by Sarah Morgan
She could refuse to answer the door of course. Pretend not to be home. But what would that achieve? It would only postpone the inevitable. And she’d been the one to call him, so not opening the door would be ridiculous.
She’d been terrified he might arrive while Jenna was here, but fortunately she hadn’t stayed long and hadn’t seemed to notice that Nancy was almost urging her out of the house.
It was one of the few occasions she’d been relieved not to have a particularly close relationship with her daughters.
Nancy would have to tell her the truth eventually, of course, but not yet.
The worse part was the waiting, and yet the ability to wait should have been in her genes. Her great-great-grandmother might have stood in this exact same spot two centuries before while waiting for her husband to return home after two long years at sea. What must she have imagined, thinking of the tall square-rigged ships out there facing mountainous seas and Arctic ice? And how must the captain himself have felt finally returning home after years of battling the elements?
He would have seen the house he’d built and felt pride.
Nancy’s cheeks were ice-cold and she realized she was crying. When had she last cried? She couldn’t remember. It was as if the relentless wind blowing off the sea had eroded her tough outer layer and exposed all her vulnerabilities. She was crumbling and she wasn’t sure she had the strength to handle what was coming next.
At some point over the past sixty-seven years she was supposed to have accumulated knowledge and wisdom, but right now she felt like a small child, lost and alone. Dread was a lurch in the pit of your stomach, a cold chill on your skin. It was the ground shifting beneath your feet like the deck of a ship in a squall until you wanted to cling to something to steady yourself.
She closed her hand round the wood of the Adirondack chair that had been a birthday gift from her daughters. In the spring and summer months she sat out here with her morning coffee, watching the boats, the gulls and the swell of the tide.
Now, on a cold January afternoon with the dark closing in, it was too cold for sitting. Already her hands were chilled, the tips of her fingers numb. She should have worn gloves but she’d only intended to step outside for a moment. One breath of air to hopefully trigger a burst of inspiration that had so far eluded her.
She desperately wanted someone to tell her what to do. Someone to hold her and tell her everything was going to be all right.
Pathetic.
There was no one. The responsibility was hers.
“Nancy!”
Nancy saw her neighbor Alice easing her bulk through the garden gate. Two bad hips and a love of doughnuts had added enough padding to her small frame to make walking even short distances a challenge.
They’d been neighbors their whole lives and friends for almost as long.
Alice was breathless by the time she crossed the lawn to where Nancy was standing.
“I saw Jenna’s car. Does that mean you told her?”
“No.”
“Lord above, what did the two of you talk about for an hour?” Alice slipped her arm through Nancy’s, as she’d always done when they used to walk to school together.
Nancy wanted to pull away. She’d thought she wanted support, but now she realized she didn’t.
“I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder how it’s possible to talk for an hour and say nothing.”
“You’ll have to tell her eventually. Our children think we don’t have lives, that’s the trouble. All my Marion talks about are the children. Does she think nothing happens in my life? My Rosa rugosas may not interest her, but they’re important to me.”
Nancy and Alice shared a love of gardening. Before Nancy had employed Ben, the two women had helped each other in the garden and shared knowledge on which plants could withstand the harsh island weather and sea spray.
“I wasn’t there for my girls,” she said, “so how can I ask them to be there for me?”
“Nancy Lilian Stewart, would you listen to yourself? When you say things like that after all the sacrifices you made, I swear I want to slap you. You should tell them everything.”
Everything?
Even Alice didn’t know everything. “It’s too late to change the way things are.”
“That’s nonsense.”
“I feel like a failure.”
“You give it all you’ve got. What you’ve got isn’t enough, that’s all. Not because you’re a failure, but because life can deliver blows that would fell a mountain.”
They stood side by side in silence.
“I’ve failed this place.”
“It’s a house, Nancy.”
“Not to me.” The Captain’s House was a responsibility, handed down to her by her family. It was the place where she’d grown up and the place she’d fallen in love. The house was large, but Tom had filled it with his personality and warmth. He’d cast light on dark corners and his laughter had blown away dust and cobwebs. Both their children had been born there. And it wasn’t only the house that held memories, it was the contents. Every room held pieces passed down through the family. Those pieces had meaning. Those pieces mattered. She was the custodian. A poor custodian, as it turned out.
Alice nudged her. “I’m looking forward to book group.”
Despite everything, Nancy smiled. “Why? You never read the book.”
“I know. I come for the cake and companionship. Two of the best things in life. You’re a good friend, Nancy Stewart, always have been.”
Nancy said nothing.
Alice sighed. “You were there for me when I lost my Adam and when my mama died. If I could solve this problem for you, I would and so would anyone in our little book group. Sometimes those women are so annoying I could strangle them with my bare hands, but I also know they’d drop everything to help if they knew about your troubles.”
Nancy felt a thickening in her throat. “I should get on. I have things to do. Thanks for coming round.”
“I didn’t come round. I squeezed through your fence, same way I did when I was four years old, but I’ll go if you want me to. You know where I am.”
Nancy stayed lost in thought long after Alice had squeezed her way back through the fence.
There were so many decisions to make. So many things to handle.
So many regrets.
She turned and looked back at her home.
The white clapboard house had been built in 1860 and had been in her family ever since.
She knew every shingle and every pane of glass.
This house had seen a lot, and so had she.
Her great-great-grandfather had been captain of a whaling vessel, a master mariner of vast experience who’d held ultimate command of the ship. By all accounts he’d been a difficult man. She knew there were those who thought she’d inherited that trait.
In her own way she was a captain, too, only her vessel was her family. And she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d driven the ship onto the rocks.
What was left? Tom was gone. Her two children no longer needed her and she’d stopped hoping that their relationship could be different. That didn’t stop her worrying about them.
She’d worried when Lauren had chosen to marry Ed and move to England instead of taking up her college place. It had seemed so out of character. But love did strange things to people. Nancy had often wondered if Lauren had been pregnant when she’d married Ed, but they seemed happy, so what did it matter?
Her younger daughter had caused her more anxiety. Jenna had bounced through life with an almost exhausting enthusiasm. Growing up, Jenna had dragged Lauren into all sorts of scrapes, but the two of them had somehow survived and Nancy suspected that was down to her eldest daughter, who had always watched over her sister.
She heard the sound of a car and then the crunch of footsteps.
&nb
sp; With a last look at the sea, she walked back toward the house. Every step was an effort. She felt as if the house was watching her with accusing eyes. She smelled the sea, felt panic close over her head and wondered if this was how it felt to drown.
She stepped through the door and saw the place as a stranger might, battered and battle weary, revealing every scar and wound.
The rooms were crammed full of furniture, ornaments, books, old maps.
Nancy couldn’t bring herself to throw anything away.
Some of the windows were rotten, the paintwork in the entryway was chipped and there was a large empty space on the wall where she’d removed that damn seascape.
She’d told Jenna she’d taken it down so she could decorate. The truth was she loathed that painting. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say she loathed what it represented. She would have burned it if it hadn’t been for the fact it might still have a purpose.
She opened the door and looked at the man standing there. She had to tilt her head and look up because he topped six feet and dominated her doorway.
She’d first spoken to him five years before on what could, without drama or exaggeration, be described as the worst night of her life. Those years had left their mark on her. Not, it seemed, on him.
She had no idea how old he was, but she would have guessed midthirties.
His eyes were a cool blue and shadowed by secrets. His mouth, well shaped and firm, rarely curved into a smile. His jaw was dark with stubble and the sweater he wore had probably been deep blue at some point but had faded to a washed gray hue.
Had she really expected him to show up in a suit and tie? No. He looked exactly the way she’d expected him to look. Why would he shave before knocking on her door? He wasn’t the type of man who was remotely interested in social conventions or the opinions of others. He lived life according to his own rules and that, as it turned out, was lucky for her because five years ago he’d helped her when no one else would.
She felt a pang of envy. What would her life look like now if she’d been more like him? If she’d been braver?
“Thank you for coming.”
It was ironic that he should be the one to help her out of her current situation.
She needed him, and yet at the same time she hated him for taking from her the one thing she had left in the world. And truthfully she had no idea how he would respond to what she was about to say. He was unpredictable, a man you could never be sure of.
She almost laughed aloud. Was there a man alive you could be sure of?
“Mrs. Stewart.” His voice was somewhere between the rough, sexy drawl of a whiskey drinker and the low growl of a jungle cat. It occurred to her that if that voice hadn’t been attached to a man she’d grown to trust, it might have left her feeling uneasy, as would those narrow watchful eyes.
“Thank you for coming. It was good of you.”
“I was surprised to get your call. I thought it might be a mistake.” His handshake was firm but that didn’t surprise her. It had been his physical strength, among other things, that had saved the both of them that night.
“No mistake.” The mistakes, she thought, had been made long before. “You’d better come in. There’s something I need to say to you.”
5
Lauren
Party: a social gathering, for pleasure,
often held as a celebration
Lauren checked her list and made a final sweep of the house.
She knew the place looked good.
She’d poured her interest in interior design into her own home, and while Mack was in school she learned trade skills such as paint effects and upholstery. She filled notebooks with photographs and sketches and shopped for fabric and objects. Gradually she’d transformed their London home into an elegant space perfect for family living but also for entertaining.
Occasionally friends asked for her advice on decorating and Lauren was always happy to help. She had an eye for space and color and could see potential in the most run-down, tired property. It wasn’t luck or hard work that gave her the ability to see what others didn’t, it was an artistic talent no doubt inherited from her mother. Possibly the only trait she’d inherited from her mother.
And finally she had a qualification and could start taking on paying clients.
Her home was the best advertisement for her skills and abilities, and tonight at Ed’s party there would be people who might potentially give her business.
She’d already decided to set up her own company but had yet to decide on a name.
City Chic?
Urban Chic?
She took a final glance round the living room, satisfied that everything was exactly as it should be.
She heard the front door slam, signifying Mack’s return from school, and unconsciously braced herself.
Her daughter strolled into the room. Mack was tall and did everything in her power to disguise that fact. She was at that age where anything that drew attention was considered embarrassing and to be avoided at all costs, so she slouched to make herself appear smaller.
Lauren had green eyes, but Mack’s were blue. Her hair, even with hints of pink blending in with honey and caramel, was her best feature.
Lauren had a sudden vision of Mack lying in her crib asleep, then holding up chubby arms as an adorable toddler.
“Did you shorten your skirt?”
Noticing her mother, Mack tugged her headphones away from her ears. “What?”
“Did you shorten your skirt?” Immediately she regretted making that the first thing she said.
“No. I grew. It happens. I could stop eating, but then you’d nag me about that, too.” Mack opened the fridge and stared into it as if something in there had personally offended her. “There’s nothing in here.”
How could a fridge full of food be “nothing”?
“The caterers are setting up. There are bagels.” Lauren opened her mouth to tell her not to keep the fridge door open, and then closed it again. Did she nag? “How was your day?”
“I spent it at school. Enough said.” Mack split a bagel and toasted it.
“I had coffee with Ruth and Helen today. They mentioned an ancestry project you’re working on. Sounds interesting.”
“Interesting?” Mack spread cream cheese on the bagel. “I guess that’s one word for it.”
What had happened to her eager, enthusiastic daughter?
“Do you need help? You know our ancestors on my side of the family were whaling captains? Martha’s Vineyard played an important role in the whaling industry. Nantucket mostly provided the ships, but the Vineyard provided the captains and crews and other support.” Seeing that Mack was barely engaged in the conversation, Lauren stopped. She knew she was trying too hard. Maybe she should make it more personal. “Edgartown, where Grams lives, was one of the most important ports on the coast. The Captain’s House was built in the nineteenth century. Your grandparents spent a lot of time restoring it—” She broke off, aware that she’d lost her audience. She might as well have been having a conversation with the freezer.
Mack carried on eating, unresponsive.
Lauren slid onto the stool next to her. “Did something happen today?”
“No.”
Lauren felt a rush of frustration, and mingled in with the stress of it was sadness because she remembered days when Mack would come running in from school, all smiles, desperate to share something that had happened during the day. Look, Mommy, look at this.
Those days had gone.
“Mrs. Hallam called yesterday.”
“Yeah? I bet the conversation was thrilling.” Mack was careless, but Lauren saw her daughter’s cheeks flush.
“She’s concerned about you. About your grades. She wants us to set up a meeting.”
“Grades. That’s what this is about?”
“This?”
“When you hijack me in the kitchen, I know there’s something. I don’t know why you don’t come right out with it.” Mack put the knife down on the counter, smearing grease.
Lauren sat on her hands to stop herself from snatching the knife up and wiping up the mess. “I didn’t ‘hijack’ you. I want you to know you can talk to me, that’s all.”
“No, what you want is for me to talk to you whether I want to or not about a topic of your choice. Not the same thing.”
Parenting a teenager was like navigating a treacherous swamp. You took a step and hoped you’d plant your foot on solid ground, but it was equally likely you might find yourself sucked under.
“I’m worried about you, Mack. Not speaking up in class? You talk more than anyone I know. And you’re smart, and yet your grades are dropping.”
“I’m bored, okay? I’m sick of English. And history. What use are those? Why doesn’t my school teach computer coding or something interesting and useful that might actually lead to a job?”
Lauren kept calm. “Maybe we can find you a weekend class on computing if that’s what you’d like. But school is important, too. And studying. Our choices have consequences.”
“Yeah, that’s right.” Mack gave her a hard look. “They do.”
Something about the way her daughter was staring at her didn’t feel right.
“Mack—”
Mack slid off the stool and slung her schoolbag over her shoulder. “Are we done here? Because I have a ton of homework.”
“We’ll talk about this another time.”
“Great. Something to look forward to.”
Lauren thought, I don’t have the patience for this. “Guests are arriving at eight. Dad will be home around seven, so I thought we could have a private celebration before the party.”
“I have to study. And we both know he won’t be home by seven. He never is.”
“He’s not going to work late on the day of his party.” She said it with more conviction than she felt and Mack shrugged.
“Whatever.” She sauntered off with an indifference and nonchalance that Lauren could never have managed to achieve at any age, certainly not sixteen.
