The Things We Knew (4 page)

“How is . . . everyone?” Nick leaned against the doorframe.

“Fine, I guess. David and Josslyn have twins; they're two.”

“Really?”

“I know. Ryan's over in Africa working with some mission I can never remember the name of. Liz is in New York. She's a corporate attorney.”

“And you're still here. The only constant.” His low laugh floated
around her. A glimpse of the Nick she remembered sidled over and nudged Mr. Corporate America out of the way.

“I guess I've always been predictable.” Lynette looked down at her painted toenails.

“Hey. That's not a bad thing.” He gave her arm a light squeeze. A friendly gesture, but the touch of his fingers sent a strange energy zigzagging through her. “Will you let me know what they say about coming home? It'd be great to see everyone.”

She shrugged, desperate now to end their conversation, escape the room, the memories. Him. “Sure.”

“What do you hear from Gray these days?” Nick's smile disappeared.

Lynette frowned as she thought about her brother. “Not much. He's on tour. In Canada now, I think.”

“He did good, huh?” His voice radiated warmth again and reminded her of happier times. “I used to laugh at his talk of becoming a famous rock star. We all had our dreams. His were just bigger than all of ours put together.” It wasn't hard to catch the regret in his tone.

“He's hardly a famous rock star, Nick. Gray's got problems just like the rest of us.”

“Is he okay?”

“I don't know. He says he is, but I've had this weird feeling for a while now. I can't shake it.”

“I'm sure he's fine.” He sounded confident. “Gray's tougher than he looks.”

“I hope you're right.”

It was strange seeing Nick here in such austere surroundings. She'd always pictured him on his yacht—shirtless, of course, the wind racing through his hair—sailing the world with beautiful women at his side. Not back in Nantucket, behind a desk pushing papers.

Working for his father.

Something he'd sworn he would never do.

“Well.” His hand closed around hers in a brief squeeze. “Take care, Lynnie. If you need anything . . .”

“You've already said you can't give me a loan.” She almost laughed, but shook her head instead. “I'll call you once I talk to everyone.” She wanted to go home and crawl under the covers.

“And you'll mention the hotel chain? It could be a very lucrative decision.”

Lynette sighed. Nick could rival any of them in the area of stubbornness. He'd always been the last to give in on any matter of contention. The fact that he and Gray hadn't spoken in years proved it. “Fine. I'll mention it.”

“You know where I am if you need me.”

“Yes. Good-bye, Nick.” Lynette reached into her canvas bag for her sunglasses, lost her grip on the strap, and the whole thing fell to the floor. She bent to retrieve some of the contents and counted the seconds until she could escape further embarrassment.

“Pez?” Nick held the red plastic dispenser with the Winnie the Pooh head toward her, a sly grin playing at the corners of his mouth.

She grabbed it and pushed it deep inside her purse. “I work at a day care.”

“Ah. Of course.”

“I have to go.” Lynette turned toward the door and wished she could fly.

“Lynnie.” His forehead wrinkled with worry. “I really am sorry about all this, you know.” The look he gave her was so familiar that she had to smile. That was the Nick she knew, always standing up for her. He'd never been afraid to speak up, to speak his mind.

Something she rarely did around her siblings.

“Well. Thanks again.” Her voice caught in her throat as childhood memories tried their best to resurface. She had a sudden
stupid urge to throw herself at him and sob, but quickly stifled that thought.

Nick studied her. “Are you going to be okay?”

Lynette nodded, but couldn't reply.

That was one question she didn't have an answer for.

N
ick decided to walk down Main after work to clear his head. Today's meeting with Lynette had been painful. The desperation on her face made his stomach clench, and he couldn't shake it. She was no longer the young, carefree girl who lived in his memory. Still beautiful, but her eyes told him more than he'd bet she wanted him to know. He'd seen something in them, something haunting, disturbing.

He'd wanted to whip out his checkbook and solve all her problems. But of course he couldn't. She'd never agree, for one thing, and his father would skin him alive.

Dad had called less than an hour after Lynette's appointment. Nick suspected Wanda, his dad's secretary, was keeping tabs on his every move. That didn't surprise him. But his father was more than interested in hearing about the possibility of the Carlisle home going on the market. And something about that bothered Nick.

He kicked at a pebble and watched it bounce over the worn cobblestones. If only problems could disappear so easily. The temperature was warmer today, the ocean breeze refreshing, and he tried to enjoy it. The foliage on the trees grew thicker, providing shade for the summer months to come. Flowers in bloom made him think of his mother. She loved this time of year on the island. Probably about the only thing here she had appreciated.

He yanked his tie loose and stopped walking as he passed the
new art gallery, Timeless. A painting in the window caught his attention.

The colorful beach scene reminded him of lazy summer days when all he'd had to worry about was his tan and whether it would rain. He stepped closer, pushed up his sunglasses, and peered through the window.

It was typical Nantucket folk art, yet different, more whimsical.

His eyes landed on the girl on the rocks, set apart from the activity on the beach. Long honey-colored hair hid her face. She looked lonely.

A sense of déjà vu pulled him into the gallery.

A bell tinkled as he entered and paintings of varying sizes greeted him, displayed under recessed lighting. Thick rugs in muted shades covered the hardwood floor and soft jazz played from hidden speakers.

He could have been in New York.

“Good evening.”

Nick turned toward the voice. A willowy woman rounded the desk and fairly floated toward him. Swathed in a caftan of emerald green, her silver hair was streaked with red—bright red—choppy to her shoulders. He wouldn't dare pin an age on her, but she was definitely up there. Still attractive, in an aging movie star kind of way.

“Just having a look,” he told her. “I remember when this used to be a liquor store.”

“Do you now?” Her black-rimmed glasses glittered. “That was several years ago. You would have been just a teenager, I'm sure.”

Nick grinned and nodded toward the front of the gallery. “That painting in the window. Who's the artist?”

“Oh . . .” The woman fiddled with her many bracelets. “Yes. She's very good.” She sailed across the floor, pressed a button on the wall, and the platform, which held the painting, rotated.

Nick stepped forward and nodded. “Something about it . . .” A memory, perhaps. “There's no signature.”

“No. Verity prefers not to sign her work.”

“Verity?” Latin. Meaning truth, if he recalled correctly. Nick scratched his chin. “Does she have a last name?”

The woman squinted. “Just Verity.”

“Is she local?”

“You could say that.” She smiled, relaxed again. “We don't see much of her. You like that painting, I can tell.”

“Yes. It's quite . . . familiar.” Nick admired the fine detail and shadows. “I grew up here. I know that particular beach very well.”

“I see. Are you interested in making a purchase, Mister . . .?”

“Cooper. Nicholas.” He extended a hand and produced the smile he saved for good friends and his grandmother. Her confidence put him at ease.

“Ah, Mr. Cooper. I've been wondering when we might run into one another.”

“Have you?”

She laughed as she moved to a long granite desk and busied herself with papers. Nick followed, catching a glimpse of the gold nameplate on the desk near the phone. Evy McIntyre.

“We haven't met before, have we, Evy?” He'd definitely remember if they had.

She waved a hand, flashy rings covering her fingers. “Oh, no, darling. But your return has been quite the talk at the spa. And it's Ev-ee, like Chevy.”

“Okay.” Nick rubbed the back of his neck. He tried not to laugh. “Well, Evy like Chevy, how much is that painting going for?”

Her eyes danced with certain mischief. “How much is it worth to you?”

After they finished an early supper that night, Dad wanted to sit outside. Lynette followed him down the wide hall, her bare feet
treading carefully over worn spots in the wood floor that might send up a splinter. Most of the hardwood on this level needed repair or refinishing. Long rugs used to cover the floors. They were probably rolled up in the attic, being eaten by mice or moths.

She paused to pull a cobweb from the hanging brass lamp in the middle of the hall and noticed one of the three small bulbs had burnt out. A couple of the screws securing it to the wooden beam dangled rather dangerously out of place. She stood on tiptoe, tried to reach them, but couldn't. She'd need to drag a ladder out for the job.

Maybe tomorrow she'd get around to cleaning and doing the many chores she'd been putting off. If only Cecily hadn't quit, drat the woman. But Lynette could hardly blame her. She wouldn't be happy working and not getting paid either.

The array of framed photographs on the wall caught her eye, Cecily's round, cheery face jumping out at her, as though she'd been summoned somehow, to make her smile.

“Lynnie, child, ain't no reason to cry now. You're safe and sound.”

Lynette choked back a sob and buried her head in Cecily's ample chest, comforted by the smell of fresh baked bread and talcum powder. “I hate those boys. They chased me and scared me and made me fall down.”

“I know, baby.” Cecily shifted from her cross-legged position on the floor and peeked under the wet paper towel she held over Lynette's scraped knee. “Looks like it's all better, see? No more blood.”

Lynette scrunched her nose and studied the throbbing red spot, gave a little shiver, and then shrieked as the boys burst into the living room, whooping and hollering, racing around her, dirt and sand smeared across suntanned chests. Their game of cops and robbers was a favorite, but she always had to be the robber, and they always caught her.

“Go away!” she yelled, burrowing her face again, grateful for Cecily's warmth and the comforting arms that came around her.

“Hush, now.” Her parents' friends called Cecily the housekeeper, but to Lynette and the rest of them, she was family.

“Baby, baby, Lynnie's just a baby!” Gray ran circles around them, Ryan hot on his heels, waving the long piece of rope he'd picked up on the beach that they'd threatened to tie her up with.

“Boys, that's enough!” Cecily used her I-mean-business voice. “Ryan, you throw that dirty thing outside right now. Y'all are soaking wet too.”

“Storm's coming.” Ryan tossed the rope out the open French doors and shook his head, drops of water flying as he flopped down beside them, propped on his elbows. Lynette chanced a look at her brother and tried to stop her sniffles. “Sorry, Shortstop,” he said. “Sometimes I forget you're only six and can't keep up.”

“I'm almost seven.”

“Almost.” Gray hung over Cecily's shoulders and wiggled his fingers in Lynette's face.

“Stop it, Gray!” She swatted them away and Cecily hushed her again.

“Shoo, you gonna get sand all over me, Grayson!” Cecily scolded.

Gray just laughed. He always laughed when he got in trouble. Getting in trouble was a bad thing. Lynette didn't know why he thought it wasn't.

“Where's Mom?” Gray rolled off Cecily and onto the rug, sticking his scrawny legs high in the air. “She better get back soon or she'll get stuck out in the storm.”

Thunder crashed overhead and they all jumped. Fear pulled tight, and Lynette swiveled to look into Cecily's dark eyes. “Ce-ce? Where'd she go?”

Cecily shook her head, smiled, and cupped her warm hands around Lynette's cheeks. “Child, you worry too much. Anyone ever tell you that? Your mama knows that beach better than her own face.
And God's looking after her. She'll be back soon now. Don't invite trouble in 'til you have to.”

“Yoo-hoo! Darlings, I'm home!” The front door slammed and their mother's voice sang through the hallway.

Cecily laughed and kissed the top of Lynette's head. “See there? Now, what I tell you?”

Some days Lynette missed Cecily Johnson more than she missed her own mother.

“Are you coming, Lynnie?” She heard Dad moving furniture around on the back porch and picked up her pace. At the end of the hall, she pushed open the wide screen door, stepped onto the patio that ran the length of the house, and took in Wyldewood's crowning glory.

It didn't matter how often she came out here, that expanse of blue surprised her. The ocean stretched as far as the eye could see. The water was calm this evening, gentle whitecapped waves rolling along toward the shore. But the sight of the dandelion-infested lawn chased off her happiness.

“I didn't realize the garden was such a mess.” Winter had kept them inside, and spring somehow failed to capture her attention this year.

“A mess?” Dad's eyes crinkled with laughter. “It's beautiful.”

Thick oak trees were positioned carefully on either side of the grounds so as not to obstruct the view of the Atlantic. Their weathered branches sprouted new leaves. Daffodils and crocuses came back year after year, and a few purple or red tulips joined the display.

“We sure had some fun, didn't we?” Dad mused. “The parties your mother used to throw . . .”

“I remember.”

The once elaborate flowerbeds snaking around the house and along the boxwood hedges were overrun with weeds. The swimming pool had been drained and covered years ago. Rotting leaves and debris crusted the black tarp. Beyond the pool lay the tennis court, cracked and covered in grime, the old net twisted in a heap by one of the rusted poles that once held it in place.

Dad shuffled up beside her. “Isn't it as lovely as ever, Lynnie?”

“Yes.” It was only half a lie.

Lynette balled her hands, her eyes burning. He saw it all as it had been—loved and cared for, with lilies and roses and exotic plants she couldn't begin to name, all in bloom. The pool provided a cool retreat, always overflowing with children, adults vying for space on the lounge chairs along the surrounding terrace.

She rubbed her nose, tipped her face to the setting sun, and tried to find comfort in the memory. Gulls circled the cliffs below the property. There was a well-worn path to her left, the wooden gate off its hinges, covered in wild rose brambles. The path led down to a stretch of white sand, the private beach they shared with the houses around them.