Sailing Lessons

by Hannah McKinnon

  “Oh, sorry.” She reached around her mother and popped a carrot in her mouth.

  “Why can’t we have Doritos?” George mumbled, his head still resting on the island.

  “Because you’re growing and I want you to eat something healthy. It’s my job.”

  “What’s your job?” Avery appeared in the doorway, tennis racket in hand.

  “Vegetables,” George replied.

  “Didn’t I see you get off the bus with a bag of Doritos today?” Avery asked him.

  “Did not.”

  Shannon glanced from her eldest to her youngest. “Is that so?”

  George pressed his lips together. “Michael Donnelly gave them to me. His mother lets him have Doritos.”

  Shannon checked her watch, silently calculating how much time she needed to drive across town and drop Avery at the Chatham Beach and Tennis Club and zip over to Monomoy Middle School for Winnie’s scrimmage. She still needed to pick up chicken for dinner. Every Friday was chicken piccata night. “Next time tell Michael Donnelly to keep his Doritos to himself.” She thrust a carrot in his direction, and to his credit, he took it. She ruffled his hair.

  They piled into the Suburban and eased out of the garage. She still wasn’t used to the breadth of the new car. On the way to service at United Methodist that past Sunday, Reid had found himself behind the wheel for the first time and wondered aloud if they really needed the hulking SUV. “It’s a beast. A behemoth beast.”

  Shannon had asked him when the last time was that he’d loaded up dinner to go and ferried half the soccer team to a game in Dennisport. This car was her second home. Though, to be honest, she probably spent more time in it than the house. And as much as she was loath to admit the gas it guzzled or the fumes it spewed, she loved the damn thing. She loved riding high up off the road as others whizzed by balancing coffees and phones on their steering wheels, she loved the safety she felt with her small brood safely ensconced in its steel nest. With all the unpredictability in the world today, Shannon would’ve driven a tank if she could have.

  As soon as she dropped the girls off, she headed south on Route 28 toward Reid’s office. It’d been two years since George started school and she’d joined the team at Whitcomb. And she’d loved it. The job was great—but what was best about it was getting dressed, putting on lipstick, and seeing other adults. She didn’t care if it was seventy-nine-year-old Sheila, who hadn’t sold a single house all year but who brought in cranberry scones for the staff each morning, or if it were a moneyed New York couple fresh off the tarmac at Chatham Airport on the hunt for a beachfront summer residence. It meant she was out of the house and convening with people above the age of twelve. Not that Shannon didn’t love her children or her home. Their Stage Harbor residence was a stately, shingled colonial that she and Reid had had their eye on since they were married, right along the water. Since buying it three years ago, they’d renovated it to near perfection. Every drop of her coastal New England taste was etched into that house, from the beveled marble subway tiles over her professional-grade range to the sweeping mahogany island top that her red O&G Colt barstools surrounded. It was a designer Cape Cod dream home, once featured in Elle Décor. She’d been raised in her grandmother Beverly’s School Street village house, just off Main Street in Chatham proper. She hadn’t gone far. Stage Harbor was just across town to the west, but those miles had landed her in another universe entirely.

  From the outside, Shannon knew how she appeared to others. She’d married her best friend, moved into the quintessential coastal house, and freelanced for the realty group as a photographer. But what few knew was that none of that squelched the worry that coursed through her flesh and bones at various voltages day in and out. It didn’t matter that all three of her children had been born healthy and continued to thrive. Nor did it matter that they were good students, strong athletes, and each had their fair share of equally well-adjusted friends. She knew shortages of those very things were what kept other parents up at night. What kept her awake, on the nights she did not pop one of those sleek Ativan tablets that Dr. Weber, her psychiatrist, had prescribed for her last spring, was her anxiety over the safety of her children. “The kids are fine, Shannon. They’re tucked in their beds, sound asleep. I just checked on them. I don’t understand what you’re stressed about.”

  “Anything can happen in a heartbeat,” she’d say quietly, pulling the sheets up.

  Shannon and Reid had known each other since the summer of their junior year in high school, even though they grew up in different parts of Massachusetts. Reid had lived in Sudbury, in the Boston metro area, and came to Chatham every summer to visit his grandparents, who’d retired on Barcliff Avenue. His grandfather had started the Whitcomb Group, a residential and commercial real-estate agency in the 1960s, where Reid worked each summer. It was now run by his mother, Elizabeth (Bitsy), who’d moved to Chatham when Reid was in college. Even though three generations of his family had Chatham ties, Reid would forever be considered a visitor.

  Shannon, however, was a local. Bred and born. Her family ties to Chatham were not as vacationers or summer residents—her great-grandmother Mildred, had been the daughter of a farmer turned cod fisherman, and they’d resided above Main Street on Tipcart Lane when it was just a hillside of rolling field and farm animals. Having been raised largely by the women in her family, her upbringing had been less conventional than Reid’s. He empathized with her that her father had left the family at a vulnerable time in her adolescence, that he had not been there for her or her sisters when they were growing up. But he also pointed to the fact that Shannon turned out largely unscathed: She was valedictorian of her high school class. She went on to Wellesley, where she majored in both finance and art, which amused him. “See honey? You left no stone unturned, even in your college studies.” They’d begun dating seriously during those years and had stayed together since. Now, fourteen years of marriage, three kids, and a dream house later, they were happy, weren’t they?

  They were. How could they not be? But for her anxieties.

  Living on the Cape it was assumed you loved the beaches. You were surrounded by them—Hardings, Ridgevale, Cockle Cove. Oyster Pond, Stage Harbor, Monomoy Island. The ocean was everywhere—in channels and salt ponds. In the protected bay beaches. In the twin harbors, Chatham and Stage Harbor. Beaches were what drew people out to the Cape.

  But Shannon was terrified of the water. Of big surf, of deep currents, of boats. It began that morning of the accident on Lighthouse Beach, with her father and sisters, and it had stayed with her, silhouetting the years since like a dark shadow.

  Unlike the other mothers on the Cape, Shannon did not take her children to the beach. Rather, she kept them enrolled in summer swim and sailing lessons where professionals could teach them and monitor them on the water while she worked. On weekends, she politely declined offers by friends and neighbors to go out on their boats. She would not go fishing or sailing, claiming instead that she was prone to severe sea sickness. At the yacht club, she kept herself busy with fund-raisers, picnics, and barbecues, all land-based forms of participation. It was manageable that way, living on the water without actually interacting with it.

  But Dr. Weber had long warned her that she needed to confront the root of her anxieties head-on before it confronted her. In the meantime, Shannon met with him twice a month and relied on her prescription as needed for the bad days. Shannon was not a pill-popper; she’d heard plenty about dependency and its side effects. Only on those nights that her hands were clammy in the dark and her skin stuck to the sheets with perspiration did she take an Ativan. Though there were other things that helped, things that were more socially acceptable. Like her vodka tonics. She mixed herself one most nights as she cooked dinner. That was fine—all her friends had wine most evenings. And even if she did need a sip or two at lunch on occasion, it wasn’t often. Shannon was doing fine—in fact, she’d go so far as to say she was doing great. Now, as she turned the car into town
Shannon ticked off the remains of her to-do list for the day. She’d designed a brochure for a contemporary renovation up on Briarcliff, a unique listing against the usual cottage styles and Capes for sale in the area. She wanted to see if the brochures were in from the printer and ready for the open house that weekend.

  Unlike most residential realty groups, where nowadays agents worked remotely from their homes and took calls on their cells, Bitsy Whitcomb had put her well-heeled foot down and insisted that their office maintain a level of personal touch. As such, agents were expected to show their faces in the office. The Cape, in full summer, was different, Bitsy said. People wanted last-minute rentals. Tourists rolled through town, finding themselves spontaneously inspired to peruse seller listings after happening upon “the cutest little cottage over by the lighthouse.” And the Whitcomb Group would be standing by with glossy listings in hand when they did.

  Shirley, the office manager, piped up from behind her desk before Shannon and George were halfway through the front door. “Oh good, you’re here! Got a minute?”

  “What’s up?”

  “We have a new seller off of Ridgevale,” Shirley said. “You know that colossal renovation at the northern end of Nantucket Drive?”

  Shannon did. It had been on the market all year, listed at $2.5 million. The owner was notorious both for the four-year renovation timeline and the fact that the house had been listed and pulled from three different brokerages in the last six months. Despite his difficult reputation, Bitsy had been courting the owner. It wasn’t about the money. She had plenty of listings in that price range and more; this was about selling the unsalable. Something all the competing firms had so far failed to do. Which meant Bitsy would be the exception. The firm’s mission statement stated just that: Exceptional service for exceptional homes. Suddenly Shannon had a feeling about who Bitsy had been out of the office having lunch with all afternoon. “The Banks place?”

  “That’s the one. Everett Banks. Nasty man. Nice house.”

  “When did we land it?”

  Shirley’s eyes widened. “Just this afternoon. Bitsy had lunch with him at Chatham Bars. Came back like the cat who swallowed the canary.”

  Shannon smiled inwardly. She knew just the look on her mother-in-law’s face. What she didn’t know was why Reid hadn’t called to tell her the big news yet.

  Shirley twisted her pearl necklace, looking pained. “It seems the owner wants something different this time around.”

  “Different?”

  “As in marketing and photography. It seems Bitsy is going to arrange a photo shoot for the place. She’s planning to bring in an entire film crew with stage lighting and everything—she’s even hiring a drone photographer to take aerials.”

  So that was the reason Reid hadn’t told her yet; she had long been the agency’s photographer. But now Bitsy was bringing in outside help. Professionals. Shannon wondered when they were planning to tell her.

  “Your work is so good, honey. I don’t know why all the fuss. If it were up to me . . .”

  Shannon forced a smile. “It’s okay, Shirley. It wasn’t your decision.”

  “I know it’s the tip of the weekend, but do you think you could run over there and take some stock photos? Bitsy wants something basic to show potential crews when she interviews them. She won’t take anyone out to the property until it’s the right team. The seller was very particular about his privacy.”

  Shannon nodded, ignoring the growing heat that was rising in her cheeks. “So she hasn’t hired a crew yet?”

  Shirley twisted her necklace again, and Shannon worried it might pop. “Not that I know of.”

  Shannon felt bad for Shirley. Leave it to Bitsy to hand the nicest person in the office the task of delivering her most unpalatable messages. Reid would never have asked her to do the prep work for an assignment that would ultimately be given away to a third party. He would’ve insisted that she get the job, or at least a chance at it. But if what Shirley said was true—maybe there was still a chance.

  “I’ll head right over.” There were two things about this deal that stung: the fact she’d been overlooked as the talent. And the fact of the listing’s address: Ridgevale Beach.

  Shirley’s cheeks deflated like a balloon with relief. “Thank you, honey. You know I’d rather it was you—your pictures sell these houses. Reid always says so.”

  Reid did say that, if his mother didn’t. It was one thing about her husband Shannon knew she shouldn’t take for granted. He saw her hard work. Her juggling of the kids and the house and the office. In all of that, he saw her. But she was still seething about Bitsy’s decision. And she wanted to talk with him about it.

  “Any idea when Reid will be back?” she asked.

  Shirley shrugged. “I think he said six o’clock? Though I’ll be gone by then.”

  “Thanks,” Shannon said, grabbing her purse. “C’mon George.” They had thirty minutes before she had to pick up the girls.

  At the tip of Ridgevale Road was a dense grid of sandy lanes and narrow streets that stretched along its same-named beach. It was a very desirable part of town. The sound flanked the road on the left, a shimmering stretch of sea that caused drivers to slow their cars and roll down their windows. For Shannon, however, it had the opposite effect. This was also the road she had grown up on, the last place they had lived as a family of five before Caleb Bailey had left for good.

  As she turned right onto Nantucket Drive, she kept her eyes trained straight ahead as she approached number 22. It didn’t matter that it had been years since she’d been down this lane; she knew what she’d see by heart. The hydrangea bushes that flanked number 22’s front door would be thrust in full-blue bloom. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed a flash of coral pink. Shannon tsked. Gone was the lobster-red front door. But the rest of the house appeared unchanged, the shingles the same weathered gray cedar. In the rear was the shed in which her father had stored the boats. If you looked carefully, there was even a hedge of wild rose that ran along the picket fence into the back where she and her little sisters used to play on their swing set. But that was long gone now, and there was no life beyond the thrust of vegetation. She accelerated past.

  At the end of Nantucket Drive, her childhood home safely in the rearview mirror, Shannon slowed and pulled in to number 36, the tires of her Suburban crunching on the white shell drive.

  “Oh no. We’re here to take pictures, aren’t we?” It was an accusation. George puffed his cheeks out in the backseat, and she met his exasperated gaze in the mirror.

  “Come on. You can help.”

  “I don’t want to help. I want to go home. I’m tired.”

  Shannon raised an eyebrow. George had taken a “semester off” of soccer, something she did not relish but a move that Reid had encouraged. “These kids have more activities each season than I did in all of my childhood. Give the kid a season off.”

  “Come on, buddy. I’ll let you snap a few photos.”

  Begrudgingly, George followed her out of the car.

  The house had just had a facelift. Like the others on the street, it was a well-kept two story with an inviting front porch. The honey-colored shingle siding was brand-new, untouched by the salt air or the New England seasons. The windows and trim work had a fresh coat of sea-green paint. Her work was halfway done for her.

  Shannon set up her camera, opting for a 40-millimeter lens. She didn’t have a set routine when it came to photographing the houses for Reid, rather she walked the property first and got a sense of the place. Sometimes it was the angle of the steps leading up to a sweeping back deck that inspired her; in others it could be the light bathing the smooth arc of a porthole window, the square edges of the front door. She moved about the front of the house, taking shots, and checking them. George trailed her into the backyard, hands stuffed in his pockets.

  “Can you guess?” she asked him. It was a game she played when he tagged along on jobs, in part because he seemed interested, unlike his
sisters, and this delighted her. And in part because it distracted him so she could get her work done.

  George scowled up at the house. He was not going to smile. “The roof,” he said, pointing to a shiny line of copper gutter.

  “Ah!” she said glancing up. This house was not short on aesthetic appeal. “Good try, but that’s not it.” She snapped a few shots of the sprawling side deck. Then the outdoor shower, with a half moon carved in the door.

  “The windows?” he asked. The windows were wavy glass, and she wondered if they’d had the panes specially made or if they were salvaged originals.

  “You’re getting closer!” she said, snapping a few more shots. They walked around the rear to a small patio.

  George was getting bored. “I give up.”

  “Whitcombs don’t give up.”

  “Fine. Last one.” He glanced around the yard and up to the roofline. “Wait. I know. The whale!”

  Shannon grinned. “Attaboy.” Atop the roof sat a giant copper weathervane, the same rich patina as the gutters and fascia, in the shape of a whale.

  She swapped out her lens and set the camera on its tripod in the far corner of the backyard. The nautical mammal came into view.

  Shirley’s words came back to her. “Your photos sell these houses.” Shannon glanced down the street in the direction of their old family home.

  Besides her children and husband, capturing images was one thing that had always brought pleasure. And yet it was the same thing that haunted her. It was the only gift Caleb Bailey had left her with, all those years ago. Shannon turned away from 22 Ridgevale. She looked back in the viewfinder, snapped twice more, and was done.

  Four

  Piper

  She awoke with a start. The morning light was too intense. She leaned over the side of the bed; strewn across the floor were her clothes: her blouse, her wedges. That damn red skirt he liked so much.

  Piper lifted the sheets very carefully and rolled out from under them. She tiptoed across the bedroom, scooping up her things as she went. Behind her, Adam stirred. She slipped into the bathroom and dressed quickly. Fuck. She never should’ve come back here.