Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Present Day
For the first time in nearly thirty years, Benjamin Whitmore walked toward Francesca Whitmore, his black shoes sending tufts of sand out behind him, his brow furrowed.
As he came closer, Francesca caught more and more of the fine lines and wrinkles that he wore on a face that was once (and still was, maybe) beloved to her.
His clothing was high-quality: a linen shirt, a pair of dark brown slacks, and a belt that Francesca was vaguely certain she’d purchased for him.
It begged the question, in the midst of faking his own death, had Benjamin remembered to pack a bag of supplies?
She shook the thought from her mind. It couldn’t be relevant right now.
Charlotte was a jittery mess beside Francesca, watching as the faux-father she’d grown up with approached.
Francesca realized she hadn’t asked Charlotte why she’d been asleep on Benjamin’s sofa.
She supposed that everything about life right now mystified her.
She couldn’t begin to ask questions about all of it, or the sheer amount of it would wear her down.
When Benjamin reached her, he put his hands on his hips and gazed into her eyes.
The expression on his face was one of mystery, surprise, and unadulterated joy.
“Francesca,” he said finally, and at once Francesca thought of when he’d come all the way to Rome in 1971 and found her at the café and changed her life forever.
It was as though those two realities—back then and right now—existed at the same time, within her heart.
Her knees were weak. “Francesca, you made it,” he said, as though he’d been at the Lodge, waiting for her to come home. As though he himself had invited her.
Francesca closed the distance between herself and her husband.
Mere inches from him, she was surprised to realize that he smelled the same: musk and cologne and salt and sweat.
She stirred with a longing that surprised her.
It had been a very long time since she’d been around a man she desired—the five years since Jefferson, she supposed.
A part of her had assumed that that part of her life was over.
But he disappeared, she reminded herself. He faked his own death and ran away.
Francesca took a deep breath and asked the first question that came to mind. “How are you?” But a split-second after she said it, she winced. It felt so commonplace, so ordinary.
Benjamin smiled. “I’m all right, really, all things considered.”
You’re certainly not dead, Francesca thought.
“And you?” Benjamin asked. “How was your trip?”
Francesca touched her hair nervously and said it was fine. “The girls came with me. Allegra and Lorelei.”
Benjamin’s eyes widened, although it seemed he didn’t have the language to describe what it meant to him that Allegra and Lorelei were here.
Allegra and Lorelei had left the States.
They were nearly 100 percent their “mother’s children.
” Yet they’d come back to Nantucket to see him, to see their Whitmore family.
Francesca knew it was a lot to reckon with.
Glancing behind Francesca, Benjamin spoke to Charlotte. “How are you feeling, Char?”
Charlotte smiled and said, “A lot better. I was surprised when Mom stormed into your house looking for you, though. I thought I was having a fever dream.”
“You didn’t tell me you were sick,” Francesca said, suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to tend to Charlotte’s needs instead of her own.
“I’m not anymore,” Charlotte insisted. “I came by Dad’s place this morning because I left my antibiotics there by accident. I fell asleep before he left.”
“She conked out,” Benjamin said with a laugh.
“You should have told me. I would have let you rest,” Francesca insisted.
“Nah, I’m feeling way better, and I have to meet one of the designers anyway,” Charlotte said, gesturing toward the Lodge. “She should be here in about half an hour.”
“The kids have so many plans for this place,” Benjamin said to Francesca, tugging at the collar of his shirt. “You wouldn’t believe some of the incredible ideas they’ve pitched to me.”
It certainly surprised Francesca that her children were so smitten with the idea of reopening the Lodge. It was a place that had “rejected” them, in a sense. A place filled with their memories that had gone up in flames. How’s that for a metaphor? Francesca thought.
Francesca, Benjamin, and Charlotte walked closer to the Lodge.
Standing on the lush lawn, Francesca watched as several construction workers tore at the old rooftop tiles and threw them down onto the lawn below.
They listened to a speaker, who played songs from the eighties, a time when the Lodge had been vibrant and wonderful, a time when all her children had been around.
For a few minutes, Charlotte and Benjamin explained what they’d already had done to the White Oak Lodge, the interior cleaning that had been required to start construction, as well as the fact that the fire hadn’t destroyed as much of the structure as they’d initially thought.
“Really?” Francesca was incredulous. She’d seen the fire herself and had felt it was all-encompassing, the sort of thing that required a complete tear-down and rebuild. “Was the fire bigger in my memory?”
Charlotte explained that the majority of the fire had been contained to one area of the hotel. “Only a little of the family area had been overtaken,” she said, “although plenty of people have broken in over the years and covered the walls with graffiti and so on.”
“The Lodge has a sort of magical quality for some people these days,” Benjamin said.
“Everyone on the island has some theory about why the fire happened and who’s haunting its halls.
A bartender in town told me that there are many ghost stories about me, in fact!
” Benjamin cackled. “People have said that they can see ghost-me staring out from the kitchen window.”
Francesca eyed the kitchen window, where only shards of glass remained.
How many hours had she spent in that kitchen, cooking pasta sauces, blending vegetables, and trying her best to serve her children a wealth of nutrients and incredible flavors?
Her eyes filled with tears at the thought of all those years, all those breakfasts and dinners and conversations over glasses of wine.
If anyone was haunting the kitchen, it was her ghost.
After Charlotte’s appointment with the designer began in earnest, Francesca and Benjamin returned to the grounds near the horse stables, where the construction crew had set up several wooden picnic tables for midday lunches and breaks.
Here, Francesca sat while Benjamin hurried off to fetch refreshments.
While he was gone, Francesca stared into the dark shadows of the barn, remembering the sounds of whinnying horses and the clop of their hooves.
She remembered watching Jefferson Albright as he prepared the horses for Lodge guests, speaking to them in that gorgeous British accent, teasing them and instructing them all at once, so that almost every woman who entered the horse stables had a crush on him by the time their horses clopped off.
Francesca remembered that Lorelei, who’d been so young when Jefferson worked at the stables, had found in Jefferson a fast friend, and she’d chased him often, calling his name.
When Benjamin returned, he carried a bottle of wine, three types of cheese, and herby crackers stacked with seeds.
He arranged the feast on a platter, humming to himself, before sitting to pour them both glasses.
Francesca knew better to point out that it was just past noon and probably far too early for a glass of wine.
When in Rome, do as the Romans do, she thought darkly, reaching for a glass.
“I know how you feel about American food,” Benjamin said, raising his glass. “I thought I’d make you comfortable with high-quality snacking.”
It was then that Francesca realized she was shaking.
Here before her was Benjamin Whitmore, the man she’d thought was dead for many, many years.
He’d just made her a cheese plate, for crying out loud.
They were carrying on as though it had been six weeks since their last meeting rather than twenty-seven years.
Tears filled Francesca’s eyes. Benjamin put down his glass with a clink and blinked rapidly, his smile waning, until tears fell and dripped down his cheeks.
Here it is, Francesca thought. I can finally ask him every question I need answered. I can finally force him to reckon with what he’s done to this family and to me.
But when Francesca opened her mouth to speak, she said, “I don’t believe it.”
Benjamin sniffed, waiting for her to go on.
“I don’t believe you burned down the Lodge,” Francesca said.
“Alexander told me that you’re taking the fall for the arson.
But I can’t believe that. Not after everything you did for this place.
Not after everything you sacrificed to prolong its life.
No, you were a proud Whitmore. This was your kingdom. ”
Benjamin let his shoulders sag, perhaps in recognition of what she already knew. “I saw what they were doing to him,” he said finally. “I couldn’t let it happen.”
Francesca furrowed her brow, initially confused. “You mean with Alexander’s career?”
“The airline was going to fire him outright,” Benjamin said.
“His name was mud. And I knew how much he always wanted to be a pilot. I knew he gave his life to that industry, to that career path. To have it all be destroyed by the fire at the White Oak Lodge felt useless. We can’t let that fire destroy still more of our family, not so many years after the fact. ”
Francesca flinched. “So you lied to them. That’s why the cops couldn’t do anything.”