Summer Harbor (17 page)

The dining room was finally done. As were the front bedroom, the two bedrooms on the north side of the house, and the tiny cubby room that in an earlier time had been the housemaid’s room, but in Kiley’s lifetime had always been a spare room for overflow guests. These rooms had been a little easier to deal with. Furnished primarily in the original cottage furniture, they weren’t rooms with undue significance for her. Only her room, where Will slept, was left to inventory upstairs, and her parents had emptied it long ago of everything but the furniture.

Kiley stood in the doorway, smiling with fond resignation at Will’s clutter. Clothing lay draped over the bed and bureau, wet towels grew sour on the painted wood floor. Will’s backpack gaped open on the only chair, and she could see his CD player and compact discs mingling with a tangle of headphone wires. In her day, it would have been a portable tape player and tapes. Otherwise, the room could have been hers again. Jeans, T-shirts, sand, randomly chosen rocks and shells.

She pulled her stickie pad out of her pocket and took the pen out of her ponytail. So far, everything in the bedrooms would stay. Well, maybe not the handmade quilt on this bed. Kiley reprimanded herself:
Sell the quilt.
She didn’t have a bed at home it would fit. But, the evil imp of sentiment whispered, Grandma Harris made that quilt and someday Will would have a home. “Everything—except the quilt—stays.” She stuck the Post-it on the doorjamb.

The house seemed very quiet without the white noise of Will’s CDs leaking out of his earphones. She tried to substitute the elderly radio, which only pulled in a slightly buzzy NPR. Still, with nothing else to distract her from thinking, wondering, worrying about what the two of them might say, it was better than the silence. Would Grainger tell Will how angry he had been? Would he tell Will how badly she treated him?

The photograph of the three of them and
Blithe Spirit
was propped against the blue jar on the kitchen table. Kiley ignored it, eating her cereal standing up and looking out the back window. The small yard desperately needed cutting; she’d have Will haul out the old reel mower and do that this afternoon. Was it still sharp enough? The jar hovered in the periphery of her mind. She rinsed her bowl out and left the kitchen. Then she walked back in, picked up the blue jar and dropped it into the recycling, where it cracked against a bottle.

With the house almost all inventoried, Kiley had little to do except collect the items earmarked for home. They still had ten days left of their vacation, so that task seemed easy enough to put off. Besides, what if she decided to stay on? Without a job, there really wasn’t anything to go home to. She should go get a book and relax on the beach or on the porch. Plan a simple meal. Kiley went upstairs, made the beds, picked up the towels, and gathered the dirty clothes for a quick Laundromat trip. These ordinary actions were comforting, something to do to fill in the wide-open morning. At home, it seemed as though every minute was scheduled; as though days were metered by her fifteen-minute commute to the medical office, the half hour for lunch, forty-five minutes in the Stop & Shop, ten minutes to the field where Will might be playing baseball or soccer or whatever sport was in season. Any dinner that took more than forty minutes was a luxury. Weekends were worse; all the errands that couldn’t be fit into her half-hour lunch breaks dictated those days. Cleaners, another visit to the grocery store, housecleaning, laundry, laundry, laundry. At least the planning had grown simpler as Will grew up. No longer did baby-sitters, day care, and transportation heap complication upon simple tasks. She should be glad to have this free time. Except that in a few short weeks, she would have all the time in the world, and these homely tasks would be cut in half. She’d have only herself to remind to take out the garbage or drive to the recycling center. The loneliness she was about to endure stretched before her.

“Snap out of it.” Kiley squared her shoulders. What parent hadn’t endured this? It was the whole goal of raising a child, after all. Catch and release. Except if you were lucky, you had someone to share the loneliness with, halving it.

Kiley thought of Grainger’s face framed by the window of his truck, the clarity with which she saw him, even to the silver gray touching his temples. He seemed too young for so much gray. Had his life continued hard? She knew next to nothing about him. Only that he was here, that he owned the boat works, and that Will had rooted out his historical relationship with her. Seeing Conor MacKenzie, with his obvious resemblance to Mack as Mack would have matured, then seeing Grainger, had been surreal—not quite a nightmare, not quite a dream. They were at once recognizable, and yet completely different. As was she.

She needed to know what Grainger was telling Will this morning, what version of the story he thought the boy should know.

Kiley tied on her sneakers, her mind seeing only Grainger. She struggled to loop the laces, her hands trembling so much she kept missing. It wasn’t fear that caused her to tremble, but excitement—which was odd. All morning long she’d tried not to imagine what Grainger would tell Will; it was too awful to consider. The facts about herself and her teenage inability to see farther than the end of her own nose were highly unflattering.

Kiley walked along the bluff, oblivious to the spangled sea below her. She walked toward the village, heedless of cars passing by, unaware of bicycles swerving around her. Her route took her past the Yacht Club, past the brick medical building where Doctor MacKenzie had practiced, past the library where they’d feasted on books on rainy days, past Linda’s Coffee Shop and LaRiviere’s Market, where Grainger once lived. Her destination was beyond all landmarks of her youth. Her destination was the old boathouse, now Egan’s Boat Works. Her destination was Grainger.

Kiley paused at the sign with its pretty schooner silhouette. The driveway was no longer swaled, but neatly graveled and smooth. A bend in the driveway and the topography of the shoreline kept the boathouse out of sight until she was halfway down the long drive, when it hove into view. It was so different from the last time she’d seen it, a derelict building, smelling of wino piss, where kids would sometimes congregate to drink.

Kiley hadn’t given rehearsal space to imaginary conversation. She’d let the words come as they would. Maybe they would use Will as a buffer, letting him guide the conversation.

The gravel driveway straightened out to end in a boat ramp. Three boats in various stages of renovation were arranged in a row on cradles of blocks and poppets. One was partially sanded; another still under a parachute cloth of orange, blue, and green; the third was
Random.

Across the driveway was the boathouse: a tall shingled building, its gambrel roof providing extra interior height, small casement windows running along the side facing Kiley, each having a window box beneath the mullioned glass, all open to the warm July day. White and purple pansies and deep red begonias were surrounded by dusty miller, and variegated euonymus draped over the edges of the blue boxes. The end of the building facing her was taken up with a sliding plank door, high and wide enough to accommodate a good-sized vessel. The side entry of the boathouse was wide open.

Except for Grainger’s truck, the driveway was empty. Will was already gone. She had a momentary hesitation, a swell of nerves that nearly caused her to turn around halfway down the drive. Then Grainger’s odd-looking dog meandered out to greet her. As he sniffed at her feet, Kiley bent and patted his head. He wore a leather collar with an ornate brass name tag fixed to it. “Pilot. Hello, Pilot.”

Pilot politely wagged his tail and nosed her hand for another pat.

“He likes you.”

Grainger’s voice startled Kiley.

“He’s cute. What is he?” Did her voice reveal her nervousness? It sounded terribly thin to her ears.

“Anyone’s guess.”

Pilot left Kiley where she stood, a few yards from the door. Cocking his head, he looked at his master standing in the doorway, then went inside. Grainger and Kiley remained fixed in their places.

If it had only been the confluence of adolescent hormones and proximity, if nothing had happened that night, maybe they would have simply outgrown their triangular crush and moved on. If Will hadn’t been conceived. But Will existed and this man could be his father. She would never ask anything of him, but it would be good to try and explain why she had never let him know about Will. But, how could one simply step over the chasm dug over nineteen years? Once upon a time, they had been friends; and, no matter who had fathered him, they did have Will between them. Kiley took a short step forward. “How was Will’s lesson?”

“It went well.”

“Good. My father’s happy he’s taking lessons.” Her pulse began to slow back to normal. “You didn’t call me back about
Random
.”

Grainger pressed a hand on either side of the doorjamb. “I only just listened to my messages.”

“My father’s talking about racing her in the August Races before selling her.”

“To showcase her qualities?”

“Something like that. But he’s pretty infirm and needs a crew.”

“Will’s going to be a pretty good sailor.”

Kiley smiled. “I should have taught him to sail years ago. The truth is, I haven’t been in a boat, except on a lake in a motorboat or a canoe, since…since that summer. I just can’t stomach the idea. I was on the Vineyard a couple of summers ago, and when everyone went out on a chartered catamaran, I begged off and spent the day reading.”

“As I recall, you were always a better passenger than sailor.”

“Oh, stop.”

Their laughter released some of the tension between them.

“Dad wants to know if you would consider being the fourth crewman. He needs someone who knows what he’s doing.”

“I’ll think about it.” He remained in the doorway. “Will you still be in Hawke’s Cove that late in the season? Will you be aboard?”

Her smile vanished. “It depends on certain circumstances. I’m job hunting.”

“Will mentioned what happened. Tough break.” Grainger let go of the doorjamb. “Did you come only to talk about
Random?
”

“No. We both know there are a few other things we should talk about.”

Grainger nodded and stepped aside. “You’re right. We do.” His voice hadn’t changed from the one in her memory, still husky, as if holding on to words, reluctant to say them. “I have coffee on; would you like some?”

“Yes. Please.” Her voice still sounded indistinct to her, as if from a great distance.

As polite as a host to a stranger, Grainger stood aside and let Kiley pass into the boathouse.

As polite as a guest, Kiley complimented Grainger on the place, on its working nautical decor. She noted the mahogany boat ladder angled against the edge of the loft, the corner devoted to reading and television, the galley kitchen with its marine-sized stove and refrigerator. The center space was occupied by a boat she recognized.

“
Miss Emily
still looks good.”

Grainger nodded. “Claridge sails her only about twice a season, but he likes to keep her in trim.” Grainger pulled a clean mug out of the dish rack. “How are your parents?”

“Elderly. Which is why I’m here in Hawke’s Cove—to get the house ready to sell.” As she spoke, tears lurched up in one last drive for freedom, and her last two words were drowned in a sob. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s come over me.”

Grainger remained behind the cherry-wood island counter as she tried to regain control. He made no move to console her, watching as one might an unavoidable accident, knowing there was nothing that would stop it.

As suddenly as the crying jag began, it was over, and Kiley hunted through her shorts pocket for a tissue. Released from his stasis, Grainger handed her a box of Kleenex.

“I’ve only done that once, the first day we arrived. I’ve been really good about not letting it get to me.” Kiley dabbed at her eyes with a twisted corner of tissue. She’d long since stopped weeping at the thought of the house being sold; these tears came from being here, with Grainger.

“You’d have to be pretty heartless not to be upset about selling the old place.” Grainger set the Kleenex box back on the counter. “Toby told me you fired him.”

Kiley bit her lip, half in shame and half in amusement. “Sort of. Except that my mother won’t hear of changing real estate agents at this point. I got mad when he said something about tearing the place down.”

“Toby is an okay guy; he’s just an asshole sometimes. No one is going to tear down your house.”

Kiley went over to the boat, running a hand along its smooth, newly painted white hull. “How long have you been back in Hawke’s Cove?”

“About four years.”

“Not long.”

“Not by Cove standards, no. I had some money, so I invested in this place. I make a living doing what I enjoy. Can’t complain.”

“That’s such a Yankee statement.”

“I’m a Yankee.”

“Why did you come back?” Kiley almost didn’t ask the question, afraid to disturb the fragile balance between them. “I remember that you always said you wouldn’t.”

“I’d had enough of traveling, and I finally came to the conclusion that, for good or ill, Hawke’s Cove was home. And my father was dead, so at least one of my demons had been exorcised.” Grainger came to stand beside her, and it felt almost as if he was going to touch her, but he didn’t. “What about you? Why have you never come back until now, when it’s almost too late?”