Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
M argot crept through the side door of the house she’d been raised in. Her pulse snapped in her throat. Upon entry, her nostrils filled with the smell of the old place: dust and old furniture, carpet in need of replacing, and something rotten coming from the kitchen. When she turned on the light and illuminated the living room, she found that it looked nearly the same as it had twenty years ago, save for the use and decay that spoke of many, many nights spent alone at home. The wallpaper was peeling from the walls. The teenage girl was nowhere to be found.
For a moment, Margot believed she’d imagined the teenager. Maybe this was a case of a psychotic break. After twenty years of mental stability in Boston, twenty-four hours in Nantucket has destroyed me , she thought.
But then came the sound of the fridge opening, followed by a rustling. Margot hurried from the living room to find the teenager practically stuck in the fridge, searching.
“There’s so much rotten food in here,” the teenager grumbled.
Margot’s tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth. She knew she needed to tell the teenager to get out of there, get out of her mother’s fridge, and go back to where she came from. But the idea of sending the teenager back into the cold didn’t sit right with her, either. Was she a runaway? An orphan, like in the books Margot had read as a child?
“This should work for now.” From the fridge, the teenager hauled hard cheese, white toast (which her mother always kept in the fridge for reasons that had always mystified Margot), mayonnaise, and four cups of strawberry vanilla pudding. The girl dropped everything on the kitchen table and hunted through the drawers for silverware.
“It’s there,” Margot said, pointing at the relevant one.
The girl didn’t say thanks. “When did you last live here?”
“I was eighteen when I left.”
The girl made a sound in the back of her throat. She sat down and peeled the top off a pudding packet, then plunged a spoon in hungrily. She was stick-thin. Margot wondered when she’d last eaten. Weeks ago? Then again, now that she saw her in the light of the kitchen, the girl seemed clean, as though she’d recently showered. If she was homeless or a runaway, where was she taking care of herself? Did she break into people’s places all the time?
Margot decided this was a good tactic.
“Do you do this a lot? Break into people’s houses? Take their things?”
The girl ate a big spoonful of pudding and looked at her. “How old are you now? Forty?”
Margot felt it like a punch. Although, of course, she was nearly forty. She couldn’t dispute that.
Margot said, “Why don’t we answer each other’s questions? We can trade back and forth. Like a normal human conversation.”
“Normal. Human.” The girl scoffed, then ate more pudding.
“You’re hungry,” Margot observed.
The girl laughed. “I’m always hungry.” She then gestured to the chair across from her. “Sit down. I got you some.”
“It isn’t yours to offer me.”
“But it’s your mother’s, isn’t it?”
Margot stiffened. “How do you know my mother’s sick? How do you know my name?”
The girl seemed to think she was winning whatever game this was. She smiled and gestured to the chair across from her again. Margot rolled her eyes, feeling like a teenager herself, and grabbed a spoon. Sitting across from the teenager, she unpeeled her own pudding cup and ate. She was surprised at how hungry she was. The pudding activated something in her.
For more than a minute, the two of them ate in silence.
“You were eighteen when you left,” the girl repeated. “Why did you go?”
Margot tilted her head. “I’m surprised you don’t know. You seem to have more information than you should.”
The girl smiled and reached for the cheese and bread. She seemed to pride herself on knowing things she shouldn’t know. Margot remembered being the same way as a teenager—especially when it came to impressing (or annoying) her older brothers and sister.
Where were they? Wouldn’t they like to know about their missing mother?
“Did you graduate from high school?” the girl asked.
“Yes,” Margot said.
“Did you go to college?”
“I didn’t.” A spike of shame rose in Margot, one that surprised her. She’d long ago given up on the concept of university. She was one of Boston’s best entrepreneurs—proof that you didn’t have to get an education to become something. Life was its own education. It was never-ending.
“I don’t want to go to college, either,” the girl said.
“Why not?”
The girl laughed. “Everything is a scam.”
“I don’t know if that’s true,” Margot said. “Plenty of people go to college and have wonderful careers.”
“What is your career?”
“I own a flower shop in Boston,” Margot said.
The girl’s eyes were illuminated. “Where?”
“Do you know Boston?”
“I’m from Boston. Sort of. I mean, I was born here, but I left four years ago.”
Now, we’re getting somewhere , Margot thought.
“My place is in Beacon Hill,” Margot said, knowing it would impress the girl.
It did.
“Oh. Cool. It must be fancy,” the girl said, taking a bite of bread and cheese. “Is it hard to own your own shop?”
“It’s challenging, but it’s worth it. It’s my favorite place,” Margot said.
“What about Nantucket?” the girl asked.
Margot raised her eyebrow. “What about it?”
“Most people say Nantucket is their favorite place,” the girl said. “People I met in Boston wouldn’t stop gushing about it. Wow, you’re so lucky you’re from Nantucket. It was nonstop.”
Not me! Margot didn’t say.
Instead, Margot offered, “I have a complicated relationship with this place.”
The teenager smirked. “Me too.”
“Why’s that?”
The teenager took another big bite of bread and cheese.
“Do you want to tell me your name?” Margot asked. “It’s only fair since you know mine.”
How does she know it? Maybe the girl had snuck into her mother’s house and found a photograph somewhere. Perhaps she’d dug through their memories to manipulate them later.
Suddenly, a knock on the door was followed by a doorbell. The teenager didn’t flinch. Margot got to her feet, giving the girl a look she hoped translated to don’t move! She went to the foyer and opened the door.
Standing on the porch was her mother, bundled up and looking slightly confused but fine. Although Margot hadn’t seen her in twenty years, it seemed to Margot that Lillian hadn’t done her fair share of aging. Only a few spare wrinkles had formed around her eyes and on her forehead, and her hair was dyed to a remarkably bright copper color—the same color as her girlhood before it had turned an auburn blond. Her clothing was nicely laundered, and she wore a thick scarf and mittens, translating her ability to handle the island’s winter cold.
The only problem was that Lillian looked at Margot with contempt. But that wasn’t any different from before.
But Lillian wasn’t alone.
Beside Lillian stood a wonderfully handsome man. A man with bushy dark curls, a gruff beard, and a thick, fur-lined winter coat. When he smiled at Margot, Margot felt that every horrible thing that had happened that day had been only part of a nightmare.
He looked familiar. But why? Margot couldn’t put her finger on it.
“Is she going to step aside?” Lillian asked the man.
Margot felt it like a smack. But again, she wasn’t surprised.
This is Lillian Earnheart in all her glory , she reminded herself. The cherry on top was that she didn’t remember me. Not yet.
“Mom, we’ve been looking for you everywhere,” Margot said. She felt as though she was going to melt right there in the foyer.
Unable to resist, she fell forward to wrap her mother in a hug. What am I doing? This is Lillian Earnheart! This is my estranged mother!
But Margot couldn’t stop herself. Tears sprang to her eyes.
Unsurprisingly, Lillian didn’t hug her back. Slowly, Margot shifted away from her and beckoned for Lillian and the stranger to enter. “I’m sorry,” she said, sniffing. “Thank you for bringing her back. I’ve been worried sick.”
The man cocked his head. “Worried? I had no idea!”
He looked at Margot curiously as though he hadn’t seen a person like her before.
Lillian stomped past Margot and went into the living room. Still with her coat on, she sat on the sofa and began to click through the stations on television. Margot remained in the foyer with the stranger, whose smile was the only thing she understood.
“I’m sorry. I’m being terribly rude,” he said, sticking out his hand. “My name is Vic. Vic Rondell.”
Margot blushed and shook his hand. “Margot. I’m her youngest.”
“Of course! Margot. She’s told me so much about you.”
Margot chuckled. “Really?” She didn’t believe him for a second. She knew he was being polite.
“You’d be surprised how many family stories Lillian comes up with,” Vic said. “I feel like I know all of you at this point.”
Margot furrowed her brow. Why was he doubling down on a lie?
“How do you know my mother?” Margot asked.
Vic waved his hand. “We met playing cards. Your mother is a cheat, but I love her for it. She said it was the only way she could ever beat your father.”
It was true that Lillian had always loved playing cards—everything from bridge to poker. It was also true she liked to cheat. She wanted to win big and often pouted if you still found a way to beat her.
“Wow.” Margot was surprised. Vic seemed to be only a little older than she was. She’d guess forty-three or forty-four.
They remained in the foyer, standing awkwardly. Margot realized she was still wearing her coat.
“Why don’t you come in?” she suggested. “I have so many questions for you.”
But Vic’s face grew shadowed. “I wish I could. I have an appointment downtown.”
Was it her imagination, or was he frightened of her?
“Of course. Right. I’m sorry.” Margot swallowed. “But where were you? Why didn’t my mother come home last night?”
“I don’t know where she was last night. But today I took her shopping downtown. She hated everything we looked at,” he said, rolling his eyes playfully. “But that’s her way.”
Margot felt out of her depth.
“I’ll pick her up tomorrow to play cards,” Vic said, stepping back. “Around five.”
“Why don’t you come earlier?” Margot suggested. “I’d love to talk to you.”
“I’ll try to make it work,” Vic said. “I work till four thirty.”
“What is it that you do?” Margot asked.
Vic waved his hands. “I’m sorry, Margot. I’m already late. But I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
With that, Vic swept out the door and left Margot alone.
Margot stood and watched him back his swanky sports car out of the driveway. She thrummed with adrenaline and shock.
Suddenly she remembered Sam and called her immediately. Sam answered on the third ring. “Any news?” Sam asked.
Not wanting her mother or the teenager to hear, Margot stepped into the little storage room near the front door and closed the door behind her.
“Yeah. She just turned up,” Margot said. She sounded on the brink of tears.
“That’s great!” Sam cried. “Wow. What did she say? Does she seem okay?”
“She seems fine. Grumpy. Maybe even grumpier than she was twenty years ago.”
“I think that’s the disease,” Sam offered sadly.
“Yeah. But some guy brought her back. Vic Rondell?”
“I don’t know the name. Are they dating, maybe?”
“No way. I mean, I don’t think so.” Margot wanted to laugh but couldn’t. “He’s a little older than me. Forties. Handsome. He looks vaguely familiar to me, but I can’t say why. He says they met playing cards.”
“Huh.”
Margot wondered where Sam was right now. Had she been driving around all day, searching?
“Thank you for your help, Sam,” Margot said softly. “It’s been a nightmare.”
“I’m so glad she turned up. Listen, I’m not far. Want me to swing over?”
“That would be great.” Margot swallowed. “Something else is happening. Something even weirder.”
“Uh-oh.”
Margot explained that the teenager, who was sixteen or seventeen, was hiding out in the boathouse and raiding her mother’s fridge. “She won’t tell me anything. But she knows my name, Sam.”
Sam was just as shocked as she was. “Maybe she needs a warm place to crash?”
“Maybe,” Margot said.
“I’m twenty minutes away,” Sam assured her. “Hang tight.”
Margot thanked her and hung up. Slowly, she crept back out of the storage room and through the living room, looking down at her mother, who maintained focused eye contact on the television. She was watching a cooking show in which a tiny blonde made a ton of pasta. Margot’s stomach groaned.
“Mom, can I get you anything?” Margot asked. “Can I make you a sandwich? Pasta?”
Lillian waved her hand. “Melissa, can’t you see I’m watching this?”
Margot knew her mother was sick. She knew she was here to make sure Lillian was all right and someone was watching out for her. But hearing her sister’s name instead of her own stung more than it should have.
“I’m going to get you a pudding. And some tea,” Margot said because she didn’t know what else to do.
Besides, she wanted to check on the teenager.
But when she entered the kitchen, the girl was nowhere to be found. The only proof she’d been there was the wrappers all over the table and the dirty spoon in the sink. Margot let out an exhausted cry. Before she cleaned up, she left the house, speeding out to the boathouse to see if the girl had taken refuge there. But it looked as though the girl had flown the coop.