No Secret Like Nantucket (A Sweet Island Inn Book 5)

by Grace Palmer

“No apologies,” Mom interrupted. “So long as you and the baby are okay, I’m okay. Everything is okay.”

  Holly came in quietly, hands folded behind her back. “Did I hear everyone is okay in here?”

  “Fine,” Eliza said again. Hoping if she said it often enough it would feel true.

  Holly nodded in understanding. “I’m sure. We won’t stay long. You all need your rest.”

  “‘Isn’t she lovely, isn’t she wonderful?’” Sara came into the room crooning the Stevie Wonder song, sashaying back and forth. Then, she pushed their mother aside and hugged Eliza. “I’m talking about you and the baby. How are you feeling?”

  “I’m fine,” Eliza said. She feel neither lovely nor wonderful, but she kept saying fine and maybe part of her was starting to believe it. “I’m not the one in the incubator.”

  “It’s probably just precaution, right?” Mom asked, running her hand over the glass that separated her from her newest granddaughter. “She looks healthy.”

  “She looked perfect,” Holly whispered, almost reverently.

  “The doctors are optimistic her lungs will catch up quickly,” Oliver said. “She’ll be fine.”

  How many times could the same word be used before it lost all meaning?

  Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. Until it was melted butter in everyone’s mouths.

  “And what have they said about you?” Mae asked, turning to Eliza.

  “Ginny was just in here, and she didn’t have anything to say. So I must be fine.”

  Holly’s eyebrows lifted. “Ginny Abernathy? Or, I guess, she’s back to her maiden name now. Morris, I think?”

  Sara nodded. “Ginny Morris.”

  “You all know her?”

  “She was my counselor at Camp Eldritch in sixth grade.” Sara sneered. “Such a goody-two-shoes. I tried to leave a frog in Meghan’s bunk bed, and she assigned me to kitchen duty for the rest of the week.”

  Holly laughed. “Good for her.”

  Another knock at the door. “How is my oldest sister doing?” Brent asked, entering the family reunion.

  “I’m fine,” Eliza said, hopefully for the last time. She was happy her family was there, but going from a nearly empty room to a packed one in the span of only a few minutes was jarring.

  “If you need anything, I’m your guy.” Brent pointed both thumbs at himself. “Hospital food is terrible and the cafeteria is closed, but I saw some of the kitchen staff cleaning up. I bet I could talk them into making you a mostly edible sandwich. Charm is my superpower.”

  Oliver backed away from the incubator and glanced at the door. “I think we’re only allowed two visitors at a time. I’ll give you all some space.”

  Brent waved a dismissive hand. “I took care of it. One of the nurses and I have a bit of history.”

  Holly gasped and playfully slapped their brother’s arm. “Did you date one of your niece’s nurses?”

  “No,” he laughed, rubbing at his arm where she’d slapped him. “I gave her—and her husband—a fishing tour when they moved here six months ago.”

  “If he’d dated her, she never would have helped us,” Sara drawled. Ignoring Brent’s protests, Sara knelt down next to the incubator. “Look at how perfect she is, Eliza. You made her. Can you believe it?”

  “Absolutely perfect,” Holly echoed, pressing her hands to her heart. “She looks like Winter, doesn’t she?”

  “But with Oliver’s coloring,” Mom added. “Look at her dark hair.”

  Eliza leaned forward and looked in on Summer. She did have dark hair. She’d been so distracted by—well, by everything—she’d hardly noticed.

  Summer had dark hair like her daddy. Why did that make her want to sob?

  “She’s small,” Eliza murmured.

  “Totally normal,” Holly said right back. “She’s four weeks early.”

  Mom agreed. “Winter wasn’t a big baby, either. Even full-term, she was just over seven pounds.”

  “Exactly. Nothing to worry about.”

  “I guess so. It’s just hard to see anything beyond the wires and the incubator.”

  “It’s an illusion. The tubes make her look smaller,” Holly theorized. “Once her lungs are good to go and they take those off, she’ll look much better. Look at the rolls above her elbows. Little biscuit dough rolls.”

  “She’ll be as chunky as Grady was in no time,” Sara laughed.

  Eliza hadn’t noticed the rolls, but sure enough, there they were. Pinchable little bundles of baby chub just like Winter had when she was born.

  Dark hair like her daddy.

  Rolls like biscuit dough.

  My sweet pea, my plum, my pumpkin.

  She was so close to crying, but she wouldn’t. Not with everyone around. That would have to wait until later.

  “Oh, yeah, Grady was a beast. My little Michelin Man,” Brent said with a smile. “Now he’s ten! Time sure flies.”

  “Believe me, I know.” Mom looked at all of her children and shook her head. “I remember being in the hospital with each of you. Like it was yesterday. Now, you’re having babies of your own. It’s unbelievable, really, it’s just—” Her voice broke in a choked half-sob.

  Brent wrapped their mom in a side hug and rested his cheek on the top of her head. “You can’t cry on your birthday, Mom.”

  “Leave her alone,” Sara jabbed.

  Mom wiped at her misty eyes. “I’m just so proud of all of you. For sticking together and growing into good people. It’s the best birthday present I could have ever asked for.”

  Holly joined the hug with Brent and Mae first. Then they shuffled closer to Eliza’s wheelchair, and Eliza threw her arm around her family, too.

  Worry for Summer still gnawed at her, but she suspected that would be there for a long time. Maybe the rest of her life.

  But all the obstacles she’d been struggling with before seemed more manageable now.

  Her family had been through worse. They’d get through this, too.

  15

  Mae

  Friday Morning—One Week Later

  The Sweet Island Inn would only be closed for a couple weeks, but the overflow of boxes littering the entryway suggested Mae was closing up shop.

  The set designer had kindly but firmly requested all personal effects be out of sight.

  If only she’d known how hard that would be.

  Guests of the inn often smiled at the entryway picture of Grady and Alice running through a sprinkler wearing goggles too large for their face. They’d gesture to the wall and ask, “These all belong to you?” Mae would proudly respond that they did.

  The movie, however, didn’t care about sentimentality unless it was fictional.

  So into the box went the pictures. Into the box went books and ornaments and Mae’s best cooking spoon.

  The boxes were also loaded down with the sun-bleached Sweet Island Inn sign from the front porch and each of the three back-to-back-to-back Best of Nantucket Hospitality Awards Mae had won.

  Stripping any trace of herself from the business that had become her home over the last three years made Mae more uncomfortable than she’d expected. How quickly evidence of a life could be erased.

  “How much room is left in the storage closet?” Mae called across the spotless kitchen.

  “None. Why?” Dominic’s voice wavered, nervous to even ask.

  “I have another box of pictures that need to be put away.”

  He groaned, the sound echoing off the unusually bare walls. “Shove them under a bed. Or in the oven. No one’s going to be using the oven, anyway.”

  “I don’t need another kitchen fire, thank you very much.” Mae shivered at the thought.

  The previous fire had been small. An annoyance more than a disaster. But the thought of spending another two weeks washing and scrubbing away the smoke smell had turned her into a real-life Smokey the Mama Bear. Only you can prevent Inn fires.

  “Let’s just take it with us to—”

  “No!” Dom
inic cut her off sharply, a raised finger all Mae could see sticking out from the storage room door. “I’ll find room. We can’t possibly take anything more with us to Brent’s house.”

  “He won’t mind. Brent cleared out space in Henry’s old workshop for us. It’s really fine.”

  Suddenly, Dominic burst out of the room and into the kitchen, arms raised in triumph. “Not necessary. I’ve made space.”

  “Let’s hope I don’t find anything else to pack up.”

  “God forbid.”

  Dominic was fanning himself like he was about to slump over from heat exhaustion. Slightly warm for June, the temperature still hadn’t crested seventy-five degrees. And with the damp breeze off the water and the cottony white clouds offering some protection from the sun, it was a gorgeous day.

  But Mae allowed for Dominic’s dramatics. He’d been hard at work all morning.

  “I know we’re packing a lot. I’m sorry. This could be a great opportunity for the inn, so I want to make sure I do it right. Everything has to be spotless.”

  “Everything was already spotless,” he said over his shoulder. “That’s why the film crew chose this as a filming location. You keep an immaculately clean house.”

  “I know, I know. You sound like Lola and Debra.” Mae’s friends had come over for an evening of wine on the porch the night before, and they’d teased Mae for wiping up the water rings on the table between every sip.

  Mae had heard it all. From Dominic. The kids. Henry. Mostly when they were complaining about having to pick up their rooms or help clean the bathrooms again.

  Everything is fine the way it is, Mom! The never-ending chorus of the last thirty years.

  “Tease me all you want,” she said. “But it’s what earned me all those awards we had to pack away.”

  She stopped and surveyed the living room once more. Every corner empty and scrubbed to within an inch of its life.

  Immaculately clean, yes. But wrong. So wrong! This place was meant to be filled to bursting. Without all the things in their proper places, Mae felt like a string without a kite.

  Dominic stopped and stood next to her, hands on his hips as Mae turned to gaze out the front window. A line of tulip trees acted as a privacy screen and sound break from the road, making it difficult to see or hear anyone approaching until their tires crunched over the white gravel drive that horseshoed in front of the inn.

  “Brent texted. He’ll be here in ten minutes,” Mae said, the thought twisting her stomach nervously.

  The film crew asked about using Sweet Island Inn as a location months earlier, but it was only now hitting Mae that strangers would be in her home without her.

  What if they needed help setting the tricky thermostat upstairs?

  Or what if they missed the note she’d hung inside the fridge that said to not turn on the ice machine? There was a leak in the line and it spilled water all over the floor. A replacement part wouldn’t be in for another couple weeks.

  “We can always come back if something goes wrong or gets left behind. I’m sure it wouldn’t bother anyone on set,” Dominic said, as though reading her mind.

  “That’s right! You were invited to set.”

  Mae could picture it now—professional cameras and folding chairs with names stitched into the back. The director would wear a baseball cap and people would hustle around, touching up makeup and handing out lunch deliveries. Clipboards as far as the eye could see.

  Maybe they’d even ask Mae to help with something around the set. She could be their Inn Expert on hand, ready to answer all questions hospitality. “Oh, yes, I’d be delighted to show you how I manage a new booking…”

  Dominic wavered back and forth uncertainly. “I was invited, but I’m not sure I want to go.”

  The image in Mae’s head flickered to black, disappointment wrinkling her brow. “Don’t you want to see your vision come to life?”

  “I want to see the movie,” he clarified, shoving his hands in his jean pockets. “I’m just not sure I want to be involved in the process.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m a writer, not a movie-maker.” He shrugged. “I’d hate to make anyone uncomfortable.”

  “They’re professionals. I’m sure they’d be fine.”

  “A lot of people from Nantucket will be part of it, too. Joey couldn’t stop talking about his ‘big break.’ I don’t want to make him nervous.”

  Mae smirked. “I’m not sure that’s possible. Sara has herself one confident beau.”

  Finally, Dominic sighed. “It’s more than that. I don’t know if I want to see my house turn into a movie set.”

  “But you’ll see it when the movie comes out, no?”

  “Yeah, but that will be different. I’m excited to see it as a fictional place on screen. But seeing it as a working movie set would be like seeing the puppeteer’s hands during a puppet show. It would ruin the magic.”

  Mae loved seeing the strings. The more she could know about how something worked and how it was made, the better. She wanted to know all of the behind-the-scenes secrets.

  No matter what she wanted, though, she wouldn’t go to the movie set without Dominic. Her Inn would be featured in the movie, but it was his book being brought to life. She would only go if he was comfortable with it.

  “You don’t have to decide right now,” Mae said. “After a few days sitting around the house, you may become so bored you change your mind.”

  Dominic chuckled. “I think you may be projecting. You are the one who will get bored. I will happily sit and read the entire time.”

  At home, Mae wouldn’t mind Dominic spending the day with his nose in a book. Running the Inn kept her plenty busy, what with cleaning and cooking, readying rooms for check-in and seeing guests off at checkout.

  In Brent and Rose’s place, though, Mae would be transported from her life and plopped down in a museum of old memories. A living monument of the years she’d spend raising her children. Of something she used to take care of and tend to everyday, but that was no longer hers. Not anymore.

  An idle mind could be a dangerous thing, and Mae suspected she’d be in need of a diversion or two.

  A familiar horn honked three times. Dominic angled himself so he could see out the window. “On that note, I think our moving truck has arrived.”

  Mae had been so lost in thought that she hadn’t noticed Brent turn down the driveway in “the moving truck,” which was actually Brent’s old beater.

  Dominic and Mae stepped out into the balmy day to meet Brent on the porch. The wooden steps, worn smooth from years of guests and ocean spray, squeaked beneath their feet.

  “Your chariot has arrived,” Brent said, waving his arms with a flourish and a bow. The exhaust blew dark smoke and the whole truck seemed to hiccup and shake as it idled.

  “Are you sure the chariot can handle the trip?” Dominic asked, voice raised to be heard over the rumbling engine.

  Brent patted the side of the truck. Two loud bangs shook loose a small puff of rust. “I’ve been driving her without a bit of trouble for the last six years. Old girl will be glad for the chance to strut her stuff again. She’s gotten shelved lately in favor of the hatchback. Turns out little kids are fragile and safety ratings are important. Who knew?”

  That reminded her: Susanna! Mae would be playing live-in grandma for the next two weeks. She’d nearly forgotten. Hours of entertainment she could count on, for sure. Craft projects and no-bake cookie recipes flicked through her mind, dusting away the anxiety that had clung to her like a cobweb.

  Dominic looked dubious. “We do have a lot of luggage.”

  “That’s definitely not a problem,” Brent said. “I cart tools and lumber all over the island when I’m on a construction job.”

  “If you’re sure…”

  Brent patted the truck again. “Positive. Maybe a more sensible person would have scrapped her by now, but she’s the first car I bought with my own money.”

  “A first
car is a special thing,” Dominic said warmly. “We’ll be sure to treat her with respect.”

  Mae chuckled. “I’m not sure Brent was treating her with respect when he took her out on all those late-night beach races?”

  “You know about that?” Brent’s eyes went wide.

  “A little bird told me you and your truck nearly ended up in the ocean once.”

  Brent ran a nervous hand through his dirty blonde hair. “Haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about. Anyway, where are the boxes?”

  “Nice transition,” Dominic laughed. “She’ll never suspect.”

  The two men walked into the house together ahead of her, laughing and whispering, and it gave Mae hope for the days to come.

  Maybe her worries were unfounded. Maybe it would be nice to have a two-week break from normal life.

  Mae followed them in and grabbed her suitcase just inside the door, but Brent plucked it right from her hands. “I’m here to do the heavy lifting, Ma. Go grab a mimosa or something.”

  “It’s one suitcase!”

  “Nuh-uh.” He wagged his finger. “Think of my house as the Howard Street Inn, and me as your concierge. Your stay with us begins now.”

  Then, without waiting for her retort, he trundled away, banging her suitcase down the stairs and tossing it into the back of his truck.

  She could do this.

  It was as simple as letting go.

  Turned out, Mae’s idleness would begin even earlier than she thought.

  While the boys loaded up the vehicle, Mae busied herself double-checking all the lights in the inn were off and turning the thermostat up so she wouldn’t waste money cooling an empty house.

  Padding through the inn doing last checks, Mae couldn’t get past how bizarre it felt to see the place empty. Without muffled voices slipping out from under doors and water surging through the pipes, the house felt lonely.

  Mae moved down the hallway, running her hand over the gold number plates next to the guest rooms and swiping a stray bit of dust from the antique writing table next to the banister.

  The next two weeks yawned opened in front of her, unusually and disturbingly sparse. With a mental “X,” Mae checked off Day One of her two-week exile.