Jess smiled gratefully and slipped from the room, her bare feet silent on the worn carpeting of the hallway stairs. The house was mercifully quiet - her parents had gone out for bridge night, leaving it to just her and Megan for the evening.
Jess moved through the familiar spaces by muscle memory, past the living room with its overstuffed couches and maritime paintings, through the kitchen where her mother's copper pots hung in gleaming rows above the island, and out the back door onto the wide porch that faced the harbor.
Her mother's wisteria climbed the porch trellis in twisted woody vines, its purple blooms releasing their sweet scent into the cooling air. Jess breathed deeply, filling her lungs with Nantucket - salt and flowers, weathered wood and wet stone. The tension in her shoulders began to ease as she moved to the railing.
The harbor stretched before her, now deep indigo where it had been bright blue hours earlier. Small waves lapped at the shore in a gentle rhythm that seemed to match her heartbeat. A few gulls called to each other as they settled for the night, their voices carrying across the water. On the far side of the harbor, lights were coming on in houses much like her parents', creating a necklace of golden dots against the darkening shore.
Jess leaned against the weathered porch railing, letting the cool evening air settle around her shoulders like a familiar shawl. Julian's call replayed in her mind - his reasonable tone, his practical solution, her own easy acquiescence. It was their dynamic in miniature: he adjusted according to external demands, she accommodated, and together they navigated life's complications with minimal friction. It worked. It had always worked.
Julian offered security, partnership, mutual respect. Their life together would follow a clear trajectory - marriage, perhaps children in two or three years (already discussed and tentatively scheduled), a shared apartment in Manhattan with occasional weekend retreats. They complemented each other perfectly, her creative energy balancing his analytical mind, his stability providing a framework for her more impulsive nature.
It was a good match. A smart match. The kind of relationship that lasted decades rather than seasons.
A cool breeze swept across the porch then, carrying the scent of salt marsh and distant rain. Jess shivered, recognizing the familiar signs of an approaching weather front.
Tomorrow would likely bring fog, the kind that wrapped around the island like a protective cloak, blurring boundaries between land and sea, past and present.
She should go inside, join Megan, and more importantly call Nadine about the schedule change.
Instead, she remained at the railing, watching the last fishing boat make its way toward harbor, its running lights cutting a path through the darkening water.
The steady rhythm of the waves against shore seemed to be asking a question Jess wasn't willing to answer.
14
The following afternoon,Caroline shifted her rolling suitcase to her other hand as she climbed the narrow stairs to Ellen's apartment above the store, raindrops sliding from her coat onto the worn wooden steps.
The spring storm had appeared without warning first thing – much like Ellen's insistence that Caroline should cancel her hotel reservation and stay in the apartment above the shop instead.
"Nonsense paying those White Elephant prices when I have a perfectly good guest room," her aunt had declared before taking a taxi to her hospital appointment.
Caroline had acquiesced, telling herself it was practical – she'd be closer to everything while conducting her assessment – but the truth was, she hadn't been able to say no to Ellen's pale face as she headed out for chemo treatment.
Accessible via the shop or a side door from the street, her aunt’s first floor apartment was a study in comfortable clutter.
A small living area opened directly from the stairs, its boundaries defined by a faded blue sofa positioned beneath a bay window overlooking Centre Street. Rain pattered againstthe glass, transforming the cobblestones below into a glistening patchwork. Bookshelves lined every available wall, filled not just with books but with framed photographs, small pottery pieces, and glass jars containing what appeared to be – Caroline leaned closer – more sea glass sorted by color.
The kitchen occupied one corner, separated from the living space by a small island topped with butcher block worn smooth by decades of use and a teapot shaped like a lighthouse sat on the stove.
Caroline removed her damp coat, looking around for a place to hang it. No coat rack presented itself, but she spotted hooks beside the door, each one occupied by a different cardigan or wrap. She balanced her coat over one hook, watching as water dripped onto the worn floorboards.
"You'd never know I'm a fully functioning adult," she muttered, retrieving a tissue from her purse to mop up the small puddle. In Chicago, her entryway featured a dedicated coat closet with organizational inserts, her outerwear categorized by season and color. Here, she felt like an awkward guest, unable to decode the apartment's particular logic.
The guest room proved to be a tiny space just off the main living area, containing a twin bed with a patchwork quilt, a small dresser topped with more framed photographs, and a narrow closet. Caroline set her suitcase on the bed and began unpacking with methodical precision, folding her clothes into the dresser drawers despite their musty smell of disuse.
Her clothes – tailored pants, sweaters and blouses, a single casual outfit in case of any unexpected social outings – looked alien against the backdrop of Ellen's handmade quilt. Caroline smoothed a crease from her favorite cashmere turtle neck, the subtle gray suddenly stark and corporate compared to the explosion of color surrounding it.
Once unpacked, she ventured back to the living area, her analyst's eye automatically cataloging as she went. The furniture was a mix of genuine antiques and well-worn pieces of no particular value. The kitchen appliances were outdated but functional. The view of Centre Street – particularly valuable in Nantucket's real estate market – was partially obscured by potted herbs lining the windowsill.
Yet there was something about the space that resisted clinical assessment. Every surface told a story – the small collection of smooth stones arranged on the coffee table, the dried hydrangea blooms in a blue glass vase, the row of teacups hanging from hooks beneath one cabinet, each one different from the next.
Caroline moved to examine the photographs on the bookshelves. Most featured women in wedding dresses, their faces alight with the particular joy of that milestone. Some were clearly decades old, the colors faded to sepia tones, while others appeared more recent. In nearly all of them, Ellen stood beside the bride, her posture proud but not possessive, like a gardener displaying her prize roses.
One photo drew Caroline's attention – Ellen as a young woman in her twenties standing in front of Sea Glass Bridal on what must have been its opening day. The shop sign looked freshly painted, and her aunt’s smile contained all the nervous hope of a new business owner. There was something in Ellen's expression – a certainty, a purpose – that Caroline recognized from moments in her own career, those rare times when she knew without doubt she was exactly where she should be.
The thought was uncomfortable, forcing comparisons she preferred to avoid. Caroline turned away from the photographs and decided to check the shop below.
The stairs connecting the apartment to downstairs creaked beneath her careful steps. Ellen had left a single light on, and the bridal showroom was transformed in the dim illumination,white and ivory dresses glowing like gentle specters against the shadows. Rain streaked the front windows, blurring the view of Centre Street's emptied sidewalks.
