Chapter 11 Take Me Home （Margot）
TAKE ME HOME (MARGOT)
Ihate to admit Kane was right.
He was right about a lot of things, but especially about the corner I’m in. And the only way out is to call Mom.
I’ve wasted a ton of time trying to figure out what Gramps left for me and where.
No progress.
If there’s a chance Mom knows anything, I just need to summon the courage to ask.
I’ve been putting it off for a while, but with the tea Edith Griffith spilled about the Babins, it’s obvious there’s a lot I don’t know about this house and the family history.
No, I’m not expecting miracles.
Not in this family.
Mom and Gramps were estranged for my whole life, but maybe she remembers something.
I mean, she knew her own mother and loved her until the day Grams died. And before the adult blunders, before the grudges ripped them apart, she knew and loved PopPop, too. No matter how much she likes to pretend she never did.
Honestly, I think she might’ve changed her name years ago, if it didn’t win her so much easy respect. It’s even weirder that she kept it after she married Dad, and it’s the whole reason we’re still Blackthorns.
But still, it’s worth a try. It’s worth the drama.
If she drops one teensy little nugget that leads me in a new direction, it’ll justify picking at old scar tissue.
It’s evening now, the sky half-dusky with a vibrant orange sunset fading behind the trees.
Maine is a living painting sometimes, so beautiful even Dadzilla had to admit he’s enjoying his time here.
I smile.
Every time I close my eyes, I feel his weight behind me.
His strong arms around me and his massive hands on the reins next to mine.
His hand on my back when we were talking to Edith Griffith.
He knew I needed that silent comfort, the reassurance to keep up a strong front against my worries and the confusion nipping at my soul. That’s why I whipped up a small batch of blueberry muffins once we came home, my way of saying thanks.
And I feel like I need his reassurance again now, alone in my room as I stare at my phone.
Yeah, talking to Mom about her father will never be easy, especially now that he’s gone. That almost makes it worse.
I think it’s one of several reasons Gramps passed on having a proper funeral. He wouldn’t put Mom through that—or us.
But there wasn’t much of a goodbye through the old man’s pride.
Everything we learned this past year about Ethan, about Mom’s relationship, about the affair and panic my grandfather’s ego triggered, it just made things more awkward.
But she’s my mother.
And she answers on the second ring while my breath turns to cement in my lungs.
“Mom?”
“Margot! Darling! How are you?”
I close my eyes. “I’m decent. Still hanging out here at the lake house, y’know.”
“That old place? God.” There’s instant venom in her tone. “How’s it holding up, anyway? Last I heard, it was practically derelict. Holden Verity, he recommended extensive renovations, if not a teardown and—”
“Mom, I know, and it’s not that bad. It’s safe and the appliances still work.
” After a strained second, I decide not to mention Kane and his fixer-upper superpowers that helped make this place bearable.
“I was actually just calling to see if you might remember anything special about the house. Anything important, I mean?”
“Important how?” Her voice sharpens.
“I don’t know. Just like—anything significant that might’ve been forgotten? Anything PopPop left behind or just loved about this place?”
I hear her sigh, slow and tortured.
“I should’ve known. Don’t tell me that awful man slapped more ridiculous conditions on you inheriting that dive. The way he insisted on bringing you two up there as kids was dreadful enough. I wanted to tell him to—”
“No! Mom, no,” I say quickly. “Nothing like that. I told you everything after my little meeting with Jackie Wilkes. Remember? No conditions. No fake marriage funny business like Ethan.”
“Well, good. He always did enjoy his little games and riddles, but the time for that ended the day he died. It was childish enough while he was still alive, always spinning stories or adding to his little art collection more than he paid attention to his business. Idiot,” she huffs out.
My heart sinks.
This is going so well.
I shuffle to the bed, sliding my feet under me, steeling my nerves.
Outside, a large harvest moon rises. I can practically feel its call to the tides and ancient colonial witches and creatures of the night.
The quieter New England gets, the wilder the country.
“Margot, really, what has you so stressed? What did he do this time?”
“…he left me a letter,” I say.
“A letter. Oh, here we go.”
“Hold up, Mom. It didn’t say much. Just that he regrets a lot of stuff that happened. But it did say there’s supposedly something hidden here on the property somewhere—and I haven’t had much luck finding it. I guess I just wondered if you could clue me into anything?”
There’s a pause, and I hear the faint click of her heels as she walks through the house. She’s angry-pacing like she always does when Gramps is on her mind.
Always heels, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her in flats.
But honestly, Mom’s taste in shoes probably helped spark my lifelong devotion. Even so, it’s a lot to take in right now.
“There’s nothing valuable there. Holden combed the entire property and sent a full inventory about a week after my father died. He was always so meticulous, and I trust him. Far more than the man who was signing his checks,” she says distantly.
“Yes, I remember.” I roll my eyes. “You sent him on a mission.”
My parents were adamant about cataloguing everything that might top off their little fortune at auction.
Mom’s main religion is money. Knowing they’d get the bulk of Gramps’ collection to sell was good enough, minus a few items at his old house in Portland earmarked for my artsy little cousin.
“Then you know all of his assets and personal property were accounted for when we hashed out the estate.”
“I know, Mom. Jackie shared the inventory with me.”
“Well, then why would you expect me to know about anything else? Do I look like the kind to hide his secrets?”
“I just thought there could be something off-record. Maybe sentimental. Mrs. Griffith, the lady we had managing the rental, she mentioned how much Grams loved to come here and paint when she was alive, and—”
Mom sighs louder, silencing me.
“Darling, darling, darling. Oh, dear.” She almost sounds tender. Which isn’t very Mom-like, when I’m pretty sure she took parenting pointers from those birds who push their chicks out of the nest to make them fly.
“He’s got you chasing ghosts. My mother loved to paint there, it’s true.
We’d go into that gazebo, and she’d sit me on her knee in front of a canvas when I was little and guide my hand.
Just me, Mother, and the lake. I loved it, though I never developed her appreciation for painting.
But you must understand, that’s all that ever happened. It certainly didn’t include him.”
“Look, I know you don’t have the best opinion of Gramps, but—”
“It doesn’t matter,” she interrupts. “I know the lake house is lovely, even if it’s been rotting for years.
But you’re still so young, Margot. The last thing you need is to waste your time hunting down whatever my deranged father left lying around.
Please don’t waste the brain cells. Don’t give him the satisfaction, wherever the hell he’s gone. ”
A lump builds in my throat.
Just once, I wish she’d give him a shred of respect.
But while we’re at it, I wish I could wake up to a Paris runway, where women cut like human statues strut out smiling in my shoes.
“What if it’s important? Some piece of art that was too tucked away for Holden to find?”
“If it was that important, darling, he should’ve been direct with you. He wasn’t, and that’s on him,” she bites off. “Of course, I can’t stop you. If you really want to fritter away your time looking high and low behind every rat-infested wall, then fine, knock yourself out.”
This was productive.
Mom never has a clear head when it comes to Gramps, and she’s not the sweet, nurturing presence most people expect with mothers. She can be encouraging, she can be supportive, but she’s rarely kind.
I used to hate it, the lack of real softness. Almost like she was terrified of being overwhelmed if she offered us any real love.
Now, I know more about her and the reasons she burned her bridge with Gramps. The hard fact that Ethan isn’t Dad’s child and I am, so yeah, it makes a little more sense.
She’s still broken and hurting from Gramps thinking Dad wasn’t good enough to marry into the Blackthorn family.
She’s also arranged her life in a way that doesn’t revolve around children.
Fine, I get it.
But it also fucking sucks for the kids involved.
Not that I’m a kid anymore.
I’m a grown-ass woman, and I’m used to this crap.
“Thanks for the encouragement, Mom. If you can turn the hate machine off long enough to recall anything useful, call me.”
I end the call without a goodbye and roll over, frustration burning my skin until it itches.
I swear I’m going to overdose on secrets here.
Whatever secret Gramps left, plus the whole weird business with the Babins. Were they really the monsters Edith Griffith said?
Lawsuits?
Arson?
Potentially trying to scare me and the poor kids in this house.
Kane hasn’t said anything else about it, but I know he’s on high alert.
Right now, he’s downstairs with them, watching a movie and doing whatever bonding dad stuff you do with kids that age.
He’s also keeping the evening watch. I just know it.
It’s a relief to have him here, but I can’t stop the pang of guilt that tells me if he hadn’t come, the Saints wouldn’t be sharing this mess.
I text Hattie and power up my iPad while I wait for her reply.
I haven’t forgotten my other sad little secret.
After Sophie poured her heart out about her shoes, I started looking up orthopedic shoes and their designs, their function.
Turns out, there’s a lot to learn.