Sailing Lessons Read online

  Praise for The Summer House

  “Completely absorbing. . . . Sure to appeal to fans of Elin Hilderbrand and Dorothea Benton Frank, The Summer House is an intriguing glimpse into a complicated yet still loving family.”

  —Shelf Awareness

  “A crisis, unforgettable characters, and dramatic secrets make this book resonate long after the last page is turned.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Charming and warmhearted.”

  —PopSugar

  “McKinnon bottles summer escapist beach reading in her latest, full of sunscreen-slathered days and bonfire nights. Fans of Elin Hilderbrand and Mary Alice Monroe will appreciate the Merrill family’s loving dysfunction, with sibling rivalries and long-held grudges never far from the surface. This sweet-tart novel is as refreshing as homemade lemonade.”

  —Booklist

  “Beach read veteran Hannah McKinnon returns with a summer family drama that needs to be in your straw tote bag immediately.”

  —Bookstr

  Praise for Mystic Summer

  “When two roads diverge . . . take the one that leads to the beach! Hannah McKinnon delivers a charming gem of a novel in Mystic Summer. I adored this book.”

  —Elin Hilderbrand, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Identicals

  “Hannah McKinnon’s Mystic Summer is a heartwarming story of lost love and the against-all-odds chance of finding it again. . . . Mystic Summer is a lovely summer beach read that will keep readers turning the page until the very end!”

  —Nan Rossiter, New York Times bestselling author of Summer Dance

  “Mystic, Connecticut, provides an enchanting backdrop for this delectable summer read, in which the pull of home exerts its power on a delightful cast of characters. . . . Hannah McKinnon masterfully shows that you can go home again—it’s what you do when you get there that counts.”

  —Meg Mitchell Moore, author of The Admissions

  “Hannah McKinnon’s new book reminds readers that the right choice isn’t always the logical one. Beautifully written, Mystic Summer blends the simple allure of past summers with the messiness of the present. It’s the perfect summer read—any time of the year.”

  —Amy E. Reichert, author of The Optimist’s Guide to Letting Go

  “New adult and women’s fiction fans will find this book appealing. It’s a novel for twentysomethings facing major decisions including love, marriage, first apartments, jobs, houses, and the decision whether or not to have children.”

  —Library Journal

  Praise for The Lake Season

  “Seasons of change take us home to the places and the people who shelter us. Well-told, and in turns sweet and bare, The Lake Season offers a compelling tale of family secrets, letting go, and the unbreakable bonds of sisterhood.”

  —Lisa Wingate, nationally bestselling author of Before We Were Yours

  “A delicious tale of sisters and secrets. Hannah McKinnon’s writing style is as breezy as a weekend at the lake, yet her insights into the murkiness of family interactions run deep. The takeaway of this compelling read is clear: you can know someone your whole life and not know them at all.”

  —Mary Hogan, award-winning author of Two Sisters

  “Hannah McKinnon’s lyrical debut tells the story of a pair of very different sisters, both at a crossroads in life. McKinnon’s great strength lies in her ability to reveal the many ways the two women wound—and ultimately heal—each other as only sisters can.”

  —Sarah Pekkanen, New York Times bestselling author of Ever After

  “This is a beautiful tale of sisters, a heartfelt journey of truth and choices that will leave you deeply satisfied.”

  —Linda Francis Lee, bestselling author of The Glass Kitchen

  “Charming and heartfelt! Hannah McKinnon’s The Lake Season proves that you can go home again; you just can’t control what you find when you get there.”

  —Wendy Wax, New York Times bestselling author of the Ten Beach Road series and The House on Mermaid Point

  “Hannah McKinnon’s The Lake Season is a pure delight. Iris Standish is such an appealing woman, handling an overload of family calamities with good sense and good will, not to mention a few really good times. It’s a bonus that the setting on Lake Hampstead is as enticing and refreshing as McKinnon’s voice.”

  —Nancy Thayer, New York Times bestselling author of A Nantucket Wedding

  “Sometimes funny, sometimes sad—but always bursting with compassion and sly humor. The Lake Season is a joy to read for anyone who cherishes the complexity and richness of family dynamics. Impossible not to be swept along by the characters. The perfect book to spread out with luxuriously on the beach.”

  —Saira Shah, author of The Mouse-Proof Kitchen

  “Charming, absorbing and perfectly paced, The Lake Season is as full of warmth as summer itself. Don’t blame Hannah McKinnon if this cinematic tale has you glued to a beach chair until it’s finished!”

  —Chloe Benjamin, New York Times bestselling author of The Anatomy of Dreams and The Immortalists

  “An emotionally charged story about returning to yourself.”

  —K. A. Tucker, USA Today bestselling author of Keep Her Safe

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  To the Jackson girls: Jennifer, Chloe & Ari. The Bailey girls have nothing on you.

  Prologue

  Her mother told her not to go outside. She is lying on her grandmother’s living room couch, under the “sick blanket.” It is plaid and soft and worn in all the right places, and her mother saves it for when any of them are feeling poorly.

  Outside the day is gray and thick with fog, the early fingertips of a storm reaching in off the sound and tapping at their shingled house. It has been raining lightly all morning and she is home with strep throat. The doctor advised she rest until her fever broke. And Wren is mad. Missing a day of fifth grade was one thing. But today is Saturday. Her mother and grandmother have just gone out to fetch groceries. Wren had feigned sleep before they left, peeking through one eyelid as they stepped out into the stormy day.

  Once again, her father has been sleeping all day. She had wondered aloud if he had strep too, and her mother got a sad strange look on her face. “No, Bird. He’s just tired.” Her father has been tired a lot lately, ever since they moved into their grandmother’s house on School Street. He sleeps whole days when the rest of them go out to school. The clink of the glass on the kitchen table at night is sometimes the only sound of him in the house, the empty beer bottles in the trash bin the next day the only evidence of his having roused But today he has surprised his three girls by waking up as soon as their mother and grandmother have left. He bursts into the living room in tall rubber boots and a slicker and asks, “Who wants to go fishing on Lighthouse Beach?”

  Piper squeals with glee. She has recently been given a child-sized pink fishing rod—a toy, really—and she glares when her older sisters remind her of this fact. It is real! And she wants to use it.

  Shannon is worried. She loves to fish with their father, and she is good at it. As the eldest sister, Shannon knows how to drag the skiff down to the water’s edge. She can bait a hook without making a face. Her father admires this out loud, robustly, and it is something that makes ten-year-old Wren ache with jealo
usy.

  But Shannon doesn’t want to go today. “It’s too windy,” she worries. “The water will be choppy.”

  “Nonsense. The fish love this weather,” their father insists.

  Wren does not think their mother would like this, but she doesn’t care; she has been stuck inside for days and despite her achy limbs and woozy head, she wants nothing more than to go. But here their father agrees with their mom. “No, Wren. You stay home and rest. We’ll catch one for you.”

  This only makes her head burn hotter. Wren watches them suit up and collect rods with disdain. She listens to the din of them getting ready to go followed by the silence that falls on the house like a pillow the second the door closes behind them.

  She throws the blanket back and goes to the door. Outside her father and sisters are walking up the street toward Main. They will turn right toward Lighthouse Beach. She tugs her red polka-dot rain boots on over her pajama feet and zips herself into a hooded coat. It won’t take her long to catch up. As long as she hangs back until they reach the beach, her father won’t send her all the way home.

  She trots up School Street. The road is quiet, and at the end of the street lies Lighthouse parking lot. It’s empty. When she reaches the steps that lead down to the beach, she pauses. She’s more tired than she realized. Her father and sisters have already climbed down the steep stairs leading to the sand and are now small dots near the water, just below their friends, the Jackson’s house. The Jacksons own the lovely white house above the beach; they let Caleb store the Beetle Cat there. Wren squints. The beach below is so dense with fog, it’s hard to discern sand from sky.

  It takes a long time to get down the steps to the beach. Wren is out of breath, and the wind is strong. What she can see of the channel looks rough. Her limbs ache, and she sorely wishes she were back at home under the sick blanket. Wren is about to turn around when she hears the sound of a girl’s scream. Wren turns, shielding her face from the blast of sand and wind. The sound comes again. Followed by something else. The sound of a man shouting. Her father!

  She kicks off her boots. When her bare feet hit the sand at the bottom of the steps, she pounds at it with her heels, digging her toes in for speed. Ahead she sees the Beetle Cat. It is bobbing on the surf, and her father’s yellow slicker is slipping in and out of the water beside it. She realizes then it is flipped over.

  By the time she reaches the edge of the water, her lungs are roaring with effort. The boat is not far offshore, and she begins to run toward it. A wave hits her in the knees, knocking her backward. When she regains her footing, the yellow slicker by the boat is gone. Now there is another head bobbing beside the boat. Wren screams. “Shannon!” Where is her father? Where is Piper?

  As if he hears her cries through the currents, her father surfaces. He whips his head back and forth, coughing, shaking off water. And then Shannon disappears. Wren screams again. The boat rocks on the water, whitecaps crashing around it. Shannon is still under the water. “Shannon!” This time it is her father. Wren watches in horror as he reaches into the dark depths, head bent. He dives. Now it is just the boat.

  Up the shore, Wren sees two figures walking. No, they are running toward them. With a dog. “Help!” she screams into the gusty wind. She has no idea if they can hear her. Just when she thinks her lungs will explode, Shannon and her father burst through the surface together. Her father swings Shannon up and over, onto the hull of the flipped Beetle. Shannon flops like a rag doll, all soaked hair and clothes and limbs. But she is holding something against her chest. Something slippery and dark. Their father throws his arm over the boat, reaching and scrambling to push Shannon up to safety. To pull himself up. It is then Wren realizes what is stretched across the boat between them. It’s the limp form of Piper.

  Wren surges through the water. From out of nowhere a man runs past her, leaping over the waves. He dives and makes his way out to the wreckage, his arms cutting through the surf. There are more arms: strong arms that grasp her middle. “It’s okay,” someone cries in her ear. A woman. “I’ve got you.”

  Wren is kicking and paddling toward the boat. She is a good swimmer. This woman doesn’t understand. She has to get to her family.

  But she can’t. The arms are stronger than she is, the grip relentless. All the air goes out of her. Wren is dragged back to the beach. There is a police siren behind from the parking lot. There are more people now. And hands. So many hands, rubbing her shivering arms and legs. Laying her back on the wet sand. The last thing she sees is the sky. The sun is breaking through.

  When she wakes up, the light is bright. Too bright. But it is not the sun. There is the incessant beep she heard in her dreams. The fluorescent hum overhead. Wren blinks and tries to sit up. She’s in a bed. Beside her, propped up in another bed, is Shannon, her face as blanched as the sheets enveloping her. Her mother’s face appears above her; a sob escapes her throat. She cups Wren’s face.

  “Piper?” Wren’s voice is sandpaper.

  Shannon’s head turns slowly on the pillow. “I got her, Wrenny. She’s okay.”

  Lindy presses her forehead to Wren’s. “Piper’s just down the hall, baby. She’s having some tests, and we can see her soon,” she whispers.

  It’s then Wren notices her father. He’s slumped in a chair. His head is between his knees. A keening sound she has never heard before emanates from his corner of the room.

  One

  Hank

  There would be no sixty-fifth birthday party after all. To be fair it was not the dog’s fault. Bowser, oversized in limb as he was overzealous in tongue, could not entirely be blamed.

  “He needs hip surgery!” Lindy announced as she fluttered into the kitchen, wringing her hands so that all her silver bracelets jangled nervously up and down her elegant arms. “Oh, and we took your car, honey. I’m afraid there’s a rip across the backseat, but that hardly matters now.”

  Hardly? They (being Lindy and the dog) had just returned from the vet, and Hank could feel the back of his neck prickle. He was so distracted by the news of their chosen mode of transport and the subsequent backseat damage, that he had not fully processed what his wife was saying about the dog. He knew this would happen. To his consternation, he’d discovered his new car was not in the driveway when he’d gone out to retrieve the morning paper from the stoop. Only Lindy’s car remained—the dog car—aptly named for its age, its wear, and its accompanying odor. It was parked beside the rose bushes, its dented green fender reflecting the morning sun coming up over the house. He groaned.

  Lindy had sworn not to let Bowser in the new car. Hank’s new car: a sensible and pristinely kept Volvo wagon, his only splurge being the buttery leather interior he had no intention of marring with Great Dane toenails, and whose windows he would prefer not be shellacked in dog drool. He pictured Lindy zipping through town, Bowser’s head thrust out the back-left window, his tail sticking out the right. “How big is the rip?”

  Lindy waved her hand in the air, her new focus on to the hulking espresso maker, which she jiggled and rattled impatiently. “How does this thing . . . ?”

  “The lever on the right,” Hank began. “You have to pull the lever.” Unlike his car the coffee maker was not new, and yet they went through this every morning. But never mind—he was still picturing the backseat of his car.

  Lindy tugged the lever twice, and Hank let out his breath as the steaming concoction coursed into her cup. She dumped in a heap of sugar, shaking her head as she spoke. “He was just neutered last month. And now he needs hip surgery. My poor baby.”

  My poor wallet, is what Hank was thinking but did not dare say. First the Volvo seat and now the dog. Though he should’ve been used to it by now.

  His wife was gifted, no—cursed—with an attraction for wayward animals. Stray cats who appeared at the back screen door. Baby birds fallen from nests. Just yesterday the slow-moving disc of a snapping turtle that needed to be ferried across a busy road, a move he later learned Lindy did all by herself
as the two men, who had also pulled their cars over, stood warily aside verbally noting the dangerous size of its jagged mouth. Animals in distress always found Lindy Bailey. If anyone had bothered to ask Hank, he would’ve declared himself an animal lover as devout as the next. He’d had plenty of pets as a kid: a handful of hamsters, several cats; he couldn’t recall a dogless school year if pressed. But it paled against what Lindy had going on.

  • • •

  The fact of her boundless canine love was the second thing she’d told him on the night they met at the Squire. “I have three headstrong daughters. And we love dogs.” Whether it had been a confession or a warning, he had not been sure. Were the headstrong daughters the reason for the dog-loving requirement? Was it a condition they’d set forth for their single mother: the measuring stick against which all prospective suitors of their mother would be judged? Or were the dogs and daughters independent of one another—two equally imperative pieces of information that Hank needed to be made aware of? It didn’t matter. Lindy’s unblinking blue eyes had been so earnest it had gone to his heart. The second those words were uttered, she’d swept a lock of blonde hair girlishly behind her ear and tipped back the glass of bourbon that had shown up during her telling. In that moment, had she asked him to join the circus, he would have.

  Now, fifteen years later in their Cape Cod kitchen, Hank’s adoration for Lindy Bailey had not thinned in its concentration. Her youthful frame still barely filled the kitchen doorway when she entered each morning, blinking, lured from bed by the scent of the espresso he brewed for her. These days there were creases that had etched their paths around her eyes, but they were still eyes that crinkled with easy laughter. What made him happiest was that Lindy now possessed an air of contentedness in her posture that had replaced the too-slow-to-empty recesses of worry she’d carried in her limbs when they’d first met. Back then she was an overwhelmed single mother to three preteen girls who not only needed but also demanded her attention like ravenous eaglets in a nest. Her devotion to them was something that had pulled Hank to her, a surprise since he had no children of his own and could not recall ever wanting any.