The Things We Knew

by Catherine West

  “How well do you know this Mr. Cooper?”

  A flash of heat raced up her cheeks. “Don’t get any ideas. Nick grew up with us. He’s like the extra brother I don’t need. He’d never be interested in me romantically, even if I . . .” Drat. Evy could make her say anything.

  “Even if you what?” Evy tipped her head slightly, eyes gleaming.

  “Never mind.” The look of amusement her friend wore made Lynette scowl. “Why are you laughing at me?”

  “Sweetie, I’m not laughing at you. I’m just wondering when you’re going to stop hauling that steamer trunk of worry around.”

  “What trunk?”

  Evy’s smile was kind. “We all have our problems, dear. Why pretend you don’t?”

  “My problems are apparently no secret to anyone.” Lynette rose, slung her bag over her shoulder, and narrowed her eyes. “Nick means well, but he’s got better things to do than worry about me.”

  “Maybe he likes worrying about you.”

  Okay, definitely time to go. “We’re not talking about Nick Cooper again. If you bring him up, I’ll take my paintings elsewhere. You did want an exclusive, didn’t you?”

  “Indeed.” Evy walked her to the door. She patted Lynette’s back. “All right, my dear, I won’t tease. Off you go. I’ll call you next week.”

  “I’m sure you will.” Lynette pecked her on the cheek, gave in to impulse and hugged her friend’s bony frame. “You drive me crazy, you know that?”

  “Sounds like I’ve got competition in that department.”

  “Good night, Evy.” She made a point of slamming the door behind her.

  After picking up a few groceries, Lynette pulled into the driveway, dreading what she would find today. She needed to get to the hardware store and put a chain or something on the outside of Dad’s bedroom door, to give her peace of mind at night, but the thought was too ghastly.

  The past week had been uneventful, and she was grateful for that. Lynette entered the kitchen from the garage, the screen door squeaking shut. She stopped in her tracks. Déjà vu settled over her, and she was a kid, coming home from school. When coming home had been something she looked forward to.

  Gospel music floated from the radio on the counter by the phone. Cecily stood over the stove, stirring a pot, singing along to the music. Mouth-watering smells filled the air.

  Lynette clutched the grocery bag to her chest and blinked.

  Cecily didn’t work for them anymore.

  Dad wasn’t the only one around here losing his mind.

  “Cecily?” Lynette blinked a couple more times, but Cecily stayed right where she was.

  “Hi, honey. How was your day?” The older woman put down her spoon, crossed the room, and took the bag from Lynette. She plopped it on the counter and proceeded to unpack. Lynette stared.

  “Cat got your tongue, missy?” Cecily’s kind eyes sparked with mischief.

  The kitchen was spotless. The windows shone, no sign of the salty film that had covered them this morning. The clean scent of pine said the floor had been mopped, something she’d been putting off for weeks.

  “Wha . . . what are you doing here? Is my dad okay?”

  “Your daddy’s fine, honey, taking a nap in the living room. Hush, now.” Cecily pressed a sack of potatoes into her hands. “Put these in the pantry. I’m back, and all taken care of, nothing for you to worry about. Would have started up sooner, but I had to get my grandson sorted. Nicholas came by earlier and put an alarm on your daddy’s bedroom door. Said you’d know what it was for.”

  “Nick was here?” Lynette squeezed her eyes shut and tried to summon a thought that made sense.

  She put the potatoes away instead.

  David must have called Cecily, asked her to come back. Lynette hadn’t talked to him since he’d called after Liz’s interrogation. He’d apologized profusely for not knowing how bad things were. Didn’t get mad at her like Liz had. She’d have to remember to thank him next time they spoke.

  “I got the kettle on. You could make us some tea.” Cecily threw a pile of peels in the garbage and washed her hands. Lynette fumbled with cups and tea bags, still in a trance, but salivating at the sight of Cecily’s banana bread on the counter.

  A few minutes later they sat at the table.

  “Are you really back?” She stirred her tea, afraid to hear the answer. She’d been having some weird dreams lately.

  The older woman smiled and nodded. “Yes. I’m back. Going to look after your daddy and take care of the house, just like always.”

  Lynette could only stare. “That’s . . . amazing. I can’t believe it.”

  “I can see that.” Familiar laughter rang through the room. “How’ve you been, girl? You look tired.”

  “Ha. I’ve heard that a lot lately.” Tears formed and Lynette didn’t bother to brush them away. She managed to recount the important bits, how Dad was doing, the fact that they’d probably be putting the house on the market, which meant everyone would have to come home, and . . . Nick.

  “I don’t even know how to deal with that,” Lynette admitted. “He’s just so . . . you know, Nick. He needs to make sure I’m looked after.”

  Cecily gave a knowing smile. “Maybe there’s a little more to it than that.”

  Lynette rolled her eyes but laughed. “Whatever, Ce-ce. I can’t even think about it right now. My life is crazy.”

  They shared a few more stories, then Cecily grew serious and reached for Lynette’s hand. “Baby, I got something to tell you, and it’s not pleasant.” She exhaled and dabbed her eyes. “It’s about your brother Gray.”

  Nick wandered through the house to grab a soda from the kitchen. Another Friday night with nothing to do. His sixty-year-old father enjoyed a better social life than he did. Still, Nick was alone by choice. Dad was back on the island and entertaining, which meant Nick would disappear. Somewhere.

  Soraya bustled around, preparing dinner, the radio blaring. The housekeeper nodded his way and continued carving a large rack of lamb. She loved classical music and the local news. Nick couldn’t care less about island gossip, but as he crossed the large kitchen to the refrigerator, he stopped when he heard Gray Carlisle’s name.

  “What was that?”

  “Sorry, too loud? You want me to turn it off?” Soraya reached for the dial.

  “No. Turn it up.” Nick leaned over the granite counter top.

  “He’s trouble, that Gray,” Soraya muttered, clucking her tongue. “All mixed up with drugs and who knows what else. Used to be such a nice boy.”

  Nick shook his head and waved for her to be quiet while he listened to the broadcaster’s account of the last few chaotic months of Gray Carlisle’s life.

  And two weeks ago, Gray had canceled his tour and checked into a rehab clinic.

  Now the rumor was that he’d checked out.

  Why hadn’t Lynette told him? Unless she didn’t know . . .

  Nick stared down at the stone counter top, then grabbed a beer from the fridge. He popped it open and took two long gulps. His mind raced ahead, tossing images at him that he wasn’t ready for.

  Oh, Gray.

  Soraya made irritating clucking noises and wagged her head. “See what happens when you go chasing after stardom, Mister Nick? You good to stay here, home where you belong.”

  The muscles in his neck began to pinch with the start of a headache. “Everyone makes mistakes, Soraya. At least he went to rehab, right? That means he’s trying to start over.” Strangely, Nick felt defensive, as if proving a point.

  Soraya harrumphed and chopped up a carrot with vengeance. “That’s what they all say. Those poor people got enough trouble already, with this to add to it. Lord, have mercy.” She blessed him with her I-know-you’re-my-boss’s-kid-but-you’re-an-idiot expression. “What his family got to say?”

  Nick massaged his neck, his empty stomach churning. “No idea.” Not that he’d believed Lynette would tell him everything, but they’d had more than a few conversat
ions the past couple weeks, and he thought they were growing closer.

  If she did know, this would be killing her.

  “I’ll see you, Soraya.” He put the can on the counter, marched to the back door, slipped into his loafers, and flung open the door.

  “What about dinner? Your father expecting you?”

  “I doubt it. Tell him I had other plans.” Nick slammed the door, ran down the drive and onto the main road, then turned into the gates of Wyldewood. He didn’t stop running until he stood at the foot of the front steps.

  Chapter Nine

  Nick stared up at the place where he’d spent so much of his life and acknowledged an odd sensation of standing between two worlds. Even in darkness, the house had a magical feel. A long forgotten ache stirred within him.

  Years slipped away and he was a kid again. A part of the family he’d wished had been his own. Nick remembered the feeling of belonging. Remembered how it felt to be loved without condition. Remembered . . . everything.

  Times he felt so at home here he never wanted to leave. Times he wished he could freeze-frame so they’d never end. Times he didn’t want to think about again, actually believed he’d banished from his brain.

  Memories tumbled over one another like puppies playing on the sand.

  Tree forts and sailing lessons, tennis matches and first kisses. Clambakes and tug-of-wars. Fourth of July parades and regattas. Parties that went on through the night, well into morning. Back then, his biggest worry was getting caught sneaking home past curfew.

  Two long windows shed a soft glow onto the driveway, but the rest of the house remained dark. Dogs barked from inside and he heard Lynnie calling them as he walked up the front steps.

  The heavy door opened before he could press the bell.

  “Oh, it’s you. Thank goodness.” Cecily practically pulled him inside. The dogs rushed him, and Nick held out his hands so they could investigate. “Come on, she’s on the phone.” She hustled him through the house before he could get a word out.

  “So it’s true then? The news about Gray?” He stopped her in the hallway. Cecily nodded and drew him into a quick hug.

  “We only heard today. Thank God my husband’s out fishing. Gonna be gone about a week, so I can stay over. She can’t be alone with this nonsense going on.”

  “Is she okay?” Nick gripped the back of his neck, feeling like he was about to walk into an end-of-year final he hadn’t studied for.

  “Of course she’s not okay. David and Liz keep calling. Seems to me they should just get on over here, but that’s my opinion. Oh, that boy . . .” Cecily clucked her tongue and ushered him into the living room. Lynette stood there, a cordless phone to her ear.

  She nodded a silent greeting, her face pale and drawn. “It’s David.” Lynette pointed to the phone. “No . . . sorry, Nick just got here. Nick Cooper. Yes. Oh, somebody else is coming.” The sound of tires crunching on gravel alerted the dogs and they began to bark again.

  “Are you expecting anyone?” Nick went to the window and squinted through the darkness at the car idling just outside the open gates.

  “Shoot, could be anyone out there.” Cecily stood beside him. “We should call the police.”

  Lynette shook her head. “David says it could be local press. To keep the gates locked.”

  Too late for that. Nick shooed the dogs back. “I’ll take care of it.”

  He stepped onto the long front porch again and shut the door behind him. The car parked halfway up the drive. Nick watched the driver jump out, camera in hand.

  “Inquirer and Mirror. Can we get a statement from the family? Who are you? Can you tell us where Gray is? Is he coming home?”

  Nick went down the steps to where the guy stood, put his hand over the lens. “Get lost, pal, or I’m calling the cops.” The reporter yanked back his camera, returned to his car, and took off. Nick strode down the drive and struggled to push the heavy metal gates closed as the car peeled away into the night. They were rusted and stuck in the ground, but eventually they swung shut. If this kept up, he’d have to find a padlock. He jogged back to the house and found Lynette still on the phone.

  Cecily hovered nearby, hands on hips. “Well?”

  “Some reporter. I got rid of him. Where’s Drake?”

  “Up in his room. Whoo-wee, Nicholas, what in the world is this madness? I don’t need to watch my stories with all this going on.”

  She was clearly enjoying the drama, disturbing as it was. Nick grinned and wagged a finger in her direction. “You shouldn’t be watching that garbage anyway, Ce-ce. It’ll rot your brain.”

  “Oh, hush, my brain does just fine.” She bustled off toward the kitchen, her laughter making him feel a bit better.

  The dogs ran back to him, tails wagging. Nick dropped to one knee, patted and scratched them behind the ears. After a while he rose, and they wandered off to settle around Lynnie’s feet.

  Nick exhaled, rocked on his heels, and waited.

  “Okay. No, I won’t. No, David. I don’t know. I haven’t talked to him. No. Okay. Thanks. Bye.” She put the phone down and faced Nick. “Have you heard about Gray? Cecily says it’s all over the local news.” Her eyes were red-rimmed, her cheeks blotchy.

  Nick nodded, his heart twisting. “I just heard it on the radio. I’m sorry, Lynnie. I would have come before now, called or—”

  “We didn’t know either.” Defeat and desperation evicted her usual smile. “He didn’t tell me, Nick. He lied to me. I thought he was still touring, not in some rehab center!” Her eyes filled and she drew in a shaky breath. “I can’t believe it.”

  Nick didn’t have a whole lot of experience with crying women. But she needed someone. So he crossed the room and held out his arms. Lynette slipped into his embrace, and the dam broke.

  He let her get it out, patted her back, and struggled for something sensible to say. “Maybe it’s not that bad, Lynnie. You know the press, exaggerating everything.” He meant to comfort, but the words sounded hollow and insincere.

  “I think it’s bad.” She stepped back, brushing dog hair off her multicolored T-shirt. As usual, she was barefoot. “I want to talk to him, Nick. Nobody can reach him. We don’t know what to do.”

  Nick took her trembling hand and led her to the couch. He spied a discarded cardigan flung over a chair, grabbed it, and pulled it around her. “Do you think he’ll come here?”

  Lynette twisted a ring on her finger, meeting his eyes as he sat on the far end of the couch. “He told me he would try to come home soon, the last we talked. I guess if the local newspaper believes it, he’s probably on his way.” Lynette looked at the floor, like all the answers were written in invisible code on the old rug. “I can’t believe he’s been using drugs.” She clenched her hands in her lap. “From what David said, he’s in pretty bad shape.”

  Nick suspected as much, but it was still hard hearing it. “Maybe he won’t come back then.” He gave a hopeful smile.

  Lynette arched a light brow. “If he does?”

  “We’ll just deal with it.” They needed a plan. He wasn’t sure how much publicity Gray might create, but he didn’t want Lynnie coping alone. Didn’t want her dealing with Gray either, but there wasn’t much he could do about that.

  “Gray swore he never would, you know. Come back,” she whispered. “That year when the two of you had that awful fight . . .” She blinked back tears. “What happened, Nick? What did you fight about?”

  Nick ran a hand down his face. No. Confiding in Cecily was one thing. But Lynette could never know. “Can’t talk about it.” His curt response cut through the air, surprising them both.

  She went to stand by one of the long windows that faced the ocean.

  Crickets chirped in casual cadence while waves crashed in unison with the methodical tick of the grandfather clock in the hall. Not that it ever told the right time. Memories flooded back again. A breeze played on the chimes strung from a beam on the back porch. The smell of old leather and musty books min
gled with potpourri and pipe tobacco. If he tried hard enough, he could conjure up the lingering scent of Coppertone.

  Nothing about the large, comfortable room had changed. The paint on the walls remained the same—robin’s egg blue—Diana’s favorite color. The old chintz-covered couches sat where they had always been, inviting company with their overstuffed cushions and chenille throws for when the nights grew cold. Antique mahogany coffee tables were covered with picture books of every description. Drake’s paintings hung around the room. And the photographs . . .

  Diana Carlisle had loved photography. She was forever chasing the kids around, capturing every moment of their lives on film. Gold-, silver-, and wood-framed images of all of them, him included, were everywhere—on the bookshelves and the tables and the top of the baby grand in the far corner of the room.

  Nick pushed to his feet, feeling pulled to an old photograph of himself and Gray at about twelve, maybe thirteen, perched in their fitted dinghy after winning a regatta. He smiled at the pink freckled noses, sun-bleached hair, and mile-long grins.

  “Lynnie, why didn’t you say we had company?”

  Drake’s voice froze Nick in place. He tamped the urge to make a quick exit, turned on his heel, and tried to look as though he wasn’t expecting to be verbally assaulted again.

  Surprise shuddered through him. He hadn’t really taken in Drake’s appearance the night he’d last seen him, given the hour.

  The man who’d once been like a father to him had aged considerably.

  New lines creased his face. The thick moustache he’d taken such pride in was gone. His pajamas looked about two sizes too big and he seemed almost swallowed up in a ratty brown bathrobe. His long hair was streaked with gray and touched his shoulders. But his brown eyes held a familiar sparkle.