Chapter 3

June 2023

"Fred Webb?" I say to Charlotte as I struggle to bring my bags through the ornate front door. As predicted, Charlotte's interest in my things was purely sociological.

"Do we know another Fred?"

"I don't know," I say petulantly. "Do we?"

"We do not."

I pull the suitcase over the threshold and drop my bags onto the black and white marble floor. Cold in winter, slippery in summer, it's classically beautiful and totally impractical. But my mother loved it, and like too much in this family, if she dictated it, then it stayed.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Charlotte gives me an elegant shrug of the shoulder, but I know why. If I knew that Fred had anything to do with the sale, I wouldn't have come home, no matter how much I wanted to get out of New York.

Damn it.

I breathe in and out slowly as the house's smell envelops me. Lemon-scented cleaner and the deep tang of the ocean that you can hear if you stand still. It was the lullaby of my childhood, and even now, whenever I sleep near the ocean, I feel at peace.

But not today.

"Have you seen him?" I ask. "Fred?"

"It was all done through the lawyers."

I can hear my heart hammering in my ears. Fred. Fred. Fred.

If I were smart, I'd wheel my bag right back out of here and drive somewhere else.

But I've never been smart where Fred is concerned.

"What could he want with Taylor House?" I try to keep the anguish out of my voice while I gesture to the crumbling plaster and the walls that haven't been repainted in twenty years.

"Honestly? He'll probably tear it down and build one of those ultra-modern places like everyone else does."

But whythis house, I want to shout. He could do that to anyone.

But I already know the answer.

It's this house because it's mine.

"Oh, Olivia, you're here," my father says as we walk into the front parlor. When he's not at the club, he has a set pattern through the house during the day, following the best light like a sundial. "Good, good."

He opens his arms, gesturing for me to come closer. He's wearing what I always think of as his summer wardrobe—madras golf shorts and a matching polo. At sixty-five, he has the body of a bon vivant: a veined nose and a paunch that sticks out too far, but he's still charming and handsome with his shock of white hair, bright blue eyes, and an easy smile that falls into a laugh when he's amused, which is often. Despite his tendency to complain, he's always been a good-time Charley, cheers of "William!" following him wherever he goes.

I kiss him on his left cheek. He smells like cinnamon gum and Old Spice, and I start to choke up as he pulls me into a brief hug. It's been too long since I've seen him. I've been so wrapped up in my own drama, I didn't make the time for him that I should have.

But I'm here now, and despite the fact that I'm still reeling from hearing that Fred Webb bought this house, I'm glad.

"Let me get a look at you." He holds me by the arms and inspects me.

I cringe, thinking about what he's seeing. My skin is pale because I've been inside all semester, and my face is somehow both gaunt and swollen from too little eating and too much drinking. I can tell by his expression that he thinks I look frightful, and he's not wrong.

His mouth is twitching as he fights the urge to say it. "Good to have you here. The salt air will do you good, I'm sure."

"Thanks, William." I started calling him that after my mother got sick when I was twelve, and it stuck.

Back then, everyone thought I was precocious. Now, it's a habit that everyone accepts. The truth is, I did it to create distance between us. Because if parents were going to be people who died unexpectedly, it was safer to keep them at bay.

I wait for him to ask me about Wes, but he doesn't. Instead, he says, "Shall we have a drink?"

Drinks on the veranda occur every day at five, rain or shine, sleet, or poverty. The liquor bill is the only one that always gets paid on time. And William avoids messy topics, such as leaving one's husband, like the plague.

Not that I've told any of them many details. I just texted the basics to Charlotte and Sophie in our rarely used group chat and told them when I'd be arriving.

It's the WASP way, after all. My family are gold-medal recipients in stuffing things down and withholding emotions.

"Sounds good," I say about the drink.

He crooks his arm through mine, and we walk through the patio doors. The veranda's a wide expanse of porch and patio, partly covered, that stops at the bright green lawn. A local boy mows it twice a week for a minimal fee, so it's well maintained in a way that most of the grounds aren't.

I stop and take in the view. The sky is that clear blue of early summer before the heat haze sets in. There are high, puffy clouds gliding lazily above it, and just over the grass-covered dunes is the ocean, its roaring waves dulled by the distance. I breathe in and out deeply again, like I did in the hallway, taking in the salt air, feeling some of the anxiety and sorrow seep out of me.

It will do me good to be here, the past and Fred notwithstanding.

"What do you think about this sad business?" my father asks, his hands on his hips, facing the view.

"Selling?"

"What else?"

"We've been trying to get you to do it for years."

"Yes, yes, but the way the bank just stepped in and … I was getting around to it. They didn't have to act so hastily."

Aunt Tracy comes outside carrying gin and tonics on a tray, along with small bowls of cheese straws. I eye them hungrily, feeling weak and needy. There won't be any dinner, or any more cheese straws, until eight, and what with the hasty packing of everything I own, I didn't get lunch.

I bury my instinct to grab one of the bowls and shove its contents in my mouth. Instead, I take the tray from Aunt Tracy, put it down, and pull her into a hug. "It's so good to see you."

"It's been too long since you were home," she says when we break apart. Aunt Tracy's coloring is dark, with white streaks in her short, thick chestnut hair, and laugh lines on her honey-colored face. She's wearing light gray slacks and a white poplin shirt with a coral necklace.

"I know. Don't scold me."

"Your father's been missing you."

"He'll be sick of me by summer's end."

She smiles. "I'm making your favorite for dinner."

"Seafood paella? You're the best." I pick up a gin and tonic and a bowl of cheese straws, and drift toward where Charlotte and my father are talking over their own drinks. His is half gone already.

"So, what's the plan?" I say. "Where should we start with the clean-out?"

Charlotte shoots me a look. "We were talking about the garden party tomorrow."

"Ah."

"You'll be attending, dear," William says.

"I guess so."

"Good, good. All the usual suspects—the Phelps and the Thorpes—and your sister's family."

"And I invited Ashley," Charlotte says.

I ignore Charlotte's addition. "Sophie made it down okay?"

Sophie's husband's family has a place a mile from here, where they spend the summer, letting their boisterous boys run around while her husband, Colin, commutes back and forth to Manhattan. I like Colin, but I find my nephews exhausting, even though I work with children. Maybe it's because of that. It's one thing for kids who aren't related to me to give me a hard time. Another entirely when it's my blood.

"She's been down for a week, complaining daily," Charlotte says.

"What's it this time?"

"Her back, apparently."

Charlotte and I exchange a glance, tamping down our laughter. One thing we've always connected over is how Sophie is old before her time.

"That's a shame."

"To already have problems with your back," William says, "and so young too. I blame the children."

"Naturally."

"They run around like banshees. You should see them when they come here. Climbing all over me and the furniture. Your mother wouldn't have liked it."

"Mom would have loved it," I correct. "She was always scampering around with us."

"Was she?" He sips at his drink with that faraway look he usually reserves for financial matters. I long ago decided that his vagueness was a deliberate choice. A way of pre-creating an excuse when he lets the details of life get away from him. He can be as sharp as a tack when he wants to be.

"She was," I say gently, then turn to the view again. I sip at my drink, that bitter mix of alcohol, tonic, and lime I always associate with home.

"Be that as it may … the garden party. She always loved the garden parties."

"She did."

"And everyone will be so glad to see you. Only, perhaps you could dress up for it?"

"Don't worry, I won't wear my sweatpants."

"That's all right, then. Barry, the lawyer, is coming too, and his daughter. Have you met her? She and your sister have been spending a lot of time together."

There's a trace of a blush on Charlotte's cheeks. "Ann's a lawyer too, Father. She works with him. They're partners. And there were a lot of details to work out."

I'm intrigued. It's so rare to see Charlotte discomfited. "I'm looking forward to meeting her."

"And the new owner, of course," William says, rocking on his heels. "A rich man from London. Though I hear he's American. He bought the place sight unseen; can you believe it?"

A lump forms in my throat. "Fred. You invited him?"

He rattles the ice around in his glass. "Who's Fred?"

"Mr. Webb. The man who bought the house."

"Ah yes, that's right. Some bigwig in shipping, they tell me. Or is it a cruise line?"

"Shipping," I say through clenched teeth.

"Made a fortune, I understand. And bought this place, like I said, sight unseen." William shakes his head at the marvel of it.

"He has seen it."

"The virtual tour, you mean. They came and filmed that one day, and it took hours. I had to shoo them out eventually, but then they insisted on taking drone shots, flying that little buzzing thing up there over the house. What for, I can't imagine."

I finish my drink in one long gulp. I can't tell whether he's deliberately misunderstanding me or not. It's possible he's forgotten all about Fred. His daughters' personal lives aren't the sort of thing he keeps track of so long as the GTs flow nicely at five PM, and dinner is on the table promptly at eight.

"He's really coming to the party?" I say to Charlotte, pulling her aside as William walks out into the lawn to stretch his legs.

"Father insisted on inviting him."

"You could've warned me. You could've warned me about all of it."

"You're not still carrying a torch for him are you?" Charlotte's tone is incredulous, but her eyes are filled with curiosity. "After all these years?"

"It's not ‘all these years,'" I say, then bite back the rest of my answer.

It's been five.