Folly Cove (45 page)

“You're awfully quiet,” Laura said. “Is it because we saw Sebastian, or because we almost killed our sister?”

Anne smiled. “Both,” she said. “Though it was worth it, seeing that dismount at the end.”

“Talk to him,” she said gently. “He needs to know how you feel.”

“How can I tell him that when I don't even
know
how I feel?” Anne said.

“Oh, I think you do.”

They reached the driveway to Laura's house a few minutes later. Anne didn't know whether to be relieved or exasperated to see that Sebastian's Jeep was already gone. “He must have dumped Elly off like a sack of laundry,” she said. “He was probably scared to see me.”

“Yeah, well, you're a scary woman,” Laura said, looking at her over General's back. Her eyes were shadowed by her velvet riding helmet, but Anne could see that she was smiling. “Go to him, Anne,” she said. “What's the worst that can happen? You get hurt?”

“Yes!” Anne said.

“Look, it's time you learned something from your big sister, since you never listened to me when we were kids,” Laura said. “Don't make
the same mistake I did. Don't wait around for something good to happen. Go after what you want. Tell Sebastian exactly how you feel and what you need. Then listen to him. If things don't work out after that, at least it won't be because the two of you were keeping secrets.”

Anne considered this as she helped Laura untack and groom the horses. She thought about it some more as she took her time in the shower and then dressed in her favorite jeans and a soft blue sweater Laura had given her from a pile of Kennedy's castoffs.

Finally she called Aunt Flossie to see if she could keep Lucy a little longer, then asked Laura if she could borrow the car.

Laura waved her off with a grin. “Atta girl. Go get him!”

Elly, who had just finished nursing her sore limbs in a hot bath, said, “We expect a full report when you get back!”

Anne half expected Sebastian's Jeep to be gone when she arrived at his house, but it was parked in front. Mack was on the lawn; he barked when he saw her, then wagged his tail and trotted over to greet her. Mack leaned against her legs and wriggled with pleasure as Anne rubbed his ears.

“If only your owner were as easy to please as you are, I'd be all set,” she said.

“I might be, if you rubbed my ears like that.”

Anne looked up and saw that Sebastian had come down the front stairs. He wore jeans and a black sweater that made his hair look copper in the sunlight.

“Who are you kidding?” she said. “You're too skittish. You'd run away.”

He smiled, but his hazel eyes were shadowed and solemn. “Is Elly okay? I had to help her into the house.”

“Seems like you're always rescuing one of the Bradford women,” Anne said lightly. “I guess Laura will be next.”

Sebastian laughed. “I doubt it. The Bradford women hardly ever need rescuing,” he said. “Especially when the three of you are together. Or should I say five, counting your mom and Flossie?”

“I think Flossie probably counts for two,” Anne said.

“Agreed.”

“I was coming from your house when you saw me before,” Sebastian said. “I felt bad about not going to your mother's party. I wanted to apologize.”

“You could have called.”

“I wanted to see you,” he said, then corrected himself. “I
needed
to see you, Anne.”

There was a brief silence. Anne could hear the dog panting. Mack grinned his doggy grin as he turned his head from Sebastian to her and back again, until they both had to laugh.

“I think my dog is trying to figure out whether you're coming inside,” Sebastian said.

“Am I?” Anne stopped patting the dog but still had trouble meeting Sebastian's eyes.

The problem was that when she looked at him, she wanted to know everything: how he'd ripped one knee of his jeans, where he'd bought the leather watch he wore on his left wrist, whether that scar on his ear meant he'd once had it pierced.

And, most of all, how he would respond if she were to walk up to him right now and press her body against his.

“It's kind of a mess,” Sebastian was saying. “The house.”

“It's a nice house,” Anne protested absurdly. How did she know it was nice? Only because it was Sebastian's. “I mean, it's nice on the outside. And I don't care if it's a mess. I live with Lucy, remember. Living with a baby means living with mess.”

He laughed. “Then come in,” he said, and led her up the porch steps, where he held the door open for her to go inside first.

Or she
would
have entered first, if Mack hadn't forced his way past her legs, his tail thudding so hard that Anne felt it knock against her knees as she lost her balance.

Sebastian caught her before she hit the doorjamb, wrapping his arm around her waist from behind. And then he went very, very still, with Anne's hips pressed against him, the wind sighing in the pines behind them.

“Is this your idea of inviting me in?” Anne said finally.

“I think it is,” Sebastian said.

Then he turned her around and kissed her. His kiss was brief but warm. Then Sebastian sighed as Anne leaned against him, reaching up to put her arms around his neck.

She kissed him next. Anne leaned so far forward that she fell off the step, trusting him to catch her, feeling nearly suspended in air as her body met his and they were caught together in this one moment in space and time where all that came before simply didn't matter. They were here now.

•   •   •

Before they walked down to the beach, Flossie insisted on being the one to open the box of remains. “It's addressed to me,” she said when Sarah argued that she was Neil's wife. “You can't open another person's mail, Sarah. That's against the law.”

“Since when have
you
cared about laws?” Sarah said. “You teach yoga without a license. You should be arrested for encouraging people to meditate instead of being useful.” But she'd stepped aside with the girls while Flossie took a letter opener shaped like a mermaid and began sawing at the tape like she was carving ham.

Finally Flossie got the box open. And then there was plastic and Bubble Wrap to deal with, a lot of it, and suddenly ashes were rising in a black plume because Flossie had cut through the plastic, too.

Everyone stepped back as if the box might detonate here in Flossie's cluttered living room, which in some ways would have been a mercy to the planet, Sarah thought, given the absurd amount of junk in here.

“Why didn't Neil think to use an urn, at least?” Sarah fretted, so she wouldn't have to say the obvious: nothing inside that box looked like her husband.

“Well, it's not like Dad packaged himself up for mailing,” Laura said, and then she and her sisters looked at each other and started that laugh-crying thing the three of them had been doing since they arrived.

“Mom!” Kennedy said. “Get a grip!”

Finally Sarah and Flossie agreed, after some discussion and a little more arguing, to carry the box down to Folly Cove as it was. Flossie handed the box to Sarah, but when she felt how heavy it was, she handed
it back. She'd never make it down to the beach if she had to lug her husband.

She was the only one who'd truly dressed appropriately for the occasion, in a black lace dress she'd ordered online. It was a Diane von Furstenberg, fitted, with a zipper down the back and a scalloped hem. Classy. And besides, Diane was a woman Sarah had long admired for marrying that prince and deciding to start her own business. Now,
that
was a role model.

But the shoes were a mistake, sling-backs that slid on the rocks as if the soles were made of ice. She finally waited until her daughters, Flossie, and even Kennedy with the baby were all walking in front of her, Laura carrying Neil's remains now at the head of the line. Then Sarah took off the shoes and carried them.

Not that the others were in any position to judge her attire. They'd agreed that Neil would want this to be informal, just family, and that they'd do things more properly for the memorial service in June. Flossie had worn probably her best yoga clothes, the ones that weren't so faded. Laura and Kennedy were in jeans and jackets.

Anne was dressed in her kitchen uniform, those checked pants so loose they looked like pajama bottoms. Her blue jacket set off her red hair so it flamed against the sky, the curls everywhere, reminding Sarah of how Neil had looked on the beach, always hatless and happy.

Only Elly had dressed the way a Bradford girl should, in a short black skirt that showed off her legs and tall black boots over her tights, with a fitted green jacket and striped scarf.

But there was nobody to see them anyway, down here at Folly Cove in November on the gold beach. So Sarah set her shoes down on one of the big flat rocks and dug her toes into the sand.

She had never learned to swim. The reason she always sent Neil down to the beach with her daughters was one she'd never told them: because it terrified Sarah to see her little girls in the maw of this great growling beast of water, their pale limbs tossed this way and that, their sleek little seal heads bobbing and disappearing until Sarah was numb with fright as she watched them with their father in the waves.

Maybe she would tell them this one day. Her girls should know that their mother had held herself watchfully apart sometimes not because she didn't care, but because she loved them with a tenderness that felt like fury and wanted to protect them and provide for them in ways nobody had ever done for her, as if she could spread some kind of force field of love that would shield them from all the hurts in the world.

Laura was opening the box now, and the girls began lifting handfuls of Neil to the wind. They let their father's ashes mix with the green surf, serious at first, and then laughing as the ashes swirled around them like black smoke, these three women who were so different and so much a part of her that Sarah felt her heart would break and mend and break again as she watched her daughters lose themselves in this moment, with the vast and beautiful sea flinging itself at their feet.

I am fortunate to have the support of so many generous people, especially my husband, Dan. He makes me believe in myself as a writer, even during times when I drop my head onto the desk in despair. He also keeps producing meals so wonderful that I feel rewarded at the end of the day, no matter how my writing has gone.

My mother turned me into a reader inspired to write. She read constantly and across a wide variety of genres while I was growing up, and never tried to censor what I read. Mom is still my first and most important critic, because I value her honesty and insights. She's also an ace navigator when I'm researching a setting.

My children are the reason I live and breathe—Drew, Blaise, Taylor, Maya, and Aidan—and their boundless enthusiasm for my work helps keep me going. So do their own adventures, which they're so generous about sharing with me.

My wonderful extended family—all of you Cooksons, Boyles, Schneiders, and Robinsons—include the best cheerleaders any writer could ever have.

Susanna Einstein, my agent, deserves my deepest gratitude for her sharp editing eye, witty insights, and a cheerful willingness to entertain any book projects I suggest—even the insane ones. I am so blessed to have found her.

At Penguin Random House, I want to thank my dear friend and editor, Tracy Bernstein, who astonishes me every day for more reasons than I can list here. When Tracy took a leave, editor Katherine Pelz kindly stepped in to usher this manuscript into its final stages—I am indebted to her as well. Many thanks also to the entire Berkley/New American Library team, especially Claire Zion and Frank Walgren.

In addition to my in-house publicist, Caitlin Valenziano, I have Rachel Tarlow Gul of Over the River Public Relations to thank for helping me reach readers. And I am lucky to count many brilliant women in my community of writers. First and foremost: Emily Ferrara, who helped me explore Rockport, bought me a writing retreat for my birthday, and contributed her wonderful poem to the book. Susan Straight, Maddie Dawson, and Toby Neal also provided their friendship and support as they tirelessly critiqued drafts of this novel and kept me company on writing retreats.

Other writers and editors have been gracious with their support. Special thanks to Karma Brown, Elisabeth Elo, Amy Sue Nathan, and Sonja Yoerg, as well as to the Tall Poppy Writers, the Girlfriends' Book Club, and the booksellers and readers who support authors everywhere.

Q.
Folly Cove
revolves around broken families and secrets that shatter relationships. Many of your other novels feature families that are anything but mainstream and happy, too. Why is that?

A. Most novelists write fiction that springs from our own experiences. After my parents divorced, my father married another woman; he then left her and remarried my mom. I was also divorced from my first husband, but he and I stayed friends. My second marriage blended my two children with my husband's two, and then we had another son together. Writing fiction allows me to explore complicated family constructs. I hope my books help others learn that it's possible to find peace, love, and happiness in a family, even if the relationships continue changing shape in surprising ways.

Q. Like most of your previous books,
Folly Cove
is set on the North Shore of Massachusetts. What do you find so compelling about this setting?

A. I must have been a New England sea captain in a former life. The moment I drove north of Boston, it felt like coming home. There is a rich sense of history here, because people began to settle this part of the country in the 1600s. You can see that history in the antique houses
and old mills, and in the moss-covered stone walls threading through the woods. I love the area around Folly Cove—a real place near Rockport—because of the granite quarries. I look at the giant blocks of granite lying around these quarries and marvel at the enormous effort it must have taken to cut them up and ship them down to Salem and Boston. Dogtown is full of mystery, too, with its ancient foundations and tales of women living on their own with just dogs for company.

Q. In
Folly Cove
, you've created two strong-willed women in their seventies—Sarah and Flossie—who, despite their differences, are almost like sisters. They also seem to have robust working lives and intimate relationships with men. It's unusual to find women this age in novels. What prompted you to write about them?

A. My mom. She is funny, wise, and very elegant besides—and she's in her eighties. I spend a lot of time with her and occasionally do things with her friends. These women are amazing storytellers and have fascinating experiences to share. I think there should be more older characters in fiction. Besides, I believe in second chances, especially when it comes to love and friendship, which both Sarah and Flossie get here.

Q. Why did you choose to tell the book from four points of view?

A. Ha! If I had known how hard it was going to be, I would have cut myself off at two! Originally, I was going to tell the story just from Anne's point of view. Her voice came to me first. Then her sisters kept demanding to be in the book, and I thought the conflicts between them would make for a tense, compelling read. I had reached the three-quarter mark in writing the novel when suddenly Sarah's voice started clamoring in my head. I had to start over from the very beginning of the book, but it was a good choice in the end, because it allows us to know more about why Sarah made the choices she did in raising her daughters.

Q. What's your approach to writing novels? Do you craft a synopsis first, or just write the story and see how it develops?

A. I do both. I often write a synopsis first—some of the most challenging writing I ever do, because it takes so much thinking and planning, and the writing is awful. Then, as I write the manuscript, the plot morphs as the characters start taking over. That's a more instinctive process. Sometimes it feels like you're strapped to the top of a locomotive, and other times it feels like you're pickaxing your way up an icy mountain.

Q. Has it gotten easier for you to write a novel, now that you've written so many?

A. Oh, how I wish! Sadly, writing novels is like having children: just because your labor is harder with one child than another, it's no guarantee that this child will be more
special.