Frankie picks up her T-shirt and presses it to her nose, drawing in a deep breath of damp sea air, immeasurably grateful to find the scent lingers. The previous hours sift through her thoughts, carrying with them the weight of fresh truths, more weight on an already heavy day. And the question of what now hung in the strained silence that followed Russ’s revelation, floating over everything like the Cape’s now-familiar morning mist. But unlike the mist, refusing to evaporate.
After Russ and Louise left the house, each looking as dazed as Frankie herself felt—no, surely more so—Frankie took a few moments to tour the empty house, wanting to draw the space into her memory just like she pulled the scent of Gabe’s boat into her lungs from her shirt.
And somewhere in the quiet, she found room for another kind of reflection. Gabe’s words that morning, so biting, certainly left teeth marks on her heart, but in the hours after the swelling of the blow had diminished, she peeled back a few more revelations of her own. As hurtful as their fight had been, and especially on the heels of their beautiful night together, Gabe was right: her compass in life, then and now, right or wrong, had always been her mother. And even without her, she was still following Maeve’s true north.
At some point, Frankie would have to make a map of her own.
“What are you doing?”
She looks up to find Russ in the doorway, his features strained with confusion. He can’t honestly be surprised to find her packing?
She folds up the shirt and stuffs it into her bag. “Now that I know what happened, I can’t possibly stay.”
“It seems to me you can’t possibly go.” He comes into the room, stopping at the dresser, newly cleaned of her things. He sweeps his hand absently over the empty surface. “Lou was afraid you’d want to leave.”
Frankie couldn’t imagine Louise wanted her to stay?
“Did you find Gabe?” she asks.
Russ shakes his head. “I went down to the marina but he’s taken the boat somewhere. When I tried calling he didn’t answer. And, well…” He shrugs and offers a weak smile. “It’s not the sort of thing you leave on a voice mail.”
She considers her bag, nearly packed, tremors of disappointment fluttering. She hoped, like her, Gabe might have let the morning’s battle soften as the hours passed, that they might have come back to one another to repair, maybe even to resume.
Would he return in time to say goodbye? Did he even want to?
As if reading her thoughts—or perhaps just the mournful set of her lips—Russ offers hope. “I’m sure he hasn’t gone far.”
She smiles, grateful, though they both know when—if—Gabe does return, Russ’s news will prove another bump for them to find their way over.
But for now, Frankie thinks, there are other considerations that drift between them in the hush.
She moves to the edge of the bed and sits. “I always thought my mother just didn’t like their films and that that was why we never carried any memorabilia of theirs in the store. And the whole time…” She smiles. “Glory’s things were everywhere.”
Crossing to the far window, Russ draws back the sheers and scans the view of the backyard, his eyes wistful. “Your mother worried people would think she’d stolen it all. I don’t think she ever felt right about taking it—but she knew it was Glory’s wish. And she knew she had to protect her legacy.”
Frankie presses her hands into her lap. Another memory flashes, her mother teary after an early sale. I promised I would never sell it …
Russ’s eyes swim with feeling. “When I learned how your grandmother died, how young your mother was, how she’d watched her suffer…” His gaze shifts again to the view, the thoughtful softness in his voice hardening with certainty. “I always believed there had to be a reason your mother would take such a risk. That she felt remorse, or maybe even duty after what she’d witnessed.”
Frankie smiles down at her laced fingers, feeling a fresh prickle of tears. “Or maybe the reason was just love,” she whispers. Because Glory wasn’t a stranger. She was a friend. Maybe even family. “My mother was supposed to deliver those letters after Glory died, wasn’t she?”
In the hush that follows as Russ considers his answer, guilt swells, but his gaze is warm and absolving.
“I have to believe she was afraid to—and who could blame her? I know she was pregnant when she left and I’m sure she was terrified that if Mitch knew someone had helped Glory end her life, there might have been an investigation. They’d learn that I had supplied her with the cocktail…” His hands dig in his pockets, the faint tinkling of change rising. “I suppose she worried for both of us.”
Frankie nods slowly.
“Or maybe,” says Russ, “she hoped one day you might deliver them for her. That you might come here and meet all of us and finally know the truth.”
Several more beats of silence pulse through the room, broken only by the brief cackle of passing gulls, and Frankie smiles, understanding dawning: now she knows the real reason her mother felt so strongly about never opening sealed letters.
Russ tilts his head at her. “Louise says you’re planning to go to the screening tonight.”
“I am, yes.” She stops, reconsidering. “At least, I was.”
“Please stay.” He smiles. “I’d like to tell you more about your remarkable mother.”