The gulls were calling the next morning when Margo woke up, fully clothed, on top of the white duvet, the novel she’d been reading the night before abandoned next to her. Sunlight poured in through the linen curtains that draped across the tall windows, and she didn’t need a watch to know she’d slept way past her usual six o’clock wake up time.
She fumbled her hand along the nightstand in search of her phone, which she’d silenced the evening before, so she didn’t have to continue to sit and wait for it to make some sound that would tell her that Ash was looking for her. That Ash cared. Now the top corner of the device was flashing a blue light, and her heart sped up when she saw that she had three new messages.
So maybe he did care. Maybe ten years of her life were not a complete waste.
Or maybe they were. After all, the man was cheating on her. Who could be sure it was even the first time? She set the phone back down, closing her eyes when she thought of the way he’d kissed that girl. She’d sat in her car, at a safe enough distance, and stared as if it weren’t her husband she was watching, but some addictive, trashy television show that she couldn’t look away from, even though she knew she should. She sat there, jaw slack, and watched. Didn’t get out of her car, march over and pound on the window. Nope. She just sat there and did nothing, until Ash’s car moved, and then, well, what choice did she have? She’d followed him. Followed him all the way to the friggin’ Holiday Inn Express. And then, because there was nothing more to see, and nothing else to do, she’d gone home and packed.
Well, after she’d taken their wedding photo, ripped it to shreds, and then set the empty sterling silver frame back on the mantle.
What did the messages say? And how would she even reply? Should she even reply at all, or make him sweat a bit?
But then, what if he filed a missing person’s report? Got the police involved? That wouldn’t be good.
No. It was time to confront him. To tell him what she saw. What she knew. To face the harsh, ugly truth. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself not to cry. The heaviness in her chest came from a place she couldn’t quite recognize, a strange mixture of sadness and fear, of humiliation and rejection and betrayal.
Would he deny it, spin some story? The man was an obvious liar.
Or maybe…maybe there was a reasonable explanation.
She snorted.
Margo sat up, grabbed the phone, and scolded herself. She’d been back in Oyster Bay for less than twenty-four hours and she was right back to how she’d been when she first left it. She was acting like a child. This was a man she had shared a home, a bed, every single dinner with, for ten years. She shouldn’t be calculating her responses at this point. This was her husband. In the legal sense.
She tapped on the messages, not even realizing she’d been holding her breath until it escaped from her, in one, pathetic puff. The messages were from Bridget.
Of course.
She took a moment to push Ash away, and set aside the ache in her chest that seemed determined to settle there, the weight of it a constant reminder of her circumstances, and scanned the messages: Bridget wanting to know how the cottage was working out for her; Bridget wondering if she was free to come over for dinner tonight, Abby would be joining; Bridget giving her the visiting hours for Serenity Hills.
Where the spirit goes to die.
Margo flopped back on the bed, half of her wanting to pull the blanket up and stay under it for the rest of the day. But that would be giving in. And she wasn’t a napper; couldn’t sleep during the day if she tried. She’d visit Mimi. Stay busy. Ash would call. Eventually he’d have to, even if it was to figure out something dumb like how to work the washing machine. Margo cursed good old Nadine for her son’s domestic shortcomings and then realized a perk of divorce was never having to see Nadine again.
Yes, eventually he would call. And then, well then she’d what? Tell him it was over? That she wanted a divorce?
Divorce meant more than no longer being with Ash. It meant giving up her life with him. Her career, her home, her Saturday morning trips to the farmers market and her monthly book club meetings where literature was rarely on topic…There would be no more quick errands to the organic grocery store. She’d never again have the luxury of asking Mr. Herring at the dry cleaners on Eighth Street if he could fix the button on one of her shirts, knowing that in the top drawer of his desk he had an entire selection of buttons in every shape and size and that she could rest assured he’d always have a match. No more dinners at Froggy’s. No more evenings sitting on her back patio, sipping wine while Ash grilled steaks. That was the part that didn’t seem possible.
She sat up and read the messages again. Her fingers hovered over the screen, but she didn’t reply. Her sister was trying to make amends, but it hardly made up for not telling her about Mimi or the house. But then, Abby hadn’t bothered to tell her either.
She fired off a quick note, thanking Bridget for the cottage and agreeing to dinner, and then went in search of coffee.
The cottage was small, with two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs, and a bright, open concept living space below that extended onto a white-washed deck that led right onto the sand. She’d picked up some supplies at the grocery store yesterday afternoon, but she’d been too worn out to eat dinner, and now her stomach rumbled. She opened the fridge and surveyed her options; her current mindset in full display in the form of chocolate cake, a few bottles of wine, three tubs of ice cream, and enough chips to feed a frat party.
But she knew what she really wanted to eat; something that could only be found in Oyster Bay. Something worth showering for, worth the willpower it took not to grab the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc by the neck and settle onto the couch for the day.
Thirty minutes later, she was pulling up to Angie’s Café, all worries neatly stashed away as she anticipated the taste of her favorite blueberry scone, always made with blueberries straight from Hollow Tree Farm.
“Margo Jane Harper!”
Margo froze in the doorway. Only one person called her by her first and middle name, and that was her former piano teacher, Mrs. Boyd, also known as Eddie’s aunt.
Friggin’ fabulous.
Margo plastered on her best smile and turned to greet Lori, always a kind, gentle-natured woman, who led the church choir and taught music at the elementary school one day a week. “Mrs. Boyd! It’s so good to see you!” It wasn’t entirely untrue. Margo had fond memories of sitting at Mimi’s big piano in the bay window, sharing a bench with Mrs. Boyd, who always reached into her pocket and pulled out a wrapped chocolate at the end of each lesson, two if Margo hit all the right notes.
Now Margo hesitated, wondering if she should mention her run-in with Eddie and decided against it. The circumstances didn’t exactly shed her in the best light, and besides, she shouldn’t be thinking of Eddie at all right now. She should be thinking of Ash. And why he still hadn’t called.
And why he was cheating on her. And when he’d stopped loving her.
“Margo!” Lori seemed to reach for a hug but then thought better of it. Things were strained, still, after all these years. “In town for long?”
And there was the loaded question. It wasn’t going away, and Margo needed to think of a good response so she wouldn’t feel so rattled every time someone asked her this. “I’m between projects with work, so I thought I’d use the time to visit my family.”
Fair enough. It had been three years, after all.
“And how is business?”
“Good,” Margo replied, but the heaviness in her heart said otherwise. Business had been good. Very good. And it still could be. But that would require going back to Charleston, confronting Ash, or maybe just looking past his indiscretions, hoping they would go away. She frowned. Like that was realistic. Or in her nature.
Instead she was technically unemployed, living in a rental, not even her family home. She couldn’t sustain this for long. She’d have to make a decision. And soon.
She sighed. But not today.
“How’s Nick?” she asked, and sure enough, Lori beamed.
“He’s living in Portland now. He just got a promotion at the bank.”
“Nice!” Margo had fond memories of Lori’s only child, who was Bridget’s age, but never her type. She only had eyes for Ryan back then—who was full of charm and funny stories, and who used to write her songs on his guitar.
“It’s still strange to think that you’ve all grown up.” Lori hesitated. “You know, I probably shouldn’t be saying this…”
Margo sensed a “but” coming on.
Lori gave an embarrassed smile. “It’s silly, but I always thought you and Eddie were going to end up together.”
Well, that made two of them. Not that Margo would be admitting as much.
Lori’s eyes skirted over the display case. “I’d always hoped things would turn around. Then I worried we’d made the wrong decision in sending him away. But then you went to college and got married, so…I guess everyone moved on.” She trailed off, a wan smile on her face.
That wasn’t exactly how it had gone, but now wasn’t the time to bother with correcting Eddie’s aunt. It wouldn’t help anyone to point out that it was Eddie who had disappeared, left dozens of letters unanswered, broken Margo’s heart, moved on without her and given her no choice but to do the same. And it wouldn’t change a damn thing.
“We drifted apart,” was all she said. “I’ve always felt sad about that.” That was putting it mildly.
“Well.” Lori gave an embarrassed grin. “It’s ancient history. I wouldn’t even bring it up, except…Well, Eddie’s moved back to town. I’m sure he’d love to see you while you’re here.”
Margo lifted an eyebrow, hating herself for the quickening of her pulse at the thought that she still mattered to Eddie to at all. “I bumped into him, actually, on my way into town.” She struggled to find something diplomatic to say. “It certainly brought back a lot of memories.”
“I’m sure it did,” Lori said, picking up her white bakery box when her name was called. “Well, hopefully you won’t be a stranger on your visit. Is your husband with you, too?”
Margo felt her already strained smile pull a little tighter. “No, it’s a busy time of year for him. He’s a professor and school just went back into session, so it’s…just me.”
Just me. Is this how it would be from now on? Just her, back where she’d started, still being reminded of the seventeen-year-old girl who’d loved Eddie Boyd and believed in him almost as much as she believed in happy endings? Just her, floating through town, dodging prying questions from the neighbors who had known her since birth, witnessed every school event and transformation, from her first bike ride to her first training bra to her first heartbreak.
There were no secrets in this town. No privacy, no place to hide. It had been Eddie’s downfall. Hers too, really.
And this, she thought, as she gathered up her paper bag and coffee cup, was why she’d left Oyster Bay in the first place.
***
Margo had one true memory of Serenity Hills—a shining moment, some might say. Miss Berriman’s Dance Studio made an annual appearance at the center, in what Margo now saw clearly as an effort to cheer up the residents, but which she saw at the time as an opportunity to show off her moves and wear a little lipstick.
Margo was about fourteen at the time, dressed in teal blue sequins with matching eye shadow she’d borrowed from her mother’s makeup bag. Her cheeks were pink, her lips were red, and her hair was crimped. She was ready.
The performance took place in the Serenity Hills cafeteria; tables had been cleared and the girls had been reassured the linoleum was no different from the dance studio floor.
“Smile!” Miss Berriman had cried out from her post near the industrial-sized freezer, as she shooed the line out the kitchen door.
Margo had smiled against her nerves, but when she saw the white-haired men in the front row smiling back, it made things a little easier. They clapped to the music. A few even winked. Her confidence was so high by the end of the night that she signed herself up for the high school talent show the very next day, and a week later shimmied on stage to perform her group tap routine solo in front of the entire freshman class. She’d grinned cheekily at the boys in the front row, but instead of indulging her the way the men at the old folks home had, they’d just giggled and jabbed each other in the ribs, a few even pointed.
Margo looked down at her leotard and bare legs and felt a cold wash of fear come over her. She finished the routine and ran off the stage, barely holding back her tears.
She’d never performed again. But she’d never forgotten the reception she had at Serenity Hills either. Or the fact that the very next morning after the talent show, the new boy in town, Eddie Boyd, had come up to her, told her he liked her performance, and grinned like he meant it.
Now Margo walked by this cafeteria, which, judging from the Berber carpet, must have undergone a renovation since that blissful night, and stopped at the front desk.
“I’m here to see Margaret Harper,” she said.
The woman behind the desk tapped a manicured finger on an open binder next to a vase of what were probably meant to be cheerful looking flowers but instead had the eerie vibe of a funeral arrangement. “All visitors need to sign the log. Mrs. Harper is in room 132. To the left, follow the signs.” She went back to reading her magazine, a cheesy tabloid, without another glance in Margo’s direction.
Margo fought to control her temper. Was this an example of all the staff, or just one employee? The only thing worse than the thought of her grandmother living here rather than in her beautiful family home was the thought of her not being treated well. Images of late night commercials flooded to the surface. Stories of abuse and neglect and…She blinked back tears that prickled the back of her eyes. She’d jot down the names of some of those attorneys, next time she saw a television ad. Just in case.
“If she’s not in her room, just wait for her. Thursdays she goes to the salon,” the woman added, before flicking the page.
Margo set the pen on the binder. Salon? Well. Maybe this place wasn’t so bad then.
She shifted her handbag straps on her shoulder as she walked toward the hall. Her heart was racing and her stomach was hurting. She tried not to glance into the open doors that lined either side of the passageway. Eyes forward. Find room 132. Talk to Mimi before it’s too late. Simple enough. The house hadn’t sold—yet. But Margo wasn’t taken any chances. She’d have to act quick. With any luck, she’d be loading Mimi into the car in less than an hour.
Room 132 was at the end of the building, a fair distance from the lobby. Margo took this as an immediately good sign that her grandmother was much less dependent than those whose rooms were within shouting distance of the front desk.
Mimi was sitting in her rocking chair—the weather-worn one that used to reside on the back of the wraparound porch. A quilt was around her shoulders and she was stroking what appeared to be a grey stuffed animal.
This wasn’t good.
“Mimi?” Suddenly the animal moved. “Jesus!” Margo jumped. “What the hell is that?”
Mimi gave her a reproachful look. “Watch your language, young lady.” Then, looking down to stroke the cat fondly, she said, “This is Pudgie.”
Pudgie? Margo decided to pick her battles.
“Mimi, are you allowed to have that thing in here?”
Mimi looked at her quizzically. “Of course I’m allowed, Abby. You gave him to me, after all.”
Margo felt her heart sink. Of the three Harper girls, Margo and Abby took after their father, with dark brown hair, green eyes, and a dusting of freckles. But Abby was four years younger and two inches shorter, and coloring aside, they were far from twins.
“I’m Margo,” she said gently. She walked forward, tried to reach out for Mimi’s hand, but Pudgie gave a hiss of warning, forcing her to snatch it back.
“Margo?” Mimi stared at her until, to Margo’s relief, her eyes filled with recognition. “Of course! Margo! Come here and give me a hug, girl.” Sensing Margo’s hesitation, she gave Pudgie a pat. “Don’t worry. He doesn’t bite. At least, not too hard.”
Crisis averted. It was a simple mistake. Dark hair, green eyes, and it had been nearly three years since her last visit. Mimi had just been surprised to see her. Surely that was all it was.
Careful not to upset Pudgie, she leaned down to give her grandmother a hug, breathing in the smell of peppermint and perfume that brought back a hundred wonderful memories all at once.
“Margo, Margo.” Her grandmother shook her head as Margo pulled away. “That’s right. You moved down south. Got married to that woman. Ashley.”
Margo blinked. “Ash,” she said evenly, “is a man.”
Mimi didn’t look convinced. “No need to protect me,” she said with a wink. “I’m not living in the stone age.”
“No, really, Mimi. Ashley—Ash—is a man. He’s a law professor. Remember our wedding?”
Who could forget it, after all? The church was enormous, more like a cathedral, and each pew had been anchored by a huge bouquet of roses. The aisle had been lined with a white carpet, and a string quartet had played all of Nadine’s favorite songs for the procession…
Mimi squinted for what felt like an unnatural amount of time. “You wore my pearls.”
“Yes,” Margo exhaled in relief.
Mimi patted the empty visitor chair next to the television. Dutifully, Margo sat down.
“Tell me, how old are you now?”
“I’m thirty-two,” Margo said. And my husband has already left me for a younger woman.
“Thirty-two! When did that happen?”
Margo hissed out a nervous laugh, hoping against her better judgment that Mimi was making some sort of joke. The last time she’d been in Oyster Bay, Mimi had been full of life, pushing everyone out of the kitchen so she could prepare dinner without being disturbed. Over her famous apple pie, she’d told them stories of the time her son, their father, then just a boy, had brought home a baby snapping turtle and kept it in his room for two months without anyone being aware, until one day Mimi went into his closet and had the surprise of her life.
There was no confusion. Her memories had been as sharp as her mind.
Margo fought back tears. She wanted to cling to her grandmother, ask her to explain. What had happened? How was she to know that last visit would be the last time she’d truly speak to her grandmother at all?
Mimi looked at her sharply. “You old enough to drive?”
Margo didn’t like where this was going. “Well, yes.”
Mimi slanted her eyes at the door. “Think you could bust me out of here?”
It was what she had come to do, but now Margo didn’t know whether to laugh at the irony or cry at the circumstances. “I don’t think Bridget would approve.”
Mimi waved a hand through the air. “Oh, Bridget never was any fun. You, Abby, you were always fun.”
Mimi was right about one thing: Abby was fun. It was Abby who broke into song for every car ride, not caring who was watching, and Abby who danced the night away at every wedding, even if her moves didn’t exactly match the music.
But Mimi was very wrong about something else.
“I’m Margo,” she said with a smile, but she wasn’t sure she could hold the tears back much longer.
Mimi went back to petting Pudgie, and Margo looked around the room for distraction, desperate not to let her grandmother see her cry. There was a single bed that faced the chair on which she sat, and a bedside table that held nothing more than a lamp and two framed photos: one of Mimi on her wedding day, and the other of Margo’s parents.
Margo stood and crossed the room to pick up the photo of her parents, taken at the beach, when they couldn’t have been much older than Margo was now. Once there had been a time when she looked at their photo daily, needing to keep them with her, keep their image fresh. Now, she realized with shame that somewhere in the past eight years she’d grown accustomed to life without them, even went for days without thinking of them at all.
It was easier in Charleston, of course. But here in Oyster Bay, there was no avoiding it. Her parents were gone. They’d died in a car accident on a winding road in bad weather. Abby, being the youngest, had taken it the worst. Bridget had taken it in stoic stride—having a newborn baby to focus on had helped. But Margo, well, she was the only one who could escape from it, for a little while at least.
Margo quietly set the frame back on the table and looked over at Mimi, wondering if she remembered the accident, that she’d lost her only son, and hoping, strangely, that Mimi didn’t remember it any more than she could remember Margo’s name.
“Let’s take a walk,” Margo said abruptly. The suggestion was made with more enthusiasm than she felt, but she couldn’t sit in this room any longer. The memories were weighing down on her, and that cat—she glanced at it, and if she didn’t know better, she’d swear it had just narrowed its eyes—that cat was creeping her out. “You can give me a tour.”
Mimi sighed. “Not much to show, but fine.” She perked up for a moment. “Pudgie likes to be shown off. He’s quite the ladies’ man, you know.”
The cat seemed to glare at Margo as she helped Mimi into a wheelchair, her chest aching that this is what Mimi’s life had come to, and pushed her out the door. So this is what she had to get used to. Mimi wasn’t just living in a home. She was also a package deal with a grouchy feline with a silly name.
“Oh, that’s a pretty wreath on that door,” Margo said, determined to stay cheerful as they moved toward the lobby. “Maybe I should get you one for your door.”
Mimi craned her neck to look up at her. “So you’re not busting me out? Then where are we going?”
Margo’s eyes burned. Mimi was funny and strong and wise. She danced and sang and she belonged to a quilting club. And the woman staring back at her wasn’t Mimi. She just looked like Mimi. An old woman with thinning hair and trembling hands and watery eyes.
And somehow, Margo had missed this transition. Somehow, while she was in South Carolina, content in her suburban married life, picking out ottomans and drapes and recommending various drawer pulls for a custom kitchen renovation, Mimi had gotten old. And disappeared.
She cleared her throat, but the lump was still there. “What time is lunch?”
“Why? You planning on staying?” Mimi curled her lip. “Take me to the cafeteria. We’ll see what’s on the menu.”
Margo did as she was told, guiding the wheelchair down the hall. “Pretty flowers,” she commented, gesturing to the bouquet on the visitor’s desk.
“Those were from Betty LaMore’s funeral last Saturday,” Mimi said, pinching her lips.
As suspected, Margo thought grimly.
“That hussy Esther Preston is already making a move on Mitch LaMore,” Mimi continued.“He’s ninety-four and has no one to leave his fortune to now that poor Betty’s gone to meet her maker.”
“Mimi!” But Margo was laughing as she pushed the wheelchair into the cafeteria, which, from the various posters on the wall, seemed to function as a multi-purpose room. Bingo, arts and crafts, game night, and a special whiteboard with names scribbled all over it. Margo paused for a better look. “The ultra conservatives club,” she read aloud, and then, with a tut, noticed Mimi’s name scrawled at the bottom.
Oh, Mimi. She shook her head and moved them to the back of the room, where a menu was set up on an easel.
“Just what I thought,” Mimi said, leaning forward to squint at the large print. “Slop, slop, and more slop.”
“Oh, now, it doesn’t look so bad!” Margo scanned the items. “I can’t remember the last time I had a four-course meal.”
“Well, it’s hardly the Ritz,” Mimi sniffed.
Margo had an idea. “What if I take you to The Lantern one night for dinner? Would you like that?”Even though it was owned by Margo’s mother’s brother, Mimi had adopted the place as her own.
Mimi looked uncertain. “You’ll have to check with the warden, but yes, I would, Abby!”
That settled it then. Abby, or Margo, or whoever it was that Mimi needed her to be would take her to dinner at The Lantern. Uncle Chip would give them the family table and add extra whipped cream to their desserts and keep them distracted with funny stories and a friendly grin. Margo felt better just thinking about it.
She pushed the wheelchair out of the room and down a few more halls. In fairness, it did seem like a nice place. Not the Ritz but…nice.
“I think Pudgie needs a nap before lunch,” Mimi said, stifling a yawn.
Margo gave a sad smile. “I’ll bring you back to your room, then.” Defeat settled over her. Everything was slipping away. Everything had changed.
And shame on her for ever getting comfortable in the first place.
With a heavy heart, she pushed the wheelchair back toward room 132, this time walking more slowly, and daring to look around, to face her new reality. Most of the doors were open, televisions were on, some other residents had guests. In the distance she even heard the sound of a child laughing. She smiled at that, but it slipped from her face when she rounded the bend and saw a man standing in the doorway of another room. Tall and broad shouldered, with nut brown hair that curled ever so slowly at the neck.
She’d know that hairline anywhere. She’d memorized it freshman year, sitting behind him in algebra, on the days he bothered to show up to class.
Eddie.
What the hell was he doing here? And really, what was he doing back in Oyster Bay at all?
Now wasn’t the time to find out.
Heart racing, she swiveled the wheelchair and then realized that there was nowhere else to go, unless she wanted to push Mimi into a janitor’s closet. It was tempting.
“What are you doing, girl? Abby! Abby!”
Margo closed her eyes, feeling her face heat, and then glared at the wall, knowing with a sinking feeling that Eddie was probably staring at her backside. Her thirty-two-year-old backside. A far cry from the seventeen-year-old figure she’d once possessed, despite her twice a week Pilates classes and three days of cardio on the stationary bike.
She turned. Eddie’s mouth quirked into a grin. But not just any grin. It was that slow, lopsided, mischievous grin that got her into trouble, every time. The kind that didn’t need a verbal invitation. That kind of smile that just said…everything.
Margo didn’t grin. She didn’t smile. She gave a tight nod, gripped the handles of the wheelchair a little tighter, and pushed Mimi and Pudgie back into their room at the end of the hall, where she hid for the next hour, before doing what she did best these days. She fled.
***
There was a box of donuts from Angie’s next to the coffeepot when Eddie walked into the station. Normally he tried to avoid sugar as much as he avoided alcohol, but this morning, his self-control was plummeting.
He grabbed a mug and filled it, then stared at his options.
To hell with it. If he was going to eat a donut, it was going to be a good one. And Angie made the best donuts in town.
“Someone’s birthday?” he asked Sylvia as he walked to his desk. From the numerous reminders she’d dropped in the past few weeks, he knew for a fact that her birthday wasn’t until Saturday.
His partner eyed him with suspicion. “Since when do you eat sweets?”
“Since I came from visiting Ray,” he replied evenly.
A look of recognition crossed her face. “Well, don’t go reaching for another one. Wouldn’t want to mess up your boyish figure.”
He laughed, appreciating the way she lightened the otherwise sensitive topic. “Anything come in this morning?”
“It’s ten thirty. And this is Oyster Bay, not Philly,” she reminded him, as she liked to do whenever he complained about the lack of action. “But I’ll tell you what. Next time Damon Padilla calls complaining that his cat climbed up his tree again, I’ll let you handle it.”
“Wow, thanks,” Eddie said, but he was grinning.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a donut to fetch.” She pushed herself out of her chair and then sat back down again. “No, I do not have a donut to fetch. I ran on that treadmill for forty-five minutes this morning and I am not going to undo all that hard work with a donut.”
“There you go,” he said, taking another bite from his own. He powered up his computer and tapped in his password.
Sylvia was watching him, a look of longing taking over her big blue eyes. She pushed a strand of graying hair behind her ear, then licked her bottom lip.
“One donut won’t kill you, you know.”
“No, but one donut will set me back an entire day,” she replied, turning back to her paperwork. She looked up again. “Fifteen pounds per kid. You know what that adds up to?”
Eddie quickly did the math and refrained from comment.
“Got to get my figure back in shape before I’m forty if I’m ever going to be asked out on a date again.”
“But you’re turning forty this Saturday,” Eddie pointed out.
“Exactly,” Sylvia said.
He opened his mouth to give her some words of advice, something he’d learned in his several hundred AA meetings, but stopped himself just in time. Sylvia didn’t know he was in recovery. All she knew was that he left the force in Philadelphia for a simpler life in Oyster Bay, where he’d spent three and a half years with his aunt and uncle, back when he was just a kid.
That was all she needed to know. That was all anyone needed to know.
“You have big plans for the big day?”
Sylvia looked at him like he was half-crazy. “Other than cooking for my three ingrates?”
He knew she didn’t mean it. Those kids were her life. But there was still a hint of something sad in her voice that didn’t sit right with him.
“Bobby is old enough to look after the younger two for a few hours, isn’t he?”
Sylvia cocked an eyebrow. “Bobby is fifteen. Do you remember what you were like when you were fifteen?”
He did, not that he’d be sharing. When he was fifteen he was awkward and shy and scared and didn’t know how to handle any of that. He was the new kid in town, the outsider, and his mysterious background didn’t help matters. The only person other than his aunt, uncle, and cousin Nick to go out of their way to make him feel welcome was Margo, and all because he’d sensed she felt the same way, after she’d humiliated herself at the school talent show. He’d shown her a little kindness, and in return…she’d shown him everything. How to trust, open up, how to believe that life could be so much more than the trailer park he’d come from, with his drunk dad and his gambling debts and his temper.
“You think a fifteen-year-old boy is responsible enough to take care of his brothers?” Sylvia was still saying.
Not if Bobby was anything like the boys Eddie had known. Those boys were mean, immature, and determined to get to the dark dirty truth of his past, no matter what it took. He was taunted for being new. Teased for being different. And when things got too bad, instead of walking away, Eddie took the bait. Every time. Because he was fifteen years old, and he didn’t know what else to do.
“What about a sitter?”
“I suppose their father could take them for the night. Why?” Now Sylvia looked pleased.
“Dinner’s on me this Saturday. You deserve a night out. And you never know, you might end up meeting someone.”
“I won’t hold my breath,” Sylvia said, but she was smiling when she said, “Thank you. And with that, I will cut out all sugar until Saturday. Chip Donovan makes a mean skillet cookie.”
Eddie grinned. “I applaud your self-control. And just to make it easier for you, I will not eat this donut in front of you.”
“Thank you,” she said primly.
He stood, headed toward the conference room, taking his coffee with him, and stood near the window, looking out over the town center as he polished off what was left of his breakfast. He’d been back in Oyster Bay for months, and in all that time, he’d managed to control himself. His emotions, his urges, everything squared up, in place.
And then Margo Harper had to come back.