The Guest House (12 page)

Harrisport, Massachusetts

July 1966

H
ank watched Edie coast down the driveway on her bicycle just after eight thirty on Monday morning. It was the third time in a week that she’d arrived late to work. What was more, she didn’t even look particularly concerned as she sailed through the rows of trucks and hopped off her bike, setting it against her usual tree. A part of him wanted to stand in the guest house doorway so she couldn’t slip into the crew unnoticed this time, to force her to explain her recent tardiness, not to mention her carefree expression. She knew her father’s rules—which were his, Hank’s, too. It confounded him: Here she was, always complaining that the guys didn’t take her seriously, didn’t let her take on the challenging jobs, and yet she had no compunction about gliding in to work a half hour late, not bothering to give an explanation, clearly not thinking he deserved one.

But who was he kidding? She didn’t have to give her reasons for being late getting to work and for acting distracted the entire time she was there; Hank knew. It was Moss.

It shouldn’t have bothered him—it clearly didn’t bother the rest of the crew, who Hank often feared were relieved not to face Edie Worthington’s fiery temper at eight o’clock in the morning because one of them might have implied she was too short/weak/small/slow/take your pick to handle something, and suffered a speech trimmed with more obscenities in one breath than a single man might use in a whole day.

No, it shouldn’t have bothered him, but it did. Why? That was the part that Hank couldn’t get a fix on. As her boss, it bothered him professionally. Who could argue with that? But there was another side to it, something far less logical, something closer to disappointment than frustration. As long as he’d known Edie Worthington—and he’d known her for years now—she’d never taken an interest in a summer guy. While Hank had watched plenty of local girls, sisters of some of his best friends, fall headlong for a wash-ashore, Edie had proudly declared that she would never date a boy from away.

Until this summer. Until Tucker Moss.

Hank didn’t see what was so special about the guy, frankly. Sure, Moss had money, but so what? And okay, he dressed well and carried himself like his too-good-for-everybody old man—or at least tried to. But since when had Edie given a shit about all that?

He thought about Missy Murphy, how she’d arrived dressed like she was heading for a yachting party, and all he could think was what Edie must have been saying about those open-toed shoes of hers, or Missy’s crisp white sailor shorts. There he was, getting a surprise visit from one of the most sought-after girls in Harrisport, and he was worrying about Edie Worthington’s opinion. It hadn’t been this way before. Until the beginning of this summer, until Edie had joined their crew, Hank had never much thought about Edie except as the daughter of his boss, the girl who was always underfoot or tooling up and down the Cape on her bike like a paperboy on a constant route. He’d never studied the shade of her hair or found himself counting the freckles that ran along her jawline like bonnet ribbons. Once or twice, when she’d been standing still (which wasn’t often), he’d even tried to picture her body under her clothes. It didn’t make a lick of sense. There was Missy Murphy strolling up to him, smooth shoulders and pearly stomach bared for him to see, and still he wondered about what lay under Edie Worthington’s layers of denim and bunched-up cotton. He had to be out of his mind . . . didn’t he?

Thinking it over, Hank felt his agitation growing, so much so that by the time Edie had reached the guest house, hitching up her tool belt as she walked, the slow burn of his frustration was nearly at a boil.

She kept her eyes down as she snaked around him to get through the door.

“You’re late, Edie.”

“A half hour,” she said without stopping. “So dock me.”

“Maybe I should.”

Now she halted her march and spun to face him, her eyes flashing with shock that he had called her bluff.

“It’s not fair to the other guys, Ede. They get here on time every day.”

“It’s just a few days, Hank.”

“Four days. A half hour each day. That adds up.”

“So then dock me already,” she challenged. “What do you want me to say?”

Sonny and Don glanced over.

Hank frowned. “I just want you to say you’ll get here on time from now on,” he said, forcing a calmness to his voice to balance her rising volume. “And that you’ll keep your mind on your work.”

He knew as soon as he said it, as soon as he saw the flicker of indignation crackle in Edie’s pale eyes, that he’d crossed the line and made this personal. He regretted it immediately.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” she demanded.

Hank glanced over to find Sonny and Don still listening in; he moved to the door and motioned for Edie to follow him out of the guest house. She did, hands on her hips as they stood in the dewy grass.

“I just don’t know how your dad would feel about you going around with the son of our employer; that’s all,” Hank said low. “It’s making the guys feel awkward.”

“The guys—or
you
?”

Hank folded his arms, meeting her blazing eyes. “This isn’t personal, Ede. I’m just thinking about the work.”

“Bullshit,” she said. “I think it
is
personal. I think you just don’t like Tucker Moss, and you don’t even know him.”

“I know the type,” said Hank. “I’ve grown up here, Edie.”

“And I haven’t?”

“I know how these rich kids think they own the Cape just because they have money.”

“Tucker’s not like that,” Edie insisted.

“They’re all like that.”

“But not Missy Murphy, right?”

Hank bristled at the accusation. “Missy’s local. It’s different.”

“How’s it different? She might as well be from away, the way she looks down her nose at everyone. You know it’s true.”

“Missy’s a nice girl. It’s not the same thing.”

“Well, I don’t really see how it’s any of your business who I’m friends with anyway, Hank Wright,” Edie said.

“Maybe I don’t want you getting hurt.”

“Who said anything about me getting hurt?”

“I hear stories too, you know,” Hank said. “I know that it’s nothing for some of these guys to come in and have some fun and not think twice about leaving a girl behind.”

“Tucker would never do that. And I don’t see what difference it should make to you anyway, so long as I quit being late and stop making you look like a lousy boss. That’s really what you’re worried about, isn’t it?”

Hank turned to face her, startled and hurt at the force of her words. “Is that what you think?” he said quietly. “That I only care about you because your dad put me in charge of this crew?”

Edie stared at him for a long moment, her eyes seeming to search his face—for what, Hank wasn’t sure.

He didn’t wait to find out.

“Do what you want, Edie,” he said firmly. “Just be on time from now on or I won’t have any choice but to dock you.”

He could see she wanted the last word, and he even gave her an extra moment to come up with it, but when she remained silent, Hank had no choice but to turn and walk back into the guest house.

L
exi had been sixteen the first time she’d stepped into Fletcher’s Camera Shop. She’d needed only a frame and had instead found herself, a half hour later, hunched over the counter learning everything there was to know about apertures and shutter speeds from the store’s owner, Mo Fletcher. She left that day with a frame and the seed of a passion for photography firmly planted. It was Mo who lent her photography books and explained color theory and about shadows and highlights. He taught her how to use a light meter and would eventually help her set up a darkroom.

In the years since her first visit, there had been enormous change to the industry, thanks to the advent of digital photography, but somehow Fletcher’s had managed to weather the slower business. Like all professional photographers, Lexi knew she could order her supplies online at a considerable discount, but it was important to her to support a local business—especially this one.

Stepping up to the shop’s door, she was just relieved to see its Open sign still swinging in the window.

“How’s the big graduate?”

Lexi smiled to find Mo behind the counter.

“We missed you here, kiddo. You didn’t have to place orders from us over there, you know. The shipping must have broken you.”

She shrugged. “What can I say? I don’t trust anyone else to supply me.”

It was a stretch, but Lexi could see from the flush on Mo’s full cheeks that he appreciated it. She walked to the loupe display, chose one and brought it to the counter. Mo picked up the magnifying tool and frowned first at the tag, then over his glasses at her. “We have cheaper loupes, you know?”

She knew. “It’s the one I want,” she said firmly, setting down her credit card.

“How’s the gig at the cottage?” he asked, ringing up her sale.

“News travels fast.”

“Not really. Cooper Moss was in here yesterday.”

Cooper had been to the camera shop? Lexi wondered why.

“It’s going well,” she said. “It’s a photographer’s dream.”

“Good for you.” Mo leaned forward on his elbows. “Bet they taught you a whole bunch of newfangled tricks over there, didn’t they?”

“None as good as the ones you taught me,” she said, slipping the loupe into her purse. “Give Juanita a hug for me.”

Back outside, a soft rain had started. Lexi was almost to her car when she saw the sign for the Salty Shelf Bookstore across the street and stopped.

She wandered the narrow aisles for several minutes before she found the book. There were several copies of Cooper’s novels, two of his Tide McGill books. She pulled out one called
Sundown
and flipped it over, seeing Cooper’s familiar face smiling up at her. He was posed in front of a seascape, his expression relaxed but thoughtful.

“You might want to start with
High Tide
,” said Lynn Dodd as she tapped the cash register. “
Sundown
’s the third in the series.
Undertow
is the one in the middle. That’s my favorite. You know, someone was telling me he’s back in Harrisport, at the house. Have you heard that?”

Lexi shrugged as she handed Lynn a twenty, not about to indulge in—or start—town gossip.

“Well, if it’s true,” continued Lynn, handing Lexi her change and the book, “I hope he’ll stop in and sign some stock. Who knows, maybe he’d even do a reading here. Imagine that.”

At the suggestion, Lexi envisioned a cozy gathering at the back of the store, a table bearing bottles of wine, customers sitting in a semicircle, and Cooper on a stool, reading aloud, his warm laugh floating through the aisles while customers stood waiting for him to sign their books.

•   •   •

I
t was only when she pulled into the driveway and didn’t see the Town Car that Lexi remembered Cooper saying Jim had business in Boston—news that at the time had seemed irrelevant to her. But now that she was back at the house, his absence was oddly palpable and bore a weight she couldn’t shake as she parked. Though she and Cooper had been alone at the house that first morning—a condition that hadn’t concerned her in the least then—now their lack of a third party left her feeling at turns nervous and excited. Her thoughts retreated to his company the night before, her pleasure at his unexpected arrival at Miles’s game, Kim’s insistence that he was interested in her.

In the kitchen, Lexi saw no evidence of activity except for a half-full coffeepot that was still warm and an opened bag of bagels. She helped herself to one and considered her day’s shot list as she unpacked. At just ten o’clock, the air in the house was still cool, but she knew it would thicken as the day progressed. She’d want to start upstairs and work her way down as the heat collected. She remembered how hot it got in those upstairs rooms, the ones she and Hudson had sneaked away to so often, how stifling it could be under those eaves, how she’d press her face against the screens when they’d come up for air, hoping for the gift of a breeze.

She pushed the memories away as she walked through the downstairs and climbed the main stairwell, wanting to assess the area and decide which shots to take before bringing up her equipment. At the top of the stairs, she stopped and surveyed the corridor that ran on both sides of her, the square of landing dividing the main house from the servants’ wing. To her left were what had always been the family’s bedrooms, papered and plush, while to her right a narrowed corridor was flanked by smaller bedrooms that would have housed summer staff. All the times she’d stood in that very spot with Hudson. Nowhere in the house was the division between their worlds more acute than on that stretch of polished wood.

She looked down the hall to the door of the master suite, knowing Cooper was in there writing, able to discern a faint tapping on his keyboard. In all her summers with Hudson, she’d only ever been in that room once, and it had been in near darkness; Hudson’s sexy idea during one of his parents’ cocktail parties. She’d been briefly resistant, sure they’d be caught, but his powers of persuasion (in the form of a searching, searing kiss) had turned her quickly.

She would need to photograph its interior eventually. Maybe she’d wait until tomorrow.

•   •   •

B
y two, the heat had grown unbearable. Lexi had arrived in a long-sleeved tee when the damp morning air had carried a chill. Now she peeled off the sticky knit and let the air at her bare arms, glad she’d worn a tank underneath. She’d taken enough pictures of the upstairs for one day; now she would spend the rest of the afternoon photographing what remained of the first floor, starting with the kitchen. She glanced down the hall at the door to Cooper’s room as she descended, wondering how he could bear it in there, filled with a strange hope that he might emerge eventually.

•   •   •

W
hen he finally did, she was bent over her tripod, squinting into the viewer at the shot of the kitchen cabinets she’d been fighting to get right for nearly a half hour. She didn’t even know he was there until she stood up to move for another reflector and sucked in a startled breath.

“You were concentrating so hard, I didn’t want to disturb you,” he said, smiling apologetically. He held up his glass. “I just came down to get a refill. Join me?”

“Um, sure.” She wiped at her forehead, feeling a new thread of sweat travel down her neck. He was shirtless, a fact that shouldn’t have mattered. It was his house. So why did she feel a flush of embarrassment as he drew down a tumbler from the cabinet and tugged open the freezer?

Reaching in, he blew out a weary breath. “I forgot how hot it gets up there this time of day.”

Lexi watched him scoop up a handful of ice, the cubes shining through his fingers as he split the ice between two glasses. A sudden image of him sliding one of the wet, cold blocks across her skin pierced her thoughts.

He closed the freezer door and moved to the sink to fill their glasses, sweat glistening in the hollow between his shoulder blades. She followed the trail down his spine.

He turned back to face her, catching her study.

“Thanks,” she said, taking the water.

She smoothed back a moist lock of loose hair behind her ear as she watched him down the whole glass in one swig. “So why work up there if it gets so hot?” she asked.

“Because I’m superstitious,” he admitted, refilling his glass again. “The writing’s going well and I don’t want to risk messing things up by moving my computer.” Lexi smiled dubiously; Cooper grinned. “It’s crazy, I know.”

“It’s not crazy,” she said. “I think all artists have little superstitions.”

“Do you?”

“Of course.”

“So what are they?” He leaned against the counter, resting his sweating tumbler against his chest.

Lexi waved dismissively. “Forget it. You’ll think I’m nuts.”

“Come on. I just told you I’d sooner risk heatstroke than move my computer,” he said. “I think I’ve already won this round.”

She laughed. “Well, I pack up my camera a certain way,” she confessed. “I always have to have my lenses pointed toward the front of the bag, not the back.”

“That doesn’t sound superstitious. That sounds like someone who takes good care of her equipment.”

“Maybe.” She looked at him. “So was that true what you told Kim about not being sure what your story’s about, or is that another one of your superstitions—that you don’t like to talk about a book before it’s published?”

“A little of both,” he admitted with a sheepish smile. “The thing with a story—at least for me—is that I never know if it’s going to work or not, if it’s going to go the distance essentially, until I’m deep into it. I may have to write a hundred pages before I know.”

“And if it doesn’t go where you want it to go?”

He shrugged. “Then I start over with something else.”

“After all that work? That sounds heartbreaking.”

“It is, in a way. But it’s my process.”

“And you don’t feel like you’ve wasted your time when that happens? All those pages and you just throw them away?”

“It’s no different from a relationship,” he said. “You don’t know from the outset if it’s meant to run its course for a lifetime or a month. You always hope it’s the one that lasts, but you never know for sure.”

He rolled his glass a few times across his chest, the simple action so startlingly erotic, Lexi had to look away.

“I had a great time at the game last night,” Cooper said. “Made me think of those summers here when Hud and I were kids. How we used to practice our swings out on the lawn.”

She nodded, the mention of Hudson somehow shattering the comfortable exchange they were enjoying. She set down her water. “I should get back to work before I lose my light,” she said, gesturing to the butler’s pantry.

Cooper looked at her curiously. “What’s to shoot in the pantry?”

She smiled. “See for yourself.”

She motioned for him to follow her into the small, narrow space. The light from its single window was soft on the tall beadboard walls.

Cooper looked around wistfully, grinning. “I can’t tell you how many dinner parties I used to hide out in here, Mrs. Dodd sneaking me root beers and lobster rolls.”

Lexi recalled her own stolen moments there. Mrs. Dodd’s discovery of her and Hudson in her pantry one summer afternoon hadn’t been quite as warmly received.

“So what exactly do you see in here?” Cooper asked.

“Little things.” Lexi pointed to the cabinets. “The leaded-glass panels, the pulls. Even this switch plate.” She moved beside him to the wall and let her fingers dance over the rounded buttons, inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

Cooper leaned in to study where her hand had landed, close enough that Lexi could feel the heat coming off him, could smell the faint musk of sweat, sweetened slightly by his deodorant. She caught whiffs of her own skin, wishing she had that ice cube now.

“All the time I spent in here growing up,” he said, moving back, brushing her arm when he did. “Funny the things you see every day and never really notice.”

The connection of skin to skin sent a shiver down her bare limbs. For him too, Lexi thought, because in the next instant, their eyes met and held. She was aware suddenly of how thin her tank top was, how threadbare, the fabric sticking to her skin like wet paper. She’d never meant to be seen in it.

She folded her arms across her breasts as if he could see right through to her bra—and what if he could?—then slipped around him to the other side of the pantry, searching the counter for something—anything—to draw his eyes off of her, and hers off of him.

“Brackets,” she practically blurted. “There used to be brackets under these cabinets.”

He tilted his head. “I don’t remember that.”

“No?” She wiped at her cheek, her skin hot under her fingers. “Maybe I’m remembering it wrong.” She pointed lamely to the doorway. “I really had better get these shots.”

“And I’d better get back to work too.”

Cooper gestured for Lexi to exit first and she did, feeling her body cool and calm as soon as they were back in the wide-open safety of the kitchen.

“Thanks for the tour,” he said.

She smiled. “My pleasure.”

He picked up his glass. “I was wondering if I could cash in that rain check tonight.”

Lexi stared at him, needing a moment to understand the reference.

Dinner.

Cooper pointed to the fridge. “Jim left me with fresh scallops and I have honestly no idea what to do with them.”

“How could you spend all those summers here and not know how to cook scallops?” she asked.

“I read comic books, not cookbooks, remember?” He grinned. “So what do you say? Join me for dinner? Keep a mess of scallops from dying in vain?”

Her thoughts raced. A moment ago she’d panicked at being alone with him, terrified at her attraction. Now all she wanted to do was say yes.

Cooper watched her expectantly, waiting for her answer.

It’s just dinner
, she told herself.
With a friend.

(Who just happens to be the brother of the man who broke your heart.)

(Who kissed you passionately a million years ago and you still think about it.)

Dinner.