“Well, yeah,” he answered, chuckling until it turned into a long yawn.
Megan was afraid to look, actually. Opting for nonchalance, she indicated the eighteen-pack in her hand. “Not sure why I didn’t go with a dozen. How will we get through eighteen eggs when you don’t even live here?” She laughed lightly, and he reached around her, brushing her shoulder with his arm.
“We can have Sarah over for breakfast. Maybe I can stay more often.” He poured coffee and all but danced his way to the table. “We have to check this out.” Grabbing the paper, he snapped off the rubber band and shook out the pages, thumbing through all the way to the classifieds. “Wait a minute, did you buy a classified space or a feature?”
She glanced over at him and took in the scene. Her husband at the little round table, a coffee mug in one hand and the paper in the other. Her, fretting over what to make for breakfast. The only thing missing was a messy, burpy little Sarah in her highchair, cooing along as her daddy whistled some rendition of a nursery rhyme that was never quite right.
Shaking the memory, Megan settled on scrambled eggs and toast. “Feature. That’s why it was so expensive.”
“Ah,” he answered. No judgment. No finger-pointing or chiding about budget. A soft, reassuring ah.
Maybe things could change.
Brian kept searching, and Megan started the eggs then joined him, inches away from his back, glancing over his shoulder.
“There it is!” she cried just a touch too loud. He didn’t flinch.
Instead, he flattened the paper, glanced back at her then leaned over. “Where?”
Growing more comfortable by the moment, she rested one hand on the back of his chair and with the other pointed a deep red fingernail to a small box along the seam.
Brian read aloud, his voice jaunty and charming.
“Come for the lake and stay for the love! Introducing to the public, Birch Harbor’s inaugural sweet, small-town singles mixer. Open to a limited number of guests (local and visiting), this first-of-its-kind seasonal dating event takes place on Saturday, September 2. Bring a friend. Reserve your spot now. Learn more at hanniganfieldevents.com.”
Megan grinned from ear to ear.
“Wow,” Brian said. “That’s a great ad.”
“Thanks,” she answered, not bothering to hide the flush that crept up her neck and settled on her cheeks. She didn’t mind if Brian saw her like this, vulnerable and excited. It could be a good thing. It could take them back to the early days, just like the image of him sitting near baby Sarah, sipping coffee and reading the paper.
“I’m proud of you, Megs.” Brian pushed away the paper and his mug, and pulled his seat out a little, unexpectedly taking her hand in his. “I think you’re going to do great.”
“We,” she answered.
He frowned. “We?”
“Well, you’re moving back here. You’re helping me. Our divorce is… on hold?” It came out like a question. She waited for the answer.
“We,” he replied. “Yes. We.” Then, he stood, hesitating just a minute as she looked up into his eyes, wondering if it was a kiss he had to offer. More?
Instead, Brian dropped her hand, slid his arms around her waist and pulled her into him, holding her there, soft and warm. And it was better. Better than a kiss. Better than more. It was enough.
Together, they were enough. For each other and for their marriage. And that was the moment that Megan knew the divorce was not on hold, in fact.
It was entirely over.
All that was left was a husband and his wife, and their new start in a little bungalow on Harbor Ave.
Whatever happened with his interview was irrelevant. Whatever happened with the mixer was irrelevant. Because together, they would be just fine.
Better than fine, actually. He would be Brian, the college boy from Detroit City. She would be Megan. Megan Stevenson. The matchmaker who found love at the lake after all.
That Saturday proved to be the best one in Megan’s recent history. In a long time, actually.
After breakfast and another dozen re-reads of her ad, she and Brian took off to the field, where they were meeting with Kate, the unofficial party coordinator.
Sarah showed up, too, with Amelia. And even Clara found her way there. They hung around half the day, marking off what would go where and documenting it on blank pages. Once the party blueprints were set, they broke for lunch, all of them, and headed to the Village for a tasting at the Harbor Deli.
After that, the whole group tromped down to The Bottle for a wine tasting, too. It felt like Megan and Brian were wedding planning all over again. It was fun and happy, and she didn’t want it to end.
After the tastings, Kate had to get back to the Inn for the afternoon check-ins. Sarah left with her, but that time not to help. She’d planned a little girlfriend date with Vivi and some of the others. With her school registration solidified, she was more determined than ever to expand her social circle, admitting that she needed to add juniors and seniors to her new lakeside life. Freshmen were a good start, but they didn’t have much in common.
Still, it was Vivi, the little private school girl from the island, who had the connections. She was some sort of social glue on the lake. A thing Megan only loosely understood. After all, when you had two older sisters, friendships weren’t something you had to work on. You already had friends at home. The ones made at school were entirely expendable.
Having an only child, though, Megan could see how important it was to tend to new relationships. And, importantly, old ones too. This was not just a lesson Megan derived from her daughter’s needs. It was one that would serve Megan well, too.
It occurred to her that young Clara was in Sarah’s shoes once, and Clara didn’t have that… She didn’t have that urge to slip inside of a tightknit group of girls and stick there like her life depended on it. Megan wondered if it had to do with Clara’s disposition or, worse, Nora’s influence… or lack thereof.
Megan forced herself to shake the thought as she and Brian said their goodbyes to Kate, Sarah, and Clara.
Just before things wrapped up at The Bottle, Michael had called Amelia, asking to meet.
Unprepared to return to the apartment and be alone with Brian again… or, at least, too nervous, Megan suggested they grab an ice cream cone and get a table on the deck that overlooked the dock.
As if the day couldn’t possibly be any more perfect, Amelia agreed and told Michael to meet them at the Ice Cream Shoppe. Megan’s sweet Saturday plans continued to fall into place.
But then, as soon as the lawyer arrived, everything fell apart.
15
Clara
Kate and Sarah strode ahead toward the Inn. Kate was on the verge of being late for her four-o’clock check-ins. Sarah needed to change into a bathing suit, which she conveniently toted around in her bag. All this meant that the rest of the evening could belong to Clara, if only she was willing to set aside the nagging guilt that came with having a busy, busy family. Always someone needing help. Always more to do.
As the other two walked faster to the Inn, Clara lagged behind, contemplating her opportunity to escape for a little break in the action.
Almost subconsciously, once they were through the Village and just above the dock, she hung back even more, walking more slowly, peering down toward the marina.
Her dawdling paid off as she caught sight of little Mercy Hennings, her all-time favorite student.
Just as Clara was about to call out to Mercy and wave her in to catch up and wish the girl luck in her adventures at high school, her phone buzzed in her hand.
Glancing at the screen, Clara saw it was the school district. Odd. They never called. Not during summer, particularly. The last time Clara fielded a phone call from anyone at work was from her own principal a year ago when she had to have her evaluation rescheduled due to an emergency. An emergency.
Frowning, Clara waffled between letting it go to voicemail and answering.
The decision was made for her when, on the fourth ring, her name floated up from the marina.
“Miss Hannigan!”
By the time Clara looked back down at her phone, the caller had been pushed to her voicemail, and Clara tucked her device back into her linen shorts pocket.
“Mercy!” she opened her arms and drew the teenager into a warm hug. A quick look past proved that Mercy’s father wasn’t in sight. Clara forced a smile back on her face and decided to chat with the girl. It’d be a pleasant distraction from family matters and the impending message that was probably recording in her pocket in those very moments. “How’s your summer going?” Clara asked.
Mercy beamed back. There was a distinct change about her. Gone was all the shyness and seriousness. The nerves and the thin line across her mouth. She grinned widely, displaying a full rack of braces that, somehow, complemented her pretty, clear face. Mercy was the type of teenager you read about in books or saw in television shows based on teenagers. Perfect in looks and just a tad clunky in mannerisms. During the school year, her awkwardness materialized in her anxiety about academics. Now, though, she seemed giddy. Borderline goofy, even.
Of all the junior high students Clara had taught in the past seven years, Mercy was both the most beautiful and the smartest. And the sweetest. It was as if all three qualities worked in tandem. And yet, within the walls of the junior high school building, her peers seemed immune to her many qualities, overlooking her for flashier, brighter, less perfect students. The ones who, well, actually ate their lunch in the cafeteria. The ones who went out for sports or choir or who had been part of the fabric of Birch Harbor for so long that they were naturally part of the crew.
Mercy was an implant. A transfer from the city. Wan and pale at the start of the year, it took all of nine months for her to grow the light tan that came with living on the lake, even if some of those months were spent inside, escaping the cold. Local teens lived on the beaches of Lake Huron, curating their social media posts like they were laying out on the white sands of some Mexican shore, all summery and colorful. This demanded, of course, that the kids stay on the water until the very last day of good temps and trek back out there the very first day that such temps returned.
Mercy hadn’t been in those troops, though. Those marching lines of adolescents who made their way from school to the Village for a quick pop before heading to inherently designated sections of sand. The jocks had their section. The drama kids had theirs. Goths. Nerds. Loners-who-found-each-other, and so on. Initially, in the prior fall, and then again that spring, Clara knew that Mercy earned her tan from helping her dad, Jake. Jake, the fresh-water-biologist-turned-marina-manager. She had not belonged to a section. She did not enjoy the comfort of an assigned rectangle of sand to run to when worldly pressures bore down.
Over the school year, it became evident that Jake was Mercy’s best friend. Second to him, sadly, might just be Clara. Or one or two of the girls from the math club or creative writing club at the school who had earned Mercy’s attention here and there, but still, for the course of the school year, she’d been largely alone (by choice), though not quite adrift. Secure in her dedication to her education, Mercy had even confessed to Clara that she feared high school. She feared the social circumstances. She feared everything she seemed to pooh-pooh in eighth grade and all the grades before.
And then, bam.
Come summer, Clara had started spotting her out and about, on the edge of a glowing group of girls—two older, one Mercy’s age. All deeply tanned, white-blonde, and long-limbed. Like an army of Barbies, they skipped through the village, down the dock, along the beach together, a bizarrely elegant unit of youth.
Of course, the one Mercy’s age was Vivi. Vivi, a stranger and a sister all in one, beautiful package. Clara could not wrap her head around how Mercy, who feared the social pressures of high school, had become entangled with Viviana Fiorillo, the Italian blonde with a deep summer tan and white hair. Vivi looked like no Italian Clara had ever known. Not that she’d known many. She sometimes wondered where that hair came from. Did Matt Fiorillo just prefer blondes? Is that why he and Kate hit it off all those years ago?
Regardless, Mercy and Vivi’s newfound friendship made no sense.
And, in fact, Clara had been meaning to question Mercy about it.
“It’s been the best summer of my life,” Mercy replied, gushing. “I made some friends, and all of a sudden it’s cool to have a dad who works on the marina, and I get to register for classes this week!”
Clara smiled in reply and squeezed Mercy’s shoulder. “I’m so happy for you. I’ve been curious about your new group. That girl, Vivi, is it? She’s not from our school, right?” Clara baited her.
“Yes, Vivi is from St. Mary’s on the Island.” Mercy drew her finger off the shore toward the floating bit of land mass that hung like a mirage just east of Heirloom Cove. East of the Inn.
Playing along, Clara widened her eyes as if impressed. “I’ve heard good things about St. Mary’s,” she answered.
“She’s super nice. And she’s totally… connected.” Mercy went on, adding in picture-perfect descriptions of afternoons where the girls lay out on the beach, lapping up ice cream and gossiping about nothing.
Clara’s brain stuck on Mercy’s transformed vocabulary. Her acquired tangle of hip terms, the words rolling off the girl’s tongue like she was always a member of some untouchable clique. “And my niece,” Clara added. “She’s spent a little a time with you four, too?”
Mercy nodded with enthusiasm. “I can’t believe you’re, like, related,” she said with nothing less than awe.
Cocking her head, Clara wasn’t quite sure about the implication.
Then it hit her, like a cruel joke it hit her.
Sarah was beautiful.
As beautiful as Vivi or Mercy—though without the added effects of growing up lakeside. When taken as a pack, the beauty of the five girls all blurred together. Like roaming movie stars on vacation, except Sarah, even without those added effects, stood out from the pack. Her dark hair and piercing eyes and pale skin weren’t, after all, the antithesis of what it meant to be a stunning lakeside teen. Those suburban Michigan features melded into a foil for the other four, turning them into one cohesive group.
Mercy’s suggestion stung. Clara tugged at her yellow locks and became suddenly aware that her laissez-faire attitude about her looks might be visible to others. Minimal effort went into Clara’s routine, but her sisters had always said she was pretty. Her mom had, too. Mostly, though, Clara had received compliments about her looks from her mother’s friends, the country club set. The ones who admired her youth and her Kate-esque looks. As she aged, Clara took it for granted that those natural markers of beauty would need upkeep. Tending. All of this rolled into one big ball of realization and washed over Clara like a tidal wave.
What was worse was that she couldn’t hide her shock. She couldn’t hide her horror, and it was very likely that she looked, even to a young girl, like she was about to drown in the pain of the slight.
Mercy, more perceptive than rude, immediately recognized her error. Smart, too, she found a graceful way to change the subject, but it was too late. Clara was at the sea floor, pulling her way back to air. Alone.
Clara pressed her hand to her oversized pocket which had buzzed back to life in the nick of time. “Mercy, I’m so sorry. I have to be going.”
“Oh,” Mercy replied, her face falling. “I’m—well, okay, Miss Hannigan.”
“Good luck at the high school next year,” Clara added, mustering a smile and retrieving her phone.
And as Mercy wandered back down to the marina and toward her too-charmed life with her too-charmed friends in that too-charmed town, Clara stole one more look into the window of the little shack of an office. A face flashed inside then emerged when Mercy arrived. There, in his perfectly Birch Harbor khakis and white polo and boat shoes was Mercy’s dad. And he was too-handsome, too.
At least, Clara
thought to herself, the temptation of him would be gone. Mercy would move on to the upper school and far enough away that Clara could forget about her and the fantasy she’d drummed up in her mind. The fantasy that she would date Mercy’s too-handsome dad and become a second mother to the most wonderful young lady she’d ever known. Clara knew that she’d have to kiss the dream goodbye.
And she knew that she’d have to find a new favorite student.
Pressing her phone to her ear, Clara picked her way back up to the house on the harbor. She had to press the device tightly against her head in order to make out the message. It was her principal, in fact, calling from the district office.
Clara could scant make out the words, but what she could hear sank like a lead weight to the pit of her stomach. Unease simmered along her insides as she pressed replay on the message.
After a garbled hello and a brief introduction specifying who, exactly, was calling (her boss), the last bit of the message knocked the wind out of Clara’s chest.
“Give me a call. We need to discuss something.”
16
Kate
“Who does that anymore?” Kate demanded, her nostrils flared, eyes wild. She’d flipped into full-on angry-parent mode.
Clara’s face was pale, her eyebrows scrunched together high on her forehead. The expression seemed to freeze there, and Kate wasn’t about to stand for it. An incompetent principal who didn’t know the first thing about communication.
She repeated herself. “Who does the whole we need to talk thing? Who?”
The last of the new arrivals were safely upstairs in their rooms. Kate was chopping kiwi slices like a butcher gone mad. Clara had played the voicemail on speaker, her boss’s barely audible demand echoing around the kitchen like the fuzzy soundtrack of a courtroom transcript.
Kate took a deep breath. Where her secondary anger was stemming from she didn’t know. Was it that her motherly instincts kicked in? Was it a mean-girl side of her? Stress from planning the Inn-Warming and dealing with having all three sisters in town and missing her two boys who were too busy with college to even call or…
Fireflies in the Field Page 10
