“I’ve seen it already,” Rose said, trying not to sound as stressed as she felt.
“So handsome,” Max cooed, and she could have been referring to either Tom or Boyd. “I always liked him.”
“No, you didn’t,” Rose retorted, snapping at the bait before she could stop herself. This was revisionist history. “None of you did. You told me not to marry him.”
“Telling you not to marry him is different fromlikinghim. I thought he was a nice boy. You should have waited for him to grow up.”
Tom’s age had nothing to do with it. “We just ended up wanting different things.” That was her standard line on their divorce, one that assigned no blame while obscuring the painful truth that Rose, specifically, had not been one of the things Tom wanted.
“And you didn’t even send us a wedding present,” Rose said, certain that would get her aunt off the subject.
Max raised her eyebrows, unimpressed. “I’m sorry, but we all assumed you were in a family way and too embarrassed toadmit it before the wedding. I was going to get all your nursery furniture.”
Rose stiffened her shoulders in familiar hurt because she’d known what her family thought, but nobody had ever given her the chance to set them straight. She hadn’t married Tom because she was pregnant, then or ever, or for tax reasons, or to get him on her health insurance, or for any of the other reasons people had speculated about their marriage at twenty-two.
She’d married him because he’d asked her and because she’d loved him—she’d been utterly, stupidly in love with him—and she’d thought it would last forever. Which had made their breakup only a year later much more embarrassing than an unexpected baby would have been.
But that was a long time ago now. What was really embarrassing was that she was still having feelings about it at all, which she decided she would stop doing at once.
“Well, I wasn’t. Obviously. And I’m happy he’s finding success. He’s a very talented actor, so I’m not surprised he’s working with people like Boyd Kellagher,” Rose said, getting herself in hand and saying the things the kind of person she wanted to be would say.
“Are you going to see his new play?” her aunt asked.
“It looks like I’m going to be busy over the next few months,” Rose said dourly, checking the time again. Her family’s tardiness did not bode well for their contributions to fixing up the inn.
She picked up her phone and scrolled to her father’s work number at the tax preparation office he managed. He shouldhave been here, not there, but she tried calling anyway. A new receptionist picked up the phone and sent a flutter of worry through her when he confirmed that yes, Derek Kelly was there, one second, please.
“Hey, princess,” her father said when he reached the phone, sounding both wary and cheerful. “Can this be quick? You know it’s not great for you to call at work, and it’s tax season—”
“Dad!” Rose burst out. “What are you doing? You’re supposed to be meeting with me and Max right now.”
There was a pause. Her father’s palm shifted awkwardly on the receiver.
“Did your uncle Ken not get a chance to talk to you this weekend?”
“No?”
“Ah. Well.” Her father’s voice trailed off. Rose waited for him to say more, but he didn’t.
“You can still come now. It’s only fifteen minutes if you take a cab,” Rose said, looking worriedly at Max’s financial adviser, who showed signs of bolting.
“I’m sorry you didn’t know. And for your time this morning. But the boys and I talked about it over Christmas,” her father said, still sounding deeply uncomfortable. “And we think you should sell the inn.”
“What?” Rose said, leaning back in shock. “No. No. That doesn’t make any sense.”
Setting aside the problem that nobody had a big enough house for them all to get together if she sold it, the inn was an income-producing property. Or it was when it wasn’t closed from storm damage. It was how Rose paid her aunt’s bills.
“Yeah, it does though,” her father insisted. “It’s going to be a big old time and money suck for months, and it’s just not worth it to haul ourselves out there every winter anymore.”
“What do you mean not worth it? Everyone loves that place. It takes, like, a couple hours, doorstep to doorstep. And—”
“I know, but honestly, sweetie, can’t you get back to Boston easier than Martha’s Vineyard? Plus, your brother’s the one with kids, and even he was saying he’d rather take them down to Disney next year.”
Nobody had told her this. Nobody had breathed a single word of this to her. That couldn’t be right—they just didn’t want to help with the repairs.
“No. It can’t be like it was this year every year—we were all crammed in at dinner, we barely saw the cousins—Dad. Dad, no. Come on. I made a schedule. I made binders. And if everyone pitches in just on the weekends, it’ll only take a few months—”
Her voice was winding up higher and tighter, and she didn’t like how young she sounded. She regrouped. Her father wasn’t listening to her, which wasn’t unusual, but he didn’t like to fight either. She just had to hold her ground.
