Contents
Prologue
1. Megan
2. Kate
3. Amelia
4. Clara
5. Megan
6. Kate
7. Megan
8. Clara
9. Amelia
10. Kate
11. Megan
12. Clara
13. Kate
14. Megan
15. Clara
16. Kate
17. Megan
18. Megan
19. Amelia
20. Megan
21. Kate
22. Amelia
23. Megan
24. Kate
25. Clara
26. Amelia
27. Megan
28. Amelia
29. Megan
30. Megan
31. Kate
32. Amelia
33. Megan
34. Clara
35. Sarah
36. Kate
37. Megan
Epilogue
Continue the Saga
Also by Elizabeth Bromke
About the Author
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to locations, events, or people (living or dead) is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 Elizabeth Bromke
All rights reserved.
Cover design by Red Leaf Design
The reproduction or distribution of this book without permission is a theft. If you would like to share this book or any part thereof (reviews excepted), please contact us through our website: elizabethbromke.com
FIREFLIES IN THE FIELD
White Mountains, Arizona
Created with Vellum
Prologue
Nora
Some years earlier.
Boats bobbed against their slips, drifting up and down over the soft evening waves of Lake Huron.
Nora stood at the piling and held herself against it. A gentle breeze slid inside her chiffon shawl, cooling her skin and sending a shiver down her spine.
The dock lamps glowed softly above and around them. Just hours before, boat shoes and flip-flops tromped up the wooden planks and into Birch Harbor. Just hours before, he’d arrived. His weekly trip. His forever promise.
This time, however, was different. Not all different. For, Nora’s response never had changed. No, she wasn’t interested. No, she wouldn’t go with him. No. No. No.
It was Gene who’d turned over a new leaf.
Earlier that day, they had bumped into each other at the Village. Where else?
That’s when she found everything changed. The game of cat and mouse. The unending history. Their secret. It was over.
They locked eyes outside of the Harbor Deli, where he stood ordering on behalf of a wisp of a woman. Icy blonde like Nora. Fewer grays. Better root coverage, maybe. Firmer skin. More expensive sunglasses. All of it. She was Nora if Nora had aged better. Or Nora ten years earlier. Or ten pounds lighter and six inches cuter. Still, a fierceness about their dynamic assaulted Nora. Eased her but irritated her, irrationally.
Gene nodded at Nora, lifting his paper cup of midday margarita in a distant toast. Nora turned to her girlfriend and ignored the gesture entirely.
But moments later, she looked back and caught the woman watching her. That’s when Nora knew. It was time.
Time to say goodbye for good. Time to tell him that she was so happy for him and that it gave her peace to know that Gene could move on.
Yes, Gene could move on from her, if not Birch Harbor; and it was apparent that he wouldn’t be doing the latter. It was painfully apparent that she’d have to share the small town, her small town, with this man who was once a boy who found himself wrapped inside of the worst thing that could happen on the heels of a summer fling. And he didn’t even run from it. He’d clung to it. To their shared drama.
But Nora wouldn’t. She pushed ahead, of course. She pushed past the whole horrid thing with a passion. And then, there was that second wave of shame and humiliation. The one that Nora could not move on from. Ever. Ever. Ever.
“Gene,” she called into his boat.
She had followed him there carefully. Once the little blonde tucked herself inland in some weekend vacation rental (at least, that’s what happened in Nora’s mind’s eye), Gene, always the gentleman, had wandered past the house on the harbor, in full view of Nora as she sat smoking a cigar. A cigar! For goodness’ sake! What was wrong with her?
She sat there, in a weather-worn deck chair, her gaze following the steady flow of traffic, local and tourist alike, her eyes homing in on any gray-haired six-footer with a bright polo and khakis. There were many, in fact. Some cooler than others. Some more handsome. None emitting the distinctiveness that Gene Carmichael always seemed to.
Eventually darkness fell. Late. Too late. After the vast majority of foot traffic ebbed, she caught him waving goodbye to someone or some ones, she wasn’t sure. Nora kept her gaze on him. Just a hundred yards or so away, she confirmed it was Gene when he found his way to the third berth, The Carmichael Berth, as she called it to herself, although Gene was the only Carmichael who drifted in and out on any given weekend.
The Carmichaels visited Birch Harbor when Gene was a senior in high school. Eventually, he’d gone off for college, returning soon after and taking up with the school district, pinching Nora out to the lake. Crowding her. Pressuring her.
After some years teaching then running Birch Harbor High, his time rounded out to a split in some city down the shore and far inland and weekends in Birch Harbor, where Nora had the displeasure of watching him cavort as some sort of half-tourist-half-local hybrid. A charming phenomenon who came into town wearing polos and left wearing Hawaiian shirts.
She glanced briefly inside to ensure Clara wasn’t watching. Clara, her bored little helpmate who had no idea how much Nora treasured her. Never would, probably.
With the coast clear, Nora dipped down off her back porch and picked through her yard, then down onto the sand.
Gene had long disappeared into his vessel, but she forged ahead, jogging lightly toward the dock, pulling her shawl around her shoulders as her short hair bounced off her neck. She felt young again, with new energy to confront this man who haunted her. Asking her always to come back to him, especially after Wendell left.
Seeing him like that, earlier, at the deli, should have been confirmation enough that he’d finally leave her alone. Let her be.
But Nora wanted confirmation. She wanted it over with. She wanted to know that he was done pestering her, done hoping. That she could well and truly settle into her golden years without the threat of this man always begging, always nagging her to be his.
He wasn’t a predator. He wasn’t a bad man. He was a bothersome, meddlesome man who tied Nora to a bad memory. Sometimes, though, a person like that—a person with whom one shared a bad memory—became bad by virtue of the commonality. He was made worse, of course, when he wouldn’t just leave her alone.
And now she would go to him. She would go to him and see to it that he was done. That they were done. That they could bury the past and that Nora could take whatever time she had left on the earth and know that this threat—this threat of her secret surfacing or her connection to the wealthy summer tourist named Gene Carmichael… Nora could know that it was over.
“Gene!” she cried, this time shielding her call with her hand and glancing back up to the marina, fearful of drawing attention.
A shadowy figure appeared in the sunken doorway of the boat.
Nora waited, and when she saw that it was Gene, glassy-eyed and dark in the night, she began to unleash. “The woman,” she
began with no hello, no easy slide into a calm adult conversation.
Gene frowned, but Nora had no patience for that game.
“Listen, it looks like you’re happy, but I just want to make sure—”
He interrupted her. “You want to know if I’ve moved on?” An eerie grin took shape on his mouth as he moved, hand over hand on the side of the boat, toward her.
Tugging her shawl over her like a blanket, she nodded and frowned. “Listen Gene. I’m happy for you. This is a very good thing. It means we can let bygones be bygones. Right?” Nora dipped her chin. He was just in front of her now, near the piling she’d pushed off of as soon as he emerged from the bowels of his vessel. It was his turn to grab it, hold himself there. She took one step back, but they were still within just feet of each other.
Gene’s expression was hard to make out even with the lamplight overhead. It was his voice that gave her reassurance, though.
“Yes. Bygones. Nora,” he went on. His boat rocked beneath him and he grabbed the piling with his second hand. The feebleness took her by surprise. Gene was a seafaring tourist with pocketsful of money and every summer to spend on the harbor. And here he was, unsteady on his feet. As he pulled himself more upright, new light spread over his face and she saw up close the soft wrinkles. The shaven jawline and sparse eyebrows. The shell of the man who she more often than not had, unreasonably perhaps, feared.
And in that moment, Nora was no longer frightened. Everything about their dynamic flipped itself like a scaly trout, flopping across the wet wood of the dock.
Just when Nora was about to thank him and leave and feel that her entire quest was a success… that she could go home, smoke another cigar, sip a glass of wine, and chat with Clara and be free, a second figure emerged from the inside of the Carmichael houseboat. A small figure. Frightening and threatening Nora all over again. It was the woman from the deli, and there was a wide, strained smile plastered across her glowing white teeth.
At first, Nora tried for decency, offering a small wave. But then, a look about Gene’s petite companion told Nora that no good would come of even the briefest and sweetest of introductions.
Gene, apparently, agreed. When Nora glanced at him, his face grew red and he fumbled over some explanation about an old schoolmate and something about planning a high school reunion as if Nora wasn’t the mother of his child who he had refused to leave alone all those years.
There, just in front of her, he lied. He told this beautiful, miniature version of Nora some lie about their history. A distortion. A twist of the truth so far removed from her sense of reality, that Nora had to grab at the piling herself just in time for Wendell to release it and move to the woman.
The dock gave way beneath her feet. Maybe it was bucking over a heavy wave, but then Gene’s boat wasn’t rocking. The lady wasn’t rocking. Gene wasn’t. Just Nora. Unmoored by the strange disconnect between how Gene had veritably chased her for so long, moving into her town and planting himself there like some sort of king of the lake and how he was framing their connection, undermining the truth to this tourist. This strange tourist.
And then Nora knew that nothing was over. It had only just begun. And she wondered where this would go. How it would end. If it ever would.
“A schoolmate?” the woman asked, nearing Nora and lacing her fingers across crisp white shorts, entirely steady on the water. “But Gene isn’t from Birch Harbor?”
Inexplicably, Nora found herself adding to his lie, to the story. Her own spin, stringing out from her mouth on floaty notes as if she was always in on it. “Right. He spent a semester here. He taught my girls. The reunion, um, is for them. Gene was like a father to my daughters.”
Surprise stretched across the woman’s face. “How bizarre,” she murmured as silence swept across the dock. “I’m afraid I’m not quite sewn into the fabric of this place yet.” She lifted a smooth, tanned, manicured hand up toward the Village.
Gene cut in, saving them all. Or condemning them, perhaps. “Judith, this is Nora. Nora, this is Judith Banks.”
There was no handshake. Not across the turbulent distance between the Carmichael houseboat and Nora’s refuge at the piling. But a crafty smile curled across Judith’s mouth.
“Nora,” she said, the name sounding strange on the woman’s lips. “Nora…?”
Frowning, Nora flicked a glance to Gene.
He answered his friend. “Hannigan. Nora Hannigan.” Then, with a foolish grin, he added, as if on accident, “They call her the Queen of Birch Harbor.”
And it was the wrong thing to say. Nora knew in an instant. It was the wrong thing to say.
1
Megan
Heat prickled along her skin as Megan Stevenson leaned over a sun-bleached patio chair. Pinching the corners of the little waterproof pillow, she frowned.
Her backyard had never looked so good. It was a shame, really, that one’s house was at its absolute finest on the precipice of the end.
Megan and Brian had agreed to list.
Just to see, she’d said, hemming and hawing over price point and what concessions they ought to make (spoiler: none). Maybe we’ll get a nibble, she’d said, knowing full well in her heart that even if they got a full-priced offer, she’d chew on the tips of her nails, little black bits of polish flaking off until she couldn’t take it anymore and she’d say, Brian, you just decide. I can’t do this.
And he did decide, for the both of them. They had no choice, really. It was inevitable.
In the interim, the seemingly endless expanse of time between when the house might sell and whatever happened next… well, who knew what they would do.
Okay, that was unnecessarily dramatic.
They did have a loose plan in terms of living arrangements.
Brian had found a townhome closer to the city. Closer to new opportunities. More affordable. He’d even shown Megan the listing. She’d responded to him ambiguously. That could work. And Right. Maybe. She knew it maddened him to be free floating. No commitment. Other than to their tenuous marriage, of course.
Did such a thing exist? Commitment during the threat of divorce? Megan wondered. It would appear that, yes, they were still committed. Delicate though the bonds of that commitment may be.
For her part, well, Megan had all of Birch Harbor. She had a room at the Heirloom Inn. Or an apartment at The Bungalows. Her sister, Amelia, may even have an extra futon in the lighthouse, if Megan needed it. If worse came to worse, then she could stay in the cottage, too.
Then, there was the land. Out off of the main drag, less than a mile from the shore. Acres of it. A wood-encircled plot that once could have been a cherry orchard or a dairy farm, grassy and lush with a pond at the far corner. If Megan knew how to pop up a tent, it was hers for the taking. Brian could bring a tent, too. If they got cold overnight, she’d tiptoe barefoot across the dew-damp grass and unzip his little tent door, slip inside, wiggle her way into his sleeping bag as he snored, and…
And Sarah? Well, even more of Birch Harbor belonged to their seventeen-year-old daughter. She had all of the above and then some. Her aunts would happily welcome their sweet niece. Her new townie friends, made quickly and over the summer as teenage friendships often are, were already begging for Sarah to stay over. To move there. To become a local.
Hah. Megan had laughed at that one. You can never be a local, even if we move there, she’d chided. Sarah pouted in reply. Brian had smirked. Megan liked that. The small agreement. The ounce of hope.
Now, Megan pushed her fingers into her temples and massaged tight circles.
“Kate, what if it sells right away?”
Megan’s older sister (and newly appointed realtor) lifted her eyebrows. “Wouldn’t that be a good thing?”
Shrugging, Megan left the patio in favor of a blast of air conditioning. Kate followed. The open house was set to begin in just minutes. Inside, Megan fiddled with the short stack of spec sheets, pages hot off the printer from Brian’s in-home office.
“Listen, Meg. You have a plan. Once it sells, you come to Birch Harbor. Brian rents the townhouse. You two figure it out from there. Easy.”
It did sound easy when Kate said it. Like a firm set of guidelines for “How to Navigate A Fledgling Separation.” However, Megan knew what Kate did not know. The ugly sadness of things. The state of the union and the people inside of it.
Kate’s plan and the hidden truth were a far cry from Megan’s twilight vision of how things could go in her fantasy, the one that played out over a wine-tipsy dinner when Sarah was gone and they had the house uncomfortably, tantalizingly, to themselves for once.
That was the dinner where previous momentum, the momentum of lawyer-speak and paperwork and dissolution this and division-of-assets that… it crashed to a stop.
That draining momentum had picked up on the heels of a marriage that got caught in a cove of craggy rocks and just stuck there, like seaweed, gooey and lifeless and useless. And all over what? Her wish to find a great job? His drive to carry on like usual, whistling as he worked? Their mutual silence about the fact that Megan was floundering. Floundering in a sea of self-doubt and the sorts of regrets only homemakers can know. The ones their husbands cannot fathom. The kinds of things that drive Virginia Woolf types to do Virginia Woolf things.
Megan was no Virginia Woolf, though. She’d watch documentaries about the woman. Read books if she was really bored. But ultimately, Megan was happy.
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