7

Cecilia

She woke up aching and cold, the arm of the sofa digging uncomfortably into her neck. For a moment she was confused about where she was, and then she saw her suitcase by the door where she’d left it and remembered that she was in the cottage.

It had been dark when she’d arrived, which she’d thought might lessen the emotional impact of being back here, but it hadn’t worked that way. From the moment she’d opened the door, the memories and emotions had engulfed her like a storm. Images had appeared from the shadows; images she’d tried to force from her mind. She’d seen Cameron everywhere. It was as if he’d been waiting for her.

Why didn’t you sell the place, Cameron?

It had taken willpower not to turn around and drive back to the house and the sanctuary of her bedroom, which she’d stripped of all the reminders.

Instead she’d flicked on all the lights and the images had melted away, but that hadn’t changed the way she was feeling.

It was surprising she’d managed to sleep at all.

The events of the day before came back to her. The party she’d left without even showing her face. Kristen in the rose garden, gazing up at Jeff.

Jeff.

Head thumping, Cecilia sat up. She rubbed her fingers over her forehead, trying to ease the throbbing pain. There were no words to describe how much she hated that man. And she was also afraid of him. Afraid of what he might know. What he might do.

And now she was also worried about Kristen, who she suspected was a pawn in whatever plan Jeff had. She wanted to warn her daughter, but what would she say exactly? It wasn’t a simple conversation.

And there was every chance that even if she did call, Kristen wouldn’t want to hear what she had to say. Daughters rarely wanted advice from their mothers, and it wasn’t as if she and Kristen were close. She wouldn’t be able to introduce the topic during one of their intimate conversations, because they didn’t have intimate conversations. They didn’t confide in each other. When they talked, it was about practical things. Cameron’s work. Exhibitions. Auctions. Hannah’s achievements. Occasionally they’d talk about the changes Cecilia was making to the gardens.

They never talked about marriage or feelings or Theo. And that was probably her fault. She’d never talked about her relationship with Cameron, so why would Kristen talk about her relationship with Theo? Cecilia had always assumed that Kristen and Theo were fine.

Unless she’d wildly misinterpreted what she’d seen in the rose garden, that wasn’t true.

Poor Kristen. And poor Theo.

She stood up and felt something scrunch under her feet. Glass.

She stared at the mess strewn across the living room floor, shocked and mortified.

Had she really done that? It was a good thing no one had been here to witness it.

Just one painting remained intact. The Girl on the Shore.

Cameron had promised to destroy it. Cameron had promised to sell the cottage.

He’d never been good at keeping his promises, so she probably shouldn’t be surprised that the painting was still intact.

She gazed at it with mixed emotions. What would their lives have looked like if that painting hadn’t existed? It had changed everything.

She probably should have smashed that one, too, in the circumstances, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. And maybe it wasn’t necessary to go to those extremes.

Who would look for it here? No one knew about this cottage. Not even the children. They knew about the apartment in Manhattan, the beach house in The Hamptons (Cecilia had refused to return to Cape Cod after that one awful summer), and the house in Provence where the children had spent several summers playing among vineyards and olive groves and swimming in the pool while their parents had painted. They didn’t know about this place.

She needed to think and plan, but first she needed to clear up the mess she’d made.

Unpack. Shower. Clean up.

She flung open the front door and took a breath of the fresh, salty air. Then she made her way across the room, careful to avoid the broken glass. She picked up her suitcase and headed upstairs. The wooden stairs creaked in the exact same place they’d always creaked. There were the same chips in the paintwork.

She paused by the door of the master bedroom and then turned away. She couldn’t bring herself to walk into that room yet, so instead she opened the door to the second bedroom and put her suitcase on the chair. The room was light and bright, although the paintwork had slightly yellowed with age. The bedding was clean but old-fashioned, but the view from the doors that led to the small balcony was as spectacular as ever.

She stepped into the bathroom, prepared for spiders and mold but the place was fresh and clean. A faint floral scent hovered in the air. Whoever had been maintaining the place had done a good job, she thought as she stripped off her clothes.

She took a shower, which was always something of a challenge in Dune Cottage because the water pressure wasn’t great, and then dressed in the first thing she found in her suitcase before heading back downstairs.

The mess seemed worse each time she looked at it.

What had possessed her to smash the paintings? Why hadn’t she simply removed them from the walls and piled them neatly where she couldn’t see them, as she’d done in her own bedroom at home?

Maybe it wasn’t so surprising.

Opening that letter and discovering that Cameron had lied about selling the cottage had left a deep wound. The fact that he’d waited until after his death to confess had made things worse. She’d had nowhere to put all the intense emotion that had been swirling inside her.

She’d tackle the mess, she promised herself, but first she needed coffee and something to eat. And painkillers for her headache, which was getting worse not better.

She made herself a mug of strong black coffee and took it outdoors onto the deck.

The breeze fluffed her hair, and the warm sun and blue skies promised her a pretty day. Maybe she’d walk later. Anything to avoid spending time in the cottage. She’d underestimated how difficult it would feel to be here.

Sadness seeped into her. She used to love it here. The cottage had been her special place. Their place. Even when Cameron’s work had started attracting attention, and selling for good money, and then unbelievable (was she allowed to say stupid?) money—even when they’d bought a huge house and had the children—this was the place that made them both happy. Occasionally Cameron’s mother would babysit, and they’d come here for a weekend and paint, and talk, and enjoy being a couple again and not just parents. The pressure seemed to slough away from them the moment they crossed the Sagamore Bridge.

And then there had been an occasion when Cameron had come by himself. He’d needed the space and the peace and the opportunity to paint undisturbed. It had been Kristen’s ninth birthday and Cecilia had been organizing a party for ten classmates, so she’d decided not to join him. As she’d iced cakes and hung balloons and had her head pierced by the high-pitched shrieks of thoroughly overexcited girls, she’d felt envious of Cameron. She loved the children, but she also missed the days before kids when she and Cameron had spent long, lazy weekends at the Cape painting side by side on the beach. Cameron’s career had soared ahead of hers and she didn’t resent that, but she did envy the fact that he was able to devote his life entirely to art, heading to his studio daily, leaving her to fit her own love of painting into the small scraps of time that weren’t taken up by running his life and caring for the kids. On her less generous days she thought, That could have been me.

She’d watched enviously as Cameron had loaded up the car early on that Friday morning and headed to the Cape by himself. The moment he’d driven away she regretted not asking him to postpone for a day so they could go together. The day after Kristen’s party she’d woken with a yearning to spend time with him. She’d contemplated bundling the children into the car and taking them to Dune Cottage and surprising Cameron, but they’d never taken the children there and Winston was going through a stage of hating car journeys, so she’d dismissed the idea. She and Cameron had agreed from the beginning that the cottage was to be their secret hideaway. A place where they could spend time alone. And that approach had worked. It meant that the moment Cecilia stepped inside the cottage she transformed from being an exhausted mother and overworked wife and turned back into an individual. It made the place seem more romantic. It gave it a special intimacy.

She was working on coming to terms with a missed weekend on the Cape when Cameron’s mother had shown up unexpectedly from a trip photographing wildlife in the Galápagos and offered to babysit her grandchildren.

It was so rare for Cameron’s mother to appear (her own parents had died in her first year of college) that Cecilia had grabbed the opportunity.

She’d often wondered what would have happened if Cameron’s mother hadn’t offered to stay that weekend.

She wouldn’t have gone to the cottage. She wouldn’t have decided to surprise him.

She hadn’t even knocked on the door or called his name. Instead, she’d crept into the cottage with a smile on her face as she anticipated his surprise and joy at seeing her.

He’d been in the bedroom and when he saw her there he had indeed shown surprise, but no joy. Instead there was shock on her part, and guilt on his because he wasn’t alone. The girl lying naked on the bed (Cameron and Cecilia’s bed, on Cecilia’s specially chosen bed linen) was smoking a joint even though smoking in the cottage was strictly forbidden.

Cecilia had rushed from the room, and Cameron had rushed after her, excuses spilling out of him as he’d pulled on his clothes. He’d decided to paint a series of nudes. The woman had agreed to model for him. He hadn’t intended to sleep with her. He’d met her on the beach. She was no one. He’d been worried about his work and lonely without Cecilia. It meant nothing.

It had meant everything to Cecilia. From that moment the cottage was tainted. Cameron might as well have spray-painted the walls in garish red. Their special place was no longer their special place. It would never again be just his and hers. She would never again associate it with happy memories.

It had changed the cottage and it had changed their marriage.

Cecilia didn’t know what words were exchanged between Cameron and the woman, but she’d left immediately.

Cecilia did the same. She told Cameron not to follow her because she didn’t want him back in the house. She couldn’t bear to share the same space with him. How could he do this to her after everything she had done for him and everything they’d been through together?

He’d checked into a hotel overlooking Boston Common and she’d told the children that their father was staying in the city for a while because of his work.

Cameron sent her flowers. He sent her jewelry. He sent her a painting.

When she didn’t respond to any of it, he sent her a frantic note. She was his muse. She encouraged him. She was the only one who understood him. She was everything. He said I can’t do this without you.

This time Cecilia wrote back. You’re going to have to.

A month after Cameron moved out, Cecilia decided to make it final. She’d told the children their marriage was over. Kristen had been hysterical. She’d refused to accept it. She’d blamed Cecilia. When Cecilia tried to talk to her, she ran out of the house and that was that.

Cecilia and Cameron had sat by her bed in the hospital day and night. She’d clung to them. Needed them. Separation and divorce were forgotten. They were forced back together by their love and fear for their daughter.

And they’d stayed together, even after Kristen had recovered, but Cecilia had never returned to the cottage.

She’d known that whenever she walked into that bedroom, she’d picture that woman. It would be like ripping open a festering wound again and again. She’d told him to sell the place, and he’d agreed.

Learning to trust him again had been a difficult task but with time and a great deal of effort, she’d managed it. And if a small part of her had sometimes wondered if that had been his only affair, she forced herself to ignore it.

When she’d opened that envelope and discovered he’d lied about selling the cottage, she’d been devastated. What had he been using it for? Why keep it?

She’d put the letter and the key in a drawer and hadn’t touched it again until yesterday, when the painting had been mentioned.

But now she was here, and it was like stepping back in time.

Finishing her coffee, she walked back into the cottage and went to the fridge. She reached inside for the cheese, intending to make herself a snack with the bread she’d bought the day before, and as she did so she noticed the jug of lemonade. Had that been there the night before? It must have been, but she’d been too upset and distracted to notice.

The lawyer had told her that Cameron had kept the cottage maintained and ready (Ready for whom? How often had he come here?), but surely that didn’t include providing a jug of fresh lemonade?

It was mystifying. Maybe the housekeeping staff made it for themselves to keep themselves hydrated while working. Thinking about that made her wonder when the cleaning company came. The thought that they might witness the havoc she’d wrought galvanized her into action. She didn’t want people to know. She didn’t want people asking questions. She’d clear up and then she’d find a way to cancel the cleaning service while she was here. And she’d do what Cameron should have done. She’d sell the place.

Maybe this was what she needed to do to be able to move on.

Grabbing a broom, she swept all the broken glass into a pile, scooped it up and then disposed of it. She’d thought she’d done a good job, but then she spied a piece of glass that had skittered across the floor and almost reached the kitchen. She retrieved it, then discovered more under the coffee table and another piece stuck to the rug.

It was the large shard under the sofa that was her undoing. She reached for it, not seeing the piece that lay sharp and deadly beside it. It sliced across her wrist like a blade and she gasped and jerked her hand back, horrified to see the volume of blood welling from the wound.

Blood slid down her arm and dripped onto the floor. The sight of it made her dizzy.

Cecilia had never been good with blood. When the kids had fallen over, it had been Cameron who had cleaned them up while she’d sat with her head low, trying not to pass out.

“Damn.” She covered her wrist with her other hand, putting pressure on it but her fingers were slippery with the blood. She wanted to close her eyes and let someone else clean it up, but that wasn’t going to happen. She’d wanted to be on her own, and now she was on her own, which meant clearing up her own mess.

Did Cameron still keep a first aid kit here?

She was afraid that if she stood up and searched for it she’d faint, or bleed everywhere and leave the cottage looking like a crime scene. She should never have smashed the paintings, and she wouldn’t have done so if she hadn’t been so angry with Cameron.

Had he kept the cottage so he could have more affairs, knowing that this was the one place she would never come?

She gave a loud scream of frustration, taking advantage of the fact that she had no neighbors and no one could hear her. It felt good, so she did it again, louder this time. It was cathartic. Why had she never screamed aloud before? She probably should have done it decades ago. She should have shattered Cameron’s eardrums as revenge for shattering her heart.

And then she realized that if no one could hear her she might bleed to death and no one would know until the cleaning company came again, whenever that was. She was going to die alone. Here. In this place she’d avoided. Her body would be found, and no one would know who she was, or what she had been doing in the cottage.

She imagined the shock it would create. The poor soul who opened the door and found her might be traumatized forever and that would never do.

Pull yourself together, Cecilia.

Cecilia felt the blood escape from the pressure of her fingers and slide down her arm, and she was about to try and stand up without releasing her grip on her wrist when a sound came from the doorway.

She glanced across and saw a young woman standing there. Her face was pink from the sun and her hair, a rich oak brown, fell tangled and messy past her shoulders as if she’d had a dip in the sea and hadn’t taken the time to rinse her hair of salt water. Sand clung to her running shoes, and she was out of breath.

She looked vaguely familiar although Cecilia couldn’t think why that would be. She hadn’t been here in years and knew no one.

The girl dropped the backpack she’d been holding and rushed across to Cecilia. “What happened? No, you mustn’t—why did you—oh, there’s so much blood. Don’t move. I’m going to help you.” She rushed to the kitchen, pulled open a drawer and removed a first aid kit. Then she sprinted back to Cecilia and dropped to her knees next to her. “You need to elevate the limb. That’s it. Hold it up for me—right there.” She unzipped the pack, and dressings and bandages spilled out. “I’ll call an ambulance but first I need to stop the bleeding. Just breathe steadily. You’re going to be fine.”

Now that she was no longer alone, Cecilia knew she would indeed be fine.

“I don’t want you to call an ambulance.” She didn’t want a fuss. But it would be good to stop the bleeding. Looking at it was starting to make her feel dizzy again. “I’m feeling light-headed. Could you stay for a few minutes?”

“I’m staying for as long as needed. I’m not leaving you like this.” The girl was calm and steady. She found what she was looking for, opened the packaging and pressed a dressing hard against the wound. “You poor thing. You must have been feeling terrible.”

The unexpected sympathy brought a lump to Cecilia’s throat.

She had been feeling terrible, but how could this girl possibly know that?

“What made you come to the door?” She winced as the girl’s fingers pressed hard. “I didn’t know anyone was around.”

“I’m the caretaker. I arrived early. I was on the beach when I heard you scream.”

“Oh.” Her scream must have been louder than she’d thought.

Also, this really was early.

The girl lifted the dressing a little and checked the wound. “Are you still feeling light-headed? Could you stand up? I want to check this wound properly and irrigate it. We need to make sure there’s no glass in it.”

Cecilia noticed that the girl’s shirt was creased and there was a smudge of makeup under her eyes as if she hadn’t removed it properly. And didn’t cleaning staff usually wear a uniform?

“There’s no glass in it. I cut myself on a large piece.” But she scrambled to her feet with the girl’s help and walked on shaking legs to the kitchen. She stood with her arm above the sink and her head turned away as the girl prodded and examined, then cleansed it.

“I don’t think it needs stitches. I’ve pulled the edges together with paper stitches so that should do for now.” The girl swiftly and skillfully dressed the wound and bound it tightly. Then she helped Cecilia wash the blood from her other arm. “I’m going to make you a hot drink and we’ll sit for a while. Are you still feeling light-headed? I’m Lily, by the way.”

Cecilia felt herself wobble. Being in this place had left her feeling emotionally vulnerable and Lily’s kindness threatened to snip through the remaining threads of her self-control.

“I feel guilty for taking up your time. I’m sure you’re very busy.”

“I have plenty of time. I’ll make you more coffee. You should sit down. You’re probably in shock.” She moved around the kitchen confidently and in no time Cecilia found herself seated on the sofa with a mug of coffee in her hand.

Cecilia put the coffee down on the table. She didn’t know if it was lack of food, or the shock of the blood, or the shock of being in the cottage after all these years but she really did feel strange. “You’re a good first aider. Do you have medical training?”

Lily froze. “Not exactly.”

Not exactly?

There was obviously a story there, but Cecilia knew when someone didn’t want to talk.

“Well, it was lucky for me that you were close by.”

Lily relaxed again and while Cecilia was drinking her coffee, the girl cleaned up the mess on the floor.

She brushed, she wiped, she polished and in no time the cottage was restored to its former state of cleanliness.

Unfortunately, it didn’t make Cecilia feel any better about the place.

What had possessed her to come here?

“Thank you.” She watched as Lily disposed of broken glass. “You’re a wonder. You’ve been looking after this place?”

“Yes. I work for a management company. I clean a number of properties, but this one is easily the best. The position is incredible. How are you feeling now? Dizzy?”

“A little. I’ll just sit here for a while and I’ll be fine. You have work to do, I’m sure.”

“My next job is to clean a beach house about fifteen minutes from here. The family won’t be checking out until ten, so there is no rush. And, anyway, I can’t leave you,” the girl said. “Knowing that you’re this upset. Whatever happened, however hopeless things seem now, there is always a way through. Is there someone you can talk to?”

It seemed like an odd question, and then she realized that Lily thought Cecilia had done this intentionally. She thought she had tried to cut her wrists with the glass.

Cecilia had been upset, that was true. But although there had been a few occasions during their marriage when Cecilia had contemplated dispatching Cameron, at no point had she ever considered such a fate for herself.

“It was an accident. I was clearing up the glass.”

The girl sat down next to her and took her hand. “The glass that came from the smashed paintings. You were upset.”

How did she know that?

She would have seen that the paintings were no longer on the wall, but how would she have known Cecilia had been upset?

Questions started to form in her head. The lemonade in the fridge. The floral scent in the shower.

“When I screamed this morning, you were quick to reach me. Lucky for me you were on the beach so early.”

“I’m an early riser.”

Cecilia nudged a little harder. “You must live nearby.”

Lily stood up quickly and carried her mug to the kitchen. “I probably should leave if you’re sure you don’t need me. I wouldn’t have come if I’d known you were going to be here. The company didn’t tell me anyone was staying, but you should find everything clean and in perfect working order.”

“The company didn’t tell you I was going to be here because I didn’t tell them. And it’s lucky for me that you did come early this morning, or I would have been in some trouble. Please don’t rush off.”

“I should probably get home.”

“And where is home? Where are you staying?”

Lily sent Cecilia a desperate look.

That look told Cecilia that she didn’t want to lie but was scared of telling the truth.

That look confirmed Cecilia’s suspicions.

“This is where you’ve been staying, isn’t it? This is your home.” She saw the panic in Lily’s eyes and wondered what someone like her was doing staying all alone in a property that didn’t belong to her.

It was oddly reassuring to know that she wasn’t the only one whose life was a complicated mess.

“Sit down, Lily. We need to have a talk.”