Читать книгу The Secret Sister - Бренда Новак - Страница 9

2

KEYS CROSSING WAS the island’s only town. It was also the only land not owned by her mother. As the marina, and the downtown streets with their various municipal services and private businesses—the small town hall with adjoining police station, the fire house for the even smaller volunteer fire department, the Sugar Shack, the Drift Inn, the various gift shops and the one grocery store in town, not to mention Love’s in Bloom, her mother’s flower shop—gave way to swaying palm trees, sandy beaches and lush vegetation, Maisey felt her heart begin to lighten. She’d been right to come here. She could sense it deep in her bones—now that she wasn’t heading directly to her childhood home.

She closed her eyes, enjoying the hot sun beating down on her through the windshield. This summer she hadn’t spent nearly enough time outdoors...

Keith interrupted her moment of tranquility. “Do you ever hear from Jack?”

She and her brother hadn’t talked about the divorce for months. There’d been too many more dire things to focus on, most recently his attempt to take his own life with a bottle of sleeping pills. If the manager at the dumpy motel where he’d been staying in New Orleans hadn’t come into his room to kick him out for nonpayment, he’d probably be dead.

“No, not a word,” she said. “He has no reason to contact me. Why?”

“Just curious.”

“Maybe the situation would be different if we still had Ellie,” she added, “but...now that she’s gone, our divorce really is goodbye.”

Her brother didn’t say anything about her child. Like most people, he shied away from the grief a loss like that inspired. “What happened?” he asked instead. “Why’d he cheat?”

She’d asked herself the same question so many times—and didn’t like any of the answers. She couldn’t help blaming herself for being unable to recover from Ellie’s death as quickly as he could, for being less of a woman than he wanted, for needing him when he wasn’t capable of giving her any solace. “He said he wasn’t fulfilled in our marriage. Whatever that means.”

Keith shifted in the driver’s seat. “Have you met your replacement?”

“Once. We ran into her on Fifth Avenue.” It was difficult not to hate Jack’s new girlfriend. She wasn’t particularly attractive, and didn’t seem to have anything else that should’ve been hard for Jack to refuse, which only made Maisey feel more inadequate.

“After he left?” Keith asked.

“Before. They went to high school together, so they’d known each other in the past. I believe that accidental run-in on Fifth Avenue is where the affair started. She must’ve contacted him on Facebook or emailed him afterward—or he contacted her, and...their relationship grew from there.”

“Does it hurt to talk about it?”

It hurt to even think about Jack. Maisey wasn’t sure she’d ever get over him. Her marriage was supposed to last forever. But Keith was fighting enough battles. She couldn’t expect him to prop her up. “No, I’ve put it behind me.”

Her brother shook his head. “How’d we miss that he was such a douchebag?”

Grateful for his attempt to lighten the conversation, she smiled ruefully. “You mean how did I miss it? If I remember right, you were never too fond of him.”

“He hated me.”

Jack hadn’t understood Keith’s volatile nature, and had no patience with it. “The funny thing is that I can’t blame Mom for the collapse of my marriage. I moved away so she couldn’t turn me into the person I become when I’m around her. I thought that would make it easier to be successful in a relationship, but even that didn’t change the ending.”

“You gave it your best shot.” He gripped the steering wheel with both hands. “Believe me, there are no answers for some things.”

“How are you doing?” she asked. “Okay?”

“Taking it minute by minute.”

“Have you been working at the flower shop?” Josephine had started the business four years after Malcolm died, following the demise of her next marriage.

“Almost every morning.”

“Is Mom there very often?”

“Only when she’s lonely or bored. Lately that amounts to about three days a week, for an hour here or an hour there. She has Nancy now, who manages it for her.”

“So you spend your afternoons...”

“Going to my NA meetings. I hate having to catch the ferry for those. It all takes up so much time.”

She could believe that. But they were an important part of his recovery. He wouldn’t want to spend all day at the flower shop, anyway. And it wasn’t as if he could find other work. The island had a population of only 2,500, so jobs weren’t easy to come by. His temper and drug use would preclude him from maintaining a steady job, no matter where he lived. He’d proven that in the past.

“I’ll go to the meetings with you,” she said. “Give you some company.”

“You don’t want to come.” He grimaced. “‘Hi, I’m Keith Lazarow, and I’m an addict.’ Why would you want to listen to that bullshit?”

“Because I care about you, and I’m hoping that having a companion will make attending those meetings more...tolerable.”

“What about your career? Don’t you have a new children’s book under contract?”

Feigning preoccupation with the scenery flying past, she turned her face to the window. “My career’s on hold for the time being.”

“On hold? You haven’t said anything about that before.”

“Because it’s not a big deal. I’m just taking a break.” She couldn’t bring herself to tell him that she couldn’t do it anymore. That the drawing, the ideas, the words, the enthusiasm...it was all gone. She couldn’t come up with another Little Molly Brimble book, had no idea how she’d created her other books, since that kind of creativity seemed so out of reach to her now. To make it official and to escape the pressure she’d felt, she’d even fired her agent. “For the next few months, I’m going to figure out something else I can do.”

He pushed aside the hank of dark hair that fell across his forehead. “Sounds to me like you’re giving it up.”

“Not necessarily.”

“You can’t quit creating, Maisey—not because of Ellie or Jack or me. You love what you do. You’re good at it. And famous!”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not famous.”

“You were making a name for yourself. You were on your way.”

Acutely conscious of the absence of her wedding ring, which had represented an important part of her identity for nine of the past ten years, she laced her fingers together in her lap. “Doesn’t matter. Molly Brimble is on an indefinite leave of absence.” She sounded more absolute than she’d intended. She didn’t want him to continue prodding her since she was suddenly struggling to ward off tears. Lazarows didn’t cry, especially in front of other people, and that included family. She’d only embarrass herself and make Keith uncomfortable.

“It was Ellie who died, Maisey,” he said softly.

Her child’s life had been so short, only six weeks... “You think I don’t know that?” she said. “You think I haven’t missed her every minute of every day since that terrible morning when I found her?”

He set his jaw. “My point is that it was two years ago. You have to figure out a way to get beyond it.”

She couldn’t look at him, not without losing her battle with those tears. Because of her relationship with Josephine, she’d let Jack talk her into burying Ellie not far from where he’d been raised in Philadelphia. But since she’d never lived there, and he was now out of her life, that felt so strange and far away. She wished she’d insisted on burying Ellie on the island, as she’d initially requested. “Get beyond it?” she repeated as if that was impossible.

“Yes. Unless, of course, that only applies to me.” He was throwing her own words back at her.

“No, of course not. I am getting beyond it in the only way I believe someone can get beyond something like that. I told you, I’ll do something else until I’m ready to start writing again.” She couldn’t fall apart after all the encouragement and advice she’d offered him. She couldn’t even admit how close to despair she really was. She had to stand tall and lead the way, set an example for him.

They turned onto the narrow dirt road that led into Smuggler’s Cove and, about a quarter of a mile ahead, spotted a black pickup with a High Tide Construction placard on the door. It was parked outside the first bungalow on the back row—Unit 5. Maisey knew because of her familiarity with the cove; she couldn’t see the house through the trees that’d grown so much since she’d last been on the island.

“Looks like Mom’s contractor’s hard at work,” she said.

“Actually, he must be at lunch.”

“How do you know?”

Keith shrugged as he slowed to navigate the various potholes. “He lives there.”

Maisey gaped at him. “Only for the duration of the project, though, right?”

“Permanently—unless he decides to move. He told Mom he’d give her a heck of a deal on refurbishing the others if she’d sell him one. So she did.”

A wave of resentment washed over Maisey. Her mother had mentioned other interested parties through the years but Josephine had always refused them. “The bungalows aren’t for sale. They never have been.” And if it was up to her, they never would be. Her father had told her they’d belong to her.

“Since Dad’s gone, Mom’s in charge, and I have to admit that selling made sense.”

As soon as they passed the black truck, which was loaded with lumber, and the curved drive came into view, Keith pulled to the far side of the road.

“How do you figure?” she asked.

“He’s going to maintain and manage the properties once he’s finished with the refurbishing. Maybe you’ll wind up with one less house, but they’ll be in good shape when you take over.”

“And what does he get for staying on? Will he become one of her employees?”

“Not really. He just won’t have to make house payments.”

“That’s generous, considering the winter months are so quiet around here. Once he gets all the cottages fixed up, he won’t have much to keep him busy.”

Keith put the transmission in Park but didn’t turn off the engine. “If I had to guess, I’d say it’s about cash flow. What she would’ve had to pay for the repairs she keeps as the down payment. What she would’ve had to pay for an on-site manager she keeps in lieu of a mortgage payment.”

“She’s sacrificed a valuable asset!”

“Sacrificed? It’s not a sacrifice if she receives fair compensation.”

“Is she that tight for money?” Would she sell the others? Maisey wouldn’t put it past her. What her father had brought to the marriage paled in comparison to what Josephine had contributed, so she wouldn’t hesitate to do whatever she wanted, despite his promises to Maisey.

“Not necessarily. It’s about being strategic.” He ducked his head to peer out her window. “Even if she was in financial trouble, unless it became so obvious we couldn’t miss it, we’d never know. She’s very private about her finances, as you know. Not only that, but she acts as if I’m too stupid to understand business.”

He’d never shown any aptitude. Maisey couldn’t fault Josephine there. So she pretended to be too preoccupied to respond to that comment. “Why’d Raphael pick Unit 5?”

“Mother wouldn’t let him have any of the first four. They’re closer to the sea, more in demand during the summer.”

Thank God for small favors! Maisey glared at the contractor’s truck. She’d never shopped for a Ford F-250, but it looked big, rugged and costly. “A mortgage is only part of the cost of living. He’ll have other bills to pay.” She’d learned all about those other bills when they’d quickly drained her bank account...

“I’m sure he’s got income. He still has his business, and Mom doesn’t care what he does as long as he keeps everything up around here. He probably plans to fold Smuggler’s Cove in with his regular work.”

“I see,” she said, but gripped her purse tightly—as if she wanted to fling it out the window at that truck, which was impeding the limited view through the trees.

“That’s okay, isn’t it?” Keith asked.

“It’s not what I would’ve done.”

“You’re sentimental. Mom is...less so. And that still leaves you with eight units.”

She was upset that he didn’t seem to care, because she knew how he’d react if it’d been his inheritance Josephine had diminished. What if she’d sold the flower shop, which they’d both been told would go to him?

He shifted the transmission and began to drive away.

“Whoa, what are you doing?” Maisey asked. “We’re not going to talk to the contractor?”

“I don’t want to interrupt the poor guy at home. I figure you should see what you’re getting into before we bother anybody.”

“Won’t we need keys?”

“Not to poke around a bit. You might take one look at the other bungalows and tell me to drive straight to Coldiron House.”

“They’d have to be a lot worse than this. The little I can see looks fine.” What if this guy had his sights set on owning the whole development one day? And if she ever tried to make the property complete again, what if he refused to sell and she couldn’t get the bungalow back?

“Unit 5 is in decent shape because he finished it right away, so he could move in,” Keith explained. “Now he’s starting on the seaside units. They have the highest priority since they go for the highest rents.”

She peered through the trees, craning her neck to see the next unit. “I don’t like that he’s here—or that he might become a permanent fixture.” She didn’t want anything to change, not in this place.

“You haven’t even met him.”

“I don’t need to meet him.”

When they turned in at Unit 6, she cursed under her breath. “Look at that.”

“Told you. Not quite what you saw at the last cottage, is it? And it’s the best of the ones that are left.” This time he cut the engine, but she didn’t get out. She stayed in her seat, gazing at the buckled porch, the sagging and missing shutters and the all-too-obvious water damage, which had left a mark halfway up the walls.

“Is it completely empty inside?” She hadn’t considered that...

“Everything’s been gutted, so Raphael can do what he needs to do.”

She began to worry that she wouldn’t be able to stay here, after all. “Where’s the furniture? Was it ruined?”

“Not all of it. Mom had me help move everything. She insisted we throw out the drapes, bedding and towels, stuff like that. They needed to be replaced, anyway. Most of the furniture, even some of the mattresses, were salvageable, though. What’s left has been stacked in the last unit.”

That was good news. Depending on what had been saved, Maisey could furnish whatever unit she chose. She could always buy bedding. Perhaps she’d make her own drapes—or order them online if she couldn’t come by a sewing machine.

But there was no denying that the bungalows looked worse than she’d expected. She’d been living in New York, newly single, when the hurricane hit, but she’d heard it was the worst Fairham had ever endured.

Now she could see that was true.

Keith opened his door. “Should we check the inside?”

She nodded, and they got out. But the bungalow was locked, as she’d predicted. They were trying to look through the windows when they heard the sound of an engine and turned to see the same pickup they’d noticed in front of Unit 5.

The driver parked behind the Mercedes. Maisey couldn’t see much of him, though, until he started toward them.

Then her breath caught in her throat. Not only did she recognize this man, she’d once had sex with him!