Her daughter shook her head. “It’s only Nonnie, Simi, and me.”
No mention of the housekeepers, chefs, or waitstaff that worked around the clock to keep the inn a tourist destination. Carly had never said anything to her about closing the inn. Not that she would expect her to, and Brooklyn never asked, but she would expect her parents to say something at least. It had been years since she had been in Cape Harbor, but not Brystol. She spent her summers in Washington, split between here and Seattle, where her other grandparents lived.
“What about parties, luncheons? Does Nonnie have people in the ballroom?”
“No, why would they?” Brystol asked.
Because that’s what the inn was for, Brooklyn wanted to tell her daughter. She kept her thought to herself. Her daughter knew nothing of what this inn could do, the joy it brought to the people of Cape Harbor and the many tourists who came through the beautiful town. When Brooklyn had left Cape Harbor, she had allowed guilt to consume her, shutting everyone out, including the one woman she shouldn’t have.
To the left of the inn was a smaller dwelling where Carly lived. Brooklyn knew the inside well and loved the old charm of the carriage house. She had spent many days and nights inside those walls, doing homework, watching television, and falling in love. She had also spent a great deal of time worrying, right alongside Carly, who had always put on a brave face each time a storm rolled in and the guys weren’t back in port. They had spent hours together, watching out the back window for the pink flag of the Carly to come into view. Without fail, whoever saw it first would point, and they would let out a sigh in relief. Their men were safe, for another day. There had been only one time when the pink flag wasn’t blowing in the wind when the Carly returned to port—the day Skip Woods died. For the first time, Brooklyn had seen what life would be like if she were to marry Austin, a life full of worry and wonder, mixed with happiness.
The front door opened; Brooklyn’s and Carly’s eyes met. Neither woman smiled. It had been years since they’d seen each other, for no other reason than Brooklyn couldn’t find her way back here. She stared at the once-regal woman, who was now frail and older than her years. She watched as Carly turned to Brystol, her face morphing into a wide smile. She held her arms open, and Brooklyn’s daughter went running, yelling as she did, “Nonnie!”
After a long hug, Carly held Brystol’s face between her hands. “Finally, my baby’s home,” she said, pulling the teen back into her arms. “You’re getting so big.”
“You say that every time I see you.” Brystol laughed and stepped out of her grandmother’s hold.
It took a moment for the two women to move toward each other. They met somewhat in the middle and embraced as if they hadn’t seen each other in weeks, not years. The tension rolled off Carly in waves. Brooklyn could feel the animosity coming from Carly, and she knew there wasn’t anything she could do about it. The decision to stay away had been her own, regardless of who it hurt.
Carly stepped away and crossed her arms over her torso. It was unseasonably warm, but it seemed like Carly was trying to keep a chill away from her or protecting her heart from breaking. Something Brooklyn knew too much about. Carly glanced at Brooklyn one more time before turning her back to her. They exchanged no words. None needed. Brooklyn knew Carly resented her for taking Brystol away. She resented her for a lot of things. That was another reason she never came back here—there were too many demons because of bad decisions.
Later, after the car had been emptied of their belongings and Brystol had filled Carly and Simone in on how homeschooling was going and where their latest adventures had been, Brooklyn found Carly sitting in the sunroom, rocking back and forth in her antique white chair. She took the seat next to her, sighed, and made the mistake of looking out the window. Boats filled the harbor, both commercial and recreational. But it was the vessel coming in, with its crew standing starboard and waving, that made her heart lurch, the ache she hadn’t felt for years coming back tenfold, the knife that lived within her twisting its jagged edge. Her hand flew to her chest just as tears came rushing in. Fifteen years, that was how long it’d been. She wiped angrily at the hot, wet drops, wishing she could control her emotions better. This was one reason she’d stayed away. The memories were too painful, and she hated the way they made her feel.