The Guest House (15 page)

Harrisport, Massachusetts

July 1966

I
t wasn’t too late to go back. That was Edie’s thought—the strongest thought of the hundreds that rushed at her when she came sailing through the pines and saw Tucker Moss in the cone of the cottage’s floodlight. She could still change her mind, still turn her bike around and race back up the road. The truth was, she hadn’t expected him to be there. Not in any real way. She wasn’t even sure she’d
wanted
to find him there. Then why had she come? Because it had thrilled her, scared her? Maybe for the same reason she’d been waiting for her father in the cab of his truck that damp April morning, the morning after he’d told her that a construction site was a hard place for a girl, that she’d probably be happier working at the ice-cream stand or at the Peppercorn, handing out paper baskets of fried clams?

Now she was here at the cottage, not in dungarees and work boots, as she’d been hours earlier, but in a skirt—a skirt! She felt decadent—even if her hair wasn’t as glamorous as Missy Murphy’s—and strange in her own skin, yet utterly excited. Until her gaze caught on the porch behind him, the banner stretched between the posts snapping gently in the evening breeze: C
ONGRATULATIONS,
T
UCKER!

Her skin turned cold.

She blinked at him and whispered harshly, “You didn’t tell me this was
your
party.”

“I was afraid you wouldn’t come if you knew it was for me,” he admitted. “And I wanted you to be here. I know this sounds crazy, but it makes more sense to have you here than ninety-nine percent of the people who are already in there.”

It sounded
very
crazy, Edie thought, yet she smiled, helplessly delighted at his confession. Besides, wasn’t she crazy too for being here?

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

She looked up at the cottage, bursting with activity and light and sound, laughter and music rolling out like smoke. Suddenly the thought of walking into that world with him didn’t seem so unthinkable. She had as much right to be there as anyone. She wasn’t a construction worker now. Tonight she was a guest. A friend.

She turned to him and smiled. “Starving.”

•   •   •

T
he air inside the kitchen was hot and moist with the smell of dish soap and the lingering sweetness of baked goods and freshly brewed coffee. A pair of older girls Edie recognized from Hank’s class rushed around the deep double sink in crisp light blue uniforms, their hair pulled back into shiny blond buns. Silver platters were lined up from one end of the stainless-steel countertop to the other, some bearing the remnants of dinner and the rest untouched with neatly stacked desserts. Edie stared dazedly at a platter of napoleons, cut as big as bricks, while Tucker slipped into the butler’s pantry. Seeing those mountains of puff pastry and petit fours iced in flawless pastels, wedges of dense chocolate cake dusted with confectioner’s sugar, made her dizzy. It was like something out of a child’s picture book.

“Edie?”

Edie turned toward the sound of the voice, recognizing it seconds before its owner appeared. Doreen Packard. Edie flushed immediately. In her excitement, she’d forgotten that her mother’s dear friend would be working this party.

The older woman squinted as she drew closer. “Edie, I hardly recognized you, hon.”

“Hi, Mrs. Packard.”

Edie saw confusion and then concern strain the woman’s features as she no doubt figured out why Edie was there and, more important, with whom. Edie glanced away, feeling admonished. But before Doreen could inquire, their exchange was interrupted by the sound of clattering dishes. The older woman sighed wearily. “Who’s in there making a mess of my pantry?” she called over her shoulder.

Tucker appeared in the doorway, wearing a victor’s grin and holding two cut-crystal flutes that looked exceptionally expensive.

“Those are your mother’s very favorites, young man,” said Doreen, hands on her hips. “She’ll have your head mounted on a wall if you break ’em.”

“Yes, ma’am, I’m sure she would.” He winked at Edie and walked to the caravan of platters that sat on the counter, leaning in for a closer look. “Remind me again which ones have the custard inside them, Miss Dorrie?”

“Don’t even think about messing up my trays,” Doreen ordered, snapping her fingers at the girls who’d been stealing glances first at Tucker, then at Edie, then at Tucker again. “Those are about to go out.”

Ignoring her command, Tucker scooped up a sampling on a small saucer and balanced it in the crook of his arm while he swung open the door to the second refrigerator and pulled out a chilled bottle of champagne, brandishing it toward Edie.

Edie felt hot color return to her cheeks. It didn’t help that when she glanced over at Doreen, her mother’s friend wore a reproachful look that plainly asked,
Do your parents know you’re here about to make yourself sick on pastries and drunk on champagne, Edie Worthington?
So she was grateful when Tucker came at last to retrieve her, steering her and the plate of desserts through the kitchen and into the heart of the house.

“No,” whispered Edie, resisting his lead. “Don’t take me through there.”

“Why not?”

He knew why not—she could see he did—so he turned them around and led her instead to the servants’ stairwell, where she was relieved to disappear up the angled steps.

Though she could still hear the muffled sounds of the party below, the paneled walls of the servants’ wing were a delicious cave they moved through before the ceiling lifted, opening into the main end of the house. They passed several guest rooms, some untouched, others in use, before Tucker pushed open a door nearly at the end of the hall. Edie’s fierce determination halted briefly. This was altogether dangerous, she thought to herself as she followed him into the room. A decoratively turned bed, its canopy trimmed with icicles of lace, seemed almost terrifyingly imposing as she passed it, as if it might slide across the floor and demand a password from her before letting her by.

Tucker led them out onto a small terrace, the view of the back lawn and the water beyond it even more breathtaking under a roof of stars.

She walked to the railing and looked down; Tucker came beside her. She caught the scent of his cologne, a pleasant lime. She wasn’t used to men who wore cologne, but she liked it.

“It’s like they don’t even know we’re here,” he said.

Edie considered Tucker’s profile as he stared out at the lawn, wondering whether he’d already had champagne. He seemed unusually reckless to her. She’d never seen this side of him—not that she had known him long, but still she suspected this was a curious mood for him.

“How was Boston?” she asked.

“Torturous. Endless.”

“What happened to your great plan to declare your independence?”

He sighed. “I’m building up to it.”

She nodded.

“I thought of you the entire time,” he said.

Edie glanced away reflexively, unprepared for his confession, less prepared for the flush of excitement that charged up the skin of her throat.

It seemed Tucker had even startled himself. “Sorry,” he said quietly. “I shouldn’t have said that. I just meant it was nice to have something to look forward to when I got back. Some
one
.”

Edie looked up, searching his warm eyes, trying to understand what he meant by
something
. Did he have expectations of what she might say or do with him tonight, the hope of something intimate? Hank’s disparaging comments echoed; she forced them quiet with a sip of champagne.

“You have James,” she said.

Tucker leaned on the railing. “You know what I mean.”

Of course she did. She looked down into her champagne and took another sip to recover. This time the bubbles left a mark; when she looked up, the simple motion felt slower, like pulled taffy. It seemed all she wanted to do was let the rest of her slide away too.

“I wasn’t going to come, you know,” she said.

“I know. I’m glad you changed your mind.”

She looked out at the lawn. “Where
is
James?”

“Probably seeing stars in the eyes of Helen Willoughby. She’s a neighbor. I thought they might hit it off.”

“That was awfully nice of you.”

“I hope Helen thinks so.”

“Tucker!”

They turned to look below. There on the lawn an older man in a seersucker blazer and a cherry red bow tie waved up at them.

“That’s Dover Woodhouse,” Tucker whispered. “He works with my father in Charlotte. He’s here for the weekend.” Tucker moved to the edge of the terrace and called down, “Evenin’, Mr. Woodhouse, sir!”

“Son, your father’s lookin’ for you,” the man yelled back. “I think he wants a word.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll be right down.” Tucker returned to where Edie sat, his face drawn, that retiring smile, briefly gone, now returned. “Shoot. Isn’t it just like my old man to ruin a perfect moment?”

She grinned. “‘Shoot’?”

He wagged a finger at her. “Now, don’t you go corrupting me, Edie Worthington.”

“I couldn’t if I tried,” she said, playfully swatting his hand away. He caught it and held it to his chest, his eyes meeting hers.

“You could,” he said, taking a step closer. “And I’m hoping you’ll at least try.”

The pleasant flutter in the pit of her stomach bloomed in an instant, spreading throughout her body. She looked up at his face, thinking he had beautiful lips. “Your father’s waiting,” she reminded him, not pulling her hand out of his.

“He’s
always
waiting.”

Maybe it was the champagne, or maybe it was that Tucker said it with just enough sadness that her heart swelled for him. Whatever the reason, Edie reared up on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his, deciding she didn’t want to wait another minute to find out what sort of kisser he was, or how those perfect lips would feel on hers. He tasted like champagne and walnuts.

Then, just as quickly as she’d kissed him, she pulled away and searched his face for his reaction. He looked dazed, she thought. Utterly dazed and deliriously delighted. She smiled.

“
Now
you can go,” she said, reaching up to smooth his hair.

“Promise you’ll be here when I get back.”

“What if someone comes up?”

“No one will. No one’s staying in this room tonight.”

“Are you sure?”

He handed her the bottle of champagne, that curious heat in his eyes evident again. “This’ll keep you warm until I come back.”

She took the bottle with both hands, startled at its weight. For a moment she was sure he meant to kiss her. He took a short step forward, his head tilted just slightly. Uncertainty and excitement charged through her, a whiff of his citrus cologne feathering the air; then he shifted at the last minute, changing his mind—or maybe she’d just imagined it.

Either way, his face betrayed his affection.

“I’m glad you came,” he said.

“You said that already,” she whispered. “Go.”

He grinned. “Yes, ma’am.”

When he’d slipped through the terrace door and closed it behind him, she sat down in a wicker chair and sipped the champagne.

Above her the sky was warm and endless, the only break in it the sliver of crescent moon. It looked just like a smile, she thought suddenly, wondering how she’d never seen it that way before now.

O
wen Wright stared at the text message as if he were under a hypnotist’s control. For the life of him, he couldn’t drag his eyes away. He knew he had to; any minute Meg would come out of Russo’s with their pizzas and slide back into the truck, wearing the same carefree smile she’d left with a few minutes earlier, when she’d insisted she be the one to get the pizza this time, because she didn’t trust him to order her veggie.

Now what? He juggled his choices in a hot panic, his eyes darting up to check the door, then snapping back down to the pink-trimmed screen of her smart phone, lying on the seat beside him. He had two options: one, say nothing and pretend he hadn’t seen it; or two, accost his daughter the second she got back and demand to know who this sleazeball was who was sending her sex messages over her phone. But how could he do that? It wasn’t as if he’d innocently glanced over and lo, there was her phone, faceup, the message right there. Hardly.

The truth was, he’d meant only to peek, to see once and for all what might have been the reason for his daughter’s apparent discomfort as of late, the unshakable sense he’d had since she’d arrived that something was going on in New York with Heather. He’d been certain that if he could just have seen a few text messages, he might have been able to calm the roiling nerves in his gut, quiet them without having to drag it out of Meg and spoil their precious time together.

But he’d never expected to find
this
.

And there were so many! All the times he heard those telltale chimes ringing out in the middle of dinner, in the middle of the night. He’d been so certain it was Heather nagging Meg about something. He’d never thought, not once, that it might be—

His jaw tightened. Bewilderment turned back to burning rage. Who was this little shit propositioning his daughter? Did Heather know about this? And why hadn’t she done something about it?

Owen shifted in the driver’s seat until he could see the length of the take-out counter, and Meg, still waiting. Safe for the moment and too livid to wait, he scooped up his cell and dialed Heather.

He gripped the wheel while he waited, watching his knuckles turn white.

“Did you know about this creep?” Now it was his turn to rush past cursory greetings when Heather picked up.

Heather was, not surprisingly, unprepared. “Owen? What’s going on? Do I know
what
?”

“You can’t believe what this guy is writing, Heather. It’s . . . it’s disgusting.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about our daughter getting text messages sent to her by some kid—at least, I
think
he’s a kid—hell, maybe he’s not; maybe he’s some—”

“Wait, are you talking about Ty?”

Ty
. The calm in his ex-wife’s voice stopped him cold. “You know him?”

“Of course I know him, Owen,” she said evenly. “She’s been dating him since the spring. She hasn’t mentioned him?”

“No,” he admitted quietly, hurt flooding him. How could Meg not have told him?

“So you know that this Ty kid has been sending her rude text messages, and you’re okay with that?” he demanded.

“Owen, just calm down.”

“I need to calm down? I think you need to get a little more worked up. Have you read these things?”

“Of course not. I don’t read my daughter’s texts, Owen. She has her privacy.”

“
Our
daughter,” he corrected. “And I’m glad one of us does, because clearly you’re more concerned with being hip than giving a shit that our daughter is over her head with some punk kid—”

“Don’t you dare imply—”

“And she tells me you’re letting her drink
wine
?”

“A glass here and there,” Heather defended hotly. “What is this? Child services?”

Owen glanced back at the window, seeing that Meg still waited against the counter. “I want her to stay on another two weeks,” he said firmly. “I think she needs more time here to get her head on straight.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Owen . . .”

“I mean it, Heather.”

“Owen, she can’t. She has a prep course. I told you that at the beginning of the summer.”

“She can skip it.”

“No, she can’t. She was the only person on the waiting list who got in, and she is not missing it. Besides, have you even asked her if she wants to stay?”

“Of course she would want to.”

“Owen. She needs to come home.”

He felt a sharp twinge of longing push past the anger and dread. “This is her home too.”

“Don’t make this about you and me, okay?”

“How am I doing that? I’m telling you she would want more time here.”

“If she does, it’s only because she’s worried about you finding out about the wedding.”

He stilled, his eyes locking on the dashboard. “What wedding?”

Heather blew out a shallow breath. “I’ve been debating how to tell you. Meg’s known this whole time, which I know hasn’t been easy for her, and I feel terrible for that; I do—”

“Tell me
what
?” Owen demanded.

“The show in LA . . . It’s not really a show so much as a
ceremony.
 . . .” A pause, as excruciating as the seconds between lightning and thunder. “Owen, George and I are getting married.”

He looked up, dazed by the news. So that was it. Why Meg had been so nervous around him, why she kept avoiding calling Heather.

“Jesus.” He swallowed. “How could you do this?”

“What kind of question is that, Owen? We’re divorced.”

“Christ, that’s not what I mean. Did you know Meg’s been trying to get me to go out on dates like I’ve got two weeks left to live? She’s making it her mission to see me involved with someone, and now I know why.”

“She worries about you,” Heather said. “We all do.”

Owen glared at the steering wheel. “It’s not worry, Heather. It’s guilt. You just don’t want the guilt anymore of having me alone.”

It had been a pathetic claim to make, but he didn’t care. As he expected, Heather was indignant. “Why should I feel guilty? We’re both adults. If you want to be alone, that’s your decision. I found love again; you can too.”

“You found love again, all right. Found it before I even knew ours had gone missing.”

He heard her draw in a frustrated breath and expel it slowly. “I don’t feel any responsibility for making you happy.”

“No, you just passed that on to our daughter.”

The line went quiet. Owen sighed. “I didn’t mean that,” he said.

“Of course you did.”

More silence.

“Anyway,” continued Heather, “the point is, Meg is sixteen years old and I trust her to make good decisions about this relationship. You need to do the same.”

Owen stared at the restaurant door, feeling utterly deflated, all the indignation and determination seeping out of his body like smoke out an opened window. Five minutes ago he’d been a steam engine, ready to roll over every defense his ex-wife might have thrown up; now he felt like the one who’d been run over by the train.

“Owen? Are you still there?”

He looked up to see Meg pushing through the door, carrying two pizza boxes. The ache of loneliness fisted around his heart.

“I have to go,” he said, hating the defeated sound of his voice but not having the energy to remedy it.

“Don’t say anything to upset her, Owen. You’ll only push her away.”

He hung up, Heather’s final words sinking in his stomach as he exited Meg’s text messages and set the phone facedown on the dash where she’d left it. For a feverish moment when Meg first slipped back into the truck, he considered telling her what he’d found, but Heather’s advice kept him quiet. Still, he must have worn his worry on his face. Meg watched him as she snapped her seat belt. “You okay, Dad?”

He turned to her, the concern in his daughter’s eyes only making him feel worse. He pasted on a smile and said, “Yeah, I’m fine. Just hungry.”

“Good,” she said, his answer enough to return the delighted glow to her face as she proudly patted the top of the pizza boxes on her lap. “This veggie will fix that.”