“Mother doesn’t have it,” Tabitha says. “Even if she did, she wouldn’t lend it to you for Billy’s house.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Harper says. “We’re selling it as a teardown, Pony.”
Tabitha lets use of the odious nickname slide because she’s busy doing the math. If they sink one fifty into Billy’s house and sell it for a million, they would both walk with more than three hundred grand.
Ainsley says, “Aunt Harper should stay here, and you should go to the Vineyard, Mom. Haven’t you always said it’s your dream to renovate a house?”
“Grammie’s house,” Tabitha says. She has long yearned to be given permission and an unlimited budget to redo Eleanor’s house on Pinckney Street—but needless to say, neither has been granted. “I said that about the house on Beacon Hill.”
“Do Gramps’s house instead,” Ainsley says. “You’d be good at it.”
Harper turns on Ainsley. “No. We aren’t renovating. Whose side are you on, anyway?”
Ainsley frowns. “I want you to stay,” she says.
Ainsley’s suggestion is completely outrageous, yet something about it appeals. If Tabitha can reach Flossie or get Eleanor to pay out for a private nurse, she would be free to work on Billy’s house, which is something she would profoundly enjoy. With Tabitha’s eye and a little elbow grease, they’ll make three times the money. How can Harper argue with that?
While Tabitha is handling the renovation, Harper can stay here and deal with the fallout of Ainsley’s behavior and Harper can work at the boutique. The boutique is going to go belly-up at the end of the summer—Tabitha has done everything within her power to resuscitate it, but to no avail—so why not let Harper take the blame for its demise?
Is it too cruel to let Harper take over the sinking ship that is Tabitha’s life?
She remembers the sting of cold champagne in her face, then the slap.
The wildflowers. The Chicken Box. “With or Without You.”
Julian, dead.
“Once I get Mother settled… if I get Mother settled, I’ll go over to the Vineyard and take a look,” Tabitha says. “I’ll handle the Realtor and the sale, and you can stay here with Ainsley. But there are conditions.”
“Such as?” Harper says.
“Your first responsibility is my daughter,” Tabitha says. “I’m going to call the school secretary in the morning and let them know that you’re in charge for the remainder of the school year. There are only a few days left, but if there are any issues, you’ll get the call.”
Harper nods.
“Will there be any issues?” Tabitha asks Ainsley.
Ainsley looks at her feet. “No.”
“Ainsley?”
“No,” Ainsley says.
Tabitha closes her eyes for an instant. She is so tired, so weary, that she could fall asleep standing up. You’re a piss-poor parent, Tabitha. She wonders if her real motivation in agreeing to this plan is just an unwillingness to deal with Ainsley’s bullshit.
Maybe, yes. And the feeling, apparently, is mutual. Ainsley’s eyes are shining with hope. She wants her aunt.
Be careful what you wish for, Tabitha thinks.
“Your second responsibility is the ERF boutique on Candle Street,” Tabitha says. “Meghan is going to have her baby soon. She’ll show you the ropes tomorrow, and both of you will have to put in a lot of work. I can do the buying remotely, but you’ll be in charge of tracking the orders, getting them out on the floor, accounting for inventory, ringing up sales, and going to the bank each morning with the deposits. In addition to hand-selling, of course. You’ll have Mary Jo to help.”
“She’s blind,” Ainsley says.
“Myopic,” Tabitha says.
“I can handle it,” Harper says.
“Yes,” Tabitha says, and the part of her that has long wanted revenge on her sister is placated. There is no way her sister can handle it. “I’m sure you can.”
HARPER
Her alarm goes off at six thirty the next morning, and Harper’s feet hit the ground with a sense of purpose. Fish is already waiting by the bedroom door, wagging his tail.
In the distance, Harper hears the wail of the ferry’s foghorn. Tabitha is on that boat with her car. She is gone. Harper is in charge.
“Take care of the daughter,” Harper says to Fish. “Then mind the store.”
After Harper lets Fish out, she heads upstairs to find the coffee brewed and a handwritten set of instructions written out, along with an envelope containing fifteen hundred-dollar bills.
Harper reads through the instructions, marveling at how Tabitha can be nearly forty years old yet her handwriting is still the same as it was when she was a ten-year-old girl and won the fourth-grade penmanship award.
Harper, the note says, please follow these basic instructions.
Harper finds herself grateful for guidelines. She is both elated and terrified at the previous day’s turn of events. She is going to spend the next few weeks—or longer?—in Nantucket caring for her sixteen-year-old niece, which is something she knows exactly nothing about.
1. Ainsley: No drinking. No drugs. Infraction = Loss of phone for one week. NO EXCUSES.
2. Felipa comes on Wednesdays to clean. Felipa lives in the basement of Eleanor’s house, and she will know if you are over there SNOOPING.
The words are capitalized and underlined, as if Harper’s snooping were a given. Tabitha thinks Harper is a cheat, a liar, and a thief.
Numbers 3 through 6 are about the store: the address, the security code, the numbers of the maintenance man, the landlord, Meghan, Mary Jo, the police department, the fire department.
7. Dress yourself from present inventory. Pick six outfits (one MUST be the Roxie) and cycle through. Write down the exact items you take. One pair of shoes only. This store is a direct reflection of the Eleanor Roxie-Frost brand. Don’t mess this up.
Harper gets an immediate case of the hot pricklies. She knows the Nantucket boutique carries brands other than Eleanor Roxie-Frost, but these other brands will still be too fussy and feminine for Harper, and she is going to have to wear the blasted Roxie at least one day a week.
She has a succession of nauseating memories: her confirmation at Church of the Advent, her ninth-grade dance, her prom. Her adolescence was pockmarked with events for which she had to dress up. Tabitha had loved it. Tabitha had worn dresses and skirts voluntarily.
Harper will worry about the store later. For now she will focus on the daughter.
She raps lightly on Ainsley’s door. There is no answer. She knocks again a little louder, which elicits a groan. Harper cracks open the door.
“Time to get up,” Harper says.
“I’m sick,” Ainsley says. “I have a migraine.”
Harper nearly laughs. It’s startling the way ailments, either real or perceived, pass down through the generations. For Eleanor, every headache was a “migraine” and required a cool, dark bedroom for three hours, followed by a double espresso and a double gin martini.
“Get up,” Harper says.