The Things We Knew Page 2

  Her mother had little interest in drawings and paintings; photography had been her passion. Capturing moments most would miss. She’d never been serious about it. A hobby, she’d called it. Lynette’s gaze dragged to the door on the far side of the room. The darkroom—bolted shut and padlocked years ago. Her father’s doing.

  Everything in that room remained out of reach, locked away like the difficult things Lynette didn’t like to think about.

  Strains of Handel’s Water Music suddenly filled the air and chased away the ghosts.

  Lynette frowned and wondered where she’d tossed her cell phone. She found it hiding beneath a sketch pad. “Hello?”

  “Hey, sweetie, it’s Evy. How’s that painting coming along?”

  Lynette marveled at her friend’s timing and dropped into the old rocker by the window. “The beach scene I told you about? I just finished it.” She pushed off with her bare feet and began to rock.

  “Wonderful. When can you bring it in?”

  “Oh.” She studied the paint flecks on her hands. Blue, yellow, red. Similar stains marked her jeans and shirt, probably her hair. She’d scrub them out later, but the red always remained. “I don’t know.”

  Evy huffed. “I thought we had a deal. You promised me you would start selling your work on a regular basis, remember?”

  “I remember. But honestly, Evy, it’s not that good, and—”

  “Nonsense. Honey, trust me, you’re good. I sold your last two paintings for a much higher price than we anticipated, right? Listen, have you thought about doing a show? It’s the beginning of May. Tourists will be coming in soon.”

  Lynette played with her necklace, a strand of wooden beads from Africa. Her brother Ryan sent them last year in the Christmas package for her and Dad. If only Ryan could have delivered them in person.

  She thumped her head against the back of the rocker. “I won’t do a show.”

  “So you’ve won the lottery?”

  “No.” Lynette scrunched her eyes and wished she’d never met Evy McIntyre. “I’ll keep painting, but only if we stick to my rules.”

  “I know. I promise I won’t use your real name.” Evy let out a honk worthy of a Canada goose. “Honey, you can call yourself Attila the Hun for all I care. Just bring me your stuff. I’ll get you cash, like you asked. How about Wednesday?”

  Lynette poked at a hole in her jeans. Scraped at the red paint, pried it off with a fingernail. “I’m working.”

  “Wednesday is your day off.”

  “Fine, Evy. You win. I’ll see you then. Happy?” Lynette imagined her friend’s wide smile.

  “Delirious.” A throaty laugh crackled down the line and Lynette ended the call. Evy could talk her into anything, blast the woman. She should call her back, tell her she changed her mind. Tell her there would be no more paintings.

  Tell her . . . what?

  Evy was right.

  To say they needed the money was an understatement.

  Lynette left the studio by way of the rickety back stairs, the dogs at her heels. On the second floor she poked her head into Dad’s bedroom. He should be up from his nap by now.

  “Dad? You awake?”

  The overpowering scent of Old Spice shot up her nose. A spilled bottle lay on top of his dresser. Clothes were strewn about the floor and falling out of the highboy’s open drawers. His bed was empty, sheets rumpled and hanging off the side of the antique four-poster. The bathroom was vacant, water streaming from the tap. Lynette turned it off, gave the rusting spigot an extra twist just to be sure.

  “Dad?” Her heart began to dance to the erratic beat that started up every time he did this. A draft from the open windows scattered pages of a newspaper on the round table, but the faded chintz curtains barely budged against the wind. Lynette pushed the curtains back and tied them in place with silky gold cords that were likely older than her. She fumbled with the heavy wood-framed windows, eventually latched them, and caught a glimpse of the sky, now dark and menacing.

  “Dad?” She ran down the main stairs and into living room. Calm, calm, calm. He was probably in there reading. Lynette stopped in the doorway. “Dad?” Only the cat occupied her father’s favorite chair by the window. Moxie rested on top of an open book, yellow eyes glinting as she flicked her tail and put her head back down.

  “Oh, Dad, where did you go this time?”

  Diggory and Jasper circled her legs, whining. Furious, frantic thoughts filled her head of what she would do when she found him. Would this be her life from now on? Chasing after the kids at the day care, chasing Dad during her time off?

  She raced to the sliding glass door in the kitchen and slipped into her loafers. And then she saw him.

  He stood by the stone wall at the edge of their property, facing the stormy sea. Monstrous black clouds loomed westward as drops of rain began to splash against the salt-stained glass.

  Relief washed through her and doused out anger.

  Lynette grabbed her Windbreaker from the coatrack and stepped onto the porch. A fierce wind tried to push her back, but she leaned into it and pulled her hood over her head. The dogs raced across the lawn, barking above the noise of the coming storm.

  Dad didn’t move.

  Thunder rumbled off in the distance as Lynette ran over the already soggy lawn toward him, careful to avoid the anthills and patches of thistle. By the time she reached him, her breath came in spurts and rain stung her cheeks like tiny pinpricks.

  “Dad, there’s a storm coming!”

  He startled when she took his arm. “Lynnie? What are you doing home? Shouldn’t you be in school?”

  Rain ran along the crevasses of his face. “No, Dad.” School would be a welcome release, were she still the young girl he pictured in his muddled mind.

  Lynette got him inside as quickly as he would allow. She sat him down and went for a towel. No use suggesting he go upstairs to change, too much effort. The dogs scattered water as they shook themselves and then settled under the kitchen table.

  She worked to keep her voice steady. “Here, dry off. I’ll make us some tea.” Her heart rate slowly returned to normal. He could have gone anywhere, fallen, decided to climb the wall . . .

  Somehow she’d have to figure out how to get him to the doctor again.

  “Why were you out there in the rain, Dad?”

  He grunted and wiped his brow. “I went for a walk. Is that a crime?” He patted his gnarled feet with the towel and pushed them into the worn leather mules she’d dropped beside him. His hair hung limply around his flushed face. He’d always worn it on the long side. Now that it was thinning on top, she might convince him to cut it.

  She took the towel and dried his wet head. “You scared me. I didn’t know where you were and—”

  “Hush, child. I’m fine.” Brown eyes twinkled and told her he was, but she’d been fooled before.

  Lynette squelched a corrective response. At twenty-four, she was hardly a child, but Dad apparently still wasn’t used to the idea of her being an adult.

  At least he hadn’t left the property this time.

  Later that night Lynette put away the last of the supper dishes and went upstairs, ready for some downtime. She stopped outside her dad’s room. The volume of the television was so high she’d heard it from the kitchen. She pushed the door open and looked in. A MacGyver rerun blared from the set, but Dad was snoring. She found the remote under some magazines and shut it off.

  She stood over her father, watched his chest rise and fall. If only she knew for sure what was going on inside his mind. She leaned over and kissed his rough cheek. “’Night, Dad.”

  Whenever she mentioned the idea of him getting another checkup, he’d pitch a fit to rival some of the toddlers at Kiddie Kare. But dodging the inevitable was like pretending they didn’t have to pay taxes. Sooner or later Uncle Sam would come calling. She would have to drag him to the doctor. Still, a diagnosis of dementia or Alzheimer’s was not what she wanted to hear.

  But what else c
ould it be?

  In her own room, she donned a cable-knit sweater and went onto the upstairs porch, as she did every night before bed. The cool night air refreshed and renewed her spirit; it was a temporary reprieve, but she welcomed the deceptive peace as it washed over her and stripped away the stress of the day.

  Waves beat out their rhythm on the rocks as the moon slipped from behind the clouds and lit the garden below. The ocean’s roar was hypnotic. Lulling her into believing things she knew weren’t true. If she listened long enough, she might forget the strange dreams and shadowy figures that crept into her nighttime thoughts and hinted at things she didn’t understand. Staying out here for any length of time often convinced her it was perfectly normal for someone her age to suffer gaps in memory.

  It wasn’t.

  But she succumbed to the soothing sound and indulged in the illusion.

  Nature’s music also reminded her she was never quite alone.

  Even in her moments of profound sadness and confusion, she still believed God would show her what to do. That somehow, some way, He’d provide the answers she needed.

  If only He’d hurry up about it.

  As the wind played with her hair, Lynette looked at the house next door. The Cooperage presided over the acreage abutting theirs, the long upper porch closest to her property. When they were kids, Nick and her brother Gray would hurl a baseball between the two porches, until they broke a window and their mothers put an end to it. Tonight the big house sat in lonely darkness.

  But then a light came on, illuminating the porch. Lynette slid into the darkest part of her patio and let the shadows swallow her up. A door squeaked open and slammed shut. Nick Cooper stepped onto the deck, strode to the railing, and stood there, mirroring the position she’d held a moment ago.

  He glanced her way and she almost bolted back inside, but something—curiosity mostly—made her stay.

  Thanks to Evy, always abreast of town gossip, Lynette had learned Nick was now working for his father at the bank. Odd, considering Nick and his dad had never been close. And Nick had always talked about becoming an architect.

  Since finding Dad at the Coopers’ front door a week ago, she’d spied Nick huddled in a deck chair on the upper porch of his house more than once.

  Some nights he sat in silence. Some nights he strummed on a guitar, lazy notes floating toward her across the inky sky. Some nights she wondered what he was thinking. Other nights she was glad she didn’t know.

  Distance and darkness hid his expression, but she could feel his melancholy. Maybe that was only her imagination. If they were to speak again, what would she say? How did one start over after years and time and circumstances muddied the waters?

  If he knew she was there, on the other side of the estate, watching him, he never let on. And she preferred to stay in the shadows, unseen.

  Suddenly he coughed, stretched, and moved as though heading back inside, but then he turned, slowly, perhaps deliberately, and looked straight at her.

  Busted.

  Chapter Two

  Nick Cooper propelled his body through the lukewarm water, focused only on reaching the other end of the pool, arms pulsing as he pushed through the pain.

  And it’s Cooper in first position, in record-breaking time . . .

  He slapped the warm brick with one hand, slid up his goggles, and reached for the stopwatch on the stone deck.

  Take that, Phelps.

  A grin stretched his stinging skin as water trickled down his face.

  Nick rested his arms on the coping and his breathing slowed. After a moment, he concluded he wasn’t going to have a heart attack. Since high school, all he’d ever wanted to do was swim. His coaches said he held great potential, and for a while Nick believed them. But now, at twenty-six, that aspiration had long since been stuffed into the box of things he’d stopped dreaming about.

  He hoisted himself up, shook water out of his ears, hopping on one foot until he felt the warm release of liquid, and shuddered. In another month or so the ocean would be warm enough, but for now he’d settle for their heated pool.

  Nick grabbed a thick green-striped towel he’d tossed across one of the lounge chairs, dried off, and took in the view of the Atlantic. Yesterday’s storm gave way to better weather and the ocean glistened in momentary calm. Saturday provided a welcome break. He’d survived a week at his new job, survived being home for two weeks.

  Maybe he could do this.

  Today might actually be a good day.

  “How’d you do?” His father’s voice floated toward him.

  Or not.

  Anthony Cooper picked his way over wet spots and pulled out a chair from around the patio table.

  Nick gave his head a vigorous rub and wrapped the towel around his waist. He found a lounger a safe enough distance away and sank onto it. “Not great, but better than yesterday.” The smile he attempted lasted as long as one of Michael Phelps’s records in the 2012 Olympics.

  His father brushed off the cushion of his chair before he sat. With the white sweater draped over his black polo, a pair of Ray-Bans nestled in the V of his shirt, and the silver Rolex around his wrist, he oozed East Coast aristocracy.

  Nick hated that. Hated the awkward silence that always ran between them. Hated the way his dad looked at him without speaking. Scrutinizing.

  Why bother timing yourself, Nick? You never were that good. Do you really think you’re able to resurrect a lost cause?

  Nick’s pulse took off like he’d just heard the starting gun, and he leaned a little farther back in his chair. Maybe he was being unreasonable. Maybe Dad was actually making an effort.

  And maybe they’d find a cure for cancer before the week was out.

  Nick pulled a breath of sea air into his lungs. “You headed to the golf course?” Casual conversation he could do.

  “Yes. I’ll be gone most of the day, having dinner at Cliffside tonight.”

  “All right.” Nick jiggled his left ear and dislodged more water. “I talked to Mom yesterday. The operation went well.”

  Dad’s blue chips of ice seemed to melt a bit. “Oh, right, the knee surgery? You should go out to Arizona to visit when I get back. Take Mindy. I’m sure your mother would love to see her.”

  Nick wouldn’t commit to that suggestion. And Mindy, his sometimes-when-it-suited-her girlfriend, would balk at the idea. “I’ll think about it. How long will you be in Boston?”

  “I’m not sure.” His father glanced at his watch, as usual, after chatting for more than a minute. “I leave midweek. Are you settled in enough for me to go? Can you handle things on your own?”

  A drop of water rolled down Nick’s back and made him shiver. “I think I’ll manage.”

  His father’s thick brows slid together, relaying his lack of faith. “If all goes well, I’ll be back in a week or so. I’m leaving the bank in your hands. You’re in charge now, Nicholas.”

  “I know.” Nick pressed his toes against the wet stone. He’d worked enough summers at the bank with Dad. And they’d gone over the new procedures a million times.

  “You have my schedule,” Dad continued. “Wanda will make sure you’re prepared well in advance for any events that come up.”

  Nick stretched out on the lounger and closed his eyes. Pointless to debate whether he was responsible or not. In Dad’s eyes, once a screw-up, always a screw-up. “I’ll try not to stab anyone when I cut the ribbon on the new hospital wing.”

  His father cleared his throat a little too loudly. “I’m trusting you to be my representative, Nicholas. Your grandfather’s legacy is nothing to joke about.”

  “Who’s joking?” If he had to listen to Dad drone on about the Cooper legacy once more, he’d be stabbing himself with those scissors.

  “Don’t think for one minute that I’m not watching you, son. When you screw up, I’ll know about it before you do.”

  Nick got to his feet. “Thanks for the support.”

  His father gave a slight shrug. “It�
�s not that I don’t appreciate your being here. But trust has to be earned, my boy.”

  Despite the sun on his bare shoulders, that thin smile left Nick chilled. “If you don’t trust me, then don’t leave me in charge. Tucker Watts can do my job.”

  “Tucker Watts is a moron.”

  “Then I guess you’re stuck with me.”

  His father sighed and studied the ocean. “Must every conversation we have end in an argument?”

  “Fine, Dad.” Nick remembered the reason his father was leaving and mustered a smile. “I hope things go well for you.”

  Dad waved a hand and stood. “I don’t want to be worrying the whole time I’m there.”

  “Then don’t.” Nick pulled on a pair of gray sweatpants. “I won’t burn the house down, and I’ll make sure the bank doesn’t go under.”

  “Just . . . stay out of trouble.” He placed a firm hand on Nick’s shoulder. “I’m counting on you, Nicholas. Don’t let me down. Again.”

  Nick held the granite-like gaze and pushed back his shoulders. “I’m going to shower. Have a good day.”

  Later, once he heard the front door slam and his father’s Mercedes roll out of the driveway, Nick grabbed his car keys, slid into his sports car, and gunned the engine. Lunch at his favorite hole-in-the-wall would shake off the foul mood he was now in.

  He turned off the sandy road onto Polpis and headed toward town. Despite his disgruntled spirit, the sight of the ocean was something he never tired of. An early spring brought calmer seas, and he spotted more than a few white sails out there. He might venture down to the yacht club later, see who was around.

  Nick parked outside The Longshoreman, entered the bar, took a seat at his favorite booth, and counted. Soon the bar owner pushed an icy mug his way and dropped into the seat opposite him.

  Nick chuckled. “Thirty seconds. You’re slipping, Jed.”

  “Shut up, rich boy. I got customers.” Jed Hagerman flicked a damp cloth, droplets of water flying.

  “Really?” Nick scanned the almost empty establishment. The dark, dank walls gave the place a mysterious air. Posters of groups from the seventies and eighties still adorned the walls, and he’d bet the jukebox in the corner hadn’t been updated in this decade. He took a swig of amber ale, wiped froth off his upper lip, and grinned. “You’re counting Harry as a customer now? I thought he was part of the furniture.”