SEA BREEZE.
Fliss parked and stared at the house. It hadn’t changed. Same weathered clapboard, same gravel drive that had skinned her knees so many times. Juniper and cypress lined the driveway, and clusters of Rosa rugosa bushes erupted with delicate pink blossoms.
Right now she didn’t feel as if she’d changed much either.
What had happened to her confidence? The grit and drive that had propelled her this far?
She couldn’t stop shaking. Not because of the dog, but because of Seth.
She’d been prepared for everything except bumping into him.
She’d told herself that she’d built it up in her head, but in the end seeing him in person had been worse than she’d imagined. She hadn’t anticipated the powerful jolt of chemistry or the sudden frantic fluttering inside her. It seemed that time could heal a lot of things, but not the strange, indescribable pull that drew her to Seth Carlyle. It would have been easy to dismiss it as sexual attraction. Easy, and incorrect.
None of which explained why she’d been stupid enough to pretend to be Harriet.
Frustrated with herself, she grabbed her small suitcase, retrieved the key from under the flowerpot and let herself in.
Calm descended like a comforting blanket. Apart from the odd occasion when their father had joined them unexpectedly, this was the place she’d always been happiest.
She stood for a moment, drinking in familiarity. The large seascape on the wall had been painted by her grandfather. The basket on the floor, stuffed with boots and flip-flops, had been there forever. There were towels, neatly folded, ready to mop sand and mud from overeager dogs because here, at the beach, there had always been dogs.
It had been a place of noise, chaos, chatter and laughter.
No one had to tiptoe. No one had needed to watch what was said.
Summer in the Hamptons.
She stepped forward, and the planks creaked under her tread. How many times had her grandmother scolded her for running into the house with sandy feet?
She pressed down harder, feeling the wood give a little beneath the pressure. Right there. That was where she and Harriet had hidden their “treasure.” Fliss knew about the loose floorboard because she’d been careful to tiptoe around it whenever she’d sneaked out to meet Seth. Harriet had returned from one of her many trips to the beach, her pockets stuffed with shells and stones rubbed smooth by the ocean. She’d wanted to take them back to the city, as a memory, but they both knew their father would throw them out, so Fliss had found a box and tucked them out of sight under the floorboards.
They were probably still there.
She stared down at the floor, lost in memories of happy times. And, despite everything, there had been happy times. And perhaps those times had been all the happier, even more precious, because of the tough times that surrounded them. The good moments shone brighter because of the dark.
She strolled through the house, and the years fell away. She remembered the camps they’d built, the games of hide-and-seek they’d played, the hours spent splashing in the waves and digging in the sand. In this place, Fliss had seen her twin sister blossom. The tortured, tongue-tied silence that punctuated their days in New York had been replaced by conversation. Reluctant at first. Tentative. A trickle of words. And then the trickle became a steady stream and the stream became a torrent, like a surge of water escaping past an unwanted obstruction. Harriet’s stammer had reappeared only on those rare occasions their father visited.
That was all in the past now.
These days there were no unexpected visits. He stayed out of all their lives.
Pushing aside that thought, Fliss shoved the door closed and walked into the kitchen.
It had all the signs that the occupant had left in a hurry.
A pan lay unwashed on the stove, a carton of milk on the countertop.
Fliss threw the milk away and washed the pan.
Domesticated? She could do that if she had to. And maybe she’d even ask her grandmother for a cooking lesson while she was here. That would surprise Harriet.
She moved through the rest of the house, checking everything. The back door was locked, so presumably whoever had helped her grandmother from the garden had taken the time to secure the house. She went upstairs and checked her grandmother’s bedroom. The window was secure, the bed made.
She wandered past the room her brother, Daniel, had occupied whenever they’d stayed and took the stairs up to the attic room she’d shared with her sister. Instinctively she stepped over the fourth step with its telltale creak, and then realized what she’d done and smiled. She knew a hundred ways to sneak out of this house undetected. She knew which stair would betray her, which window would stick and which door would creak.
She pushed open the door of the bedroom, remembering how she’d oiled the hinges.
Her mother slept like the dead, but had her grandmother known she was sneaking out?
Harriet had known, but she’d never said anything. She’d pretended to be asleep so she wouldn’t have to lie if questioned.
Fliss glanced around the room.
Not much had changed. Two beds were tucked under the slope in the roof so that you had to duck your head before you stood up in the morning. She strolled to the window and gazed down into the garden, noting the offending apple tree with its curved branches and thick trunk. The roots were visible on the surface, as if it was trying to remove itself from ground it had occupied for so long.
And there, beyond the apple tree, was the gate.
She’d oiled that, too, turning it from an alarm to an ally.
From her vantage point high in the house she could see that the path to the beach was overgrown. It didn’t surprise her. No one used the path except the inhabitants of Sea Breeze, and she doubted her grandmother was in the habit of taking the rough sandy trail that led through the sand dunes to the beach.
For a moment she was tempted to kick off her shoes and run down that path as she had as a child, eagerly anticipating the moment when she crested the dunes and saw the rolling waves of the Atlantic Ocean.
Her feet were halfway out of her shoes before she stopped herself.
She needed to stop giving in to impulse and behave responsibly.
She slid her feet back into her shoes and instead rose on tiptoe and leaned her forehead on the cool glass, trying to see past the knotted vegetation that obscured the path to the dunes beyond. She knew every dip and curve of that path.
People said that memories faded in time, but hers hadn’t faded at all.
She could still remember that warm summer night in minute detail, every sound, every color, every touch.
She moved away from the window. What was the point of torturing herself? It was behind her. She should be moving on. And she would have been doing exactly that if she’d just told Seth the truth when she’d met him earlier. A few words, that was all she’d needed to say. Instead she’d pretended to be Harriet.
Why had she done that? Of all the stupid, impulsive—
And she wished she’d known about his father. If she had, she wouldn’t have asked that tactless question about his family. She’d probably hurt him, and she’d already hurt him enough.
And by pretending to be Harriet she hadn’t been able to offer anything more than conventional platitudes. Her twin wouldn’t have understood how close they were, or how much he had admired his father. Fliss understood that. For a fleeting second before he’d hidden it she’d seen the raw pain in his eyes, and she’d ached for him. She’d wanted to wrap him in her arms and offer whatever comfort she could. She wanted to tell him that she understood.
Instead she’d uttered a few meaningless words. And in pretending to be Harriet, all she had done was postpone the moment when she came face-to-face with him as herself.
Now what was she going to do?
The question wasn’t whether she would bump into him again, but when.
Which left her with only two options. Either she carried on pretending to be Harriet, or she confessed all and told him she was Fliss.
That would be both awkward and embarrassing. He’d want to know why she’d pretended to be her sister, and he’d read too much into it.
No, until she could work out a way to extract herself from the lie she’d spun, she’d have to continue the pretense. Which raised the question of what she was going to do about her grandmother.
She’d promised Harriet that she’d tell their grandmother she was Fliss.
And she would. She just had to hope Seth and her grandmother didn’t meet until after she had untangled the mess she’d made.
Why did everything she touched get so complicated?
Frustrated with herself, she flung open windows, letting in the smell of the ocean.
Then she went back downstairs into the kitchen and unloaded the food she’d bought at the roadside stand.
She piled fruit into a bowl and placed it in the center of the table. The long cedar table had a few more scratches than she remembered, but other than that it looked the same as ever. Some of her earliest memories were of staying here, and she was glad nothing significant had changed, as if by finding things the same, a certain level of happiness was guaranteed.
How many meals had they eaten here, the three of them, wriggling impatiently on their chairs, waiting for the moment they could return to the beach? Because summers had been all about the beach. The beach and freedom.
The beach and Seth.
And that was the problem, of course. Seth was part of almost every memory she had of this place. Which meant that somehow she had to fill her head with something else.
Fliss returned to the entryway and picked up her suitcase. She’d unpack and then drive straight to the hospital.
She’d tell her grandmother the truth, and then try to work out a way to unpick the lie she’d told Seth.
* * *
SETH FINISHED EXAMINING the dog. “Chester is doing well, Angela.”
“Good. I need him fit for the Fourth of July.”
“You’re doing something special for the holiday weekend?”
Angela lifted Chester down from the examination table. “No. We’re staying home. That’s why I need him fit. He hates loud noises. He was so scared last year I almost called you and asked for a tranquilizer.”
“That’s always a possibility, but there are other methods I prefer to try first.”
“Such as?”
“Back in 2002 there was a study by an animal behaviorist and psychologist that showed that classical music had a soothing effect on dogs in shelters.” Seth washed his hands. “And a few years after that another study by a veterinary neurologist showed that slower tempos, single instruments were more calming than busy, noisier music.”
“So you’re saying I should be playing Beethoven instead of Beyoncé?”
Seth tugged paper towel from the dispenser and dried his hands. “That’s your choice. There are other things you can do, of course. Close doors, windows and curtains so that you block out the noise as much as possible.” At this time of year he delivered an endless stream of advice about keeping pets away from fireworks and checking the yard for debris.
“I’m dreading it. Chester hates fireworks, and our neighbors love them.” Angela stroked the dog’s head. “The moment they start he tries to escape.”
“Take him for a long walk during the day,” Seth suggested. “It will tire him out and he’s more likely to relax. As for the noise, have you tried turning up the TV?”
“No, but it’s a good idea.”
“And make sure your yard is secure. This is the busiest time of year for the animal shelters. They have to deal with a number of terrified pets who have escaped.”
“Chester is microchipped. We had it done after a friend suggested it last year. Just in case. I couldn’t bear to think of him out there running around, terrified and lost. I’m keeping all the doors shut. And my TV will be booming.” Angela reattached the dog’s lead. “So you’re back from the big city. There were a few people who thought you’d stay there.”
He heard the question in the statement and knew that whatever he said by way of an answer would spread through all the local villages by noon. “This is my home. There was never any chance that I’d stay there.”
“Well, that’s good to know.” Her shoulders relaxed. “You wouldn’t be the first to be tempted by the bright lights of Manhattan. We were laying bets at my knitting group that you wouldn’t be coming back.”
“Manhattan is always fun for a visit, but I wasn’t tempted.”
At least, not by the city.
An image of Fliss appeared in his head. She was laughing, the strap of her minuscule bikini sliding over her shoulder as she raced across the beach, her bare feet kicking up the sand.
He tapped a key on the computer and entered the details into the notes.
Nancy, the vet technician, handed over an information leaflet and showed Angela out.
She was back moments later.
“I overheard that last part of the conversation. Were you really not tempted to stay even for a moment? I have to admit if I had the choice between New York City and here, I’d take Manhattan.” She struck a pose and broke into song, grabbing a syringe from the box to use as a microphone.
Seth rolled his eyes. “It’s not enough that I have to suffer the inquisition from the patients. Now I have to suffer it from the staff, too?”
Nancy stopped singing and put the syringe back. “It’s just that when you leave, I leave, so I need some notice.”
“I’m moving into my new house in the next week or so, and I don’t plan on leaving it anytime soon.” He closed the file. “Was Angela our last patient for the morning?”
“Smoke the kitten was back in, but you were tied up so Tanya dealt with him. She said to tell you to go to lunch. She has everything in hand.”
Tanya, the other vet and his partner in the practice, was a wonder. “Good. I’ll be on my cell if you need me.”
“Hot date, Dr. Carlyle?”
“Not exactly.”
But he was working on it.