The Things We Knew (8 page)

Nick shook his head and waved for her to be quiet while he listened to the broadcaster's account of the last few chaotic months of Gray Carlisle's life.

And two weeks ago, Gray had canceled his tour and checked into a rehab clinic.

Now the rumor was that he'd checked out.

Why hadn't Lynette told him? Unless she didn't know . . .

Nick stared down at the stone counter top, then grabbed a beer from the fridge. He popped it open and took two long gulps. His mind raced ahead, tossing images at him that he wasn't ready for.

Oh, Gray.

Soraya made irritating clucking noises and wagged her head. “See what happens when you go chasing after stardom, Mister Nick? You good to stay here, home where you belong.”

The muscles in his neck began to pinch with the start of a headache. “Everyone makes mistakes, Soraya. At least he went to rehab, right? That means he's trying to start over.” Strangely, Nick felt defensive, as if proving a point.

Soraya harrumphed and chopped up a carrot with vengeance. “That's what they all say. Those poor people got enough trouble already, with this to add to it. Lord, have mercy.” She blessed him
with her I-know-you're-my-boss's-kid-but-you're-an-idiot expression. “What his family got to say?”

Nick massaged his neck, his empty stomach churning. “No idea.” Not that he'd believed Lynette would tell him everything, but they'd had more than a few conversations the past couple weeks, and he thought they were growing closer.

If she did know, this would be killing her.

“I'll see you, Soraya.” He put the can on the counter, marched to the back door, slipped into his loafers, and flung open the door.

“What about dinner? Your father expecting you?”

“I doubt it. Tell him I had other plans.” Nick slammed the door, ran down the drive and onto the main road, then turned into the gates of Wyldewood. He didn't stop running until he stood at the foot of the front steps.

N
ick stared up at the place where he'd spent so much of his life and acknowledged an odd sensation of standing between two worlds. Even in darkness, the house had a magical feel. A long forgotten ache stirred within him.

Years slipped away and he was a kid again. A part of the family he'd wished had been his own. Nick remembered the feeling of belonging. Remembered how it felt to be loved without condition. Remembered . . . everything.

Times he felt so at home here he never wanted to leave. Times he wished he could freeze-frame so they'd never end. Times he didn't want to think about again, actually believed he'd banished from his brain.

Memories tumbled over one another like puppies playing on the sand.

Tree forts and sailing lessons, tennis matches and first kisses. Clambakes and tug-of-wars. Fourth of July parades and regattas. Parties that went on through the night, well into morning. Back then, his biggest worry was getting caught sneaking home past curfew.

Two long windows shed a soft glow onto the driveway, but the rest of the house remained dark. Dogs barked from inside and he heard Lynnie calling them as he walked up the front steps.

The heavy door opened before he could press the bell.

“Oh, it's you. Thank goodness.” Cecily practically pulled him
inside. The dogs rushed him, and Nick held out his hands so they could investigate. “Come on, she's on the phone.” She hustled him through the house before he could get a word out.

“So it's true then? The news about Gray?” He stopped her in the hallway. Cecily nodded and drew him into a quick hug.

“We only heard today. Thank God my husband's out fishing. Gonna be gone about a week, so I can stay over. She can't be alone with this nonsense going on.”

“Is she okay?” Nick gripped the back of his neck, feeling like he was about to walk into an end-of-year final he hadn't studied for.

“Of course she's not okay. David and Liz keep calling. Seems to me they should just get on over here, but that's my opinion. Oh, that boy . . .” Cecily clucked her tongue and ushered him into the living room. Lynette stood there, a cordless phone to her ear.

She nodded a silent greeting, her face pale and drawn. “It's David.” Lynette pointed to the phone. “No . . . sorry, Nick just got here. Nick Cooper. Yes. Oh, somebody else is coming.” The sound of tires crunching on gravel alerted the dogs and they began to bark again.

“Are you expecting anyone?” Nick went to the window and squinted through the darkness at the car idling just outside the open gates.

“Shoot, could be anyone out there.” Cecily stood beside him. “We should call the police.”

Lynette shook her head. “David says it could be local press. To keep the gates locked.”

Too late for that. Nick shooed the dogs back. “I'll take care of it.”

He stepped onto the long front porch again and shut the door behind him. The car parked halfway up the drive. Nick watched the driver jump out, camera in hand.

“
Inquirer and Mirror
. Can we get a statement from the family? Who are you? Can you tell us where Gray is? Is he coming home?”

Nick went down the steps to where the guy stood, put his hand
over the lens. “Get lost, pal, or I'm calling the cops.” The reporter yanked back his camera, returned to his car, and took off. Nick strode down the drive and struggled to push the heavy metal gates closed as the car peeled away into the night. They were rusted and stuck in the ground, but eventually they swung shut. If this kept up, he'd have to find a padlock. He jogged back to the house and found Lynette still on the phone.

Cecily hovered nearby, hands on hips. “Well?”

“Some reporter. I got rid of him. Where's Drake?”

“Up in his room. Whoo-wee, Nicholas, what in the world is this madness? I don't need to watch my stories with all this going on.”

She was clearly enjoying the drama, disturbing as it was. Nick grinned and wagged a finger in her direction. “You shouldn't be watching that garbage anyway, Ce-ce. It'll rot your brain.”

“Oh, hush, my brain does just fine.” She bustled off toward the kitchen, her laughter making him feel a bit better.

The dogs ran back to him, tails wagging. Nick dropped to one knee, patted and scratched them behind the ears. After a while he rose, and they wandered off to settle around Lynnie's feet.

Nick exhaled, rocked on his heels, and waited.

“Okay. No, I won't. No, David. I don't know. I haven't talked to him. No. Okay. Thanks. Bye.” She put the phone down and faced Nick. “Have you heard about Gray? Cecily says it's all over the local news.” Her eyes were red-rimmed, her cheeks blotchy.

Nick nodded, his heart twisting. “I just heard it on the radio. I'm sorry, Lynnie. I would have come before now, called or—”

“We didn't know either.” Defeat and desperation evicted her usual smile. “He didn't tell me, Nick. He lied to me. I thought he was still touring, not in some rehab center!” Her eyes filled and she drew in a shaky breath. “I can't believe it.”

Nick didn't have a whole lot of experience with crying women. But she needed someone. So he crossed the room and held out his arms. Lynette slipped into his embrace, and the dam broke.

He let her get it out, patted her back, and struggled for something sensible to say. “Maybe it's not that bad, Lynnie. You know the press, exaggerating everything.” He meant to comfort, but the words sounded hollow and insincere.

“I think it's bad.” She stepped back, brushing dog hair off her multicolored T-shirt. As usual, she was barefoot. “I want to talk to him, Nick. Nobody can reach him. We don't know what to do.”

Nick took her trembling hand and led her to the couch. He spied a discarded cardigan flung over a chair, grabbed it, and pulled it around her. “Do you think he'll come here?”

Lynette twisted a ring on her finger, meeting his eyes as he sat on the far end of the couch. “He told me he would try to come home soon, the last we talked. I guess if the local newspaper believes it, he's probably on his way.” Lynette looked at the floor, like all the answers were written in invisible code on the old rug. “I can't believe he's been using drugs.” She clenched her hands in her lap. “From what David said, he's in pretty bad shape.”

Nick suspected as much, but it was still hard hearing it. “Maybe he won't come back then.” He gave a hopeful smile.

Lynette arched a light brow. “If he does?”

“We'll just deal with it.” They needed a plan. He wasn't sure how much publicity Gray might create, but he didn't want Lynnie coping alone. Didn't want her dealing with Gray either, but there wasn't much he could do about that.

“Gray swore he never would, you know. Come back,” she whispered. “That year when the two of you had that awful fight . . .” She blinked back tears. “What happened, Nick? What did you fight about?”

Nick ran a hand down his face. No. Confiding in Cecily was one thing. But Lynette could never know. “Can't talk about it.” His curt response cut through the air, surprising them both.

She went to stand by one of the long windows that faced the ocean.

Crickets chirped in casual cadence while waves crashed in unison with the methodical tick of the grandfather clock in the hall. Not that it ever told the right time. Memories flooded back again. A breeze played on the chimes strung from a beam on the back porch. The smell of old leather and musty books mingled with potpourri and pipe tobacco. If he tried hard enough, he could conjure up the lingering scent of Coppertone.

Nothing about the large, comfortable room had changed. The paint on the walls remained the same—robin's egg blue—Diana's favorite color. The old chintz-covered couches sat where they had always been, inviting company with their overstuffed cushions and chenille throws for when the nights grew cold. Antique mahogany coffee tables were covered with picture books of every description. Drake's paintings hung around the room. And the photographs . . .

Diana Carlisle had loved photography. She was forever chasing the kids around, capturing every moment of their lives on film. Gold-, silver-, and wood-framed images of all of them, him included, were everywhere—on the bookshelves and the tables and the top of the baby grand in the far corner of the room.

Nick pushed to his feet, feeling pulled to an old photograph of himself and Gray at about twelve, maybe thirteen, perched in their fitted dinghy after winning a regatta. He smiled at the pink freckled noses, sun-bleached hair, and mile-long grins.

“Lynnie, why didn't you say we had company?”

Drake's voice froze Nick in place. He tamped the urge to make a quick exit, turned on his heel, and tried to look as though he wasn't expecting to be verbally assaulted again.

Surprise shuddered through him. He hadn't really taken in Drake's appearance the night he'd last seen him, given the hour.

The man who'd once been like a father to him had aged considerably.

New lines creased his face. The thick moustache he'd taken such pride in was gone. His pajamas looked about two sizes too big
and he seemed almost swallowed up in a ratty brown bathrobe. His long hair was streaked with gray and touched his shoulders. But his brown eyes held a familiar sparkle.

“Dad.” Lynette cast a nervous glance at Nick. “I thought you'd gone to bed. Were you watching television?”

“Well, I . . .” The old man scratched his head and chuckled. “I don't rightly know. I may have been, but I dozed off.” He faced Nick with a blank stare. “Who are you, then? Don't just stand there, boy, introduce yourself.”

Lynette cleared her throat and took her father by the arm. “This is Nick, Dad. You remember.”

Nick prepared to head for the door.

Drake's face split into a smile, and he let out a deep laugh. “Of course, Nicholas. Gracious, are you home from college already? Studying architecture, is it? Doing very well too, I hear. How's your mother?”

“Sir?” Nick caught Lynette's eye in question, but she glared at him so fiercely that he slapped on a smile and nodded. “She's just fine, sir, thank you.”

“Good, good. Tell her I'll be calling her about my roses soon. Got that blasted black spot again. She's got all the tricks, your mother.”

Nick scrambled for words, the vacant look in Drake's eyes more than worrying. “Yes. She . . . uh . . . sure loves her roses.”

“Well, Gray isn't home yet, if that's why you're here. That boy can never keep a curfew. Looks like I'm going to have to ground him again.” Drake gave an affable smile and turned to Lynette. “I can't find the sugar. I want tea, but you know I can't stand it unsweetened.”

“Mr. Carlisle!” Cecily rushed into the room and let out a disgruntled sigh. “I thought you were up in bed.”

“I want tea.” Drake's exasperated expression matched Cecily's, and they engaged in a stare down Nick might have found comical any other night.

“It's all right, Dad,” Lynette said, nodding toward Cecily. “You go on back up to bed and we'll bring you some tea. Okay?” Lynette smiled, but the tremor in her voice said the effort pushed her toward tears.

Drake shuffled away, Cecily following after him in a flurry. Nick and Lynette were left alone. He tried to process the last few minutes, and the weight of it sent him to a chair.

“Nick?”

“What?” He jerked up his head and found Lynette watching him.

She drew in a breath and folded her arms, recovering quicker than he did. “I'm going into the kitchen. To make the tea. Will you stay?”

Common sense told him he should go. Go before this place and all its memories sucked him in again. Go before it was too late. Go now, and never look back.

But Lynette's anxious tone and the way she pulled her arms over her chest like she was trying to shut out the world made it impossible.

“Yeah. I'll stay.” He thought he caught a flash of relief in her eyes.

“Good. Take the dogs out back for me, would you? I'll put the kettle on.”

Nick did as she asked, grateful for the fresh air as he paced the lawn and thought about Gray, who might well be on his way back to Nantucket.

Maybe his coming home would be a good thing. Maybe they'd be able to talk.

Put the past where it belonged and start over.

Nick kicked at a rock and shook his head.

There was little chance of that, but it didn't hurt to hope.

The sound of the ocean soothed him as the breeze blew through his hair. The moon slid out from behind the clouds and lit the old
tennis court on the far side of the house. It was long abandoned, the net a tangled mess of leaves and moss. He stomped over a clump of dandelions and scanned the rest of the garden as best he could in the evening light. The straggly grounds were not as he remembered.

Nothing was as he remembered, really.

The magic he'd felt when he'd first arrived tonight had only been a lost memory trying to find its way home. There was no magic here anymore.

Only desolation.

Nick whistled for the dogs and went up the back steps, noting the peeling paint on the doorframe. He kicked a pile of rotting wood and leaves. Shingles were falling off the house. He shook his head. Lynnie's dreams of saving Wyldewood were too far-fetched for his liking.

By the looks of it, there was little left to save.

Nick found her in the kitchen, on the phone again. He straddled a stool and reached for the steaming mug she pushed his way.

“No, Liz. I'm fine,” she said, sounding anything but, a frantic edge to her voice. “No. Why do you automatically assume I'm going to fall apart the minute something terrible happens?” She rounded the counter and walked toward the bay window. “I'm not a child, so stop treating me like one.” Lynette lowered her voice, but he could still hear the tremor. “Do you know when? Okay. No. Yes, of course I'll call you. Next weekend is fine.” Her short laugh sounded bitter. “What plans would I have?”