Staying in Nantucket (The Lobster Shack #4)

1. Meredith

MEREDITH

The last time I walked through the doors of the Perez and Faulter law offices, I swore that nothing on God’s green Earth would ever make me go back.

By now, you would’ve thought I was used to being wrong.

But nothing has so aggressively upended my life as sisterhood has, so perhaps this was to be expected.

That kind of love—deep, all-encompassing, instinctive, down to my very bones—is enough to turn the world on its head and dismantle all my best-laid intentions.

The only reason my hands don’t shake as I stride through my old office floor is that I’m thinking about her. That look of pure terror as the cops shoved her into the back of their cruiser still haunts me.

What have you gotten yourself into, June?

That kind of love—territorial, angry, desperate in ways no one else has ever induced—was worth the stares now. The whispers. The raised eyebrows.

“Meredith?”

I know it’s Carmen. I’d recognize her voice even if she hadn’t handled my divorce. After all, she was my friend until it turned out she liked Mark better. Another asset he’d won in the proceedings.

I ignore her as she comes to my side, trying to keep up, likely to stall me in some way. But I only have one destination in mind, and this is humiliating enough without stopping for small talk.

“Hey, wait a minute!”

Mark has a new PA. It’s annoyingly the first thing I notice when I reach his office. I wonder, vaguely, whether the old one voluntarily moved on or whether Mark’s father decided the optics of keeping his son’s mistress around were too detrimental to the firm’s image.

“Is he in?” I ask the startled new face.

His eyes glance between Carmen and me. “Um…he’s on a video call right now?—”

“Great.” I don’t break pace as I push through the hardwood doors, ignoring the pleas to stop, and rest my attention on the man sitting behind the desk.

It’s been three months since I last saw him, since he last bothered to attend family court, yet nothing about him has changed.

His dark features are groomed to perfection.

His full lips curve into an all too familiar smirk as I arrive, his chin resting on his hand as he contorts himself into a picture of nonchalance.

His suit might be new, but he also gets them tailored every month and a half to ensure a near-suffocating fit.

My arms cross my chest.

“I’m sorry, but I have to go. Get Amil to reschedule, will you?” Mark doesn’t bother waiting for a response before closing his laptop completely.

We stare at each other for a moment.

I’m aware, in the back of my mind, that I should be embarrassed by his appraisal. I haven’t showered since the Shack opening, and the only reason I didn’t board a plane in my apron was because Eddie shoved a fresh shirt my way when he dropped me off at the airport.

But it’s drowned out by a deeper, sickening kind of embarrassment as I prepare to do something far worse than commit an aesthetic faux pas—ask Mark for help.

“I’m sorry, sir, I tried to stop her.” Carmen appears in the doorway a beat later, the PA a millisecond behind.

Mark raises a hand magnanimously. “It’s fine. Please, wait outside.”

“Sir—”

“Now.”

I hear, more than see, them both scramble back from the door.

As Mark continues to stare, I gather my nerves with one long breath in…then out. “There’s something important I need to discuss with you.” The words thankfully come out as intended, neutral and transparent.

He tilts his head in his hand. “Believe it or not, I’d gathered that much when you barged into my office.”

But I ignore him. “I’d like you to hear me out. You owe me that much.”

“If this is about the nisi period?—”

“It has nothing to do with the divorce.”

“From where I’m standing, I think it has everything to do with it.” The new voice almost makes me jump out of my skin.

Both of us break our glare to turn toward the new addition to the office.

“Nicolás,” I greet my ex-father-in-law on an outbreath, suddenly feeling the wind being snatched from my sails.

Once again, it feels like no time has passed—his appearance is frighteningly similar to that of the man who pulled me into his office all those months ago to deliver an ultimatum.

I’d been too frantic, in my imminent-divorce-desperation, to see that conversation for what it truly was—my last marching orders.

I realize a beat later that, as the firm’s named partner, few dared address him by his given name. The fumble on my part turns my cheeks red. “Mr. Perez, sir,” I hastily correct myself.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Meredith.” As fond as his words sound, his tone leans toward scolding as he approaches his son’s desk, slapping the newspaper down before him. “I assume you’re here about this.” He taps a headline I can’t make out, but Mark instantly latches on to.

“Shack Shock: Arrest Stuns Locals at Holloway Reopening,” Mark reads aloud. “A bit kitsch, don’t you think?”

I make a quick calculation and turn to address Nick instead. “My sister needs representation. I’m prepared to negotiate a higher fee if you’d be willing to accept a payment plan or services in kind. I’m still registered to practice in Boston if you need paralegal work.”

Nick doesn’t even pretend to consider it. “Mark will take the case pro bono.”

“Excuse me?”

I swallow my surprise. “With all due respect, sir, I’m not sure that’s conducive to a positive working environment.”

“Then I will expect Mark to be on his best behavior.” He finally acknowledges his son. “We’ve had several enlightening discussions about making beds and…what was it, lying in them? Have we not?”

All nonchalance has evaporated from Mark’s stature at the ego blow. “I’ve paid my dues. It’s been handled quietly.”

Nick taps the paper. “Regardless, Meredith Perez is connected to a high-profile federal case. Refusing to aid her will only compromise our image more than you’ve done already.”

“She wouldn’t be here if this case didn’t have legs, and the nisi period is over in less than a month,” Mark argues back. “She won’t be a Perez by the time this wraps up.”

“Then I suppose it’s in her best interest to dissolve her divorce filings then, isn’t it?” He addresses Mark as he says this, but I’m the one who feels the full brunt of the compromise.

My stomach drops to my knees, and my lungs stutter to a brief stop because I’d been prepared for this. Even if it had meant coming back to Boston, even if it meant leaving my family—leaving Eddie—behind while I paid off this debt.

But I hadn’t seen this coming and hadn’t even considered how my divorce had affected the firm’s image, how Nicolás might try to spin this in his favor, how I might be wrangled, once again, into playing the perfect, doting wife.

My only solace is that Mark looks equally blindsided, staring out the window with a normlessness I haven’t seen since college.

“To be clear,” I find myself saying. “You’re willing to provide me with legal support so long as I remain married to Mark?”

Nick graciously turns back to me. “Consider it a mutually beneficial agreement.”

“And nothing is stopping me from filing for divorce again once this is all over?”

This seems to snap Mark from his musings, dark eyes flickering to me with something sharp. A warning, perhaps, that I would disregard even if I valued his opinion.

“I suppose not,” Nicolás acquiesces. “Though I would be remiss to request that you make such a decision carefully.”

Before I can point out how threatening that sounds, he continues.

“Your talents would, after all, be wasted as a paralegal.”

Oh. It’s a compliment. At least, I think it’s a compliment.

I consider the older man for another moment, wondering if somewhere behind that brutal demeanor might be something…softer in his regard for me. It would be a nice sentiment if he weren’t the one who encouraged me to leave in the first place.

But it’s something to dwell on later. Now, I need to make a decision, my sister’s livelihood hanging in the balance.

And really, that kind of love?

Well, it would make a martyr out of anyone.

May 2026 – Present

The divorce settlement documents are, ironically, relatively light in my hand.

The weight comes from the fact that they’re in my hand almost a year later than I expected.

If I’d been asked back then, walking out of the probate and family court for the first “last time,” what I’d be doing when the nisi period was finally over…

Well, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t believe I was living back in Nantucket, in my family home, working as a part-time carer and restaurant accountant, with a full-time freelance legal catchall.

For a moment, I entertain the thought of printing business cards.

“I’m heading out.”

I glance up from the kitchen table to see Richard hovering at the door.

Despite my foundational hatred of the man, it would be a lie to say he didn’t typically look incredibly well for a man in his mid-sixties. He’s always been the kind of controlling, pedantic loser who makes his eating and fitness routine at least seventy-five percent of his personality.

But the last few months have clearly worn on him, as I suspect they have me. Evident in his paler complexion, despite the threatening Nantucket summer sun.

“I want her downstairs,” he adds after I nod my acknowledgment.

I don’t disagree with him—a new novelty—however. “She won’t agree to it.”

“Then persuade her,” he counters, before hastily adding, “please.”

Another novelty. Politeness and guarded courtesy—both of us conforming to a silent truce, as we continue to cohabit, united by the one tether of mutual concern, Eleanor’s declining health.

Typically, we try to avoid each other, communicating only to inform the other of our movements.

My mother’s fall at Christmas—an event we were made aware of weeks after it occurred—had made it abundantly clear that she needed twenty-four-hour care.

Something Richard had begrudgingly admitted he was unable to provide.

Between the two of us, however…

“I’ll do my best.”

It’s all I could do. These past five months or so, balancing my time between the Shack and my mother, have taught me a great deal about perseverance in the daunting shadow of imminent tragedy. Plus, reclaiming my childhood bedroom was infinitely more comfortable than June’s couch.

The fact that moving back into the beach house also meant that I was less likely to run into Eddie was, perhaps, an unseen benefit.

Not that there’s any reason to avoid him now.

I glance back down at the papers in my hand and brush the thought aside. One thing at a time.

“Mom? Are you awake?” I say as I gently open her bedroom door. A breakfast tray consisting of part sustenance, part medication, balanced somewhat precariously on my hip.

I know it’s a good day when I’m met with bright eyes and a care-free smile.

“Is it my birthday?” Eleanor teases as I rest the tray on her lap.

Hands now free, I get to work setting her pillows so she can sit up more comfortably. “Maybe I just felt like spoiling you a bit.”

This earns me a chuckle. “You’re too good to me, baby.”

“How are we feeling today?”

She waits until she’s swallowed her pills before answering. “Right as rain.”

“Yeah?” I can’t help but smile. “You feel up for a trip downstairs?”

She laughs again. “If I go down those stairs, I’ll never get back up.”

“Would that be so bad?”

For the first time since I entered, her expression falters.

But I plow on before she can respond. “We could move your bed down into the living room. The beach view is much nicer down there anyway. Plus, the kitchen is right next door if you ever get hungry or thirsty in the night.”

“I’m not an invalid, Meredith.”

And there it is. The word grates on us both as unpolitical and offensive. Her doctor had cautioned us about pride and the last remnants of control that dementia patients typically cling to. It was all perfectly understandable, in theory.

“I just think?—”

“I’m suddenly quite tired,” she cuts me off, pushing her half-eaten breakfast away. “Would you mind taking this downstairs for me?”

Well, Richard can’t say I didn’t try.

I offer her a tight smile. “Of course.”