Chapter 3
Hannah couldn’t believe she’d lost her job.
After fifteen years at the newspaper, fifteen years as Josh’s right-hand woman and friend and confidant, Hannah was forced to step away.
That night, minutes after Minnie had stormed upstairs, sitting on the front porch with a glass of wine and an uneaten pizza, Hannah allowed herself, momentarily, to pretend that she hadn’t pursued that story, that she hadn’t published the article, that she hadn’t pushed Kendall out of her life, that everything could remain the same.
But that wasn’t honest, she knew. And if there was one thing she cared about—as a journalist, as a woman against capitalistic greed, as a feminist, and as an environmentalist—it was the pursuit and revelation of truth.
Hannah knew there were numerous things to do.
She had to talk to a lawyer, hire a real estate agent, figure out how to divorce Kendall, who wasn’t to be found, and start looking for new jobs.
Minnie was right that Miami was the only home they knew, but she was wrong to think that they couldn’t start over somewhere else.
The big question was where? Hannah went through her mind’s catalog of potential places, considering all the cities and states she’d ever fantasized about.
She and an old boyfriend had dreamed of California, of Hollywood and glam and palm trees and glorious sunsets over the Pacific.
But when Kendall had taken her there on vacation a few years ago, Hannah had hated the traffic, she’d hated that everything was even more expensive than in Miami, and she’d hated the smog that filled the streets and made her cough.
Plus, she didn’t want Minnie to grow up in a place that capitalized on women’s beauty, first and foremost, rather than their intelligence.
Where else? Hannah took out a slice of pizza and ate it, furrowing her brow.
Growing up, Hannah had enjoyed the coziness of small-town living.
She’d enjoyed the slower pace and how everyone knew everyone.
Everyone had watched out for and kept tabs on one another.
Her small town had been in Ohio, surrounded by cornfields and boring highways.
Hannah couldn’t bring herself to go back to Ohio.
She didn’t have any family left there, and she didn’t like the feeling of going backward in time, rather than forward.
When it came to her career, she decided she could go anywhere.
She could freelance, or write longer-form articles, or maybe write the book she’d been planning in the back of her head for ten years.
Miami had been a rat race, a place where she and Kendall had been at odds, trying to prove themselves.
But without Kendall in her life, Hannah could breathe again.
Hannah wondered if she’d ever be able to explain any of this to Minnie. Maybe, when Minnie was in her twenties, she’d begin to understand the poison in Hannah and Kendall’s relationship. Maybe she’d understand that the true villain of the story was Kendall—not her mother.
But Kendall and Minnie were as thick as thieves, Hannah knew.
It would be a difficult road, explaining to Minnie how heinous her father’s crimes were.
“He didn’t steal millions of dollars because he loved you, honey,” Hannah muttered to the darkness now.
“He stole that money because he wanted to win, to take advantage of people he deemed lesser than him. He…” But she trailed off, her heart overwhelmed with the trauma of the day.
The decision to move to Nantucket Island came from a long, sad scroll through social media.
Unable to sleep most nights that first week after the article was published, Hannah catapulted herself into fantasies her friends published online.
One of her friends from college, Natalie Johnson, had married a banker who’d bought a glorious house on Nantucket Island, where they were busy raising their three sons, sailing, barbecuing, and taking photographs that made them look like the prettiest and most all-American family around.
Hannah did a little more digging into Nantucket Island.
She was drawn in by photographs of cobblestone streets, long, white beaches, 50 percent of the island preserved, gorgeous restaurants, and a tight-knit community that came together during the off-season months.
She pictured herself and Minnie on a sailboat, sailing around the island, laughing together in a way they’d never been able to.
She pictured Minnie, happy and unafraid and suntanned.
Maybe they’d learn how to play tennis together. Maybe Minnie would go to college nearby—an Ivy League, even! —and call Hannah for advice about boyfriends. Maybe there would be a Nantucket wedding: all green lawns and pristine beaches and champagne.
Hannah could dream, couldn’t she? Maybe she had to dream enough for both of them.
While Minnie kept to herself in her bedroom, still unwilling to talk to her mother or go to school, Hannah researched properties on Nantucket.
Most everything was out of her price range, especially given that they would no longer receive anything from Kendall and that Hannah was unemployed.
But since Hannah and Minnie would be moving away from Miami, they’d sell almost everything, including the house.
And a charming, romantic, and slightly run-down house on the beach of Nantucket Island seemed to match what she could afford.
Out of nowhere, Hannah called Natalie to inquire about the property.
“Hannah! How are you?” Natalie sounded thrilled to hear from her. Hannah couldn’t tell if it was fake enthusiasm. She decided to believe it was real.
Hannah explained what was up. She was in the middle of a divorce (sort of, although it felt far more complicated than that), and she and Minnie were looking for a new home.
“Do you know anything about this place off Miacomet Beach? Do you know the area?” she asked, praying that Natalie would give the okay.
“Let me ask around,” Natalie said. “And I can drive by later today.” She hesitated before adding, “What’s the rush? Why not come see it yourself before you buy it?”
“We need to start over as soon as possible,” Hannah said, her throat tight with fear. “It’s hard to explain.”
Natalie said she understood. But how could she? According to her social media presence, the biggest problem Natalie had was choosing which moisturizer to use on her hands.
Hannah waited with bated breath until Natalie called back a few hours later. “It’s a fixer-upper,” Natalie said. “Are you into those house refurbishment shows?”
Too busy with her career, Hannah had never watched a home renovation show. “I love them,” she lied. “I always dreamed about redoing a space one day.”
“Perfect!” Natalie launched into a story about how she and her husband had done a complete restoration of their house on Nantucket, too, before they’d moved in. “Life is what you make of it! And so often, divorce opens a new chapter. It’s exciting for you! And for Minnie,” she cooed.
The next two weeks felt like a whirlwind. Just as soon as it was put on the market, Hannah had an offer on the house in Miami, the house she and Kendall had purchased all those years ago, the house where they’d raised little Minnie into the teenager who now hated her.
Incredibly, the buyers wanted to purchase much of the furniture, which was a godsend, as it meant far fewer tasks for Hannah.
The real estate agent explained that they loved the space as it was and the “unique details” that Hannah’s family had selected.
Hannah remembered the interior designer that Kendall had insisted on a few years ago, the woman who’d decided how the entire space was decorated.
At the time, Hannah had suspected that Kendall and the interior designer were having an affair.
But rather than confront him, Hannah had thrown herself even deeper into work.
She’d won an award for journalism that year.
Kendall had even said the articles she wrote around then were okay.
She’d accepted the compliment. She’d slowly felt the interior designer leave his life, although she’d never asked for sure if they’d had something. She’d been surprised to feel how little she really cared.
After she purchased the house on Nantucket, Hannah communicated everything to Minnie through Minnie’s cracked bedroom door.
She explained where Nantucket was, how beautiful the next era of their lives would be, and what Minnie needed to do to help Hannah prepare.
“Pack everything you want to bring with you,” Hannah said.
“But try to limit it to a few suitcases. We aren’t bringing anything big. ”
Minnie answered with an awful sigh that chilled Hannah to the bone.
The drive from Miami to Hyannis Port, where they would take the ferry to Nantucket Island, was more than fifteen hundred miles.
That meant approximately twenty-three hours total of driving, give or take, plus rest and food stops.
Hannah charted out the route on a sheet of paper, thinking that Minnie could help her with directions as they went.
Thinking they’d drive maybe seven or eight hours per day, she found hotel stops along the way in Georgia and Pennsylvania, hotels with decent breakfasts and good ratings.
When she saw Minnie, who was not often in the lead-up to the drive, she tried to pep her up.
“We’re going on a great American road trip,” she said.
“We’re going to live somewhere so beautiful that people usually only go there on vacation! ”
Minnie hardly ever answered her. When she did, she said something like, “We need more bread,” or “We’re out of juice.” It was disheartening, to say the least.
Hannah tried to remind herself that time was not her enemy. The more time passed, the more Minnie would forgive her. She hoped.