Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Present Day
H annigan’s was all set for James Bruckson’s death party.
It looked as though he’d spared no expense.
The most exquisite liquors were waiting on the bar top, as were hors d’oeuvres like stuffed mushrooms, canapes, and things with caviar.
When Sylvie and Graham came inside, they overheard one of the bartenders talking about how James Bruckson had made up his own cocktails for the occasion, as though this were a wedding reception rather than a wake.
Sylvie had never known her father to be joyful, so she could only assume that the entire affair was more fodder to make her feel guilty for not seeing him before he died.
That, or more fodder to make everyone else guilty that they hadn’t appreciated him enough.
James Bruckson had had a lot of time to think about how this would go.
“Should we order one of the special James Bruckson cocktails?” Graham asked.
“I’ll take a white wine,” Sylvie said.
“Roger that.”
Sylvie sat at a table in the corner, watching the door of the funeral home.
She knew that, after this, a hearse would drive the casket out to the cemetery, where a small collection of onlookers would watch James Bruckson’s casket be lowered into the ground.
More chilly rain spat against the glass.
She wondered if she’d have the energy to go out to the cemetery.
She tried to picture herself there—hovering above her mother’s grave as the pastor said a few final words—but couldn’t.
Graham returned with her glass of wine.
“Thank you.” Sylvie looked him in the eye and marveled at how bizarre this was.
For a moment, she allowed herself to pretend that, in fact, she and Graham had gotten married, that they’d had an entire life together, and that they’d come back to Nantucket for her father’s funeral. But life hadn’t happened that way.
“You know what I was thinking about on the way here?” Graham asked.
Sylvie was too terrified to guess. “Tell me.”
“I was thinking about that first protest we staged,” Graham said. “The regatta.”
Sylvie couldn’t help but smile. She’d often thought that morning was the best of her life—but she wasn’t about to tell him that.
She could still remember the beautiful dynamics of that kiss. She could still hear the crowd roaring in the distance as the cops whisked them away.
“We thought we were so important,” Sylvie said finally. “We really thought we could change the world.”
Graham’s smile faded the slightest bit. He’d opted for a whiskey, which he raised to clink with hers. “We thought we could. Sometimes I still think we can.”
Sylvie remembered the approaching award ceremony, where she was supposed to receive recognition for her “brilliant” work in getting the word out about environmental issues.
But so many years after that day at the regatta, she wasn’t sure if writing exposés was any more powerful than handcuffing yourself to a sailboat and forcing people to take notice.
“Weren’t you, um, staging protests? Or something?” Sylvie asked although she’d spent the majority of their time apart trying to keep Graham Ellis out of her mind.
Graham blushed. “I’ve been trying. And failing. And trying again.”
“I seem to remember some pretty high-profile cases,” Sylvie said, rolling through her thoughts, trying to remember. “Something in the Arctic Circle?”
“That was a disaster.” Graham shook his head. “I got frostbite and almost lost a toe.”
Sylvie winced.
“The worst of it was, I got deported,” Graham said, lowering his eyes. He looked ashamed. “I’d been there for months, fighting. And they still brought out their machines and started drilling.”
Sylvie was quiet for a moment. A few more guests milled in, but she couldn’t tell if they were here for her father’s wake.
One of them was a beautiful redhead who looked semi-familiar to her.
She ordered a cocktail and sat in the corner with her head bent over her phone.
Graham followed Sylvie’s gaze. His jaw dropped.
“What?” Sylvie whispered.
Jealousy made her vision blurry.
“That’s Hilary Salt,” he said as softly as he could.
“Okay?” Sylvie had never heard of her before.
Graham cupped his hand to keep his whisper directly in Sylvie’s ear. “She’s one of the wealthiest people on the island. Her mother was Isabella Helin?”
Sylvie couldn’t believe it. “The actress?”
“And her daughter is Ingrid Helin,” Graham said.
“But that isn’t why I know her. She donated millions of dollars to a cause I was involved with a few years back.
This was a national park thing out in California.
It turns out she had memories of going back decades at the park.
I’d read she lived here now, but I didn’t think she’d ever leave her compound. ”
Sylvie couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Why is she at my father’s wake?”
“I don’t know.” Graham straightened his spine. “I’m going to go talk to her.”
Now, Sylvie really didn’t know what to say. This was her big catch-up with her big ex. The last thing she wanted was for some uber wealthy celebrity daughter to interrupt it.
But Graham was already getting up and beckoning Sylvie to accompany him.
“No!” Sylvie mouthed.
But Graham gave her a look that meant come on! What do you have to lose?
Sylvie felt as though she were fifteen again, running through the mess of life with the boy she was falling in love with. She felt like they’d never been apart.
When they reached Hilary Salt’s table, she raised her chin to look at them. Her smile was sensational—genetically similar to her mother’s and daughter’s. The kind of smile that could stop you in your tracks. Sylvie’s mouth was dry.
“Ms. Salt, I’m terribly sorry to bother you,” Graham said. “But…”
Hilary was already on her feet. “I know who you are. Graham Ellis, right?” She snapped her hand out to shake his. “All those years ago, I remember you said you were from Nantucket. You said you were never coming back!”
Graham’s eyes were alight. Sylvie’s gut swirled.
“I said a lot of things,” Graham offered.
“We all do,” Hilary said. “I’m wrong about something new every few months. It’s what getting older is, I suppose.”
Hilary’s eyes shifted to Sylvie, who wanted to melt on the spot.
“You must be Sylvie Bruckson,” Hilary said softly.
Sylvie hadn’t expected that.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” Hilary raised her cocktail.
Sylvie stuttered. “Did you know my father?”
It seemed unlikely that her sour and volatile father had ever had a single conversation with the iconic Hilary Salt.
“I had the good fortune of meeting him last year,” Hilary said.
Good fortune? Sylvie’s ears rang.
“Oh. Where did you meet?” Sylvie’s feet were asleep.
“James hired my fiancé to do some handiwork around The House on Nantucket,” Hilary said. “We had him over to our place a few times.”
Fiancé! Sylvie sighed with relief. Although Hilary was a good deal older than she and Graham, she had the prowess and beauty that could allure any man.
Not that I want Graham all to myself, Sylvie reminded herself. Old habits die hard.
“Oh. Wow.” Sylvie sipped her wine, feeling out of her depths.
“He talked about you a great deal,” Hilary said. “His remarkable, brilliant journalist daughter. Fighting the good fight for environmentalism.”
Graham’s eyes flickered with intrigue.
Hilary’s perfect lips parted. “Wait a minute. Is that how you two know each other?”
Sylvie stewed in shame and fear.
“I mean, your environmentalism,” Hilary said. “Have you worked together in the past? You’re sort of a match made in heaven, right? Graham’s always handcuffing himself to bulldozers, and Sylvie’s always writing about the terrors of tourism and dying ecosystems.”
Sylvie’s tongue felt glued to the bottom of her mouth.
Graham said, “We’ve worked together in the past, yeah. Actually, we staged our first protest together.”
Hilary clasped her hands together. “You’re kidding.”
“We were fifteen,” Sylvie hurried to say. It wasn’t a big deal.
Hilary’s smile was enormous. “You started fighting right here. And now you’re both back.
I suppose you want to take on that big corporation?
That one building all those atrocious luxury hotels?
What are they called again, Graham? I saw somewhere that you had already handcuffed yourself to one of their bulldozers. What was it? Two days ago?”
Graham’s cheeks were now cherry red. Sylvie turned to look at him with surprise.
“They’re called the Next Generation Nantucket Designers,” Graham said. “What an arrogant name.”
“Awful,” Hilary agreed. “And Sylvie, are you writing a piece about them?”
With a jolt, Sylvie realized that the corporation Graham was fighting and the one that would receive money from the sale of her father’s inn was the same. Next Generation Nantucket Designers. Ugh. They really did sound like the worst people on the planet.
But Sylvie had moved on to other fights. She’d told herself she wouldn’t spend more than a few days on Nantucket.
She had a life elsewhere, didn’t she?
“Listen,” Hilary said when Sylvie seemed too mystified to answer, “I know today is tricky. I’ll stop pestering you about this.
But I’d love to have you both over for dinner soon.
Graham, I still owe you for your work back in the day.
And Sylvie, I’d love to talk to you more about your journalistic endeavors. ”
“I’d like that,” Graham said.
And because Sylvie found it difficult to say goodbye to Graham so soon after seeing him again, she agreed to dinner in two days.
It was just a couple more days on the island. Maybe it would give her time to regroup, understand what she wanted from her time on Nantucket—and figure out how to encounter the drama of her father’s will.
Suddenly, the doors to the funeral home opened. Four sturdy-looking men Sylvie didn’t recognize carried a casket down the front steps and put it in the back of a hearse. The casket carrying my father to his final resting place. Graham’s hand found the small of her back.
“Do you want to go?” he asked.
Sylvie’s throat was tight. The cemetery was the last place she wanted to be. But she felt her head drop forward into a nod.
“I’ll be here when you get back,” Hilary assured them.
Graham and Sylvie stepped into the spitting rain and soon found Valerie’s car humming at the curb, waiting for them.
Although Graham offered Sylvie the passenger seat, she preferred the back.
She wanted to sit silently, listening to the easy rhythm of Valerie and Graham’s conversations, pretending it was twenty-three years ago. Pretending she’d never left.