Sailing Lessons

by Hannah McKinnon

  “I’ve got to get over to the house,” she said, shielding her eyes. She kissed Reid quickly on the lips.

  “Shannon.” The look of longing in his eyes had vanished.

  “I’ll be home by four. Scallops for dinner?”

  As she watched Reid walk back to his car, she couldn’t help but feel empty. Her husband had surprised her and taken her to a lovely lunch. She was heading to a photo gig she should’ve been excited about. Piper was home, and Beverly was soon to be. That should’ve been enough. Why did everything have to circle back to her father? Every time she interacted with any one of her family, she seemed to say or do the wrong thing. Despite how hard she worked, here she was disappointing everyone anyway. She threw the car in drive.

  Everett Banks let them in with a curt nod. Bitsy followed his brisk lead through the foyer, but Shannon lingered. Light greeted her immediately in the living area, streaming from the rear of the house, which overlooked the water Her heels clicked on the hardwood floors, and she paused in the center of the living room, taking it all in. The furniture was an unassuming beach palate of contrasts: white upholstery, dark wood accents, jute rugs. The back of the house showcased the home’s best feature: an endless stretch of dune and water and sky.

  “Let’s review the contract in the kitchen,” he said, and Shannon had to pull her attention away from the view to follow. The kitchen was modern and sleek, featuring a celadon-painted kitchen island with a white marble surface. The appliances were stainless steel, chef grade. Off the kitchen was a small breakfast nook with an oak pedestal table surrounded by caned chairs. Simple, tasteful. They sat and Bitsy went through the vision they’d put together for the print.

  “If I go with your agency, I want high-quality full-size brochures,” he said. “Card-stock-like material.”

  Bitsy assured him they would provide as such. He turned to Shannon abruptly. “You’ve seen the house. So?”

  Shannon cleared her throat. She’d planned her sell for days. “Your best selling point is your view.”

  Everett gazed out the window at it now. “Damn right. But that’s obvious.”

  This was not going the way she’d hoped. “With the view in mind, I want to photograph the house in a way that lets the ocean inside.”

  Everett Banks stared through her.

  She stood and moved toward the large sliders against the far wall. “From what I can tell, every room in this house has some sort of vantage point to the beach. If I shoot the rooms with the view from the windows highlighted, it’s going to drive home the notion of your prime location. And the natural light will make the space large and bright.”

  “That’s well and good. But it’s not just location. What about the custom touches?” He jabbed a finger in the direction of the living room. “The vaulted ceiling? The beams and built-ins? Brazilian cherry. Hand-hewn.”

  Bitsy had been studying Everett as Shannon spoke, but now she turned to Shannon. “Give him an example.”

  Shannon groaned inwardly. That was the thing about visions—you couldn’t explain them until they were formed, and although she knew this would be a hard sell, Shannon hadn’t seen enough of the house yet to get this specific.

  “Go on,” Bitsy said, her lips pressed together. “We’re all ears.”

  “Right, of course.” Shannon stood and headed for the living room, just off the kitchen. To her dismay they followed. She scanned the room for an obvious feature, her eyes roaming over the custom floor-to-ceiling built-ins flanking the fieldstone fireplace.

  She was about to mention the contrast of materials used, and how effectively that would show in the photographs, when Everett interrupted. “What I was thinking you should do is . . .”

  Relieved to have bought some time, Shannon feigned an interested expression, while glancing surreptitiously around the room. Custom bookshelves. Fieldstone fireplace. Wide plank hardwoods. But then her eyes landed on the framed print over the mantle.

  She strode up to it, her heart in her throat. It was an original. Unlike the photographs Caleb had printed in both limited and mass editions, this was the only copy. The photograph was of a red sunset taken at the foot of Ridgevale Beach bridge. The wooden railings arched out and away, seemingly leading the viewer over the wooden bridge to the expanse of sand on the other side. Overhead the sky slashed the sea with fiery strokes. It was the lone figure midway across the bridge that made her breath catch. A little girl in a white smock dress, her back to the lens. One arm raised as she pointed to the burning sky.

  Bitsy and Everett had stopped talking, and Shannon became aware that they were watching her with curiosity.

  “Is everything all right, dear?” There was nothing dear about Bitsy’s tone. She was annoyed that she’d strayed from the conversation.

  Everett Banks came to stand beside her. “He’s a local. At least he was,” he informed her. “I bought that off him when we first moved here.”

  Bitsy joined them reluctantly. Shannon could feel her impatient energy behind her. “How nice.” Clearly, she hadn’t looked at the artist’s name.

  Everett wasn’t done, however. “My wife had a fit when she heard what I paid for it. But that little girl. She reminded me of my own.”

  Shannon nodded. “The little girl in that photo is seven years old.”

  “No, I’m pretty sure the photographer said six.”

  It was one thing to walk away from a conversation with a client. It was another entirely to correct him, in his own home no less. “I’m sure you’re right,” Bitsy said to Everett, glaring at Shannon out of the corner of her eye.

  Shannon stepped closer to the picture. She remembered the day. The sky had gone blood-orange as they were grocery shopping in town, and her father had driven too fast down Main Street, trying to make it in time. She hadn’t been wearing a seatbelt and she’d slid off the seat of the VW Bug as he turned down Ridgevale. When he came to a halt at the lot, she’d leapt out of the car and followed him to the beach. It seemed like forever that he stood, turning this way and that, his camera clicking again and again. She’d grown bored and walked down beneath the bridge to search for fiddler crabs. That was where she’d found the stick.

  “I wouldn’t have bought it if she weren’t six. That was the point. It was a gift to my wife on our daughter’s sixth birthday.”

  Shannon didn’t care about Everett Banks’s wife, or what he thought he’d been told. Caleb wouldn’t have said otherwise just to make a sale.

  “That’s a lovely story,” she said turning to face him now. “I hope it doesn’t change the joy you’ve had in the piece; but with all due respect, I happen to know the little girl in that photograph is seven.”

  “Excuse me,” Bitsy interrupted, her cheeks flushed. “But we should really sit down and review the contract.”

  Everett Banks was not used to having people disagree with him. Although he was clearly annoyed, he was also intrigued by this woman standing in his house telling him about his artwork. “You speak quite confidently about a piece of work I purchased directly from the artist himself. May I ask how you are so sure of yourself?”

  “Simple,” Shannon said. “That little girl is me.”

  Twenty-Seven

  Wren

  The grand opening was tomorrow night, but instead of putting finishing touches on the shop, she was home in her kitchen. “I’m so sorry. Potato pancakes seemed like such a good idea at the time.”

  Ari peered between two mounds of grated potatoes and peels from her station at the kitchen island. She plunked the grater down and paused to shake out her hand.

  “But it looks like you’re almost done?” Wren asked hopefully.

  Ari blew a lock of hair off her forehead out of the corner of her mouth and nodded toward the floor. There was still a large bag of potatoes to go.

  “Crap.”

  “Yeah,” Ari said.

  Wren looked doubtfully at the colander of fresh scallops in the sink. She’d run to the Chatham Fish Pier first thing that m
orning, but despite their early start she still had to pat them dry, slice them, and dredge them in flour, before combining them with the potatoes and eggs to fry them. All that was just for one recipe. There were three others to go. “We need more help.”

  She’d tried to keep the menu simple. Fried scallop and leek potato pancakes with sour cream dipping sauce, tiny paper cups of clam chowder, baked pita chips with red onion jam, and an assortment of artisanal cheeses and crackers from Chatham Cheese Company. She’d even dug up a recipe for a frothy Cape Cod cranberry champagne punch that Lindy used to serve on New Year’s Eve. In line with her store motto she’d stayed true to local food. What she needed now was local help.

  “Is there someone you can call?” Wren had never seen the girl balk at any shop task, but right now Ari looked desperate. The kitchen was filled with steam and heat from simmering pans on the stove top, and her hair was stuck to her head. Both of their eyes were rimmed red from slicing three pounds of onions for the jam recipe. Two pans of it simmered on the stove. The whole place positively reeked of balsamic vinegar.

  “God. I’m turning this into a sweatshop, aren’t I?” Wren left the fishy-smelling scallops in the sink and surveyed the damage. The onion jam needed to be reduced, cooled, and jarred for transport. Someone had to pick up the cheese platters at Chatham Cheese. Leeks needed to be cut, and potatoes grated. She couldn’t even locate the ingredients for the dipping sauce. “We need backup.”

  The back door opened, and Lucy came in with her favorite Buff Orpington chicken tucked in her arms. Badger followed.

  It wasn’t the help Ari had in mind. “Wow. A chicken? In the kitchen?”

  If Ari didn’t think she was nuts already, Wren figured she did now. “Lucy honey, we can’t have a chicken in the house. We’re making food for the opening.”

  “I know.” To Ari’s dismay, Lucy marched up to the island to inspect her work. “Henrietta loves potatoes. Got extra?”

  Ari blinked. Henrietta let out a soft purring noise.

  Wren didn’t have time for this. “Not now, Luce. Please put the chicken back.”

  “Can I help?” Lucy asked.

  “I would love that, but we’re grating and cutting. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

  Lucy scowled. “I know how to cut. Hey, we could do a cooking show like we used to!”

  Wren felt bad, but this wasn’t a day for pulling out mixing bowls and making a good mess together in the kitchen. Lucy’s favorite was baking. She’d push a chair right up to the counter and climb up on it. In an authoritative voice, imitating the Food Network stars, she’d explain the recipe to Badger. Wren and Lucy used to cook together all the time. Though to be honest, Wren couldn’t remember the last time they had. This year she’d bought a cake for Lucy’s birthday, in April, and last Christmas Lindy had taken over the gingerbread house and invited Lucy to her place, because Wren was away at a jewelry show. She knelt down. “How about you come back in an hour and you can help me package the potato pancakes?”

  “An hour?” Lucy’s shoulders slumped. “What do I do until then?”

  Wren mustered the last of her patience. “How about you and the chickens do a cooking show outside? You can invent a bug-and-flower recipe. The girls will go wild!”

  “No, I already played school with them. They’re bored.” Lucy let out an exasperated breath and headed back outdoors with her chicken.

  Wren noticed Ari had retrieved ice from the freezer and was wrapping her hand in a dishtowel. “Oh no. It hurts that badly?”

  She shrugged. “Just need a break from the grater. It’ll be fine.”

  Who could she call? Lindy had been cleaning the house for days. She always got overwhelmed and went underground before Beverly’s visits, and the timing couldn’t have been worse this summer. Shannon had mentioned a photo shoot she was doing for a listing. Piper!

  Lucy tromped back inside, chicken-free but this time with Badger. “Wash your hands,” Wren reminded. She took the onion pan off the stove, gave it a stir, and set it aside to cool. “I’m going to call my sister.”

  Ari brightened. “Is she a good cook, too?”

  Wren appreciated that Ari seemed to think she possessed kitchen skills, but she couldn’t say the same for Piper. “She doesn’t really cook,” she admitted (or take directions, she thought to herself), “but we’ll put her to work.”

  Hell, she’d offer to pay her if that’s what it took. If she could only find her damn phone. She began shoving the piles of produce and spice jars aside. “Where’s my phone?”

  Ari cleared her throat politely and pointed. There in the living room was Lucy playing on it.

  “Luce, honey. I need my phone to call Auntie Piper.”

  “You told me to do something else. So, I’m playing Mermaid Salon.”

  “Lucy. Now!” Wren hadn’t meant to snap. Lucy popped up off the couch and stalked into the kitchen, a sour look on her face. “You can use it when I’m done. This is for . . .”

  Lucy turned on her heel. “For the shop. I know, I know.”

  Badger glanced worriedly at Wren. “What, you too?” As if in reply he turned and trotted upstairs after Lucy.

  To further dismay, Piper didn’t answer. Wren tried texting her, but she didn’t reply to that either.

  “No luck?” Ari asked.

  “Not giving up yet.” Wren went out to the front of the house where a light breeze was coming through the screen door. She tried her sister’s number again. This time she left a message. “Pipe, it’s me. Please call back. It’s an emergency.”

  “What’s the emergency?”

  Wren looked up. There, at the bottom of the porch steps, was Piper. And their father.

  Her dad held up a bag. “Bagel?”

  • • •

  Soon the downstairs of Wren’s house had turned into a commercial kitchen. Piper took over the potatoes and Ari went to work on the sauces. Wren mixed the pancakes.

  “Got an apron?” her dad asked.

  Wren eyed him curiously as she retrieved one from the closet.

  “I used to make some mean pancakes, if you recall.”

  It was a strange feeling watching her father man the stove, spooning small circles of the mix onto the pans.

  “You want to keep them small,” Wren said peering over his shoulder. “And get them good and brown before flipping, or they’ll break.”

  “Oh, and don’t forget to use vegetable oil,” Ari said, placing the wrinkled recipe on the counter next to him. “The butter burns.”

  Caleb fielded the directives good-naturedly; in fact, if Wren had to bet, he was rather enjoying himself. Piper did not fare as well: she nicked her knuckles several times. Wren pretended not to hear when she held out her bowl of grated potatoes and announced, “Don’t worry. I pulled the bloody bits out.”

  They worked their way through the menu list, taking turns at the stations. The kitchen island was designated for cutting and prepping. The stove became the fry station. At one point, Caleb suggested it would go faster if they had more pans. “Does your mom still have that oversized iron skillet?”

  Wren winced. The casual reference to both her mom and the once-shared skillet made her flinch, but she decided it was no more crazy than the hodgepodge of people filling her kitchen. Ari made the sauces and jarred the onion jam for transport.

  • • •

  Curious about the new voices in the kitchen, Lucy reappeared downstairs.

  “Well, well,” Caleb said from his post at the stove. He waved the spatula in greeting, which elicited a giggle. “Want to help?”

  “Mom doesn’t want me to.”

  Wren sighed. “Honey, that’s not what I meant.”

  “I know how to cook,” Lucy said, crossing her arms.

  “Is that so?” Caleb glanced between the two. “Well, Mom knows best. But now that she’s put me to work, maybe you can help me out?”

  Lucy glanced at her mother. “She said it was dangerous.”

  “Dangerous
?” Caleb bellowed playfully. “The only thing dangerous is that dog.” He pointed at Badger, who thumped his tail. “Looks like a fierce beggar.”

  This delighted Lucy. “Oh, he is! The fiercest of them all.”

  Before Wren could blink, the chair was pushed up along the stove and Lucy was leaning against her grandfather, helping to spoon out the mix. “This okay?” Caleb mouthed.

  While they worked pouring and flipping, Lucy talked nonstop. About school and cooking and the beach and Badger and the little boy next door who spit too much but was okay to ride bikes with. Caleb took it all in with great attention, and Wren marveled at the instant bond. Here was her usually shy girl completely at ease with a man who until yesterday was a stranger. It was the only natural thing that had happened since Caleb Bailey’s return. Before Wren headed out to the Chatham Cheese company to pick up platters, the last thing she heard Lucy say was, “I don’t have a dad.” Followed by, “Do you like chickens?”

  By late afternoon, when everything was prepped, they organized the food into aluminum containers and trays. By four o’clock even the sink was empty, and the dishes put away. Lucy took Caleb by the hand and led him out to the backyard to introduce him to the chickens.

  Wren pulled her greasy flour-covered apron over her head and tossed it on the counter.

  “So, are we . . .?” Ari asked.

  “Done,” Wren assured her. “I can’t thank you enough.” The store had already been set up yesterday. They’d strung white lights around the front window and hung paper lanterns throughout the store. A small table in the back was set up with platters that would later be filled with all the food they’d made.

  Ari pulled her patchwork messenger bag over her shoulder. “See you tomorrow, then.”

  Wren poured two glasses of iced tea and collapsed into one of the kitchen chairs opposite Piper. “You guys showed up at exactly the right time. You saved me.”

  “It was fine.,” Piper held up her knuckles. “Band-Aids and all. I think this is the most fun Dad has had since he came back.”