The Guest House (16 page)

F
or all her love of historic interiors, Lexi had never wanted a house of her own. She’d had plenty of chances over the years, always learning of listings before they’d been made public, and a few times had even met with a bank to discuss loans, but it had never gone very far. When her parents had pressed her on the subject, she’d explained—or tried to—that she didn’t want the responsibility of a house, and that she had little interest in a renovation project of her own. “So you buy a
new
house,” her father had suggested, but still Lexi had always demurred. With all the wonderful rentals on the Cape, many of which were a steal in the off-season and steps away from the beach, why would she sink her savings into a house that might cease to please her after a while? With rentals, she could change her mind every few years: live one year by the water, another year move to the village, then back to the water again if she wished.

Yet now, as Lexi stood in the middle of the empty one-bedroom cottage that had unexpectedly—and miraculously—come up for rent in Truro, she didn’t feel the same familiar sense of possibility, of excitement, of freedom. What she felt instead was strangely unsettled, a weariness she hadn’t expected. Why? It was a charming place—cozy, and steps from the beach. The kitchen had been updated: new appliances, a sleek splash guard in frosted seafoam green tiles. Shutters with heavy wooden louvers. Mexican tiles in the living room. And at this very moment, an evening breeze was sailing through the screens, promising perfect crosswinds for a comfortable sleep on even the hottest of summer nights. What wasn’t to love?

The rental agent stepped up her pitch. “As you know, a place coming up for rent at the height of peak season is unheard of, but the tenant had a family emergency and frankly the owners would rather just move in someone for the year now than try to fill it for another month. Understand, the rest of July and August would be considered in-season, so you’d be looking at a higher rent for the first two months—but then the off-season price would kick in for September.”

Lexi asked the woman for a few more minutes to look it over; the agent excused herself to the deck to make a call.

She wandered through the space, thinking this was usually about the time she’d start to lay out her new home, when she’d start to imagine her prints on the walls, her rugs on the floor, her brightly colored collection of Fiestaware on the kitchen shelves. So why wasn’t she? Why did she feel exhausted at the thought of starting over, of putting all her energy into a space that wasn’t hers, that would never be hers, no matter how much of her stuff she put inside it?

She needed a place to live again—that much was certain. So why hadn’t she written a check for the deposit that instant, instead of staving off a decision by asking for more time to look around?

The rental agent returned. “I’ve got five more showings for this place tonight. If you want it, hon, I wouldn’t wait.”

Funny thing was, Lexi thought as she tugged out her checkbook and laid it on the counter, she had been doing exactly that for nearly her whole adult life: waiting. She’d waited for Hudson to return to her every summer, then waited for him to want her back, then waited more for someone to fill the space he’d left behind. It was startlingly clear to her now. It didn’t matter the season; her whole life she’d been waiting for someone to move her forward.

Thoughts of Cooper standing close to her in the butler’s pantry tore through her, the currents of electricity she’d felt when he’d grazed her breast. Heat flared in her core, the unmistakable warmth of wanting.

Maybe she’d waited long enough.

She signed her name on the check, tore it out, and handed it to the agent.

“Then let’s not wait,” she said.

•   •   •

I
t had been forty-six years since Edie had seen that inscription carved into the guest house timber, but as she’d looked on it today, it might have been forty-six days. Just as she had the first time she laid eyes on that stretch of wood, her heart shuddered with a feverish tangle of emotions: excitement, embarrassment, dread.

I
L
OVE
E
DIE
W
ORTHINGTON

Had it not occurred to her when she took the job that those four words would be revealed as soon as demolition began and the damaged wallboard was pulled off? Of course it had; she wasn’t dim. And it wasn’t as if Lexi and Owen didn’t know the carving was there, either. Its existence had long been a favorite story in their house—the family lore of their father’s creative and spontaneous declaration. Edie had indulged the legend too, but somehow its history was easier to endure when it was safely hidden behind plaster and paneling.

The sound of crunching gravel drew her out of her thoughts; she turned to see Lexi’s car through the kitchen window, her daughter climbing out with a bottle of wine and looking more relaxed than Edie had seen her since before she’d left for London. Was that Cooper Moss’s doing? Edie smiled, uncaring of the reason as she greeted her daughter at the door.

“I splurged,” Lexi announced, twisting the bottle to show the label as she stepped inside.

“What’s the occasion?” asked Edie.

“I took that place in Truro tonight—the one I told you about. It’s adorable, and I can move in this weekend.”

“So soon?”

“I’ve been back almost three weeks now,” Lexi reminded her mother as she set the bottle down on the counter and tugged open the utensil drawer.

“I know. But we haven’t even had a chance to get into a really good fight yet. We always get in at least one or two before you move out.”

“You mean like the kind we have after I tell you this kitchen is a disaster because I can’t find the corkscrew?” Lexi said, still rummaging through the drawer.

“Exactly,” said Edie, walking over to the counter and calmly pulling the corkscrew out of the pencil tin she kept by the sink. Lexi gave her mother an even look as she took the tool. “It isn’t a disaster just because you don’t know where anything is, Miss Smarty-pants.” Edie grinned. “So is that the
only
reason we’re celebrating?”

“The shoot’s going well,” Lexi said, pouring them each a glass. “I’m happy about that.”

“The shoot.” Edie smiled. “Okay.”

Lexi searched her mother’s inquisitive eyes.

“There’s nothing to tell, Mom.”

“Well, if there is, you’d better do it now, before your brother gets here,” Edie advised, taking her wine.

Lexi frowned. “Owe needs to get over it.”

“He’s every bit your father that way. Everything’s black or white, good or bad.”

“No wonder Meg can’t talk to him,” Lexi said, sighing into her glass before taking a sip.

“Meggie said something to you?” Edie asked.

“She didn’t have to. It’s obvious he doesn’t want to see her grow up.”

Edie had suspected that; she’d watched Hank face the same challenge with Lexi once, ached at how they’d fought, father and daughter, to break those comfortable routines when puberty had set in. It had been so hard for Hank to let go of the little girl he’d grown so attached to. It was hard for a mother too, but in a different way. Maybe it was having gone through it herself and knowing the challenges Lexi would face, the work she had ahead of her to get what she wanted.

Hank had taught their daughter to build walls, while Edie had tried to teach Lexi to knock them down. It was a painful realization to Edie now; for a woman who had little interest in constructing, Lexi had become an expert at building walls around her heart.

“It’s not an easy thing to do,” Edie said diplomatically, not wanting to fuel her daughter’s ire. “Watching your kids need you less and less. It’s what you know is right, but it’s still painful.”

“Owe’s too judgmental, Mom. He always has been. Daddy was the same way. He always bashed the Mosses.”

“
Bashed
is a strong word,” Edie argued.

Lexi raised her eyebrows dubiously; Edie consented with a shrug and another sip of wine, swallowing it with a bubble of guilt, knowing she’d done nothing in those crucial years to temper Hank’s visible distrust of the Moss family. Why hadn’t she? She knew better than anyone what had really happened that summer, yet she’d let her family—no, a whole town, really—hold firmly to a grudge and stood by silent.

Owen’s truck rumbled into view. Edie turned to Lexi. Regardless of her regrets, Edie wasn’t ready to air this debate quite yet. “Just let it lie tonight, okay?” she pleaded. “I want us all to have a nice, quiet dinner. No drama.”

“Sorry we’re late,” Owen said as he and Meg stepped inside with the pizzas, the sweet smell of baked onions and sautéed mushrooms floating in with them.

“You’re right on time,” Edie assured him.

Lexi glanced over at her brother as he shrugged out of his sweatshirt, thinking he looked particularly cantankerous tonight. Surely he wasn’t going to carry on this sulking forever?

“Want a beer, Owe?” she offered, moving to the fridge.

“No, thanks,” he muttered, tossing his sweatshirt on the bench by the door.

Lexi gave her mother a pointed look across the table as they all took their seats, as if to say,
See? I’m trying.

Edie handed out plates. “I hear you and Lexi had a great day at the beach, Meggie.”

“The best,” said Meg, pulling at a spiderweb of cheese as she freed a slice from the pie. “You should come with us next time, Grandma.”

“Grandma doesn’t go to the beach,” said Lexi. “Believe me; we tried for years to get her to come with us.”

Eddie tossed up her hands. “I burn,” she said, as if that explained everything.

“Grandma, I was thinking maybe I could come see that house you’re working on one day next week,” said Meg. “Aunt Lex was telling me all about it. It sounds supercool.”

Owen glanced up as if waking from a trance, his eyes fixing accusingly on Lexi. She met his gaze.

“We can talk about it, honey,” Edie consented quickly. “Pizza’s better this week, don’t you all think? They were so skimpy with the cheese last week.”

It was an obvious attempt to shift the subject, but Meg wasn’t yet ready to move on. “Hey, maybe you can even show me how to do some construction stuff,” she suggested cheerily. “How cool would that be?”

“I think you’ve got your hands full at Scoop’s,” Owen said.

Meg plucked a mushroom off her slice and snorted. “As if.”

“Your father’s right,” said Edie with a wink. “One career at a time.”

Meg glanced pleadingly at Lexi; Lexi complied.

“I think it’s a great idea,” she said, feeling the daggers of her mother’s glare almost immediately.

“Well, I don’t,” said Owen. “She’s too young.”

“How am I too young?” demanded Meg. “Grandma, didn’t you say you were my age when you first started working for your dad?”

Edie glanced at Owen, feeling ambushed. “I can’t remember exactly,” she lied.

“You need to let her grow up, Owe,” Lexi said.

“Alexandra, please,” said Edie, her voice more wary than warning, but Lexi wasn’t budging.

“We’re dropping this,” said Owen.
“Now.”

“Why can’t you just be supportive of us working down there?” Lexi demanded.

Owen set his forearms on the table, his fists flanking his plate, his eyes hard. “Support you
how
, exactly? By telling you that I think it’s just great that you’re helping the same assholes who didn’t think you were good enough to marry their son, but you’re certainly good enough to take pictures of their bathrooms?”

Edie closed her eyes and sighed. Meg reached for her Coke, taking a hard sip.

“This is different,” Lexi said evenly. “Cooper isn’t like Hudson.”

Owen threw down his napkin. “Oh, come on, Lex—wake up. Every Moss is like every other Moss. You can’t trust them—you of all people should know that, and yet the second they whistle, back down you go.”

“Whistle?” Lexi repeated, leaning forward, wide-eyed. “Tell me you did not just compare me to a
dog
, Owen.”

“Stop it, you two,” ordered Edie.

“I don’t have to defend my reasons to you,” Lexi said. “And Mom doesn’t either.”

“Oh, God, please don’t bring me into this.”

Meg sat back in her chair, frowning at her father. “I think it’s lousy too.”

“Young lady, this is none of your business.”

“Then why are you talking about it in front of me?”

“Ask your aunt,” said Owen, glaring at Lexi. “She was the one who brought it up. Thanks, by the way.”

“What did you expect me to do?” said Lexi, exasperated. “It’s like this big elephant in the room, Owen. And your sitting there scowling about it only makes it worse.”

“How do you know I’m scowling about that? Did it never occur to you I might have other things on my mind besides that damn house?”

Lexi took up her wine, feeling repentant. Her mother’s chastising glance didn’t help.

The table fell silent and remained so for the rest of the meal.

“And you were worried you wouldn’t get your fight,” whispered Lexi to her mother as they cleared the table ten minutes later.

•   •   •

T
ry as he did to let Lexi’s comment slip from his thoughts, Owen chewed on it all the way home. What did she know about raising kids? He knew his daughter better than any father knew his child. If anyone needed illumination on Meg, it was her mother. Owen felt certain of that: putting wine in front of her all the time, placing her in schools with girls who thought they were thirty instead of sixteen—and parents who treated them that way. Was it any wonder she had some kid sending her those texts? No wonder Meg had never said anything to him—she’d been too embarrassed, obviously. That wasn’t Meg; that wasn’t his daughter—didn’t Heather understand that?

“Mom told you about the wedding, didn’t she?”

Owen glanced over at Meg. “You knew?”

“She sent me a text when we were at Grandma’s.” Meg looked at her lap. “Are you mad at me?”

“Mad at you?” Owen blinked at her. “Why would I be mad at
you
?”

“Because I knew and I didn’t tell you.”

“Meg . . .
sweetheart
.” He turned them into the driveway and killed the engine. “The person I’m mad as hell at is your mother for putting you through all this, for making you feel like you had to hide it from me. And if you don’t want to go, you don’t have to go. She can’t force you to go.”