An Invincible Summer (Wyndham Beach) Page 15

  “Brett and I are separated. We’re getting a divorce. I just thought you should know.” Kayla Crawford’s expression was unreadable.

  “Why are you telling me this, Kayla?” Maggie lowered her voice and tried to move back, away from the displayed paintings, while trying not to appear stunned.

  “Because you should know. You’re both free now.” There were tears in her eyes, and Maggie couldn’t help but feel sorry for her.

  “Kayla, I don’t know what you’ve heard, or what you believe, or what you think you know . . . ,” Maggie began.

  “I know he’s never loved anyone but you.” She spoke the words flatly, as if stating an accepted fact, no accusation intended.

  “Why would you think that? He married you.”

  “Only because he couldn’t have you. It’s always been you, Maggie. He told me. I heard your husband died. Now you can have mine back. He always belonged to you anyway.”

  Before Maggie could respond, Kayla turned her back and left the building.

  Puffing her cheeks as if trying to expel a deep breath and compose herself after the unexpected confrontation, Maggie stepped around the crowd to find her way to Emma’s office, in search of a few minutes of solitude to process what had just happened. She opened the door and stepped inside to find Emma seated at her desk and engrossed in a conversation with the man in the navy jacket.

  “Oh, Em. Sorry. I didn’t know . . .”

  “Maggie, come in. Meet Owen Harrison.” Emma smiled. “Owen, this is my very dear friend, Maggie Flynn. Maggie grew up here in Wyndham Beach, but she’s been living in Pennsylvania for years. Maggie, Owen is . . .”

  Before Maggie could ask, he said, “Yes, that Harrison.”

  Owen extended a hand in Maggie’s direction. “And yes, you needn’t ask—thanks to Emma, the carousel will be brought out and assembled for the Fourth of July. Tell you the truth, I’d forgotten about it, but she’s been reminding me relentlessly in her yearly calls.”

  Maggie nodded. “Emma can be quite persuasive when she wants something.”

  “Apparently so.” He turned to look out into the gallery area. “She’s certainly managed to get the word out on this obscure artist, didn’t she? I see people here from several very influential galleries in the city. How on earth did you get them to leave Boston and drive all the way out here to look at the work of an unknown?”

  “I prefer to think of Jessie as undiscovered.” Emma smiled graciously. “And we’ll leave the story of how I got their attention till summer, when you come back to bring out the carousel.” She opened a desk drawer and took out a card, which she handed to him. “My address is here, and my cell number. So you can let us know when to expect you. I’d hate to publicize something I have to apologize for later when it doesn’t happen.”

  “Oh, trust me. I’ll be back. I appreciate your tenacity—and your concern for the community.” He slipped a hand into his back pocket and removed his wallet, opened it, stuck in the card, and returned the wallet to its place. “You have my word.”

  He turned to Maggie and, with a somewhat formal nod, said, “A pleasure, Maggie Flynn.” And to Emma, “You’ll be hearing from me.”

  One last smile meant to be shared by both women, and he was out the door.

  “Well, well.” Maggie sat on the edge of Emma’s desk. “That was interesting. Did you really contact him every year reminding him about the carousel?”

  Emma nodded. “I sure did. I just wanted to make sure someone whose last name is Harrison remembered and was planning on making it happen.”

  “Sounds more like harassment to me,” Maggie teased.

  “Worked, didn’t it?” Emma grinned.

  “Apparently. And I’m betting Owen will make sure he’s back from wherever it is he goes to make sure it happens.” Maggie grinned. “I saw the way he looked at you.”

  “Really? I hadn’t noticed.” The color of Emma’s cheeks rose just a little.

  Maggie laughed out loud. “Bull.”

  “I wouldn’t mind. He’s nice. Much nicer than I expected. And I had no idea how old or young the current Harrison heir was,” Emma told her. “But we’ll see come summer whether he’s all talk or not. Now, was there something you wanted to tell me, or were you seeking refuge from the crowd?”

  “Yes. And yes.”

  “I don’t blame you. Some of those artsy folks can get a bit tedious. I don’t mind if it helps get the word out on Jessie’s work.” Emma went to the door and looked out onto the room. “It would mean so much to Liddy.”

  “I guess you won’t know for a while if anyone’s interested in her paintings?”

  “Oh, no. Several people already have expressed an interest in moving the exhibition to their gallery, doing a showing in the city. I’m taking their information, and I’ll go over everything with Liddy after I know who’s offering to do what.”

  “So the show’s successful.”

  “More than I could have hoped for,” Emma said softly.

  “You’re a good friend to do this for her, Em.”

  “You’re a good friend to be here for her, Mags.”

  “Friends to the very end, the three of us.”

  “And we have the tattoos to prove it.” Emma stretched out her forearm and turned it to show off the three crested waves that rose alongside each other. “Waves of the same sea, rising and falling together.” Emma admired the ink for another second or two. “So what was the other ‘yes’?”

  “The other . . . oh.” Maggie nodded, remembering why she’d come into Emma’s office in the first place. “Did you know Brett and Kayla Crawford are separated? Getting divorced?”

  “What? No!” Emma’s eyes widened at the news. “Who told you that?”

  “She did. Kayla. Just a few minutes ago.”

  “Did she say why? And why she told you?” Emma frowned. “Wait, why would she tell you?”

  Maggie hadn’t wanted to say it out loud. If she said it out loud, it would be real.

  “Maggie? What did she say?”

  “She said”—Maggie sighed deeply—“that it was because of me. That he only ever loved me.”

  Emma stared at her for a moment. “That’s not news. Everyone’s always known that.” She made a face. “But why is it a problem now?”

  Emma’s words rang in Maggie’s ears for the rest of the week. While the news of Brett Crawford’s latest—third!—divorce spread like wildfire, the real talk of the town was the successful showing of Jessica Bryant’s paintings at the art center, the number of bigwigs from the art world who’d attended, how many important galleries in Boston were vying to exhibit the collection, and how much Liddy had been offered for this painting or that. Winter White, as Emma had decided to call the collection of all-white canvases, had become a sensation, and Liddy was still reeling from the news. Maggie was grateful for just about anything that diverted attention from the fact that the gossips were looking to make something out of the fact that Brett and Kayla’s announcement had come while Maggie just happened to be in Wyndham Beach.

  Emma popped into Liddy’s for coffee the morning Maggie was set to leave for home. She’d stopped at the bakery and picked up a selection of gorgeous pastries, which she’d plated almost the minute she’d walked into Liddy’s kitchen.

  “They’re almost too pretty to eat,” Maggie declared as she looked over the offerings.

  “Almost, but not quite.” Liddy poured a cup of coffee for Emma and passed it to her. “Thanks for those. They all look luscious.”

  “Madeline is back from vacation,” Emma said as she sat. Addressing Maggie, she added, “Madeline Affonseca is the best baker ever. She left for a well-deserved vacation right after New Year’s, and she just got back.”

  “I know that name, Affonseca.” Maggie tried to place it.

  “She’s married to Lou Affonseca, the barber.” Emma took a bite of lemony danish and rolled her eyes. “Perfection. Their son Teddy is a good friend of Chris’s. They get together every time Chris
gets home.”

  Maggie picked up an almond pastry and sniffed. “It even smells delectable.”

  “Oh! I almost forgot!” Emma smacked herself in the forehead with an open hand. “I drove up Cottage to drop off the key with my assistant, Marian, so she can open the center this morning. She lives at the other end of Cottage, and she’s only part-time, so she doesn’t have a key, and I knew I’d be late getting there, because I wanted to see you before you left. Anyway—guess what I saw!”

  “I give up. What?” Maggie licked sugary white frosting from her fingertips.

  “A sale sign on your old house,” Emma announced, then sat back in her chair. “The house you grew up in is for sale.”

  “Wait! What?” Liddy took her seat. “When did that happen?”

  “Apparently very recently.” Emma took another bite of her danish. “The sign wasn’t there yesterday morning when I picked up Marian.”

  “Didn’t they just dump a ton of money into it? Renovated from stem to stern?” Maggie nudged Liddy. “Didn’t you say . . . ?”

  Liddy nodded. “Yeah. They redid everything. Even put on a gorgeous addition in the back.”

  “Why would they be selling so soon after putting so much money into it?” Maggie wondered.

  “Maybe the Wakefield ghosts were more than they could handle.” Liddy wagged her eyebrows.

  “The Wakefield ghosts are harmless.” Maggie waved a dismissive hand. “Except for Great-Aunt Ida. I understand she was a beast.”

  “Define beast.” Liddy added a little more sugar to her coffee.

  “She was a ‘vengeful serpent of a woman.’” Maggie eyed a second danish. It was a long drive back to Pennsylvania. “That was a quote from my great-grandmother. Mom said my great-grandmother didn’t care for Ida, so I have no idea what it really means.”

  “Maybe Ida got after the Blanchards’ kids,” Emma suggested. “Maybe that’s why they’re leaving.”

  “More likely Peter—that’s the husband—got transferred somewhere,” Liddy said. “You don’t just pack up and leave a house you’ve spent lots of money to renovate unless you have a damned good reason.”

  “Ida sounded like a good enough reason to me.” Emma wiped the corners of her mouth with her napkin, then stood. “I hate to leave before you, but I promised Marian I wouldn’t be long. Since the showing, we’ve had endless calls from people wanting to know how much longer the collection would be available for viewing and when we’re open.” She patted Liddy on the shoulder. “If you decide to sell any of Jess’s paintings, you’re going to clean up. I’ve had offers for every single canvas. The numbers are eye-popping.”

  “I’m still thinking about it. But thanks, Em.”

  “You take your time. There’s no hurry. We can keep them here as long as you like.” Emma leaned over to kiss Maggie on the cheek. “Safe trip, Mags. Keep in touch.”

  “Will do.” Maggie stood to hug her friend. “I’ll be back sometime in the spring.”

  “Glad we’re seeing more of you. We miss you when you’re not around.” To Liddy, Emma said, “I’ll let myself out.” She was halfway to the front door when she called back to the kitchen. “Maggie, you ought to think about buying your mom’s house.”

  Maggie rolled her eyes. As much as she loved Wyndham Beach, her life was in Bryn Mawr, wasn’t it? Her kids were there, the home she’d shared with Art was there.

  “Emma’s right, you know,” Liddy said after they heard the front door open, then close.

  “You’re glad to see more of me, too?”

  “Smart-ass. No. Well, yes, I am, but you should at least look at your mom’s house.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Idle curiosity if nothing else. Don’t you want to see the renovations?”

  “I kind of liked the house the way it was. Besides, even if I was interested—which I’m not—I’m leaving as soon as I finish this danish.” Maggie held up the last bite. “So there’s really no time.”

  “You could make time.”

  “Liddy.”

  “Okay.” Liddy held up both hands in surrender. “I won’t bring it up again.”

  And Liddy hadn’t. Still, Maggie found herself turning onto Cottage Street on her way out of town, though technically it was out of her way. She just wanted to see the house one more time before she went home. She parked across the street and took it in, its innate hominess, its weathered cedar siding, long since grayed by the salt air. Even in the chill of a late January morning, the shrubs and trees deep in hibernation, it was still beautiful, and deep in her heart of hearts, it was still home.

  She wondered who would end up buying it and living in the rooms where she’d grown up.

  On a whim, she wrote down the name and number of the Realtor, then sat for a few more minutes, thinking about the years she’d spent under that roof, the happy years when her sister was still alive, and before her parents’ divorce. She glanced at the clock on the dashboard. She’d already decided she was going to stop at the pastry shop to pick up some goodies to take home to share with Natalie and Daisy, who’d spent the weekend at her house to enjoy her wide-screen TV and the story hour at the Bryn Mawr Library.

  She’d not been completely honest with Liddy or Emma. The truth was Maggie was dying to see inside the house. She’d wondered about the renovations and couldn’t deny her curiosity. This could be her one and only chance to check it out. She took her phone from her bag and dialed the number, which went to voice mail.

  “Hello, Ms. Brock, my name is Maggie Flynn. I’m in Wyndham Beach for a very limited time this morning, but if at all possible, I’d love to view your listing on Cottage Street. You can call me back at this number if you’re available to show the property. Otherwise, perhaps it will still be on the market the next time I’m in town.” Maggie ended the call and tucked the phone into her coat pocket.

  There. If it’s meant to be, I’ll hear from her before I leave. Otherwise—not meant to be.

  She turned the car around in the parking lot next to the beach and headed toward town and the bakery. She was almost to Front Street when her phone rang.

  She pulled it out of her pocket. “This is Maggie.”

  “Ms. Flynn, this is Barbara Brock, Brock Realtors, returning your call about the house on Cottage in Wyndham Beach.”

  “Oh, yes. Thank you for returning my call.”

  “I’d love to show you the property. It’s one of a kind, really. One of the oldest homes in town, built by one of the town’s oldest families. Continuously family owned, by the way, until eight years ago.” The Realtor paused. “Are you familiar with the town?”

  “Yes. I was born here,” Maggie told her.

  “Well, if you’re still interested in a quick walk-through, I’m on my way to the house now.”

  “I can be there in three minutes.”

  Maggie pulled into the driveway of the old Wakefield house, got out of the car, and walked along the once-familiar brick walk to the front porch. Up the well-worn steps to the refinished door. She was about to knock when a pleasant-looking woman around her age opened the door.

  “Ms. Flynn? You’re right on time. I’m Barb Brock. Please come in.” She stepped aside for Maggie to enter.

  “Thanks so much for fitting me in.” Maggie smiled and tried to look over the Realtor’s shoulder to the space beyond the entryway. She could only see what appeared to be a blinding sea of white.

  “I’m happy to do it. I had an early morning showing and I have another at noon, so this worked out well for me.” She smiled brightly. “There’s been a ton of interest, as I’m sure you can imagine.” She gestured toward the living room and dining room area. “A house with so much charm and history and yet one that is totally renovated and fully functional for the modern family . . . well, such a buy doesn’t come along very often.” Barbara’s phone buzzed in her hand. She glanced at the incoming call and said to Maggie, “Why don’t you wander around down here while I take this?” At that, she stepped out o
nto the porch, leaving Maggie alone in a house full of memories.

  Maggie stood at the entrance to the living room for a long moment. The room was, like the entry, white. White walls, white furniture, white throw rugs and white throw pillows. She felt momentarily disoriented as her eyes scanned the room for something familiar. Her searching eyes located the fireplace, but it, too, had been painted . . . white. The only touch of color in the room came from two tall green leafy plants that flanked the entry to the dining room, itself adrift in an all-white sea.

  She was riveted to the spot—the same spot where she’d stood when her father, seated in the long-gone leather wing chair, had announced that he and her mother were divorcing, and he was moving to Michigan. Forty years ago almost to the day. She’d been so stunned by the news she’d been unable to breathe for a very long moment. Her mother had sat stoically on the middle cushion of the sofa and stared into space, not a muscle moving, not even blinking. Maggie’d never been able to get a true read on what her mother had been feeling at that moment. But for Maggie, the walls of her life, her security, had quietly tumbled down, piece by piece. She had still been emerging from her own private hell and was about to begin her first year of college a semester late when her father had decided he’d had enough of Massachusetts coastal living and was going back home to the Upper Peninsula, where he’d been born, and where he’d apparently reconnected with a former neighbor when he’d returned for a family reunion—without her mother—the previous summer. Maggie had turned heel and run up the steps and locked herself in Sarah’s old bedroom. By that time, Sarah had been gone for six years, but Maggie had never missed her—needed her—as much as she had on that day. She’d lain on Sarah’s bed, holding her sister’s pillow to her face. Her father had left the following morning and hadn’t bothered to return, not even for Maggie’s mother’s funeral, for which Maggie would never forgive him. They hadn’t spoken in years. It was as if he’d forgotten he’d once had a life—a family—in Massachusetts. She and her mother had been erased as neatly and as quickly as a fourth grader would erase the wrong answer on a homework assignment.