When Brynn had gone into labor with Lucas, her parents had rushed back to the island right away to be there for her. They stayed with some old friends in Vineyard Haven who had a guesthouse. Nobody except Ross could be in the hospital with Brynn, because of Covid, but they waited, on standby.
“Do you want me to come clean your house? Do some laundry? Get groceries?” her mother had asked when Brynn was first admitted to the hospital and was circling her room, occasionally bouncing on a ball to increase dilation.
“Thanks, but we’re okay,” Brynn had said. She didn’t tell her that Margaux had already stocked their fridge and sent over her longtime house cleaner that very day, the moment Brynn and Ross left for the hospital.
“Don’t even mention it, Brynn,” Margaux had said to her, “it’s nothing.”
In all of Brynn’s life, her parents only had professional cleaners come to the house one time, after a horde of cousins visiting from Colorado had stayed with them over Fourth of July weekend and subsequently trashed the place. Brynn’s uncle had insisted on paying for cleaners, and Brynn’s parents begrudgingly accepted. When Brynn had returned home after the cleaners were finished, she felt like she was stepping into a palace. Everything felt brand-new and lighter, the years of smudge marks and neglect lifted away. For days after that, Brynn had tried to make her bed exactly the same way the cleaners had done it, with tight, precise corners. She wiped down the bathroom sink after each time she brushed her teeth. She even tried to refold the end of the toilet paper roll into the same origami-like triangle that they’d left behind, but she never was quite able to get it right. And then, a week or so later, the house silently shifted back to how it was before, collecting dust and crumbs, and giving off that sticky, slightly moldy smell that Brynn could almost taste during the hot summer months. It was as if the cleaners had never come at all.
After Lucas was born, her doctor advised Brynn and Ross to limit visitors during the first few weeks. They were still in the pandemic and had to be careful about who held Lucas, who kissed him, who breathed on him.
“Mom,” Brynn had told her mother on the phone from the hospital, “we should probably wait a few days before you guys see the baby.” Brynn could feel her insides shifting around as she spoke. “The doctors say we have to limit exposure, even with family. I didn’t really think about it before. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but … we just want to be safe.”
“Oh,” her mother had said. “I understand.”
The truth was, Brynn had thought about it already. Margaux and Henry were already planning on being at their house when they left the hospital, waiting for them with open arms. Brynn had always planned on having her family and Ross’s family both come see the baby and be around as much as possible during those first few days. But once the baby was born, she suddenly didn’t want to see her parents, especially her mother. She couldn’t see her. Margaux was so good at taking charge and at initiating help. Her instinct was to lead. She would bring food and supplies without being asked. She would buy whatever swaddle or onesies she’d read online were the best. Brynn felt comfortable sitting back and following Margaux’s instructions. She didn’t know what she was doing, but Margaux did.
Brynn’s own mother, however, was deferential to Brynn, and that scared her. After the first few days had passed, and Brynn’s parents came over, she started to feel aggravated by her mother’s submission to her.
“Brynn, honey,” her mother would say, “I think Lucas is constipated. What do you want me to do?” She’d look to Brynn for answers, but Brynn had none. How, she wondered, had her own mother raised her during those first few months? What had her mother done in rural Aquinnah, without internet and a cell phone, when Brynn had gotten sick as a newborn? Who did she talk to about the struggles of breastfeeding? How did she ever get Brynn to sleep through the night?
“Um,” Brynn would usually respond, “I’ll do bicycle legs with him. That usually helps.”
Brynn put Lucas down on his back on the living room floor and held his legs, moving them in circular, bicycle pedal motions. Though Brynn didn’t say so out loud, Margaux had taught her this trick to relieve Lucas’s gas. But Brynn didn’t want her own mother to know how heavily she was relying on her mother-in-law.
When she asked her mother how she managed during those newborn days, her mother simply shrugged.
“Things were different then. I just breastfed, and that was that. I mean, it was hard at first, but that’s what I did. And you slept when you slept. There was no schedule, no blackout curtains, no sound machine. None of that nonsense.” She looked at Brynn, realizing how she might have sounded, dismissing all of the gear Brynn had bought for Lucas, all of the toys and tools and gadgets meant to soothe and calm him. “I just mean that it was a different time.”
“Right,” Brynn said.
Brynn pushed her mother away during those first few weeks. Things were easier without her around to force her to question herself. Even though no one ever asked her to do so, or made her do so, Brynn started to lean on Margaux more and more, and on her own mother less and less.
Brynn realized that her closeness with Margaux was probably the reason her mother had become distant. She’d tried her best to shield her mother from the deepening relationship she had developed with Margaux, but Brynn knew that her mother still saw it. The truth was, Brynn had pulled away from her mother, not the other way around. It wasn’t Margaux’s fault, either—she hadn’t made Brynn choose. Brynn was the one who had abandoned her parents, her old life, her old self. She’d made it clear to her mother not just that she no longer needed her, but that she no longer wanted her.
Only now, Brynn yearned for the musty smell of her parents’ old house, the creaky wood floors and the antique bathroom sink that was always brown around the drain, no matter how clean it was. She yearned for the comfort of that place, and the comfort of her own mother’s ease with herself, her sunburned hands, the way she didn’t try to be anything she wasn’t, the way Brynn knew she was there for her even though she wasn’t the type of mother she’d perhaps wanted her to be. Her stomach twisted in knots of guilt as she thought about the years she’d separated herself from the woman who had given her life, the woman who had raised her.
She thought back to the time when her mother told her they were selling their house and moving off-island. Brynn had just gotten engaged to Ross.
“Why would you move now?” Brynn had asked.
“Brynn, we can’t afford to live here anymore,” her mother had said. “What we can get for our house, it would be crazy not to take it. We can save that money, put it away, leave something for you when we die.”
“Mom, stop,” Brynn had said. “I thought we could plan my wedding together. And I thought you’d be around to see your grandkids. We’ve been talking about that, you know, having kids.” Brynn remembered the way she used to talk about having children—like getting a dog, buying a new sofa, something fun and exciting but not necessarily life-altering or permanent.
“I’ll always be around, Brynn. But we’re barely getting by here. If we move off-island, we can actually afford to retire sometime soon.” She had sighed and looked away from Brynn, as though it was too painful to make eye contact. “And, anyway,” she added, “you have the Nelsons. You have Margaux. They’re such a close family. I know they’ll always support you.”
Brynn’s mother had hardly ever said a kind word about the Nelsons before this. Once she and Ross got engaged, though, it was as if her mother had submitted to them. As if she’d said to them, and to Margaux specifically, You win. If this makes you happy, if this is what you want, then you win.
As Brynn pulled into her driveway, she saw Sawyer’s car parked in front. He sat on the steps, waiting for her. He looked relaxed, with his elbows propped behind him like kickstands. He stood up and waved. Margaux wasn’t there yet.
Sawyer was so tall that his body swayed like a willow tree when he stood, his limbs dangling by his sides. He moved so fluidly, his stride consistent and calming but loose. Brynn thought about the way Ross’s body looked on the security camera footage she’d seen—again and again in her mind. How his legs rotated with tightness and urgency, his body like an efficient machine, his feet pounding the ground beneath him.
The letter had explained so much, and yet it still didn’t explain everything, and Brynn felt like she could scream because she knew she was so close but not there yet. It didn’t explain the footage. It didn’t explain the boat’s satellite phone tracking. It didn’t explain the hat. It didn’t explain the golf club. It only explained what Cecelia must have known that got her killed. But after all this, it still wasn’t enough.
Brynn was getting tired of trying to convince herself of things. She’d done enough of that for a lifetime. She wasn’t ready to admit it yet, but maybe Ross had steered her toward the letter so that she’d divert her attention away from Ross and onto Henry. So that she’d somehow overlook all the clues attached to him, that were still, somehow, undeniable. So that she’d choose him again instead of Sawyer.
Sawyer opened the back door and started unclipping Lucas’s car seat. Brynn’s mind flashed to the image of them kissing—the feeling of their bodies so close together, the wetness of their mouths intertwined. She felt her face redden. Now was not the time to think about that, she told herself. But even now, she craved that feeling. The feeling of escape she got from the kiss, the way it transported her into another life, another body, another time. She was awful, she told herself, for liking it. She was awful for wanting it, and she was awful for thinking about it right now, when everything around her was imploding. When there were so many other, bigger things to worry about.
“Hi,” Sawyer said. “How are you holding up?”
“I don’t know,” Brynn said. “My friend Ginny, she had to go to Mass General. I don’t know if the baby’s okay. I don’t know if she’s okay. And now … I … I have so much to tell you. So much to tell Margaux.”
Sawyer put his hand on her back as they walked into the house. She was grateful he was there. She needed his support. She needed his trust.
As soon as they stepped in the house, Brynn felt her exhaustion kick in, and tears welled up.
“I’m so worried about Ginny. She’s been through so much, and I haven’t been there for her. I haven’t been paying attention, Sawyer. And now Cecelia is gone, and it’s not fair, and I just know, somehow, it’s all my fault.” She was sobbing heavily now, her body shaking with her cries.
“Brynn,” Sawyer said, “none of this is your fault. You’ve been taking care of everyone—Lucas, Ross. You’ve been doing an amazing job throughout all of it. And you must be so tired. You just need to rest.”
Brynn nodded. Sawyer was right. Her exhaustion had caught up with her. She wasn’t thinking clearly. Maybe she wasn’t thinking at all. Sawyer leaned in and wrapped his arms around her.
“It’s going to be all right,” he said. She inhaled his warm, salty smell. It was so familiar to her, even after all these years. Time stood still with his arms around her. She felt safe.
“I’m going to go put Lucas down,” Brynn said, wanting to remove herself from the situation before things went any further. “I’ll be right back.”
Her body relaxed when she stepped away and went into her room with Lucas. She thought about what Ross might be doing in that moment, and her heart hurt imagining him alone, while she was in their shared home with his brother, who had just told her he had feelings for her. Ross was still her husband; and she still believed him. Or she wanted to, anyway. She knew that what she and Sawyer had done was wrong, and she hated herself for having done it. But she hated herself more for having liked it.
When she came downstairs, Sawyer was leaning against the kitchen counter. He smiled when she walked in. Without saying anything, he began to lean toward her. So much of Brynn’s physical being wanted to pull him close to her, to feel him on her mouth again, to connect with him. And so much of her didn’t. But before their bodies touched, something caught her eye.
It was something small, almost entirely hidden, and certainly meant to be hidden from her. But she saw it, nevertheless. Poking out of the top of Sawyer’s front jeans pocket was the tip of a neon-green key fob.
It was the key to Ross’s boat.