Summer Harbor (23 page)

The night-soft July air dried them as they sat, side by side, chaste fingers touching. Will was proud of his restraint, of his self-control in not reaching over to remove Catherine’s towel, of his willingness to wait until they were in a stronger relationship than that of a few days’ acquaintance. It was a struggle, though. Will spoke to distract himself. “You know what I just don’t get?”

“What?”

“My mother and Grainger. He picked her up this afternoon, and yet wouldn’t stay for dinner. And she didn’t help. I mean, I know they hurt each other, but that was a long long time ago. You’d think they’d want to get along for my sake.”

“It’s obvious they have history; maybe you should just leave it alone.”

“I can’t. It’s beginning to obsess me. They loved each other once.”

“You used to love Lori.”

Will pitched a rock ino the silver path of the moon in the water. “That was different.”

“What if twenty years from now you met her like at a reunion—you don’t think that wouldn’t be awkward?”

“Lori and I won’t have a child between us.”

“You don’t know that your mother and Grainger do.”

Will flung another rock, the deep gulp of the water underlining his muddled thoughts. “That’s what I want to know.”

“Not to be harsh or anything, but if those two have such bad feelings toward each other, nothing you want is going to change it. You’re just going to have to be satisfied that you know at least as much as you do.”

“I just want to know that he is my father. Not to get anything from him, or to complicate his life, but just so that I finally know who my father is.”

“But, Will, he might not be your father. Could you handle the disappointment?”

Will drew a line in the sand. “At least I’d still know who my father was.”

He should demand to have a paternity test done. Grainger owed him that much, if he wouldn’t try and make up with Mom. At least Will could leave here with some satisfaction. Catherine didn’t understand; his curiosity was deeper than his fear of disappointment.

After a moment Catherine stood up and gathered her clothes, walking a little distance along the beach to a protective dune while Will slipped his clothes on. When she came back to him, Will took Catherine in his arms, holding her in the shelter of his embrace. Will’s lips touched hers, and for a few minutes they simply kissed, all confusion forgotten.

“Will I see you tomorrow?” he asked.

“After your sailing lesson?”

“Okay.”

“How’re the lessons going?”

“Grainger says I’m doing really good. He just sits there and lets me do everything without telling me what to do.”

“It would be fun if you could take me out.”

“That’d be awesome. Before we leave, I’ll take you out.”

“I’m going to hold you to that.”

Will caught Catherine’s fingers and held them against his cheek. “Sure. I promise.”

Will watched Catherine drive away, feeling vaguely that if he hadn’t exactly lied to her, he had maybe exaggerated his skills a little. This morning he had asked about going out by himself, but Grainger had shaken his head.

“Absolutely not. Not yet. You’ve only been on the water a couple of times. It would be different if you’d had a whole summer to practice. You’re coming along quickly, but not yet.”

Grainger was being overcautious—or, maybe, he was afraid that he’d catch hell. His mother would certainly have choice words for Grainger if she thought he allowed Will to sail alone. Grainger was being unfair and his mother overprotective.

He would take Catherine out sailing. A quick sail around the cove; no big deal. Not as big a deal as smoking dope. He’d just have to work on them, wear his mother and Grainger down with pestering. Just like any kid with two parents.

Toby Reynolds sat in the right-hand rocker, the geranium pink of his Lacoste polo shirt clashing with the growing red of his cheeks. “I could understand your reasoning if they had offered less, but their offer is a good one. A really good one. You’re making a mistake not to take it.”

Kiley Harris rocked slowly in the left-hand chair, the one closest to the door. “Do you watch baseball?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Certain batters always let the first good pitch go by.”

“Is that what you’re doing?”

“Something like that.” Kiley kept her chair in motion. “I can see why realtors don’t much like it when sellers meet buyers at the showing; but I was here, inconvenient or not. So, I can tell you that in no way are they going to be happy here. They have no connection to Hawke’s Cove except that they’ve been here twice and it’s pretty. That’s no reason to drop so much money on a place. When Miss Gold-digger finds out that it’s not the Hamptons, they’ll turn around and sell it in two years. That’s not who I want to have this house.”

Toby’s flush crawled to his ears. “Kiley, you can’t vet potential buyers on anything but their credit history. You can’t take a dislike to someone and refuse their offer on the basis that they have no history here. If that was the case, no Cover would be able to sell anything except to other Covers.”

Kiley could tell that Toby was royally pissed off at her. He was behaving, in her opinion, much less like her agent, and much more like a buyer’s agent.

“I’m calling your father this afternoon. I have to let him know that you’ve refused the offer. Without cause.”

“Of course. His signature is on the contract with your agency, not mine. I just won’t be held responsible for putting this house in the wrong hands.” Kiley stood up and put out a hand to stop the reactive rocking of the chair. “Are you bringing anyone else to see it?”

“I’ve got two or three others who want to see it, including a couple with children, from Great Harbor. He’s a banker; she’s a consultant of some sort. They are deeply—what’s the word we want?” Toby’s voice was bordering on sneering. “
Rooted.
Deeply rooted here. But I can tell you that if they like it, there’s very little hope they can make an acceptable offer.”

“When are you bringing them by?”

“Is one o’clock okay?”

“Yes. I’ll stay away.”

“Please.”

Kiley was surprised when Toby didn’t leave, but followed her into the house.

“So, are you going to the Yacht Club fund-raiser?” In an instant Toby the Real Estate Agent vanished, and a new, uncontentious Toby hung beside her in the doorway.

“I haven’t decided. Emily Claridge made sure I got an invitation, but it’s not something I planned on attending. I didn’t come back for the social circuit, just to get this house ready.”

Toby was lost on the first part of her sentence.
“Claridge?”

“Sans Souci.”

“Oh, right. Emily Fitzgibbons.”

“Anyway”—Kiley put her hand on the screen door in an effort to clue Toby in on his unwelcome continued presence—“I’ll probably just send a contribution.”

“I’m on the committee this year.” Toby lingered, oblivious to her cue. “It would be wonderful to have a representative from your family there, with your dad being such a staunch supporter of the club’s sailing program and all, and I know that everyone at the Yacht Club would be thrilled to see you. Besides”—Toby reached out and touched Kiley’s arm—“it would be fun to see you in a nonadversarial role.”

“Toby, are you hitting on me?” Kiley couldn’t stop her grin.

“Maybe a little.”

As soon as Toby left, Kiley called home to update her parents on the difficulties she was having with him, trying not to think of it as a preemptive strike. Lydia answered and, after describing the Fensters’ offer as subpar, Kiley mentioned the fund-raising party to change the subject.

“Oh, that’s lovely. You’ll be sure to say hello to…” And Lydia rattled off a list of old friends who would surely be there. Their names conjured the old days for Kiley, names forgotten during her long hiatus. Murphy and Sonderbend. Kensy and Deveaux. French and Altman. Boat names came back to her: the Kensys’ gaff-rigged
Alphonse and Marie,
the Deveauxs’ stunning yawl
Digger,
and the Altmans’ charming little catboat,
Catbird.

Blithe Spirit
. Where was she now? Would Grainger know her whereabouts, or Conor? Did she dare ask, or would that open up a conversation she didn’t want? Maybe
Blithe Spirit
was simply scuttled, drowned in the sea that took her master.

Kiley pushed aside the thin curtain from one of the front windows and gazed out at the cove beyond. “I doubt that I’ll go. And, Mother, don’t imagine for a minute that any of those folks are pleased to hear you’re selling the place. It’s been like announcing a death.”

“It’s none of their business.” Her mother was immediately imperious, and Kiley pictured her, at this hour, cocktail in hand; Dad standing behind her, his oxygen tank not far away.

“They’re going to miss you anyway.”

“They’ll all be selling someday. These places are too hard to keep.”

Kiley didn’t want to get into a discussion with her mother about the difficulties of maintaining a shingle-style summerhouse; the constant battle against the elements as trim paint peeled and porch decking needed replacement, the annual prayer the roof would hold another season. She knew well that if you loved it, you’d do it.

She changed the subject. “Will’s found a girlfriend.”

“I hope a suitable family.”

“Probably not by your standards, but certainly by mine.”

“What’s her name?”

Kiley told her, and then half listened as Lydia tried to place the Ames family in her circle.

“Her mother might be a French. I think one of their daughters married an Ames.” As Lydia nattered on, Kiley felt her attention drift.

“Mother, it hardly matters. We’ll be gone soon.”

“These things always matter. One is judged by the company one keeps.” An oft-repeated adage of Kiley’s youth as she persisted in being with Mack and Grainger. Fleetingly, Kiley wondered what her mother would think of Grainger now that he was a successful businessman, miles away from the poor boy who lived on the charity of the MacKenzies.

“I have to go. Toby’s coming back with another client. Someone he says has Hawke’s Cove roots.”

“That’s very good. Now, make sure that the house looks nice. No dishes in the sink, that sort of thing.”

“That’s all I’ve been doing, Mother.” She turned away from the window.

“And I appreciate it. Let’s hope these people make an offer.”

“I’m not going to accept any offer if it isn’t perfect.”

“Kiley, please bear in mind that this is Will’s future you’re gambling with. Neither your father nor I can support Will’s education with our other resources. This is it. Otherwise, you’ll have to come up with some way to pay for it, and you mustn’t forget your current situation.”

Her mother’s cold dismissal of the house she once called her sanctuary was inexplicable to Kiley, who had put the house and its memories into a bell jar. “Have you no sentimental attachment to this place? After all the wonderful years you spent here?”

“None. Sentiment has no bearing in life; it clutters up the mind. If you give the past too much attention, you end up spending wasted time trying to recover it.”

“Can you put Dad on?” Enough was enough.

It took a moment for her father to make his way to the phone. “Have you spoken to Egan?”

“Yes. He’ll do it.” Kiley pictured Grainger’s angry backing out of her driveway. “He’ll crew for you.”

“What about Will and you?”

“We won’t be here, Dad. You know that.”

“You can be. Even if we sell the house, we won’t close until after Labor Day.”

“That’s not the reason.”

“Then what is?” Her father’s voice was just above a whisper. “Tell me.”

“I should never have come back here.”

“You’re doing fine.”

“I told Will everything.”

For a moment, there was just the sound of her father’s thready breathing. “How did he take it?”

“Pretty well, I think. Except that now he wants physical proof.”

“From whom?”

Kiley flushed. Could her father really think Will’s was a virgin birth? The old tag line from
The Graduate
came to mind: “Every father’s daughter is a virgin.”

“From Grainger or from Conor MacKenzie.”

“Conor?”

“Mack’s brother.”

“I always liked Dr. MacKenzie. Treated your mother’s indigestion.”

“Oh, Dad.” Kiley gripped the handset tighter. “I have to go now.”

“Wait. About
Random,
tell Egan I’m coming the Thursday before the race.”

“I don’t know, Dad. I’ve been thinking that you really ought to reconsider the race. It’s very strenuous, even just getting into the boat. Besides, the house is half packed.”

“We’ll just be sleeping there. Leave the beds made.”

“But the other thing is, I don’t think that you should drive this distance, Dad.”

“Kiley, we’ve already booked a driver; unless you’d be willing to drive us there.”

“Why are you being so stubborn about this?”

Kiley knew that her father was alone in the room as his voice strengthened above his whisper. “Your mother wants to go. We thought we could just give it up without going back, but darling, we can’t. Don’t mind what she says; she misses the place terribly. Even if it’s beyond us, we still love it.”

“If you love it so much, why give it up?”

“You loved it and you did.”

“That was different.” His blunt, painfully respirated words hurt. “Don’t sell it. I’ll manage Will’s education. After all, now I’m an unemployed single mother. Surely that must have some benefit.”

“You’re saying you’ll take it on?”

“We’ve had this discussion before. The answer hasn’t changed. I can’t.”

“That was before you came clean with Will. You’re there, and nothing bad has happened.”

Kiley squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m not so sure about that.”

Nothing bad had happened; but, equally true, nothing good had, either. The often fantasized reconciliation had been stunted. Stillborn. Grainger was right: how could they ever be friends when every sentence came out with a subtext, a shadow-meaning so deeply embedded, it was as if all her words came through some source other than her brain? She was like a ventriloquist’s dummy for her subconscious. They had loved each other once. Did that indicate that they should be friends again, or did it mean that they couldn’t be? They knew each other too well.

In the garage was an old Raleigh three-speed bike. The tires were flat but not rotten, and Kiley inflated them with the old-fashioned hand pump. Every time she pushed down on the handle, she squeezed air into a new resolve.

Enough, indeed, was enough.

Helmetless, on oozing tires, and with brakes that made the ride down the bluff hill more than thrilling, Kiley headed to Egan’s Boat Works. She needed Grainger to help talk her father out of his dangerous plan to be on
Random
for the race. He simply didn’t have breath enough to shift from side to side as the boat changed course. Racing meant quick, precise movements. There’d be no time to make sure he’d be all right. Kiley pictured the green oxygen tank rolling around the deck like a loose cannon, the old man gasping for air in the fresh breeze. The very wind would steal his breath. He wouldn’t listen to her, but he might listen to Grainger. Surely Grainger wouldn’t turn her aside. He’d always liked her father; after all, it was her father who’d suggested him for the position of instructor for the youth sailing program.

There was barely enough air left in the bicycle tires to pedal down Grainger’s long gravel driveway. As the boatyard came into view, Kiley spotted her own car beside Grainger’s truck. Maybe this would be easier with Will there. She leaned the bike against the Mazda. The sudden growly hum of a compressor startled her. Men at work. Grainger, dressed in white protective overalls, was spray-painting
Random
’s hull, his back to her and the sound of the compressor masking her steps.

As she walked beyond the three big boats, she could see Will working on a little boat. He leaned over the upturned hull balanced on sawhorses, easing a soft white compound between seams where time had separated the boards. Resting on another pair of sawhorses was a mast, freshly varnished and glowing in the July sun.

Kiley stopped. It looked so small, a fraction of the size it had loomed in her memory.

Will straightened up, scraping seam compound off his fingers and back into the can. “Hi, Mom. What brings you here?”

“It’s her, isn’t it?”

Will ran a finger along a freshly caulked seam. “I think so.” The compressor’s roar started up again. “I haven’t asked him.” Will glanced in Grainger’s direction, then touched the spot-primed place where the boards were fiberglass covered.