Frank considered this. “New name? New identity? New career?”
“Everything has to be different,” Candice said.
Frank thought for a moment. “Maybe I’d be a Frenchman named Pierre who baked bread all day.”
“Oh! That’s wonderful,” Candice said. “Maybe I’d be an Italian sommelier.”
“Name?”
Candice considered this. “Do you have one in mind?”
“You look like Candice Vanberg to me,” Frank said, smiling. “It’s hard for me to play along, because I want you to stay the way you are.”
Candice felt a blush crawl up her neck.
She could sense it, now that they were really flirting with one another. She knew it was inappropriate, and she had to get out of there. She changed the subject to something inane, something they could talk about over this one drink before leaving. She could see he was disappointed, but he also understood. When they finished, he paid for her drink, and they went their separate ways—Candice back to the Harbor House, and Frank back into his life.
When Candice pulled through the gates of the Harbor House, she was buzzing from the day. She couldn’t wait to share with Henry and Lindsey what she’d learned. But that was when she spotted them: Sarah and Peter, down by the water, glistening in the moonlight. Beside them was a man she might have recognized anywhere. It was their father. It was Nathan. He raised a hand and smiled at her, as though he’d been here, waiting for her for hours.
All thoughts of Stella McGee or Stella Vanberg fell away. Candice got out of the car and walked down to the beach, where she fell into the arms of her husband. He’d come back forher. He’d come back for his kids. And nothing else could really matter just then.
15
It was Nathan’s idea to build the bonfire on the beach. Using wood from the pile in one of the garages, they built a roaring fire right on the sand, around which Candice, Nathan, Sarah, and Peter sat, sticks extended as they roasted marshmallows and made s’mores. Above them, stars twinkled, blessing their little family.
Nathan was especially exuberant. “Look at us,” he said, looking from the Harbor House back to their family. “It’s perfect out here, isn’t it? If only we could be on the Vineyard all the time.”
“Uncle Henry is contesting the will,” Peter announced, as though he understood what that meant. “Maybe if we win, we can spend more time out here.”
“I’ll have to talk to your uncle about that,” Nathan said. “It would be a shame to lose this place.”
Sarah nodded and smiled, then launched into an analysis about a book that Nathan had apparently lent her before her trip to the Vineyard. It sounded like Sarah had been waiting anxiously for her dad’s arrival so they could talk about it. Candice felt stupid that she’d never even heard of the bookbefore. She felt sheepish. Slowly, she put together a s’more for herself, watching as the hot marshmallow melted the chocolate. She licked the tips of her fingers and was surprised to find that Stella and Sally McGee’s music remained in her head. She was beginning to memorize the lyrics. Some of the lines were especially poetic and heart-wrenching. It made her wonder if Candice herself had become a writer because her mother was a writer first?
She hadn’t known this side of her mother. But how could she have?
She was pulled out of her reverie by the sounds of her children’s voices.
“Please, Mom? Can we?” Peter asked.
“It would be so fun,” Sarah added.
Candice blinked over the fire at them, confused. Her mouth was filled with melted marshmallow.
“They want to take me sailing tomorrow,” Nathan said. “But apparently you’re the only one who really knows how!” He smiled at her, then reached over to stroke her shoulder.
It was an act of tenderness that made her feel cold, if only because it reminded her of how little he’d acted so tenderly the past six months. “Sailing it is,” she said. “We’ll make a day of it.”
That night, the four of them stayed up late. Sarah and Peter couldn’t get enough of the fire, of the stars, of the ocean, of their father. They told stories and laughed. Sometimes, Candice was able to join them, but more often, she felt like an outsider. When they finally put out the fire and went into the house, she listened from the bathroom, her toothbrush hanging out of her mouth, as her children and husband said they loved one another. She padded down the hall to the bedroom, where Nathan was already in his boxers, reading in bed. He hadn’t gotten under the covers, maybe because it was too warm.
Candice felt a strange resentment at having to share the blankets at all. Over the past few weeks, she’d grown accustomed to sleeping alone.
She told herself not to overthink that, either.
Candice sat down on her side of the bed and smiled at him. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said.
“Me too. It’s fantastic.” Nathan leaned over and gave her a chaste kiss on the lips, then returned to his book, flipping the page. Candice grabbed her own book, and she settled in beside him. But she was unable to concentrate. By the time he was asleep, his light snores rising, her thoughts were twisting out of control. She had to get out of bed.
Downstairs in the study, Candice put her mother’s record on the player and listened to it in its entirety, hoping for clues. When they didn’t come, she sat with her notebook and made a list of reasons her mother might not have talked about her country-western past. None of them made any sense.
