested that they were witnessing some variation of a commonplace scene.
“What is the deal with them?” Skye asked. Tita seemed as good a source as any. Though she came from an old Haven Point family, her aunt had married a Donnelly (an event still known as “the original sin” among some older Haven Pointers). While she was not necessarily a Donnelly partisan, she struck Skye as a semi-convert, less likely to rush to Ben’s defense as a reflex.
“I’m not sure exactly. Ben’s younger brother Steven was friendly with Ryan. I guess Ben didn’t like it. He’s been on Ryan’s case this summer.”
“Why didn’t he like it?”
“I don’t know. The Hydes and Donnellys have never gotten along.” Tita shrugged.
Skye looked back toward the water in time to see Ben push Ryan away with one arm and stalk off in the direction of his grandmother’s house. He was eventually swallowed up in the darkness. When Tita moved on to greet a friend, Skye slipped out of the light of the fire and walked in the same direction.
She found Ben slumped on an Adirondack chair in the grass atop the sea wall. There was just enough light from Harriet’s house to reveal a grim look on his face. He took a swallow from a beer he’d evidently found somewhere and barely glanced at her before turning his eyes back toward the party in the distance. His jaw was set, and his body looked strained, such a contrast to his usual flopping casualness.
“Hey, Ben.”
“Hi, Skye,” he said woodenly.
“What’s going on?” she asked, careful to sound gentle.
“I assume you saw that.” His tone was challenging, as if he wanted her to go ahead and make her point.
“Your fight with Ryan, you mean?”
“It was hardly a ‘fight.’” He said, scowling. “But yes.”
“Argument, then. Whatever. Semantics. What is it with you two?” She was trying for curious and open-minded, but it was hard not to match his hostility and distance with some of her own. He looked at her, eyes shining.
“What’s the deal with you, Skye? You’re the one in my face about him.”
“That’s not fair,” Skye replied, stung.
He hesitated before responding.
“The guy’s a punk, okay?” His tone softened. “Skye, I honestly can’t talk about this now. Sorry.”
He rose from his chair, gave her half a wave, then turned and walked down the path toward the house. Skye leaned against the sea wall and stared into the inky darkness.
Well, that didn’t go as planned, she thought. She had meant to apologize, perhaps tell him the real reason she had been annoyed earlier that day. She sighed and pushed herself off the wall. Just as she turned to head down the beach toward home, she noticed movement outside the circle of dim light. A second later, Charlotte appeared.
Oh, fantastic. Skye groaned inwardly.
Charlotte looked elegant and perfectly casual. Her glossy hair was tucked behind her ears, and she wore a silky floral shirt over white jeans, which looked like they’d been cut for her lean figure. But for all her polish, something was off. Her smile was tight, and she cocked her head in an unnatural fashion.
She’s angry! Skye realized. She’d never seen Charlotte off-kilter, and it gave her a perverse boost.
“Hi, Charlotte,” Skye said, summoning all the cool she could manage.
“Hi, Skye.” Charlotte smirked, head still cocked, like she expected Skye to answer some unasked question.
Skye mirrored Charlotte’s head tilt and raised her eyebrows, as if to say, I’m waiting. When Charlotte still didn’t speak, Skye began to wonder if she might be drunk.
“Something on your mind, Charlotte?” Skye asked finally.
“What are you doing, Skye?” Charlotte asked, with an emphasis on the word doing that gave the question a hint of accusation.
“Just heading home,” Skye replied, as if she thought Charlotte meant the question literally. She turned and took a few steps in the other direction.
“Wait … Skye!”
She turned back slowly. “Yes?”
“Is there something going on with you and Ben Barrows?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, are you two seeing each other?”
Skye felt a swell of hope. Charlotte wouldn’t ask this question if she and Ben were seeing each other (or seeing each other exclusively, at least). Skye had no intention of answering, though, and instead went with an old media relations trick: answer an unwelcome question with a question of your own.
“Why are you wondering? Are you still interested in him?”
“Me? What would give you that idea?” Charlotte responded innocently. She had evidently gotten some media training, too.
“I honestly don’t know, Charlotte. I couldn’t imagine why you’d care so much.”
“I never said I cared ‘so much,’” Charlotte said haughtily.
“Oh. Sorry. I guess I misread you. Good night!” Skye smiled, and turned toward the beach.
When she was far enough away that she knew she could no longer be seen, she looked back and saw Charlotte’s silky blouse and white jeans bobbing along—not toward the party, but in the same direction Ben had gone.
There she goes, Skye thought with a sigh. She had probably walked that path a thousand times, always certain of her welcome. Charlotte, though, had the look of someone in pursuit, while Ben had not seemed in the mood to be prey. She might be making the wrong move for once.
And either way, even if Charlotte regained her status as princess with Ben once more her prince, there was something to be said for having knocked off her crown, if only for a moment.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
MAREN
When Maren came downstairs, she was pleased to see Skye preparing to go for a run. She looked like she needed to let off some steam.
Too bad she can’t play hockey here. Maren smiled to herself.
Hockey had been Oliver’s idea. How he had worshiped that child. Skye could not possibly have known how much, since he was not jolly and effusive like some grandfathers. But Maren knew his “love language,” as those new age books called it.
Skye had been nine or ten at the time, old enough to begin to understand her mother’s behavior. She had spent a few weeks on Haven Point that summer. After they returned Skye to her mother, Maren and Oliver had been worried. Annie had seemed so shaky, and Skye was already beginning to behave like a little adult—anxious and vigilant, a tireless perfectionist.
A few weeks later, Oliver approached Maren.
“I have an idea for Skye,” he said. “I think she should play ice hockey.”
Maren tried not to let her surprise show. “Really? Why is that?”
Oliver paused. He looked so serious, so scholarly, Maren was prepared for a scientific disquisition on the subject.
“Because,” he said finally, “I think it would be good for her to whack at something with a stick.”
Maren had burst out laughing.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was expecting, but that was not it,” Maren said. “But now that you’ve said it, I’m interested. Why not golf?”
“Golf?” Oliver had sniffed. “She needs something far less civilized than golf, Maren.”
Maren laughed again.
“She’s fast, coordinated,” Oliver continued. “I think it might be a good fit.”
He had been right, of course.
Well, she’ll have an outlet today, Maren thought. She would need Skye’s help getting things ready. From what she’d heard at the Lawrences’ potluck, this storm was shaping up to be a monster. Almost anything not tied down could become a missile in strong winds: the gas grill, porch furniture, potted plants.
; Once she returned from her run, Skye helped lug and move and hammer, while Maren closed storm shutters in the attic and trimmed shrubs to make them more resistant to the wind.
She had asked Skye to leave two chairs on the porch, so after they showered and had dinner, they went outside to enjoy the last good weather they might see for some time. Maren brought her knitting, and Skye had her phone. They had only been outside a few minutes when Skye got a text. She looked at the screen and laughed.
“Oh my God,” Skye said as she tapped out a reply.
“What is it?” Maren asked.
“My friend Colette from Vernon’s office. She’s going to call me in a few minutes,” she said as she rose from her chair. “I’m going to take it in my room. I’ll explain when I come back.”
When Skye returned, it was with a look of amusement on her face.
“What was that all about?”
“Long story, and it relates to my getting fired,” Skye said. Maren raised her eyebrows. She’d wondered what happened, exactly, but Skye had not wanted to talk about it. “I’ll start with the latest, though. So, Shelley Vernon, the congressman’s wife, suspected he was having an affair, which he was.”
“How shocking,” Maren said drily. Skye had told her a bit about Randall Vernon.
“It seems she hired a detective. He got the goods on the affair, and he found something else, too,” Skye had a twinkle in her eye Maren had not seen in far too long.
“What’s that?”
“Evidently, Congressman Vernon, in an effort to keep his wife from finding out, was underwriting the affair with campaign funds. He put all the hotel rooms, meals, and limo rides they shared on the campaign credit card. An hour ago, this came out.…” Skye smiled, clicked on a link, and handed her phone to Maren.
The headline from the Richmond Times-Dispatch story read,
SHELLEY VERNON FILES FOR DIVORCE FROM CONGRESSMAN RANDALL VERNON, SUBMITS EVIDENCE OF CAMPAIGN FINANCE VIOLATIONS TO FEDERAL ELECTION COMMISSION.
“What will this mean for the congressman?” Maren asked after she scanned the story.
“He’ll say he planned to pay it back, but my bet is he’s toast either way. A billionaire using campaign donations to pay for his mistress? Not a good look.”
“So, what did this all have to do with your getting fired?”
Skye relayed the story of her last day on the Vernon campaign, beginning with the campaign breakfast and culminating with her marching out of the office.
“Colette sent me a photo from a press event after the whole thing blew up, and Shelley looked so meek, I thought I had made things worse for her. Seems she was just getting her ducks in a row,” Skye said.
Maren’s heart swelled. Her granddaughter, who had an almost insatiable desire for order and stability, had put it all on the line for Shelley Vernon. Whatever Annie’s failings as a mother, she had raised a daughter with a ferocious instinct to look out for other women when they were vulnerable.
“So, did you see Ben at the clambake last night?” Maren asked. She knew they’d had that one summer together when they were young, and had seen each other in Washington earlier in the year. Maren had spotted Ben’s kind face at Annie’s memorial service, though things had seemed to fizzle after that. Maren had put it out of her mind, until she saw the way Ben looked at Skye after the sing-along.
“Yeah, he was there,” Skye replied.
“What ever happened with you two?”
“He’s a good guy. We had fun. I don’t know.…” Skye faltered. “I just don’t think we have that much in common.”
Maren had not planned to speak to Skye tonight about Annie, the ashes, any of it. She was still not sure what Skye knew, and she wanted to tread carefully. But she also sensed an opening.
“You don’t strike me as lacking things in common, Skye. Similar age, both of you well educated, so good-looking. And you have Haven Point in common.” She paused. “Or perhaps you see Haven Point as an area of difference?”
“Partly the latter, I guess. And when Mom died, I don’t know … It didn’t seem right.”
“Why is that?”
“Because of how Mom felt about this place.”
Maren stopped knitting and looked at Skye. “I’ve actually been wondering about this for some time, Skye. What did your mom say to you about Haven Point over the years?”
“Well, you know, she hated the ‘elitism and hypocrisy,’” Skye said, making air quotes with her fingers. “Like, all that stuff with the Donnellys.”
Maren paused. “What exactly did your mom tell you about the Donnellys?”
“Just little comments through the years, about how Ben’s grandmother kept them out of Haven Point, how snobby and unfair it was.”
And there it is.
For months—years, really—she had suspected that Annie had never told Skye the full story. Now it was up to her. With that realization came a terrible wave of grief.
“What is it, Gran?” Skye asked.
Maren looked at her granddaughter, that lovely face a reminder that she could not let it pull her under. She took a breath.
“You know, Skye,” she said. “I think your mother gave you a rather simple rendition of her Haven Point story.”
“Probably,” Skye acknowledged.
“Her feelings for this place were far more complicated than she led you to understand. I have something to show you.”
Maren went to her room, opened the drawer of her desk, and pulled out a document. The toxicology report was also there, but it was not time for that yet.
Tread lightly, she reminded herself as she descended the stairs and returned to the porch.
“Your mother had an addendum to her will,” she said, handing Skye the document. “She added this a year before she died.”
Skye took the piece of paper and read it out loud.
I direct my body be cremated and ashes placed in a box. During the summer following my death, I request my mother, Maren Demarest, or my daughter, Skye Demarest, take my ashes to Haven Point, Maine. There, I request either my mother or daughter have a boat take her to open waters. The boat having reached a suitable distance from shore, I request all my ashes be scattered in the ocean.
Skye looked at Maren, dumbstruck.
“What is this? I don’t understand.”
“I know you don’t, love,” Maren said, her heart melting at Skye’s confusion. “I have been wanting to share this with you for some time, but I haven’t known where to begin.”
“Where to begin what?” Skye practically yelled.
“It’s about something that happened here,” Maren said. “Your mother had her reasons for her opinions about this place. It’s just, well … it was never the whole story.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
SKYE
When Skye came downstairs the following morning, Gran was already up, sitting on a slipcovered chair, looking out at the water. She was almost perfectly still, ankles crossed on a small needlepoint footstool, hands clasped at her waist.
Skye felt as if she had intruded on a private moment. She went to the window and peered out. The tops of the pines lurched in the wind, and a layer of wispy dark clouds moved under a curtain of slate gray, like dancers in a dark ballet.
“Good morning,” Gran said finally.
Skye turned to face her.
“Good morning, Gran,” Skye said. “It’s starting to look interesting out there.”
“It’s beautiful in its way, isn’t it?” Gran’s eyes were still on the weather, her mind seemingly elsewhere.
“It’s not supposed to get bad until later this afternoon. How about a walk before breakfast?”
Gran looked at her skeptically.
“It’s barely raining now. Please?” Skye’s playful pleading seemed to snap Gran from her reverie.
“I suppose,” she said. She pushed herself slowly from her chair, but Skye detected the faintest hint of enthusiasm breaking through the opacity.
They put on hoo
ded raincoats and made their way to the muddy cliff path, carefully stepping around damp stones. The sea was already more active than usual. When they reached a spot where the cliff dropped off more gradually than in front of Fourwinds, they stopped to watch the great white explosions of spray as the waves collided against the rocks.
Since it first made landfall in southeast Virginia, the hurricane had mostly taunted the East Coast, like a prizefighter sizing up his opponent, landing only the odd glancing blow. On Tuesday night, it slammed into the eastern tip of Long Island, powered up Narragansett Bay, then raced north on I-95 like a summer traveler trying to beat traffic.
Some forecasters predicted that hurricane-force winds could sustain, even into Maine. Things would start getting rough that afternoon. Unfortunately for the houses on the beach, the worst of it was expected right at high tide.
As they walked, Gran kept up her end of the conversation, but Skye noted little twinkle or curiosity. Skye had the sense she was rationing limited emotional reserves. The night before, Skye had been desperate to understand the strange provision in her mother’s will. But when Gran mentioned something that had happened here on Haven Point, Skye had seen the veil slip. It was only for an instant, but Skye was so chastened by the pain etched in Gran’s face, she managed to put aside her own anxiety for once.
It was my mother in that tub, she reminded herself. But it was Gran’s daughter.
“It’s late, Gran,” Skye had said. “You can tell me about this another time.”
Gran had nodded gratefully, and they’d gone to bed.
When they had neared the end of the walk, rather than doubling back, they took one of the overgrown paths that led back to Haven Point Road. As they made their way toward the house, Skye caught sight of one of the low wooden signs that marked an entrance to the Haven Point Sanctuary.
“Can we go back through this way?” Skye asked Gran. “I haven’t been in the sanctuary this week.”
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