Lucy
Lucy sleeps over that night. Paige invites her to stay for another one, but Lucy declines. Why? Because her spine can’t withstand more sleepless hours on Paige’s lumpy couch. Because Nora is teething and Lucy has eardrums. Because Patrick texted her, how are you holding up? and she doesn’t want to cry in front of Paige again. And because it’s July, her month at the lake. She’d hate to miss another minute of it. She doesn’t have to spend any real time with Vivian. No, she’ll read on the boat. There’s no better way to spend a summer afternoon.
Paige drives her back to her car, then Lucy swings by the library on the other side of town. This place has always felt like another home away from home. The sacred hush, the soft lighting, the best chair tucked into the sunniest corner with a depressed cushion from so many years of readers sitting there, engrossed—this was her sanctuary when she was growing up. She drank up compliments on her voracious reading habits from Bess, the librarian.
Bess is still here in her uniform of long cardigans and glasses on a bejeweled chain. She offers her condolences, which is a nice thought, but makes Lucy anxious that she might crack in public. She makes polite small talk for just long enough to be socially appropriate, then excuses herself to browse. She’s walked the familiar aisles of romance, fiction, and women’s fiction (as if men can’t enjoy reading about women?) so many times, she practically has the shelves memorized. However, there’s a solid two-foot stretch of novels she’s never touched: Celeste Levy’s.
Lucy was a preteen when she figured out who Hank’s wife was, and far too scandalized to pick up her books. The mere thought of bypassing the YA shelves for the romance section was mortifying. The SNL skit making fun of soccer moms snapping up smutty Naked in New York had been bad enough—she couldn’t bring herself to actually read it. Anyway, she felt it was important to boycott Celeste’s books out of loyalty to Dawn.
Now that Vivian has crash-landed into Lucy’s life, though, her curiosity is insatiable. It’s time to read Celeste’s work. She wants to start from the very beginning, but her debut novel, The Mistress in the Mountains , isn’t on the shelves. Instead, Lucy picks up the next three— Sandals and Scandals in Santorini, Will You Maui Me?, and The Hunk in Hong Kong .
As she emerges from the aisle, a man standing between the opposite row of shelves looks up from the book splayed open in his palm. He has warm brown skin and angular cheekbones, and wears sand-colored chino shorts with a moss green linen shirt. His gaze flicks to the romance label across the end of the bookcase, then back to Lucy, where it sticks. She’s never been comfortable making casual small talk with handsome strangers—or even sustained eye contact, if she’s honest. What is she supposed to say? She knows practically everyone in Fox Hill; it’s not like she has much practice with new people.
“Hi,” she says, passing by.
He nods. “Hi there.”
His voice is rich and deep, like he could host a podcast.
When she makes her way to the checkout desk, Bess muses, “Oh, you’re getting into Celeste Levy. She used to be very popular. That book of hers…what was it called? It was spicy!”
Lucy is on the verge of blurting out something like, “She’s my stepmom!” Except there’s no simple term for “long-lost half-sister’s mother” or “recently deceased dad’s unfamiliar wife.” Besides, if she tells Bess, she’ll probably tell her husband, Larry, who will tell Mike down at the tackle shop, and by Monday morning, word will have spread across town. As far as Lucy can tell, nobody in Fox Hill has made the connection between her and Celeste yet, and she’d like to keep it that way.
Instead, she simply says, “I don’t know, but I didn’t see The Mistress in the Mountains in stock. Do you know if it’s available?”
“Let me check.” Bess glances over Lucy’s shoulder. “I’ll be with you in one minute, Harrison.”
Lucy turns to see the man behind her. Bess’s exclamation— It was spicy! —rings in her ears. Did he hear that?
“Hi,” she says again, blushing.
One side of his mouth quirks up. “Hi.”
It sinks in that they’ve already had this exchange. She wishes she didn’t look so disheveled in her borrowed clothes, a shapeless T-shirt and pull-on shorts so washed and worn, they might as well be pajamas. Yesterday’s underwear is on inside out.
“It’s probably not that spicy,” she says, embarrassed.
He tilts his head. “Sorry, what’s not?”
“Oh, nothing, just…”
She’s flailing for a way to finish that sentence when Bess saves her.
“It’s out right now. I could call you when it comes in.”
Blushing, she says, “That would be great. Thank you so much.”
Bess slides her glasses a half inch down her nose. “Take care.”
The man—Harrison, Bess said?—glances at her again as she exits. By the time she reaches her car, she hears another whoosh of the library door. She’s digging through her purse for her keys, and in her peripheral vision, the man pauses outside the building and squints into the sunshine.
“Oh, hey!” he calls.
He jogs in her direction, apparently on purpose. If he’s from out of town—which, from his leather watchband and pristine white canvas sneakers, is likely—maybe he needs directions.
“Hi,” she says.
“I…I saw you in there.”
“Yeah.”
He steps forward and extends a hand. His nails are neat. She hopes he doesn’t notice her ragged cuticles.
“I’m Harrison, by the way. I just wanted to say hi. Again.”
“Lucy. Hi.”
He repeats her name. There’s something magnetic about his eyes.
“Nice to meet you.”
“You, too,” she says, flustered.
He’s not asking for directions. She didn’t drop her wallet. Guys don’t chase her across parking lots to make friends. Is this…romantic? Lucy’s brain feels like Jell-O. Not once in her adult life has she ever considered another man as anything more than a friend.
But if Lucy were single, she’d theoretically be interested in getting to know a man who reads. And she is kind of single now. Begrudgingly, but still.
He nods at the stack in her arms. “What did you check out?”
“Oh, just…books.”
“No kidding,” he says, raising an eyebrow.
She clears her throat. “Romance novels.”
He nods gamely. “Spicy,” he says, like they already share an inside joke.
Lucy could die. “What did you get?”
“He glances down at the chunky door-stopper. “Stephen King.”
“A classic,” she says.
“I’m ashamed I haven’t read him already.” He glances away and bites his lip, then turns back to make solid eye contact. “I never do this, but I have to ask—would you want to go out sometime?”
Panic shoots through her. She scrambles to rearrange her expression into something calm, as if this kind of thing happens to her all the time.
“For a drink or a coffee, or something like that?” he adds.
It takes a moment to rein in her butterflies. “Yeah?” she says, feeling outrageously awkward. “That would be nice, thank you.”
Was she supposed to thank him for asking her out? She has no idea.
“Great. Can I get your number?”
Lucy recites it, though she’s so rattled, she can’t be sure she got all the digits in the right order.
“All right, well…” There’s something about the self-assured, teasing way he looks at her that makes it hard to breathe. “Enjoy your books. Watch out for the spicy parts. I’ll text you.”
She sinks into her car as he walks away. Lucy doesn’t know anything about dating. Not as an adult anyway. If Harrison hasn’t already noticed her puffy face or utter inability to string two words together, he certainly would up close on a date. On the drive home, she’s already scripting how to politely let him down.
Lucy’s almost on Loon Road when the school’s principal calls. He never calls. It’s the thick of summer break. Worried, she pulls over and picks up.
“Hello?”
“Lucy, hi. How’s your summer going?”
What a question.
“Good, thanks, how are you?”
“Excellent, excellent. Little hot today—I melt in the heat.” With a nervous laugh, he continues. “The kids are down in Boston with their grandparents for the week, and Becca and I are…”
Lucy closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, absorbing none of this. Get to the point. Please just get to the point.
“Anyway, is this a good time for a chat? I know you’re probably wondering why I’m calling.” His tone is awkward and tense. Lucy doesn’t like it.
“Now is great.”
“Well. I hate to say it, but the school board is making more budget cuts, and this time, they’re aimed at the English and history departments. We’re not able to renew everyone’s contracts, as much as I’d like to. The other teachers, they have tenure, or families, and it would be terrible to let them go. The long and short of it is, your position has been cut for the upcoming school year.”
A chill runs through Lucy. “Oh.”
“I wish I was calling with better news.”
“Thank you for letting me know.”
She doesn’t remember how the rest of the call goes because she plunges headfirst into survival mode, calculating how many days there are until the start of the new school year (fifty-eight), how long she can afford to go without a paycheck (not long enough), how much her severance will be (zero—teachers don’t get it), and how many teaching jobs are likely to be available in the state of Maine at this point in the summer (less than zero). It’s probably impossible to get licensed to teach elsewhere on such short notice, and if she doesn’t secure a new position by the end of August, she’ll be screwed for the next full year.
“Take care, Lucy. I’m sure you’ll land somewhere great,” he says, sounding guilty and entirely unconvinced.
In a horrified daze, she drives the last half mile home, forgetting to dodge every single pothole. No job. No income. No husband. And soon no place to live. She’s utterly anchorless. When she parks in the driveway, the house looks golden in the sunshine. It’s twice the size of anything else on Fox Hill Lake, with coveted west-facing views and a lengthy stretch of waterfront. If she needs a quick infusion of cash, here’s her gut-wrenching answer—except Vivian would never hand over a dime.
Inside, a muffled shriek erupts from the basement. She jogs down the stairs to her least favorite part of the house. The floors are cold concrete and the air is musty. Cobwebs multiply in the corners.
Vivian, clutching a wrench with rubber gloves, ducks away from a spray shooting out from a pipe, snatches her laptop off the floor, and whisks it up to a high shelf for safety. Bikini strings dangle from the back of her neck, like this foray into housework interrupted her day of leisure. She wipes her forehead with the back of her arm.
“It broke!” Vivian shouts. “I was just trying to fix it.”
“Fix what?”
“The water heater thing! The boiler.” A YouTube tutorial is paused on her screen.
“Why didn’t you call a plumber?”
“They’re all booked for weeks! I need to shower , Lucy.”
Patrick could probably fix this. He liked to tinker with these kinds of things. She could call him, but with a jolt of dread, it hits her: It’s entirely possible he could say no. She couldn’t face rejection like that in front of Vivian.
“Is it hot?”
“No!” Vivian moans. “That’s the problem!”
In a huff, she tries to screw a piece of metal back onto the pipe, but that only leads to water spouting off in three different directions, including onto Vivian. Frustrated, she stops the jet by pressing both palms against it. Lucy gapes.
“Are you going to just stand there or actually help me?”
Lucy doesn’t know a thing about plumbing, but with no better options, she grabs the wrench. Vivian is all too happy to give it up. She rips off her gloves and storms to her computer.
“I’m googling it,” she says.
Lucy spins a knob in one direction, then tries the other.
“Okay, I think you just have to…screw the cap thing back on, maybe?” Vivian says.
“Yeah. I got that part.” Obviously.
The rusted metal doesn’t want to budge. Water pools around her feet. Grimacing, Lucy leans all her weight into the wrench. The cap fits into place and the stream vanishes.
Instead of feeling satisfied that she could swoop in to fix Vivian’s mess, she’s just heartbroken. If Lucy’s days on Fox Hill Lake are numbered, Vivian could at least let her enjoy them. Instead, she gets to watch Vivian treat the house like a mean-spirited kid would treat a Barbie doll: rip out a chunk of hair, twist an arm on backward.
“Thanks for your help,” Vivian says, sounding like she’s aiming for sincerity.
“Don’t worry about it. Just give me half of the proceeds from the sale and we’ll call it even,” she says brazenly.
Vivian’s expression sours as she crosses her arms. “We’ve had this discussion already.”
“I just lost my job.”
Her eyes pop. “What?”
“I just got the call.”
“I’m really sorry to hear that.”
Vivian looks genuinely stricken, and for the first time in days, Lucy feels a sliver of optimism that she could change her mind.
“At this point, I’d be shocked if there are still any open teaching jobs around. I need the money, Vivian. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
Begging makes her skin crawl.
Vivian’s show of sympathy evaporates. “It’s a shitty situation, and I’m sorry, I really am, but—”
“You ‘need the money,’ I know,” Lucy says acidly, pausing to let that sink in. “Right.”
Vivian rears back. “You have no right to this place. You’re mad that I’m here during ‘your month,’ but if anything, you’re here in my house.”
Nobody makes her feel as powerless and hopeless as Vivian does. This isn’t just about the sale anymore—it’s about Vivian’s conviction that she can steamroll Lucy simply because she’s rich.
“Do you hear yourself? You’re gallivanting around on an endless pity payroll vacation, dead set on snatching this place away from an unemployed teacher. You know most people have to work, right?”
Vivian glares. Lucy’s exhilarated to finally have gotten under her skin.
“Losing my job has huge consequences for me, and you’re just lolling around, not even bothering to show up for work.”
She reddens. “Oh, come on.”
“You don’t know the first thing about needing money. My mom puts buckets in the living room every time it rains or snows. She would’ve had the roof fixed years ago, but she’s been paying off medical debt for the past decade.”
Vivian frowns. “My dad had to have offered to help. I mean, if she was seriously sick. Right?”
Lucy loathes that Vivian can afford to be so detached from her family’s finances while she can account for every dollar. Her half-sister is five feet and nine inches of privilege draped in expensive linen.
“My mom didn’t tell him. She didn’t want to be his charity case. He’d just paid for most of my tuition. You took it for granted that he paid yours, didn’t you?”
There were limits to his financial support; Lucy and Dawn both knew this. He didn’t offer to help pay for the roof, even though Lucy had mentioned it to him once or twice, hoping he’d take the hint. He didn’t chip in much for her wedding, but he walked her down the aisle. (Lucy knew her mom chafed at him receiving that honor, but Lucy had spent years dreaming about that father-daughter tradition.)
“Yeah, but—”
No, Lucy will not allow herself to be cut off. Not over this.
“We didn’t take family vacations to Aruba, or Aspen, or Paris,” Lucy says, reeling off destinations she saw on Vivian’s social media half a lifetime ago. “Or Sardinia, wherever that even is.”
Vivian opens her mouth to answer but apparently thinks better of it.
“I didn’t get to go to sleepaway camp or private school, or have my parents pay for a swanky off-campus apartment in college. I didn’t have a nanny— I actually babysat from the time I was eleven years old, because an allowance wasn’t in my mom’s budget. I mean, do you even know how much a gallon of milk costs?”
Silence fills the basement. Stony-faced, Vivian takes a stab at it. “Maybe…three dollars? Five?”
Lucy smirks. Hank let Vivian grow up sheltered—stay sheltered, too. Lucy doesn’t want to dwell on why he didn’t do the same for her.
“Why do you even need to sell this place? Can’t you just get money from your mom?”
“She wouldn’t give it to me outright.”
“Why not?”
“She doesn’t know I’m leaving Della.”
Lucy could explode. “So? Tell her!”
“It’s complicated.”
Dripping with sarcasm, Lucy says, “I’m sure.”
“I’m glad you’ve come around to selling the house—”
“Only as a last resort.”
“But it isn’t yours to sell.”
Lucy’s throat stings with the threat of tears. “So you make a single phone call to a Realtor, practically flood the basement, and think that’s enough work to deserve the full payout? How does that math work?”
Vivian draws a deep breath. “Look, if Dad wanted you to have it, he’d have done something about it—he didn’t.” She heads upstairs without another word.
Lucy scrunches down in an Adirondack chair on the back deck with a can of seltzer sweating on the arm rest, her feet kicked up on a plastic stool and her laptop balanced against her knees. A furious search turns up exactly two job listings for English teachers within sixty miles: a middle school role in Lewiston and a position at Casco Bay High School in Portland. More than she expected, honestly, but still dismal. The Portland job tugs at her, though getting her hopes up feels dangerous. She’ll apply to both, but even though she’s confident in her teaching skills—more self-assured than she is in any other realm of her life—she’s afraid neither opportunity will pan out. At this point in the summer, it seems all too possible that the school administrators simply forgot to take down the listings.
When she attempts to locate her résumé so she can spruce it up, she realizes the file is so old, it predates her (now clunky, outdated) laptop. It’s not saved to her desktop or even buried in her files. She finally digs it out of the recesses of her inbox—she’d once sent it to Patrick for his thoughts. (“Looks good, Luce.”) She scans it, seeing the work of her twenty-two-year-old self, written before she had even tossed her graduation cap. It is painfully earnest, listing her GPA (3.9, thanks to the required math course she’d hated) and noting her “special skills” include typing and the use of Microsoft Word, as if either of these could possibly set her apart from the rest of the class of 2016. None of her work leading a classroom appears at all; this was written months before she began her first and—to date—only job. Okay. So this might need more than a little “sprucing up.”
Distilling her nine years of experience into a list of tidy, compelling bullet points is daunting. She could mention her ability to create engaging lesson plans and her skill in drawing out insightful discussions about literature from a roomful of unenthusiastic teenagers. And sure, all that would be fine. Solid. But Lucy needs to be better than that. She needs to be great.
With the eagle eye she usually lends to grading term papers, she polishes the document until it shines. She no longer “helps students learn”; she “encourages them to thrive in an academic setting.”
There’s still more she’s itching to offer up, so she pours that into her cover letter. She’s proud of helping a student who used to flounder due to his dyslexia. Lucy found every title in her curriculum on audiobook and presented him with the fully stocked account the morning after she learned of his IEP. He was skeptical at first, asking what the point was when he didn’t care about books anyway. By the end of the year, not only had his grades improved, but he was listening to books for pleasure, too. She’d converted him into a reader.
“I’m committed to making a real difference in students’ lives,” she writes. Lucy stares out at the lake, turning the sentence over in her mind as she watches a sailboat drift past their house. She deletes the line, tries again. “I make an impact on my students’ lives that extends beyond the classroom.”
She reads her application over a dozen times before she works up the courage to hit send. The adrenaline that floods her veins feels identical to the split second between jumping off the dock and landing in the water: suspended in limbo, waiting to make a splash. Waiting to savor what comes next.