So, no, she didn’t understand Nadine’s attitude toward her. She accepted that she couldn’t necessarily change it, but it never sat well with her.
It had been different with Nick, her firstborn; from the very moment he locked his cloudy dark eyes on her, she’d felt a bolt of electrifying connectedness. That feeling never ebbed, never waned. Not until that last summer.
Every year the Cabrals spent June through August at Amelia’s mother’s house on Commercial Street. When Renata died, in the mid-1970s, she left the house to Amelia, and the Provincetown summers continued. By the time Nick and Nadine were teenagers, the house was filled with an endless rotation of their visiting friends. This continued during the summers after they started Boston University. Nadine, more often than Nick, had a constant stream of friends—the aforementioned buffers. At that point, Amelia welcomed the buffers as well; her three-decade marriage to Otto Cabral was stale. She accepted this as the natural course of things. She doubted her own parents had had a rewarding, passion-filled marriage until the end. (She was certain there was a year or two in which they’d barely spoken to each other.) Yes, when she’d married Otto, she’d been mirroring her parents’ marriage. It’s what she thought she wanted in life. It had made her mother happy, and surely she was just like her mother. But as she got older, Amelia realized she wasn’t so very much like her mother after all, no matter how much she adored her. She was not able to find satisfaction in a marriage that ranged from lukewarm companionship to downright apathy. Yes, she had her children and her cooking, her house and her friends. But it wasn’t enough.
And so the summers were a welcome distraction. Morning walks on the beach, the elaborate meal preparations, late dinners by the bay that started at sunset and didn’t end until the last person crawled off to bed.
That final summer, Nadine’s roommate and new best friend had come along with her, a bright, artistic, high-spirited young woman who brought out a giddiness in Nadine that Amelia had rarely seen. Even Nick, usually annoyed with the cloying adoration of his younger sister’s friends, seemed to go out of his way to spend time with the two of them.
Sometimes Amelia sensed the kids were crowding their guest, who seemed more interested in spending time with Amelia in the kitchen than in going to the beach or chugging margaritas at the Canteen. When Amelia (who enjoyed the company more than she cared to admit) asked the girl about this, she locked her wide green eyes on Amelia and said, “I guess I’m an old soul.” Amelia’s heart lurched, an undeniable free fall that terrified her. Three weeks into the summer, and Amelia was in love with Kelly Hanauer.
It was impossible. It was madness. She would not indulge in such thoughts, in such feelings. But one afternoon, when Otto went off fishing and Nick and Nadine went whale watching, an hour in the kitchen teaching Kelly to bake rosquilhas secas turned into a bottle of wine at the edge of the bay. And the irrepressible redhead kissed her.
“This cannot happen,” said Amelia.
“It already has,” said Kelly.
Chapter Twenty
How did Amelia find the time? First thing in the morning, Blythe saw her setting out a full spread of fresh-baked bread, berries, coffee, and organic granola. As if she hadn’t just whipped a party together the day before.
“I hope you’re not doing all of this just on account of us,” Blythe said.
“Please. It’s my pleasure. Ask Kelly—I don’t know what to do with myself if I’m not taking care of guests. Did you sleep well?”
“I did. Perfectly.”
Well, not perfectly. She’d fallen asleep before Marin got home, and she woke up at two in the morning worried about her. Blythe crept out of bed and down the hall and peeked into the other guest room to make sure Marin was there. At the sight of her, safely curled up, only her dark ponytail visible against the pale sheets in the moonlight, Blythe was finally able to go back to sleep.
Amelia set out a plate of golden-brown zucchini bread. Blythe thought of the Black Beauty zucchini she’d grown two years ago and looked around the yard in appraisal.
“Did you ever think of having a vegetable garden? You have the perfect space for it.”
Amelia shook her head. “It’s a lovely idea but the soil here takes a lot of work. This town was literally built on sand and silt. People with gardens sometimes have the soil shipped in. It’s just more trouble than it’s worth for us.”
“That’s such a shame,” Blythe said. She made a mental note to call her neighbor and ask her to check on her tomatoes.
“Good morning!” Rachel bounded out of the house, her long hair loose. She wore a flowing Indian-print sundress. “I’m starving.”
Rachel sat on the bench across from Blythe. The sun reflected a narrow ring of gold in her eyes. They were lighter than Marin’s but the same wide, almond shape. She couldn’t get used to seeing similarities between the two of them. But it was small, tangible things like that that made the absurdity of their situation feel real.
She wished she knew what Marin was thinking. Nearly a week since Marin had confronted her with the truth, and she was no closer to getting her daughter to talk to her, let alone forgive her, than she had been on day one.
“Maybe the three of us can go to the beach this afternoon,” Blythe said to Rachel. “I just have to find a bathing-suit shop first.”
When she had left Philadelphia, she had packed for only a few days in New York, not a trip to the beach. Had that really been less than a week ago?
The back door swung open, and Blythe looked up hopefully. Sure enough, Marin appeared. She wore her usual sunglasses and her new uniform of black yoga pants and a rumpled T-shirt. She made her way to the table without a word, sat down, and slumped over, her head resting on her arm. She reeked of alcohol.
“Hi, sweetheart. Coffee?” Blythe said, trying to sound chipper and not alarmed.
Marin nodded.
“Did you go out last night?” Rachel asked.
“Yeah,” Marin said, sitting up and sipping the coffee. Even though half her face was behind sunglasses, Blythe could see the sickly pallor of her complexion.
“Are you okay?” said Blythe.
“Fine.”
That’s when Blythe noticed it: something shiny and red on the inside of her daughter’s right wrist, the size of a quarter.
“Marin, what in God’s name is that?”
“What?” Marin said.
“This?” Blythe said, grabbing her wrist.
Rachel and Amelia peered over her shoulder.
“You got a tattoo?” Blythe said loudly. Marin had never even pierced her ears. The most outrageous aesthetic choice she’d ever made was ill-advisedly highlighting her hair the summer between sophomore and junior years of high school.
“Can you please not yell? My head is splitting.” Marin took her coffee and walked back into the house.
“Oh my God,” Blythe said.
Rachel put an arm around her. “She’s fine.”