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

by Grace Palmer

  “What are you going to do while the Inn is closed?” Brent asked the moment Mae scooted into the bench seat of the truck. The interior smelled like wood shavings and saltwater.

  “No idea,” Mae laughed, trying to hide the depth of her concern. “Eliza thinks it will be amazing free advertising. If I’m lucky, talk of the movie will send guests rushing to make reservations.”

  “Before you start thinking about work again, I’d suggest you enjoy your break,” Brent said.

  “Hear hear!” Dominic cheered.

  Brent nodded, even more certain his advice was solid. “The inn will still be here when you get back, Mama. Might as well try to enjoy yourself.”

  Of course the Sweet Island Inn would go on existing without Mae. Mae’s concern was whether she could exist without it.

  The first thing she saw was the wall.

  As soon as she walked through the door of the Howard Street residence she’d once called home, Mae noticed the wallpaper had been replaced with a dark moody floral print.

  Gone was the gold- and navy-striped wallpaper she and Henry had picked out less than ten years earlier. In its place loomed large flowers nearly the size of Ma’s head. They were drawn in rich jewel tones with thick vines draping from bud to bud.

  The wallpaper was beautiful and no doubt very modern—though a little menacing, in Mae’s opinion.

  Before she could notice anything else, Rose appeared, buzzing with energy.

  “Welcome, you two! Leave your bags here and Brent will carry them up to your room. I left towels in the guest room and bought shampoo and conditioner for the shower.”

  “Oh, we brought our own, darling,” Mae said. “You’re nice enough to give us a bed. We don’t want to bother you beyond that.”

  “Of course, of course—but just in case. I don’t want you two to worry about anything while you’re here.”

  Mae smiled and patted Rose’s elbow. “And I don’t want you to worry. Just pretend we aren’t here.”

  “See, hon?” Brent said, adjusting a box under his arm to let it rest on his hip. “I didn’t need to spit-shine the floors and clean all of the ceiling fans.”

  Dominic laughed. “Especially since your mom would have loved that chore. With the inn closed, her hostess energy is all dressed up with nowhere to go.”

  “For the record, he used a wet mop pad, not actual spit,” Rose said, rolling her eyes even as her cheeks flushed. “And the fans needed to be cleaned regardless. There was decades’ worth of dust up there.” Suddenly, Rose’s eyes widened in alarm. “Not to say you didn’t clean them, of course! I’m sure you did. I just—”

  “I actually didn’t,” Mae said, hoping to put Rose at ease. “Henry never let me do anything involving a ladder. My balance is terrible. But getting him on the ladder to clean the fans was like herding a cat through a sprinkler.”

  Rose let out a relieved sigh. A moment of awkward silence followed.

  “Onto the unpacking, I suppose,” Dominic said. “Ready, Brent?”

  “Aye-aye.”

  The two men left to unload the truck. Mae could hear their voices growing softer through the thin walls. She always thought this old house needed more insulation. She could hear the two of them laughing, at ease with one another.

  Which was more than she could say for herself and Rose.

  Rose hovered in the threshold of the living room, hands clasped behind her back. It was unclear if she wanted Mae to follow her into the living room to sit or whether she expected her to go on up to the guest room.

  “Well, maybe I’ll head on up—” Mae started to say just as Rose said, “Would you like some tea?”

  Mae nodded. “Sure, that would be—”

  “Oh, of course. Get settled,” Rose said, waving Mae towards the stairs.

  The women stared at one another for a second, neither wanting to speak in case they spoke over the other again.

  Finally, Mae smiled. “I have all day to get settled. I’d love some tea.”

  Rose nodded and led Mae back to the kitchen.

  Let it go, dear, she told herself as they walked down the narrow hallway single-file. Take your hands off the steering wheel.

  But it was proving awfully hard to shake the feeling of being in a place she’d once known so well—especially when the map in her head no longer quite matched reality.

  The kitchen at Howard Street seemed smaller now than ever before. Especially with new barstools taking up space, wide-set with tall backs and white, tufted upholstery.

  “We have a few different teas. Anything specific you like?”

  “Anything decaffeinated,” Mae said. “I can’t handle caffeine this late in the day. Maybe a fruit tea?”

  Rose opened what used to be Mae’s junk drawer to reveal a neat rack of tea bags. She looked back over her shoulder, lower lip pinched between her teeth. “I have chamomile?”

  “That sounds perfect, dear.”

  “Sorry. I should have asked what kind of tea you liked. I can run to the store—”

  “No, no, nonsense,” Mae said. “Chamomile is fine. I’ll get the mugs.”

  Mae turned to the cabinet just to the right of the sink. But when she pulled it open, instead of mugs, she was met with a fully-stocked spice rack and a pasta roller.

  “Sorry!” Rose cringed from the other side of the kitchen, pointing a hesitant finger at the cabinet closest to the back door. “I did some rearranging when we moved in. That cabinet was the only one with a shelf tall enough for my spice rack.”

  Mae smiled. “No need to apologize. I didn’t assume everything would be the same as I’d had it.”

  Except, hadn’t she? Perhaps a little. Not consciously, of course, but somewhere in her gut. In her bones.

  Rose’s face was still creased with worry, but before she could say anything else, the back door opened and Dominic came in, cheeks red.

  He saw the mug in Rose’s hand and raised his brows. “If you’re taking orders, I could go for some ice water. I’m parched.”

  “Coming right up.” Rose set to work boiling water, dropping a tea bag into a mug, and cracking ice from the tray into a tall glass for Dominic.

  Dominic thanked her and drank his water in one long gulp. Rose refilled it instantly, folding her hands behind her back when she was finished like a waiter anticipating another request.

  When none came, she sighed.

  “Brent got his room ready for you. It’s a guest room now, I suppose,” she said. “But we can accommodate if you would be more comfortable in the master. It was your room first.”

  “But it’s your room now,” Mae prodded as gently as she could. “The guest room is fine with us.”

  “A guest room is the perfect place for guests,” Dominic teased.

  “Important guests,” Rose qualified. “I want you to be comfortable here.”

  Mae chuckled. “I was comfortable enough here for thirty years, so I’m sure the next two weeks will be fine.”

  The quip was meant to be a joke, but Rose’s face reddened again. “Of course. It’s more your house than mine.”

  “No, not at all,” Mae said quickly. “This is your house. We’re just happy to be your guests. Speaking of, we should head on up and unpack, Dom.”

  Rose jumped and spun towards the stove. “Wait. Your tea!”

  She filled Mae’s cup to the top with steaming water, and Mae took it, careful to not let her fingers brush the hot ceramic sides. “Thank you very much.”

  When they made it up to their temporary living quarters and the door was shut firmly behind them, Mae let loose the sigh that had been building in her chest.

  Dominic understood it implicitly. “She’ll relax after we’ve been here for a while. Brent told me in the workshop how nervous Rose has been. She just wants us to be at ease.”

  Rose was always quick to help out and pitch in when she, Brent, and Susanna came by the inn. But there, she was friendly, relaxed.

  Now, she was a rumbling volcano of tension. M
ae worried she’d explode under the pressure.

  “She only wants to be a good hostess,” Mae said, rubbing at her temple. “I know that. And I know things will work out. It just feels strange being treated like a guest in my own house.”

  “I thought it was their house now,” Dominic said, his mouth pulled back in a gentle, knowing smile.

  Mae covered her mouth with her hand, surprised by the slip. “It is their house! Of course it is. I didn’t mean—”

  He laid a hand on her shoulder. “I know you didn’t. This is a large adjustment. For everyone.”

  “Not for you,” Mae said, a tinge of bitterness in her tone.

  “For me, too. I mean, we’re temporarily homeless and our house is being used as a movie set. It’s only fair we all have a little anxiety about it.”

  “You have anxiety about it?” Mae asked, turning to him.

  Dominic ran a hand along the back of his neck. “My fair share, I suppose. I sympathize with Rose, actually. This is the most time I will have spent with Brent. I want him to like me.”

  “He does like you!”

  “I know he does, but what I know and how I feel aren’t always working in tandem,” he said. “Just like you know this house isn’t yours, but it doesn’t make it any less strange that there is now a contour line drawing of a naked human body hanging in the front hallway.”

  Mae smiled slyly. “How do you know that wasn’t mine and I just left it behind?”

  Dominic raised a brow and snorted softly. “That would be off-brand for you, dear.”

  “Okay, you got me. It’s not mine. But there’s something Rose and I can bond over. I like art.”

  “You do not.”

  “Well, I could learn to like it.” Mae patted Dominic’s knee and stood up. “You’re right that this is a large adjustment, but I can be flexible and try to make Rose more comfortable. Everything will be fine.”

  “Everything will be fine,” Dominic echoed.

  “First step, no hiding out in this room,” Mae said. “I’m going to ask for a little tour of the house. Let Rose show me all the changes they’ve made.”

  When she walked back downstairs, Mae smelled citrus and mint—an unfamiliar smell in a familiar space. Rose was sitting at the kitchen island, chin in her hands, scrolling through her phone.

  As soon as she noticed Mae, Rose jolted to standing, nearly knocking the hefty barstool over.

  “Sorry, dear,” Mae said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  Rose righted the barstool and smoothed her hands down her loose white t-shirt. “Did you need something?”

  “I just decided to unpack later. I’d rather spend a little time seeing what you’ve done with the place.”

  “Oh, there’s not much to see. Brent and I don’t have the design sense you had. Everything looked so cohesive before. Now, it’s a bit of a mess.”

  “It looks great,” Mae assured her. “But I left so much of my old junk behind that I’m not surprised you feel that way.”

  “No, that isn’t what I—”

  Mae interrupted. “Don’t keep any of it on my account, okay? I didn’t take it with me for a reason. Sell it. Trash it. It’s up to you.”

  “This house just has a lot of history. For all of you,” Rose stammered. “And I want to, you know… respect that.”

  Mae stepped forward and laid a hand over Rose’s, patting her knuckles. “This house does have a history, but it also has a future. Your future. And nothing would make me happier than to see you and Brent make this place a home of your own.”

  Rose blinked several times, nodding slowly. “Okay.”

  “I’m a guest here,” Mae continued. “I may come into your kitchen and think I know where things are, but that’s because I’m an old woman now.”

  “You are not old!”

  “Sixty-four, if my birthday party last week is to be believed,” she said. “It’s hard to teach us old dogs new tricks. But don’t let me make you uncomfortable in your own home.”

  Finally, the tension in Rose eased, and she sagged forward with a smile. “Is it that obvious I’m nervous?”

  Mae held her finger and thumb up, a small sliver of space between them. “Only a little.”

  “I tried so hard to hide it.”

  “You’re hosting your boyfriend’s mother and her boyfriend for two weeks. A few nerves are expected. But I think we’ll have a wonderful time together.”

  “I think so, too,” Rose agreed. “We’re so happy to have you.”

  The women smiled at one another warmly, and then Rose leaned forward. “Can I hug you? I’m a hugger.”

  Mae laughed and pulled the woman into her arms, squeezing her like she was one of her own children.

  “Now, where’s that rapscallion son of mine?” Mae asked. “Because if he thinks he’s getting away with leaving my baggage at the foot of the stairs, he’s got another thing coming.”

  Rose pointed to the workshop. “Still organizing. I told him to clear out more space in there before you arrived, but he didn’t listen. He’s trying to make room for all of the boxes now.”

  “Stubborn man, just like his father.”

  Rose rolled her eyes. “Don’t even get me started.”

  With a laugh, Mae relinquished her hold on the woman and went to find her son.

  Sometime in the last year, Brent had greased the squeaky hinge on the workshop door, so it didn’t make a peep when Mae pushed it open.

  The shop still smelled the same as it always had—a familiar blend of wood shavings and dust. The high windows along the top of the space let in light and created a damp heat that used to drive Henry crazy.

  Every time he was in the shop, whether summer or winter, he’d throw open both garage doors for a breeze.

  Seeing Brent in the corner of the shop, his back to the door, Mae could almost imagine for a moment it was Henry. Her son and late husband had the same build—tall and lean with wide shoulders and trim hips. The same dirty blonde hair, too.

  Mae was about to tell Brent as much when she noticed him looking down at something, studying it as he turned it in his hands.

  It was a mobile. One of four Henry had made for their children. A personalized mobile for Eliza, for Holly, for Sara, for Brent.

  Except that this mobile wasn’t one of those four.

  Mae saw a small lighthouse Henry had carved dangling between Brent’s fingers.

  Henry could always carve anything, but his painting skills left much to be desired. He’d recruited Mae to paint the white and red stripes around the body of the lighthouse.

  Mae remembered dragging the small brush around the figurine. Imagining her first child staring up at it as he fell asleep.

  It was a vision that never came to pass.

  And after everything had happened, Henry never brought the mobile in from the workshop. Mae always assumed he got rid of it, too heartbroken to look at it anymore.

  But here it was, in her youngest son’s hands.

  The idea of turning back into the house and pretending she’d never come into the workshop crossed Mae’s mind. She ought to put this moment away for a while. Find a way to approach it when the time was right.

  But before she could follow through with her cowardly plan, Brent turned and met her gaze.

  “What’s this, Mom?” he croaked.

  There would be no running from this now.

  Just as Rose had said, this house did have a history. One she couldn’t hide in the workshop any longer.

  16

  Holly

  The Goodwin Residence

  Predictably, ex-convict Rob was not the ideal houseguest.

  It would be one thing if the kids were in school and Rob had any desire to ever leave the house. He’d told Pete he wanted to spend time with the ocean, after all.

  But so far, most of his time had been spent with Holly’s couch and the television. Holly worried he’d fuse to the leather.

  The moment Rob had appeared on their porch wit
h his overgrown hair and suspicious suitcase, she knew he would be trouble. Every day he’d been in the house since then had proven Holly’s first impression correct.

  On his first Saturday with them, Rob took one bite of his banana pancake—which Holly warmed up for him once he finally rolled out of bed after eleven in the morning—and muttered something remarkably colorful loud enough for everyone to hear.

  Grady’s eyes had bugged out like it was the greatest thing he’d ever heard. That night, when he learned they were having pizza for dinner, he’d repeated it at maximum volume.

  Holly cringed at the memory.

  On Monday, Rob poured the grungy clothes in his suitcase into the washer with a load of Holly’s delicates. Once he’d dried and shrunk every single camisole, slip, and expensive pair of underwear Holly had ever owned, she caught him dropping them, unfolded, into her intimates drawer.

  “You’ve got to talk to him about boundaries,” she’d whispered to Pete that night in bed. “There have to be limits.”

  “He was trying to be helpful,” Pete argued.

  “We barely know this man! Even if we did, my underwear drawer would still be off limits.”

  “Rob has always been a—you know, like a loose cannon. He isn’t the best with rules.”

  Holly snorted. “I’m sure you’re right. I don’t think rule followers typically end up in prison.”

  Pete had patted her arm and immediately rolled over to go to sleep, exhausted after an early morning and late evening at the office. “He’ll settle in and things will work out. Don’t worry.”

  That was less than reassuring. Rob “settling in” was exactly what Holly worried about.

  On Tuesday, Holly had walked into the living room to find Rob giving Grady and Alice a crash course on the most popular street drugs and their colloquial names.

  “There’s a girl in my class named Molly,” Alice had said, eyes wide. “Is she using drugs?”

  As soon as Holly got home from dropping the kids off at the Nantucket Nature and Wildlife Kids Camp, she’d tried to talk directly to Rob.