Chapter 2
TWO
Before Caitlin’s flight to Massachusetts she wound up staying at her brother’s house after all.
But the moment she rose to make coffee they began jumping on the air mattress as if it were a trampoline.
Unsurprisingly, it must have developed a slow leak because it partially deflated the second night she used it.
Caitlin woke during the wee hours with her right hip and shoulder pressed against the hard, cold floor, and a crick in her neck.
At sunrise, the children came in to cuddle again, and for the rest of the day, their amusing antics kept her so busy that she barely had a chance to sit down or to even think about her trip until she reached the airport.
Now, after flying overnight from Albuquerque to Boston, and then driving a rental car from Boston to Hyannis, Caitlin was exhausted. She boarded the Dune Island ferry, parked on the vehicle deck and went upstairs, hoping the fresh air would help her feel more awake and gather her thoughts.
During peak season, the seats would’ve been filled with cheerful travelers sunning themselves, sipping beverages, and chatting as the vessel crossed the scintillating aquamarine waters of Dune Island Sound.
But on a cloudy, misty weekday in October, the weather deck was nearly empty except for Caitlin and a group of six people who appeared to be tourists.
Although she didn’t understand the language they were speaking, their excitement was obvious from the way they grinned as they stood at the railing and pointed to the greenish-gray oblong shape of the fog-enshrouded island barely visible in the distance.
Twenty years ago, Caitlin would have been on pins and needles with anticipation, too. She smiled, remembering how her uncle Albert would greet her inside the ferry terminal with a bear hug.
“Your aunt wanted to come, too, but she couldn’t leave the guests on their own,” he’d say. Then he’d hand her an insulated thermal bag and joke, “She thought you might be hungry after your long voyage at sea.”
The food Lydia packed always included a note that said, “Welcome to your island home, Caitlin—I’m so glad you’re here!
” Nothing ever tasted as delicious as her first, simple lunch of the season; a tuna fish sandwich, chips, and a pickle, which she shared with her uncle as they inched toward the cottage in the slow-moving summer traffic.
Today, however, her stomach was knotted with apprehension about returning to Hope Haven. So instead of focusing on what lay ahead, she tried to concentrate on putting her feelings about Jonathan and Melanie behind her.
She was still more than a little ticked off at them.
Oddly, however, she found she wasn’t nearly as angry about their betrayal as she was about their timing.
If they want to be together, that’s fine with me.
They’re both so needy they make a perfect pair , she thought.
I just wish they would’ve waited until after my ceiling was repaired to get involved with each other, so I wouldn’t have to scramble to Massachusetts just because I need a place to stay…
Yet as much as she regretted being forced to make the trip, Caitlin recognized how privileged she was to inherit the cottage just when she needed it most. Not only was the housing a godsend right now, but once she sold the property, she’d have enough money to move out of her crummy apartment for good and buy a place of her own.
She hoped to help her brother and sister-in-law purchase a more suitable home for their growing family, as well.
But while she was thankful deep down, Caitlin’s gratitude was tinged with conflicting emotions and confusion.
It seems strange that Aunt Lydia bequeathed the cottage to me instead of to her nephews , she ruminated as she took a deep breath of the tangy, salty air.
The two men were Lydia’s blood relatives, whereas Caitlin was related only through Lydia’s marriage to Caitlin’s uncle Albert.
Lydia had been his second wife, and she’d married him when they were in their late fifties, so while Caitlin had grown close to them in her teenage years, it wasn’t as if Lydia had known her since she was a baby.
Furthermore, Lydia’s nephews had always lived in New Hampshire, and they’d spent a lot more time with Lydia than Caitlin ever did.
Yes, when Caitlin was in high school, she’d stayed on Dune Island to help manage the cottages, and she’d developed a close bond with her hard-working yet fun-loving aunt, who’d proudly introduce Caitlin to the guests as, “my right-hand woman” or “my all-around amazing niece.”
But shortly after Caitlin’s final summer there, her family relocated to New Mexico, and she and Lydia drifted apart, only crossing paths at an occasional wedding or funeral in New Hampshire or catching up during a brief holiday phone call.
So Caitlin couldn’t help but feel guilty about receiving such a valuable inheritance from her aunt.
She also felt puzzled by why Lydia had required her to remodel the windmill after her death.
Although the two of them used to chat about how much fun it would be to turn the loft into a sitting room, Caitlin had thought that was just a lovely but impractical daydream, not something her aunt truly had her heart set on.
I guess since Aunt Lydia put aside the funds for it when she drew up the Trust, the remodel must have meant more to her than I realized.
She must have thought it meant that much to me, too , she reasoned after mulling it over.
So I suppose I can understand why she’d insist I convert the loft if I were keeping the cottage.
But I don’t get why she’d require me to convert it before I’m allowed to sell the property.
What’s the point of putting all that effort into designing a sitting room when neither of us will be there to use it?
Most importantly, why had Lydia required her to be present to oversee the project? It would have been possible to handle the arrangements remotely.
Caitlin recognized that most people would consider supervising the remodel in person to be a very small price to pay for inheriting such a valuable piece of property.
But that was because most people who didn’t live on Dune Island had never heard about what had happened the last time Caitlin was there.
They didn’t know about the incident with Nicole , as Lydia used to call it.
And those who did know about it weren’t aware of just how deeply it had affected Caitlin. Not even her aunt.
She couldn’t blame Lydia for that; Caitlin had deliberately kept her feelings to herself. In the years following her final visit to Hope Haven, whenever Lydia had mentioned Nicole during one of their phone calls, Caitlin would downplay the effect that summer had on her.
“I’m only bringing it up because I’m concerned about you,” her aunt would insist. “If you don’t want to talk to me about it, I understand. But maybe you’d benefit from confiding in another adult, like a counselor? Someone who could help you process your emotions.”
“I don’t need a counselor and I don’t want to talk about it, either. I mean, it was awful when it happened and I was… I was really upset, but I’ve come to accept it. I’m okay now,” Caitlin would counter, and then she’d change the subject.
Eventually, she must have convinced Lydia that she was doing as well as she’d pretended to be doing, because the older woman stopped suggesting her niece would benefit from talking about it.
And in time, Caitlin really did work through most of her feelings about what had happened.
Or at least, she’d learned to ignore them.
In any case, it had been years and years since the incident had preoccupied her every waking thought, as well as most of her nighttime dreams. In fact, she rarely reflected on what happened anymore—which was exactly why she dreaded returning to Dune Island now.
Pushing her memories to the back of her mind had been manageable with time and distance, but what would happen once she returned to The Windmill Cottages, where she’d have to face reminders of that summer in person?
I’m an adult now, not a teenager, so I can handle this, she reminded herself. Besides, it’s autumn, not summer, and twenty years have passed, so I’m sure the island will seem a lot different from the last time I was there…
Yet less than an hour later, when she disembarked the ferry in Port Newcomb, Caitlin noticed that the elegant village appeared almost the same as it had looked two decades ago.
While a few shops had been added to the row of Main Street establishments, and some of the older brick buildings were renovated, she still recognized most of the upscale bakeries, cafés, and boutiques from her youth.
Their window displays included decorations in autumnal hues, and wreaths made of dried reeds, woven vines, dark berries, and colorful leaves hung from their doors.
Almost every entryway was flanked by barrel planters bursting with mauve, white, and red mums, buttery marigolds, or purple-tinged ornamental cabbage.
And up and down the one-sided waterfront street, wrought iron benches provided customers and passersby a place to rest and watch the island’s tallest lighthouse guide the ferries, fishing boats, and other vessels of all sizes into port.
I’d almost forgotten how even on an overcast day, everything in Hope Haven seems postcard perfect—on the surface, anyway , she thought ruefully as she slowly drove along the crescent-shaped road.