The day was coming when she would need to clean out the attic, to finally part with the memories, but today was not that day, and tomorrow wasn’t looking too promising either. Next week, she told herself. There was always next week.
Downstairs, she emptied her mug and turned on the kettle to heat more water. Her garden needed tending. Her rosebushes were struggling, as they often did with the soil on her property. Too much sand mixed with the dirt made it hard to grow anything but seagrass. She would ask Simone to go into town and buy a few bags of soil to help the roses thrive. Working on her flower bed would keep her thoughts off the inevitable.
Simone entered the kitchen, happily singing a different melody. Her blonde hair was up in a perfectly coifed bun, not a strand out of place. There used to be days when they would go to the salon together or take trips to the spa in Anacortes, but it had been years since Carly would even entertain such a thought. The idea of someone seeing her, let alone touching her, made her feel ill. Simone had done her nails, cut and dyed her hair for as long as she could remember. Usually in the summer when her granddaughter visited so they could play beauty shop.
Carly watched as she stored the cleaning supplies, washed her hands, and took a mug from the cupboard. Together, they waited for the kettle to whistle. Every so often, Simone would glance her way and smile. She refrained from asking her what she was thinking because deep down, she knew. Carly knew that Simone was right when she suggested she should reopen the inn, and at some point, she would have to consider doing that or selling—and selling the house wasn’t an option. At least, not while Carly was alive.
The whistle blew, and Simone fixed their cups of tea. With it, she set out the pills Carly needed to take in the morning. She would also do the same at lunch- and dinnertime. Simone picked up her mug and walked to the back door. She paused and waited for Carly to follow.
They sat outside and basked in the rising sun. A few of the smaller yachts sailed by, with the people on board waving. Simone waved back, but Carly held her mug tightly in her hands. Not because she hadn’t wanted to greet them, but because her hands were shaking, and she was afraid someone might notice.
“Summer will be here soon,” Simone said.
She sipped her tea and closed her eyes as the tickle she had avoided earlier was back and much stronger. She coughed and felt her lungs tighten and seize, causing her to double over and gasp for air. She tried to set her mug down on the small table next to her, but it hit the edge and went tumbling down to the ground, shattering into tiny shards of ceramic as hot liquid spread across the patio.
Simone was in front of her, rubbing her back and coaxing her through the fit. Her words were soothing, but they wouldn’t help the pain she felt in her chest. “It’s time to make the call, Ms. Carly.”
She nodded. It was all she could do, as she feared that if she opened her mouth, an anguished cry would escape. It was time for her to admit things she wasn’t ready for.
ONE
Brooklyn thought she’d feel different as soon as the welcoming sign to Cape Harbor came into view. She anticipated a barrage of emotions to hit her as she neared the town line. She expected she’d have to stop, check her breathing, and remind herself why she was back. She had lost count of how many times she had tried to talk herself out of returning, unable to bring herself to get behind the wheel and drive north from her parents’ Seattle home . . . until now. She would never turn her back on her family. It was the timing that bothered her the most, and that was what made her pull over. Even under the bright afternoon sun, the floodlight still illuminated the white-and-blue sign, and Brooklyn stood there, with a hood pulled over her head to hide herself from passing cars, looking at the name of the man who had changed her life. She was back for him, for his mother, and to face the past.
Instead of heading straight to the Driftwood Inn, Brooklyn detoured and drove down Third Street. This was the only town she had ever lived in or visited that hadn’t had a Main Street. It was such a random thing she picked up on when she and her parents moved here years ago. She never understood why until she learned that when the town incorporated, the people counted the streets up from the harbor, numbering instead of naming, with First Street being the closest to the water.