“Come on, kiddo,” he whispered to Jack. “I’ll lay with you in your room until you fall asleep.”
Not for the first time, he considered saying screw it and just buying another double bed for his room, but that wasn’t a good forever solution.
At some point, they needed to move on, and part of that was learning to sleep on their own.
He left Maya in his bed—one battle at a time—and, picking up sleeping Gavin, followed Jack across the hall to the room the two boys shared, leaving both doors open. They read a short story together, then turned out the overhead light. On the wall, the moon lamp he’d gotten Gavin for Christmas glowed dully.
“I need some water,” Jack whispered.
Ryan was halfway out of bed before he remembered to ask if Jack wanted to come with him to the bathroom to get it. His son shook his head, but the question mattered.
The routine was so precarious, the stability so fragile.
Because
we’re
still fragile
, Ryan thought bitterly. When would bedtime be easy again? When would they all be stop being so brittle and edgy and one wrong step away from tears?
When he returned to the boys’ room, Jack took one small sip from the cup and handed it back.
“Want a song?”
Jack closed his eyes, nodding.
Two refrains of “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” later, and his oldest was finally asleep.
He lay there for a few minutes, soaking up the gentle warmth of a snoozing kid before Maya cried out in the other room. He tucked the blanket securely around Jack, made sure the door was wide open and the nightlight was on in the hall, then crawled in beside his youngest again, Maya wrapping her arms around his neck so hard it almost hurt.
His four-year-old daughter, clinging to him for dear life while unconscious. Jesus Christ.
I’ve only got two arms, Lynn, and three kids who need to be hugged to sleep.
That familiar hot burn seared his eyelids. He wouldn’t actually cry. He was all out of tears. Crying would be easier—cathartic, at least. But he couldn’t, even if he sank into all the sadness in his head. Even if he wallowed in it, turning the bitterness and regret over and over again until he was filled with a growing blackness.
Still, tears wouldn’t come. His eyes would just get hotter, itchier, until he went downstairs and poured himself a glass of scotch.
He didn’t always drink it. It had become this bizarre ritual, where he stared at the glass and thought, if only this washed it all away.
It wasn’t that he wanted to be an alcoholic.
Fuck
. Even the thought of addiction made him want to pitch the glass across the room. But he wanted escape, if only for a few minutes, in a controlled fashion. And maybe by sinking into an almost addiction, maybe he could understand Lynn’s pain.
Fuck
.
There wasn’t enough booze or harsh language or tears in the world to ever make him understand the mess that had been inside his wife’s head.
It wasn’t long before he heard sleepy footsteps, and Gavin was back, crawling in next to him. The boy hadn’t even really woken up.
Ryan tucked the boy in again, giving up on the idea of having a side of the bed to himself tonight. He tried to make enough room to lay fully on his back, but as soon as he gained a few inches on the left, Maya crowded into him on the right.
Ryan’s thoughts drifted to his earlier wish.
Fuck that steak dinner,
he thought to himself.
I want to fast forward until all this pain fades away.
Somehow it didn’t seem any less selfish to want to speed over some of his kids’ childhood. But he was so close to falling to pieces himself. He couldn’t get a real dinner on the table or shepherd his kids through a day without tears. Grief sucked donkey balls, and if he could lessen that load for his kids—and for himself—then he’d damn well do it.
Even if meant missing out on some good stuff in the process.
— TWO —
T
HERE wasn’t any good reason for Holly Cresinski to be heading to the tiny blip on the map of Pine Harbour three days early, other than she couldn’t bear to stay in Los Angeles a second longer, and she didn’t have anywhere else to go.
She reconsidered her plan many times on the four hour limo drive from Toronto, but as the driver stopped in front of a diner as instructed by Olivia Minelli, the local liaison person Holly had emailed after landing, all her worry slipped away.
This place looked
nice
. Could a town look kind? Because Pine Harbour did. A thick forest separated the little town from the highway, and the diner was in the middle of a gravel parking lot that butted up to that natural barrier. Across the road was a farm implement repair barn, and then the street continued down a hill toward what looked like a quaint main street. Sparking in the distance was the dark grey blue of Lake Huron.
Some of the buildings were new, others were older. Almost every vehicle in the lot was a pick-up truck, most covered in a generous layer of dirt. The entire thing was perfect. Real and unpretentious and probably not a pool boy or personal trainer or a mother who gets naked with pool boys and personal trainers within a hundred miles.
Because she was definitely done with nonsense like that.
Maybe she’d move to New York. Leave the L.A. house to her mother, and buy a nice one-bedroom apartment on the Upper East Side.
“Sorry, Mom. Couldn’t find anything with a guest room. You’ll have to stay at the Plaza.” On your own dime.
Of course, Holly wouldn’t say the last bit. No point in saying something she didn’t have the guts to actually back-up with action.
A short, pretty brunette bounded out of the diner, looking dangerously chipper. She waved as she approached the limo, and the driver got out and spoke to her briefly before opening the door and gesturing for her to join Holly in the backseat.
“Hi! I’m Olivia. We emailed.”
“Hope Creswell,” Holly said in her smooth, practiced way. Sliding into her stage name—her non-stop public persona—was second nature now. “Thank you for accommodating my early arrival. I trust I’m not interrupting anything?”
“Not at all.” Olivia gave her a warm smile. “Okay, so that’s Mac’s Diner. The owner is Frank. No Mac, that’s just the name. I thought you might want to see where it was. You won’t have a car, right? So if you need food delivery or something until everyone else gets here, you can call the diner and someone will drop off a meal for you. But I’ve stocked the kitchen at the cottage, so you should be okay until everyone else arrives on Sunday. You’ve got those numbers, too, there’s a binder on the counter. I’ll show you.” She took a breath and looked around. “You came alone? I thought you were bringing an assistant with you.”
“Emmett will come up next week. He and his partner are expecting a baby at the end of the summer, and the first OB appointment is this week, so I told him to come up after that.”
“Oh, wow! That’s exciting for him. Well, if you need anything before he gets here, I’m happy to help.” Olivia filled the short ten minute drive south of town with more chatter about the local amenities—not many—and Holly stared out the window. She was being a bit rude, but she was bone tired after a five-hour flight and four-hour drive, even if all she had to do was sit the whole time.
Maybe she could go for a run once she got settled.
And then sleep for days.
The limo slowed at Olivia’s instructions, then turned at a farmhouse, heading down a slight hill into a grove of trees. “That’s Ryan Howard’s house,” her de facto guide said, pointing to the home on the corner. “He’s the son-in-law of the Fenichs, who have rented these cottages to the production company. He’s the property management, so to speak.”
“So to speak?” Holly took in the pile of kids’ bikes on the deck and the minivan parked next to yet another pick-up truck.
“It’s complicated.” Olivia smiled, her expression professional but guarded. “He’s a great guy, just a bit gruff because he’s on his own with three kids now. But he will help you out if you need something.”
The limo snaked under the canopy of trees, revealing first one small cottage, than another, then a few more slightly bigger ones, all in a row. “So the other cast and senior production team members will be staying in these cottages,” Olivia said, then pointed out the opposite window. “And that’s where you and Emmett will be staying.”
That
was not a cottage.
The beautiful lakeside home was no more a cabin than she was a movie set intern. It was a
home
, and for the next three days, she’d be all alone in it. It was perfect. By the time everyone else arrived, she’d have her head on straight and her first week’s lines memorized.
She gazed up at the modern, spacious house with the large wrap-around deck and smiled to herself.
This is what she needed. Work and solitude.
She murmured her thanks as the other woman led her inside, handing over a key before pointing out the kitchen and the bedrooms upstairs.
“All the fireplaces are natural gas, and they give off a good amount of heat. We’re heading into spring now, but it’s still quite cool at night.” Olivia led her back onto the open landing, overlooking the great room below. “And your exercise room is set up downstairs. I’ll show you that.”
Her contract stipulated a workout room, set up just so. It felt a bit prima donna, but the reality was that if she didn’t burn eight hundred calories a day, she gained weight. There was no diet in the world she could stick to for longer than two weeks—and that was only when the carrot at the end of the stick was pretty damn big. Like the Oscars.
Which you haven’t been nominated for in years.
She’d only managed one nomination, ten years earlier for best supporting actress. Since then she’d done everything right—time on Broadway, which she’d loved, and taken projects that stretched her in a million directions. None of them had resonated with the Academy.
At least her agent had a nose for good co-stars, which meant that the projects always did well. Like Joshua Pearce, best known for being hot and starring in raunchy comedies, who’d signed on to play a complete asshole here in
Unexpected
. Everyone in the film had a stake in making this one
good
. Take-their-breath-away good, get-noticed-and-boosted-to-the-next-level good.
Wipe-away-the-stress-of-being-one-missed-contract-away-from-nobody kind of good.
“Everything should be as you expect it,” Olivia said softly, breaking into Holly’s thoughts.
“Thank you,” she said with a smile. Always with a smile, even when tired. Always with her hair brushed smooth and lip gloss firmly in place. Preferably with sunglasses on. Hope Creswell was cool as a cucumber and slightly aloof. She didn’t spend a second worrying about her career being two missteps away from over.
But as soon as Olivia left, promising she was just a phone call away if Hope needed anything, the movie star went away for the night and Holly pulled out her running gear. Sweatpants, sports bra, t-shirt. Hair up in a messy ponytail. There was nothing cool or calm about Holly Cresinski. She worried and ran, and ran and worried. Every night, for at least an hour, no excuses and no exceptions.
Because people were counting on her. Emmett and his baby-to-be. Her agent, manager, publicist…although they’d all find other clients. But still. And her mother.
The woman child at age fifty. Maybe because she’d been a child herself when she had Holly, or maybe because she’d never gotten comfortable in that role of mother and adult woman.
Holly had been supporting them both since her early teens. At least now they didn’t need to live in the same house, not that Maggie Cresinski respected property boundaries.
Her therapist would say this kind of dwelling was unhealthy.
Is she here? Is this an immediate problem? Is there anything you want to do about this?
No, no, and no. Holly increased the speed on the treadmill.
An hour later she dragged herself upstairs to the master bedroom, turned on the shower in the attached bathroom, and waited for the room to fill with steam.
And waited.
She stuck her hand in the water, cursing at the ice cold droplets hitting her skin.
Downstairs, she flipped open the information binder and picked up the phone to call Olivia, but her gaze fell on the name at the top of the page.
Ryan Howard, property support.
Letting out a deep breath, she typed in his phone number.
Busy signal.
She tapped her finger on the numbers on the page. She could call Olivia. Wait, and try this Ryan guy again. Or she could just walk up the lane and knock on his door.
It was just getting dark outside—not too late. And she needed hot water.
Grabbing a sweatshirt from her bags, still piled in the living room, she headed outside, not bothering to lock the door behind her.
The farmhouse at the top of the road was lit up, and through the big window at the back of the house she could see a man moving around the kitchen. She climbed the three steps to the small deck attached to that part of the house and knocked on the door.
A child of maybe seven or eight answered, and before he could say anything, he was joined by two others, one smaller, one bigger. Two boys and a little girl.
From behind them, a man bellowed. “What did I tell you guys about just opening the door? You can’t do that!”
The tallest kid shrugged at her before stepping out of the way, making room at the door for a tall Viking of a man. Big, burly, and, as promised by Olivia, a little gruff. “Can I help you?”
He couldn’t possibly mean it less. He said it because that’s what you say when someone comes to your door, but she’d obviously caught him in the middle of something, and this had been a mistake.
Except she didn’t have any hot water.
Her hair wasn’t brushed and she wasn’t wearing any lip gloss, but she put on her best Hope smile anyway and tipped her head to side. “Are you Ryan Howard?” When he nodded, she steamed ahead. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m staying in the house down at the lake—”