Scarlett was so distraught about losing the Nantucket house that she nearly asked Bo if he might loan her the money to save it. But she had asked quite a lot of him recently. She had asked him to leave Anne Carter—who had been Scarlett’s friend since her earliest memories—but then, when Bo said he would, Scarlett hadn’t been able to leave Deacon. When Scarlett decided that her marriage to Deacon was over, she again asked Bo to leave Anne Carter, and again he said he would, and he did. While Bo was moving out, Deacon had died.
Bo made a good living as an attorney for wealthy Georgia gentlemen—mostly Savannah based, but some in Atlanta as well—who had business interests up North. But he would be paying alimony to Anne Carter, and besides, Nantucket wasn’t his summertime place. He had always been a Folly Beach boy.
Scarlett bicycled home just after midnight; the dark was velvety and nearly opaque. Anywhere else in the world, Scarlett would have been afraid, but here she felt safe. She shed a few tears on the way home because endings were sad and the day had been filled with emotional fireworks. She had only wanted to apologize to Belinda for the atrocious things she’d said; the others, she feared, might have thought she’d meant to push Belinda off the boat. When JP had surfaced the first time without her, Scarlett’s limbs had turned leaden, and a pool of cold dread had collected in the pit of her stomach. She had her problems with Belinda, but that was a far cry from wanting her dead.
When Scarlett tiptoed back into the house, she saw a light on in the kitchen. There, at the counter, sat Laurel—with a steaming mug of tea and a shot of Jameson sitting before her.
“That looks good,” Scarlett said.
Belinda awoke in the night, certain that she heard voices below her. She strained her ears, but she couldn’t be sure. She gave herself a case of the willies wondering if the murmuring she heard was the ghost of Clara Beck. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing sleep to take her.
The voices stopped, then started again. Belinda sat up.
They’re probably going to ask you for something. Money, or a favor. Or both.
Technically, no one had asked; Belinda would make sure to point that out to Bob later. In fact, Laurel had been adamant about not accepting Belinda’s money. Belinda might have a struggle with her—although Laurel probably felt as Belinda did: anything to save this house. Belinda recalled what Marianne Pryor had said: It’s not a house to us. It’s a home. And it’s not a home, it’s a way of life. Our summertime happens here. This house is part of our past, it’s our present, it’ll be our future. It’s who we are.
Whether Belinda liked it or not, the Thorpe summertimes happened here, at American Paradise.
She would save it—for Angie’s sake and Hayes’s sake and Ellery’s sake. She wouldn’t bother with the arrears; she would pay off all three mortgages, whatever that cost. And during her weeks in residence, she would take the master bedroom! Although she might just sneak down to Clara’s room every once in a while for a secret nap.
Belinda rose from bed and crept down the stairs. The voices grew louder and more distinct. There were people in the kitchen. Belinda poked her head in: Laurel and Scarlett were sitting together at the kitchen counter, each with a cup of tea and a shot of Jameson before them.
“Oh, hello,” Belinda said.
They both looked over. Without a word, Scarlett rose, pulled a shot glass out of the cabinet, and poured Belinda some whiskey.
“Tea?” Laurel asked.
“Not necessary,” Belinda said.
Scarlett and Laurel raised their shot glasses.
“Here’s to us,” Laurel said.
“To us,” Scarlett said.
“To us,” Belinda said.
The glasses clicked, and they drank.
A second shot followed. Then a third… before Belinda announced that she was paying off the mortgages.
“I don’t want you to argue with me. And I don’t want you to thank me. I’m not doing it for the two of you. I’m doing it for our children.”
Laurel welled up with tears. “And our grandchildren.”
“Thank you, Belinda,” Scarlett said.
Belinda glared at her. “What did I just say?” She wandered over to the door frame. “I want to know why the kids are the only ones to be measured,” she said. “Why not us? I, for one, would like my own hash mark.”
Laurel stood up. “Me too.”
Scarlett pulled a pen out of the junk drawer.
“You first, Laurel,” Belinda said.
Scarlett measured Laurel. She was almost an inch taller than Hayes had been at thirteen.
Laurel then measured Belinda. She was a smidge shorter than Angie had been at twelve.
And Belinda, standing on the step stool that Mrs. Innsley had probably used to reach the high cabinets and shelves, measured Scarlett. She was taller than everyone.
When they were done, the three of them stepped back to admire their names on the door frame of American Paradise: LAUREL 6/20/16, BELINDA 6/20/16, SCARLETT 6/20/16.
My, my, Belinda thought. Look how we have grown.
Tuesday, June 21
ANGIE
She had thought she would be the first one awake; JP was coming to get her at eight. He had volunteered to give her another shooting lesson.
Joel had left behind a T-shirt. Angie had held it for a moment; she’d even brought it to her nose and inhaled his scent. It pained her to remember him holding her, his face buried in her neck, or the way he tugged on her ponytail. She had fallen for him, and he had disappointed her. Her first adult relationship had taught her what? That men were wily and opportunistic. That people used the word “love” without thinking. Real love existed—about this she was optimistic—but she hadn’t found it having hurry-up sex in the dry pantry or in her apartment in the stolen hours between Joel leaving work and heading home.
When she entered the kitchen for coffee, she found Laurel, Buck, and Belinda already sitting at stools, deep in a hushed conversation.
“What’s up?” Angie asked.
The three of them stared at her.
“I’m taking Hayes to rehab,” Laurel said.
Angie nodded, trying to process these words. Hayes. Rehab. “He’s agreed to it? Or we’re doing an intervention? What is he addicted to?”
“Heroin,” Laurel said. “He’s agreed to go. There’s a place in Pennsylvania, about two hours south of New York. We’re leaving later this morning.”
“Oh, wow,” Angie said. Heroin. She thought about how Hayes had looked the first time she saw him, sitting outside her door. Like any tweaker plucked off Ludlow Street. He was going to rehab; this was a sign of hope. But it was too much to think about, and so Angie deferred to considering the logistics of this new development.
“How am I getting home?” Angie asked.
“You are home,” Belinda said.
As Angie stood aiming the arrow at the target, she felt herself relax. JP noticed, because he said, “There you go. You’re breathing. Now, line up the pin.”
She didn’t have to hit the target today. Now that she was staying on Nantucket for the rest of the summer, the pressure had been lifted. She could work on getting her stance and form right, and if she missed, she missed.
She could always come back tomorrow and try again.
“I have to admit,” Belinda said, “I’m jealous.”
“You should be,” Angie said. She couldn’t believe how excited she felt about staying; nor could she believe how close she’d come to losing Nantucket altogether. Her mother had saved the day. Belinda! Now Angie would go to the beach every day, and she would work on Deacon’s cookbook; it would be a dream summer. Only one thing would be missing. “Did I tell you that JP is teaching me how to use a bow and arrow?”
“He’s adorable,” Belinda said.
He was adorable, but Angie wasn’t about to discuss her brand-new friendship with her mother.
“I think I’ll come back after the Fourth of July,” Belinda said. “Mary and Laura will be away at riding camp for three weeks. Would it be okay with you if I came for three weeks?”
“What would you do for three weeks?” Other than drive me crazy? Angie thought.