Authors: Elizabeth O'Roark
“This can’t be right. What about my grandmother, my parents, Jordan? I’m the
last
person it should have gone to.”
“I think your grandfather felt differently,” he says with a shrug. “Your grandmother is allowed to remain there until her death, but he always hoped that it would end up with you and Nate. That’s why he specified in his will that the carriage house must pass to Nate in the event of Mary’s death.”
“But we were just teenagers when he died,” Nate says. “He couldn’t have known we’d end up together.”
Peter smiles. “You weren’t even teenagers. He wrote this will when Maura was 10. I advised him against all of it, but I couldn’t dissuade him. He said he just knew.”
I look over at Nate through a film of tears, and smile when I see that his eyes, too, are suspiciously bright.
CHAPTER 40
Five Years Later
The call comes late, so late I probably wouldn’t have answered at all if it wasn’t coming from the south. I know, without even looking at the number, that it won’t be a member of my family. My parents have called me three times since I left. Each call begins with the clear expectation that I will show some contrition for the decisions I made, and when I don’t they grow angry. They don’t regret their actions – they regret only that I was so impulsive and selfish, as if the preservation of our family’s social standing was well worth any sacrifice I may have been asked to make.
This is a call that should have come from them, but does not. It comes from Peter, informing me that my grandmother has passed away. Yet another reason the call didn’t come from my parents, who still feel the house should have gone to Jordan.
Peter asks what I want to do with the house. I probably should have already thought this through, but I really have no idea. Before I hang up, he stops me. “I know things ended badly here, Maura. But when you make a decision about the house, keep in mind why your grandfather wanted you to have it.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“You know your grandfather hated how insular things are here,” he says. “He thought you, and Nate, might be the ones who could change that. You could make this a real community, not just a place for rich folks to pass some time.”
“I don’t know,” I demur. “I think changing the Cove is a bigger task than two people could take on.”
“I got the birth announcement,” he says, changing the topic suddenly. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” I smile, looking across the room at my little pink bundle and her exhausted father, who have fallen asleep together in the rocking chair, as they are both apt to do.
“Can’t be easy to take care of a new baby and work at a big firm at the same time,” he comments.
“I’m still on leave, but no, it probably won’t be easy,” I sigh. The truth is that working at a big firm has been far less glamorous and far more grueling that I once envisioned. And the thought of leaving my little girl to work 60-hour weeks is killing me.
“Did I tell you I’m getting ready to retire?” he asks.
Peter is typically a decent conversationalist, but tonight I can barely keep up with the change of topics.
“No, I hadn’t heard,” I say.
“We could use a good lawyer down here, Maura,” he says. “And I guarantee you it’s a lot more relaxed than working at a firm. Nate must be nearly done with his master’s degree. Tons of new homes going in at North Shore. Architects have more work than they can handle.”
I laugh. “You’re kind of a pain in the ass. You know that, right?”
“I’ll stop,” he chuckles. “But I’m looking at this birth announcement and thinking your grandfather was right about a lot of things,” he says. “Maybe you should have a little faith.”
Nate climbs into bed with Mary Rose still tucked into his arm like a football.
“Who called?” he asks groggily.
“It was Peter,” I say, and that rouses him. I tell him what Peter has said, watch the way his face lights up when I mention the beach, like a homesick little boy.
“What do you think?” he asks. I know he’s stayed away for me. I know he wants, more than anything, to go back.
I think about the house. I think about Mary Rose and the other children we’ll someday have, running through the wet grass of the side yard in their bare feet, blooming in the salty air. I see myself sitting on the porch with Nate on a summer night, listening to their distant laughter.
It’s an image, I’m guessing, that my grandfather once had too.
Nate waits for my answer, his trust and his loyalty absolute. I look at the little girl in his arms who reminds me so much of him, and his mother. We’ve created something my family can’t take away, no matter how hard they try.
I press my lips to my daughter’s downy little head, and then to Nate’s own. And then I tell him it’s time for us to be the people my grandfather hoped we’d be. It’s time for us to go home.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Elizabeth O’Roark lives in Washington, DC with her 3 children.
Undertow
is her first novel. For a chapter of
Undertow
from Nate’s perspective, or to sign up for the mailing list, visit her at
www.elizabethoroark.com
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This book would still be a sad little document sitting on my laptop shaming me were it not for the unfailing support of my family and friends.
Thanks to my mom for never once appearing to doubt that I could pull this off, and to my kids for putting up with my somewhat obsessive devotion to getting it done.
Thanks to my wonderful beta readers: Katie Meyer (sometimes a Coldplay concert and too many margaritas
are
a good thing, since I’d never have admitted to writing a book otherwise), Carol Ann Garner and Kate French. Your suggestions made this a much better book than it was when I first sent it out.
Last, but not least, a million thanks to the members of the Capital Grille Club: Sallye Clark, Diane Dematatis and Deanna Heaven. I can’t imagine surviving the past year without you. The next round of prison-style spa treatments is on me.
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