“This will just take a minute. Hopefully,” Kelly said to Marin.
Sliding glass doors opened onto a deck and a comma-shaped swimming pool. A woman in a white one-piece bathing suit and an oversize white hat stretched out on a chaise longue. She waved them over.
“Hi, Sandra,” Kelly said.
“Hi, darling. Is my new baby here?”
“Yep. Tanya has it in the foyer.”
The woman clapped in delight, like a child presented with an ice cream sundae topped with a sparkler.
“You have company today,” the woman observed. Closer now, Marin guessed she was in her late forties, maybe early fifties. It was tough to say for sure; half her face was hidden behind Jackie O. sunglasses. Her lipstick was a glossy neutral shade, not too brown, not too pink—a color only a makeup artist could successfully pick out for you. She wore a rope of gold around her neck.
“This is Marin Bishop. Marin, Mrs. Sandra Crowe.”
They exchanged greetings, and then Sandra pushed her glasses up and looked at Kelly. She had the sort of well-preserved beauty Marin was used to seeing in Manhattan.
Sandra tied a black sarong around her waist, slipped into her gold Tory Burch flip-flops, and said, “Let’s go take a look!”
They followed her into the entrance foyer, where the mosaic was propped up against the wall. Sandra gasped and again clapped her hands in delight.
“It’s beyond! Beyond. Oh, Kelly. You are a genius.”
“Glad you like it.”
“Like it? I’m obsessed. Do you think you could do another mermaid? I would love to do a stained-glass piece on the window in the master bath.”
“Sure. We can talk about it.”
“Fabulous. Why don’t you two stay for breakfast?”
“Thanks, Sandra, but we have to get back. I have a friend’s birthday party this afternoon.”
“Well, another time. But before you run off, tell me, is it true that the inn isn’t opening this season?”
“That’s right,” Kelly said.
“Amelia isn’t unwell, I hope.”
“No, she’s just fine, thanks for asking.”
“It’s a lot of work, the inn,” said Sandra.
“Work we’ve loved.”
“But how long can you do it? You remind Amelia that I’m ready to take that load of a house off her shoulders any time she is ready. You two should enjoy yourselves a little! Travel light.”
“I’ll let her know, Sandra. But she’s not selling anytime soon.”
The sunglasses went back on. “Just be a doll and relay the message. Oh, and I’m having a Fourth of July party. You and Amelia must come. You too,” she said as an afterthought to Marin, clearly having already forgotten her name.
“We’ll check our calendars,” said Kelly noncommittally.
“It’s cocktails and dinner before everyone heads over to the fireworks. And I’m going to officially unveil your mosaic. I’m sure my friends will be lining up to commission pieces of their own.”
Kelly nodded. “Well, how can I say no? Thanks, Sandra. We’ll see you in a few weeks.”
Back in the car, Marin asked, “Is Amelia really thinking of selling her house?” For some reason, the idea of Sandra Crowe owning the house made her sad.
“Not anytime soon. The house has been in Amelia’s family for five generations. But the truth is, there isn’t any family left to care for it.” She looked pointedly at Marin. “You should stay the week. It’s just a few days. You were on your way to leave this morning, weren’t you?” Kelly said.
“Yeah,” Marin admitted. “Okay. I’ll stick around for a few days. But as far as Sandra’s Fourth of July cocktails, you’re on your own.”
Kelly laughed.
Rachel hoped she wasn’t being selfish, pushing so hard to see photos of her father. But why did Amelia keep the only photos of her lost son stashed away in the attic?
She stretched out on the plush queen-size bed in her glorious room. The sun streamed in through the gauzy white curtains as the ceiling fan churned the fresh breeze blowing through the window off the bay.
A knock on her door.
“Come in,” she called out.
Blythe poked her head in. “Sorry to bother you, but have you seen Marin?”
“Not since breakfast.”
“I want to go to the beach and thought it might be a nice thing for the two of us to do together. But she’s not in her room.”
Rachel sat up. “Maybe she went for a walk. Where’s the beach?”
Blythe came in, pulled a map from her handbag, unfolded it, and pointed out Herring Cove.
“We should rent bikes,” Rachel said.
“I haven’t been on a bike in thirty years.”
“Well, you know what they say—it’s just like riding a bike!”
Blythe laughed.
“Knock, knock,” Amelia said outside the open door. “May I come in?”
“Sure! We were just thinking about renting bikes. Is there a place nearby?” And then Rachel noticed the photo albums in her arms.
“Yes. Although Kelly and I have bikes if it’s just the two of you.”
“Is that…you have the photos of my father?”
Amelia nodded. “I’ll just leave them here for you to look through at your leisure.”
“Oh, don’t go!” Rachel said. “I want to look at them with you so you can tell me things. Like, where they were taken and stuff.”
Amelia hesitated.
Blythe folded up her map and headed for the door.
“You don’t have to leave,” Rachel said.
“I’ll find you later,” Blythe called out without so much as a glance behind her.
Hmm. Wasn’t she curious to see a photo? After all, Nick Cabral was Marin’s biological father too. Rachel could imagine her own mother being indifferent, but Blythe was so involved.
Amelia sat on the edge of the bed with a sigh. “Rachel, you know I’m delighted with this turn of events. Meeting you and your sister is the best thing that has happened to me in a very long time. But I can’t say it isn’t complicated. Nick and I parted on bad terms. He was angry with me. At the time of his death, we hadn’t spoken in a few years. And the fact that we never had a chance to resolve our issues is very, very painful.”
Oh, what had she done? She was a bull in an emotional china shop.
“I’m sorry! I can go through these myself. I didn’t realize…I’m really sorry.”
Amelia smiled sadly, her eyes tearing. “You have absolutely nothing to apologize for, dear girl.” She hesitated, then opened the top album. “I brought two. One is from his childhood, when he was about ten or so. This one is from the last summer he spent in this house, between his junior and senior years of college.”
“So he was almost my age.”
“Yes.”
Rachel hugged herself. Now that the moment was here, the moment she had longed for her entire life, she was afraid. Gingerly, she reached out and touched the page. It was covered in plastic, so the surface was shiny, catching the glare of the sun. Rachel tilted her head, leaning close to get a clear view of the photos.
She sat back against the wicker headboard and took the album gingerly from Amelia. Her eyes fell on the photo on the upper right corner of the page. A young man in weedy grass pulling at a tennis ball clenched between the teeth of a large golden Lab. He was tall and lanky, with dark hair falling into his eyes and a smile on his face.
“That’s him?” she breathed, a question, even though she knew it was.
“Yes. That’s Nick behind this house. Before we had the communal table.”
Wow. No way around it—her dad was a hottie. He reminded her of that Spanish actor, Gael García Bernal.
The photo below was a shot from the beach on an overcast day. Nick, in long bathing trunks and a Boston University T-shirt, was bending over a cooler. A dark-haired young woman, tan and slender, stood beside him, her facial expression suggesting they were midconversation.
“My daughter. Nadine.”
“You have a daughter?”
Amelia nodded, tight-lipped.
“Does she live around here too?”
“No. She lives in Italy.”
“Did you…does she know about Marin and me?”
“I sent her a letter.”
A letter? Did she mean an e-mail? And wouldn’t the existence of two previously unknown family members merit a phone call? Maybe this was some sort of old-fashioned thing Rachel just didn’t understand.
She turned back to the photos. Mentally, she said the word Dad over and over, but it was hard to reconcile that hot guy with a paternal role. What would he look like today?
Amelia’s phone rang, and she answered it while Rachel continued to slowly page through the album. A few pictures were of Nick and an older man, tan with silver hair, not terribly tall but broad-shouldered and handsome. Her grandfather?
“What do you mean, she canceled? The party is this afternoon!” Amelia made a tsking sound and stood up to pace around the room. “She is so unprofessional. I don’t know how she is still in business. Only in this town.” Silence, then: “I’ll do what I can, but you know I can’t just whip something up for dozens of people in two hours.”
Amelia set her phone on the bed.
“Is everything okay?” Rachel said, closing the album with her hand still inside, holding her spot.
“It’s our friend Thomas’s fifty-fifth birthday, and the party is this afternoon,” Amelia said. “And the caterer just canceled. Just now! I’m going to head over there and help figure out what to do about the food.”
“I’ll go with you,” Rachel said.
“Oh, hon, you don’t have to do that. I’ll be fine. You’re here for only a few days. You should go to the beach.”
“No. I want to help. I didn’t come here for the beach, I came for family, and that’s what family’s for, right?”
“Well, when you put it that way.” Amelia smiled.
Chapter Seventeen
Where had everyone gone? Blythe couldn’t find Marin or Amelia or anyone, for that matter. She passed by Rachel’s empty room and looked inside.
The photo albums were just sitting there. On the bed.
Just sitting there.
She never would have sought them out. Every instinct told her to ignore them.
Blythe glanced down the hallway in either direction and then went in and closed Rachel’s bedroom door.
This was madness.
She sat on Rachel’s bed. The album was navy blue with gold piping along the edges. The spine was worn. When she opened it, the book crackled. It smelled musty and like old glue. Blythe’s pulse raced.
There he was, the face that had existed only in her mind for thirty years. Achingly beautiful and alive. She gingerly touched his image: Nick on the beach, at the water’s edge. She had not known this Nick—carefree. Sun-kissed. Happy.
“Oh, Nick,” she whispered.
By the time she’d met him, he’d abandoned this town built on sand. He’d sworn off Boston, the place where he’d been born and raised. He would barely speak of his mother, the woman whose roof Blythe was now sleeping under.
Nick Cabral had been, ultimately, not knowable.
That first day, leaving the art museum, Blythe had lied to herself—unconvincingly—that they were just going to talk. And yet, walking the few blocks to his apartment on Green Street, they barely exchanged a word. Had it been a longer trip, one involving a bus or a cab, she might have changed her mind. But the sun, the heat, the fluttering pulse of the city in the first rush of summer, ushered her along like a hand on her back.
His studio apartment was cluttered. A guitar rested against the wall next to a bike with chipped blue paint. Half-unpacked boxes of clothes served as the only bedroom furniture. Near the small kitchenette, a round wood table was covered with sketch pads, pencils, and boxes of art charcoal.
Blythe couldn’t help but mentally compare it to the first time she’d stepped into Kip’s pristine, sprawling apartment on Rittenhouse Square.
Stop. Just one hour of not being Mrs. Kipton Bishop. That was all she wanted.
Nick opened his small refrigerator. “I have beer and white wine. It’s been open a week or maybe more but it might still be okay.”
It was eleven in the morning.
“Oh, no. I’m fine. Thanks.”
He popped open two beers and handed her one. Okay, she’d have a beer. Why not? They sat at the table. She touched one of the sketchbooks. “Can I look?”
“You can look. There’s nothing in it.”
She flipped through the pages. All blank.
He told her he hadn’t been able to draw since leaving Provincetown, where he used to spend his summers.
“Why not?” she said.
He didn’t answer.
She sipped her beer. Blythe was not a beer drinker. Liquid bread. But that didn’t matter anymore. If this man saw her naked, he would not know that he was bearing witness to a new, rounder, fuller version of her body, the one she had since she’d stopped dancing. A body her husband had not touched in months. She wondered if, no longer a wispy pixie girl, she was somehow less attractive to Kip. Or was it really just work? Or was marriage itself to blame?
Nick stared at her, his artist’s eyes dark pools of desire. He saw before him something he wanted. He took her by the hand and she followed him to the queen-size mattress on the floor. The bed was made, and this small evidence of some sense of order and discipline in his life was comforting.
When he touched her, she gasped. Pressed body to body, she lost all reason. Good God, had she ever felt such ridiculous desire? She’d slept with three men: a dancer at the company, a journalist she’d met at a party and dated for a few months, and then Kip.
But this? Never this.
Afterward, naked and breathless, side by side in the bed, she waited to feel guilt, regret, even surprise at what had just happened. But all she felt was an overwhelming sense of relief. If he’d pressed her for words, if he had been the type of man who wanted to talk to her after fucking her senseless, she would have told him that it felt like he had given her back herself.
Nick reached for a lighter next to the bed and sparked up a joint. He offered it to her but she shook her head. Blythe did not smoke, did not drink, did not do drugs. But she supposed, since she’d followed a perfect stranger into his house in the middle of the day and had had sex with him, it was not a stretch for him to assume she would indulge in any number of vices.
The pot was probably her cue to leave, but she didn’t want to go. She was in no hurry to get back to her life.
“I came here to dance ballet,” she blurted out. “Came to Philly, I mean.”
He glanced at her. “So you’re a dancer?”
She shook her head. “Not anymore.”
He inhaled, held it, blew the smoke away from her. “So now what?”
“Well, I got married.”
Nick nodded. “I noticed the ring. How’s that going?”
“Not well. Obviously.” She pulled the sheet up higher.
He turned on his side, propped himself up on one elbow, and looked at her.
“What do you know? Two artists who aren’t doing shit. A fine pair we are.” His gaze was gentle and kind and this touched her more than his passion. She waited for him to say something else, but he didn’t. After a long silence, he put out the joint and pulled the sheet down, baring her breasts. And then he moved on top of her, inside of her again, and she realized there was no “going back” to her life.
Could she last the week? Marin thought maybe—if she could just avoid her mother.
The more she thought about the magnitude of Blythe’s deception, the less she could believe it. She felt like her mother, the person who had always been the closest in the world to her, was a stranger.
She followed Kelly into the inn, the back entrance, through the kitchen.
Marin saw the note first. It was written on Beach Rose Inn notepaper and stuck to the refrigerator with a magnetized strip of photo-booth pictures of Amelia and Kelly dressed up for some formal event.
Catering fiasco at Thomas’s: they canceled! I’m trying to pull something together. Come over when you can. Love, A
“It’s always something,” Kelly said. “Come along—meet our friends.”
Marin hesitated. With Amelia and Kelly both out of the house, it was the perfect time to make her getaway. But looking at Kelly’s flushed, smiling face, she just couldn’t do it. Still, she wasn’t exactly in a party mood.
“I think I’m just going to hang out here,” she said.
“It’s up to you, but I really wouldn’t pass this up. You haven’t experienced Provincetown until you’ve attended an ‘I made it to fifty-five’ party.”
“I’ve been to birthday parties for people older than fifty-five.”
“With AIDS?”
Oh. “Okay. Give me five minutes to change clothes.”
The number of restaurants and shops dwindled as they headed west on Commercial. They walked until they reached a lovely shingled cottage with turquoise shutters and matching rocking chairs on the front porch. Kelly bounded up the stone steps waving at two men dressed casually in shorts and T-shirts. One was African American with salt-and-pepper hair and glasses; the other was tall and angular with the strong jaw and cleft chin of an old-time movie star.
“How’s the birthday boy?” Kelly asked, hugging the silver fox.
“Thomas is having a good day today,” he said, then he smiled at Marin. “I’m Bart. Welcome to our home.”
“Marin,” she said, shaking his hand.
“Oh, the granddaughter,” the second guy said.
Under other circumstances, this would have annoyed her. Why should these strangers know her personal business? But she was the one crashing their party.
“Yes,” she said.
“I’m Paul. Come on in. Amelia’s in the kitchen,” he said, tugging her along. Marin followed him, leaving Kelly deep in conversation with Bart.
The Forever Summer Page 10
