“It is. But it's my story, not his.” Crawford met Ciara's eyes. “Christopher needs to feel like he earned this. Like he and Becca are building something of their own, not something that was handed to them because of who her father knows. That matters, Ciara. Especially to a man like him.”
Ciara nodded slowly. She understood pride. She understood the need to make your own way, to feel that your accomplishments were truly yours. She had rebuilt her own life after arriving in America, had started over in a new country with nothing but determination. She knew what it meant to need that sense of ownership over your own story.
“Besides,” Crawford continued, “they're going to be living nearby now. Close enough to see each other regularly, close enough to be part of each other's lives in a way we haven't been since Becca was young.” He set down his glass. “I don't want to be the kind of father who's always hovering, always offering opinions and advice, always reminding them of everything I've done.Christopher doesn't need that. Becca doesn't need that. They need space to build their life together.”
“You've thought about this a lot.”
“I have. Ever since they told me about the house.” Crawford smiled, a hint of sadness in it. “I made mistakes with my children when they were young. I was working all the time, building the business, not always present the way I should have been. Julia carried so much of the load, especially after she got sick. The kids had to grow up faster than they should have.”
“You're being too hard on yourself.”
“Maybe. But that's why I'm trying to do better now. To support them without smothering them. To help when I can without making them feel like they owe me something.” He reached out and took Ciara's hand. “Christopher is proud, and I'm proud of him for being so. I'm not going to undermine that by telling him his house was a favor to his father-in-law.”
Ciara squeezed his hand. “Then it stays between us.”
“Between us. And Harold, wherever he is now.” Crawford looked out at the water again, at the moon rising over Pine Island Sound. “I like to think he knows. That he's watching his house find new life, new love. That the kindness keeps going, even after we're gone.”
“That's a lovely thought.”
“It's the island way. We take care of our own. Always have. Always will.”
They sat together in the quiet, watching the moonlight dance on the water. Somewhere on the north end of the island, a house sat empty, waiting for new owners, new life, new memories. And somewhere in Massachusetts, a young couple was preparing to claim it, never knowing the full story of how it came to be theirs.
Some secrets were kept out of shame. Others were kept out of love.
This one was kept out of respect.
Maggie's phone buzzed on the kitchen counter just as she was pouring her second cup of coffee. She glanced at the screen and smiled when she saw the name.
Rachel Adams.
She hadn't talked to Rachel in months, not since Christmas cards had been exchanged and promises made to “get together soon” that somehow never materialized. Life had a way of doing that, pulling people in different directions even when their hearts stayed connected.
“Rachel,” Maggie said, answering the call. “What a wonderful surprise.”
“Maggie Wheeler Moretti, you are a difficult woman to pin down.” Rachel's voice was cheerful, carrying the slight Boston accent. “I've been meaning to call you for weeks, but the vineyard has been insane. We're expanding the tasting room, and I swear the contractors are trying to drive me to drink my own inventory.”
Maggie laughed. “That doesn't sound like the worst problem to have.”
“It's not. But it's exhausting.” There was a pause, the sound of a door closing. “I finally have five minutes to myself, so I'm using them to call you. How are you? How's Florida? How's that gorgeous Italian husband of yours?”
“Paolo is wonderful. Florida is warm. And I'm actually not there at the moment.” Maggie carried her coffee to the kitchen table and sat down. “I'm in Massachusetts. At Beth's farm in Boxford.”
“Beth? Your youngest?” Rachel's voice sharpened with interest. “Is everything okay?”
“Everything is more than okay. She had twins three days ago. A boy and a girl. Alexander and Charlotte.”
“Twins!” Rachel's squeal of delight was loud enough that Maggie had to pull the phone away from her ear. “Maggie, that's incredible! Congratulations! Oh my goodness, you're a grandmother again. How many does that make now?”
Maggie did a quick count in her head. “Twelve. If my memory hasn’t failed me.”
“Twelve grandchildren. How wonderful. Tell me everything. How's Beth? How are the babies? Are you staying in Massachusetts for a while?”
“No, I’ll be heading back in a few days.”
They talked for twenty minutes, Maggie filling Rachel in on the birth, the farm, the orchard, Emily's arrival, the upcoming clearing out of the Andover house. Rachel listened and asked lot of questions, the way old friends do when they're genuinely interested in each other's lives.
“And how are you?” Rachel asked finally. “Really. This is a lot, Maggie. New grandchildren, selling the old house, all of it.”
