Chapter 24
24
The next morning, I wake to sunlight streaming through the window, the whole room awash in it, so bright I have to cover my eyes, blinking to adjust. Jay is still asleep, his mouth slightly open.
Slowly, as not to wake him, I grab my phone from the nightstand, squint at the time. It’s just before seven. I ease out of bed, grab a few things from my suitcase—a thick-strapped striped swimsuit, faded tank, cutoff shorts, baseball cap—and dress quietly in the bathroom. I don’t wash my face, don’t apply any makeup.
As I leave the bathroom, I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror. It surprises me how I feel, seeing myself like this, undone and bare-faced. It’s like a deep sigh of relief, like I’ve finally exhaled after holding my breath for too long, my whole body unclenching. I feel, now—again—like the girl I used to be on the island. It’s not because of what I’m wearing, the too-big shirt and comfortable swimsuit, but because for the first time in I can’t remember how long, I’m not dressing for someone else. I don’t care what anyone thinks when they look at me. I’ve stepped out of Jay’s box. I’m free.
It’s how I thought I would feel in college, finally on my own, my parents’ expectations and private school uniforms left crumpled in my closet. But before I found myself, I found Jay. I thought he was the antidote to the straitlaced dear daughter I was expected to be at home, the liberation I was chasing, an authentic love-me-for-me kind of love. I was wrong. Instead of becoming the person I wanted to be, I became who he wanted me to be. The girl from the island was buried again, just like she had been in my parents’ house. But now, she’s resurfaced, she’s here. I smile at myself. Welcome back, Violet. It’s good to see you.
Downstairs, I pack a beach bag: a stack of towels and a blanket, waters and a few cans of soda, snacks, sunscreen. I find a couple of beach chairs and an umbrella in the garage that I set on the porch.
Just before eight, I hear Harper’s door open. I pop two pieces of toast in the toaster, then meet her coming down the stairs. She’s still blinking sleep from her eyes, yawning.
“Hi, lovey,” I say softly. “Everyone’s still sleeping. Let’s get your swimsuit on and we’ll go to the beach!”
She nods as I direct her back up the stairs. I manage to get her dressed without much resistance, her limbs still heavy and sleep-laden.
When we get back downstairs, the toast is finished, edging on burnt. I butter it quickly, hoping Harper doesn’t notice. But she does. “This is too black,” she says, wrinkling up her nose.
I roll my eyes. “Okay, I’ll eat it. How about this one?” I hold up the other slice, slightly less done.
“No! It’s burnt, too!” She glares at me, her bedhead pointing in every direction. She’s not a morning person.
Normally, I’d fight her on it, press the importance of not wasting food, but I want to get to the beach early, and unless I give in, I’m in for a raucous brawl. I put two fresh pieces in the toaster.
As Harper eats her perfectly browned bread, I rifle through the kitchen drawers until I find a piece of scrap paper and a pen. I quickly jot down a note for Sloane, clip it to the fridge: On the beach, join us when you’re ready!
“Come on, let’s go,” I say to Harper. It’s important we get to the beach before Sloane wakes up.
We’ve been on the beach for an hour or so when I spot a woman and two children making their way from the house next to ours down the grassy path to the beach. I already know her name and the names of her two children, courtesy of a generous tip to Gina, travel agent extraordinaire. They arrived two days ago. They’re the reason I shelled out the big bucks for the house we’re in.
I watch as the woman lays out a big blanket, unfolds a beach chair, dumps a pile of sand toys out of a bag. “Come on,” I say to Harper, “let’s go make friends.”
I slip my hand into hers and we make our way across the beach toward their setup.
“Hi!” I call out as we near.
The woman looks up from a weathered paperback, her face shaded under a woven straw hat.
“We’re your neighbors,” I say. I point up toward our house. “We just got in yesterday. I saw your kids and thought it would be nice for Harper to have some playmates. Harper, can you say hi?”
“Hi,” Harper says shyly.
The woman smiles and gets to her feet. She’s a young-looking mom, light blonde hair, freckled and pale skin, tall and thin with a slightly boyish figure, birdish in her face, but cute. She has on a too-large faded blue chambray shirt, open over a string bikini, sleeves rolled and pushed to the elbow. Her hip bones jut out angularly beneath the bikini ties.
“Hi,” she says. “I’m Anne-Marie. And that’s Rooney and Claire.” She points to the two kids down by the edge of the water, first to the boy, then to the girl.
I kneel next to Harper. “Harper, do you want to go play with them?”
She nods, then skips off happily. I watch her, smiling, heart expanding in my chest. That’s my girl, my social butterfly, my golden retriever child.
“How old is she?” Anne-Marie asks.
“Five at the end of the month,” I say. “I’m Caitlin, by the way. Harper’s nanny.” I offer her my hand, and she takes it, her palm cool, fingers slender.
“Nice to meet you,” she says. “You said you got in yesterday? Where from?”
“New York. What about you?”
“North Carolina. Charlotte. We’ve been here since Friday. You’re lucky; you just missed the storm. It was torrential, poured the first two days we got here. The kids almost lost their flippin’ minds! But then, just like that”—she snaps her fingers—“it cleared. I was worried we’d be stuck inside the whole trip, thought we might have to fly home! And the idea of getting back on a flight with those two…” She shakes her head emphatically. “Well, let’s just say I need a stiff drink just thinking about it!”
Anne-Marie is, I discover, a mile-a-minute talker, as she launches into another story about their trip down, how Rooney got airsick, which made Claire sick, and her husband was no help whatsoever, since he had downed two Valiums and a glass of wine for his flying anxiety before takeoff and was passed out against the window. “I could barely get him off the plane,” she says. “Meanwhile, both kids and I are covered in puke.” Anne-Marie rolls her eyes when she says this, like, You know, husbands . I do, of course. Mine happens to be even worse than hers, although Fitz—I quickly learn his name—seems like he’s a real piece of work himself.
After finally pausing to take a breath, Anne-Marie points behind me. “Oh,” she says, shielding her eyes from the sun. “Is that Harper’s mom?” I turn to see Sloane making her way down the path toward our umbrella. I’m pleased to see she’s in the cover-up I bought her, the oversized Dior shades, looking chic, poised. A New York mom on vacation.
I nod. “Violet Lockhart. You’ll love her. I should get Harper back, but bring your kids over this afternoon, I’ll introduce you two!”
“We’d love that!” Anne-Marie says enthusiastically.
“Come on, Harp!” I call. “Let’s go get a snack!” Then, to Anne-Marie, “Great meeting you!”
Harper comes predictably running at the promise of something to eat, and we both wave as we leave, heading back to our own setup.
“Morning!” I call to Sloane as we near. She’s situated herself under the umbrella on the blanket, legs outstretched in front of her.
“Morning!” Sloane says. She smiles brightly up at us.
I take a seat next to her, begin to rifle through my bag for a granola bar for Harper. “Sorry,” I say apologetically. “We were just meeting the neighbors. They’re staying in the house next to ours.” I point up the bluff to a pale pink house with the same gray-thatched roof as ours. “They have two kids around Harper’s age.”
“One’s named Rooney and one’s named Claire!” Harper pipes in. “Claire is older than me. And Rooney is a boy. But there’s a Rooney in my class that’s a girl.”
Sloane stiffens at the mention of Mockingbird, her jawbone clenching slightly. She probably knows her; Rooney’s mom told me she’s been at the school since she was eighteen months. Then Sloane relaxes her face, smiles widely at Harper. “How lucky!”
“Isn’t it?” I say. “I invited them over later so the kids could play some more. And you can meet the mom. She’s a trip. A real talker. Like, I could barely get a word in.”
Sloane laughs. “Well, I’m glad Harper will have playmates.”
I nod. “But here’s something funny,” I say. “She thought I was the nanny.”
Sloane cocks her head, gives a little snort. “That is funny,” she says. “Why would she think that ?”
“I think she saw you and Jay at the grocery store yesterday and assumed the two of you were together.”
Immediately, Sloane’s face flushes. “What’d she say when you told her he was your husband?” she asks.
“I didn’t correct her! I told you, I could barely get a word in edgewise!” I bury my face in my hands in mock embarrassment. “And I didn’t want to make her feel bad, so I just went along with it. I told her my name was Caitlin when she asked!”
“What?” Sloane laughs. “So she thinks you’re the nanny and I’m Harper’s mom?”
I laugh, too, like it’s a delightful mix-up. Oh, tee-hee, hilarious , right?! “Yes! I figured we probably won’t see much of them, what harm would it do?”
“You just said they might come by later!” Sloane says.
“I know, I know! My mistake! Just go along with it, okay? Promise? I’d look like a nutcase if I came clean now.”
Sloane shrugs. “Okay, fine, but it is loony, you know that right?” she asks pointedly, raising an eyebrow.
I laugh again. “I know! Can we talk about something else, please? How’d you sleep last night?” I ask.
She nods. “Like a rock. You should have woken me this morning!”
I wave my hand dismissively. “We’re on vacation,” I say. “And if you were able to sleep through Harper’s meltdown about her toast this morning, then I probably wouldn’t have been able to wake you anyway.”
“It was burnt!” Harper says indignantly. “It would have scratched the roof of my mouth!”
Sloane smiles good-naturedly. “Well, I’m not usually such a heavy sleeper. It was glorious. Although, I did wake up with a nasty sunburn this morning.” She pulls the neck of her shirt to one side to expose a reddened shoulder.
“Ouch!” I say. “We’ll get some aloe at the store later. Here, let’s not make the same mistake today.” I hand her a can of aerosol sunscreen. “Do my back and I’ll do yours. Harper, let me spray you again, too.”
When we’re all sufficiently oiled, we rest our heads back against our chairs, chins tilted toward the sun, our hats shading our faces.
After a few minutes, Sloane asks—casually, of course—“Is Jay—”
“Working.” I finish her sentence without opening my eyes. “He said he’d try and join us later for a bit.”
Obviously, I didn’t talk to Jay before I left, but I assume he’ll come out at some point, happy for an excuse to take his shirt off. And it will give Sloane something to look forward to. It’s impossible to miss the hopefulness in her voice.
And just before noon, he does. I’m in the surf with Harper, running up and back as the waves ebb and flow. She squeals when the water catches her, lapping at her ankles. I see him as he walks over the dune, starting down the sandy slope toward our umbrella. He’s carrying a big brown bag in one hand, and he waves with the other.
Harper starts shrieking when she sees him. She runs to him and leaps into his arms. He swings her around, Harper giggling happily. I force a broad smile onto my face.
“I brought sandwiches,” Jay says, holding up the bag. “I hope everyone’s hungry.” He loves this: looking like the stand-up guy, the good dad. Jay saves the day! What a fucking hypocrite. I smile widely at him as I select the largest one.
When we’re done eating, Harper hops up excitedly. “Can you swim with me, Dad?”
He gives her a rueful smile. “I have to get back to work, Harp,” he says. “Sorry, baby.”
Harper’s lower lip juts out, trembles. “You just got here!”
My stomach hardens. Yeah, Jay, you just got here. And we both know what you’re doing up there in that office, that there’s no reason you can’t spare ten minutes for your daughter. It kills me, his dismissal of her, the hurt on her sweet face. He deserves to be quartered, all four limbs tied, splayed, pulled apart, pop pop pop pop .
Jay sighs. “I’ll try and get off a little early today, okay?”
She glares at him. “I want to go in now !”
“I’ll go in with you, Harper,” Sloane offers.
“I want to go with Dad!”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to take you? I can teach you how to catch a mermaid.” Sloane shrugs nonchalantly. “I mean, if you’re interested.” I hide a smile. I have to hand it to her: she is great with kids.
Harper doesn’t look at Sloane, instead kicking at the sand in front of her. “Mermaids aren’t real,” she says, but she doesn’t sound completely convinced.
“How do you know?” Sloane asks.
The corners of Harper’s mouth twitch. Sloane stands up, offers her hand to Harper. She takes it. “You’ve really seen one?” Harper asks.
Sloane looks to me, then Jay. He mouths thank you to her, and it’s clear how pleased she is. “Just once,” she says to Harper. “Come on, let’s go!” They run hand in hand down to the water. Harper shrieks as she leaps into the waves.
“Thanks for the sandwiches,” I say to Jay. “Where’d you get them?”
“From the deli with the market attached, right before the main drag. I picked up some groceries, too. Just a few things for the next couple of days. Burgers for dinner tonight. And Popsicles.”
“Great,” I say. I asked for ice cream, but it’s just like Jay to think he knows better. I’ll go back to the market later. I know it well; I went in every day during my summers here with a gaggle of friends, barefoot and sandy, lingering with the refrigerator doors open until Mr. Menna yelled at us to move it along. We’d grab bottles of cold Snapple and bags of sweet-and-sour candies to bring back to the beach, eat on our towels. There was no exchange of money, no wet dollar bills tucked into our swimsuits. If you were a local, you had a tab everywhere on the island, settled somehow, some way. Mr. Menna must have been in his seventies by the time I was a teenager; I wonder if he’s still there, white-haired, wrinkled.
“Was there an old guy working there?” I ask Jay.
He shrugs. “I don’t know.”
I nod curtly. Of course he doesn’t. It takes a specific type to catch Jay’s eye. And an aging male shopkeeper isn’t it.
“Well, thanks again for lunch,” I say. I force myself to smile. “We’ll be up in a few hours.”
Jay leaves, and I settle back into my chair, watching Sloane and Harper splash around in the waves.
The afternoon stretches on, bright white and hot. Music plays from a Bluetooth speaker, Sloane’s Taylor Swift mix that we all sing along to. Harper’s favorite song, “Bad Blood,” plays over and over and every time it does, I smile to myself. How fitting. I take a million pictures of Harper, her belly still baby-fat pudgy in her little two-piece suit, hair curling in the humidity like a wild halo, sand freckling her sticky skin. She crouches at the edge of the water, looking for seashells, running back up to our umbrella when she finds a good one. She poses for me when she sees me holding up my phone, grinning, hand on her hip like she’s fifteen instead of almost five. Not everything about being a mother is easy, but this, this right here, right now, is magic.
Around five, when the heat of the sun begins to subside, I call down to Harper. “Ready to go back home?”
“No, not yet!” Harper says, looking up from the hole she’s digging.
“Dad bought Popsicles,” I singsong. “You could have one while I get dinner started.”
Harper scrambles to her feet. “I love Popsicles!”
I laugh. “I know you do. What about you, Cait, you want a Popsicle?” I turn to Sloane. “And Jay said he got burgers for dinner.”
“Sounds good,” she says, standing and stretching her arms above her head. The sunburn on her shoulders has already started to turn from pink to brown, her skin slick from all the sunscreen.
We fold up the chairs, unwind the umbrella, then start our trek back to the house, up the sand and through the tall, reedy grasses.
The three of us have just settled in the kitchen, Harper at the little table waiting for her Popsicle, legs dangling off the chair, when there’s a rap on the front screen door.
“Hello?” A woman’s voice carries into the house.
I take a step into the living room and see Anne-Marie and her two kids on the porch.
“It’s our neighbors!” I say, leaning back into the kitchen. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.” I motion for Sloane and Harper to follow me.
“Remember,” I say on the way to the door, winking. “You’re me.”
Sloane rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “Right,” she says. “I remember.”
I open the screen door. “Hi! Come in, come in!”
“Is it a good time?” Anne-Marie asks.
“Yes, totally,” I say. “We were hoping you’d stop by. Violet,” I turn to Sloane, “This is Anne-Marie. Anne-Marie, Violet. They’re staying in the house next door.”
“Hi,” Anne-Marie says, extending her hand to Sloane. “So nice to meet you!”
“Do you want to show Rooney and Claire your room?” I ask Harper.
“What about the Popsicles?” Harper says, frowning.
I smile apologetically at Anne-Marie. “We were just about to have Popsicles. There’s enough for everyone if it’s okay with you.”
She waves me off. “Of course. They’d love that, wouldn’t you, guys?”
Both of her kids nod shyly.
I usher everyone into the kitchen and take out the box, doling the Popsicles out one by one. “Go eat them on the back porch,” I say, opening the door. The three kids happily parade outside.
“Would you like anything? Iced tea, water, beer? A Popsicle?” I say to Anne-Marie.
“A Popsicle sounds great,” she says. I hand one to her and Sloane, then take one for myself.
“Where’d you find her?” Anne-Marie says to Sloane, tilting her head toward me as she unwraps her Popsicle. “I’m lucky if my nanny puts her phone away long enough to pick up the kids from school! I’m not kidding, she forgets one of them like twice a month.”
Sloane smirks at me. I smile prettily back. “Just lucky, I guess,” Sloane says. “Where are you guys vacationing from?” Smart, Sloane, change the subject.
“Charlotte,” Anne-Marie says. “Have you been?” She doesn’t wait for either of us to answer. “I’m originally from Vermont, but my husband was born and raised there. We met at a sales conference and one thing led to another! He was adamant about raising kids close to his parents, and since mine are thoroughly enjoying retirement in Boca, I thought, what the hell , and we’ve been there for almost ten years now! It’s a cute city, growing like crazy.”
I give Sloane a look like, See what I mean? and she suppresses a smile.
Anne-Marie continues. “It’s not as big as New York, of course. Caitlin said you’re from the city?” she says to Sloane.
Before Sloane has the chance to answer, there’s the sound of footsteps on the stairs. We all turn to see Jay descending into the living room.
My smile freezes on my face. I’d assumed he wouldn’t come down. That was stupid of me. I should have suggested we all take our Popsicles on the porch with the kids. Shit.
“Anne-Marie,” I say quickly, “this is Jay. Harper’s dad. Jay, this is Anne-Marie, and that’s Claire and Rooney on the deck with Harper. They’re staying in the house next door.”
“Hi,” Jay says, crossing the living room, coming into the kitchen to shake Anne-Marie’s hand. “I was just coming down to grab something to drink.” He gives her his wide, movie-star smile. “Nice to meet you.”
Anne-Marie runs a hand over her hair to smooth it, tucking a strand behind her ear. “Nice to meet you, too,” she says, smiling back.
Then Jay cocks his head. “Didn’t I see you this morning? Out for a run?”
“Oh, probably,” Anne-Marie says. “I try to do five miles before breakfast.”
“Every day?” Jay asks. He sounds impressed.
Anne-Marie nods, blushing slightly. “I try. Some days it’s less. Some mornings I can hit ten, if I get started early enough. I ran the Boston Marathon a few years ago. I went to college there. At BU. I’m training for another next spring.”
“Wow!” Sloane says as Jay nods appreciatively.
“It’s a good excuse to get out of the house,” she says. “Fitz—my husband”—she clarifies to us all—“lets the kids watch cartoons when they wake up—it’s vacation , he says—and they’re demons when it’s time to turn it off. So I let him deal with the aftermath. It’s his mess, really. Are any of you runners?”
Both Sloane and I shake our heads, but Jay makes an affirmative noise. “When I have the time,” he says. “I love running. In fact, I was hoping to squeeze in a few jogs while we’re here.” I try not to roll my eyes. I haven’t seen him lace up a pair of running shoes since we moved to New York. But Jay, predictable Jay, won’t miss the chance to make someone feel seen. And Anne-Marie offered one in an outstretched hand.
“You should join me!” Anne-Marie says.
Jay nods thoughtfully. “Maybe I will. When do you go?”
“Seven-ish,” she says. “Before it gets too hot. And before these monkeys are hungry for breakfast. Fitz couldn’t scramble an egg to save his life.” She rolls her eyes. “But speaking of hungry—and Fitz—we should be getting back. He’ll be home from golf soon and wondering where dinner is.”
“And I should head back upstairs,” Jay says, smiling. “I have a little bit more work to do.” He takes a can of seltzer from the fridge. “Nice to meet you, Anne-Marie. Maybe I’ll see you in the morning.”
He smiles, gives a wave, and the three of us watch as he makes his way back to the stairs. I let out a sigh of relief, glad Jay hadn’t said anything that would have given me away.
“My husband has never once joined me for a run.” Anne-Marie gives a little laugh. “Can you tell him to talk to Fitz?” She directs the question to Sloane. Then she pushes open the screen door to the back patio. “Kids! Let’s go!”
We all walk them to the front door. Harper and Claire are giggling among themselves, already fast friends.
“Thanks for the Popsicles! Can you guys say thank you?” Anne-Marie says to her kids as they step out of the house. Then to us, “Beach again tomorrow?”
“We’ll see you there!” I say.
“Nice to meet you!” Sloane calls as they reach the end of the walkway.
I ease the door shut behind them. “That Fitz really sounds like a catch,” Sloane says when it’s closed.
I snort. “Husband of the year.” Well, runner-up to Jay, of course.
When I get into bed that night, I have a smile on my face. The meeting with Anne-Marie couldn’t have gone any better. She’s going to be a witness for me, even though she doesn’t know it yet. It’s another checked box on the list, another step closer.
Soon, this will all be over.