The morning was cloudy, not a beach day. Still, Amelia and Marin had already left for Herring Cove. Blythe had her own plans for passing a few hours; she curled up on the porch rocking chair with a copy of Diane Keaton’s memoirs. The last time she’d cracked it open had been the night before she went to New York to check on Marin, completely unaware how dramatically things were about to change. And now, Nick Cabral was back in her life. Or, rather, she was in his life—in the house where he had spent his summers. At the beach that she had seen in his drawings.
While parts of Nick’s life had come to the surface, others were still deeply hidden. What had happened between him and Amelia? How had he died? She wanted to know but didn’t want to risk upsetting the woman who had been so generous to all of them. Still, how could she leave this place without asking?
Another question gnawed at her: Should she tell Amelia the truth about her relationship with her son? That he hadn’t been an anonymous sperm donor? That she had, in fact, known him and cared for him—if only for a brief time?
After that first afternoon of passion at his studio apartment, she had started seeing him once a week. Then it was a few times a week. Oh, how it pained Nick—someone who loved spontaneity and impulse above all else—to have to plan. But these were the days before cellular phones (how different their affair would have been today with all the modern technology seemingly built for subterfuge) and they had to pick meeting places and times, and stick with them. Usually it was his apartment during the workweek. They made frantic love, and if they were lucky and had a few hours, they would lie in bed and talk. They discussed artistic and worldly things—conversations that made Blythe feel sharp and engaged. But when she tried to get more personal, he shut her down. He would not talk about his family, alluding only to a big falling-out with his mother. Once, when looking through his older sketchbooks and remarking on the recurring images of the ocean and beaches with high dunes dotted with flowers, he spoke of his Portuguese grandmother’s house by the sea.
“We spent every Christmas and summer at her house in Provincetown. In the winter it’s a ghost town, and at my grandmother’s house, it was easy to feel like we were the only people in the world. And then in the summer, it’s a carnival.” He smiled and told her he never felt entirely comfortable far from the sea.
When she asked questions, thirsty for more, aching to know this man who was bringing her back to life, he diverted the conversation to more impersonal ground. He would distract her, taking her breath away with motorcycle rides on the Schuylkill Expressway. Her arms wrapped around him, the wind knocking against her, she felt she was holding on for dear life. He circled around the river, whipping past the art museum and the boathouses, and she shrieked in futile protest that he was going too fast. And she was reminded of having once read that the brain experienced fear and falling in love in the same way, often confusing the two.
The only thing predictable about their stolen hours together was that they always took place during the daytime, when Kip was at the office. There was just one exception, and it was the beginning of the end.
It was late August. Kip was out of town, and Nick invited her to go out clubbing with him and his friends. She was excited to have a whole night with him instead of just a few stolen afternoon hours. She dressed playfully in a black miniskirt with a T-shirt covered in geometric shapes in bright colors. She could remember the shirt exactly. God, she felt beautiful that night.
She met Nick at his apartment. He and his friends were already drinking shots and getting high. He put his arm around her, introduced her as his girl.
“Oh yeah,” said one of the friends. “The married chick.” No one seemed in a hurry to leave the smoke-filled apartment. Eventually, she looked at her watch; it was almost two in the morning.
“We should go,” she said impatiently. She offered to drive. They all piled into her BMW, and Nick directed her to a desolate neighborhood filled with warehouses. The club had no sign and no name and it opened just as the legal bars were closing. She hadn’t known such places existed.
She nursed a cup of water. After years of treating her body like an instrument, she couldn’t abuse it even for one night. Nick warned her not to put her cup down out of her sight, even for a few seconds. And then he wandered off, and she was left alone in the cavernous space.
What the hell? Why had he bothered to invite her? The music was so loud, she felt it in her chest. She wandered around in circles. She needed to pee but the line for the bathroom was so long—for people who weren’t even using it as a bathroom. She wished she were at home, tucked into her bed.
She finally spotted one of his friends. “Have you seen Nick?” She wanted to leave but was afraid to walk to her parked car alone. The friend pointed in a vague direction.
“Where?” she asked, squinting in the darkness.
“By the stairs. See that exit sign?”
“Okay, thanks.” She threaded her way through the crowd, doubting that she would find him.
She found him.
He was inside the stairwell. It was barely lit and it reeked. (Now she knew where people were going to pee, since the bathrooms were otherwise occupied.) A bleached blonde wearing a red miniskirt leaned against the wall, her head thrown back, exposing her long white throat. She was pinching her nose. Nick, standing next to her, was busy snorting coke off of a compact mirror.
Blythe backed away.
What was she doing there? The madness of it all was suddenly so clear to her. Sweating, she pushed her way through the club, desperate to get away. Outside, the North Philadelphia streets were dangerously desolate, and she realized how crazy she was being—risking her marriage and now her very safety over some temporary, lust-induced insanity. By the time she reached her car, her hand was shaking so hard she could barely get the key in the door.
When she was finally home, safe in her bedroom, she took off her clothes and threw the outfit in the garbage. She never wanted to see it again, to be reminded of the wretched night. Of her wretched behavior. Guilt-ridden and confused, she pulled her new journal out of her nightstand drawer and poured out her heart: I’ve been so lonely, I don’t think my husband loves me. I’m in a marriage with no purpose, we will never be a family, and so I did something reckless and stupid and now I’m more angry at myself than I ever was at Kip…
Kip returned from his business trip the following afternoon; she was resolved to reconnect with him. She pulled his favorite bottle of red from the cellar and cooked sirloin and baked stuffed potatoes. Afterward, she steered him to the bedroom, where she closed her eyes and tried not to imagine her sensual, reckless, maddening lover. She didn’t think she’d be able to climax—not only because she often did not with Kip, but also because of the guilt and the mental burden of trying to resist making comparisons. But surprisingly, it was the most physically gratifying sex of their marriage.
She wasn’t the only one who noticed.
“Maybe I should go away more often,” Kip said, kissing the top of her head. That’s when the guilt came in, sweeping through her like a wave of nausea. It’s over with Nick, she reminded herself. It was a temporary detour, but she was back on track now.
Blythe closed the memoir on her lap. She couldn’t focus. Should she tell Marin the truth? Correct her assumption that her biological father was an anonymous sperm donor? Was the truth better or worse?
A woman walked up to the house smoking a cigarette and wheeling a suitcase. Blythe watched her collapse the handle, pick up the bag, then climb up the stairs briskly, without hesitation.
“Can I help you?” Blythe asked, standing.
The woman had thick brown hair threaded heavily with gray and sharp dark eyes above an aquiline nose. Blythe guessed she was around her own age. “I doubt it,” the woman said. “I’m here to see my mother.”
With that, she brushed past Blythe and strode into the house.
Amelia considered the morning a success.
Marin came up short on her quest for sea glass but Amelia was pleased to find several white wentletraps and a handful of shells from Atlantic razor clams. Marin picked up a sea urchin skeleton, which fascinated her, but it was ugly and she ultimately tossed it back into the sea.
When it was clear the beach had yielded all that it would that day, Amelia ventured to ask Marin, “Are you at all curious about my son? It’s okay to ask, you know.”
“I really don’t want to talk about him. I mean, no offense, but he was just a sperm donor. My father is my father.”
Amelia nodded. She did not take offense. It was a difficult situation, and Marin was handling it as well as anyone could be expected to. While she accepted the turn of events on the surface, she clearly rejected it on a deeper level. It was a process, and Amelia knew that one week wasn’t enough for her to work through it all. She just hoped she would keep in touch, and if the day came when Marin wanted to really talk, Amelia would be there for her.
They got back into the car and Marin busied herself looking at the shells.
“Isn’t it amazing how the beach gives up her treasures? Every day, a gift,” Amelia said.
Marin smiled.
They inched along in the car, the five-minute drive now hitting the ten-minute mark. Commercial Street was jammed with traffic.
“I just realized something. There’s no traffic light on this street,” Marin said.
“Nope. And it’s just going to get progressively more crowded all summer until the end of August, when we’re about to lose our minds, and then everyone leaves and we feel sad.”
A block away from the house, Amelia spotted Blythe waving at them from the porch. “Your mother seems to be trying to get your attention.”
Blythe hurried down the steps and met them in the street, barely letting Amelia park the car before leaning in the open passenger-side window.
“Why aren’t you answering your phone?” Blythe asked Marin, clearly frustrated.
“I’m not carrying my phone.”
“Is everything okay?” Amelia said, stepping out of the car. Blythe took her by the arm.
“I didn’t want you to be taken by complete surprise.”
Amelia’s stomach tensed. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong. But your daughter is here.”
Amelia looked at Marin, the words not computing. Does she mean my granddaughter? Is Rachel looking for me?
And then it hit her.
Nadine.
“Where is she?”
Blythe pointed to the house, and Amelia walked as briskly as her aching legs would allow. For the first time in years, she bemoaned her lost ability to run, her joints as creaky as old floorboards about to give. The entrance foyer was empty. She rushed to the rear of the house. Of course Nadine would be out there, looking at her beloved bay.
Sure enough, Nadine was seated at the farthest end of the table, her back to the house. Amelia approached gingerly, quietly, afraid she would startle her off, like a fawn in the woods.
And like a fawn, Nadine sensed her and turned around.
Amelia’s eyes filled with tears. All thoughts of restraint dissolved and she rushed to her daughter, pulled her close.
“You’re here,” she said, gasping. “You’re really here.”
Nadine pulled away first, and Amelia got the first chance to take in her face. The last time she’d seen her, she had barely been old enough to drink. Now she was a middle-aged woman. She was changed, and yet Amelia felt that time had stood still.
“The house looks different,” Nadine said. “You must have put a lot of money into it.”
Amelia almost couldn’t process what she was saying. A dozen questions flooded her mind at once, causing a short circuit. So she just nodded, letting the moment wash over her, a tremendous wave that she could not master, could only give in to.
“How long are you here for?” she said finally.
“I’m not sure.” Nadine shrugged, a familiar gesture. “A few days.”
“You came to see your nieces.”
Nadine glanced at the house. “I came to see you.”
“I’m so grateful that you did. Whatever the reason.” Silence.
“So Kelly is still here,” Nadine said. It wasn’t a question. “I’ve been following the inn on Facebook. You’ve really got quite a business going.”
“Yes, well, it’s been a labor of love.”
She had found Nadine online too. Not on Facebook, but on her website. She sold handcrafted pottery. All in the Portuguese tradition. It was beautiful, and she had longed for a few pieces but didn’t dare buy any. Doing so would have felt like an intrusion.
Unfortunately, there were no personal details on Nadine’s website. And so Amelia asked, “Are you married? Children?”
Nadine shook her head. “I was living with someone for a while. But we broke up.”
“I’m sorry.”
Nadine looked away. Amelia let silence sit between them, resisting the urge to fill it with more chatter.
“So is there space for me to stay here? The website said you’re not taking guests this summer, so I figured my room would be free.”
“Of course! Of course. Come upstairs.”
Nadine wheeled her bag into the house and followed Amelia up to the third floor. Passing the closed door to Kelly’s studio, Blythe had the anxious thought that she had to warn her about Nadine’s arrival so she wouldn’t be blindsided.
“Who is the woman on the porch?” Nadine asked.
“Blythe? She’s the mother of one of the girls.”
“Interesting,” Nadine said. “And where are these…girls?”
“One of them should be here—she was with me when I returned to the house. Marin. She looks just like your brother.”
“Does she now.” Her voice was so flat, it was clearly a statement, not a question.
“And Rachel is probably here somewhere. Marin is somewhat guarded, a little tightly wound. Rachel is sunnier—very California. She’s from LA.” Amelia could hear the awkward nervousness in her voice. She opened the door to Nadine’s old bedroom.
“I’d never recognize it,” Nadine said.
“Thirty years is a long time.”
Nadine pulled her suitcase onto the bed and unzipped it. “I’m going to sleep for a few hours, if you don’t mind. I’m exhausted.” She told Amelia she had flown from Italy to Boston two days ago, stayed with a friend, and then taken the ferry over that morning.
“Of course.” Amelia resisted the urge to hug her and started to walk down the hallway, but then she poked her head back in and said, “I can’t tell you how happy I am that you’re here.”
Nadine offered a tight smile.
Amelia closed the door behind her and made her way quickly down the hall to the studio. She knocked but got no response. The door was locked. She hurried down to their bedroom and dialed Kelly’s cell. It went straight to voice mail. Damn it! Of course she didn’t have her phone with her. But where had she disappeared to?