Folly Cove (5 page)

“What's up?” Anne came out from behind the bar and reached for Lucy.

“I'm leaving.” Colin ran a hand through his hair, causing it to crest at his forehead like the feathers of an exotic parrot.

She frowned, confused. “That's fine. I told you to bring Lucy down when she woke up. I know you need to write.”

“It's not that.”

“What, then?”

“Colin, you need to get out here.
Now
.” A woman's voice, sharp and nasal.

Colin took Anne's face between his hands and kissed her forehead,
a quick benediction. “You will always be special to me, Anne. I hope you know that.”

By now everyone in the bar was staring and Lucy was squirming, causing the bottom of Anne's bikini to slide lower on her hip. Anne hitched it up with her free hand. “What's going on?”

“Colin? What are you doing?” The owner of the voice entered the bar then, a stocky woman in a white blouse, denim skirt, and sneakers. Her short hair was gunmetal gray and cut to the same length as Colin's, and her jaw was just as square as his. She looked enough like Colin to be his sister. For a few seconds Anne allowed herself to hope this was true.

She knew it was not. This woman had to be Barbara. His wife.

“Is this her?” Barbara demanded, pointing at Anne. “You said you weren't going to see her. You were just going to drop the baby off at the door,” she said, as if Lucy were a UPS package. No signature required, apparently.

“I'm Anne. The mother of Colin's child.” Anne shifted Lucy a little higher on her hip, proof of her claim.

Barbara dismissed her with an impatient flick of her fingers. “We don't have time for your usual theatrics, Colin. We have a flight to catch. I'm giving you five more minutes.” She left without a backward glance.

“Colin, please. Talk to me,” Anne begged. “What's going on?”

“That was Barbara,” he said, then sputtered to a stop.

It didn't matter. In a single sentence, Colin had unveiled the truth: his lies to his wife, his lies to her.

“You're going back to her,” Anne said.

“Yes,” Colin said with the ghost of a smile. “Sorry.”

“But
why
?”

“You know why.” Colin reached over and gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind Anne's ear. It was such a familiar, intimate gesture that she closed her eyes briefly to fight the pleasure of it. “I'm married, as you bloody well know,” he said softly. “I never wanted to do this whole parenting gig. I tried. I really did. But I can't abandon my art for diapers. Writing feeds my soul.”

In a flash Anne understood: Barbara must have threatened him financially. She was probably supporting Colin, not the other way around.

Anne lost her temper then. “You can abandon your child but not your
art
? Or your wife's
money
?”

A flicker of impatience flared in Colin's eyes. “Look, you can't say I didn't warn you. I promised we'd have fun, and we did. But I'm not cut out to be a family man.”

With one last rueful glance at the baby, who had stuffed a fist into her mouth and was watching him with round blue eyes, Colin walked out of the bar.

Anne followed but was stopped by the sight of Barbara leaning against a shiny blue sedan. Some of the bar patrons had followed them outside, too. Anne wished desperately that she'd grabbed her tunic off the hook behind the bar to cover up. Everything was on display here: her body, her new stretch marks, her tear-streaked face, the baby.

“I'm sorry, Barbara,” Anne managed. “Colin told me he was leaving you. Otherwise I never would have gotten involved with him.”

“Oh, please. Don't feel sorry for
me
,” Barbara said. “I feel sorry for
you
. You're not his first, you know.” She went around to the driver's side. Colin was already seated in the car.

Anne had wished, for one second, that she could close her eyes and become invisible, the way her own father had let her believe was possible when she was a child:
if you can't see me, I can't see you
.

Instead, she had to stand alone with her baby on a hot sidewalk, burning with shame as the car drove away, while everyone who had stepped out of the bar to watch the drama unfold discovered what kind of woman she was: a woman who would sleep with a married man.

Mateo had fired her on the spot. “I never thought you were this sort of woman,” he said.

“I never thought I was, either,” Anne said, and left with the baby. She hadn't even gone back to the restaurant for her final paycheck.

Now, in their overheated little room on the third floor of the Folly Cove Inn, Lucy was waking up, cheerful and babbling. Anne nursed her, then put her in the crib while she showered and dressed before carrying Lucy down the three narrow flights of stairs to breakfast.

Fortunately, it was early on Monday morning and none of the inn's guests were up yet. Rodrigo, the Brazilian cook who had been preparing meals at the inn for thirty years, was happy to see her. He made a fuss over Lucy and took her for a few minutes so Anne could eat in peace.

She heaped scrambled eggs, sausages, and pancakes onto her plate from the chafing dishes and began to feel restored as she ate in the elegant dining room, with its embroidered white linens and vases of fresh flowers.

She and her sisters used to love playing in here on the rare days when the inn was empty, the three of them arguing over who would be the queen and who was the prettiest princess. Sometimes, if their mother was busy in the office, they'd even sneak china teacups off the shelves.

Anne used to love helping out in the kitchen, too. She'd peel potatoes, whisk dry ingredients, crack and separate eggs, arrange the dinner salads. Rodrigo got a special stool for her and folded one of his aprons in half.

She had loved the tall, shiny pots and the shelves laden with tools and appliances: pasta makers, espresso machines, electric blenders, chocolate shavers, pepper mills. Most of all, Anne had loved the soothing symphony of clattering lids on pots, spoons ticking on bowls, hissing steam, whirring electric mixers, and Rodrigo's low voice conducting them all. It was the complete opposite of her mother's tense silences or barked commands.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in.”

Anne hadn't heard Aunt Flossie enter the room. Now she jumped up to throw her arms around the other woman's bony shoulders. “I'm so glad to see you!” she said.

“Likewise,” Flossie said, “but there's no need to break my ribs. Down, girl, before you puncture this old bat's lungs.”

Anne laughed and released her. “How are you? You look great.”

“Better than you, by the looks of it. I could pack a week's laundry into the bags under your eyes.”

Flossie was her father's older sister. Past seventy now, but still fit. She had always practiced yoga and hiked with her dog every morning through the trails of Halibut Point, even in bitter weather, her only concession
to the winter a pair of ice cleats strapped to her boots. Her short glossy cap of brown hair was woven through with gray, but her skin had the healthy burnish of someone who spent more time outside than in. Flossie wore a uniform of cotton yoga pants and sweatshirts with sneakers, except in summer, when she preferred Birkenstock sandals.

“Your aunt looks like a homeless hippie,” Sarah often groaned. “I hate letting her wander loose among the guests.”

The guests, however, seemed universally charmed by Flossie. She lectured the adults about local history and delighted their children with tide pool explorations and wild stories about talking foxes and magical snowy owls.

Now her aunt poured a cup of coffee and sat down at the table. She was perfectly capable of making breakfast in her own house just downhill from the inn, but came here for meals because it bugged Sarah. She'd been away at a yoga retreat for the weekend, she told Anne now. “I couldn't believe it when your mother told me you were back.”

“I can't believe I'm here, either.”

Flossie lifted her chin toward the porch, where Rodrigo was bouncing Lucy in his arms. “Cute baby. New grandkid?”

It took Anne a moment to understand that Flossie thought Lucy was a member of Rodrigo's vast extended family; they all lived in Gloucester, and Sarah was surprisingly tolerant of the cook's children and grandchildren. She even gave the kitchen staff a huge party every Christmas and made sure all of their children had presents under the inn's enormous Christmas tree.

Her mother must have chosen not to tell Flossie about her situation, Anne realized. “Um, no,” she said. “That one's mine.”

Aunt Flossie picked up her coffee cup, eyeing Anne over its rim and taking a noisy sip before nodding. (Another thing that irked Sarah: Flossie's complete disregard for table manners.) “Well. You certainly know how to shock an old woman's heart into beating faster. Congratulations. Or my sympathies, whichever you prefer.”

“Congratulations. Thank you.”

“You're welcome. I always knew you'd make a wonderful mother.”

“You don't know that,” Anne said. “I don't even know that.”

“Oh, but I do. You will, too, in time.” Flossie set down her cup. “Did it ever occur to you to send us a little birth announcement?”

“I was planning to surprise everyone at Christmas.” Anne fiddled with her fork. “I didn't write, because I wasn't sure how Mom would react to a second grandchild, especially since I'm not married. I thought it might be better to present Lucy in person.”

“Ah. The old fait accompli. And? How did Sarah react?”

“Well, she hasn't set the hounds on me yet.”

“Decent of her.”

They finished eating while Flossie shared news about her yoga retreat, the inn's recent summer season, the various classes she was teaching out of her home studio, Laura's riding stable, and Jake's dental practice.

“What about Kennedy? Didn't she turn thirteen last month?” Anne felt a whisper of guilt: she'd sent no gift. Not even a card. Laura had forbidden Anne from having any contact with her family. “How's she doing?”

“Oh, she's morose, like all girls that age,” Flossie said. “What about you?”

Anne wanted to tell her aunt everything, but Rodrigo was returning now that guests were beginning to filter into the dining room. He handed her the baby. Lucy settled on Anne's lap, her solid body instantly comforting.

“I'm okay,” she said. “Just needed a little break from my life.”

“Are you going back to your mother's apartment after breakfast?” Flossie reached over to wiggle one of Lucy's feet, making the baby grin. “I could bring you some toys for the baby. I still have a box in one of my closets from when you used to stay with me.”

“Thanks, but please don't. Mom put us on the third floor of the east wing. I don't have room for toys. I'll bring Lucy to your house to play with them.”

Flossie scowled. “Your mother put you and the baby on the third floor, with that awful twisty back staircase? That's ridiculous! What on earth was she thinking? You can't stay there. Come to my house. I'll find someone to clean the Houseboat by midweek. You and Lucy can stay there as long as you need.”

“I couldn't do that,” Anne said, though she immediately pictured Flossie's small cottage on the ledge above the beach, with its bedroom windows overlooking the ocean and a narrow porch with its own pair of rocking chairs. “The Houseboat,” as Aunt Flossie had always called her little caretaker's cottage, would be the perfect place to hole up and lick her wounds.

“Nonsense. It's settled.” Flossie pushed away from the table and stood up. “You can tell me everything over a bottle of wine when you're moved in.”

Maybe not everything,
Anne thought, but she stood up, too, and embraced her aunt.

•   •   •

Sarah couldn't believe it when Anne showed up in the reception area to announce that she and her child were moving to Flossie's, and then to that horrid little cottage of hers. Or maybe she did believe it: her sister-in-law had always been a meddler, especially where Anne was concerned. She coddled that girl. That's why Anne had never learned any discipline. It was Flossie's fault Anne was in this predicament, as far as Sarah could see.

You had to take a firm hand with children. Yet too many adults these days—sadly, she included her own daughter Laura among them—continually gave their children anything they asked for, rendering them helpless whenever they finally stumbled out of their nests and into the harsh sunlight of real life. Sarah didn't have to look any farther than her own waitstaff to see this. Some were in their thirties, yet still had no car, no mortgage payments, and no direction in life. She had disciplined Anne the same way she'd disciplined Laura and Elly, yet she'd turned out no better than these drifters. Such a travesty.

Well, it was a fact that daughters were tougher to raise than boys. Some said boys were the devil to raise, but Sarah would argue that point. Boys—and men, for that matter—were simple creatures with simple needs. They were either angry or happy, with not much in between.

“Uncle Gil is here,” Rhonda announced, poking her head into Sarah's office. She sounded suspiciously gleeful, despite knowing Sarah was going on this date with her uncle only as a favor.

“Thank you. Please tell him I'll be out in a few minutes.”

“All right. I'll offer him coffee, shall I?”

“Of course,” Sarah said with a brisk nod.

She always made a point of keeping her office door open so she could track whatever was going on at the front desk. She trained her employees thoroughly, especially those answering the phones and taking bookings, because they were the faces and voices of the Folly Cove Inn. Still, she liked to be on hand, especially for morning check-outs and afternoon check-ins, and greeted guests personally whenever possible. People remembered that sort of thing.