# How To Keep A Secret: A fantastic and brilliant feel-good summer read that you won’t want to end!

Sarah Morgan

If you enjoyed How to Keep a Secret, don’t miss Sarah Morgan’s next wonderful novel, The Christmas Sisters. Out now!** Readers are loving How to Keep a Secret! **‘A delightful read’‘You feel every emotion in this beautiful story’‘Superb’‘I loved this evocative, romantic and sparkly book’This summer one family will discover that together, they can do anything.Matriarch Nancy knows she hasn't been the best mother but how can she ever tell her daughters the reason why? Lauren and Jenna are as close as two sisters can be and they made a pact years ago to keep a devastating secret from their mother – but is it time to come clean? Lauren's teenage daughter Mackenzie masks her own pain by keeping her mother at a distance. Her mother, aunt and grandmother keep trying to reach her but will it take a stranger to show her the true meaning of family?When life changes in an instant, the Stewart women are thrown together for a summer and suddenly they must relearn how to be a family. And whilst unravelling their secrets might be their biggest challenge, it could also be their finest moment . . .

SARAH MORGAN lives near London with her husband and two sons. An international bestseller, her books have been translated into more than 30 languages and she has sold over 15 million copies. For more about Sarah visit her website www.sarahmorgan.com, and sign up to her newsletter. She loves to connect with readers on Facebook (www.facebook.com/AuthorSarahMorgan), Twitter (@SarahMorgan_) and Instagram (www.instagram.com/sarahmorganwrites)

Also by Sarah Morgan

Snow Crystal series

Sleigh Bells in the Snow

Suddenly Last Summer

Maybe This Christmas

Puffin Island series

First Time in Forever

Some Kind of Wonderful

Christmas Ever After

From Manhattan with Love series

Sleepless in Manhattan

Sunset in Central Park

Miracle on 5th Avenue

New York, Actually

Holiday in the Hamptons

Moonlight Over Manhattan


Copyright


An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Copyright © Sarah Morgan 2018

Sarah Morgan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © June 2018 ISBN: 9781474070690

Dear Reader

How To Keep A Secret is an exciting new direction for me. I’ve always written about relationships, but previously my main focus has been on the romance between the two central characters.

I wanted to broaden that to include the relationship between sisters, friends, mother and child, grandparent and grandchild. I wanted to create more complex, layered characters and to explore them in more depth.

This book has interwoven story lines, all of them connected, and tracks the shifting nature of relationships within one family. There is still romance, but also an exploration of broader themes and a cast of multi-generational characters.

Unlike my previous books, this story won’t be part of a series and I hope readers will enjoy having the whole reading experience in one book.

Being able to write something a little different has been satisfying and exciting for me. I can’t wait to hear what readers think.

Thank you for reading.

Sarah

x

For my sister (from whom I have no secrets!)

If I could have chosen my sister, I would have chosen you.

For there is no friend like a sister

In calm or stormy weather;

To cheer one on the tedious way,

To fetch one if one goes astray,

To lift one if one totters down,

To strengthen whilst one stands.

Christina Georgina Rossetti

Contents

Cover

About the Author

Also by Sarah Morgan

Title Page

Copyright

Dear Reader

Dedication

PROLOGUE

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

PART TWO

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Extract

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

Sisters

“WHAT ARE WE going to do? We shouldn’t even be here.” I tugged at my sister’s skirt to pull her away from the window. “If we’re caught, we’re going to be in big trouble.”

I wasn’t about to wait around for that to happen.

My sister was taking those big gulping breaths that always preceded a fit of crying.

Giving her a final tug, I dropped to my hands and knees and scurried back along the path the way we’d come, grateful for the protective shadow of darkness. I wanted to stand up and run, but if we did that we’d be seen, so I stayed low, crawling like a fugitive. It had been a long, hot summer and the earth was dry and crumbly. It was only when I felt a cooling splash on the backs of my hands that I realized I was crying, too. Small stones bit into my palms and knees, and I clamped my teeth together to stop myself making a sound. I brushed past the jungle of honeysuckle and the sweet cloying smell almost choked me. There was nothing sweet about what we’d seen and I knew that when I was grown up and had a house of my own I’d never have honeysuckle in the garden.

There was a rustling sound behind me. I hoped it was my sister and not some nocturnal creature with sharp teeth and an appetite.

I couldn’t see the gate, but I knew it was there. Beyond the gate was the footpath. If we made it that far, we’d be protected by the high hedge. Through the panicked pumping of blood in my ears I could hear the rhythmic crash of the sea. It sounded closer than usual, louder, as if the tide was colluding, helping to drown the sounds of our escape. The salt breeze dried my cheeks and cooled my skin.

Finally I reached the gate and slid through the gap, ignoring the twigs that stabbed my back. There, right in front of me, was the path. Leaning against the hedge were our bikes, right where we’d left them. I wanted to grab mine and pedal hard into the night without looking back, but there was no way I was leaving my sister.

I’d never leave my sister.

There was another rustle and she emerged through the gate, her hair wild from our frantic retreat.

Now that safety was within reach, anger burst through the anxiety.

“It was your idea to come here tonight.” I almost choked on the emotion that had built up inside. “Why do you always have to do what you’re not supposed to do?”

“Because the things I’m not supposed to do always seem like more fun.” The wobble in her voice reminded us both that this hadn’t been fun at all.

I felt her hand creep into mine and instantly I forgave her. We stood like that for a moment, clinging for comfort.

My sister moved closer. “If I could have chosen my sister, I would have chosen you.”

I would have chosen her, too, although right then I wished there was a way of curbing her adventurous spirit.

“I wish we hadn’t looked.”

“Me, too.” For once my sister sounded subdued. “We can’t ever tell anyone. Remember what happened to Meredith?”

Of course I remembered. Meredith was a cautionary tale.

“I hate keeping secrets.”

“It’s a small secret, that’s all. You can keep a small secret.”

I swallowed, my throat so dry it hurt. We both knew that this was a lot bigger than the other secrets we kept. This wasn’t sneaking out after dark to play on the beach, stealing flowers from Mrs. Hill’s garden or raiding Mrs. Maxwell’s strawberry patch. This was something different. What we’d seen felt like a weight crushing me. Deep down I knew we should tell, but if we told, everything would change. We’d left our childhood back at that window and there was no going back to get it.

“I won’t tell. I’ll protect you. We’re sisters. Sisters always stick together. I made a promise.”

Of course most people who made a promise like that, I thought, didn’t have a sister like mine.

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

Lauren

Premonition: a feeling that something is going to happen, often something unpleasant

YOU COULDN’T REALLY blame the party for what happened, although later Lauren wished she hadn’t organized such an elaborate affair. If she hadn’t been so wrapped up in the small details, she might have noticed something was wrong. Or would she? To notice something was wrong you had to be looking, and she hadn’t been looking. She’d been focused on the moment and the excitement of the big day.

And the day started early.

Waking before the alarm, she rolled over in the bed and kissed Ed. “Happy birthday.”

Should she say the word forty? How did he feel about it? How did she feel about it?

She still had five years to go before she hit that number which seemed far enough away not to be worth worrying about. And forty wasn’t old, was it?

Maybe not, but when she’d taken delivery of the birthday cake the day before and looked at the forty candles waiting to be added, she’d thought, We’re going to need a bigger cake.

Ed was still dozing so Lauren lay for a moment, cocooned by the peaceful calm of their bedroom. This had been the first room she’d decorated when they’d moved in. She’d designed it as a sanctuary, a peaceful haven of white with accents of gray and silver. In summer the room was flooded with sunlight and she slept with the window open so she could hear the birds. Now, in January and with London in the grip of a cold snap, the windows were firmly closed. Their house, in an exclusive and sought-after crescent in fashionable Notting Hill, backed on to private gardens. Every morning for the past week the trees had been coated with frost. The cold air slapped you in the face the moment you opened the door, as if daring people to leave the comfort of their homes.

Lauren, who had been raised on Martha’s Vineyard, a small island off the coast of Massachusetts, wasn’t afraid of bad weather.

She peeled back the covers and ran her fingers through his hair. “Not a single gray hair. If it’s any consolation, you don’t look a day over sixty.” There was no reaction and she leaned forward and kissed him again. “I’m kidding. You don’t even look forty.” Except lately, at certain times of the day and when the sun was bright and harsh. Then he looked every day of forty. Working too hard? Ed had always worked long hours, but recently he’d been coming home later and later and seemed unusually tired. She’d subtly planted the idea that he might visit the doctor, but he’d ignored all hints. It was easier to persuade a toddler to eat broccoli than to get Ed to the doctor.

Her phone told her it was past six o’clock, and he showed no sign of moving.

Lauren gave him a gentle nudge. Her day was planned to the minute, and it all kicked off at precisely six fifteen.

She heard the sound of clomping on the stairs. “Mack’s awake. How can one teenager sound like a herd of elephants?”

She wondered if Mack was coming upstairs to the bedroom, but then the sound of footsteps faded and she heard the kitchen door slam.

Why wasn’t Mack at least putting her head round the door to wish her father happy birthday?

Anxiety gnawed at the edges of her happiness. It wasn’t that long ago that Mack would have come charging into the bedroom proudly carrying the birthday card she’d made herself. She would have leaped into the middle of the bed and the three of them would have snuggled together. Even when she’d hit the teenage years, Mack had been easygoing.

All that had changed a month before. Overnight she’d transformed into a sullen, moody caricature of a teenager and Lauren couldn’t put her finger on why.

The Christmas holidays had been stressful. Ed, who rarely took time off, had reacted badly to the tension and Lauren had taken on the role of peacekeeper. As a result, she’d spent most of the festive period with tight knots in her stomach.

“Do you think it’s a phase, or is this it?”

Ed stirred. “Is this what?”

The way she’s going to be for the rest of her life.

She didn’t voice her thoughts.

Today was Ed’s birthday, and she had a party to run.

Thinking of everything she had to do to make it perfect made her fidget.

This being Friday, she was meeting her friends Ruth and Helen at ten o’clock in their favorite coffee shop, which happened to be exactly thirty-five steps from the hairdresser where Lauren had an appointment exactly forty-five minutes later. By eleven thirty she’d be at the florist and after a fifteen-minute walk home—ticking the boxes for both steps and sunshine—the rest of the day was devoted to making final preparations for the party.

“Ed—” She nudged him again. “Wake up, honey. I need to give you your gift before I head downstairs. I have the whole day planned out to the minute.”

Ed finally opened his eyes. “When have you ever not had the whole day planned out to the minute? If I ever invent an organization app, I’m calling it The Lauren.”

Was that a criticism?

“It’s important to take control, otherwise time drifts.”

Lauren had other reasons for keeping control on life, but she and Ed never talked about that. Sometimes she wondered if he remembered. Time had a way of fading events until they were distant and indistinct. It was like hanging a painting in sunlight. Lines blurred and colors lost some of their sharpness.

Occasionally her mind drifted there, but mostly she managed to keep herself in the present.

Hoping to stir him into action, she threw back the covers and stood up. Usually she started with a few yoga stretches, but today she was distracted by the thought of Mack downstairs in the kitchen.

Why was she up so early?

Perhaps she was making a surprise birthday breakfast for Ed.

Or maybe that was wishful thinking.

Lauren walked to the window and glanced into the street.

With luck today would be one of those perfect sunny winter days, but this being London it was unlikely. As long as their guests didn’t have to battle snow, she wasn’t going to complain. England, she’d discovered years before, didn’t cope well with snow. Ten large flakes were all that was required to send the country into a screaming panic.

Ed finally heaved himself out of bed, too.

Lauren turned and studied his hunched form. “Are you okay?”

He turned his head to look at her, distracted. “What?”

“You look tired.”

“I am tired. I could lie in bed for a month and not move.”

She decided the time for subtlety had passed. “You should see a doctor.” Why was it men needed to be told that?

“For being tired? The advice will be ‘Go to bed earlier.’ I can’t afford the time to hear him state the obvious.”

“Her.”

“Excuse me?”

“Our doctor is a woman,” Lauren said. “Eleanor Baxter. If you won’t see her, at least slow down a little. Leave the office earlier.”

“Slow down? Lauren, do you have any fucking idea what my job is like?” He closed his eyes and ran his hand across his jaw. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t mean—forgive me. I’m not feeling great.”

“It’s fine.” But it wasn’t fine, was it? Ed never swore, at least not in her presence. He was always polite and courteous—to friends, to the teachers at their daughter’s school, even to the mailman if they happened to bump into each other. It was his even temper and unshakable calm that had drawn her to him. He was dependable. With Ed she’d never felt swept away or out of control. She’d never had to worry that her heart might fracture or her breathing might stop altogether. If there had ever been a part of her that craved something different, it was now a mere speck in her past, barely visible to the naked eye. “I know you’re busy, but it’s not like you to be this tense.”

Ed was a whiz kid financier who had made a fortune with a big hedge fund in the city before leaving to manage his own portfolio. James, an old college friend who rented office space with him, said Ed was a financial genius. Lauren had no reason to doubt it.

This house, Mackenzie’s school, their perfect life—all of it was paid for by Ed’s brutally long hours in the office.

Once, she’d had ambitions, too, but that had been before she’d had sex on a beach and found herself pregnant. Not that she undervalued her contribution to the family. Being a stay-at-home mom had been her choice and from the moment Mack was born, Lauren had loved being a mother. She considered herself Ed’s equal in every way and knew her role was every bit as important as Ed’s. She was the Yorkshire pudding to his roast beef, to use a British analogy, which she always tried to do in order to ingratiate herself with her fearsome mother-in-law, who, even after sixteen years, remained appalled that her precious only son had married an American.

Ed was still sitting on the bed, staring at the floor, and Lauren reached into the drawer by the bed and pulled out the box she’d wrapped carefully.

“Happy birthday.” She handed him the gift and felt a thrill of anticipation. “I wanted to give it to you now because later on it’s going to be crazy here with a houseful of people all wanting a piece of you.”

Ed opened the package and stared at the contents. “You bought me a rain forest?”

“Not a whole rain forest. A patch of rain forest. I know how committed you are to environmental issues. You cycle everywhere, you’re always talking about saving the planet. I thought—”

“It’s a scam, Lauren.” He sounded tired. “I can’t believe you spent money on that. You do realize you’ve probably financed the cocaine industry?”

“It’s not a scam. I’m not stupid.” And he knew it. He knew she’d graduated top of her year at school and had a place at an Ivy League college before her world had crashed down. Ed had been the one to encourage her to pick up the threads of her dream once Mack had started senior school. She’d been studying for an interior design qualification and was finally poised to embark on her own career. When she’d passed her exams, they’d celebrated with champagne. “I researched it carefully. We can visit whenever we like.”

“Right. Because flying to Brazil is great for the planet.” He tossed the box on the bed and she felt her throat thicken.

“I was trying to give you something original and thoughtful.”

“It was thoughtful.” He rubbed his fingers across his chest. “It’s not you, it’s me. Ignore me. I need to start the day again.”

He heaved himself off the bed, walked into the bathroom and closed the door.

Moments later she heard the hiss of water.

She stood there, flummoxed.

This wasn’t about a patch of rain forest. Was he on the verge of a midlife crisis? Was he about to start wearing skinny jeans and have an affair with someone barely older than Mackenzie?

Making an effort not to overthink and overreact, she went in search of her daughter.

She found her in the kitchen, hunched over her phone at the kitchen island. A pair of oversize pink headphones covered her ears.

Mack hated pink. The headphones had been an attempt to fit in with a group at school who teased her for not being girly enough. Mack called them “the princesses,” and they’d made her life a misery.

If Mack heard her mother come into the room, she gave no sign of it.

There was no tray laid for breakfast. No sign of any birthday treat.

Nothing except a single overflowing bowl of breakfast cereal that Mack dug in to.

Lauren tried to work out what she could say without causing an explosion. “Hi, honey. You haven’t forgotten Dad’s birthday?”

Mack looked up from her phone and removed her headphones in an exaggerated gesture.

“What?”

“Dad’s birthday. Today.”

“Yeah?”

“Aren’t you going to wish him happy birthday?”

“Does he want to be reminded? Forty is pretty old. Not quite a senior citizen but that landmark is definitely on the horizon.” Mack took another spoonful of cereal. “I figured he might rather ignore it. And it’s six fifteen. I’m not a morning person. I guess I could have made him tea, but he hates my tea. He always moans that it’s too weak.” She put the headphones back on her ears and went back to Snapchat. Dressed in an oversize T-shirt, she looked younger than sixteen. Her hair was the same sunny blond as Lauren’s, but Mack allowed hers to flop forward in an attempt to hide the stubborn spots that clustered on her forehead. Her braces had come off a few months earlier but she still smiled with her lips pressed together because she’d forgotten she no longer needed to be self-conscious.

It was only when Mack picked up her empty bowl to put it in the dishwasher that Lauren noticed the two pink streaks in her hair.

“What have you done to your hair?”

“I woke up with it this way. Weird, huh? Fairies or gremlins.”

“Mack—”

Her daughter sighed. “I dyed it. And before you flip out, everyone is doing it. All the other mothers were fine about it. Abigail’s mom helped her do hers.”

This was her cue to be like “all the other mothers.” It was a pass or fail test, and Lauren knew she was going to fail. “Why didn’t you discuss it with me?”

“Because you’re such a control freak you would have said no.”

“You have beautiful hair. Is this about trying to fit in?”

“I don’t care about fitting in.”

They both knew it was a lie.

Lauren picked her words carefully. “Honey, I know it’s hard when you’re teased, but it happens to a lot of people and—”

“That does not help, by the way. It makes no difference to me how many other people have been through it.” Nonchalance barely masked the pain and Lauren felt the pain as if it were her own.

“Your individuality is the thing that makes you special. And you need to remember that most people are thinking about themselves, not anyone else.” She decided that this wasn’t the time to raise the school issue again. “I know you’re upset. Has something else happened?”

“You mean apart from the fact that my mother is always on my case?”

“I’m trying to be supportive. We’ve always been able to talk about anything and everything.”

Mack scooped up her phone. “Yeah, right. Anything and everything. No secrets in this house.”

Her tone made Lauren feel uneasy.

“Mack—”

“I need to get ready for school. My mother had a place at an Ivy League college, so nothing short of Oxford or Cambridge is going to be good enough for me. Education is everything, right?”

It was too early in the morning to deal with teenage attitude. Lauren opened her mouth to remind her to wish her father a happy birthday, but Mack was gone.

Another slammed door. Her world seemed full of them.

No secrets in this house.

Feeling a burn of stress behind her rib cage, she took herself downstairs to the basement gym they’d installed and tried to run off her anxiety on the treadmill. She flicked on CNN, giving herself a taste of home.

Storms in Alabama. An alligator thirty feet long in Florida. A shooting in Brooklyn.

A wave of homesickness almost knocked her flat. She yearned for morning runs on South Beach, the smell of the sea, the taste of seafood caught fresh that morning, the sight of the sun setting near her sister’s house in Menemsha.

Twenty minutes later Ed appeared. He was dressed in cycling gear and had his phone in his hand.

Lauren breathed a sigh of relief. This was routine. Ed cycled to the office and changed once he got there, and it seemed that today was no different except that he was running later than usual.

“Have a great day, birthday boy.” When he didn’t answer, she muted CNN and slowed the treadmill until it stopped. “You seem really distracted today. Does it bother you being forty?”

“What?” He glanced up from his emails.

“Forty.” Maybe she’d treated the whole thing too lightly. She needed to make sure he knew he was still handsome and desirable. More sex wouldn’t hurt. Sometimes the days slipped past and she’d realize it had been a week. Sometimes longer. The truth was sex between them had always been comfortable rather than urgent.

Was that normal? She had no idea because it wasn’t a topic she’d dream of discussing with friends.

Maybe he was having an affair?

Even though she’d stopped the treadmill, her heart rate continued to accelerate. No. Ed wasn’t like that. They didn’t lie to each other. That was what they’d agreed that first night they’d met. Lauren trusted Ed implicitly.

And they were happy. Happy couples didn’t have affairs.

“Are you worrying about Mack? I know she’s been difficult lately.”

She decided not to mention the pink hair. Let him notice it for himself later.

“All teenagers are difficult. I remember your mother saying your sister was a nightmare.”

Lauren realized she’d forgotten to call her sister the day before. Preparations for Ed’s birthday had eclipsed everything.

“All my mother wanted to do was paint, and she was irritated by anything that disturbed that.” Still, when Lauren thought back to some of the things she’d done with Jenna, it terrified her.

They were lucky to have come through childhood unscathed. Or mostly unscathed.

“She’s growing up.” Ed was calm. “She doesn’t have to tell us every little thing. She’s pushing for independence, and we’ve always encouraged that. And as for being difficult, it’s nature’s way of making sure teenagers want to leave home and that parents are ready to push them out of the door.”

“She’s sixteen, Ed. It’s years until she leaves home. And you know what the school told us. Mack is skipping homework and failing English. She’s always been a straight-A student. English is her best subject.”

Ed frowned. “Physics is her best subject. Last year she wanted to do aeronautical engineering.”

“That was before those girls started teasing her for being like a boy. Remember that horrible Facebook page they set up? Mack-the-man.” She’d been so upset she’d wanted to charge into school and chop off their damn princess hair with rusty scissors. It had taken a lot of maneuvering to have the page taken down and Mack had been left wounded. “She is smart. She could do what she likes, providing she works hard, but that’s the point. She isn’t. If she carries on like this, she’s going to fail her exams.” Unless there was an exam in sarcasm. Mack would ace that.

“There’s more to life than being a straight-A student, Lauren.”

“I know. But I also know how competitive the world is now. If you mess up your exams then you don’t get into a good college, and without a good college you don’t stand a chance of getting a good internship because there are literally thousands of people applying for every position. Sue Miller’s eldest graduated last summer and since then she has put in one hundred and fifty applications and hasn’t had a single interview. One hundred and fifty.”

“Calm down. Mack is going to be fine, Lauren.”

She was irritated that he didn’t even glance up from his phone.

“But what if she isn’t? The school told us she’s not speaking up in class.” And since when had her daughter not spoken up in class? Mack had been speaking up ever since she’d learned how to put two words together. “And then there was that incident a month ago—”

He glanced up. “That was a one-off.”

“She was drunk, Ed! Our daughter was drunk and Tanya’s mother had to drive her home.” And Mack had refused to offer any explanation. She’d shut them out. That had disturbed Lauren more than anything. Was that when Mack had changed?

“Teenagers experiment. Tanya’s mother should have kept a closer eye on the vodka bottle.”

“It wasn’t a one-off. What about the time she took money from my purse? Our child stole, Ed.” What if Mack was experimenting with drugs? The more she thought about the list of possible horrors, the more surprising it seemed that today’s teenagers ever made it to adulthood. “I think she’s keeping something from us.” She recognized the signs, and it made her uneasy. A secret, she knew, could eat away at you slowly. It created a barrier between you and the people you loved.

“Since when do teenagers tell their parents everything? You need to chill. Mack is doing okay. She’s not the problem.”

Lauren stared at him, wrong-footed.

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing.”

“You said, ‘She’s not the problem,’ which means something else is.”

“Forget it.” His attention was back on his phone. “I might be late tonight.”

“You’re kidding. Tonight is the party.”

“The—what?” He looked confused and then closed his eyes briefly and muttered something under his breath.

“Your party. Had you forgotten?”

The pause was infinitesimal, but it was there.

“No.”

He was lying, and he never lied.

Who forgot their own fortieth birthday party?

What was on his mind?

“We have thirty people coming, Ed. Friends, colleagues, your mother—” She managed not to wince and Ed nodded.

“I’ll be there. See you later.” He grabbed a bottle of chilled water from the fridge they kept in the gym, and Lauren studied him from the back and wondered if tight Lycra cycling shorts on a man of forty was still a good look.

He slammed the fridge door shut and straightened.

“Thanks for the rain forest. It was a sweet thought and I’m sorry I overreacted.” He kissed her cheek. It was a dry, asexual gesture. “I love you. You’re a good woman, Lauren.”

A good woman? What did that mean?

“Maybe you should take time off. Mackenzie has three weeks at Easter. We could go away.”

“Let’s talk about it tomorrow.”

Lauren watched him leave.

She’s not the problem.

By the time she left the house to meet her friends, she’d persuaded herself that Ed was having an off day and she was having a massive attack of overthinking. She felt invigorated after her workout, happy that everything was on track for the party, and reassured by the fact that Mackenzie had spoken at least eight words before leaving for school. Fortunately the school they’d chosen was close by. One of Mack’s friends lived a few doors away and they walked together.

Most days Lauren managed to resist the temptation to track Mack’s phone to check her daughter was safe.

She buttoned her coat against the cold and walked briskly along tree-lined residential streets.

As someone who had lived her life on an island until the age of eighteen, the prospect of city living had daunted her, but she’d fallen in love with this area of London from the first moment Ed had brought her here. She loved the secret communal gardens, the elegance of the stucco-fronted houses and the candy-colored charm of Portobello Road. She enjoyed browsing in the market for secret treasures and discovering restaurants down hidden side streets. In those early years she’d explored the city with the baby tucked in her stroller, loitered in galleries and strolled through London’s many parks. She’d spent hours in the Tate Modern and the Royal Academy, but her favorite place without a doubt was the Victoria and Albert Museum, which had been a source of inspiration for designers and artists for over one hundred and fifty years.

Lauren could happily have moved in there.

She reached the coffee shop at the same time as her friends.

She went to the counter to order while Ruth and Helen grabbed their usual table in the window. They’d started meeting for coffee when their children had moved to the same girls’ school and conversations at the school gate had become impossible.

She ordered coffees and a couple of pastries for her friends and pushed her credit card into the machine. It was promptly declined.

With a murmur of apology, Lauren tried again and the card was declined a second time.

“I’ll pay cash.” She slipped the card back into her purse and scrabbled around for money. Red-cheeked, she carried the tray over to the table and set it down.

“Thanks.” Ruth lifted a cappuccino from the tray. “My turn next time. It’s freezing out there. They’re saying we could still have snow.”

Lauren sank into the vacant chair and unwrapped her scarf from her neck.

The British preoccupation with the weather was one of the things that had fascinated Lauren when she’d first arrived in London. Entire conversations were devoted to the weather, which, as far as Lauren could see, was rarely newsworthy. On Martha’s Vineyard bad weather frequently meant being cut off from the mainland. She wondered what her British friends would have had to say about a hurricane. It would have kept the conversation going for months.

“Did you want to share this croissant?” Helen broke it in half and Lauren shook her head.

“Just coffee for me.” She pulled out her phone and sent a quick text to Ed.

Credit card not working. Problem?

Maybe the bank had seen a transaction that was out of the ordinary and frozen it. She probably ought to call them later.

“I wish I had your willpower.” Ruth ate the other half of Helen’s croissant. “Don’t you ever give in to your impulses?”

Lauren dropped her phone into her bag. “Giving in to impulses can lead to disaster.”

Both her friends stared at her in surprise, and she wished she’d kept her mouth shut.

“Disaster?” Ruth blinked. “You mean like not fitting into your jeans?”

“No. I—” She shook her head. “Ignore me. I’ve had a crazy morning. Busy.” It was Ed’s fault, for making her think about things she didn’t want to think about.

“Ah, yes, the birthday. How was Ed?” Helen picked up her spoon and stirred circles into the foam on her coffee. “When Martin hit forty he bought a sports car. Such a cliché, but I get to drive it so I’ve stopped complaining.”

Lauren sipped her coffee. “Ed seemed fine about it.”

She’s not the problem.

“I had a crisis when I turned forty,” Ruth said. “Having a sixteen-year-old daughter reminds you how old you are. I don’t have daughter envy yet, but I can see how it could happen. You don’t have that problem—” she glanced at Lauren “—because you had Mack when you were still in your pram, or whatever you call it across the pond.”

Lauren laughed. “I was nineteen. Not that young.”

But she’d been pregnant at eighteen, which was only two years older than Mack was now.

“And you still look twenty-one, which makes me want to kill you.” Ruth waved a hand in disgust. “At least your daughter doesn’t think you’re too old to understand anything.”

Thinking of some of the conversations she’d had with Mack lately, Lauren gave a tight smile. “Oh, she does.”

“But you have energy. I’m too tired to cope with a teenager. I thought the terrible twos were supposed to be the worst age and now I’m discovering it’s sixteen. Peer pressure, puberty, sex—”

Lauren put her cup down. “Abigail is having sex?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me. She has a ‘boyfriend.’” Ruth stroked the air with her fingers, putting in the quote marks. “The phone pings all the time because he’s messaging her.” Was that the problem with Mack? Was it a boy?

“Phoebe is always on her phone, too,” Helen said. “Why is it they don’t have the energy to tidy their rooms, but manage to hold a phone? Last night when I finally wrenched it from her grabby hand and told her all electronic devices were banned from the bedroom, she told me she hated me. Joy.”

Lauren’s sympathy was tinged with relief. Even during their most prickly encounters, Mack had never said she hated her. Things could be worse.

“They don’t mean it,” Ruth said. “It’s one of those lines straight out of the teenage phrase book, along with I hate my life—my life is so crap.”

“And but all my friends are doing it.”

“Nobody does that stuff, Mom. It’s the moods that get me. I know it’s hormones, but knowing that doesn’t help.” Helen finished her coffee. “It makes me feel guilty because I know I was the same with my mum, weren’t you?”

Ruth nodded. Lauren said nothing.

As long as they weren’t doing anything that interrupted her painting, her mother had left her and Jenna alone. It was one of the reasons she and her sister were close.

“The only one with a predictable temperament in our house is the dog.” Ruth gave a wicked smile. “Do you ever wonder what your life would have been like if you’d married your first boyfriend?”

“I’d be divorced,” Helen said. “My first boyfriend was a total nightmare.”

They looked at Lauren and she felt her face heat. “Ed was my first real boyfriend.”

It wasn’t really a lie, she told herself. Boyfriend meant someone you had a relationship with. The word conjured up images of exploratory kisses, trips to the movies and awkward fumbling. A boyfriend was a public thing. I’m going out with my boyfriend tonight.

Using that definition, Ed had been her first boyfriend.

“You’ve been with one man your whole adult life? No flings? No crazy, naughty teenage sex?”

Lauren felt her heart pick up speed. That didn’t count, she told herself. “For me it’s always been Ed.”

“Well—” Helen spoke first. “I’m going to stop talking before I incriminate myself.”

“I auditioned a lot of men before finally awarding the role of my husband to Pete.” Ruth finished her croissant. “I’d better go. I left my house in chaos.” She reached for her bag. “See you at the party tonight, Lauren. Sure there’s nothing we can do?”

“No thanks, I’ve got it covered.”

“Is your sister coming over from the States?”

“No, she can’t get away from school right now.”

Lauren felt another stab of guilt. When they’d last spoken, Jenna had confessed that her period was late. Lauren had heard the excitement in her voice and felt excited with her. She knew how desperately Jenna wanted a baby and how upset her sister was each month when it didn’t happen. She’d intended to call, but party planning had driven it from her head.

“What about your mum? She’s not coming either?”

Lauren kept her smile in place. “No.”

Of course that had a lot to do with the fact that she hadn’t been invited.

Lauren had never had a close relationship with her mother, but things had been particularly strained last time she’d visited home. Her mother had seemed preoccupied and even more distant than usual.

When her father had died five years earlier, Lauren had expected Nancy to be devastated.

She’d flown home for the funeral and been humbled by how strong her mother was. Her father had been a much-loved member of the community and there had been plenty of people sobbing at his funeral. Her mother hadn’t been one of them. Nancy Stewart had stood with her back as straight as the mast of a ship, dry-eyed, as if part of her was somewhere else. Lauren assumed she handled grief the way she handled everything else life threw her—by vanishing to her studio and losing herself in her painting.

Lauren stared into her coffee.

Growing up, her father had been the “fun” parent.

“Let’s go to the beach, girls,” he’d say, and scoop them up without giving a thought to what they were doing. He’d bring them back long past bedtime with sandy feet, burned skin and salty hair. They were hungry and overtired and it was their mother who had dealt with the fallout.

Nancy would be waiting tight-lipped, the supper she’d prepared congealing on cold plates. She’d serve the ruined food in silence and then dunk both girls in the shower, where Jenna would scream and howl as the water stung her burned flesh.

By the end of the summer the sun had bleached their hair almost white and freckles had exploded over Jenna’s face. To Lauren they looked like sand sprinkled over her skin, but Jenna thought they looked like dirt. She’d scrub at her skin until it was red and sore and the freckles merged.

“You could at least remember sunscreen,” Nancy had said to Tom one night and Lauren had heard him laugh.

“I forgot. Loosen up.”

It seemed to Lauren that the more her father told Nancy to loosen up, the tighter she was wound.

She’d long since given up wishing her relationship with her mother were different.

She and Ed returned to Martha’s Vineyard for ten days every summer, but Lauren felt edgy the whole time. It was part of a life she’d left behind, and being there made her feel uncomfortable, as if she was dressing in old clothes that no longer fit. Not having her father there with his endless jokes and energy made the visit even more awkward.

The only good part about it was seeing her sister in person.

Lauren saw Helen stand up and realized she’d missed half the conversation.

Her friend reached for her bag. “Have your girls finished this wretched ancestry project? Martin’s been wishing we’d picked a different school to send her to. One that doesn’t take education so seriously.”

Lauren grabbed her coat, too. “What ancestry project?”

Helen and Ruth exchanged looks.

“This is why we envy you,” Ruth said. “Your Mack is so smart she does all these things without your help.”

“Mack does tend to figure these things out on her own.” All the same, she made a mental note to ask Mack about it, just to be sure.

“Everything okay with Mack?” Helen held the door open for them and they swapped warm scented air for frozen winds. “No more trouble with those bitches from the year above?”

Lauren was tempted to mention the pink hair and the fact that something felt “off,” but decided not to. She was still hoping it was nothing.

“Everything seems fine.”

“Abigail hasn’t mentioned anything, and she was the one who found that Facebook page when it happened.” Ruth squeezed her arm. “I’m sure it’s over and done.”

She hoped so. She knew she had a tendency to blow things out of proportion. According to Ed, she catastrophized.

If he was right, then his words earlier should be nothing more than a throwaway comment.

If they had a problem, they would have talked about it.

She checked her phone and saw she was on time for her hair appointment. “I’ll see you both later.”

Ed was going to be fine and so was Mack. True, she was behaving oddly but the chances were it was nothing more than a phase.

It didn’t mean she was keeping secrets.

Lauren tried to ignore the voice in her head reminding her that she and her sister had kept secrets all the time.

CHAPTER TWO

Sisters

Loyalty: the quality of staying firm in your friendship or support for someone or something

“PLEASE DON’T DO IT.” I watched her climb onto the railing. Below lay the water, dark and deep.

It was early morning and the beach was deserted. Later in the season the place would be teeming with tourists all lined up waiting to jump off the Jaws Bridge, so called because it featured in the movie, but right now we were the only people.

And we weren’t supposed to be here.

Our bikes lay on the edge of the path, abandoned. The beaches on either side of the bridge were deserted. No cars had passed since we’d arrived five minutes earlier.

“If you’re afraid, go home.” She issued the challenge with a toss of her head and a blaze of her eyes.

My sister, the rebel.

She was right. I could have gone home. But then who would have taken care of her? What if she knocked herself unconscious or was swept out to sea? The current was pretty strong and you had to swim hard away from the bridge once you jumped. I’d positioned myself down on the beach because I figured that was the only way I’d be able to rescue her.

The seaweed was slippery under my shoes and the wind was cold.

I was shivering, although I wasn’t sure whether it was through cold or fear. I wanted to be anywhere but here.

Like all families, we had rules.

My sister had broken all of them.

Was I my sister’s keeper? Well yes, I was. Self-appointed, admittedly. What choice did I have? I loved her. We told each other everything. She was my best friend. I would have died for her, although I would have preferred that to be a last resort.

I tried one more time. “The sign says No Jumping Off the Bridge.”

She looked across at me and shrugged. “Don’t look at it.”

“Mom will kill us.”

“She won’t know. She doesn’t know about any of the things we do. She only cares about painting.”

“If someone tells her, she’ll care.”

“Then we’d better hope no one tells her.”

That was her answer to everything.

I squirmed at mealtimes, terrified Mom might ask what we’d done all day. Guilt stuck to my skin until I was sure she would be able to see it. I felt as if I was glowing like a neon sign.

Fortunately for me, our mother usually had other things on her mind.

“It isn’t safe. Come back in the summer when there are more people.”

“I hate the crowds.” She clambered onto the top of the railing, balancing like a circus performer, arms stretched to the sky. “I’ll go on three. One, two—”

Throwing a wicked smile in my direction she pushed off and flew.

She sailed through the air and hit the water with a splash, disappearing under the surface. I felt a moment of raw terror. If she was in trouble, would I be strong enough to save her? The image in my head was so real I almost felt her body slipping from my hands. It was only when her head bobbed up and I let out a relieved sigh that I realized I’d been holding my breath. My toes hurt and I realized I’d curled them tight inside my shoes, ready to push off the rocks into the water.

She swam toward me, working hard against the current that was trying to pull her out to sea.

“You almost gave me a heart attack.” I threw her the towel, relief making my legs shaky. Another one of my sister’s wild adventures and we were still alive. There were days when I felt like her mother, not her sister. “We need to get home before someone sees you with wet hair.”

“No one will see us.” She emerged from the water, her clothes dripping and clinging to her skinny arms and legs. “Dad is away and Mom is in the studio.”

“What do we say when she asks what we did today?”

“She won’t ask.” My sister rubbed her head with the towel and tossed her hair back. She looked exhilarated and excited the way she always did when we did something we weren’t supposed to. “But if she does, we’ll tell her we went for a scenic bike ride.”

This was part of our pact. We always made sure there were no flaws in our story.

Whatever happened, she knew I’d protect her.

She was my sister.

CHAPTER THREE

Jenna

Yearning: an intense or overpowering longing

NOT PREGNANT.

Were there two more depressing words in the English language?

In the small bathroom of their two-bedroom cottage on the island of Martha’s Vineyard, Jenna dropped the remains of the pregnancy test onto the bathroom floor and resisted the temptation to grind it under her heel.

She wanted to swear, but she tried never to do that even in the privacy of her own bathroom in case one day it slipped out in front of her class of impressionable six-year-olds. Imagine that.

Mrs. Sullivan said fuck, Mommy. FUCK. It was her word of the day. First we had to spell it, and then we had to use it in a sentence.

No, swearing was out of the question and she refused to cry. She already had to contend with freckles. She didn’t want blotches, too.

“Jenna?” Greg’s voice came through the door. “Are you okay, honey?”

“I’m good. I’ll be out in a moment.”

She stared at herself in the mirror, daring her eyes to spill even a single drop of the tears that gathered there.

She was not okay.

Her body wasn’t doing what it was supposed to do. What it was supposed to do was get pregnant on the first attempt, or at least the second, nurture a baby carefully for nine months and then deliver it with no crisis or drama.

All those times she’d peed on the stick in the grip of panic, hoping and praying that it wouldn’t be positive. The first time she’d had sex with Greg, both of them fumbling and inept on the beach, she’d been more terrified than turned on. Please don’t let me get pregnant.

Now she badly wanted it to be positive and it wasn’t happening.

They’d been having sex all winter, although to be fair there wasn’t much else to do on the Vineyard once the temperature dropped. Sex was a reasonable alternative to burning fossil fuels. Maybe she should teach it in class. Hey, kids, there is solar energy, geothermal energy, wind energy and sex. Ask your parents about that one.

She was burning more calories in her bedroom than she ever had on a treadmill.

She was thirty-two.

By thirty-two, her mother already had Lauren.

Jenna’s sister, Lauren, had been pregnant at eighteen. She’d barely said “I do” to Ed before announcing she was expecting. It seemed to Jenna that her sister had gotten pregnant by simply brushing against him.

And yes, that made her envious. She loved her sister, but she’d discovered that love wasn’t enough to keep those uncomfortable feelings at bay.

She’d wanted to be a teacher since her sixth birthday when her mother had bought her a chalkboard, and she’d forced her sister to play school.

Everyone knew it was only a matter of time until she had her own family.

At first she’d been relaxed about it, but as each month passed she was growing more and more desperate.

She’d tried everything to maximize her chances, from taking her temperature every day to making Greg wear loose boxer shorts. They’d had sex in every conceivable position and a few inconceivable positions, which had caused one broken lamp and Greg to mutter that he felt like a circus performer. Nothing had worked.

The injustice made her heart hurt, but worse was the sense of total emptiness. It embarrassed her a little because she knew she was lucky. She had so much. She had Greg, for goodness’ sake. Greg Sullivan, who was loved by every single person on the island including Jenna. Greg, who had graduated top of his year and had excelled at everything he’d ever tried.

She’d loved him since she was five years old and he’d pulled her out of the ditch where she’d fallen in an ungainly heap. He was her hero. They’d sat next to each other in senior year and run the school newspaper together. People talked about them as if they were one person. They were Jenna-and-Greg.

Until recently, being with Greg was all she’d ever wanted.

Suddenly it didn’t seem like enough.

The worst thing was that she couldn’t talk about it with anyone, which had led to some almost awkward moments because she didn’t find keeping things to herself easy. Chatty, her school reports had said, much to her mother’s irritation. You’re there to learn, Jenna.

She might be chatty, but even Jenna drew the line at talking about her sex life while browsing the aisles at the local store.

Hi, Mary, good to see you. By the way, how many times did you and Pete have sex before you got pregnant?

Hi, Kelly, I’d love to stop and chat but I’m ovulating and I need to rush home and get naked with Greg. See you soon!

“Jenna?” He rattled the handle. “I know you’re not okay, so open the door and we can talk.”

What was there to talk about?

She was desperate for a baby and talking wasn’t going to fix that.

She opened the door. She was Jolly Jenna. The girl who always smiled. The girl who had always tried to accept things she couldn’t change. She had freckles on her nose, hair that curled no matter what she did to it and a body that refused to make babies.

Greg stood there, wearing what she thought of as his listening face. “Negative?”

She nodded and pressed her face against his chest. He smelled good. Like lemons and fresh air. “Don’t say anything.” Greg was a therapist. He’d always been good with people, but right now there was nothing he could say that would make her feel better and she was afraid sympathy might tip her over the edge.

She felt his arms come round her.

“How about ‘I love you.’”

“That always works.” She loved the way he hugged. Tightly, holding her close, as if he meant it. As if nothing was ever going to come between them.

“We’re young and we haven’t been trying that long, Jenna.”

“Seventeen months, one week and two days. Don’t you think it’s time we talked to a doctor?”

“We don’t need to do that.” He eased away. “Think of all the great sex we can have while we’re making this baby.”

But it’s not working.

“I’d like to talk to someone.”

He sighed. “You’re very tense all the time.”

She couldn’t get pregnant. What did he expect?

“If you’re about to tell me to relax, I’ll injure you.”

He pulled her back into his arms. “You work so hard. You give everything you have to those kids in your class—”

“I love my job.”

“Maybe you could go to yoga or something.”

“I can’t sit still long enough to do yoga.”

“Something else then. I don’t know—”

This time she was the one who pulled away. “Don’t you dare buy me a book on mindfulness.”

“Damn, there goes my Christmas gift.” He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her gently on the mouth. “Hang in there, honey.” The look in his eyes made her want to cry.

“We’re going to be late for work.”

Twenty hyperactive six-year-olds were waiting for her. Other people’s six-year-olds. She adjudicated arguments, mopped tears, educated them and tried not to imagine how it would be if one of those kids was hers.

Every day at school she taught the children a new word. Definitions had a way of flashing through her head even when she didn’t want them to. Like now.

Disappointed: saddened by the failing of an expectation.

Frustrated: having feelings of dissatisfaction or lack of fulfilment.

“It would be easier if people didn’t keep asking when we’re going to have a baby.”

“They do that?”

“All the time.” She grabbed her makeup from the bathroom. “It must be a woman thing. Maybe I should stop being evasive. Next time someone asks me I should tell them we’re having nonstop sex.”

“They already know.”

“How?”

He grinned. “A couple of weeks ago you texted me at work.”

“Plenty of wives text their husbands at work.”

“But generally those texts don’t say Hey, hot stuff, I’m naked and ready for sex.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, except Pamela had my phone.”

“No!” She felt a rush of mortification. “Why?”

“She’s my receptionist. I was with a client. I left it with her in case someone had an emergency. I wasn’t to know you would be having a sex emergency.”

“I don’t know whether to laugh or hide.” Jenna covered her mouth with her hand. “Pamela was my babysitter. She still treats me as if I’m six years old.”

“We can rest assured she now knows you’re all grown up.”

“What did she say?”

“Nothing. She handed me my phone back, but I have no doubt that our sex life will be the topic of discussion at the knitting group, the book group and the conservation commission meeting. If we’re lucky, it might not be on the agenda for the annual town meeting.”

“Do you think she’ll mention it to my mother?”

“Given that your mother is a member of both the book group and the conservation commission, not to mention numerous other committees on this island, I think the answer to that is yes. But so what?”

“It will be another transgression to add to a very long list.”

Jenna had once overheard her mother say Lauren never gave me any trouble, but Jenna—She’d paused at that point, as if to confirm that there were no words to describe Jenna’s wayward nature.

“Whenever I’m with my mother I still feel as if I should be sitting in the naughty corner.”

Greg gave a slow smile. “What happens in this naughty corner? Is there room for two?”

“She thinks you’re perfect. The only thing I’ve ever done that has won the approval of my mother is marry you! It drives me batshit crazy.”

“Batshit—” Greg arched an eyebrow. “Is that today’s word?”

“If you’re not careful I’ll tell her what a bad influence you are.”

“We’re married, Jenna. We are allowed to have sex wherever and whenever we like as long as we don’t get arrested for public indecency.”

“I know, but—you know my mother. She’ll sigh the way she does when she despairs of me. She’ll be wishing I was more like my sister.” Although Jenna adored Lauren, she had never wanted to be her. “My mother is the beating heart of this island. If anyone is in trouble she’s there with her flaky double-crusted pies and endless support. She’s closer to Betty at the store than she is to me.” And it was a never-ending source of frustration and hurt that she and her mother didn’t have a better relationship.

Jenna considered herself easygoing. She got along well with pretty much everyone.

Why did it feel so hard to talk to her mother?

“Parent-child relationships are complicated.”

Dysfunctional: relationships or behavior which are different from what is considered to be normal.

“I get that. What I don’t get is why it still bothers me so much. Why can’t I accept things the way they are? It’s exhausting.”

“Mmm.” Greg glanced at his watch. “Happy to deliver a lecture on the latest research into mother-daughter relationships, but I charge by the half hour and you can’t afford me.” He kissed her again. “Get dressed, or the next thing they’ll be discussing at the annual town meeting is the fact that their first-grade teacher was standing in front of the class wearing her dinosaur pajamas. Want me to cook tonight?”

“It’s my turn. And speaking of my mother, I’m visiting her later.”

“Thanks for the warning. Better pick up a bottle of something strong when you pass the store.”

“Visits were so much easier when my dad was alive.”

Greg raised an eyebrow. “He was always on the golf course.”

“But he usually wandered in at some point and he was always pleased to see me. Mom still thinks I’m a wild child.”

“It’s the reason I married you. I’ll see you tonight, and you can be as wild as you like.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Text me later to let me know how you are?”

“Only if you promise not to give Pamela your phone.”

“Or you could stop sexting.” He pulled her against him. “On second thoughts, don’t stop sexting. I like it and it’s great for my reputation.”

“Oh please—your island approval ratings are already through the roof.” She shoved at his chest. “Go.”

“I’ll see you later.” He scooped up his coat and car keys and made for the door. “Oh and, Jenna—”

“What?”

“Try to relax.” He winked at her and was gone before she could throw something.

Shivering in the blast of cold air he’d let into the house, she walked back into the bedroom and glanced out of the window.

Despite everything, he’d made her smile. He always made her smile.

Then she noticed him standing by the car, his shoulders slumped, and her smile faded.

He was always so upbeat about everything, but right now he didn’t look upbeat. Was he putting on an act for her sake?

She waited until he drove away, then swapped pajamas for her smart black pants. Last year they’d fitted perfectly but now they were tight around the waist and she knew that had nothing to do with being pregnant and everything to do with the fact she’d started using food as a comfort.

Greg had left coffee for her and she poured herself a cup, reached for the oatmeal and then changed her mind and took a cupcake from the tin instead. She’d made them the day before and decorated them with sugar icing. They were supposed to be a peace offering for her mother, something she could take to her book group, but she wasn’t going to miss one, was she?

Not the healthiest breakfast, but the negative pregnancy test was enough to make her want to fall face-first into the nearest source of sugar.

She sank her teeth into the softness of the cake and closed her eyes.

Baking soothed her.

If she’d had a child, she would have baked with them. She would have had the softest buttercream, the lightest sponge cakes and her cookies would have been the envy of everyone. She could imagine all the kids saying I wish my mom could cook as well as yours.

As Jenna didn’t have any kids to eat the cupcakes, she ate most of them herself. She ate to fill a big hole in her soul, but unfortunately it filled other things, too, including her fat cells.

She stared at the crumbs on her plate, drenched with regret and self-loathing.

Why had she done that? It wasn’t as if she didn’t understand what was going on here. She was married to a therapist. She felt a rush of frustration that she didn’t have more control. She knew that smothering her emotions with sugar wasn’t going to solve anything, but she didn’t seem able to stop it. Her desperation for a baby had snapped something inside her.

She felt as if her life was slipping out of her grip and it was terrifying.

She had a sudden urge to call her sister, but that would make her late for work.

Would her sister even understand? Lauren had the perfect life. She had a beautiful house, no money worries, a great husband and a beautiful daughter.

And she couldn’t exactly talk to her mother.

Nancy Stewart was the sort of person who had time and sympathy enough for everyone. Unless you happened to be her daughter.

Jenna drove to school along empty roads. In the summer months, her journey took at least twice as long. From late May through to early September, the Vineyard hummed with visitors, both summer residents and day trippers. They came to savor the “escapist” feel of the island, but did so in such large numbers that they inadvertently turned it into a copy of the places they’d left behind.

Jenna parked in the school parking lot and was caught at the gate by Mrs. Corren, who was anxious about Daisy, her daughter.

Andrea Corren gave her a wobbly smile. “Hi, Jenna. How was your weekend?”

I found out I’m not pregnant. “Good, thanks, Andrea. You?”

“Not good.” The wobble in her smile moved to her voice. “Do you have a minute?”

She didn’t. She had twenty hyperactive children waiting for her and she needed to keep them busy, occupied and entertained. That, she’d discovered, was the way to achieve a happy, harmonious classroom.

What she didn’t need was to arrive late.

But she was also a little worried about Daisy.

“Of course.” She saw Andrea Corren’s eyes fill. “Let’s find somewhere more private.” She opted for the gym, which would be quiet for at least another half hour.

“How can I help, Andrea?”

She sat down on one of the small chairs. It forced her knees up at a strange angle, one of the reasons she rarely wore skirts or dresses to work. Dignity went out of the window when you taught six-year-olds. Sitting in this awkward position, she was horribly aware of the waistband of her pants biting into her stomach.

Why had she eaten that cupcake?

Andrea sat down next to her. “Things have been unsettled at home. Tense. We—Things are a little—rough—right now between Daisy’s father and me. Our marriage isn’t great.”

Jenna stopped thinking about cupcakes. By “rough” did she mean something physical? This was a small community. Everyone knew Todd Corren had lost his job before Christmas and been out of work since. And everyone knew he’d punched Lyle Carpenter in an altercation on New Year’s Eve.

“Do you think the problems in your marriage are having an impact on Daisy?”

“He’s having an affair.” Andrea blurted out the words. “He denies it, but I know it’s true.”

“I’m sorry.” And she was. A fractured marriage was an injury to the whole family. Children limped wounded into her classroom, trying to make sense of the change in their world and she did what she could to create an environment that felt safe and secure.

“I haven’t said anything to the children, and I’m trying hard not to show how upset I am because I don’t want to confuse them. They don’t know what’s going on, and I’m afraid if I say something he’ll make me seem like the bad guy. Mom is having one of her moods again, that kind of thing. I don’t want to bring the kids into this. How does Daisy seem to you?”

“She’s been a little quieter than usual, but she hasn’t said anything specific.” Jenna made some suggestions, careful to keep the conversation focused on the child. It wasn’t her job to fix their marriage or pass comment, although invariably when you were a teacher, you became involved with the whole family. The fact that she’d been at school with the mothers of half the kids in her class, and some of the fathers, occasionally complicated matters.

Andrea pulled a tissue out of her bag. “I don’t want this to harm my kids. If he stops right now, maybe we can fix this. Maybe they never have to know. But I’m not good at keeping secrets. I’m an honest person and I’ve raised them to be honest, too, so by making me do this, he’s tainted our family. It isn’t just his deception, it’s mine, too, because now I’m lying to my kids.”

Jenna understood how heavy a secret could be, especially when you carried it for a long time. “I really hope you manage to work out your problems, Andrea.”

“We used to be so close. Known each other since we were kids, like you and Greg. Maybe that’s the problem. We’ve been together so long, he never sowed his wild oats.”

Jenna had never sowed wild oats either. Neither, to the best of her knowledge, had Greg.

“Have you thought about talking to someone?”

Andrea’s eyes filled again. “I’ve been seeing Greg.”

That didn’t come as a surprise. Half the island had seen Greg at one time or another. The other half had seen his partner in the practice, Alison.

“I’m glad you’re talking to someone.”

“Greg is wonderful. You’re lucky being married to him.” Andrea reached for her purse. “He has this way of talking, sort of quiet but firm. Makes you think there’s hope and that you’re going to be able to fix whatever the problem is.”

That voice hadn’t managed to fix the fact that she couldn’t get pregnant.

“He’s good at what he does.” That was true. Greg made a difference to the island. And so did she. Community was important to both of them. Jenna often wondered how her sister could live in a big anonymous city. She knew she wouldn’t be happy doing that. With the exception of a few vacations and her time at college, Jenna had lived her whole life here. She’d married Greg in the Old Whaling Church in Edgartown in the presence of half the community. Her oldest friend had made the cake and Lauren had done her makeup. She’d known most of the guests her whole life.

Jenna stood up. “I’ll keep an eye on Daisy.”

“Thank you. Daisy adores you. You’re all she talks about. Mrs. Sullivan said this, Mrs. Sullivan said that.”

Thank goodness Mrs. Sullivan hadn’t said the F word.

“Daisy is smart.”

“Too smart sometimes. I’m worried she’ll see things I don’t want her seeing.” Andrea stood up, too. “You’re very good at your job, Jenna. You’re going to be a wonderful mother when you eventually decide to have children.”

Jenna managed to keep her smile in place.

She walked Andrea back to the school gates, promised to keep an eye on Daisy and then made her way back to the classroom.

The wind was biting and most of the islanders were longing for spring. Not Jenna. Spring meant buds on the trees and lambs playing in the fields. Everywhere you looked there was new life. This time last year she’d been sure that by now she’d be pushing a stroller along the streets. Instead she was back in her classroom teaching other people’s kids.

Of course it was still possible that spring might be lucky for her, too.

If she and Greg had nonstop sex over the next few weeks she could potentially be pregnant by April or May. That would mean a Christmas baby.

She allowed herself a moment of dreaming, and then snapped out of it.

All she thought about was babies.

Obsess: to worry neurotically or obsessively.

Her obsession had even entered the bedroom. When she and Greg made love she found herself thinking, Please let me get pregnant.

Maybe she’d cook a special meal tonight. Open a bottle of wine. Try to relax a little. She could greet him at the door wearing nothing but a smile and hope Mrs. Pardew across the road wasn’t looking out the window.

She reached the door of her classroom and winced at the noise that came from inside.

Bracing herself, she pushed open the door and the noise dimmed to a hum.

“Good morning, Mrs. Sullivan.” The chorus of voices lifted the cloud that had been hanging over her.

Maybe she didn’t have her own children, but she had them. She loved their spontaneity and their innocence, their bright eyes and smiles. She even loved the naughty kids. Like Billy Grant, who was currently standing on his desk, waiting for her reaction.

He was a rebel with a strong sense of adventure and a cavalier attitude to risk. Fortunately no one knew more about that instinct than Jenna.

“Billy, our classroom rule is that we don’t stand on desks.”

Billy folded his arms but didn’t move. “You’re not the boss of me.”

Jenna arched an eyebrow.

He lasted two seconds and then scrambled off the desk and plopped onto his chair.

Everyone knew that when Mrs. Sullivan gave you that look you did what you were supposed to do or you’d be in serious trouble. He made another attempt to deflect blame. “Bradley told me to do it.”

“If he told you to jump off a bridge would you do that?” She straightened her shoulders and addressed the whole class. “One of our classroom rules is that we don’t stand on the desks.”

“Rules are boring,” Bradley muttered. “Why do we have to have them?”

So we can break them.

“Bradley wants to know why we have rules,” she said. “Who can tell him the answer?”

A sea of hands shot into the air and she picked the girl in the front. Little Stacy Adams, whose dad had recently run off with another man, giving the island enough gossip to feast on for a decade.

“To keep us safe.”

“That’s right.” Jenna smiled. “Some rules are there to protect us.” And if you ignored the rules you could be left with a secret and a guilty conscience.

Maybe it was her fault that she wasn’t closer to her mother, she thought. She knew things she wasn’t supposed to know and that made things awkward.

Keeping that thought to herself, she moved to the front of the class. “Everyone sit in a circle.”

There was a mass scramble as they found their places on the floor.

“Will you tell us a story, Mrs. Sullivan?”

“One of your special made-up ones.”

As they sat round watching her expectantly, she felt a rush of pride and affection. Winter would soon give way to spring, and spring to summer and then this group of children would be leaving her classroom for the last time.

When they’d arrived in her class, they’d been a raggedy, unruly bunch but now they were a team. Friendships had formed. Some friendships might even last through to adulthood, as hers and Greg had. Some might fracture.

Not all relationships were easy.

She threw herself into her day, moving from story time to math. Unlike some of her colleagues, she loved teaching first graders. They were curious and enthusiastic. They loved coming to school and they loved her. From the moment she stepped into the classroom, she was wrapped in warmth and affection.

Most of all she enjoyed seeing the progress they made. They experienced so many firsts.

Usually she lingered in the classroom after the children had gone, tidying up and preparing for the following day, but today she drove straight to her mother’s house.

On a cold January day it was foggy and cold and the roads were quiet.

Her mother lived down-island in Edgartown. Ridiculously picturesque with its waterfront and harbor, Edgartown was one of the more populated areas of the island, which was one of the reasons Jenna had chosen to live up-island with its beautiful beaches and spectacular sunsets.

Even in winter when the town was quiet, Jenna preferred the wildness of her part of the island. Her drive took her past rolling farmland, stone fences and beaches. Wherever you were on the Vineyard, you were never far from the beach. And when you couldn’t see the sea, chances were that you could still smell it.

At this time of year she drove easily through Edgartown’s narrow streets.

The Captain’s House where her mother lived was set right on the waterfront, close to the harbor and the lighthouse. The house had been in her family forever, since Captain William Stewart had seen fit to build his home on what was arguably the best plot of land in the whole of Martha’s Vineyard. When her mother’s parents had died in an accident, leaving Nancy an orphan at the age of eight, she’d continued to live in the house with her grandmother.

Money had been tight and they’d rented out rooms to cover their costs.

The house was considered historic, and occasionally Nancy would give a private tour to students or history buffs, and talk about the Vineyard’s place in the whaling industry. Jenna’s father had been heard to say on many an occasion, usually when huddled in his coat in front of a blazing log fire, that because a person was interested in history didn’t mean they wanted to experience it firsthand. The antiquated heating system of The Captain’s House counted as history as far as Tom was concerned. In the middle of winter there had been many nights when Jenna had crawled into bed with her sister for warmth.

Two years previously the heating and wiring had been replaced as part of an upgrade and modernization.

Jenna had wondered at the time why her mother had waited until after her father had died to do it.

The door was open and Jenna walked through the entryway with its wood paneling and wide-planked floor. There were bookshelves stuffed with books, and more books piled next to them on the floor. Every surface was covered in the possessions and purchases of previous generations.

Her mother was a hoarder. Jenna had never seen her throw a single thing away.

There were items in the house that had belonged to her great-grandmother and were never used. Some of those things were ugly, but still Nancy wouldn’t hear of disposing of them.

She considered herself the custodian of the family’s heritage.

Jenna knew that an entire bedroom upstairs was filled with her father’s things. Trophies he’d won playing golf, his model boat collection, his clothes. Did her mother ever go in there? Did she cry over his things?

She found Nancy in the kitchen, opening mail. “Hi, Mom. I made cakes for your book group. Cute, don’t you think?” She removed the lid with a flourish.

“So pretty! Thank you.” Nancy took the tin from her and placed it on the table next to the papers. “How was your day?”

For a wild moment Jenna contemplated telling her the truth.

Not pregnant. Feel crap about it. Any chance of a hug?

She couldn’t remember when her mother had last hugged her.

“My day was fine.” Holding her feelings inside, she walked to the window and stared out across the lawn to the sea. “It’s cold out today. Windy.” Were they really reduced to talking about the weather?

“How’s Greg?”

“He’s great.” She turned. Was it her imagination or was her mother looking older? The lines around her eyes were more pronounced and her hair seemed to have lost its shine.

Jenna had seen photos of her mother as a young woman. Her features were too bold to qualify as pretty, but she’d been striking and had her own individual style. That style seemed to have deserted her years before. Gone were the colorful outfits that had raised eyebrows on the few occasions she’d picked Jenna up from school. These days she dressed mostly in black and navy, as if life had drained the brightness from her.

Nancy signed a letter and slipped it into an envelope. “He’s a special man. It’s good to see you settled and happy, Jenna.”

The comment struck her as odd. It bordered on the personal, and personal was a land her mother rarely visited.

She almost asked if something was wrong, but decided there was no point, so instead they had a neutral conversation about a plan to build affordable housing and the challenges of maintaining the rural character of the island while managing the increase in summer visitors.

“The school is at capacity. We can’t take any more kids without compromising educational standards.” Jenna sat down at the table. It had belonged to her great-grandmother and there were scars and gouges in the wood to prove it. Somewhere underneath Jenna knew she would find her name scratched into the wood.

“Any funny classroom stories for me? I could use some light entertainment.”

Jenna often regaled her with stories, although she’d learned to talk about her day without mentioning anything personal about the kids.

Most of the parents would have been horrified to learn how much their six-year-olds could divulge to their first-grade teacher.

She told her mother about the school trip they had planned to the nature reserve, and about the lesson she’d taught on states of matter where the children had made ice cream in the classroom. The idea had been to demonstrate that a liquid could become a solid, but two of the children had managed to cover themselves in cream.

“And Lily Baker made me a gorgeous card.” She pulled it out of her bag and passed it across the table. “Don’t shake it. It’s heavy on the glitter.”

“She’s back at school?” Her mother slipped her glasses back on so she could look at the card. “I saw her when she was in hospital. Took her a copy of Paint with Nancy and some pencils.”

Back in the day when her mother had been something of a global name in the art world and there had been much demand for her work, someone had suggested producing upmarket educational material—In other words a coloring book, Jenna had said to Lauren—designed to encourage budding artists. The idea was that children would feel they had been given the opportunity to paint with Nancy.

The project had never taken off and boxes of the coloring books had gathered dust in one of the unused rooms in The Captain’s House.

“How did you know Lily was in hospital?”

“Her grandmother is in my book group.”

“Of course. Yes, Lily had a few days in hospital with a fever. Fully recovered, thank goodness.”

They talked for a while and then Jenna went to use the bathroom, but on the way something caught her eye.

“Hey, Mom.” She paused and called out to her mother. “What happened to the painting on this wall?” It was a beautiful seascape, painted by her mother early in her career and one of the few that had never been offered for sale. Her mother’s career as an artist could be divided into two distinct phases. Her earlier work was light and bright and her later work was stormy and dark. Lauren called it her depressing phase. The missing painting was one of her early works, painted before her mother had hit the big time. Jenna loved the wild swirls of blues and greens.

Surely her mother hadn’t sold it?

Her mother emerged from the kitchen. “I—” She stared at the faded space on the wall as if she’d forgotten about it. “I took it down. I thought I might…redecorate.”

“Do you want help? I could come over on the weekend.”

Her mother didn’t hide her alarm. “I don’t think so. I still remember the mess you made of the rug when you decided to paint Lauren’s room bright blue. I came back from a day at the studio and spent the next two days painting my own house instead of a canvas.”

Jenna remembered that incident, too.

Lauren had redecorated her bedroom at least once every three months. Any money she had, she’d spent on interior design magazines. She’d study them, and then use the ideas she liked best, enlisting Jenna to help transform her room to match her latest vision. They’d dragged furniture from one side of the room to another, painted walls and changed fabrics.

On one occasion Jenna, as dreamy as she was clumsy, had tripped over a tin of blue paint and sent it flowing over the floor.

With her usual artistic flourish, their mother had turned the streaked floor into a smooth surface of ocean blue. Then she’d diluted the color for the walls until the room looked like an aquarium complete with small fish and plants.

Jenna had loved the newly painted room so much she’d taken to sneaking in and sleeping on Lauren’s floor, settling herself between a friendly-looking octopus and a seahorse. She and Lauren had giggled and talked long into the night cocooned in their underwater paradise and when her sister had changed her room three months later, Jenna had felt bereft.

It was at least twenty years since the paint spill episode and yet her mother still talked about it as if it had happened yesterday.

“I’ve improved since then,” Jenna said. “I did most of the decorating in my house.” But her mother had already walked back into the kitchen and wasn’t listening.

Irritated, Jenna used the bathroom and walked back to the kitchen.

Her mother was staring at another set of papers but she quickly pushed them to one side.

“Have you spoken to your sister lately?”

“Last week. I thought I might call tonight, but then I remembered it’s Ed’s fortieth birthday party. She’s booked caterers and a string quartet.” Jenna tried to read the papers, but they were upside down. “If she still lived on island I could have loaned her my recorder group. That would have blown everyone’s eardrums.” She realized her mother wasn’t listening. “Mom?”

Her mother gave a start. “Sorry? What did you say?”

“I was talking about Lauren’s party. She was nervous something might go wrong.”

“Knowing Lauren, it will be perfect. I don’t know how she does it all.”

Jenna refrained from pointing out that Ed was seriously wealthy and that they could buy in whatever help they needed.

For the past couple of years Lauren had been studying for an interior design qualification, but study was a bed of roses compared with hauling yourself out of bed every day to deal with a bunch of kids with runny noses.

Her sister’s life seemed effortless.

“Mack has big exams this summer.”

“She’ll fly through them, as Lauren did.”

“I guess she will.” Did her sister have to be so perfect? Much as she loved Lauren, there were days when Jenna could happily kill her. And then she felt guilty feeling that way because as well as being perfect at everything else, Lauren was the perfect sister and always had been.

It wasn’t Lauren’s fault that her sister couldn’t get pregnant.

Feeling empty, Jenna reached for the tin on the table. The book group wasn’t going to miss one cake, were they?

She fought an internal battle between want and willpower.

Willpower might have won, but as she went to pull her hand back her mother frowned.

“Are you sure you need that?”

No, she didn’t need it. But she wanted it. And dammit if she wanted it, she was going to have it. She was thirty-two years old. She didn’t need her mother’s permission to eat.

She took a cake from the tin, so annoyed she took a bigger bite than she intended to. Too big. Damn. Her teeth were jammed together so now she couldn’t even speak. Instead she chewed slowly, feeling like a python that had swallowed its prey whole.

Her mother went back to sorting papers. “Mack is doing well. Like Lauren, she is very disciplined.”

The implication being that she, Jenna, showed no self-discipline at all.

She swallowed.

Finally. In the battle of woman against cupcake she was the victor.

“Good to know.”

“Lauren is lucky Mack hasn’t turned out to be a wild child like—” her mother waved her hand vaguely “—some people.”

“You mean me.” Jenna kept her tone light. “Thanks, Mom.”

“You have to admit you didn’t sit round waiting for trouble to find you. You went out looking for it and you dragged your poor sister into it with you. You, Jenna Elizabeth Stewart, were enough to give any mother gray hairs.”

“I’ve been Sullivan for more than a decade, Mom.”

“I know.” Nancy’s expression softened. “And you are lucky to have that man.”

Annoyed: irritated or displeased.

“He’s lucky to have me, too.”

“I know. But let’s be honest—you stopped getting into trouble the day you married Greg.” She glanced at the clock. “It will be dark soon. You should probably leave.”

“I can drive in the dark, Mom. There’s this amazing invention called headlights.”

“I don’t like you driving in the dark. Remember when you drove the car into the ditch?”

She did remember, but even smashing her head against the windshield hadn’t been as uncomfortable as this stroll down memory lane. “I was twenty-one. My driving has improved since then.” Jenna stood up. “But you’re right. I should go. I need to stop at the store to pick up some things for dinner. Take care, Mom. Enjoy your book group.”

“I will. Thanks for dropping by.”

As if she was a stranger, not family.

There were days when Jenna wondered whether the only way to get closer to her mother was to join the book group.

CHAPTER FOUR

Nancy

Secret: a fact that is known by only a small number of people, and is not told to anyone else

AS SOON AS the door slammed behind her daughter, Nancy grabbed her coat.

She’d been so desperate for Jenna to leave, she’d almost bundled her out of the house.

Pushing her arms into the sleeves, she stepped into the garden.

At this time of year it looked sad and tired. Maintaining a coastal garden was always a challenge, and this one was particularly exposed.

The narrow strip of windswept land was all that separated The Captain’s House from the sea. She’d seen this view in every season and every mood. Today the surface of the water was smooth, almost glass-like, but she knew it could change in a moment from deceptive calm to boiling anger. Her seafaring ancestors would have told her that you should never trust the sea.

Like humans, she thought. You shouldn’t trust them either.

It was trust that had led her to this moment. The moment she’d been dreading.

She’d let everyone down.

She could refuse to answer the door of course. Pretend not to be home. But what would that achieve? It would only postpone the inevitable. And she’d been the one to call him, so not opening the door would be ridiculous.

She’d been terrified he might arrive while Jenna was here, but fortunately she hadn’t stayed long and hadn’t seemed to notice that Nancy was almost urging her out of the house.

It was one of the few occasions she’d been relieved not to have a particularly close relationship with her daughters.

Nancy would have to tell her the truth eventually, of course, but not yet.

The worse part was the waiting, and yet the ability to wait should have been in her genes. Her great-great-grandmother might have stood in this exact same spot two centuries before while waiting for her husband to return home after two long years at sea. What must she have imagined, thinking of the tall square-rigged ships out there facing mountainous seas and Arctic ice? And how must the captain himself have felt finally returning home after years of battling the elements?

He would have seen the house he’d built and felt pride.

Nancy’s cheeks were ice-cold and she realized she was crying. When had she last cried? She couldn’t remember. It was as if the relentless wind blowing off the sea had eroded her tough outer layer and exposed all her vulnerabilities. She was crumbling and she wasn’t sure she had the strength to handle what was coming next.

At some point over the past sixty-seven years she was supposed to have accumulated knowledge and wisdom, but right now she felt like a small child, lost and alone. Dread was a lurch in the pit of your stomach, a cold chill on your skin. It was the ground shifting beneath your feet like the deck of a ship in a squall until you wanted to cling to something to steady yourself.

She closed her hand round the wood of the Adirondack chair that had been a birthday gift from her daughters. In the spring and summer months she sat out here with her morning coffee, watching the boats, the gulls and the swell of the tide.

Now, on a cold January afternoon with the dark closing in, it was too cold for sitting. Already her hands were chilled, the tips of her fingers numb. She should have worn gloves but she’d only intended to step outside for a moment. One breath of air to hopefully trigger a burst of inspiration that had so far eluded her.

She desperately wanted someone to tell her what to do. Someone to hold her and tell her everything was going to be all right.

Pathetic.

There was no one. The responsibility was hers.

“Nancy!”

Nancy saw her neighbor Alice easing her bulk through the garden gate. Two bad hips and a love of doughnuts had added enough padding to her small frame to make walking even short distances a challenge.

They’d been neighbors their whole lives and friends for almost as long.

Alice was breathless by the time she crossed the lawn to where Nancy was standing.

“I saw Jenna’s car. Does that mean you told her?”

“No.”

“Lord above, what did the two of you talk about for an hour?” Alice slipped her arm through Nancy’s, as she’d always done when they used to walk to school together.

Nancy wanted to pull away. She’d thought she wanted support, but now she realized she didn’t.

“I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder how it’s possible to talk for an hour and say nothing.”

“You’ll have to tell her eventually. Our children think we don’t have lives, that’s the trouble. All my Marion talks about are the children. Does she think nothing happens in my life? My Rosa rugosas may not interest her, but they’re important to me.”

Nancy and Alice shared a love of gardening. Before Nancy had employed Ben, the two women had helped each other in the garden and shared knowledge on which plants could withstand the harsh island weather and sea spray.

“I wasn’t there for my girls,” she said, “so how can I ask them to be there for me?”

“Nancy Lilian Stewart, would you listen to yourself? When you say things like that after all the sacrifices you made, I swear I want to slap you. You should tell them everything.”

Everything?

Even Alice didn’t know everything. “It’s too late to change the way things are.”

“That’s nonsense.”

“I feel like a failure.”

“You give it all you’ve got. What you’ve got isn’t enough, that’s all. Not because you’re a failure, but because life can deliver blows that would fell a mountain.”

They stood side by side in silence.

“I’ve failed this place.”

“It’s a house, Nancy.”

“Not to me.” The Captain’s House was a responsibility, handed down to her by her family. It was the place where she’d grown up and the place she’d fallen in love. The house was large, but Tom had filled it with his personality and warmth. He’d cast light on dark corners and his laughter had blown away dust and cobwebs. Both their children had been born there. And it wasn’t only the house that held memories, it was the contents. Every room held pieces passed down through the family. Those pieces had meaning. Those pieces mattered. She was the custodian. A poor custodian, as it turned out.

Alice nudged her. “I’m looking forward to book group.”

Despite everything, Nancy smiled. “Why? You never read the book.”

“I know. I come for the cake and companionship. Two of the best things in life. You’re a good friend, Nancy Stewart, always have been.”

Nancy said nothing.

Alice sighed. “You were there for me when I lost my Adam and when my mama died. If I could solve this problem for you, I would and so would anyone in our little book group. Sometimes those women are so annoying I could strangle them with my bare hands, but I also know they’d drop everything to help if they knew about your troubles.”

Nancy felt a thickening in her throat. “I should get on. I have things to do. Thanks for coming round.”

“I didn’t come round. I squeezed through your fence, same way I did when I was four years old, but I’ll go if you want me to. You know where I am.”

Nancy stayed lost in thought long after Alice had squeezed her way back through the fence.

There were so many decisions to make. So many things to handle.

So many regrets.

She turned and looked back at her home.

The white clapboard house had been built in 1860 and had been in her family ever since.

She knew every shingle and every pane of glass.

This house had seen a lot, and so had she.

Her great-great-grandfather had been captain of a whaling vessel, a master mariner of vast experience who’d held ultimate command of the ship. By all accounts he’d been a difficult man. She knew there were those who thought she’d inherited that trait.

In her own way she was a captain, too, only her vessel was her family. And she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d driven the ship onto the rocks.

What was left? Tom was gone. Her two children no longer needed her and she’d stopped hoping that their relationship could be different. That didn’t stop her worrying about them.

She’d worried when Lauren had chosen to marry Ed and move to England instead of taking up her college place. It had seemed so out of character. But love did strange things to people. Nancy had often wondered if Lauren had been pregnant when she’d married Ed, but they seemed happy, so what did it matter?

Her younger daughter had caused her more anxiety. Jenna had bounced through life with an almost exhausting enthusiasm. Growing up, Jenna had dragged Lauren into all sorts of scrapes, but the two of them had somehow survived and Nancy suspected that was down to her eldest daughter, who had always watched over her sister.

She heard the sound of a car and then the crunch of footsteps.

With a last look at the sea, she walked back toward the house. Every step was an effort. She felt as if the house was watching her with accusing eyes. She smelled the sea, felt panic close over her head and wondered if this was how it felt to drown.

She stepped through the door and saw the place as a stranger might, battered and battle weary, revealing every scar and wound.

The rooms were crammed full of furniture, ornaments, books, old maps.

Nancy couldn’t bring herself to throw anything away.

Some of the windows were rotten, the paintwork in the entryway was chipped and there was a large empty space on the wall where she’d removed that damn seascape.

She’d told Jenna she’d taken it down so she could decorate. The truth was she loathed that painting. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say she loathed what it represented. She would have burned it if it hadn’t been for the fact it might still have a purpose.

She opened the door and looked at the man standing there. She had to tilt her head and look up because he topped six feet and dominated her doorway.

She’d first spoken to him five years before on what could, without drama or exaggeration, be described as the worst night of her life. Those years had left their mark on her. Not, it seemed, on him.

She had no idea how old he was, but she would have guessed midthirties.

His eyes were a cool blue and shadowed by secrets. His mouth, well shaped and firm, rarely curved into a smile. His jaw was dark with stubble and the sweater he wore had probably been deep blue at some point but had faded to a washed gray hue.

Had she really expected him to show up in a suit and tie? No. He looked exactly the way she’d expected him to look. Why would he shave before knocking on her door? He wasn’t the type of man who was remotely interested in social conventions or the opinions of others. He lived life according to his own rules and that, as it turned out, was lucky for her because five years ago he’d helped her when no one else would.

She felt a pang of envy. What would her life look like now if she’d been more like him? If she’d been braver?

“Thank you for coming.”

It was ironic that he should be the one to help her out of her current situation.

She needed him, and yet at the same time she hated him for taking from her the one thing she had left in the world. And truthfully she had no idea how he would respond to what she was about to say. He was unpredictable, a man you could never be sure of.

She almost laughed aloud. Was there a man alive you could be sure of?

“Mrs. Stewart.” His voice was somewhere between the rough, sexy drawl of a whiskey drinker and the low growl of a jungle cat. It occurred to her that if that voice hadn’t been attached to a man she’d grown to trust, it might have left her feeling uneasy, as would those narrow watchful eyes.

“Thank you for coming. It was good of you.”

“I was surprised to get your call. I thought it might be a mistake.” His handshake was firm but that didn’t surprise her. It had been his physical strength, among other things, that had saved the both of them that night.

“No mistake.” The mistakes, she thought, had been made long before. “You’d better come in. There’s something I need to say to you.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Lauren

Party: a social gathering, for pleasure, often held as a celebration

LAUREN CHECKED HER list and made a final sweep of the house.

She knew the place looked good.

She’d poured her interest in interior design into her own home, and while Mack was in school she learned trade skills such as paint effects and upholstery. She filled notebooks with photographs and sketches and shopped for fabric and objects. Gradually she’d transformed their London home into an elegant space perfect for family living but also for entertaining.

Occasionally friends asked for her advice on decorating and Lauren was always happy to help. She had an eye for space and color and could see potential in the most run-down, tired property. It wasn’t luck or hard work that gave her the ability to see what others didn’t, it was an artistic talent no doubt inherited from her mother. Possibly the only trait she’d inherited from her mother.

And finally she had a qualification and could start taking on paying clients.

Her home was the best advertisement for her skills and abilities, and tonight at Ed’s party there would be people who might potentially give her business.

She’d already decided to set up her own company but had yet to decide on a name.

City Chic?

Urban Chic?

She took a final glance round the living room, satisfied that everything was exactly as it should be.

She heard the front door slam, signifying Mack’s return from school, and unconsciously braced herself.

Her daughter strolled into the room. Mack was tall and did everything in her power to disguise that fact. She was at that age where anything that drew attention was considered embarrassing and to be avoided at all costs, so she slouched to make herself appear smaller.

Lauren had green eyes, but Mack’s were blue. Her hair, even with hints of pink blending in with honey and caramel, was her best feature.

Lauren had a sudden vision of Mack lying in her crib asleep, then holding up chubby arms as an adorable toddler.

“Did you shorten your skirt?”

Noticing her mother, Mack tugged her headphones away from her ears. “What?”

“Did you shorten your skirt?” Immediately she regretted making that the first thing she said.

“No. I grew. It happens. I could stop eating, but then you’d nag me about that, too.” Mack opened the fridge and stared into it as if something in there had personally offended her. “There’s nothing in here.”

How could a fridge full of food be “nothing”?

“The caterers are setting up. There are bagels.” Lauren opened her mouth to tell her not to keep the fridge door open, and then closed it again. Did she nag? “How was your day?”

“I spent it at school. Enough said.” Mack split a bagel and toasted it.

“I had coffee with Ruth and Helen today. They mentioned an ancestry project you’re working on. Sounds interesting.”

“Interesting?” Mack spread cream cheese on the bagel. “I guess that’s one word for it.”

What had happened to her eager, enthusiastic daughter?

“Do you need help? You know our ancestors on my side of the family were whaling captains? Martha’s Vineyard played an important role in the whaling industry. Nantucket mostly provided the ships, but the Vineyard provided the captains and crews and other support.” Seeing that Mack was barely engaged in the conversation, Lauren stopped. She knew she was trying too hard. Maybe she should make it more personal. “Edgartown, where Grams lives, was one of the most important ports on the coast. The Captain’s House was built in the nineteenth century. Your grandparents spent a lot of time restoring it—” She broke off, aware that she’d lost her audience. She might as well have been having a conversation with the freezer.

Mack carried on eating, unresponsive.

Lauren slid onto the stool next to her. “Did something happen today?”

“No.”

Lauren felt a rush of frustration, and mingled in with the stress of it was sadness because she remembered days when Mack would come running in from school, all smiles, desperate to share something that had happened during the day. Look, Mommy, look at this.

Those days had gone.

“Mrs. Hallam called yesterday.”

“Yeah? I bet the conversation was thrilling.” Mack was careless, but Lauren saw her daughter’s cheeks flush.

“She’s concerned about you. About your grades. She wants us to set up a meeting.”

“Grades. That’s what this is about?”

“This?”

“When you hijack me in the kitchen, I know there’s something. I don’t know why you don’t come right out with it.” Mack put the knife down on the counter, smearing grease.

Lauren sat on her hands to stop herself from snatching the knife up and wiping up the mess. “I didn’t ‘hijack’ you. I want you to know you can talk to me, that’s all.”

“No, what you want is for me to talk to you whether I want to or not about a topic of your choice. Not the same thing.”

Parenting a teenager was like navigating a treacherous swamp. You took a step and hoped you’d plant your foot on solid ground, but it was equally likely you might find yourself sucked under.

“I’m worried about you, Mack. Not speaking up in class? You talk more than anyone I know. And you’re smart, and yet your grades are dropping.”

“I’m bored, okay? I’m sick of English. And history. What use are those? Why doesn’t my school teach computer coding or something interesting and useful that might actually lead to a job?”

Lauren kept calm. “Maybe we can find you a weekend class on computing if that’s what you’d like. But school is important, too. And studying. Our choices have consequences.”

“Yeah, that’s right.” Mack gave her a hard look. “They do.”

Something about the way her daughter was staring at her didn’t feel right.

“Mack—”

Mack slid off the stool and slung her schoolbag over her shoulder. “Are we done here? Because I have a ton of homework.”

“We’ll talk about this another time.”

“Great. Something to look forward to.”

Lauren thought, I don’t have the patience for this. “Guests are arriving at eight. Dad will be home around seven, so I thought we could have a private celebration before the party.”

“I have to study. And we both know he won’t be home by seven. He never is.”

“He’s not going to work late on the day of his party.” She said it with more conviction than she felt and Mack shrugged.

“Whatever.” She sauntered off with an indifference and nonchalance that Lauren could never have managed to achieve at any age, certainly not sixteen.

One teenage girl. How hard could it be to handle one teenage girl?

Lauren went upstairs to change and put on her makeup and tried not to think about the time Mack would have sat in the middle of the bed, watching her mother with hungry, admiring eyes.

It seemed that idolizing your mother had an expiration date.

Before leaving the bedroom she checked her reflection in the full-length mirror.

The dress was new and flattered her slender frame. She was the same size she’d been at twenty. Four times a week without fail she went running. She also did yoga and Pilates and was careful what she ate.

It was important to always have a plan and stick to it. She wished Mack could see that.

She tried to ignore the voice in her head that reminded her what she’d been like at sixteen.

She needed to focus on the party.

Of course the one thing you did need at a party to celebrate a fortieth birthday was the person whose birthday it was, and by seven thirty there was still no sign of Edward.

“Told you.” Mack wandered past wearing a pair of skinny jeans that clung and a pair of heavy boots that Ed said made her look like a construction worker.

Don’t say a word, Lauren. Not a word.

“Dad probably got caught up at the office.” But as soon as Mack vanished into the den to watch a movie, Lauren pulled out her phone and sent Ed a quick text.

Are you on your way?

The doorbell rang and she felt a rush of relief. Maybe he’d forgotten his key.

But no, it was the string quartet arriving early.

She let them in, showed them where to set up and walked back to the kitchen, where the caterers seemed to have everything under control.

The champagne was chilling. The glasses were ready. The canapés were in the oven. Everything was perfect.

The door sounded again and this time when Lauren opened it she saw her mother-in-law standing there.

Maybe not completely perfect.

If there was one accessory she would never choose to have at a party, it was her mother-in-law, but how could she not invite her to her only son’s fortieth birthday party?

“Gwen! Wonderful to see you.” Lauren always overdid the greeting to compensate for her true feelings. On one occasion she’d leaned forward to kiss Gwen, but the other woman had turned her head sharply and Lauren had ended up pecking her on the neck like a drunken chicken.

Still, Gwen loved her son and that was a quality Lauren could respect.

Gwen was clutching a parcel. “Where’s my precious boy?”

He’s forty, Lauren thought. Not a boy.

“He’s on his way home.”

Gwen handed over her coat. “He’s still at work? On his birthday?”

Her tone stung like a jellyfish and Lauren felt her face burn.

Gwen seemed to hold Lauren personally responsible for the fact her son worked long hours. Not that she expressed her disapproval directly, but the pursed lips, sighs and eye rolls conveyed her message with perfect clarity.

Ed was fond of saying that his mother spoke fluent body language.

Privately Lauren had often wondered whether she would have married Ed had she met Gwen first.

“Come and talk to Mack, I know she’ll be thrilled to see you. She’s in the TV room.” Lauren took the stairs down to the TV room and Gwen followed.

“She’s watching American TV?” She said it in the same tone she might have said taking drugs and having sex?

Why couldn’t she find a single nice thing to say?

Nice dress, Lauren.

House is looking beautiful.

Did you arrange all this yourself?

My son is so lucky to be married to you.

“I don’t know what she’s watching.”

“She could be watching porn. I read that all teenagers watch porn.”

“She’s not watching porn, Gwen.” Ed, if you’re not home in the next five minutes, I’m going to kill you.

Mack appeared in the doorway. “Mom, that American porn film you suggested I watch is—” She broke off and gave a dazzling smile. “Hi, Nana, didn’t see you there.”

Gwen swayed and clutched at the wall to steady herself.

Lauren had an inconvenient urge to laugh. There had been a time when she definitely would have laughed, but she’d worked hard to suppress that side of herself. Unfortunately it seemed determined to make a reappearance.

She didn’t dare catch Mack’s eye, although since Gwen already thought she was the world’s worst parent, she probably couldn’t sink any lower in the approval ratings.

“Mack, can you come upstairs and help greet people?”

The way Mack sighed you would have thought Lauren had asked her to donate a kidney.

“Can’t you and Dad do it?”

“Dad isn’t home yet.” How could he be late tonight of all nights? As she kept listening for the sound of his key in the door, her irritation became tinged with anxiety. It wasn’t like him to be late when there was a reason to be home, and it wasn’t like him not to answer his phone, but so far he hadn’t responded to a single one of her texts. Maybe his battery had died. “I’d appreciate help.”

“Sure. That would be awesome, Mom.”

Lauren winced. Gwen hated mom, and her daughter knew it.

There was a gleam in Mack’s eyes and for a moment it felt like old times when they’d shared a joke.

And then the doorbell rang, announcing the first of their guests, and the moment was gone. Lauren opened the door to their neighbors who were armed with bottles of champagne and balloons with the number forty emblazoned in swirling writing.

The rest of the guests arrived in a steady stream. The string quartet fought valiantly to be heard above the sound of laughter and conversation. Champagne flutes clinked together and sparkled under the lights. The house hummed with celebration. Only one thing was missing.

Ed.

By nine o’clock irritation had given way to anxiety.

She’d left eight messages on Ed’s phone, each one more desperate. Their conversation of that morning kept going round in her head.

She’s not the problem.

Did the “problem” have something to do with the reason he was late?

An image inserted itself into her head. Ed, with his pants down, pumping into an unknown girl on his desk. Why did she have to think of that now? She pressed her fingers to her forehead and squeezed her eyes shut to block it out.

She was wondering about the etiquette of cutting a birthday cake when the birthday boy wasn’t present, when the doorbell rang again.

All the guests had arrived, so it had to be Ed.

Weak with relief, she tugged open the door and saw two police officers standing there.

Now what?

There had been a spate of car vandalism in the street, and the Wright family, who lived four doors down, had been burgled the summer before, but generally this was a quiet, safe area of London loved by residents and tourists alike. She’d certainly never had anyone in uniform standing on her doorstep. “Mrs. Hudson?”

“Yes.” Lauren smiled her best hostess smile. “How can I help?”

The younger of the two officers looked sick, as if he was suddenly wishing he’d picked any job except this one, and she knew then that this wasn’t about a neighborhood crime.

Her legs turned to liquid. “What has happened?”

The older policewoman took charge, her eyes kind. “Do you have somewhere quiet we can talk?”

Quiet? Lauren gave a hysterical laugh. “I have thirty guests in the house, all celebrating my husband’s birthday, so no, not really. I’m waiting for him to come home.”

One look at their faces told her everything she needed to know.

Ed wouldn’t be coming home tonight, or any other night. He wasn’t going to eat his cake, nor toast his birthday with champagne.

Ed wasn’t late.

He was gone.

CHAPTER SIX

Jenna

Envy: the desire to have for oneself something possessed by another.

ON HER QUEST to make a romantic dinner, Jenna stopped at the store on her way home and bought food. While she was there, she paused by the magazines and glanced at the covers.

“How to Get a Bikini Body.”

“Beat Those Cravings.”

Judging from the covers, she wasn’t the only one with a problem.

She glanced over her shoulder to check no one was looking and dropped two magazines into her basket.

“Jenna? Jenna! I thought it was you.”

Jenna turned the magazines over. “Hi, Sylvia.”

She’d been at school with Sylvia, but their lives had diverged. Jenna had gone off to college and Sylvia had stayed on island and proceeded to pop out children as if she was on a personal mission to increase the number of year-rounders. Personally Jenna was relieved when the summer people left. The roads were clearer, the beaches were empty and you didn’t have to stand in line for ages at the bakery.

She put field greens, tomatoes and bell peppers into her basket. “How are the children?” Why had she asked that question? The Dentons had six kids. She could potentially be here for hours.

She only half listened as Sylvia talked about the stress of ferrying the children to and from piano lessons, swimming lessons, art class and football.

I’d like that type of stress, Jenna thought.

Sylvia was still talking. “And poor Kaley was in hospital with her asthma again. Your mom was so kind. Visited every day. She’s great with the kids. And she loves babies. Isn’t it about time you and Greg started a family?” The way Sylvia said it suggested that producing babies was something Jenna might have forgotten to do in the day-to-day pressure of living their lives.

Jenna fingered an overripe tomato, wondering whether the pleasure of pulping it against Sylvia’s perfect white shirt would outweigh the inevitable fallout.

Probably not.

She dropped the tomato into her basket and made a vague comment about being busy.

“I must get home.” She grabbed a bottle of wine. She probably shouldn’t be drinking, but she wasn’t pregnant, so why not? Greg wanted her to relax, didn’t he? She’d rather drink wine than go to yoga, and after her earlier encounter with her mother she needed it.

“My Alice loves those stories you read to them, Adventures with My Sister. Could you tell me the author? Is it a series? I’m going to buy those books for her birthday. Her favorite is the story about them freeing the lobsters.”

“They’re not published,” Jenna said. “I make them up. I used to tell stories to my niece when she was little and somehow I carried on doing it with my class.”

“No way! Really? Well you should be writing books, not teaching. Where do you get all those wonderful ideas? You must have quite the imagination.”

“Thank you.”

That and a colorful childhood to draw on for inspiration.

“If you wrote those stories down, the whole class would buy them, that’s for sure.”

Write the stories down.

Why hadn’t she ever thought of that?

Author: a person who composes a book, article or other written work.

“By the way—” Sylvia’s tone was casual “—I was driving through Edgartown half an hour ago and I happened to see a pickup truck parked outside your mother’s house. Guess who was driving it? Scott Rhodes.” She lowered her voice, as if the mere mention of that name might be enough to get her arrested. “He looked as bad and dangerous as ever. I swear the man never smiles. What is his problem? I didn’t know he knew your mom.”

She hadn’t known that either. Thoughts of a new life as an author flew from her head.

What was he doing calling on her mother? And if Sylvia had seen him half an hour ago then that meant Jenna must have missed him by minutes.

Scott Rhodes?

She remembered the summer she’d first seen him. He’d been stripped to the waist and across the powerful bulk of his shoulders she’d seen the unmistakable mark of a tattoo. That tattoo had fascinated her. Her mother wouldn’t even allow her to have her ears pierced.

Scott didn’t seem to care what other people thought and that, to Jenna, had been the coolest thing of all.

She was aware that she cared far too much. She was a people pleaser, but in a small island community that ran on goodwill, she didn’t know how to be any other way.

Scott Rhodes, on the other hand, answered to no one but himself and she envied that. Even looking at him made her feel as if she was doing something she shouldn’t, as if by stepping into his space you made a statement about yourself and who you were. Danger by association. She expected to feel her mother’s hand close over her shoulder any moment.

Not that she’d been that interested. She was in love with Greg. Greg, who she knew so well he almost seemed like an extension of her. Greg, who smiled almost all the time.

Scott Rhodes rarely smiled. It was as if he and life were on opposing sides.

She’d been studying his muscles and deeply tanned chest with rapt attention when he glanced up and caught her looking. There was no smile, no wink, no suggestive gaze. Nothing. His face was inscrutable.

Scott worked at the boatyard and did the occasional carpentry job for people. He slept on his boat, anchored offshore, as if ready to sail away at a moment’s notice.

Why would Scott Rhodes be visiting her mother?

Hi, Mom, I hear you had the devil on your doorstep…

Aware that Sylvia was waiting for a response, Jenna shrugged. “My mother knows everyone. And she still plays a role in the yachting community. Scott knows boats.”

Sylvia nodded. “That’s probably it.” It was obvious that she didn’t think that was the reason at all, and neither did Jenna.

It nagged at her as she drove the short distance home, enjoying the last of the weak daylight.

The cottage she shared with Greg between Chilmark and the fishing village of Menemsha had a view of the sea from the upstairs windows and a little garden that frothed with blooms in the summer months.

It was, in her opinion, the perfect place to raise a family.

Of course, she didn’t have a family to raise.

Maybe they ought to get a dog.

She pushed that thought aside, along with all the questions she had about Scott Rhodes, and parked her car.

In the summer this part of the island teemed with tourists, but in the winter months you were more likely to see eiders congregating near the jetties, riding the current and sheltering behind fishing boats. The sky was cold and threatening and the wind managed to find any gaps in clothing.

She loved the place whatever the season, whether she was wrapped up in layers in the winter, or eating a warm lobster roll on the beach in the summer watching the sun go down.

Today there was no sun.

Jenna fumbled her way into the house, grateful for the warmth.

She lit the wood-burning stove in the living room, unpacked the shopping and made a casserole. Beef was Greg’s favorite, but she’d read somewhere that red meat reduced fertility, so she used chicken.

While the casserole simmered in the oven, she chopped vegetables.

Then she tidied the cottage, took a shower and changed into a wool dress she’d bought to wear at Christmas two years before. It had looked good on her then. Now, it clung in places it wasn’t supposed to cling. She picked up one of the magazines she’d bought and stared gloomily at the slim, toned blonde dressed in leggings and a crop top.

“You are so airbrushed.” She flung the magazine to one side and picked up the other one.

This one recommended a diet of raw food interspersed with long periods of fasting.

“If I fast, I faint.” What she really needed was the Comfort Eater’s Diet. Or the Stressed While Trying for a Baby Diet.

In the meantime she needed to order control underwear.

She stuffed both magazines under the sofa and noticed the notepad on the coffee table that Greg had been using to make a shopping list.

Maybe she should write down some of her stories. Why not?

She tore out a clean page and sketched two little girls with a goat, but the goat ended up looking like a pig.

She tapped its bloated stomach. “What you need is a bikini diet.”

Throwing down the pen, she slid the paper under the sofa along with the magazines. Maybe she’d think about it another time. Or maybe her stories were better told round a campfire than written down.

Her dress felt uncomfortably tight, so she walked to the bedroom to choose something else.

She pulled on her favorite pair of stretchy jeans and a sweater Greg had bought for her birthday. It was a pretty shade of blue, shot through with silvery thread, and it fell soft and loose to the top of her thighs, concealing all evidence of her dietary transgressions.

She was checking the casserole when she heard the sound of his key in the door.

“Something smells good.” Greg walked into the house and dropped his keys on the table. “How’s my green-eyed mermaid?”

He’d called her that since the summer she turned eight years old when she’d barely left the sea.

“Mermaids don’t have curly hair and freckles.” She smiled as he came up behind her and kissed her on the neck.

“You shouldn’t stereotype mermaids. You look gorgeous. Is that sweater new?”

“You bought it for me.”

“I have great taste. How was your mother? Are you in need of therapy?” He slid his arms round her and she sucked in her stomach to make herself thinner. She liked the fact that he kissed her before he even hung up his coat. Andrea was right—she was lucky to have Greg. So why didn’t that feel like enough?

What was wrong with her?

“I decided on the sort of therapy you can pour into a glass. It was that or chocolate chip ice cream.”

“That’s what I call a dilemma.” Greg let go of her and hung up his coat. “Walk me through your decision-making process.”

“Wine is made from grapes and grapes are fruit, which makes it one of your five a day. So it’s healthy.” She handed him a glass of wine. “And if I’m not pregnant, I might as well drink. How was your day?”

“If I tell you my day was good are you going to snatch this glass from my hand?”

She grinned. “No, because by the time I’ve finished whining you’re going to need it.”

“Wine for whine. Sounds like a reasonable deal.” Greg took a mouthful of wine. “I’m braced. Hit me with it. What was today’s gem?”

“Nothing new. She reminded me about the painting incident and held me personally responsible for her gray hair.”

“Her gray hair makes her look distinguished. She should be thanking you.”

“She praised you, of course.” She lifted her glass in a mock toast. “You, Greg Sullivan, are the all-conquering hero. A gladiator among men. A knight in shining armor. I was lucky you were there to save me from my wicked ways.”

“She said that?”

“Not in so many words, but she was thinking it.”

Greg put the wine down. “Did you tell her you were feeling down about the whole baby thing?”

“No. Our conversations are an exchange of facts.”

His gaze was steady. “You’re unhappy. That’s a fact.”

“Not those sorts of facts. Everyone else seems able to talk to my mother, but not me.”

Why did it matter? She had Greg. Greg had always been easy to talk to. When people talked about marriage as something that had to be “worked at” she didn’t understand what they meant. She and Greg just were. They fitted like hand in glove or foot in shoe. They didn’t need to work at anything.

They ate dinner at the table in their cozy kitchen while the winter wind lashed at the house and rattled the windows. After they’d finished the meal and cleared up, they curled up on the sofa.

Jenna topped up Greg’s wineglass and he raised an eyebrow.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?”

“I’m a wild child, remember? I’m living down to my reputation.” She slid off her shoes, curled her legs under her and moved closer, pressing her body against the solid strength of his.

Unlike her, his body hadn’t changed much in the past decade. Greg believed exercise helped control mood and set an example to the community by spending time in the gym and running on the beach. As a result his body was as good as it had been at eighteen.

She thought about what Andrea had said earlier.

Would her marriage to Greg be different if they’d had other relationships? “Do you ever wish you’d sowed your wild oats?”

“Excuse me?” He shifted so he could look at her. “You want me to become a farmer?”

She laughed and took another sip of wine. “You’re not a morning person. You’d be a terrible farmer.”

“So why the ‘wild oats’ question?”

“No reason. Ignore me. Let’s go to bed.”

He looked at her quizzically. “It’s not the right time of the month for you to get pregnant, is it?”

She felt a flash of guilt, and that guilt was intensified by the knowledge that she’d done those calculations, too. “It’s not the right time for me to get pregnant, but that’s not the only reason to have sex.”

“Isn’t it?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Only that lately that seems to be the only reason you ever want to climb between the sheets with me.” He put his wineglass down and then took her face in his hands and kissed her.

Greg had been the only guy she’d ever kissed if you didn’t count that one session behind the bike sheds with Will Jones, which she didn’t because that had been part of a dare. Sex had changed over time. Being with him didn’t give her the same dizzying thrill she’d had when they’d first gotten together—Take that, Mom. Saint Greg and I had sex before we were married—but in many ways it was better. Familiar. Intimate.

As he deepened the kiss, his other arm came round her waist. She shifted closer to him and felt something hard dig into her hip. “Is that your phone?”

“No, it’s my giant penis and the reason you married me.” He nuzzled her neck but she shoved him away and put her glass down on the table next to his.

“Wait! Greg—why is it in your pocket?”

“My penis?”

“Your phone!”

He sighed. “Because that’s where I always carry my phone. Where else would it be?”

“Anywhere else! You’re supposed to be keeping your testicles cool and your phone out of your pocket. We agreed.”

Greg swore under his breath and released her. “This is crazy, Jenna. You’re obsessed.”

“I’m focused. Focused is good. Focused gets things done.”

“Getting pregnant is all you think about. When was the last time we talked about something not sex or baby related? And I don’t count talking about your mother.”

“Over dinner.” She smiled triumphantly. “We talked about decorating the upstairs bedroom.”

“Because you want to turn it into a nursery, even though you’re not pregnant.”

Oops. “Last week we had a long conversation about politics.”

“And the impact it might have on any children we have.”

That was true.

“It’s possible I might be a little overfocused on pregnancy. It’s what happens when you really want something you can’t have. Like being on a diet. If you can’t eat a chocolate brownie, all you think about is eating the chocolate brownie. You dream about brownies. Brownies become your life. You’re a psychologist. You’re supposed to know this!”

Greg breathed out slowly. “Honey, if you could just—”

“Do not tell me to relax, Greg. And don’t call me ‘honey’ in that tone. It drives me batshit crazy.”

“I know, but Jenna you really do need to relax. If something is taking over your mind, then the answer is to focus on other things. The way to forget the brownie is to think about something else.”

“Cupcakes?”

His expression was both amused and exasperated. “One of my clients is opening a new yoga studio in Oak Bluffs. Maybe you should go. You might find it calming.”

“I might find it annoying.” She thought about the girl in the magazine. “It will be full of serene people with perfect figures who are all in control of their lives. I’d have to kill them, and that wouldn’t be calming for anyone.”

Greg retrieved his wine. “Okay, no yoga. Tai chi? Kickboxing? Book group?”

“My mother runs the book group, and given that the last book I searched for was How Not to Kill Your Mother, I don’t think I’d be welcomed as a member.”

“Go to a different book group. Start your own. Do something. Anything to take your mind off babies.”

“You’re saying you don’t want babies?”

“I’m not saying that.” He finished his wine. “I do want babies, but I don’t think all this angst is going to help.”

She remembered the way he’d looked when she’d glanced out of the window. Thoroughly despondent.

She was about to ask him how he felt about the whole thing when her phone rang.

She ignored it.

Of course Greg wanted babies. Didn’t he?

He glanced from her to the phone. “Aren’t you going to answer that?”

“This conversation is more important than my phone.” Her phone stopped ringing but started again a moment later and Greg reached down to pick it up.

“It’s Lauren.”

Jenna stared at him stupidly. “What?”

“Your sister.” He thrust the phone at her. “We can wish Ed a happy birthday.”

Why did she have the feeling he was relieved their conversation had been interrupted?

“But isn’t it the middle of the night in London?”

“It was obviously a great party.” He rose to his feet and walked toward the door.

“Where are you going?”

He smiled. A normal Greg type of smile. “To pack. If you’re going to talk to your sister, it means I have time to take a six-month sabbatical. Your conversations aren’t exactly brief.”

“We’re not that bad.”

“No, you’re right. A two-week vacation should cover it. In the meantime I’ll make us coffee.” Greg walked to the kitchen and Jenna watched him go.

Everything was going to be okay. Of course it was.

She was married to Greg, and Greg knew how to handle every situation.

Who needed yoga when they were married to their very own therapist?

Picking up her wineglass and stretching her legs out on the sofa, she settled in to have a long chat with her sister. It was true that one call last month had reached the two-hour mark, but she and Lauren lived thousands of miles apart! What did he expect? And she was pleased Lauren had called. She’d be able to tell her about the pregnancy test. “Hi, Lauren. Happy birthday to Ed! How was the party? I was going to call you tomorrow. Did our gift arrive?” Because she was expecting everything to be perfect, it took her a couple of minutes to absorb what her sister was saying. “What? Lauren, I can hardly hear you—are you crying?” She sat up suddenly, spilling her wine over her jeans. “Say that again!”

By the time Jenna ended the call she was in shock.

Her hand was shaking so badly she almost dropped her phone.

Greg walked back into the room and put two mugs of coffee on the table. “Did you lose the signal or something?”

“No.”

“Then why so quick? I was going to speak to Ed.”

“You can’t.” Her lips felt strange, as if they didn’t want to move. “Ed is—” She broke off and he looked at her.

“Ed is what?”

Jenna felt shaky and strange. Her eyes filled. “He’s dead. Today was his fortieth birthday. He was found at his desk by one of the cleaners. They think it must have been his heart. My poor sister.” She remembered the agony in her sister’s voice and didn’t even try to hold back the tears. How would Lauren live without Ed? What would she do? “I have to go to her.” She felt her sister’s loss as keenly as if it were her own.

Looking shaken, Greg took the glass from her hand and tugged her to her feet. “I’ll call the airline while you pack.”

Her brain was moving in slow motion. “We can’t—I can’t—” She couldn’t think straight. “There’s school, and—”

“I’ll call them. I’ve got this.”

“What about the money? We already decided we couldn’t afford to go away in the summer.”

“We’ll figure it out. Some things are more important than money.”

She didn’t argue. There was no way she wasn’t going to be with her sister.

Only hours before she’d been envying Lauren, and now her life was shattered.

It was unbelievable. Unfair.

And to think she’d been about to off-load her own problems.

Jenna sleepwalked to the bedroom and pulled out her suitcase. Without thinking about what she was packing, she stuffed random clothes into it. All she could think about was her sister, her big sister, who had always been there for her through thick and thin.

There was nothing her sister didn’t know about her.

Not a single thing.

“It’s all booked.” Greg appeared in the doorway, his phone in one hand and his credit card in the other. “Take sweaters. And a coat. It’s cold in England. And an umbrella, because it will probably be raining. And don’t forget to charge your phone so I can call you.”

“What? Oh yes.” She pushed some thick socks into the case and paused, helpless and more than a little scared. She felt inadequate. “What do I do, Greg? What is the right thing to say to someone who has lost a husband? I wish you were coming with me.”

But they both knew he couldn’t. He had people counting on him, and no one who could cover for him.

“I’ll call you every night. And you can text me. I promise not to give my phone to Pamela.”

It seemed like a lifetime ago that they’d laughed at that.

Jenna glanced round her bedroom and tried to work out what she’d forgotten. Lauren would have made a list. She probably had a list already on her laptop entitled “for emergency travel.” Everything would be checked off. Red ticks for the outward journey, blue ticks for the return journey.

Jenna didn’t have a list to tick.

She was the disorganized one. Lauren was the perfect one.

Except that her perfect sister’s perfect life was no longer perfect.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Lauren

Widow: a woman whose spouse has died

SHE’D NEVER EXPECTED to fall in love when she was eighteen. That hadn’t been part of her plan. She’d had her life mapped out in her head. She was going to college, and after that she’d get a job in New York City. She was going to soak up bright lights and busy streets and learn everything she could about design until she was ready to start her own business.

That had always been her dream.

And then she’d met him.

Their relationship started with a single look. Until that moment she hadn’t realized so much could be conveyed without speech. It was more than interest. There was a connection.

It was the summer before she left for college and she was spending the long, hot humid months doing what all the other local teenagers did, namely working hard to make money for the winter. She had three jobs, one of which included bussing tables at a seafood restaurant.

She was clearing one of the tables on the sunny deck, counting the hours until she could go home, when a man strolled up to the takeout window.

Something about the way he moved caught her attention. He had a quiet way about him, an understated confidence that was lacking in many of the boys her age who were wrestling awkwardly with their own identity.

He was wearing black jeans and a black T-shirt and his cap was pulled down over his eyes.

As he pulled a sheaf of notes out of his pocket, his gaze settled on Lauren.

She had long legs and blond hair. She was used to boys looking at her. They’d reached an age where everything was about sex, who had “done it” and who hadn’t.

All her closest friends were having sex and boasting of their experiences. Cassie had lost her virginity in a field near Chilmark and had to explain away poison oak to her parents. Kelly’s first experience had been on the hood of her dad’s Cadillac in a deserted parking lot.

Because she didn’t want to expose her most private fears, Lauren pretended she’d had sex, too. She doubted she was the only one, but her reasons for holding off were probably different from most.

She was afraid she might have a phobia. The thought of sex made her heart race and her palms grow sweaty. That wasn’t normal, was it? It was all the other girls talked about, so she assumed it was supposed to be exciting, not terrifying.

Because she didn’t trust her reactions, there was no way she was experimenting with anyone from her school. What if she freaked out and humiliated herself? It would be all over the island in hours that Lauren Stewart was frigid.

This man was different. He was older for a start, and a stranger. Definitely not a Vineyarder. Nor did he look like a tourist. His fingers were stained with oil and his work boots were scuffed. A seasonal worker, she decided, and wondered why her brain was asking a thousand questions about him.

She had no idea how long the moment would have lasted or what might have been the outcome because her imagination chose that moment to conjure up a disturbingly vivid image of what it might be like to be kissed by him. It was real enough to knock the air from her lungs and trigger a curl of heat low in her belly, a reaction she’d never had before. As a result, she stumbled into a chair and knocked over a bottle of beer.

Her face burned with humiliation and by the time she’d cleared up the mess and dared to glance over in his direction, he was gone.

He hadn’t smiled at her or nodded. Hadn’t acknowledged her in any way. But she knew that if someone had asked him, he would have been able to describe her in detail.

She wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or terrified to discover she was in fact capable of experiencing the same feelings as her peers.

Until she’d laid eyes on the unsmiling man in black, she hadn’t felt an urge to find out if she really did have a problem. She’d even wondered if she’d go through life without ever having sex.

But suddenly it was all she could think about.

She was still working out how to discreetly discover his identity when she saw him again.

She’d crept out of the house late at night and gone for a walk on the beach.

There was only one other person there, and she’d known even from a distance that it was him.

She’d had a choice to make. She could step forward, or she could step back.

“THANK YOU ALL for being here.” Her voice echoed around the cavernous space.

A week before she’d been planning Ed’s birthday party. Now she was speaking at his funeral.

She focused on the stained-glass window at the back of the church because that was easier than staring at the people seated in rows. It was bitterly cold. Lauren couldn’t stop shivering.

The night of the birthday party was a blur in her mind. She remembered the police stepping into the house, the sound of Gwen wailing, gawping guests slinking from the house muttering condolences instead of birthday greetings.

And now she was supposed to say something meaningful when none of it held any meaning.

“I first met Ed when I was eighteen and I knew right away that he was the perfect man for me.”

That was true, wasn’t it? The fact that there was one box he didn’t tick on the list of ideal attributes for a life partner didn’t mean he wasn’t perfect.

“We met by chance on the beach in Martha’s Vineyard where I grew up, and we immediately had a connection.”

I was crying. Ed was drunk.

We were both brokenhearted.

Both of us in love, but not with each other.

Choices, she’d discovered, had consequences.

She stared hard at the floor, terrified that her sleep-deprived brain might confuse her speech with her thoughts. What if she made a mistake and said the wrong thing aloud?

What if, for once in her life, she told the truth?

“Ed and I knew we were going to be together forever.” Except that Ed had broken that promise and died. Why? He watched his weight and exercised. People like him didn’t die slumped over their desks. She felt cheated. Angry. Devastated. It took a sob from someone in the front row to remind her she was supposed to be talking. “It was romantic.”

It hadn’t been romantic at all.

It had been practical. Sensible. A decision made by two people who favored planning over impulse.

She stared at the extravagant display of lilies at the back of the church and knew she’d never be able to have lilies in the house again.

“Ed proposed to me on the beach at sunset.”

There were murmurs of approval and sympathy from the mourners who were listening avidly. She wondered what they’d say if she told them the truth.

There had been no proposal. At least, not in the traditional sense of the word.

Ed had flung an arm round her.

You’re in trouble. I’m in trouble. We both chose badly, which is what happens when you let your emotions make decisions. Let’s get married. I like you. You like me. That’s a better basis for marriage than love. Love is for poets and artists. Getting married because of love is like building your house on quicksand. You never know when the whole thing is going to collapse.

She hadn’t been able to disagree with that.

She’d been emotionally numb and frightened about the future.

Lauren remembered Ed hugging her, telling her it was going to be okay, that they’d rescue each other, and the ache in her chest was almost unbearable.

They’d done that. They’d rescued each other. But now he’d abandoned her.

What was she going to do without him?

They’d had a deal—

“We married right away—” Her voice broke slightly and she cleared her throat. “When Mack was born I remember thinking our family was complete. Perfect. Our life together was perfect.”

She glanced at Mack, who was seated next to Jenna, her features a frozen mask. Lauren’s heart broke for her. She’d done everything she could to give Mack a stable, secure family life but she hadn’t been able to save her from this.

She choked out a few more words. How great Ed was as a provider, what a great friend he was and how much he would be missed.

Standing at the front of the church, trying not to look at the sea of faces, she felt lonelier than she ever had in her life before.

No one had ever told her that it was possible to be an adult and still feel as terrified as a child.

She had a sudden yearning for home, for the community she’d grown up in.

When her father had died, Lauren had flown home and stayed three weeks. The fridge had been so full of food, they hadn’t had to worry about shopping or cooking for the entire duration of her stay. Casseroles had appeared in their kitchen, along with homemade cake. Neighbors made a support list. Her mother was asked to write down anything that needed doing from mowing the lawn to emptying the trash and the tasks were divided between everyone. They’d felt enveloped by the community.

Lauren didn’t feel enveloped. She felt alone and exposed.

She sensed movement and saw her sister reach out and take Mack’s hand.

Jenna, who had taken the first flight she could find so she could be by her side. She was wearing a navy coat and her hair was curling rebelliously in response to relentless English rain. Jenna, whose love and loyalty was never in question.

And Lauren remembered that she wasn’t alone.

She felt a rush of gratitude. Having her sister there helped her to stumble through the last few lines of her speech without blurting out anything scandalous.

She kept thinking about that last conversation she’d had with Ed.

She’s not the problem.

What exactly had he meant by that? She didn’t know, and now she never would.

Saying her own silent farewell, she walked back to her seat.

She felt Jenna slide her hand into hers, as she’d done when they were growing up.

Sisters always stick together.

Lauren tried not to think about how she’d cope once Jenna left. Maybe she could persuade her to move in. There were schools in London. Jenna could teach anywhere and Greg wouldn’t struggle to find work either. Almost everyone she knew needed a therapist, even if they weren’t aware of it themselves.

But she knew Jenna would never leave Martha’s Vineyard.

Maybe she’d go back for longer this summer. In the past they’d been restricted by Ed’s need to be in London, but Ed didn’t need to be anywhere ever again. And if Greg was working then perhaps she, Jenna and Mack could spend some time together.

She was about to lean across and tell Mack she didn’t have to speak if she didn’t want to when her daughter rose to her feet.

She walked to the front of the church. For once her back was straight, as if she’d finally accepted her height.

Since the night of the party she’d been even less communicative.

Lauren told herself it was natural for Mack to be withdrawn. She’d lost her father. Lauren had already found a grief counselor who specialized in teenagers. She intended to call her as soon as the funeral was over, and she couldn’t wait for that moment to come.

Lauren willed her daughter to have the strength to get through the next few minutes.

There was an expectant silence broken only by the occasional cough and a muffled sob.

Mack said nothing.

The silence stretched for so long that people began to fidget. Expectation turned to impatience.

Lauren felt a rush of fierce protectiveness.

Why had she allowed Mack to do this? She was sixteen years old. It was too much.

She was about to stride up to the front of the church like a mother hen reclaiming her chick, when the chick opened its mouth.

“I’m supposed to say a few words about my father.” Mack’s voice was clear and steady, cutting through the tense atmosphere of the church.

Lauren relaxed.

Her daughter had aced drama. She could do this.

“The problem is,” Mack said, “I don’t exactly know who my father is. You’d have to ask my mother about that. All I know for sure is that it wasn’t Ed.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Jenna

Startle: to be, or cause to be, surprised or frightened

“WHERE DO YOU keep mugs?” Jenna prowled around Lauren’s shiny perfect kitchen. Every cabinet was neat and ordered. She tried not to think about her kitchen at home, where assorted plates nestled alongside mismatched mugs hand painted by the children she taught. Her mugs said things like World’s Best Teacher and Superwoman. It was like drinking her coffee with subtitles.

Lauren’s mugs were white and they all matched. Not a chip. Not a crack. Not a single accolade emblazoned on the side. Her home looked like something out of one of those glossy magazines she’d been addicted to growing up.

Jenna glanced at her sister. She’d changed into black yoga pants and a black roll-neck sweater. Her hair was twisted into a severe knot at the back of her head and the pallor of her skin emphasized the dark hollows under her eyes.

Her sister could have taken a role in a horror movie without bothering with makeup, Jenna thought. She suspected Lauren spent most of the night crying, although during the day she managed to hold it together.

After Mack’s revelation, the gathering had been more farce than funeral. Her confession had shaken the atmosphere so dramatically the resulting shock waves should have been measurable on the Richter scale.

Everyone’s mouths had been open, with the exception of Mack’s. With hindsight, Jenna wished her niece had closed hers sooner.

At first she’d assumed it was grief talking, but then she’d seen her sister’s frozen expression and had second thoughts. She knew that look. It was the same look Lauren had worn as a child when they’d been caught doing something they shouldn’t, like the time William Foster had reported them for letting his chickens out.

Jenna considered what she knew about her sister’s relationship.

Lauren and Ed had met on the beach and married a month later. It had been a whirlwind, but everyone who met Ed found it easy to understand why Lauren had fallen in love with him so nobody questioned it too deeply.

When Mack had been born barely nine months later, Jenna had wondered if Lauren had already been pregnant when she and Ed had married, but so what?

Now she felt like one of the kids in her class doing a basic math puzzle. If Jane has four apples and Mary takes one away, how many apples does Jane have left?

Could she have had an affair? No. Lauren had already been pregnant when she’d come back from her honeymoon.

How could Ed not be Mack’s father?

Like Mack and the rest of the people at the funeral, Jenna wanted to know the answer to the key question.

Lauren hadn’t spoken a word since they’d left the funeral.

Jenna wanted to call Greg for advice, but since when had she needed Greg’s advice on how to talk to her sister, someone she knew almost as well as she knew herself?

She removed two perfect matching mugs from the cabinet, boiled water and made hot tea.

That was what the British did in a crisis, wasn’t it? They drank tea. Lauren had lived here for sixteen years, which made her as close to British as it was possible to be without being born here. “Was Mack telling the truth?” She pushed aside a stack of papers and put the two mugs on the table.

Lauren stared at the tea but didn’t touch it. “Yes.”

Jenna sat down next to her and took her hand. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t tell anyone.”

I’m not anyone. I’m your sister. “Since when do we not talk to each other?”

“I wanted to protect my daughter. I always planned to tell her, but I was waiting until I was sure she was old enough to understand. I wanted her to grow up in a secure, stable home knowing she was loved. I didn’t want her to have doubts or fears. I didn’t want her to be—” She lifted bruised, exhausted eyes to Jenna. An ocean of memories flowed between them.

“You didn’t want her to be like us.”

Lauren’s eyes glistened. “You’re probably the only person who can understand.”

Jenna felt sweat prickle at the back of her neck. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Please don’t let her want to talk about it.

“No. It’s not relevant.”

It was funny, Jenna thought, how they’d both managed to ignore the past. It was like being in the room with a wild animal and hoping that if you didn’t look at it, it wouldn’t bite you.

“If it’s impacting the choices you make, then it’s relevant.”

“Didn’t it impact yours?”

Jenna felt her cheeks grow hot. “This is about you, not me. You kept a major secret from your husband and daughter.”

“No, I didn’t. Ed agreed we should wait until Mack was older. We were planning on sitting her down and talking to her soon.”

“Wait—you’re saying Ed knew?”

“From the beginning.”

“And he married you in spite of that?”

“He married me because of that.” Lauren let go of Jenna’s hand and reached for her tea. “It’s complicated.”

No kidding.

Jenna was still getting her head round the fact there was a huge part of her sister’s life she knew nothing about. “Did you tell him everything? He also knew about—”

“No. Not that. Just about Mack. And she’s all that matters now. She’s lost her dad, and she can’t even grieve properly because she’s so confused.” Lauren’s voice wobbled and she glanced toward the door that Mack had slammed between them the moment they’d arrived back at the house. “Is she going to be okay? I need you to tell me she’s going to be okay.”

“She’s going to be okay,” Jenna said, hoping it was true. “It will take time of course, but she’ll figure it out and so will you. And you have each other.”

“Right now I don’t think she finds that a comfort. She’s so mad at me.” Lauren blew her nose. “She’s obviously known Ed wasn’t her father for a while. It explains so much. She’s been difficult lately. Moody. I thought there might be something she wasn’t telling me—” She glanced at Jenna, who shrugged.

“No one is better qualified to recognize the signs of secret keeping than the Stewart sisters, right? Do you know how she found out?”

“She was doing an ancestry project at school as part of her history coursework. I guess it must have been to do with that. I haven’t worked out the details yet. But why didn’t she talk to me? Why not ask me?”

“Er—did we ever talk to Mom about things?”

“No, but we didn’t talk to Mom about anything. Mack and I talked about everything.”

Not quite everything, Jenna thought.

“Did Ed adopt Mack?”

Lauren stared at her tea. “No. We talked about it, but at the beginning it would have meant—” she drew in a breath “—contacting the father, and neither of us wanted to do that. Later it would have meant visits from social workers and they would have insisted we tell her right away. We always planned to tell her, but we wanted to do it when we felt she was able to handle it. And I didn’t want that to be when she was young. Also, there was Ed’s Mom.”