by Grace Palmer
“Oh no,” Mae murmured as the radio show went to commercial break. “Poor Eliza.”
Debra, too, was shaking her head. “Fingers crossed for her,” she said. “I hope that man is wrong. Seems like we’re all having a terrible run of bad luck around here.”
Mae nodded and looked out the window. It was a beautiful day. Nevertheless, everything was looking awfully grim.
12
Sara
Mom sure seemed glad to have errands to keep her away from the inn. That was weird. Under normal circumstances, Mom was reluctant to leave the inn at all. Sara had even offered to take care of today’s tasks another time. Next week, maybe, after all the wedding craziness was done. There was no need to start cleaning out the house on Howard Street right now. Even if this anonymous mystery buyer that Mom mentioned didn’t fall through—which Sara was highly skeptical of—there was still plenty of time to get the place all ready for move-in before the closing date arrived.
But Mom insisted. “Let’s just get it done!” she’d said brightly in that Don’t ask me again tone that Sara knew so well.
Sara shrugged. So be it. She was taking the afternoon away from Little Bull to clear her head anyway. It’d be good to have some busywork to keep her mind occupied.
Plus, she liked going back to the house on Howard Street where she had grown up. Even though she and Joey had been living together in their apartment for nearly eight months now, returning to Howard Street always felt like going home. Like going home home. It smelled like home. She knew where the creaks in the floors were. She knew which stairs to skip if she was trying to sneak out at night. It just felt good to be under that roof. Like, happy, in the strangest way.
Sara could use a little bit of that right now.
After Hogan’s review was published, she’d felt like an imposter in her own world. Walking into Little Bull the next morning was awful, an experience she never, ever wanted to repeat. Even now, months and months later, she hated the sight of herself in the mirror. Poser, her reflection seemed to be screaming at her. Failure. Maybe a nice, sunny afternoon of listening to music and cleaning out the closets with Mom would be just what the doctor called for.
When they got there, they threw open all the windows and set all the fans on high to circulate that sweet Nantucket breeze throughout the house. Mom put a record on the old record player downstairs and they got to work. They started on the ground floor, organizing what remained in the house into neat, labeled boxes. Most of it was going to be either donated or put into a storage unit that Eliza had gotten for the items Mom couldn’t yet bear to part with.
Bit by bit, they deconstructed Sara’s childhood and packed it all away. It was equal parts cathartic and hilarious. They’d done this in stages over the last two years, ever since Mom moved into the Sweet Island Inn and began toying with the idea of selling the house, so the stuff that still needed sorting was often the randomest-seeming junk. Eliza’s softball mitts, old fishing lures of Brent’s, dolls that a young Holly had loved and lost. Sara found an old dress of her mother’s that was nearly twice as old as Sara. She held it over her clothes and danced around the room, singing old Disney tunes, while Mom laughed. “Don’t make fun of me,” she reprimanded, though she was chuckling. “That was the height of fashion, once upon a time.”
“Yeah, in the Ice Age, maybe.”
Mom threw a shoe at her in response.
When downstairs had been stripped bare, they moved to the bedrooms on the second floor. Those too had been mostly picked through, with each of the kids taking what they wanted and disposing of what they didn’t. They saved Mom and Dad’s old bedroom for last. There was a little bit of a strange atmosphere hanging over that end of the hallway. Like a little bit of Dad might still be circulating in the air, mixed in with the motes of dust. By cleaning out the last of their things, it felt like cleaning him out, too.
The truth was that it was time for this to happen. A little overdue, in fact. Mom didn’t need this house anymore, and though it had been paid off a long time ago, the best move for everybody was to sell it to a new owner and let them create their own memories within its walls. Sara could tell that her mother was sad about it, but only sad in the way that an adult is sad when the time finally comes to give up their favorite childhood stuffed animal. There is no use for it anymore, but it still is so full of memories that your heart will always reach out for it and say, Well, not quite yet. You can stay just a little bit longer.
Still, Sara was proud of her mom for taking this step, and she knew her siblings were, too. They’d all been very careful to monitor their mother’s emotions, even in the midst of their own respective sorrows and crazy life twists. And Mom had done so well after Dad’s accident. She was a worker bee, there was no doubt about that, and she’d found a good man in Dominic when the timing was right for her to open up her heart again.
That being said, however, she was being awfully short on the subject whenever Sara mentioned something in passing about Dominic.
“What’s he doing today?” she’d asked when picking up her mother to come over here.
“Oh, I haven’t the faintest,” Mom had answered. She changed the subject quickly.
Sara frowned, then shrugged and kept working through the depths of her father’s old closet. If they were having a tiff, she was sure that both of them were grown enough to settle it on their own. She wouldn’t pry too much.
“Well, would you look at this!” her mother said suddenly from the other corner of the closet. She was holding something in her hands, but Sara couldn’t see it from where she was. Groaning, she took to her feet and walked over to take a look.
Lying in the middle of her mother’s cupped palms was a chunk of wood. As Sara knelt over, she saw that it was a half-finished carving. The back half was still squared off and raw, but the front half had been whittled into a rearing bull. Eyes narrowed, nostrils flared, a ring in its nose that looked so lifelike she could swear it was swinging back and forth with each imaginary pawing of the animal’s hoof on the dirt of a bullfighters’ arena.
“I believe this was for you,” Mom said softly. She handed the carving over.
Sara took it with fingers that were suddenly trembling. She turned around and went to sit on the bed. The mattress wheezed under her weight, spewing dust into the air, but Sara was the one who felt like she’d been hit.
Mom was right; this was definitely intended for her. My little bull, her father had always called her whenever she got worked up and was having trouble calming down. That temper had faded a little bit over the years. Actually, now that Sara thought about it, it had faded a lot. She was born to be a brawler, but enduring hardship upon hardship had tamped down her fighting spirit. It felt like there wasn’t much of it left these days.
She thought about how she’d spent last night, and the night before, and the night before that, and a long, unbroken chain of nights stretching back twelve months: reading that stupid, spiteful review. Doing it was like sandpapering down her soul, and yet she did it anyway. Punishing herself for standing up for her own dignity.
This bull was like a reminder of her own strength. It was the namesake of her restaurant. But somehow, she’d forgotten what it meant to her. Little bull. Those words were her father telling her who she was deep inside.
Screw Gavin Crawford. Screw Martin Hogan. Their opinions didn’t matter in the slightest. She had her father’s love, and her mother’s, and her sisters’, and her brother’s, and Joey’s, and her staff’s, and her clients’, and—perhaps most importantly of all—her own. That was an important thing to remember.
Now, she had her father’s carving to remind her.
She looked up at her mom. “Thanks, Momma,” she whispered. “I needed this.”
13
Holly
Holly spent the rest of the day brooding.
Her brain was spilling over with all the things she wanted to say to Cecilia Payne. And not just say—she wanted to stand on top of a mountain
and announce them through the world’s loudest megaphone. She wanted to stomp her feet and tear her hair out and scream until she was blue in the face. Cecilia deserved no less than Holly’s peak rage. How dare she be so rude?
It had been a year of subtle, almost unnoticeable micro-aggressions. But this was the big culmination. After this, there was no going back. Holly knew full well that she might be making her husband’s life a little more awkward at work, but she could not care less. Cecilia had crossed the line. Holly was about to kick her butt right back over it.
It was time to go speak her mind.
Cecilia wasn’t at the firehouse when Holly pulled up around sunset, minivan tires screeching. The place was empty, with the furniture truck having long since been sent back to its origin, still bearing the cargo Holly had been so excited about.
No matter. Holly was intent on hunting Cecilia to the ends of the earth if that’s what it took. She wasn’t going to tolerate even a single day more of her disrespect. She’d check her house next.
That thought made Holly even angrier, though she didn’t think that was possible. Cecilia’s house was stolen property. Holly and Pete had picked it out. Holly and Pete had made an offer. Holly and Pete had been mere days away from closing when an “anonymous someone” had come swooping in with such a sweetheart offer that the seller had reneged, even though they were under contract. It made Holly sick just to think about it. She knew Pete considered all of that ancient history—“water under the bridge,” was his exact phrasing whenever the subject came up. But that always enraged her, too.
“It wasn’t fair!” she’d snap. “They stole that house!”
“Yeah, I can see how you’d think that,” he’d reply.
She still didn’t have a good answer for him that didn’t involve a few choice words.
The truth was that she and Cecilia had been driving towards this fight since the moment Holly and Pete first made landfall on Nantucket. What she didn’t know was whether Cecilia was aware of that, or if she was just that nasty by nature. Holly wasn’t quite the same natural optimist that Pete was, but over the years, a little bit of her husband’s faith in the goodness of people had rubbed off on her. She wanted to believe that Cecilia didn’t harbor evil intentions in her heart around the clock. That sounded exhausting, if nothing else. But all the evidence pointed to the contrary. She was either willfully cruel or blissfully ignorant to just how foul she was capable of being. Holly wasn’t sure which was worse.
Rounding the corner, she saw the house at the end of the street. Her heart sagged a little bit at the sight of it. It was still beautiful. That yard was so lush and green, the lines of the roof so sharp and pleasing to the eye.
“Focus,” she muttered to herself under her breath. “You’ve got a job to do.”
Holly pulled up in the driveway, wrenched the car into park, and stomped up to the front door. She disregarded the doorbell in favor of hammering on the door with a closed fist. She could see the roof of Cecilia’s Range Rover through the window in the garage door, so she knew she was home. The question was, would she answer?
As it turned out, yes.
But the door didn’t open to reveal the bristling enemy combatant that Holly had geared herself up to expect. Cecilia stiffened when she saw who was standing on her stoop. She looked less angry than … afraid? Embarrassed, like she’d been caught doing something wrong? Whatever the emotion was, it put a little hitch in Holly’s step. She hesitated and stammered before finally delivering the opening salvo she’d been planning since that morning. “I—uh, I need to talk to you,” she said. It came out of her mouth like air leaking out of a balloon.
“Okay,” Cecilia responded quietly with a nod. “Would you like to come in?”
Politeness was the last thing Holly had expected, even if it was Cecilia’s brand of weirdly formal, uptight politeness, like she’d bought manners from a store and learned how to use them from the instructions that came in the box.
“Um—yes,” Holly said defiantly. “I would.”
Cecilia stepped aside, holding the door open for her, and Holly entered.
The house smelled different than Holly’s. A strong scent of vanilla hung in the air, like Cecilia had just finished baking. That, too, threw Holly off. She had imagined a stench of fire and brimstone following Cecilia around everywhere she went.
Cecilia shut the door behind her and turned to Holly. “Do you want to take a seat at the table?” Her voice was muted and flat. Holly didn’t know what to make of that. She didn’t know what to make of any of this. All she knew was that her rage was sputtering in her belly, unspent and confused.
“Yes,” she mumbled. She followed Cecilia to the dining room table, over which hung a massive and ridiculously expensive-looking chandelier. Both women took a seat, sitting on the edge of their chairs like they might have to leap up at any moment.
“What would you like to talk about?” Cecilia asked.
Holly wasn’t ready for that question, or any of the other questions Cecilia had asked thus far.
“I was a little upset by what happened this morning.” Holly felt as stiff as Cecilia looked.
“I see.”
“I felt that you were rude.”
“Mm.”
“And condescending.”
“Mm.”
“And my feelings were hurt.”
Cecilia mm’d again, and as much as Holly wanted to be mad about that, too, it honestly wasn’t a rude mm. It was simply the noise you make when someone had a lot to say and you didn’t want to interrupt them just yet.
“And …” Holly was stuck. This sucked! Why couldn’t Cecilia have the decency to be the same witch she was this morning? If she did that, at least Holly would feel justified in yelling at her! She tried to summon the memory of their encounter at the firehouse, but it was already fading away in the presence of this new Cecilia seated across from her. This Cecilia was frozen stiff like she was scared and didn’t want to make any sudden movements. It was all bizarre and confounding.
“You don’t like me, do you?” Cecilia asked suddenly.
Holly nearly did a double take. Her head was reeling. Not one piece of this was unfolding the way she’d had in mind.
So she decided to just speak the truth. “Not really. I don’t think you like me, either.”
“That’s not true,” Cecilia answered at once. She was still stiff through her spine, but her face had eased somewhat. Her eyes were glazed over, like she was looking inward. “I don’t dislike you at all. I suppose I admire you.”
Holly pinched herself to ensure that she wasn’t dreaming. “You what?”
“I admire you, I said.”
“No, I heard you. What does that mean?”
Cecilia laughed. Honest-to-goodness laughed, like this whole thing was hilarious. Well, to be fair, it wasn’t exactly a knee-slapper laugh—more like a hollow, sad, self-deprecating laugh—but it was a laugh nonetheless. “I guess you wouldn’t know it from the way I spoke this morning.”
“I mean … can you blame me?”
“No, I don’t think I can.”
“I would’ve said that you hated me.”
“I can see how you’d think that.”
“So …” Holly noticed suddenly that Cecilia was clenching her hands tightly together to stop them from trembling. “Are you okay?”
Then her gaze went up to Cecilia’s face and she saw that the woman was crying.
What. Was. Happening?
“I’m unable to have children,” Cecilia blurted at once. The words came pouring out of her like they were desperate to be set free. “I was notified this morning that the final round of IVF was unsuccessful, and the doctor recommended that I not try again. I will never be a mother.”
All of a sudden, it was Holly who was lost. “I’m … I’m sorry?” She frowned and said it again, more like an actual gesture of sympathy than a token offering. “I’m sorry. That is … that’s hard to hear, if it’s important to you.”
“It is,” Cecilia answered. She sniffled. “Or rather, it was, I guess. I don’t think it can be important to me anymore from now on.”
Holly opened her mouth but there wasn’t really anything she could think of to say. She was obviously witnessing a devastating moment in this woman’s life. But she barely knew her! Why was Cecilia confessing all this? Up until two minutes ago, Holly was certain that they were sworn enemies. Now, Cecilia was crying in front of her and telling her about these deep-seated desires to be a mother that would never come to fruition. It was enough of an about-face to give her whiplash.
“I’m sorry, Cecilia, but I honestly don’t know what to tell you.”
Cecilia raised a hand and sniffled once more. A lone tear trickled down her cheek. The gold bracelets on her wrist jangled. “I don’t expect you to tell me anything. As I said, I know you don’t like me.”
“That’s not—I don’t …”
“No, it’s quite okay. I have treated you poorly. I know that.”
Holly was dumbfounded.
Cecilia glanced up from her lap and locked eyes with Holly. “You have a beautiful family. I think I’m just jealous for what you have that I can’t.”
So that was it. Jealousy for Holly’s children. That explained the cruelty, the condescension, the—well, the everything that Cecilia had thrown at Holly since day one. It was sad and bitter and hurtful, and yet it all made sense. Holly felt just as sorry for this broken woman as she had once felt angry towards her.
They sat in silence for a few long minutes while Holly processed everything that was happening. Cecilia sniffled once or twice, but said nothing.
Until, as if some timer had gone off in her head, she stood up. “I don’t mean to keep you here listening to me pity myself.” There was some of her old royal archness back in her demeanor, though Holly saw—now that she was looking closely—that it seemed to have heartbreak lingering behind it. “I am sorry for what I said this morning. I don’t mean to blame my problems on you. I won’t stand in your way at the office any longer.” She nodded once, as if to herself.
