Amelia felt her first flash of genuine irritation. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Nadine. What motives would they have?”
Nadine sighed. “Mother, please. I think you’re being a little naive here.” Nadine focused her eyes on her, eyes that were so much harder than Amelia remembered. Her skin was weathered, more so even than Amelia’s had been in her fifties. They loved the sun, all the Cabrals. But it was more than that. She’d caught Nadine smoking in high school and come down hard on her. She had probably never quit. Or perhaps she drank a lot. Whatever the case, she looked years older than Blythe, who was her peer. But her hair was still thick and cut in stylish layers, barely threaded with gray. And she was a handsome woman, moving with a confidence—almost aggressiveness—that gave her presence.
Amelia didn’t want to take the bait in this conversation. She’d forgotten how dramatic Nadine could be, the way she could triangulate between her and Otto to get what she wanted. It had caused a lot of arguments with Otto because Amelia had recognized it and Otto had not.
And yet, Amelia found herself asking, “How on earth do you figure?”
Nadine drummed her fingers on the corner of the easel. “Do you have any idea how much this place is worth?”
Amelia laughed. “Oh, please. I don’t want to hear this nonsense.”
“I’m sure you don’t. But I’ll tell you, it’s a good thing I’m here to be the voice of reason. Wake up, Mother. This isn’t the tiny fishing village it was when our ancestors bought this house. And you’ve made it into something extremely valuable. As your daughter, I would be remiss if I didn’t ask you what you plan to do with this house after you’re gone.”
Amelia shook her head. “Oh, Nadine.”
“What?”
“Well, the house will go to Kelly when I’m gone. She’s my wife.”
Nadine nodded. “Of course. I understand. But you two don’t have children together. So what will she do with the house?”
“Nadine, you’ve been here all of forty-eight hours. After decades of silence. And I’m thrilled about it—I am. But frankly, this conversation is out of line.”
“Is it? I think mothers and daughters have this conversation. I’m sorry if it makes you uncomfortable. But before the end of the summer, we should finish it.”
Amelia walked to her studio door and closed it. “There’s a conversation we need to have that’s going to make you uncomfortable. What happened with Nick that summer in Italy?”
Nadine stiffened. “You know what happened.”
“I don’t. I heard nothing from you—nothing—until the day after you buried your brother. How could you do that?” Amelia found herself shaking. “I didn’t deserve that. For many years, I believed I did. But I don’t think that way anymore. And I’m sorry if you do. But now you’re here, in my house, under my roof, and the least you can do is tell me how my son killed himself.”
“He crashed his motorcycle late at night. I told you this at the time. You want more details? Why don’t you ask your lovely guest Blythe? Mother of his child. Ask her why he came to me; no doubt he ran to Italy to get away from her. He was not in a good emotional state.”
Amelia sucked in her breath. “I thought you said he killed himself because of me. Now you’re saying it was because of Blythe?”
“Apparently, there is plenty of blame to go around.” Nadine brushed passed her and opened the door. “I’m going to take a walk over to the pottery shop.”
Amelia, shaking, watched her leave without a word.
Blythe insisted on doing the driving to Hyannis even though she wasn’t comfortable behind the wheel for long distances if she didn’t know the roads by heart. She didn’t like relying on her phone for directions, was unnerved by the turns and exits relayed in a systematic monotone. But she was there to take care of Marin.
“Mom, I’m fine. I can drive! I’m just going for an exam, not to deliver the baby.”
“You just relax.”
Marin fell silent, and it felt to Blythe like her own secret rested between them with all the weight of the world. She couldn’t stop thinking about Nick—the way it had started, the way it had ended, all the passion and fear and guilt and worry playing in an endless loop in her mind. And Blythe understood that on some level, she was mentally preparing herself to tell Marin the story.
Nick had called her a few days following the club disaster, during the afternoon when he knew Kip would be at work.
“Can you come into the city? I really need to see you.” When Blythe heard his voice, her resolve to just cut it off cold disappeared, and she agreed. For the entire drive downtown, especially when the stately profile of the art museum came into view, she justified her actions by thinking the least she could do was say good-bye in person.
When he opened the door, greeting her with his dark-eyed gaze and his mouth slightly open, as if he had just kissed her, the anger from the night at the club was gone. She wanted him instantly, and yet she’d had satisfying sex with her husband just two nights ago. It seemed like no matter what she did, she would be betraying them both.
“Sorry I called you at home,” he said, pressing his mouth to hers. She felt herself opening up to him, her insides unfolding like a bird spreading its wings. “But I needed to reach you because I’m leaving tomorrow.”
For a second, she forgot that she was there to end it. All she could think was Leaving? To go where? For how long?
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“My sister, Nadine, invited me to Italy. She has a house with a bunch of friends. It’s a great setup.”
“What about your classes?”
He shrugged. “I’ll pick them up in the fall. You gotta live life, you know?”
Yes, she did know. And that’s what she’d felt she was doing when she was with him. But she had to focus on her real life—her life with Kip. She had to try to make her marriage work. Despite all the times she had felt like Kip did not care for her, surely he cared more than this stranger. The night at the club had shown that.
“So, this is good-bye,” she said.
“It’s not good-bye. I’ll be back in the fall.”
“Nick, we really should make this good-bye.”
He seemed to consider this. He moved closer to her, cupping her face with his hands. “You think too much. Maybe it’s not up to us. Maybe the universe has its own plans.” He pressed his lips to the hollow of her throat, and her body swayed against his, his hand already underneath her dress, moving between her legs. It was difficult—so achingly difficult—but she pulled away.
“Good-bye,” she whispered.
She never heard from him again except for a single letter one month later.
When she saw the Italian postmark, she dropped the rest of the mail on the dining-room table, took the letter up to her bedroom, and closed her door even though she was alone in the house.