The Things We Knew (7 page)

He'd run out of options.

N
ick found himself still thinking about Lynette the Saturday of Memorial Day weekend. He hadn't been prepared for the impact of seeing her again after so many years. He wondered if she felt the same . . . wondered if she remembered that night so long ago, when they'd walked the beach and talked—and he'd kissed her. He couldn't believe he'd done it at the time. Sometimes he still didn't.

Nick flopped onto his stomach, wishing for a couple more hours sleep, but he was wide-awake. He'd wanted to tell Lynette how he really felt that night. That he'd never thought of her like a kid sister the way the others did. But he'd lost his nerve. Then life got in the way.

And now? Now wasn't exactly the ideal time to rip the lid off any of his unresolved feelings. They both had more issues to deal with than the characters on those smarmy reality shows Mindy liked to watch.

Mindy . . . Nick groaned into his pillow and made a mental note to figure that one out ASAP.

Too quickly, his mind drifted back to the Carlisles. Something was definitely wrong with Drake. Alzheimer's was his best guess. Nick was no doctor, but he knew one thing for sure—in his befuddled mind, the man had come here that night looking for his wife.

Nick knew why.

He got up with the sun, slammed around the kitchen, and put together a quick breakfast. The overly toasted bagel didn't go down easily. After a couple of bites, he opted for just coffee.

Nick sat with his head in his hands, jackhammers drilling into his brain. For the thousandth time, he cursed the day his father had called requesting—no, demanding—his presence back here on Nantucket. He should have refused. Packed up his stuff and run as far as he could in the opposite direction. But he'd given in, for a good reason. Except now he was stuck, left to deal with a not-so-forgotten past and all its monsters.

His smartphone beeped with new messages. Nick scanned them and shook his head. Mindy Vanguard did not take no for an answer. He'd have to call her back eventually. If he didn't, she'd show up on his doorstep.

The early-morning sun rays shone through the bay window of the kitchen. He put his plate in the dishwasher and went upstairs to change.

Nick went for a swim, then jogged along the not-yet-crowded beach and let the sea air penetrate his lungs and purify his thoughts. He slowed his pace when he passed the steps that led to Wyldewood. The house still seemed grand, but the gray shingles were shaded with moss, more than a few missing. The roof looked in need of repair. A tattered flag hung limp from the rusted metal pole, white paint peeling off.

With all of them gone, and Lynnie managing the old man and working as well, it was no wonder the house was so rundown.

Back home, he showered, dressed, and made two phone calls. One to placate Mindy, the other, he hoped, to placate himself.

He pushed up the garage door and hopped into the old two-seater Jeep TJ he'd been driving since the day he was legal. He didn't drive her much anymore, but today the mood hit. She looked good, not a speck of dust on the shiny black paint. The engine came to life at once. Nick had Clyde, their groundskeeper, to thank for that. If
his father knew the Jeep was still in working condition, he might have had it carted away. Dad didn't like to be reminded of Nick's rebellious youth.

He put the top down, pushed on his shades, and cranked the volume of the radio as he turned onto Polpis. Gray's latest Top 40 hit accosted him, and he pressed harder on the gas pedal. Everyone on Nantucket seemed to think Gray Carlisle was the next John Mayer.

Nick drummed on the wheel and listened to the gravelly voice belt out an unfamiliar tune. Something about pain, heartache, and addiction. Typical.
Write what you know, Gray.

He whizzed by the dunes and watched kids race toward the water. The wind tugged at his hair and shook off sleep as he wound along the coastal road, through town, past Brant Point Lighthouse off in the distance.

He slowed to overtake a couple on pedal bikes. The sun warmed his skin and almost had him believing life was good. Nick checked out the water and thought about hauling his Sunfish overboard later. He hadn't been for a sail in a while.

Once he reached Jetties Beach, he spun the Jeep around and headed back toward town.

It was time.

He turned down Washington and coasted to a stop when a memory kicked in. He wasn't sure he would remember the place, hadn't been here since he was a kid, but there it was. The small gray-shingled house with blue shutters sat pretty in a neat little garden, boxed in by a white picket fence. Pink roses were in bloom, filling the air with heady perfume. Nick parked and got out, stood a moment, debating with himself.

“Nicholas Cooper, get on up here!” Cecily Johnson stood in the doorway before he reached it, her gleaming smile taking over half her dark face. “Shoot! Look at you. It's been an age.” She opened her arms and Nick slipped into them with a grin. It had been years
since he'd seen her, but when she'd worked for the Carlisles, she'd looked after him like he was family.

“Hey, Cecily.” Her hugs always made him feel like a million bucks.

“I nearly fell off my stool when you called. Well, come on in.” She pulled him inside, and the aroma of coffee and something baking wafted through the tiny hall.

Banana bread if his nose was any good. He followed her through to a warm kitchen and sat at an old oak table. “Lynnie said I should come see you. I mean . . . I was planning on it anyway.”

“Sure you were.” She chuckled good-naturedly. “Spending time with an old woman like me probably isn't all that high on your to-do list.”

“Ce-ce, you're hardly old. Lynnie says you're keeping busy, huh?”

“Oh, yes. Always busy.” Cecily bustled around, throwing questions at him as she poured the coffee. “You been home long? Seems like you've found your way back to the house next door.”

Nick shoved his car keys into his pocket. “Not exactly. Lynette came to see me at the bank.”

She set a steaming banana-cranberry loaf in front of him, cut into generous buttered slices, along with a cup of strong coffee. Nick reached for a slice and munched, giving a long groan of appreciation.

Cecily beamed and handed him a paper napkin. “Better than you remembered?”

“It's amazing.”

“Good. Don't wait so long between visits next time.”

“Sorry.” Nick finished his piece of heaven and sat back, waiting for the coffee to cool. He glanced around the small room. A child's artwork decorated the refrigerator and a box of toys sat in one corner. “Guess your grandson must be getting big?”

“You wouldn't believe the size of him. He's off to kindergarten in the fall. Out fishing with his granddaddy today. The two of them are like peas in a pod.”

“Can't believe you're a grandmother. You're looking younger and more beautiful than ever.” Nick winked and grabbed another piece of the warm loaf.

Cecily shook with laughter. “You always were a charmer, Nicholas. I can't complain. The good Lord keeps me healthy and busy. We get by.”

“I heard you're not with the Carlisles anymore.”

“No.” A sigh rumbled through her as she drank her coffee. “I stayed as long as I could, but my husband, he wouldn't have it. Said I had to make some money or may as well stay home and look after young Tyson for my daughter.” Her brow furrowed. “How they getting on over there?”

Nick relayed the events of the past few weeks and shared his concern over Drake.

Cecily dabbed at her eyes and shook her head. “I guess Lynnie still can't get him to the doctor. What happens when she's at work?” Her eyes formed thin slits, her lips pinched in disapproval.

“Gets help where she can, I suppose. She mentioned a neighbor popping in.”

“That poor man hasn't been the same since Mrs. Diana passed on, that's for sure.”

“Lynette said he's not drinking anymore. Is that true?”

Cecily nodded, her dark eyes serious. “True as the Bible. At least it was when I was there. But it's something else now, isn't it?”

Nick played with a gold signet ring on his right hand. “Was he acting strange before you left? Forgetting stuff, wandering off?”

“In mind and body.” Cecily picked a few dead bits from a purple violet plant in the middle of the table. “Started end of last year. I tried saying something, but you know Lynnie, don't want to admit when something's wrong. I just let her be.”

She pushed the plate toward him and Nick gave in. “Cecily, do you know if they ever come over, David or anyone? It's a lot for Lynnie to manage on her own.”

“It is. Too much. Far as I know, none of them have been back in years. Much as I'd hate to see them go, they should sell that old place and be done with it.”

“That's what I've been telling her.” Nick frowned and ran a finger around the flower design on his mug.

“You been seeing a lot of Lynette?” Cecily's eyes twinkled with mischief and Nick raised a brow.

“Don't start.”

Her shoulders shook with subdued laughter. “Ooo, I think you're still sweet on that girl, aren't you?”

Much to his chagrin, Nick felt his face flush. “Cut it out, Cece. Anyway, I did talk to her about selling—she hates the idea. I get it, but honestly, I don't think they have a choice. And the rest of them will probably agree. I was thinking I might . . . I don't know. I want to help, I'm just not sure how.”

Cecily gave him the honest look he remembered well and reached for his hand. “If you want my advice, don't take that on, Nicholas. You might still feel a part of them, but I'm not so sure they feel the same. 'Specially Gray.”

It would have come up eventually.

Nick didn't know what to say so he looked out the window instead. A couple jogged along the street. Somewhere off in the distance a dog howled at a passing ambulance and the sea gulls chimed in, screeching piteous protests.

“Had a feeling you heard us that night.”

She nodded. “You were outside, but he was yelling pretty loud. And I know you and Gray haven't talked since.”

“Five years.” Nick rubbed his jaw, surprised at how vivid the memory still was. Gray had slugged him there, good and hard. It was the first time they'd ever disagreed on anything. The first time his friend had ever hit him.

Regret he'd learned to live with pressed against his temples. “I thought I was doing the right thing, telling him.”

Cecily squeezed his hand. “Honey, sometimes people don't want the truth.”

Nick set his jaw. “I didn't ask for it either.”

Cecily's dark eyes shone. “You've got a good heart, son. You always did. But they weren't your choices to make. You were just a boy. What could you have done?”

“Nothing, I guess.” He shrugged, all that good baking threatening a hasty exit. “I knew for a long time. I only told Gray that night because he was being a jerk to Drake. They all blamed their dad, you know, after Diana died. And I was tired of carrying it around.”

Cecily touched the gold cross around her neck. Folded up today's newspaper and stacked it atop a pile of magazines. A pained expression froze her face. “You got something else to get off your chest, don't you? That's why you came today?”

Maybe he shouldn't have come. Maybe it was better to leave the ghosts undisturbed.

“Why are you really here, Nicholas? Back on this island?” The voice he remembered, vibrant and true, pulled open a long forgotten door Nick knew he must step through.

“My dad. He . . . well, I guess you could say it's where I need to be right now.”

“Go on. I'm listening.”

It was what he'd come here to do. Nick knew it, accepted it, and told her everything.

If there was anyone in the world he trusted, it was Cecily Johnson. Whatever he shared in here would go no further. And once the words were out, he felt a little lighter.

They talked awhile longer, and then, for some reason he couldn't explain, he let Cecily pray for him.

B
y the second week in June, Lynette felt more hopeful. Her paintings were selling, and things at home were bearable, for now.

She parked outside Evy's gallery after work that Friday with another painting. Flowers cascaded from the ancient water trough in the middle of the street—blue and white lobelia and other summer blooms on glorious display.

“Spectacular,” Evy crowed, clapping her hands at Lynette's latest offering.

“Thanks.” Lynette poked around the gallery, checked out the new work hanging rather than studying her own. “I can't believe my stuff is selling. Jamison is much better. His pieces haven't moved.”

Evy laughed and went behind the desk. “Jamison is fantastic. But he's Matisse. You're more like Norman Rockwell. People like that. They can lose themselves in your story.”

“Who's buying my paintings?” Lynette faced her friend, suddenly curious. She hadn't bothered to ask before, but she wanted to know now, having seen her competition.

“Here's your cash, sweets.” Evy handed over an envelope.

Lynette did a quick count and gaped. “Seriously?”

“Four paintings. I think I'll raise the price on these. We are in high season, after all.”

“Evy.” Lynette dropped the envelope into her purse. “Some poor old lady doesn't realize she's throwing her money down the toilet. You're probably committing a thousand sins here, you know.”

“The only sin is you not selling your work before now.” Evy peered over the rim of her spectacles. “If you must know, our buyer is hardly a poor old lady. He's young. And very easy on the eyes. Although he's not my type.” Wheezy laughter rang through the gallery as Evy reached for a black Chanel clutch and produced a gold lipstick case.

“So the same person is buying all my paintings?”

“Well, not all of them. But a few, yes.”

Lynette watched Evy apply a generous amount of fuchsia to her lips. “Somebody from the city? That figures.” She shook her head. It didn't matter. The cash would cover the next month's round of bills. Mr. City Slicker was welcome to her paintings.

“You look tired, hon.” Evy leaned over the counter and studied her with the all-knowing look Lynette had learned not to dodge.

“I am, I guess.” She dragged her fingers through her hair, lack of sleep doing a smackdown. “Things are getting worse with my dad.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. Medical care is expensive.” Evy pushed up her glasses with the top of a pencil. “I should know. Took about every cent I had paying off my first husband's medical bills. Thankfully husband number two had more money than Solomon.”

“What happened to him?” Lynette wasn't so sure she wanted to know.

“Oh, nothing.” Evy gave a throaty chuckle. “He was old. Passed away peacefully in his sleep.”

“And left you a fortune.”

Evy nodded and perused the gallery. “He did indeed. I sometimes wonder why I'm still here on this island instead of traveling the world.”

“You told me you hated to fly.”

“I suppose that would be one reason.” Evy laughed, then took on a pensive look. “Sometimes, though, it's good to face your fears, isn't it?”

“Not always.” Lynette reached for a chocolate from the bowl
on the counter, unwrapped the foil, and popped it in her mouth. “I just found out my father let the medical insurance slide. Everyone is pressuring me to put the house on the market. Even Nick.”

“Nick?”

Lynette scrunched up her nose. “Nick Cooper. He's our neighbor. He works at the bank. You know, those Coopers? I went to see him a couple weeks ago. He was kind enough to tell me we're about ready for an extended stay in the poorhouse.”

She sank into one of Evy's round leather objects that passed for a chair, leaned against the soft cushion, and closed her eyes. She could sleep for a thousand days, but when she woke, things would still be the same.

Evy walked through the gallery, pulling down the shades and locking the front door. Then her friend positioned herself in the chair opposite hers and passed the bowl of chocolates.

“Sometimes life just sneaks up and bites you in the butt, doesn't it, honey?”

Lynette stared a moment, then exploded into laughter. A moment later she wiped the tears from her eyes. “Thanks, Evy. You always make me feel better.”

“I'm glad an old lady can be useful.” Evy batted her mascara-heavy eyelashes, examining her a little too carefully. “Can I ask you something?”

“You will anyway.”

“True.” Evy played with the colorful glass beads around her neck. “Listen, can we reconsider the pseudonym? You're so good, hon. Why not take credit for your talent?”

Lynette hesitated. It wasn't that she hadn't thought about it. “I don't know really. I . . . I think I did it because of my father.”

“You don't think he would like the idea of you selling your work?”

“No, it's not that. I just feel like I've stolen something from him. If he were well, he'd still be painting. I don't want to ride any
coattails, and I don't really want my family to know I'm selling my paintings.”

“That's why you want to be paid in cash?”

“They have access to our account. If I deposited checks, they'd wonder where the extra money was coming from.”

Evy frowned. “Well, all right. It's up to you. I also wanted to ask, have you got any of your father's older pieces? You might think about selling those. I'd be more than happy to help with that. Just say the word.”

Unexpected tears formed and Lynette blinked them back. Selling the house, selling Dad's paintings . . . She drew in a breath and wiped her eyes. How much more would she be asked to give up?

“I don't know, Evy. Those paintings are so special . . . especially now.” She couldn't say it. Especially now, when his mind would never be the same.

Evy reached across the gap between their two chairs and squeezed Lynette's hand. “So this Nick . . . Is he cute?”

“Cute? No.” Puppies were cute. Babies were cute. Nick Cooper was . . . so much more. Lynette concentrated on her toes. Her sandals had endured another go-round with the dogs and were looking a little worse for wear. Nick was also persistent. Kept calling to see if she needed anything. She'd finally agreed to another lunch, just yesterday, but vowed not to get carried away. Nick was just looking out for her, concerned, in a big brother sort of way.

“How well do you know this Mr. Cooper?”

A flash of heat raced up her cheeks. “Don't get any ideas. Nick grew up with us. He's like the extra brother I don't need. He'd never be interested in me romantically, even if I . . .” Drat. Evy could make her say anything.

“Even if you what?” Evy tipped her head slightly, eyes gleaming.

“Never mind.” The look of amusement her friend wore made Lynette scowl. “Why are you laughing at me?”

“Sweetie, I'm not laughing at you. I'm just wondering when you're going to stop hauling that steamer trunk of worry around.”

“What trunk?”

Evy's smile was kind. “We all have our problems, dear. Why pretend you don't?”

“My problems are apparently no secret to anyone.” Lynette rose, slung her bag over her shoulder, and narrowed her eyes. “Nick means well, but he's got better things to do than worry about me.”

“Maybe he likes worrying about you.”

Okay, definitely time to go. “We're not talking about Nick Cooper again. If you bring him up, I'll take my paintings elsewhere. You did want an exclusive, didn't you?”

“Indeed.” Evy walked her to the door. She patted Lynette's back. “All right, my dear, I won't tease. Off you go. I'll call you next week.”

“I'm sure you will.” Lynette pecked her on the cheek, gave in to impulse and hugged her friend's bony frame. “You drive me crazy, you know that?”

“Sounds like I've got competition in that department.”

“Good night, Evy.” She made a point of slamming the door behind her.

After picking up a few groceries, Lynette pulled into the driveway, dreading what she would find today. She needed to get to the hardware store and put a chain or something on the outside of Dad's bedroom door, to give her peace of mind at night, but the thought was too ghastly.

The past week had been uneventful, and she was grateful for that. Lynette entered the kitchen from the garage, the screen door squeaking shut. She stopped in her tracks. Déjà vu settled over her, and she was a kid, coming home from school. When coming home had been something she looked forward to.

Gospel music floated from the radio on the counter by the phone. Cecily stood over the stove, stirring a pot, singing along to the music. Mouth-watering smells filled the air.

Lynette clutched the grocery bag to her chest and blinked.

Cecily didn't work for them anymore.

Dad wasn't the only one around here losing his mind.

“Cecily?” Lynette blinked a couple more times, but Cecily stayed right where she was.

“Hi, honey. How was your day?” The older woman put down her spoon, crossed the room, and took the bag from Lynette. She plopped it on the counter and proceeded to unpack. Lynette stared.

“Cat got your tongue, missy?” Cecily's kind eyes sparked with mischief.

The kitchen was spotless. The windows shone, no sign of the salty film that had covered them this morning. The clean scent of pine said the floor had been mopped, something she'd been putting off for weeks.

“Wha . . . what are you doing here? Is my dad okay?”

“Your daddy's fine, honey, taking a nap in the living room. Hush, now.” Cecily pressed a sack of potatoes into her hands. “Put these in the pantry. I'm back, and all taken care of, nothing for you to worry about. Would have started up sooner, but I had to get my grandson sorted. Nicholas came by earlier and put an alarm on your daddy's bedroom door. Said you'd know what it was for.”

“Nick was here?” Lynette squeezed her eyes shut and tried to summon a thought that made sense.

She put the potatoes away instead.

David must have called Cecily, asked her to come back. Lynette hadn't talked to him since he'd called after Liz's interrogation. He'd apologized profusely for not knowing how bad things were. Didn't get mad at her like Liz had. She'd have to remember to thank him next time they spoke.

“I got the kettle on. You could make us some tea.” Cecily threw a pile of peels in the garbage and washed her hands. Lynette fumbled with cups and tea bags, still in a trance, but salivating at the sight of Cecily's banana bread on the counter.

A few minutes later they sat at the table.

“Are you really back?” She stirred her tea, afraid to hear the answer. She'd been having some weird dreams lately.

The older woman smiled and nodded. “Yes. I'm back. Going to look after your daddy and take care of the house, just like always.”

Lynette could only stare. “That's . . . amazing. I can't believe it.”

“I can see that.” Familiar laughter rang through the room. “How've you been, girl? You look tired.”

“Ha. I've heard that a lot lately.” Tears formed and Lynette didn't bother to brush them away. She managed to recount the important bits, how Dad was doing, the fact that they'd probably be putting the house on the market, which meant everyone would have to come home, and . . . Nick.

“I don't even know how to deal with that,” Lynette admitted. “He's just so . . . you know, Nick. He needs to make sure I'm looked after.”

Cecily gave a knowing smile. “Maybe there's a little more to it than that.”

Lynette rolled her eyes but laughed. “Whatever, Ce-ce. I can't even think about it right now. My life is crazy.”

They shared a few more stories, then Cecily grew serious and reached for Lynette's hand. “Baby, I got something to tell you, and it's not pleasant.” She exhaled and dabbed her eyes. “It's about your brother Gray.”

Nick wandered through the house to grab a soda from the kitchen. Another Friday night with nothing to do. His sixty-year-old father enjoyed a better social life than he did. Still, Nick was alone by choice. Dad was back on the island and entertaining, which meant Nick would disappear. Somewhere.

Soraya bustled around, preparing dinner, the radio blaring. The
housekeeper nodded his way and continued carving a large rack of lamb. She loved classical music and the local news. Nick couldn't care less about island gossip, but as he crossed the large kitchen to the refrigerator, he stopped when he heard Gray Carlisle's name.

“What was that?”

“Sorry, too loud? You want me to turn it off?” Soraya reached for the dial.

“No. Turn it up.” Nick leaned over the granite counter top.

“He's trouble, that Gray,” Soraya muttered, clucking her tongue. “All mixed up with drugs and who knows what else. Used to be such a nice boy.”