The Guest Cottage (10 page)

O
f course she thought of Zack. Not constantly, not even as much as she feared she would, but often and in ways she hadn’t expected.

Tonight, dressing for dinner at Hristo Fotev’s house, she’d winked at her tanned and glowing reflection in the mirror and thought:
You ought to see me now, Zack.

More frequently, she remembered moments of their marriage, both good and bad. Sometimes she searched for signals she should have caught that would have predicted his infidelity, other than his good looks and winning ways. She never found any. Occasionally, she allowed herself to remember why she had married Zack in the first place, back when she was so young, but the memory was uncomfortable, painful, maybe even shameful, and she shied away from it.

She hadn’t heard from Zack since she’d been on the island. Both children had cell phones but she tried not to spy, although she did keep an eye on Lacey’s Facebook account. As far as she knew, Zack had not called either child. This infuriated her. He could leave
her;
fine, she could almost understand that. But he shouldn’t ignore his children, as if they didn’t matter anymore.

Tonight she swallowed her anger. It became a fireball inside her, and like her summer tan, it made her glow. She knew she looked pretty. Trevor’s reaction when she came down the stairs seconded her opinion. But she had gone out of her way not to look seductive. She wore flat sandals, not heels. No eyeliner, just a touch of mascara and a pale Burt’s Bees balm. Her only jewelry was her watch, and because she knew Lacey would notice, her wedding ring.

Lacey assumed, of course, that this dinner tonight was so Sophie could get to know Desi’s parent. That happened all the time at home. Lacey probably had no idea that Desi’s father was divorced, thrillingly wealthy, and could easily double for Gerard Butler. And she absolutely didn’t notice how Hristo had gazed with his deep, mysterious eyes at Sophie when they chatted on the beach.

Jonah knew there was a casserole in the oven. He’d be happy watching a video or playing on his computer. There was no reason for Sophie to feel so nervous—so guilty. Guilty, and she hadn’t done anything. Yet.

During the short drive to Hristo’s house at Surfside Beach, Lacey chatted incessantly. “Desi speaks
three
languages, Mom. Could I start taking French lessons? She plays piano, too. Her mother lives in Sofia, Bulgaria—isn’t that amazing? I Googled it; it’s awesome. Desi likes castles and medieval stuff like I do. Did you see the sand castle Desi and I built on the beach today? Desi says there are castle ruins like that in Bulgaria—not made of sand, of course!” Lacey giggled at herself.

“Don’t forget, Lacey, you’re talented, too,” Sophie reminded her daughter, hoping Lacey wouldn’t feel inferior to such an accomplished girl. “You write wonderful stories and draw beautiful pictures.”

Lacey hadn’t even heard her. “And Desi has all these gowns of her mother’s that we get to try on. I know we’re too old for dress-up; this isn’t dress-up, really, it’s more like make-believe or maybe practicing to be grown-up. Have you ever had a
gown
? And jewelry, Desi’s mother left
jewelry
at the Surfside house—”

Sophie interrupted. “Are you sure you should be going through her mother’s belongings?”

“Her mother never comes here anymore—oh, MOM! Look at the house!”

Unlike most Nantucket houses, this one was modern and long, with walls of windows. Perched on a sand dune like a rectangular box of glass and wood, it was surrounded by the natural landscape: sand, wild roses, beach grass. Lights blazed from the house, illuminating the Belgian block drive and bluestone walkway.

“Hey, there.” Hristo was at the door, with Desi next to him. His coral linen shirt accentuated the black of his thick hair and eyes. Desi’s hair was lighter, her brows and lashes brown, her eyes a creamy caramel.

“Come
on,
” Desi cried, taking Lacey’s hand. “I want to show you my room. We don’t have to be with them for half an hour.”

“Them,”
Sophie intoned ominously as the girls ran off. “So we have become the dreadful, boring
them.
”

Hristo laughed. “I’ve got some wine to help soften the pain.”

He led her past the foyer with its spiral staircase straight into a large open room with an expansive sea view. To the west, the sun was sinking, casting a sheen of golden light on the mild blue Atlantic.

Sophie sank into a sinfully soft sofa and accepted the wine Hristo handed her.

“What an amazing house,” Sophie said. “Such a beautiful view, and it all seems to be part of the landscape.”

“Thanks. Yes, it’s always good to be here.”

“You said you’re Bulgarian. I know nothing about Bulgaria.”

Hristo shrugged. “I’m not surprised. It’s been beaten down a lot recently. But it’s an ancient, historical, and quite beautiful country.”

“But you live in the U.S. now?”

“Yes, and elsewhere. I’m a dual national, American and Bulgarian. My companies are involved with
transportation—building
bridges, seaport docks, and railroads.”

“Do you live on Nantucket all year?”

“No. My main residence is in Manhattan. But I get a lot of work done here on the island. Many multinationals enjoy vacationing here where it’s relatively peaceful and isolated. And you?”

Sophie hesitated. She didn’t want to blurt out that she’d drained her aunt’s trust fund in order to escape an unfaithful husband. “I’ve rented a house here for two months this summer,” she slowly began. “We live in Boston, my children and I and my husband.” She swallowed more of the delicious wine. “When I return after the summer,” she added lightly, “I think he’ll become my ex-husband.”

“Huh,” said Hristo. “Might be a good thing.
I’m
divorced. My ex and I are fairly amicable.” He grinned. “It helps that she and I live in different countries.”

“I’m sure.” Sophie smiled and sipped more wine. She noticed over Hristo’s shoulder a baby grand at the other end of the room. “You have a piano.”

“A souvenir of the years when I was in a rock band.”

“Do you play?”

“If I’m in the mood to torture the seagulls. You?”

“I used to.” Sophie put her drink on the coffee table and half rose. Was it the wine? The wine, yes, and the continuing sense of floating dreaminess that pervaded the air of the island. She was drawn to the instrument as if by some kind of mesmerism. “May I?”

“Please.”

Sophie drifted across the room, seated herself on the bench, and put her hands on the ivory keys. What was there about this island that was bringing it all back to her, the longing, the fulfillment? A lilting Strauss waltz seemed to drop from her fingers onto the keys, and as had happened in the guest cottage, the music carried her off, separating her from the room, from reality. Both joy and sorrow rose within her, tangling, caressing, and tugging her into memories.

“Mom! You’re doing it again!”

Lacey and Desi stood on the stairs, gawking at her.

“Come down, girls,” Hristo said. “I’ve got to throw dinner together. You two can set the table.” He turned to Sophie. “You play beautifully.”

Sophie said, “Thank you.” She moved away from the piano. “Will you reward me with food?”

Hristo smiled. “Yes. Please join me in the kitchen.”

Sophie leaned against the counter, watching as Hristo quickly stir-fried spring vegetables and tuna that he tossed over pasta. As they ate, Hristo focused the conversation on the girls, the events they might wish to attend this summer, and what sports they played. Afterward, Desi and Lacey were excused to make ice-cream sundaes in the kitchen while Hristo and Sophie went out to the deck to look at the night sky.

“Your daughter’s nice,” Hristo said.

“So is Desi. I’m glad they’ve met. It makes this summer so much happier for Lacey.” Sophie was leaning on the railing, half listening to the waves.

“You’ve got a son, too?”

“Yes. Jonah. He’s fifteen. I think he’s beginning to grow up, and, I hate to say it, to grow away from me. We used to be such chums. Now he doesn’t hang out with me or confide in me. It’s to be expected, but I do worry about him, because he’s changing so much.”

“Do you think he’d like to go out with me on my boat?” Hristo asked. “We could all go. I have a small yacht docked at Great Harbor Yacht Club.”

“Oh! Jonah doesn’t know how to sail, but I’m sure he’d love to go out with you.” She couldn’t disguise the pleasure in her voice. “We all would. This is extremely kind of you.”

Hristo moved closer to her, leaning his tanned, strong arms on the railing a few inches away from her. “Maybe I have an ulterior motive.”

She felt his gaze on her like heat. He was
flirting
with her. She was sure that flirting was as easy for him as breathing, probably a natural talent he had polished to use in his work as well as in his private life. Sophie, on the other hand, hadn’t flirted for years. She’d had sex with only one man in all her life: Zack, that massive skunk. She froze, desperate to come up with a clever retort.

“Oh, you must have heard about my paella.” Proud of herself, she twinkled up at him. “I’ll make it some night and invite you and Desi to dinner.”

Hristo stepped closer to her. “I’d like that.”

Sophie swayed. She was having trouble catching her breath.

Hristo was cool. “I have to go to New York for a few days on business. Could I take you out to dinner next Tuesday?”

“I think that evening’s free,” she said coolly.

“Great. I’ll call you.” He slid the glass door open and they returned to the bright lights of the house, where the girls sat giggling on the sofa.

“It was funny watching you, Dad,” said Desi. “Kind of like watching an old movie.”

“Well,” Hristo responded without missing a beat, “we are old people.”

“Time to go home, Lacey,” Sophie said.

Lacey, as expected, protested, but Sophie was firm. Soon they were driving back from the beach to their summer home.

T
he three pitiful males ate their casserole in front of the television. The Red Sox were rained out, and even though they cruised through the channel guide twice, they couldn’t find anything that would satisfy a four-year-old, a fifteen-year-old, and a grown male. Trevor’s mood slumped until he had an inspiration.

“Jonah, do you know how to play poker?”

Jonah shook his head. “Not really.”

“Come on then. I’ll teach you.”

They sat at the dining room table, Leo on Trevor’s lap, Jonah waiting patiently as Trevor explained the face cards to Leo. They had a fresh deck of cards, but no chips, so they used paper clips from Trevor’s office. It wasn’t a great game with only two players—and Leo occasionally spontaneously yelping, “Look, Daddy, you got the king!”—but it was still fun. Trevor taught Jonah straight and stud poker and five-card draw. When Leo started yawning, Trevor stopped the game to take his son to bed.

“I’m gonna check Facebook,” Jonah said, loping away up the stairs. Over his shoulder, he said casually, “Thanks, man.”

When Leo was in bed and Jonah secluded in his room, Trevor sat in front of his computer and scanned his work log. Nothing urgent. He opened up a computer game but it couldn’t hold his attention. Sophie going off for dinner with that guy had really gotten under Trevor’s skin and with his analytical mind, he wanted to figure out why.

He’d only known the woman for a short while, for Pete’s sake. She wasn’t the most babealicious female he’d ever seen, but what he felt for her wasn’t lust. Okay, it
was
lust, but there was a whole lot more going on, too. He liked the way she was in the world, genuine, engaged, easily capable. He really enjoyed hearing her play the piano, although she did it so seldom. He liked her cooking. He liked the way she gathered daisies from the roadside and set them around the house. He liked the way she received with optimism and a gentle acceptance what the world threw at her. She hadn’t freaked out when the Manchesters came; she hadn’t made a scene, shouting that she hadn’t agreed to cook for a crowd. Instead, she’d made a great meal, including a blueberry and strawberry cheesecake, maybe the best dessert he’d ever eaten. He liked the way she sent Jonah or Lacey down to give Old Man Connor chocolate-chip cookies fresh from the oven or a bowl of fruit salad.

She was always doing mundane things naturally, without fuss. Like tossing the kitchen dish towels into the laundry and replacing them with fresh ones. Humming while she vacuumed. Her entire approach to each day made him reflect on his own values. Trevor was far from impoverished. He had some family money, and he did staggeringly well with his computer business. Yet he lived in a small apartment in Cambridge that he’d begun to rent when he was a grad student at MIT.

These two weeks with Sophie made him understand that he lived a pretty childish life in a rather slapdash manner. True, he hadn’t had time to think about the niceties of life during the past five years; he’d been too busy taking care of his son and buying diapers, bottles, a crib, clothes, and then soft shoes, snow boots, sneakers, backpacks, lunchboxes—an explosion of necessities.

When Trevor’s mother came to help him with the newborn baby, and many other times during Leo’s life, she had never commented on the way Trevor and Tallulah chose to live. It had surprised Trevor that she was willing to admit she was a grandmother. In fact she seemed to dote on Leo and visited often, taking care of him, taking him to museums and parks, and cooking the food Leo liked: macaroni and cheese, hot dogs, cheese-and-mustard sandwiches. Tallulah and his mother got along all right, especially because Tallulah was rarely in the apartment; she was usually off rehearsing, acting, or auditioning. Audrey never mentioned the furnishings and Leo never noticed the decor; why would he? He was a child.

Sophie probably thought that Trevor wasn’t much more than a child himself, with his stupid T-shirts with slogans on them that various computer companies sent him as gifts and that worked nicely as pajamas or shirts. No wonder she had gone to dinner with that European guy. What was his name? Trevor remembered: Hristo Fotev. Russian? Anyone who had a house right on Surfside Beach had to have a lot of money. Maybe, Trevor thought, hopefully, this Fotev guy was part of the Russian Mafia.

He went to his computer. He was going to check out the dude.

His fingers flew over the keyboard and he grew more and more miserable. This Fotev guy was a real multitalented, multinational master of the universe. He was CEO of his own company and sat on the boards of several major refugee aid organizations. His uncle had left Bulgaria before the Communists took over the country. He took the family fortune with him to England and later into the United States. When his brother, Hristo’s father, was thirty, he and his wife moved to the United States, and Hristo was born there in 1970. After the Communists left the country in 1989, the Fotevs returned to Bulgaria to reclaim some of their property. When Hristo’s uncle died, he left his fortune and his love of the country to Hristo.

He was still searching when he heard the front door open and Lacey babbling to her mother as they entered.

He couldn’t help himself. He went downstairs, as eager as a storybook spinster to hear about the evening.

It must have gone well, because Sophie was glowing.

“Oh, hello, Trevor. Are you still up?” Sophie’s laugh was like a tinkling of chimes. “Of course you’re still up—you’re standing right there.”

Trevor narrowed his eyes, wondering whether Sophie was a bit buzzed.

Lacey cried, “Trevor, Trevor! Desi has the most awesome house! And they have—”

Sophie interrupted, “Trevor doesn’t want to hear about all that.”

“Yes, I do,” Trevor said, biting the inside of his mouth for saying it so quickly.

“Desi has a room like a princess, and she has five American Girl dolls!” Lacey’s eyes were shining. “And wardrobes for all their clothes, and—”

“Lacey, why don’t you go up and write about this in your diary? And it really is time to go to bed. I let you stay up late tonight.”

Like a slaphappy ballerina, Lacey twirled her way up the stairs, singing.

“I’d better go to bed, too,” said Sophie, yawning.

“Did you have a good time?” Trevor folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall in what he hoped appeared to be a casual, inviting way.

Sophie’s smile was almost smug. “I had a wonderful time.” She did the thing with her shoulders she did when she was especially happy, sort of lifting them up and squeezing them toward her ears. “Everything here okay?”

“Fine,” Trevor replied. What else could he say?
I spent the evening checking out your new boyfriend?

“See you tomorrow, then,” said Sophie, and she drifted away from him up the stairs as if invisible wings carried her.