The Guest House (9 page)

“And he means it too,” said Jim. “I’m truly lousy at it. Ask anyone.”

Edie laughed, thinking again how glad she was that she’d taken Tucker up on his offer, wondering for a fleeting moment whether Hank saw her leave—or if he was too busy with Missy Murphy. Not that she gave a rat’s ass what—or who—he saw. He could choke on that goddamn oversalted chowder for all she cared.

“I’m afraid I’ve drained the well,” said Jim, gesturing to the bucket of ice beside the towel. “I was just on my way up to see what my chances were for restocking. That housekeeper of y’all’s is ferocious. I didn’t dare take an apple out of the fruit bowl.”

“Oh, Miss Dorrie’s a sweetheart,” said Tucker. “Her bark’s worse than her bite.”

Edie knew they meant Doreen Packard; Doreen and her mother were close friends. For years Edie’s mother had shared Doreen’s tales of summers serving the Moss family. Edie had never paid much attention to the stories; she suddenly wished she had.

Fortified by Tucker’s assurances, Jim departed for the top of the beach, leaving Tucker and Edie standing alone.

Tucker nodded to the water. “You want to give it a feel?”

“Sure.” Edie followed Tucker down to the edge of the surf. The frigid water stung her ankles.

“I bet you swim in this, don’t you?” he asked.

“Sometimes,” she admitted. “Don’t you?”

“Not me. Jim’s been in a few times, but my skin’s still not thick enough.”

“Are you serious? How many summers have you been coming here now?”

“Too many to admit, I know,” he said. “I do love it here, though. It’s different from our coastline. You must be on the beach every chance you get. I would be if I lived here year-round.”

“I love the beach,” she said, “but I love other places more.”

“Really?” He smiled at her. “Maybe sometime you can show me one of ’em.”

She met his eyes. “Maybe.”

Tucker dug his heel into the wet sand, watched the small divot fill with water.

“I was thinking if you weren’t busy,” he said, “maybe you’d like to come with me and Jim to Provincetown tomorrow.”

“What for?”

“I don’t know. Just go for a drive. Walk around the town. Get some lunch.” He caught her gaze again and searched her eyes. “What do you think?”

Edie turned back to the water, not sure. He made it sound so simple, but what if someone saw them; what if word got back to Hank that she’d been driving around with Tucker Moss? Hank would never let her live it down. And why was she suddenly feeling guilty for something she hadn’t even done? God knew Hank was seeing to his own matters, stockpiling his own secrets.

Consternation rose in her throat.

Besides, P-town was safe. It was unlikely they’d see anyone she knew, anyone who knew her or her family.

And she did enjoy Tucker Moss’s company.

“All right,” she said brightly, feeling a swell of excitement rush out with her answer, prickling her skin just as the frigid water had done moments before. “I’ll come.”

T
he town beach was already packed by the time Lexi and Meg carried their cooler and canvas bags onto it at eleven. Meg tented her hands over her eyes and scanned the length of the shore like a first mate, pointing delightedly when she’d found them a free square of sand. Two years away and Lexi swore the beach had shrunk. Even before she’d left for London, she never remembered it being this crowded before noon. Growing up, she and Kim could always count on a handful of “secret spots” to lay down their towels and bake themselves an unhealthy shade of copper. Now her secret spots were common knowledge—and fair game.

Feeling the familiar giddiness of ocean air and silky sand underfoot, they deposited their belongings and laid out their towels, climbing out of their cover-ups and sitting down, burrowing their rumps into the sand.

“Whoa,” exclaimed Lexi, startled to see the tiny electric-pink two-piece that appeared when Meg’s oversize T-shirt and jeans shorts came off. “Has your dad seen you in that?”

“No,” said Meg, looking suddenly stricken as she fussed with her straps. “And you can’t tell him. He would freak. He thinks I wear that ratty old one-piece from swim team. Why do you think I like coming to the beach with you instead?”

Lexi smiled, reminded of her own days of covert swim fashions. It was a rite of passage for every teenage girl on the water to reach that age when you’d leave your parents’ house as covered up as a rosebush in winter, only to fling off the tarp of your clothes the minute your toes hit the sand.

Before Hudson came along and turned Lexi inside out, Kim had always been the daring one between them when it came to beachwear, every summer modeling a new two-piece, while Lexi had worn her same navy one-piece until it was pilled in the seat and muddy gray. But when Hudson had suggested she’d look hot in a bikini, Lexi had bought one that very same day, relishing her body and its effect on her new boyfriend as if she’d never bothered to notice before.

Owen had been unkind.

“Moss dresses you up like a stripper,” he accused, seeing her in her new suit when she’d come home from the beach.

“He doesn’t dress me up like anything,” Lexi had defended. “I dress myself.”

Of course, it had been a lie. Hudson Moss might as well have filled her drawers and closets himself; every piece of clothing Lexi looked at or even bought was with his opinion in mind. For five years, most every decision she made was the same.

A pair of young men ambled by, stealing glances at Meg.

“So tell me all the good stuff,” said Lexi, fishing out a pair of Cokes from their cooler.

“Well . . .” Meg grinned sheepishly. “There’s this guy. . . .”

“And . . . ?”

“And he’s so awesome.”

“Okay, come on. Let’s see pictures,” Lexi urged, pointing to Meg’s bag.

Meg withdrew her smart phone and scrolled gleefully through her albums until she found one and held it out. “His name’s Ty.”

Lexi nodded approvingly. “He’s cute.”

“He’s
so
cute. His dad’s this big-time documentary producer. Ty makes these little films and sends them to me. I could show you one.”

“I’d love that.”

Meg gave a grateful smile. “You’re so much cooler than my dad, Aunt Lex.”

“Aunts get to be cool,” said Lexi. “Dads get to be dads.”

“Yeah, but mine doesn’t even try.” Meg groaned, scooping up a handful of sand and trickling it over her painted toes. “Did you see his face when I asked for a glass of wine?”

“He’s overprotective,” said Lexi. “He always has been.”

“Is that why he got all pissed off when I told him you were working at that house taking pictures?”

Lexi turned to Meg. “You told him that?”

“I didn’t mean to get you into trouble, Aunt Lex. I didn’t know he wasn’t supposed to know.”

Lexi put her arm around Meg and gave her a reassuring hug. “It’s okay, sweetie. You didn’t get me into trouble. Your dad just holds grudges sometimes; that’s all.”

“About what?”

Lexi hesitated, trying to decide the best way to answer; part of her wanted to speak truthfully, but another part wanted to be more charitable. As frustrated as she was with Owen, it was important that Meg know her father’s heart was always in the right place—even when it was somewhere he didn’t belong.

“Your dad worries, that’s all. Your granddad was the same way. I think a lot of men are.”

Meg sighed. “I just wish it didn’t have to be this hard; that’s all.”

“Which part?” asked Lexi.

Meg looked up at her, the self-confident teen suddenly a wary child, her light eyes bright with such concern that Lexi wanted to wrap her arms around her again and not let go this time.

“You know,” Meg said with a sad smile. “All of it.”

•   •   •

S
topped at the light just three blocks from the office, Edie clapped her hands on either side of her head and pressed the misbehaving strands down, keeping the pressure there for several seconds before letting go. She glared at her reflection in the rearview mirror, seeing the short spikes snap up, undaunted. She looked like a goddamn thistle blossom. All that was missing was a circling bee.

She’d thought it would be easier chopping it all off—and most days it was—but she’d slept fitfully the night before and her hair revealed it. Hank had been heartbroken when she’d cut it. Honest to God, she couldn’t believe his face when she’d come in the door from Denise’s shop. She might have rearranged his nail drawers, or lost his favorite hand plane.

“You never said a word,” he’d managed, his voice a strange mix of wonder and deep hurt. “It’s so . . .”

“Short,” she had finished for him. “And I love it. I should have done it years ago.”

“You might have told me you meant to cut it.”

“It’s just hair, Hank.”

“So you’ll grow it back.”

“I will not,” she’d said firmly. “Do you mean to leave me now? Is that the whole purpose of our being together—my damn hair?”

God, where had
that
come from? Edie had wondered even as she’d said it. The man had a right to be surprised, maybe even sad. After all, she’d worn her red hair down her back as long as he’d known her.

She’d watched him, not sure whether he meant to snap back at her, not about to blame him if he did.

“I’m too old for it,” she’d said. “I really am.”

“Wait.” He’d given her a wry look then. “Are we still talking about your hair?”

Edie gave in to a sheepish smile, remembering the scene as she steered the truck into the parking lot of the white shingled building that bore W
RIGHT
C
ONSTRUCTION
on its front, and along the ell addition that jutted out from its back, storage space that Hank had added in the seventies when their lumber distributor had gone under. A curious flutter of energy propelled her out of the pickup—maybe it was the memory, thinking of their married life—and stayed with her as she walked briskly to the front door.

Coming inside, she found Owen on the phone, his eyes shifting warily to her as he said, “She just came in. Hold on.” He held out the cordless, his fingers clamped over the receiver. “It’s some guy named Jim Masterson. Wants to talk to you about the Moss guest house.”

“Oh.” Edie reached for the phone, wishing now that she hadn’t indulged in such a swift pace. Her breath seemed to come in short spurts, and a fine layer of sweat had arrived along her hairline. She pressed the phone to her ear. “Hello, James.”

“Edie, I’ve been thinking about your offer to restore the guest house.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Relief and trepidation rushed up in her. She’d hoped he’d call, hoped he wouldn’t. “And?” she pressed.

“Cooper had a man come by and look at it yesterday.”

“Who?”

“A gentleman by the name of Holloway.”

“No-show Bo.” Edie snorted. “He’s no gentleman, but never mind. What did he say?”

“He said it’s bad but that he can’t possibly start until fall.”

“Well, thank God for that. You don’t want him, James. He’s a menace.”

“That’s a strong word, Edie.”

“I have stronger.”

“Yes, I know.” Jim chuckled. “I remember.”

She glanced over her shoulder to find Owen studying her and looking concerned. She cleared her throat. “James, you let me get a look today and we’ll have a quote to you by tomorrow morning.”

“That soon?”

She
had
mentioned she was desperate, hadn’t she? “That soon,” she confirmed.

“Then by all means. How’s three o’clock?”

“I’ll see you then.”

She hung up and walked the receiver back to Owen’s desk.

“Who was that?” he asked.

“He just told you. James Masterson.” She walked back to her own desk and began riffling through a pile of papers, hoping to avoid the subject if she appeared busy.

Owen rose from his chair and followed her across the room. “I mean what does he have to do with the Moss place?”

“He’s an old friend of the family,” Edie said, feigning interest in a supply list.

“You were expecting his call.”

“Was I?”

“That’s what he said.”

“Oh. Then I guess I was.” Edie dropped into her chair, her skin warming. She felt trapped, like a child caught in a lie. Who was the parent here, dammit?

“So what did he want?”

“He wants to hire a crew to repair the guest house,” Edie said, “and I told him I’d pull together a quote.”

“Using whose crew?”

“Whose do you think?”

“Mom, be reasonable,” said Owen. “The women aren’t experienced enough to handle a job like that.”

“How would you know?” she demanded.

“Let me talk to Anderson again. I’m sure I can get him to give you that glazing job my guys couldn’t take last week.”

“I don’t need my son’s sloppy seconds,” she huffed.

Owen folded his arms. “Now you’re just being difficult.”

Yes she was, dammit. But so was he!

She scooted to the edge of her desk, trying to impart an authority she most certainly didn’t feel at that moment. She might have known he’d react this way. And wasn’t she the world’s biggest hypocrite! How quickly she’d worried about Lexi taking a job at the cottage, and now she was begrudging her son’s concern for her doing the same.

Edie took a breath and regarded her son, startled at how much he suddenly reminded her of Hank. Maybe it was the stiff posture, the mop of dark hair. Or maybe it was the deeply knotted brow.

She slumped forward on her elbows, losing steam. “Owen, my crew has gone weeks without work, and frankly if I don’t find them something soon, I’ll lose them.”

“Both of you now,” Owen said, shaking his head. “Both of you back down there.”

“We’re not ‘back down there,’” Edie clarified gently. “We’re working. It’s entirely different.”

Owen let his hands drop to his sides, unconvinced.

“Sure it is.” He sighed. “Like apples and apples.”

•   •   •

C
ooper swung the Jeep into the tidy square of gravel that hugged the front of the white shingled building and pulled into a parking spot. It was a far cry from the place Jim had described to him over dinner the night before, but then, Jim had warned him the building had been fixed up. Now a visibly booming coffee shop, it seemed the only remnants of its previous purpose—besides the his-and-hers entrances—was the sign above the double doors, the faded block letters a dramatic contrast to the rest of the crisply restored building: G
RANGE
H
ALL
.

Cooper crossed through the parking lot and decided to walk the perimeter of the building before stepping inside, wanting to glean as much as he could of the place where his father and Edie Worthington had spent a summer afternoon getting to know each other better. This was new territory for him. In his earlier novels, research had been minimal. Now he had a story to tell that wasn’t his own.

Jim had been right to prepare him; it was a long story, indeed. But what a story! He’d be a fool not to at least pursue it; three days at the house, and he hadn’t come up with a single idea that excited him.

A young couple came out one of the doors, carrying coffees, heads bent in conversation, the nearness of their bodies as they crossed to their car indicating that theirs was a fresh romance. Cooper’s thoughts shifted to Alexandra, recalling her behind her camera, or the few times he’d looked up from his computer to see her crossing the lawn the day before, reminded each time of the summer days he’d hoped to catch a glimpse of her, just to feel that immediate and strange rush of lust tear through him like a fever. A woman’s body had been a source of mystery and confusion then, a destination he’d craved and not known why.

He smiled now, thinking of the clumsy kiss he’d given her the night he’d driven her home. He’d felt bold and reckless behind the wheel of his father’s precious car, wanting to repair the hurt his older brother had caused, wanting to comfort her, and wanting her too. How many times over the years had he replayed that kiss, hoping to remember it more clearly, but in his hunger, specifics had been lost. Her eyes had been glossy as he’d neared, the taste of her leftover tears ending up on his tongue. And who had pulled away first? She had, of course. He was the kid brother of the love of her life—the love who had just taken it all away.

For a long time Cooper had hoped he might have a chance to do that kiss over—more than a kiss; he’d imagined making love to his brother’s fiancée—but then life had taken him and his heart to other places: lovers he’d been sure were the one, erotic and insatiable women who had steered him far from his teenage summer lusts. Now he was back in Harrisport, and that forgotten wish to have another chance with Alexandra—
Lexi
—was returning too.

He saw a well-shaded teak bench nestled invitingly at the back of the building. He’d get himself a cup of coffee and claim it.

Enough daydreaming. It was time to write.