“Hopefully Kevin will have the decency to spend time with her in Seattle, rather than insist that she visit him on the island.”
Lucy blinked, perplexed. “They’re both going to be here, Mom.”
“What do you mean?”
“Didn’t Alice tell you? She’s moving in with Kevin.”
“No, she—” Her mother broke off. “Dear Lord. Into the house you shared with him?”
“Yes.”
“What is Alice going to do with her Seattle apartment?”
“I don’t know,” Lucy said dryly. “Maybe she’ll sublet it to me.”
“Lucy, that’s not at all funny.”
“Sorry. It’s just … Alice has stepped into my life like it’s a pair of old shoes. And the crazy thing is, she doesn’t seem to feel guilty at all. I actually think she feels entitled to my boyfriend. Like I was supposed to hand him over just because she wanted him.”
“It’s my fault. The way I raised her—”
“Wait,” Lucy said, more sharply than she had intended. She took a frayed breath and softened her tone. “For once, Mom, please, can something be her fault? Can we just agree that Alice did something wrong, and not find a dozen ways to excuse her for it? Because every time I think of her sleeping in my house, in my bed, with my boyfriend, I really feel like blaming her.”
“But Lucy—even though it’s probably too soon to bring this up—she is your sister. And one day when she comes to you with a sincere apology, I hope you’ll forgive her. Because family is family.”
“It is too soon to bring that up. Listen, Mom, I … need to go.” Lucy knew that her mother was trying to help. But this wasn’t the kind of conversation that had ever gone well for them. They could talk about superficial things, but whenever they ventured into deeper territory, her mother seemed compelled to tell her how to think and feel. As a result, Lucy usually confided the personal details of her relationships to her friends rather than her family.
“I know you think I don’t understand how you feel, Lucy,” her mother said. “But I do.”
“You do?” As Lucy waited for her mother to continue, her gaze fell on a print of Munch’s painting The Dance of Life. The work depicted several couples dancing on a summer night. But two women stood alone in the picture. The one on the left was dressed in white, looking innocent and hopeful. The older woman on the right, however, was dressed in black, the uncompromising angles of her body conveying the bitterness of a love affair gone wrong.
“Before I was married,” her mother said, “I was involved with a man—I loved him very much—and one day he broke the news to me that he was in love with my best friend.”
Her mother had never divulged anything of the kind to her before. Lucy gripped the phone, unable to make a sound.
“It was beyond painful. I had … well, I suppose you would call it a nervous breakdown. I’ve never forgotten that feeling of not being able to get out of bed. That feeling of your soul being too heavy for you to move.”
“I’m sorry,” Lucy said in a hushed voice. “It’s hard to think of you going through something like that. It must have been terrible.”
“The most difficult part was that I lost my boyfriend and my best friend at the same time. I think they both regretted the pain they had caused me, but they loved each other so much that nothing else mattered. They got married. Later my former friend asked for my forgiveness, and I gave it to her.”
“Did you mean it?” Lucy couldn’t help asking.
That provoked a rueful laugh. “I said the words. That was the most I could manage. And I was glad I had done that, because about a year after the wedding, she died of Lou Gehrig’s.”
“What about the guy? Did you ever get back in touch with him?”
“You could say that.” Her mother’s voice turned gently arid. “I eventually married him, and we had two daughters.”
Lucy’s eyes widened at the revelation. She had never known that her father had been married before. That he had loved and lost another woman. Was that the reason for his eternal remoteness?
So many secrets, hidden in a family’s history. Inside a parent’s heart.
“Why are you telling me now?” she finally managed to ask.
“I married Phillip because I still loved him, even though I knew that he didn’t care for me in the same way. He came back to me because he was grieving, and lonely, and he needed someone. But that’s not the same as being in love.”
“He does love you,” Lucy protested.
“In his way. And it’s been a good marriage. But I’ve always had to live with the knowledge that I was his second choice. And I would never want that for you. I want you to find a man who thinks you’re the sun and the moon.”
“I don’t think that guy is out there.”
“He is. And Lucy, even though you said yes to the wrong man, I hope that won’t cause you to say no to the right one.”
Six
After two months of living at Artist’s Point, Lucy had narrowed down a list of potential apartments, but there were issues with each of them. One was out in the middle of nowhere, another was too expensive, another was depressingly dark, and so forth. She would have to make a decision soon, but Justine and Zoë had encouraged her to take as much time as she needed.
It had done Lucy a world of good to stay with the Hoffmans. Their company had been the perfect antidote for her postbreakup blues. Any time she felt gloomy or lonely, she could keep company with Zoë in the kitchen, or go for a run with Justine. It was nearly impossible to stay depressed around Justine, with her raffish sense of fun and boundless energy.
“I’ve got the perfect guy for you,” Justine announced one afternoon, as she, Zoë, and Lucy prepared the inn for a monthly event at the bed-and-breakfast—a silent reading party. It had originally been Zoë’s idea. People could bring their favorite books, or choose from the selection at the bed-and-breakfast. They would settle into the deep sofas or chairs in the big downstairs common room, and have wine and cheese while reading to themselves. Justine had initially scoffed at the idea—“Why would people go somewhere to read when they could do that at home?”—but Zoë had persevered. And it had become a huge success, with long lines forming at the front door, even in bad weather.
“I’d suggest him for you, Lucy,” Justine continued, “but Zoë’s gone longer without a guy. It’s like triage—I have to assign priority to those in the worst condition.”
Zoë shook her head as she set a tray of cheese on a huge antique sideboard in the common room. “I don’t need triage. I’ll meet someone eventually, when the time is right. Why can’t you just let these things happen naturally?”
“Letting things happen naturally takes too long,” Justine said. “And you need to start going out again. I’ve seen the signs.”
“Like what?” Zoë asked.
“For one thing, you spend too much time with Byron. He is so spoiled.”
Much of Zoë’s spare time was spent indulging her Persian cat, who had a mahogany-paneled litter box, a selection of rhinestone collars, and a blue velvet cat bed. Byron was regularly bathed and groomed, and ate his designer cat food from china saucers.
“That cat lives better than I do,” Justine continued.
“He certainly has better jewelry,” Lucy said.
Zoë frowned. “I’ll take a cat’s company over a man’s any day.”
Justine gave her a sardonic look. “Have you ever been on a date with a guy who coughed up a hairball?”
“No. But unlike a man, Byron is always on time for dinner, and he never complains about my shopping.”
“Despite your weakness for neutered males,” Justine said, “I think you’d get along great with Sam. You like cooking, he makes wine … it’s a natural.”
Zoë looked dubious. “This is the Sam Nolan who was so geeky in elementary school?”
Lucy had nearly dropped a stack of books as she heard his name. Fumbling a little, she piled the heavy volumes on a coffee table in front of a flower-upholstered sofa.
“He wasn’t that bad,” Justine protested.
“Please. He was always walking around playing with a Rubik’s Cube. Like Gollum petting his ring.”
Justine began to laugh. “God, I remember that.”
“And he was so skinny, we used to have to hold him down during a strong breeze. Did he actually grow up to be cute?”
“He grew up to be hot,” Justine said emphatically.
“In your opinion,” Zoë said. “But you and I have different taste in men.”
Justine gave her a perplexed glance. “You think Duane’s cute, don’t you?”
Zoë’s soft shoulders hitched in an uncomfortable shrug. “I can’t tell. He’s all covered up.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t see his face because his sideburns are the size of my cast-iron skillets. And he has all those tattoos.”
“He only has three,” Justine protested.
“He has way more than that,” Zoë said. “I could read him like a Kindle.”
“Well, I like tattoos. But to put your fears to rest, Sam doesn’t have any. No piercings either.” As Zoë opened her mouth, Justine added, “And no sideburns.” She made a sound of exasperation. “I’ll get photographic proof.”
“Justine’s right,” Lucy said to Zoë. “I’ve met him, and he is hot.”
Their gazes flew to her.
“You met Sam and you never mentioned it?” Justine asked.
“Well, it was only one time, and it was very brief. I had no idea you knew him.”
“I’ve been friends with Sam forever.”
“Why hasn’t he ever dropped by here?” Zoë asked.
“Sam’s been crazy-busy for a couple of years, ever since he started the vineyard. He’s got a crew, but he does a lot of the work himself.” Justine’s attention returned to Lucy. “Tell me how you met him.”
Lucy set out wineglasses on a sideboard as she replied. “I was out riding my bike, and I sort of … stopped for a minute. We had a quick conversation. It wasn’t a big deal.”
“Justine, why aren’t you going out with him?” Zoë asked.
“I did in middle school, after your family moved to Everett. It was one of those summer flings. Once school started, it sort of evaporated. Sam and I have been friends ever since.” Justine paused. “The thing about Sam is, he’s not a long-term guy. He’s not looking to get serious with anyone. He’s a free spirit. Very upfront about never wanting to get married.” A strategic pause. “Just ask Denise Rausman.”
Lucy recognized the name of a stunning blond television reporter who had recently been voted as Seattle’s Hottest News Babe. “He went out with her?”
“Yes, she has a vacation house near Roche Harbor, and she and Sam had quite a thing going for almost a year. She was wild about him. But she couldn’t get him to commit, and she finally gave up. And then there was Laura Delfrancia.”
“Who’s she?” Zoë asked.
“The head of Pacific Mountain Capital … she invests in all these early-stage companies in hi-tech and clean-energy fields. She’s classy and loaded, and she couldn’t persuade Sam to get serious with her either.”
“It’s hard to imagine that kind of woman chasing after Sam Nolan,” Zoë said. “He had a lot of geekitude to overcome.”
“In defense of geeks,” Justine said, “they’re great in bed. They fantasize a lot, so they’re really creative. And they love to play with gadgets.” As the other two started laughing, Justine handed them glasses of wine. “Here. Whatever else you may say about Sam, he makes fantastic wine.”
“This is one of his?” Lucy asked, swirling the rich garnet vintage in her glass.
“It’s called ‘Keelhaul,’” Justine said. “A Shiraz-Cab.”
Lucy took a sip. The wine was amazingly smooth, the fruit strong but silky, the finish mocha-inflected. “This is good,” she said. “It would be worth going out with him to get bottles of this for free.”
“Did you give Sam your number?” Justine asked.
Lucy shook her head. “Kevin had just dumped me.”
“No problem. I can set you up with Sam now. As long as Zoë has no objections.”
“None,” Zoë said distinctly. “I’m not interested.”
Justine let out an exasperated laugh. “Your loss, Lucy’s gain.”
“I’m not interested either,” Lucy said. “It’s only been two months since my breakup. And the rule is that you have to wait for exactly half the time of the relationship … which for me would be about a year.”
“That’s not the rule,” Justine exclaimed. “You only have to wait one month for each year of the relationship.”
“I think all these rules are ridiculous,” Zoë said. “Lucy, you should let your instincts guide you. You’ll know when you’re ready again.”
“I don’t trust my instincts where men are concerned,” Lucy said. “It’s like this article I read the other day about the decline of the firefly population. One of the reasons they’re disappearing is because of modern artificial lighting. Fireflies can’t find the signals of their mates, because they’re so distracted by porch lights, streetlamps, illuminated sign letters…”
“Poor things,” Zoë said.
“Exactly,” Lucy said. “You think you’ve found the perfect mate and you head for him, blinking as fast as you can, and then you find out he’s a Bic lighter. I just can’t handle that again.”
Justine shook her head slowly as she looked at the two of them. “Life is a banquet, and you are both wandering around with chronic indigestion.”
* * *
After helping the Hoffmans to set up for the reading party, Lucy went up to her room. Sitting cross-legged on the bed with her laptop, she checked her e-mail, and found a message from a former professor and mentor, Dr. Alan Spellman. He had recently been appointed as the arts and industry coordinator at the world-renowned Mitchell Art Center in New York.