CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Catherine drove her mother, Willow, and Grey back to Newburyport, while Zoe drove Madame Justine in the Porsche. Willow fell asleep in the backseat with her head on Eve’s shoulder; Catherine glanced at her now and then in the rearview mirror, reassuring herself that the girl was actually there.

Willow woke up when they pulled into Eve’s driveway half an hour later and, blessed by being a child, despite her new woman’s body, she smiled at Catherine in the mirror, appearing to forget everything that had happened as she stretched and yawned. When she remembered to be angry, Willow quickly wrapped her arms tightly around her body and looked out the window, muttering a good-bye to Eve as she got out of the car with Grey.

“Want to sit up front?” Catherine asked before pulling out of the driveway again.

Willow shook her head.

Another forty minutes south to Cambridge. Willow slept. Catherine put on the radio, glad she didn’t have to say anything yet. She needed time to think.

At home, Mike was beside himself at the sight of Willow, launching himself in the air as if his legs were springs. She sank to her knees and rubbed the little dog’s body, laughing and letting him lick her face. She took him outside while Catherine made grilled cheese and soup, numb from the effort of not yelling at Willow in the car.

“You can go ahead and ground me,” Willow said as she laid spoons and napkins out on the kitchen table without Catherine having to ask her.

“I’m not going to do that,” Catherine said. “This is bigger than that. Like I said at the police station, you really scared me. All of us.”

They sat across from each other, the bowls steaming between them, the yellow cheese oozing out of the thick slabs of toasted bread. “What can I do to show you I’m sorry?” Willow asked. She looked miserable.

Catherine picked up her napkin, put it on her lap, and said, “Eat something, please.”

Willow obeyed, tearing the sandwich into bite-sized pieces with her hands. A habit only a parent could love about a child. Seeing it made Catherine want to weep.

“I’m sorry you felt like you had to find Mike without telling me,” Catherine began. “I would have helped you, you know.”

“Really?” Willow chewed, her face a mask. “You never did before. Whenever I asked who my dad was, you always said it didn’t matter, because I had you and Russell.”

“You never actually asked me to help search for him.”

Willow rolled her eyes. “You should have known what I wanted. Nola was the only one who’d help me. Don’t be mad at her,” she added quickly. “I pretty much made her drive me to Framingham.”

Nola. Catherine sighed. She’d already burned her mouth on the soup; now she set down the spoon and said, “I’ve made a mess of things in a lot of ways. But the one thing I’ve learned, honey, is that life is a lot easier if you come out and ask for what you want.”

“So, if I asked you right now if I could live with Mom again, you’d say yes?” Willow challenged.

Catherine wanted to close her eyes. To make all of this a dream she could then wake from. “It’s not that simple.”

“Because you don’t trust her to take care of me?”

“Look, right now this is all theoretical—”

“Why? Because she doesn’t want me?”

Catherine knew by the desperate note that had crept into Willow’s voice that she was afraid both things might be true: that Zoe didn’t want her, and couldn’t take care of her anyway. Even worse, Catherine couldn’t completely deny those possibilities. Yet, now, after Willow’s reckless act and hearing the pleading in Willow’s voice, Catherine knew she also had to start thinking seriously about what Willow wanted for her own life. If she didn’t work with her, if she didn’t really start learning to listen to her daughter, Willow was going to view her as an enemy instead of an ally.

“If your mom goes to court and proves she’s clean and responsible,” she answered slowly, “then I wouldn’t have any legal leg to stand on. She’s your biological parent. But I would always be in your life.”

“So you’d just let her have me?” Willow’s voice was shrill now.

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“It is, too! And that’s why I wanted to find my real dad, you know, in case none of you guys want me. Okay? Now do you get it?” Willow shouted. Then she left the table, scooping Mike into her arms on her way out of the kitchen.

“I get it,” Catherine whispered as she heard Willow’s footsteps on the stairs. “Oh, honey. I get it.”

She poured herself a glass of wine and threw the remaining food into the compost. She sat with the wine as she called Dr. Patel and stumbled through a message, saying she needed to take some days off to clear up some personal matters. “Maybe through Thanksgiving,” she said, thinking that with the office closed for two days anyway, she could manage a week to herself. “I hope this won’t put you in a bind.”

Whether it did or not, she needed to spend time with Willow. Forget work, forget Zoe, forget everything else: Willow needed her now, and then maybe Eve would take Willow to Chance Harbor, since she planned to spend one last Thanksgiving there. That would give Catherine time to be on her own and think. Besides, if Zoe went to Canada for Thanksgiving with them, it would be a chance for Willow to spend some supervised time with her. They could see how things went.

She called Russell next. “We’re home,” she said.

“Thanks for texting me earlier. How did it go? Was she charged with anything?”

“No. Since this was her first offense shoplifting, the officer gave her a diversion. If she does a three-month program, the charges will be wiped clean.”

“Good. I wish I could have gone to Salem with you.”

“It’s all right,” Catherine said. “I had lots of company. Mom and Zoe. And one of Zoe’s friends.”

“Oh.” Russell’s voice was strained; he was clearly put out not to have been part of the rescue party, and she didn’t blame him. No matter how flawed he was as a husband, Russell loved Willow, too. “That’s good, I guess. Listen. Can I put Nola on for a minute? She wants to say something to you.”

Catherine opened the refrigerator and poured another glass of wine. “If she must.”

Nola was blunt, as always. “Look, I know I totally messed up. I’m sorry,” she said. “I never should have taken Willow to that guy Mike’s house.”

Catherine closed her eyes and counted to ten, reminding herself that Nola was still a teenager. A confused, pregnant teenager. “I understand you were trying to help Willow. You were being a friend to her.”

Nola sounded startled. “Yeah? Yes. That’s exactly what I was doing!” she said. “I really like that kid. She’s a good girl. And I’m sorry, you know, for everything else, too.”

“Apology accepted,” Catherine said, though it wasn’t easy. “Good luck with your baby. Just, if you do take Willow somewhere again, please tell us, all right? She’s still only fifteen.”

“Boy, I know! I thought I was all grown-up at fifteen, like Willow. But I was wrong.”

“Yes, you were,” Catherine said before she could stop herself. “And you’ve still got some growing to do.” She hung up.

How could she possibly sleep, with her brain on fire like this? Catherine put on a movie and watched it blindly, then watched another, trying to fill her mind with sounds and images other than her own. When the doorbell rang, she glanced at the clock. It was nearly eleven o’clock. Surprisingly, Willow had already been asleep when Catherine had gone upstairs half an hour ago, the dog curled on the pillow next to her. She must be exhausted from her day. She’d looked impossibly young, her hair still damp from a shower and fanned out on the pillow. Catherine hoped the bell didn’t wake her now. It must be Russell at the door—who else? She only hoped Nola hadn’t come, too. Catherine’s patience was shredded by the day’s events.

She went to the door, peered through the keyhole, and felt her stomach drop at the sight of Grey. Was Zoe with him? Had they come here, teamed up to convince her that Willow belonged with Zoe? Catherine remembered the awful scene she’d made in her mother’s living room. Grey must think she was unhinged. Well, what did it matter what he thought? They had no future together.

Not that her body was being that rational. The sight of Grey, even as tiny as it was through the peephole, immediately aroused desire she’d hoped to satisfy and then set aside for good.

She wanted him. No denying that.

Catherine opened the door a crack, leaving the chain on until she saw that Grey was alone, standing in his customary boots and leather jacket, his hair loose and framing his sharp features beneath the porch light.

She closed the door again to release the chain, then stepped back to let him in.

Grey took off his boots in the hall and bent to kiss her cheek. Catherine didn’t say anything beyond the barest of greetings, only folded her arms and waited, keeping her eyes on the floor so that none of her tricky emotions would be revealed on her betraying face. Let him scold her, berate her, whatever. Then he could leave and their business would be finished.

“I came by to make sure you’re okay,” he said.

Startled, she looked up at him and saw that Grey’s expression was not angry, or even irritated. He looked, if anything, worried. Kind. Tender. Sweet.

Catherine’s cheeks burned. “I’m fine. I’m just glad we found her.”

“Zoe’s a mess.”

Ah. So that’s why he’d come. To plead Zoe’s cause. “She should be,” Catherine said, and turned her back on him to walk away.

Not that she could put much distance between them in her modest house. Her only choice was to walk to the kitchen at the end of the hall, where she picked up her wineglass and gestured to the cupboard. “Want a glass?”

He shook his head and watched her silently drain her glass. She badly wanted a third.

No. Bad idea.

“Why do you say that Zoe should be a mess?” Grey asked, sitting down at the table.

Catherine took the chair across from his. “It’s her own fault that Willow went to Mike’s looking for information.”

Grey’s voice was calm, but she noticed a glint in his eyes. “I don’t understand. How is that her fault? Zoe had no idea what Willow was up to, since she hadn’t seen her.”

“Because she has never told Willow about her real dad. Willow is fifteen. Old enough to know the truth.”

He sighed. “Zoe doesn’t know who the father is.”

“I’d figured as much. Zoe had a lot of fun at the university. I think she spent, like, ten minutes a day studying.”

“She didn’t have all that much fun. Not after she and Mike broke up.” Grey’s voice was low; Catherine almost had to lean forward to hear it.

“So that’s why she dropped out? Not enough parties for her?”

She heard her own bitchy tone and inwardly winced, uncomfortably aware that the anger flickering in Grey’s eyes was growing brighter.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she said. “You know what Zoe’s like.”

“Because I want to tell you the truth, but I’m conflicted because I know Zoe wouldn’t want me to say anything.”

“We’re all conflicted,” Catherine said. “Believe me, if you know something that will help me understand my crazy sister, then by all means, share it. Though I can’t guarantee that I’ll listen with an open mind. Too much water under the bridge, you know?”

He nodded. “I got to that point with Sadie. I know what you’re feeling. You’ve been hurt and betrayed so many times that you’re almost ready to give up on your sister.”

“No. That’s where you’re wrong.” What the hell. Against her best instincts, Catherine stood up and poured herself a third glass of wine. Then she turned around again to face him, the glass in her hand. “I am not ‘almost ready’ to give up on Zoe. That happened a long time ago. Now my only goal is to keep Willow safe, even if we go to court and I lose custody to Zoe.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He arched an eyebrow. “A custody battle would be tough on Willow, don’t you think? What if Zoe continues to play by the rules and Willow wants to live with her some of the time. Would you ever allow that?”

“Look, I don’t want to make problems for Willow,” she said. “There might come a time in the future when I’d say yes to that, sure. As Willow gets older, I know I’ll need to honor her as a person by letting her make her own choices, provided I don’t perceive any risk.”

“Very noble rhetoric.”

Catherine shrugged. “I mean it. I know this may come as a shock to you, but I’m actually a good person most of the time.” She took a gulp of wine. The wine was sour and unpleasant; she nearly spit it out.

“You’d better sit down,” Grey said.

She dropped into a chair and set the glass down carefully on the table in front of her. She was seated in Willow’s place; there were crumbs everywhere. She nearly smiled. A child, still, Willow. Thank God for small mercies.

Grey folded his big hands on the table. His hands were calloused from his boatbuilding, but he wore an expensive-looking watch, a Bvlgari.

“Why are you here?” Catherine asked. “I mean, really? You should be propping Zoe up. You’re her friend. And, as you can see, I’m perfectly fine.”

“You are not fine,” Grey said. “And I wanted to see you, to tell you some things about your sister that you obviously don’t know. I think that’s the only way you’ll forgive her.”

“I will never forgive her.”

“Maybe not,” Grey said. “But I can help you understand, at least. And that might help you both take better care of Willow. Isn’t that what you want?”

“Yes. Absolutely.” Catherine picked up her glass and took another dainty sip despite the cloud descending on her brain. Why shouldn’t she get drunk?

“Do you know the real reason Zoe left school?”

“Sure. Because Mike broke up with her and she was upset. I was worried about her back then because I was about to graduate and wouldn’t be around anymore to look out for her. I told Zoe to put on her big-girl underpants and start studying, to actually do something with her life after Mike gave her the boot. Instead, she partied hard and came home from school, told us she was pregnant. After that, she was impossible. Mom said it was hormones, but I always thought it was a bad case of regret.”

Grey was staring at her now. It wasn’t a pleasant look. “It wasn’t either of those things, Catherine,” he said softly. “It was trauma.”

“Yeah? The trauma of a broken heart?” She giggled a little, the wine making her dizzy.

“No. Zoe was gang-raped.”

He said it so bluntly that Catherine felt as if he’d slapped her. She put the glass down. “What?”

“She was raped, Catherine. By a group of guys at a house party. Zoe wasn’t drinking or doing drugs. She went to a frat party with a friend and somebody spiked her drink.”

“And you believe her?” Catherine wanted, so badly, not to believe it.

He nodded. “I do. Zoe is a lot of things, but she has never been a liar about her own poor choices. And that’s why Zoe doesn’t know who Willow’s dad is. It happened that night.”

“No! She would have told us.” Even as she said this, though, the pieces were clicking into place: Zoe’s bruises, faded to yellow by the time their mother convinced Catherine to come home and try talking her into going back to school. Her near-comatose behavior. Her disinterest, at first, in the baby.

Grey was still talking, explaining to Catherine now that Zoe hadn’t wanted to report the rape because she didn’t know who the boys were. It had happened in a dark room at a party where she knew nobody except the girl who’d brought her. “And she was ashamed,” Grey added. “She didn’t want anyone to find out. Especially not Mike. She didn’t think any of you would believe her anyway.”

She was right, Catherine thought, but she couldn’t bring herself to say this, not while she was sitting beneath the too-bright overhead light of her own kitchen, her stomach churning from the cheap wine and the day’s events and now this, yet more evidence that she had failed Zoe as a sister. Why had she just assumed that whatever happened to her sister was Zoe’s own fault?

“You can understand why Zoe would find it difficult to tell Willow about this,” Grey said. “She didn’t ever want Willow to feel she wasn’t wanted.”

“Yes.” More pieces were tumbling into place: Zoe had told her that she ran away and made herself disappear after a man abused Willow. Given what she’d been through, Zoe would have been understandably terrified and determined to get Willow out of harm’s way. Which was exactly what she’d accomplished by having Catherine take over parenting Willow. She might not approve of Zoe’s reasoning, but her sister’s motives were clear: she wanted Willow to be safe, just as she’d been claiming all along.

Catherine suddenly felt sick and went to the sink. She held her face under the faucet, not caring that Grey was watching her.

He came up to touch her shoulder, but she remained staring blindly at the black square of the kitchen window. “You must hate me,” she said, finally mopping her face with a paper towel before turning to him. “The way I’ve been toward Zoe. How I was today.”

He shook his head. “I don’t. How could I? You’ve been fighting for Willow every step of the way. You’ve been a good mother to her, Catherine. And I know Zoe isn’t easy to love.”

“But you love her.”

He hesitated an instant, then nodded. “But not,” he said, “the way I could love you. Maybe already do.”

“You can’t possibly.”

“Why not?”

“You don’t even know me.”

“Oh, I think I do.” Grey gestured at her freshly scrubbed face, at her hair clinging now to her cheeks, at the dampness on her T-shirt. “Is this you? The real you? Angry and sad? Sorrowful, forgiving, scared? Loving? Is all of this you, Catherine? Who you are?”

When she took a step away from him, panicked by the intensity of his eyes, Grey put a hand around her waist, making contact with her bare skin just above her jeans. He held her in place, cupping her waist and studying her face, no longer smiling.

She didn’t move. If only she could stand here long enough, with the palm of this man’s generous hand warming her entire body, the world would right itself.

“Yes. This is me,” she said, and leaned her head on his shoulder.

•   •   •

Had anyone asked her a few weeks ago what she would be most thankful for this year, Eve would never have imagined this possibility even in her most wildly optimistic fantasies: Thanksgiving at Chance Harbor with Zoe, the daughter she had feared dead, and with Willow, the granddaughter she loved beyond words because Willow was so clearly the product of both mothers who had raised her: wild and loving, sweet and mercurial, brave and vulnerable.

The only thing that could have made this holiday more perfect would have been having Catherine with them, too. But Catherine had insisted that they go without her. “It’s clear that Willow’s trying to figure some things out, and she needs time alone with Zoe,” she’d said. “I’d just be in the way.”

“What changed your mind about letting Willow come with us?” Eve had asked, truly astounded by this generous gesture. She had been certain that Catherine would fight her sister on everything where Willow was concerned.

“Grey explained some things to me,” she said vaguely, “and, anyway, I know you’ll be up there to supervise things.”

Eve could guess what those things were, and shuddered. “I will,” she had promised. “But won’t you change your mind and come? It would be so nice for all of us to be together. And I don’t want you spending the holiday alone.”

Catherine still said no. She had thought about it, she added, but Bethany had invited her for the holiday. “Plus, I need some space to think about my next steps,” she said.

They arrived at Chance Harbor as it was getting dark and unloaded the car, stomping through a light crust of snow to carry things into the house. Cousin Jane, bless her, had come by to crank up the thermostat and fill the fridge. The house was warm and smelled of Jane’s biscuits and something else, too. Cheese?

Yes, there it was, a block of homemade sheep’s cheese on the counter from their neighbor down the road, to go with the biscuits and beef stew Jane had left to welcome them.

Zoe hiked up and down the stairs, making up beds and exclaiming over the new paint in the kitchen, the wallpaper Eve had chosen for her room. She was wearing one of Eve’s quilted down jackets; the jacket made Zoe look twice her size, but her eyes were bright and her skin looked healthy.

Willow, though, was unexpectedly quiet, almost sullen. Eve didn’t know what that was about, but at least they were here now, the long drive behind them. Zoe and Willow had promised to help around the house, to finish stripping old wallpaper out of the two remaining bedrooms and put up new.

They all went to bed early, exhausted from the drive. When morning came, bringing unexpectedly warm weather for the third week of November, Eve suggested breakfast on the beach, egg and bacon sandwiches washed down by a thermos of hot tea. They ate on the circle of rocks near the base of the wooden stairs leading down the rocky red cliff, watching the gulls circle for crusts.

The wind had died down and the sun was slowly emerging from the clouds, casting a pale yellow light on the Northumberland Strait. The beach was clear of snow and Eve could just make out Cape Breton in the distance. She thought, not of Malcolm or that terrible day she’d traveled there, leaving Andrew on the dock, but of Darcy, of their time together hiking in the headlands, and smiled.

Willow and Zoe were racing up and down the dunes, shrieking and making Mike bark. Eve pushed her hands into her pockets and began walking toward the inlet with Bear. She glanced at the girls over her shoulder once and realized that Willow was so tall now, it was difficult to tell from a distance who was the mother and who was the daughter.

The water was calm, a flat nail-head gray. A pair of seals rode the waves, their sleek doggy heads pointed in her direction. Eve had a sudden memory of being on this beach one chilly autumn morning with Andrew, shortly after Zoe learned to walk. Catherine was probably four years old then and fascinated by seaweed; she ignored the cold and draped sandy strands of it around her neck and around Zoe’s too, calling them “princess necklaces.” Zoe made comical faces at the feel of the clammy plants on her skin, but put up with it because she would do anything for Catherine.

As Eve and Andrew walked with the girls, the tide was out and they had come across a shipwreck. It had been there awhile, Andrew had told her, though she’d never seen it before. The tidal conditions had to be just right to uncover it.

The ribs of the ship poked out of the sand along with some rusty metal bits. Eve had winced when she saw it, thinking of Malcolm. She’d thought then—as she would think many times in the coming years—about how similar death was to birth. Humans marked both of these events in similar ways, with food and flowers and hushed voices and even prayers. When a baby was born or you lost a loved one, you paced at night, sleepless with grief or joy, overtaken by the absurdity of the human condition. Giving birth and mourning the dead were life’s reminders that none of us can control fate.

“You miss him,” Andrew had said that day, watching Eve’s face as she turned away from the wreck, stricken, despite knowing it couldn’t possibly be Malcolm’s boat. His vessel had gone down on the north side of the island.

She didn’t pretend not to know what Andrew meant. Since her affair, Eve had decided that dishonesty was pointless in a marriage. She’d thought Andrew had also come to that conclusion, but apparently he hadn’t. He’d had a child with Marta, had gone on seeing her. Had even lost a son, all without telling Eve. Her husband had his secrets, and yet he’d stayed with her. When she wasn’t angry about this—which was more often now—Eve almost pitied Andrew for his lies: how much more difficult it must have been, all of that deep subterfuge, than to just come out and tell the truth.

“Yes,” she’d said, when Andrew asked about Malcolm that day on the beach. “But I don’t know if I miss him, or the idea of him still being here,” she’d admitted. “I loved Malcolm, but not the same way I love you. It just feels, I don’t know. Odd. Empty.”

“I understand,” he’d said, and held her close. “I’m sorry.”

Eve had been amazed—and still was—that Andrew could find the strength and generosity within himself to comfort her. She wished that she had known the depth of Andrew’s losses. Marta. His son. He had kept that all to himself. No wonder she’d felt that she could never reach him.

She had reached the inlet now. The tide was coming in; she’d have to turn around. Find the girls and go up to the house. Start stripping wallpaper. That thought—not the actual work, but the idea that the house would then be ready to sell—made her legs and arms feel heavy, as leaden as the color of the sky. She didn’t want to leave Chance Harbor and the memories it contained of herself as a young lover and new bride, as a wife and mother, and now as an older woman with so much life to be thankful for having lived. This house, this island, was where she’d grown into womanhood. Selling it would be losing herself.

She couldn’t do it. She wouldn’t. She’d find a way to keep the house.

As Eve walked into the wind with her head down, she heard someone calling and looked up. Darcy! She had told him she would be here for Thanksgiving, had joked about him joining them, but she hadn’t taken him seriously when he’d said he’d consider it. Surely he’d want to spend Thanksgiving with his children. Here he was, though, Bear bounding ahead of her to greet him.

“You came!” She laughed, as Bear pushed against Darcy’s legs ecstatically and nuzzled his hands. Darcy’s face creased in a smile. He was hatless, his hair a tuft of silver feathers rising in the sun, as if he were some exotic seabird.

“Yes. I didn’t feel like flying to California to see my son, and my daughter’s in Mexico for her anniversary. I’ll see the kids at Christmas,” he said. “I saw your car in the driveway and came down to the beach. The girls told me where you were.” He stopped a respectable distance away. Beyond him, Zoe and Willow were waiting by the staircase leading up to the house and watching them curiously. “How was the trip?”

Eve wanted to push herself against him, to nuzzle his hands as the dog had done. She wanted—and her own desire stunned her—to feel caressed by Darcy. Yet knowing the girls could see them held her back.

“The trip was uneventful,” she said, “unlike the days leading up to it.”

She hadn’t told him much during their phone conversations, only saying there had been “some drama” with Catherine, Zoe, and Willow. Now she felt suddenly shy. This man was a stranger. They’d known each other hardly any time at all.

Darcy reached for her hand. “Can’t wait to hear all,” he said. “Did you buy your turkey yet?”

She shook her head. “It seemed easier to pretend we’d missed Thanksgiving; after all, we’re in Canada and they celebrated weeks ago. Lower expectations during this particular holiday might be a good thing.”

“Ah. Well, let’s not celebrate Thanksgiving, then. But how about if I cook my turkey at your house, maybe the day after tomorrow?”

“Now, that’s an offer I definitely can’t refuse,” she said, and kissed him.