CHAPTER 25
CASSIE
On Friday morning, I stop by the Hartley house on my way to town to drop off a stack of photographs for Mackenzie. Since we’re selling the house soon, I’ve been helping Grandma sift through the attic this week, digging through old boxes and decades’ worth of treasures. I found a box of photographs of the Beacon Hotel throughout the years, and after we scanned them so Grandma could have a digital record, she suggested choosing a few of the originals to give to Mackenzie. When I called Mac about it, she’d been over the moon. She plans to frame and hang them at the hotel, along with an original map of Avalon Bay she somehow got her hands on. The map itself is so old the paper is virtually disintegrating and they need to keep it behind protective glass, away from any moisture.
While I’m at the house, Mac and Genevieve, who has the day off, drag me to the back deck so we can go over our plans for Beach Games, which commence tomorrow. It’s a two-day affair that’s bound to get ugly if the deadly determination on my teammates’ faces is any indication.
“According to this,” Mac says, reading from her phone, “the only events that require all four team members on the field of play at the same time are sandcastles, volleyball, and the water balloon toss. The others are either two-man only, or two-man heats.”
“This is confusing,” I inform her. “And so is that scoring system on the second page of the pdf. Who the hell organized this, a ten-year-old?”
Gen snickers. “Beach Games is spearheaded by Debra Dooley. She’s the president of the Avalon Bay Tourism Board.”
“Debra Dooley sounds like a cartoon character,” Mac retorts.
“Trust me, that’s not far off. Deb has the energy levels of thirty preschoolers. Just wait.” Gen checks her own phone. “I’m down for the windsurfing and the swim. But I’d rather die than give Evan the satisfaction of watching me fall off the tightrope.”
“Oh, I’ll do that one,” I volunteer. “I know you wouldn’t think it because of these things—” I gesture to my boobs—“but somehow they aid my balance instead of toppling me over.”
Mac snickers. “I can do the tightrope. But I’m not doing the tug-of-war. Rope burn sucks.”
We look over the rest of the events, tentatively assigning players to each one. “I’ll text Zale the assignments and see if he wants to make any changes,” Mac says when we’re done. I’ve yet to meet this Zale, Mac’s new activities director, but from the way she describes him, he sounds like a blast.
“Tate and Danny will take any water sports easily,” Gen says, still looking at the list. “But if good fortune is upon us, Evan will be the one windsurfing. He’s a disaster, so there’s no way Hartley and Sons will score.”
“Speaking of Tate,” Mac says, turning to eye me. “Coop said you two are dating.”
“You needed Cooper to tell you that?” Gen demands before I can answer. She snorts loudly. “You mean the fact that they couldn’t keep their hands off each other when they were here the other night and then left early with those guilty expressions—that didn’t tip you off?”
I can’t help but laugh. “She’s got a point there.”
Mac rolls her eyes. “Well, obviously I suspected at that point. But this is my first chance to be alone with Cassie. I wanted confirmation.” She lifts one delicate eyebrow. “It’s true, then?”
“We’re not dating, per se. It’s more of a fling.”
“Flings never stay flings,” Gen informs me. “They either turn into relationships, or someone gets their heart broken.”
I shrug. “I’m not too worried. We live in different states, so it will have to end regardless. We’re just having fun. And don’t worry, my heart’s still intact.”
Because I refuse to engage it. I had one slip, one minor setback the other day at my dad’s house, when my heart insinuated itself into what was supposed to be a summer of passion. You’re falling for him. Okay, well, I heard you out, heart. And I’ve decided to ignore you.
Since then, I’ve been making a conscious effort to not get emotionally attached. And to temper my expectations. Luckily, I’m very proficient at not expecting too much out of people.
Whatever’s happening between Tate and I, it’s better if phrases like falling for him don’t enter the equation.
Mac sets down her phone. “Want to stick around for a while? Take the dog for a walk on the beach?”
“I would,” I say regretfully, “but I have to go. I’m meeting my mother at a salon in town. We’re getting manicures.”
“Must be nice to have a mom to do that kind of stuff with,” Genevieve says, her voice surprisingly wistful.
“You’re not close with your mother?”
“Well, she just died this past spring—”
“Oh gosh, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all good.” Gen shrugs. “Even when she was alive, Mom and I weren’t close.”
“Oh, this manicure doesn’t mean we’re close. Trust me. We’ve always had a very strained relationship. But she’s been making an effort since she got to town, so I’ve decided to meet her halfway.”
Because the silver lining to this, the best-case scenario, is that we manage to repair the relationship and have something better going forward. Worst case? She goes back to being a raging narcissist, which I’ve dealt with my whole life anyway, so there’d be nothing new there.
I bid the girls goodbye and drive into town. The salon is situated on a street parallel to Main Street, making it easier to find parking. It’s a quiet location, sandwiched between a massage therapy clinic and a chiropractor’s office.
Mom is already there when I walk in, seated at one of the manicure stations. “Cass!” she calls, waving me over.
“Hey,” I greet her, while taking in the familiar surroundings. “I totally forgot about this place. Grandma used to bring me here when I was younger, remember? I’d always come home with neon pink nails.”
“And then you’d shriek bloody murder when your father and I tried removing the nail polish once it started chipping.”
“Because God forbid your six-year-old go outside with chipped nails,” I say dryly.
That gets me a genuine laugh.
“Would you like to pick your color?” my manicurist asks while I settle at the table next to Mom.
“Oh, no color,” I answer. “Just French tip.”
“No color?” Mom frowns. “That won’t look good for the grand opening.”
It’s the only critical remark she’s made in a while, so I let it slide.
“I’ll need to get another manicure before then, anyway. I have Beach Games this weekend,” I remind her. “I’ll be digging in sand and playing volleyball, so there’s no point doing anything too fancy today.”
She relaxes. “That’s right. I forgot. You’re competing for the Beacon.”
“Yes. Really looking forward to it, too. It’s going to be a blast.”
“Maybe I can convince your grandmother to come watch some of the events,” Mom suggests. “Or at least to attend the winners’ ceremony.”
“I honestly can’t envision us placing, let alone winning.” There’s some stiff competition this year. The dudes from Jessup’s Garage. The local fire station. Tate and the yacht club guys. The Hartleys. We’ll be lucky if we win one event.
We settle in to be pampered as our nails are washed, buffed, and painted. My manicurist is a quiet teenager with long black hair, while Mom’s is a super chatty woman in her thirties. She’s visibly pregnant, informing us she’s eight months along with her fifth child.
“Lord, you have four already? I could barely handle one,” Mom jokes, nodding toward me. I make a face at her. “And now five? You deserve a medal of valor.”
The woman laughs. “It sure is challenging at times. My boys are both under the age of six, and my girls are entering their tweens and becoming real handfuls, I tell ya.”
Once our color is done, we’re ushered to the drying area where we’re ordered to sit for twenty minutes.
“Five kids?” I whisper when we’re alone. “That sounds like a nightmare.”
“Five is too many,” Mom agrees.
A question bites at my tongue. It’s one I’d never have dreamed of asking in the past, but we’ve been getting along so well lately, and my curiosity gets the better of me.
“Did you and Dad ever want more children?”
She looks startled. “Well. I suppose so. Your father did, certainly. He wanted at least three.” A flare of bitterness darkens her expression. “And he got his three, so…”
“What about you?” I swiftly steer the subject away from Dad, partly because I’ve been enjoying our noncombative interactions, but mostly because we’re stuck with our hands in these heaters which means I’m effectively trapped here with no escape.
“I didn’t, no,” she finally admits. “I was happy with just one child. You know I don’t enjoy chaos. And growing up with three older siblings was very chaotic, especially having two older brothers who played sports. Your uncles were always tormenting me and Jacqueline. So, yes, I was content with one child.” She hesitates again, for much longer this time. “With that said, I can’t deny I was elated when I got pregnant for a second time.”
I can’t stop my loud gasp. “You were pregnant again after me?”
Mom’s eyes flick across the room. The manicurists are chattering away with other clients, oblivious to our conversation.
“Yes.” Her voice becomes very soft, as if she doesn’t want to be overheard. Or maybe the subject is too emotional for her. Mom’s not a fan of feelings. “I got pregnant when you were ten.”
“How come I never knew this?”
“Your father and I didn’t want to tell you yet. We were already having problems in the marriage, and then I lost the baby at nine weeks.” She sighs. “They advise you not to announce the news to the world too early. Wait until the end of the first trimester to see if it sticks. And it didn’t stick.”
My heart squeezes. There isn’t an ounce of emotion in her voice, but her eyes tell a different story. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my mother appear this vulnerable.
“I’m sorry. I wish I’d known.”
“No, I’m glad you didn’t. You would have gotten your hopes up for a sibling and then been devastated when it didn’t happen.”
“You could have told me after the fact,” I point out. “Once I was older.”
“There was no point. The baby was gone, and then your father and I got divorced.” Something in her tone changes, a sliver of regret slicing through it. “Although it may have contributed to why I fought for full custody of you.”
She voices the confession then pulls her hand from the dryer and casually examines her nails, as if she hadn’t just dropped a major truth bomb.
“What do you mean?” I push.
“Maybe it wasn’t fair to your father, but after losing the baby, I clung to you a little tighter than I should have.” She pauses. “Perhaps that wasn’t the right thing to do, but … well, you can’t change the past, can you?”
She quickly adopts a cavalier expression, unruffled by the fact that she just shattered my entire world view. Or at the very least, altered my view of her. I’d always believed she insisted on full custody to be spiteful, to get back at Dad, but this potential new motive provides another glimpse into my mother. A softer side I didn’t know existed.
I reach over and touch her arm. “I’m really sorry, Mom. That must have been tough to go through. A divorce and a miscarriage around the same time.”
“It’s fine, sweetheart.” She jerks away from my touch. Not in a rude way, but it’s clear I made her uncomfortable. Physical comfort—any comfort, really—isn’t something we typically offer each other. Maybe I was overreaching by going for that consolatory pat.
The main lesson I’ve taken from this conversation, though, is that Tate was right.
We never truly know our parents.