They were mid-tour of the second floor, standing in the doorway of the bedroom Marin would call her own for the next six nights. Sunlight streamed in through the windows and glass-paned door that opened onto a terrace. The queen-size bed had a white bookcase headboard, sea-green sheets covered with a white down comforter topped with a colorful crocheted afghan throw that had to be handmade. The wooden side table had delicate white china knobs painted with cornflowers. A piece of driftwood rested against one wall.
Marin spotted the place where she could curl up and lick her wounds all week: a plank bench covered in mismatched cushions in front of a window, the ledge decorated with eclectic treasures, including old-fashioned wooden clothespins bleached from the sun, a smattering of round, smooth stones, and a mason jar filled with blue sea glass.
Downstairs, Molly barked loudly.
“Your mother must be here,” Amelia said. “Just leave your bag, hon, and you can unpack later.”
“Actually, I’m going to unpack now. If you don’t mind.”
“You’re not coming downstairs?” Amelia looked surprised. She probably thought it was strange, maybe even rude, for Marin not to greet her mother.
Amelia seemed about to say something, but then thought better of it. “Okay, dear. Whenever you’re ready. I’ll get your mother settled.” Marin thanked her, feeling impolite, feeling terrible, but wanting so desperately to be alone.
Marin turned to look at herself in the seashell-mosaic-framed mirror hanging above the white dresser. For the first time in her life, the puzzle about her looks was complete. The features she had that she had never been able to match to either her mother or her father (her brown eyes, the slope of her nose, her attached earlobes), she identified on Amelia.
Marin flopped on the bed, on her back, staring up at the ceiling. A fan whirred gently. She watched it churn and thought about her dad. What was she supposed to do about all of this? Living with the secret was unthinkable, but telling him the truth would only hurt him. It was, as he would say, lose-lose. Another thing he would say: When you don’t know what to do, don’t do anything.
Watching the fan made her feel dizzy. Her stomach churned. She was overcome with homesickness, not for a place, but for the life she’d had just two weeks ago. Now she was completely unmoored, dislocated—literally and in every figurative way. Even Julian seemed like a dream. He felt so unreal, it scared her.
She scrolled through her phone until she found a selfie she’d snapped of the two of them in his bed one lazy Sunday morning. Julian had a rare unguarded look, his shiny dark hair mussed, a smile on his face.
She moaned, her arm bracing her midsection, the pain almost physical. Beyond her window, the ocean stretched. An offering of peace, of happiness.
Marin dialed his number, prepared for his voice mail yet again. But for the first time since the day after they left the firm, he answered.
“Hey,” she said nervously. She was completely unprepared for an actual conversation. She was barely prepared to leave a voice mail. “How are you?”
“Doing okay. How about you?” The question was perfunctory, she could tell. She’d breached his request for space. But how much space and time did he need? She was three states away.
“I’m okay. I wanted to let you know that I left the city for a few days. I’m spending some time in Provincetown. A cute little place called the Beach Rose Inn, but it’s closed for the season. It’s a long story…” Her babbling was met by Julian’s reproachful silence.
She wished she’d told him about Rachel before now. It was an impossible conversation to have in their current fragile, disjoined state. It would seem emotionally manipulative.
“I’m in Chicago,” he said matter-of-factly. Chicago? In all the time she’d known him, she’d never heard him mention it.
“Visiting?”
“Job interview,” he said.
Her stomach dropped.
“Wow. That’s…exciting,” she managed. If he moved to Chicago, that was the end of whatever hope she had for continuing the relationship. Long hours and long distance were an impossible combination.
“I’ll see if it works out,” he said. She could imagine the determined set of his jaw.
More silence. She wished she hadn’t called. This conversation was worse than the silence.
“Okay. Well, keep me posted. I’ll be back in the city on Saturday.”
“Marin,” he said. There was an unsettling sympathetic tone to the way he said her name. “I just need to focus on work right now.”
Oh.
“By ‘right now,’ you mean…”
“Take care of yourself, Marin.”
Dinner was called for six o’clock. Rachel was the first one out back, seated at the long table with a view of Cape Cod Bay. It was all so charming—the house, the yard. The way a foghorn sounded in the distance. The seagulls assembled on the wooden dividers, and thick twine roped off the yard from the shrub-filled sand stretching to the water.
The tabletop was four wide planks of faded wood, scarred from use. Eagerly waiting for everyone, Rachel dug her fingernail into one of the deep grooves.
“Hey, Rachel,” Kelly said, sliding onto the bench beside her. “You are getting the star treatment. Amelia actually made a vegetarian dish tonight. Never thought I’d see the day.” She winked at her.
“I heard that,” Amelia said, setting down a bowl of white bean salad and a breadbasket.
Blythe trailed behind her. She had changed into a pair of linen pants and a sweater. Marin’s mother was so great. She even looked like the perfect mom: still beautiful without seeming to try too hard; elegant. Unlike Fran, with her obsessively ropy yoga body wrapped in clothes that Rachel would deem too young even for herself, her perpetual tan, her tattoos. She shook the thought away.
“Oh, Amelia, this is just lovely,” Blythe said.
“Yeah, this table is really cool.”
“Our friend Paul made it for us. Years ago, we had several small tables out here. But then we thought it would be nice to have more of a communal dining experience for our guests—so people could get to know one another instead of just sitting in separate groups. And it was one of the best decisions we made here because over the years, many guests became friends, have gone to one another’s weddings and such.” She and Kelly shared a smile. “It worked out quite beautifully.”
“So you cook dinner for your guests?”
“No, just breakfast.”
“As I said, star treatment,” Kelly said, grinning.
“Well, hon, they’re family, not guests.” Amelia looked around the table. “Is your daughter not joining us?” she asked Blythe.
Blythe looked uneasily at Rachel.
“Let me go check. I’ll let her know we’re out here,” Rachel said.
“You can get to the second floor from the kitchen. There’s a back staircase,” Amelia told her.
Rachel walked quickly into the house, hoping Marin had simply lost track of time and was not pulling a full-on boycott.
The kitchen was so charming it made her want to cook. It felt both modern and retro, with pale wood floors, bone-colored cabinets, marble countertops, whisks and ladles hanging from copper piping running along one wall. Chunky wooden shelves supported by iron brackets were filled with an eclectic collection of plates and bowls. On the counter, a toaster oven, a wooden bowl holding a mortar and pestle. A pale blue tin that read BREAD on the front. A sugar bowl that looked like handmade pottery. A yellow teapot, a china creamer. On the windowsill, pieces of green sea glass. Rachel reached out to touch one, resisted the urge to slip it into the pocket of her jean shorts, and headed upstairs.
On the second floor, she hesitated a few seconds outside of Marin’s room, then knocked.
“Who is it?” Marin called out.
“It’s me—Rachel. We’re all out back for dinner. Everyone’s waiting for you.”
“I don’t want dinner.”
Rachel felt her first flash of annoyance toward her sister. Marin wasn’t the only one dealing with heavy shit. Rachel felt out of sorts too. She didn’t know what she’d expected—that she’d meet Amelia and all the pieces would magically fall into place? That she would have an innate sense of homecoming, that the shadow of loneliness that she’d carried her whole life would disappear? Well, it didn’t feel that way.
Yes, Amelia and Kelly were cool. And she was excited to be spending time with them. But she realized now she had been kidding herself that it didn’t matter that her father was gone, that meeting her grandmother would be enough. She felt an urgency to connect to him somehow. She just didn’t know what she could ask or what she could find in that house that would satisfy her.
“Come on, Marin,” she said. “The food looks great and…I mean, you don’t want to be rude, do you?”
“Go away, Rachel.”
The tone of her voice did not leave much room for negotiation. Reluctantly, Rachel retreated down the stairs.