The Guest Cottage

by Nancy Thayer

  “Hey, Ivan, what’s up?”

  “Dude! Have I got a deal for you!”

  Trevor rolled his eyes. Ivan was a blissed-out, pot-smoking, follow-the-sun kind of guy who was always phoning from Guatemala or Portugal.

  “How would you like to spend the summer in a great big old house on Nantucket?”

  Trevor sat up straight. “What’s the catch?”

  “I need some cash quick. I’m going to India with this awesome girl. Look, the house is fully furnished, close to the beaches, completely wired for cable and Wi-Fi. Let me tell you, when you see the girls in their bikinis, you’ll think you’ve died and gone to heaven.”

  “Ivan, I’m thirty years old and have my own business and a four-year-old son.”

  “Well, hey, your kid would love it there. He could play on the beaches, plus they’ve got cool day camps for kids. Look, I can’t talk long—I’m phoning from London. Are you interested?”

  Trevor knew Ivan would call this karma. And maybe it was.

  “Actually, Ivan, I am.”

  Sophie sent Susie Swenson’s photos of the house to her children’s phones. She studied them on her computer, scanning the details.

  The Nantucket house was three stories high, with a two-story wing off each end. The house looked British, like something out of an old black-and-white mystery involving butlers and Bentleys, except shingled with gray wood instead of built with brick or stone. An ancient, thick wisteria vine drooped its violet blooms over the front door. Trellises covered with climbing pink roses framed the doors of the two wings.

  A brick driveway circled in front of the house. Another brick driveway ran down to the left of the house past a long enclosed passageway and the attached apartment. More pink roses densely quilted the walls of the addition. By the blue door to the grandfather’s quarters stood pots of old-fashioned peppermint-striped geraniums. A small stone patio had been laid at the end, complete with wrought-iron furniture and urns bright with pink petunias. The Swensons obviously liked pink.

  Photos of the interior displayed a warren of rooms as worn and welcoming as a fairy-tale grandmother’s lap, and as rumpled. A front hall divided the living room from what looked like a library, both rooms crowded with comfortable sofas, chairs, and cases of books and games. Behind, a dining room and a family room. A long, modernized kitchen ran the width of the back of the house, opening onto a patio laid in a herringbone pattern with urns spilling with flowers at each corner. A large gas grill, a long wooden table, and wooden chairs turned the area into an outdoor dining room. From there, perhaps thirty feet of well-kept grass flowed in a lush green carpet before surrendering to scrubby beach grass and shrubbery.

  Upstairs, six bedrooms were packed with old spool beds, bunk beds, double beds, and twin beds, plus bureaus, wing chairs, standing mirrors, and more bookcases spilling with books and games.

  What a perfect summer house! It wouldn’t matter if Sophie never dusted, if the kids tracked sand in, if it rained for days in a row. And guests! They could have so many guests! Jonah and Lacey could each have a friend for as long as they wanted, and Sophie could invite her mother (out of duty), and her friends Angie and Bess, and perhaps a couple of her other friends, too.

  After Sophie pleaded with Zack, they presented a united front to the kids, presenting the plans as their plans, saying that Zack had so much work, he didn’t know when he’d be able to get to the island. Jonah and Lacey didn’t question it; they were used to their father being too busy to be with them.

  So on the last day of June, her green SUV packed with luggage, a cooler of food, and last-minute additions—first aid cream, a few more paperbacks—Sophie drove down Route 3 in the crowded parade of summer people headed for the Cape and islands. Determined to be cheerful, she blasted the music she loved, upbeat ’80s songs like Cyndi Lauper’s “Girls Just Want to Have Fun,” while her children in the backseat nodded along to their own favorite music on earbuds.

  Once they boarded the car ferry and began the two-hour trip to the island, the kids came out of their shells. They bought hot dogs and ate them leaning on the railing, staring out at the endlessly blue ocean. Jonah helped Lacey load photos on Instagram and they texted their friends at home.

  By the time the Andersons were driving off the ramp and onto Nantucket, even Jonah, who had become unusually quiet the last few months, was talking.

  “This is cool,” he said. “No skyscrapers, no traffic lights.”

  “The streets are so narrow!” Lacey shrieked.

  Jonah pointed, laughing. “Look, the traffic’s stopped for a bunch of ducks crossing the road.”

  “I want to take a picture,” Lacey cried. “Oh, they’re so cute, the way they waddle. I think it’s a family.”

  Smiling, Sophie waited for the last duck to hop up onto the grass, then continued, heading over to Surfside Road. Susie’s house was hidden in a labyrinth of streets between the high school and Surfside Beach. Only the beginning of driveways, mailboxes, and stones painted with street numbers announced the presence of houses in what seemed like a primitive forest. Sophie turned on her GPS to find her way through the maze to Susie’s house. Finally they arrived at the right driveway, bordered by thickets of wild roses. Sophie drove through a small tunnel of green, breaking through to a slight rise in the land. There was the house, massive, shabby, and enchanting, its windows sparkling in the sunlight.

  “Wow,” Lacey exclaimed. “That’s enormous.”

  Sophie stopped her car in front of the house and took a deep breath. It was the last day of June, hot but not too hot, breezy but not windy. Here we go, she thought. Stick with me, Aunt Fancy.

  In the few moments Sophie paused, her kids unsnapped their seat belts and exploded from the car.

  “Hurry up, Mom,” called Lacey. “I want to see the inside!”

  Sophie walked to the front door beneath the clusters of thick violet wisteria, inserted the key, and unlocked it.

  The kids burst into the house, racing through the rooms, screaming and shouting. When Jonah was around other people, he treated his ten-year-old sister like an indulged pet. But when they were alone, Jonah became a kid again. Sophie paused, standing in the doorway with her eyes closed, reveling in the sound of her children together and happy. So maybe it would be okay.

  She entered the house. It was hot and stuffy from being closed up all winter. A center hall led straight through to the back, dividing the house. She walked to the right, the room Susie had called the library, and began opening the large windows. Whoever had been here last had left a paperback of Great Expectations open on the sofa. She smiled.

  Footsteps thundered as the children raced up the stairs to the second floor. More shouts filled the air—happy shouts.

  “Aunt Fancy, you clever old dear.” Sophie squeezed herself as her heart began to fill just the tiniest bit, perhaps one-eighth in a large cup, with hope.

  She crossed the hall into the large living room and opened the door to the addition extending between the main house and the apartment. Susie had said the connecting room was built especially for her aunt, a rather eccentric relative who was obsessed with the piano (thank heavens for eccentric aunts, Sophie thought). Because of her, this music room existed, an elegant chamber that seemed to have been lifted from a Viennese music hall. Zack, Sophie thought, would have called it old-fashioned. Thick Turkish rugs gleamed like satin against the dark wooden floors, a sparkling crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, and gilt-framed paintings of concerts and pianists covered the walls. A long, deep-cushioned sofa, covered in pink roses strewn over an icy white background, sat against one wall.

  In the middle of the room was a Steinway baby grand.

  That the piano was here astonished Sophie—and cracked open the firmly shut door on her memories and on an enormous and profound part of her most essential self. She hadn’t played piano for sixteen years, but how could she not play again here?

  River Ford—yes, his parents had named him that—was Trevor’s
second-in-command and only full-time employee. Trevor paid River well, but River was what he called relaxed about the way he spent money and seldom had a stable place to live. When Trevor suggested that River live in Trevor’s apartment for the months of July and August, rent free, with only a few small domestic duties, River had jumped at the chance.

  The day had come for Trevor and Leo to make the trip to Nantucket. Trevor was slightly nervous about leaving his stuff in the care of his brilliant but absentminded friend. Before he left, Trevor sat River down and made him look at the list that would be attached to the refrigerator door, and to the bathroom wall next to the mirror, and to the desk next to the motherboard.

  “Read it aloud,” Trevor ordered.

  “Oh, man, come on!” River had a high-pitched voice and a tendency to giggle.

  Trevor glared at him.

  River sighed. “ ‘One. No smoking weed in the house. Two. Phone me every morning at ten a.m. Three. Clean aquarium once a week. I mean it, River.’ ”

  Trevor’s red-haired employee made a face at him. “Dude. And you think your son is anal?”

  Trevor folded his arms over his chest. “Do you want a free place to live for two months or not?”

  “Yes, and you know why? Nestra’s going to move in with me. It’s serious, man. This will be our trial live-together thing. I won’t mess up.”

  Trevor ran his hands through his thick, dark hair. He had met Nestra—short for Clytemnestra, which she had renamed herself from the more pedestrian Ann—did these kids even read mythology? Did they not know the original Clytemnestra murdered her husband? Still, the current Nestra was a good influence on River. She loved living creatures. She would see that the aquarium was cleaned even if she had to do it herself.

  “I’ll count on that.” Trevor rose and went down the hall to his son’s bedroom. Leo was trying to cram more Legos into an already bulging duffel bag. “Okay, kid, time to hit the road.”

  “Okay, Daddy.” Leo’s innocent, trusting, unmarred face was like a spear to Trevor’s heart. How did parents survive such responsibility? How did the world even manage to carry on?

  River helped Trevor and Leo load up the Volkswagen Passat. River and Leo performed their complicated hello/goodbye hand ritual. Trevor strapped his son in his car seat with Tubee and a pile of books to look at for the ride down to the Cape. He filled his go-cup with iced coffee, handed Leo his go-cup filled with milk, and began the drive.

  It was the last Thursday in June. At the first of the month, when the summer rentals started, Trevor knew the traffic to the Cape could be atrocious. Since no one lived in Ivan’s house, no one would care that Trevor would beat the traffic by arriving a day early.

  And once he got to Nantucket? Trevor couldn’t get a clear picture in his head. Ivan had told him the house was large. Was that a good thing? Leo was familiar with the small rooms of their second-floor apartment in Cambridge. Maybe a spacious place would freak him out. Trevor might have to do some kind of damage control.

  He began a to-do file in his mind. Walk through the house. Let Leo choose his own bedroom; then Trevor would choose the bedroom closest to Leo’s. Go to the beach—a brave new world for them both. Trevor could imagine the blaze of sun on water, the vastness of the blue sea and sky. Their minds would widen, their hearts would lift with possibility. Later, they’d unpack. Organize a Lego room. For now, Legos seemed to be his son’s antianxiety magic.

  Once Leo had his Lego room under way, Trevor could set up his computer room. River would be able to handle much of their website business but Trevor needed to be online as much as possible, responding to clients, performing triage, and following up on possible new business leads. After that, he would go through the house, checking on the condition of the beds and linens. Ivan wasn’t the kind of guy to know or care how many decent towels or what sorts of cooking paraphernalia the house had. Trevor had invited a couple of the families with children who played with Leo to come down for a few days of Nantucket sun and fun. His theory was that the more his son was around people he knew, the more comfortable he would be. He daydreamed of long, sunny days on the beach with Leo building sand castles with friends his own age or walking through town eating ice-cream cones, and slowly but surely allowing the thought of his vagabond mother to fade from his mind.

  They arrived at the car ferry precisely when Trevor planned to arrive. The big old ship was a monster. Trevor hoped it didn’t frighten Leo. He was delighted when the boy reacted with wide eyes and laughter at the sight of the enormous container trucks growling up the ramp into the hold.

  Once they were on board, Trevor lifted Leo onto his shoulders and hauled him up the shaking metal stairs to the main deck. Sometimes he wondered if he was treating his son like a baby, carrying him on his shoulders, but the shuddering, rumbling ferry was a literally unsettling experience. They found a booth next to a window. Trevor pointed out yachts, docks, sailboats, sand bars, and gulls as the ferry left the harbor. The trip took over two hours and once they were out on the open water, the window lost its appeal. Leo watched the other children chasing each other up and down the aisles. Trevor opened his laptop and caught up on some email. After a while, Leo opened his iPad and began to play a game.

  Finally, the island appeared, low and steamy on the horizon, like a mirage. The ferry drew closer, and houses appeared on the shore; boats sailed past on flashing blue water. It seemed to Trevor that the short Brant Point lighthouse on its rounded spit of land was an uncommonly welcoming sight—here was safety. The harbor was dense with sailboats, motorboats, kayaks, and windsurfers. Leo pressed his nose to the window as the town and island came into view. Nothing urban, nothing strange, everything storybook—piers and dogs and leafy trees. Pastel banners waving over shops. Gulls perched on the top of pilings, grooming themselves as if this were simply another day. Church steeples gleaming in the distance. Leo grinned.

  It was going to be okay.

  They returned to their car on the lower deck, Trevor buckled Leo in, and they bumped over the ramp onto dry land. Trevor turned on his GPS and followed it out of town and toward the house near Surfside. It was three o’clock in the afternoon.

  He was glad he had GPS on his car dashboard because the roads to Ivan’s house were poorly marked and obscured with shadowy stands of trees. Finally, he saw the name Swenson painted in white on a rock almost hidden by wild roses. He turned into the drive and headed forward. Here it was. A huge, slightly shabby old house that had once been the guest cottage for an even huger house that was now hidden by fences and hedges.

  A large green SUV was parked in front. That was a surprise. Maybe Ivan had paid someone to come clean the house. Trevor parked behind the SUV.

  “We’re here, buddy!” Trevor told his son as he lifted him out of the car.

  “Daddy, what’s that pretty noise?”

  Holding his son’s hand, Trevor listened. “Someone’s playing the piano,” he told Leo. “Let’s go see who it is.”

  Sophie slowly stepped into the music room and stood in front of the piano. She raised the lid and gazed down at the ivory keys. The keys were moonstones to her, gleaming pearls, black diamonds, a wealth of romance and desire.

  Could she remember even how to play?

  Sliding onto the piano stool, she placed her hands on the keyboard. Instinctively, her fingers chose the spot, the notes: G, B-flat, C.

  “Greensleeves.”

  Without thinking, her hands found the keys, the chords, the rhythm, and she sang as she played.

  “Alas, my love, you do me wrong, to cast me off discourteously…”

  So courtly, so melancholy, the ballad written hundreds of years ago in England told of heartbreak experienced then, and now, in Sophie’s own heart. It was universal, being cast away; it surpassed time and space. It was said that Henry VIII composed the song for Anne Boleyn. Another discarded wife.

  At least Zack couldn’t shut Sophie in a tower.

  She hit a few clinkers, but it was a surprise h
ow it all returned at once, how good Sophie still was. She played, her hands spontaneously embroidering the simple tune with evocative chords. As she played, her heart broke open. The tears she’d been holding back streamed down her face.

  “Mom?”

  Sophie flinched. In one awkward move, she rose, turning to see her son and daughter standing in the doorway of the music room, both her children staring at her as if she’d turned into green cheese.

  A man stood there, too, holding the hand of a little boy.

  What?

  For one frightening moment, Sophie thought she was hallucinating.

  “Hello?” the man greeted her, tentatively, carefully, as if she might start foaming at the mouth.

  “Sorry,” Sophie said, wiping the tears away. “Sorry. Got carried away. How can I help you?”

  The man smiled quizzically. “Um, well, not to be rude, but, uh, you can tell me what you’re doing in my house.” He was tall and incredibly good-looking, with thick black hair and green eyes with such dark lashes it looked as if he’d used eyeliner.

  “Your house? This is our house.”

  The man was young, younger than Sophie, and his clothes gave him an adolescent air, especially his rumpled T-shirt printed with the slogan Geeks Do It with More Ram. Politely, he inquired, “This house is the old Swenson guest cottage, right?”

  “It is. I’m renting it from Susie Swenson.”

  “Ah. Now we’re getting somewhere. I’m renting it from Ivan Swenson. Susie and Ivan are cousins. And not particularly communicative with each other, it seems.”

  Sophie stared speechlessly. Her unexpected piano tsunami had flushed away her usual, Capable Mommy persona. It didn’t help that the young man was jaw-droppingly handsome. She had to turn her eyes away from him in order to think. Her children frowned at her. “Maybe I’d better join you in the living room. We need to sort this out.”

  “Good idea.” The man approached Sophie with his hand held out, his small son clinging to his leg and gawking wide-eyed at Sophie as if she might explode at any moment. “I’m Trevor Black. From Boston. This is my son, Leo.”