“Mistletoe,” Amelia scoffed. “Really, Megan? Mistletoe.” Amelia glanced at Kate and caught quiet agreement in her eyes. Still, she braced for Megan to retaliate with some equally snarky remark.
Instead, Megan laughed. A full-bellied, echoing laugh that produced tears at the corner of her eyes.
Amelia giggled along. Kate, too. Clara and Sarah smiled, unsure what to make of the older three and their wine-induced cackling.
But it wasn’t the wine. It was the truth.
Megan wiped her eyes with the backs of her fingers. “You’re right, I guess. I’m more Ghost Adventures than The Bachelor. I love them both equally, though.”
Rolling her eyes at the comparison, Amelia replied, “You don’t have to define yourself by your favorite TV shows. I get it. You like the matchmaking thing. The drama. The ups and downs.”
“It’s more than that,” Megan cut in. All laughter had died out. A serious expression darkened Megan’s face. “I’ve thought a lot about this. Why matchmaking? Or a dating app or whatever that company was. Who even knows?” She threw up her hands before going on. “I’ve thought about what I want to do. And why I want to do it, you know?”
Amelia took a sip of wine, her gaze settling past Megan and on Sarah, who sat quiet, waiting for her poor mother to spill her guts about dream jobs and dashed hopes.
But Megan surprised them all. “I know I wear black and like ghost stories. I know I’m not into musicals, Amelia,” she punched all four syllables of Amelia’s name. “But I’ve always been into setting people up. Ever since you two.” Megan tipped her wine glass toward Kate.
“What do you mean?” Kate asked, skeptical.
“You and Matt. And that party. I knew you two were going to be together. It’s when I fell in love with love.”
“Too much wine, Mom!” Sarah spat across the porch, rolling her eyes.
Amelia laughed. “Let the woman speak. She’s onto something here. I think we’re making progress.”
Megan shook her head. “This has never changed. This hasn’t come about from my divorce.” She choked over the word, flashed a glance back at her daughter then refocused on Amelia and Kate. “I do like the drama of it. I like the puppet master thing. You know, sort of conducting something. That power. I’ve set people up, and when it works out, it’s so…” Her eyes fluttered shut as she searched for a word.
“She’s a control freak!” Sarah interjected.
Megan squeezed her eyes shut harder, ignoring the teenage joke.
A control freak is exactly what Megan sounded like. But Amelia knew her sister better than that. If anything, she was the opposite. She was casual and fun. Sarcastic sometimes. She liked camping out on the couch with popcorn and a glass of red and making bets about how a movie would end. She liked entertainment and she liked her black nail polish. The one thing Megan didn’t like, though, was not having a thing. It was a common complaint. Amelia remembered when Kate started working as a real estate agent, Megan was awed at the shift from being a stay-at-home-mom, peppering the oldest sister with questions over Christmas dinner.
And Megan had been the only one who had ever traveled more than once to see Amelia in productions, making the drive to New York or Chicago for a long weekend just to see Amelia in a maid’s uniform or hidden in the chorus, never with a speaking part. After, Megan would ask her sister to spill all the details. She was less interested in the behind-the-scenes theater stuff, however, than in the little details of how Amelia navigated the gigs. How long it took to get ready. Was Amelia exhausted after? Elated? Did she love her job? Megan wanted to hear the humanity about it. Like Amelia’s life was the show, rather than the performance being the show.
Amelia could read her sister like a book. “You’re not a control freak. You’re passionate. You people watch and you dissect it all like a scientist.”
Megan opened her eyes and peered at Amelia with suspicion.
Grinning, Amelia launched into her speech. One that had been percolating ever since she caught wind of unrest in the Stevenson home.
“You’re a mom first. That’s been a hard thing for you, because you thought you were supposed to be a wife first. Mom taught you well.” Amelia winked at Megan. “Then when you were both, you loved it. Like Kate,” Amelia nodded in the eldest’s direction, “you’re organized. You put together neat schedules and you volunteered at school. You made perfect meals and indulged in your favorite shows at night. No work to take home. Just a husband to cuddle with.”
Megan’s frown deepened, but Amelia pressed on.
“Your life was in place for a long time. You’d met your soulmate, you had your kid, and things were good. Orderly. You had friends who didn’t have it as good as you. On the weekends, you’d hire a babysitter and have fun with setting up those single friends. You did it to me, even. Remember?”
Kate and Megan both laughed at that particular debacle. Amelia had threatened never to talk to Megan again after the double-date from hell.
“He took his toupee off at the dinner table as a party trick!” Megan roared. “I can admit that one was a bust.”
“Why did a twenty-five-year-old have a toupee? That’s what I want to know,” Kate added, laughing so hard she was crying. It wasn’t quite a shared memory for all of them, but Kate and Clara and even Sarah knew the story well.
Amelia’s own giggles died away and she took another sip before holding up her hands. “Okay, so, you played matchmaker for a little personal entertainment. At people’s expense, I might add, rather than for their benefit.” More giggles. “Then your kid grew up. Volunteering flew out the window, because, well, teenagers,” Amelia grinned at Sarah who accepted the lighthearted dig. “And your friends got married. Divorced. You saw it all happen, and none of it was a reality show. It was, well, actual reality.”
The women fell quiet.
Still, Amelia went on. “And then, even when you yourself were faced with the threat of an empty nest and a dying marriage, you applied to work for a dating app. A matchmaking company.”
“You’re right,” Megan breathed the words, set her wine glass on the table and pressed her back into her chair, staring at Amelia coolly. Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “What was I thinking? Mistletoe.”
“You’re missing my point,” Amelia answered evenly.
Caught off guard, Megan’s eyes flickered. Her brows fell low. “What?”
“A social media foot soldier for an online dating app.” Amelia set her glass down and folded her arms across her chest.
Megan shrugged and glanced at the others who were also waiting for Amelia to elaborate.
“That’s not what you want to do. You don’t want to post ads and gimmicky polls for some app. You’d be totally removed from the very process you believe in.” Realization slowly crept across Megan’s face, but Amelia continued. “You need to be the matchmaker. And, you need to see it. You need to see the love play out. You need to meet the people. See them. Know them. Talk to them.” Amelia uncrossed her arms and took a sip of wine. “Megan, Brian was right. You should start your own company. Your own matchmaking company.”
4
Clara
After dinner and another round of wine, it was time for the women to turn in.
Amelia called Michael for a ride to the lighthouse (her new home).
As dutiful a boyfriend as ever (or, man friend, as Amelia had taken to calling him), he’d schlep her to the moon and back if that’s what she wanted. When she clicked off the call, she did a twirl in the foyer for her sisters. “He’s literally perfect.”
A gag formed in Clara’s throat, and it had nothing to do with wine, which she’d unsurprisingly abstained from. She even went so far as to declare that she was not spending another evening at the Inn if they were going to go through an entire bottle of wine in one fell swoop then act like giddy sorority girls.
Amelia had scoffed, arguing that two bottles between three adults was little more than a tasting.
“Two?” Clara g
lared at Amelia, who shrugged.
“Maybe it was three?” the would-be actress replied, her eyes glassy.
“It was one-and-a-half, and the problem is that none of us ever usually have more than one,” Kate cut in, her voice tired and low. “And keep the volume down. We have two rooms booked.” She pointed upstairs.
The guests had tucked away into bed an hour earlier, after arriving back from a day on the lake and poking their heads onto the back deck. Previous to Kate opening the Heirloom Inn, Clara was generally irritated with summer visitors. But seeing them now, as both revenue and innocent travelers softened her opinion. Hospitality suited Kate, and Clara liked to see her happy.
Giggling, Amelia stumbled onto the wooden bench by the front door, then launched into a series of slippery-tongued see-you-tomorrows despite the fact that Michael wouldn’t be there for at least ten minutes.
The others ignored the swoony sister and started to peel away. Kate went back to the kitchen to clean up for the morning. Clara dipped behind the front desk to grab her purse. Sarah started to join her hostess on the bench, but Megan stopped her in the center of the foyer, lifting a hand to her daughter’s cheek. “Sweetheart, make sure you lock the doors at the lighthouse. I don’t trust Amelia to be the adult tonight.”
From her inferior seated position, Amelia glared at her younger sister. “Rude,” she remarked, shaking her head then taking a long swig of water from an aluminum bottle covered in faded stickers.
Clara raised her hand and gave a small wave from the desk. “Maybe it would be best for Sarah to stay with me tonight. I think Amelia is worn out. After all, not only did she overindulge, but she also spent the majority of the night psychoanalyzing our love lives.”
That much was true. After dissecting Megan’s journey through life and love, Amelia had turned to the others, noting Kate’s long-lost passion and search for true romance, Clara’s unwillingness to let loose and enjoy life, and Amelia’s own final realization of happiness. Everyone was happy for Amelia, who really did glow with contentment. And her rambling assertions on their circumstances was further proof of her new beginning. She was like a young woman, fresh on the heels of a honeymoon, brimming with new knowledge and wisdom and bubbling over with the urge to cry from the rooftops Look at me! I’m in love! You should do it, too!
And besides Amelia’s wine-coated exuberance, there was another reason for Sarah to forgo a night at the lighthouse. She and Clara had bonded. With their new relationship underway, it was as if Clara had never known the girl. Now, they were more like friends than aunt and niece. They really were cousins, in fact.
It’d be nice to connect with someone other than Kate or Amelia or Megan. Clara needed that new bit of friendship, even if it was in the form of a teenager. Ever since learning about her true place in the Hannigan family, Clara had been free-floating. Summer was a bad time for someone like Clara to be free-floating. She needed structure. She needed stability.
Plus, she could use a little help at the cottage, her new home. Anyway, spending time with teenagers was Clara’s forte. She wasn’t as drained of energy after a day with the younger set like she was with adults. Her peers exhausted her. Younger folks energized her.
If only she were a mother by now, maybe her need for isolation would be balanced with the joy that came in fits and spurts during her day job.
That was the problem with teaching: summer vacation.
As much as Clara needed the break, she hated it. After all, it was her only true source of social interaction.
This stark reality felt at once like a slap in the face.
Clara was still, even in her late twenties, getting to know herself. Some parts of who she was, she realized, didn’t make her an embittered recluse, mysterious and eccentric. They made her lonely. She didn’t feel lonely around Sarah.
“That’s a great idea,” Megan agreed. “What do you think, Sar?”
Turns out, Clara and Sarah had more in common than their ancestors and the sound of their names.
After two hours of chatting on the sofa in the cottage, Clara learned that Sarah was a reader, devouring everything from Harlequins to horror on a continual basis. Even as they trekked to the back bedrooms, Sarah stalled at the hallway bookshelf, the one thing that had been accomplished in the weeks since Clara officially moved in.
“See anything you like?”
Her fingers ran along paperback spines and hardcovers until she stopped at Great Expectations. “My AP Language teacher said we were going to read this one next year. In Lit. I guess I’ll miss out.”
Nodding, Clara crossed in front and reached for the book, tugging it loose and passing it over. “What do you mean you’ll miss out?”
Sarah bit her lower lip and grinned. “You know. I might be staying in Birch Harbor. I mean, me and my mom. We might.”
Unsure whether to court the speculation—Clara did realize there was a very good chance they’d stick around—she simply nodded. “That’d be so cool if you did move. You’d have Beitermeyer for AP Lit at the high school. He’s good. I don’t think he does Dickens, though.” A thought occurred to her. “Oh, shoot. I think he’s retiring, actually.”
Taking the book, Sarah turned it over in her hands. “Guess I could read it either way.”
“Of course you can. It’s one of my favorites, anyway. Start tonight, and we can have a little book club over breakfast, okay?”
With that, Clara grabbed a spare set of pajamas and got her little niece situated in Nora’s old room. “You’re sure you won’t mind?” she pressed as she turned down the covers.
Sarah knew Nora as a distant, enigmatic grandmother. They’d shared Christmas dinners and the odd mass or special event, but Clara was fairly certain that the bond was less of a tether. More like a memory for the girl.
Anyway, if Sarah couldn’t stay in Nora’s room, Clara would let her stay in her bed and just sleep on the sofa. No way could Clara stay in her dead mother’s room. She’d worked hard to stay in the house at all, overcoming heartbreaking flashbacks by exposure therapy alone. But to sleep in the same bed? In the same room…? “Maybe I’ll just stay on the sofa, actually.” Clara looked up.
“I can stay in here. It’s no problem.” Steely-eyed, Sarah’s jaw was set, her book gripped in her hands over her chest like a shield against night terrors. “Really. I don’t mind. I wasn’t as close to her.”
Blinking and frowning, Clara just nodded.
That night, she didn’t sleep a wink. With every creak or rustle of sheets, she jolted awake, sweaty or freezing and unable to get back to the drifting lull of exhaustion. Having company unmoored her. Especially when that company slept in Nora’s room.
By morning, Clara dragged herself to the kitchen and brewed a pot of coffee. Never having cooked much, she vacillated between the untouched pack of eggs in the fridge and the dusty box of pancake mix in the pantry.
She shuffled to her mother’s old room then stopped at the door and held her ear close to it before shaking her head and leaning away. It’s the same thing she did once her mother got bad. She’d linger by the door, make sure everything sounded right before traipsing down the hall to a fitful, urgent night’s sleep, as if she needed to sleep to take her away from the waking nightmare of her life.
A life she’d chosen, ridiculously. One she’d accepted as her older sisters moved on with theirs, happy as a set of clams to be away and aloof, unseeing and unhearing.
Then again, Clara did not begrudge them those months of blissful ignorance. Clara was a true Catholic, in that way. Caring for her mother in the woman’s darkest hours was a penance. Had she not done it, she couldn’t live with herself. She wondered how Kate, Amelia, and Megan lived with themselves. The guilt had to be crushing.
But they sure didn’t seem to bear the weight with any degree of pain. In fact, they seemed happier than ever. Kate with Matt, the mystery man behind Clara’s origins. Amelia with serious Michael-the-Lawyer. Clara couldn’t help but admit she liked him. And then M
egan, who Clara felt she was getting to know for the first time ever. Megan, the sarcastic one. Funny like Amelia but sharp-witted and thoughtful like Kate. Kate with her openness and desire to bring people in rather than push them away.
Clara didn’t see herself in any of the women in her life.
Except for maybe Sarah (less a woman than a girl), who had the reading bug. But a love of good books was hardly passed down through blood.
So, where did Clara come from?
Maybe Kate was right. Maybe Clara did need to spend a little time with that Matt character.
After settling for cereal, Clara and her houseguest took their coffees to the front porch where Sarah folded herself up on the porch swing. They’d agreed that sleep was a bust for both and promised to make each other take a nap at midday. Maybe on the beach. With lots of sunscreen and wide-brimmed hats and sunglasses.
Two cups in, Clara tested the waters of deeper conversation. “So, how’s your dad doing? Kate said things are a little rough right now.”
Sarah shrugged. “What do you mean? Like, with the divorce?”
“No,” Clara replied. “I mean with his job.”
Lowering the cup of coffee, Sarah cocked her head. “What are you talking about?”
Clara narrowed her eyes on the girl. A sinking feeling welled in her stomach. The repercussion of always snapping at her sisters to stop gossiping had left her sorely out of the loop. It was clear now. Clara could kick herself. “Oh, um. Never mind.” She frowned and shook her head, mentally backpedaling. “I just thought that since your parents are selling the house, and…” she searched for something else, but Sarah interrupted her.
“Is that why they’re selling?” Her eyes grew wide. The cup of coffee tilted precariously forward, about to spill onto the wooden deck. Sarah’s eyes seemed to follow Clara’s down to her mug, and the teenager over-corrected, splashing black liquid onto her borrowed pajama shorts. “Oh, I’m so sorry Aunt Clara.”
Fireflies in the Field Page 3
