The View from Here Read online

  Praise for Sailing Lessons

  “If you are a fan of sisterhood-themed beach reads by Nancy Thayer and Elin Hilderbrand, then McKinnon’s latest engaging standalone needs to go on your summer to-be-read list.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “McKinnon writes with such imagery that you can almost smell the salt in the air.”

  —Booked

  “Books perfect for Summer Reading.”

  —Book Trib

  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

  “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

  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

  “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

  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

  “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 The Wife Between Us

  “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. 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

  “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 Immortalists

  “An emotionally charged story about returning to yourself.”

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

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  For John, who is graciously writing the second chapter with me. These handscribbled, dog-haired, messy pages are sacred stuff. I cannot wait to fill them.

  “I only went out for a walk and finally concluded to stay out till sundown, for going out, I found, was really going in.”

  —John Muir

  Perry

  Perry Goodwin rang his parents’ doorbell and inspected the high polish on his shoes. It was his grandmother Elsie’s ninety-seventh birthday, and in lieu of putting her in a nursing home they were throwing her a party.

  Already he could hear the thrum of voices inside. But no one came to the door.

  Perry did not like crowds. He most certainly did not like parties. He barely liked his family, if he were to be honest. They were just so… unshakably themselves. But he adored his grandmother Elsie. And the rest of them needed him, so here he was. He checked his watch. “Be on time!” his mother, Jane, had said in her falsetto hosting voice when she’d called. Which was almost an offense, really, because Perry was never late. Take now, for instance. He was still three minutes early, and yet his punctuality would go unnoticed because no one was there to let him in.

  If his wife, Amelia, had been with him, she would’ve already pushed the door open. Amelia was like that. But she was not here, and so Perry rang the bell again and waited. Finally, the door swung open.

  “What are you doing standing out here like a stray?” His younger sister, Phoebe, grabbed his wrist and tugged him inside. “You were supposed to rescue me. Everyone’s here.”

  “Not everyone,” he said, removing his coat. “Amelia is picking up Emma at school. And besides, the party just started.” Phoebe could be so dramatic.

  But she was not listening. She was suddenly distracted by her reflection in the hall mirror and had begun raking her hands through her hair in some attempt to change it. “So, did you hear about Jake’s new girl?”

  Perry glanced across the marble foyer at the ripple of gray-haired guests overflowing from the living room. It figured. The elderly were always early. He scoured the crowd, hoping that his parents’ neighbor Eugene Banks was not in attendance. Mr. Banks had the distasteful practice of cornering Perry at family parties, clapping him loudly on the back and asking him how much he’d earned in the past year as a car insurance agent. Perry was a risk analyst for one of New York’s premier entertainment firms. He did not insure cars. He most certainly did not discuss personal finances.

  Phoebe gave up on her hair and spun around. “We finally get to lay eyes on her. She’s coming to the party!”

  Perry followed the brisk swish of his sister’s yellow skirt into the crowded living room. “Who’s coming?”

  Phoebe glared at him over her shoulder. “I just told you. Jake’s new girl.”

  Perry was about to ask if this new girl of their younger brother’s had a name, but he was suddenly clapped on the back. “Perry!” He cringed. Thankfully, it was only his father, Edward, his eyes glimmering with pleasure. “Good to see you, son.”

  Perry let himself be pulled into a hug. If overly demonstrative, his father was the most reasonable member of the family. “Looks like quite a party. How’s Nana doing?”

  Edward indicated across the room where Elsie was neatly folded into a damask wingback by the window. “Holding court.”

  Indeed, his
grandmother looked pleased. Her eyes traveled about the room locking every now and then on her twin great-grandsons, Jed and Patrick, who galloped through the sea of trouser pants and skirts with confections in hand.

  Spying Perry, they headed straight for him, pushing and shoving to get to their uncle first. Phoebe’s sons were a handful, but Perry adored them. “Who got into the sweets already?” he asked, as Jed leapt up to be held. Perry held him a safe distance away from his white dress shirt and inspected the boy’s chocolate-dotted lips. The four-year-old still clutched a half-eaten cookie, and once ensconced in the safety of his uncle’s arms he leaned down and swiped at his brother’s hair with his free hand. Below, Patrick yelped. “Grandma said we could.”

  Edward shook his head. “Of course she did. Now come with me, I think we should wash those hands.” Perry set Jed down and watched him and his brother reluctantly trail their grandfather to the bathroom. Meanwhile their parents were on the opposite side of the room chatting and laughing with guests, champagne in hand, completely checked out. Why not, when everyone else in the family could watch your kids?

  Perry helped himself to a cup of punch and made his way through the crowd to Elsie. “Happy birthday, Nana.” He leaned down and kissed her cheek.

  “Oh, Perry my love,” she said softly, her voice barely a whisper. “Look how handsome.”

  As eldest, Perry had always felt a special bond with his grandmother. He had been the first grandchild, and as such she’d fussed over him. Since his grandfather had passed away last year, she’d come to live with Perry’s parents, a move that both heartened and concerned him. The house was hardly suitable for a ninety-seven-year-old. There were steep stairs and laquered wooden floors. He also worried about the toll on his parents for having to care for Elsie. Just as it pained Perry now to feel the tremor in her fingers as she pressed a hand lovingly to his cheek.

  “Are you enjoying your big day?” he asked.

  “It’s just another year,” she said. Elsie glanced up at him, her cloudy blue eyes searching his own. Perry felt something inside him shift. Growing old had begun to frighten him.

  “Pray tell, where is that bony wife of yours?” his grandmother asked.

  Perry was used to this commentary, and yet he still flinched. Amelia was thin, but he liked to think elegantly so. His grandmother did not share that sentiment.

  “Now, Nana. Amelia might be hurt if she was here to hear that.”

  “But she’s not. That’s the risk of arriving late to a party—you’ll find yourself the topic of conversation.” She shrugged, a mischievous smile fluttering across the soft folds of her face. “What is that you’re drinking, dear?” she gestured to his cup.

  “Punch.”

  Elsie frowned. “Virgin?”

  “I believe so. Would you like some?”

  She pursed her lips. “What I’d like is a little bourbon.”

  Perry glanced at the bar cart across the room. “I thought your medications weren’t to be mixed with alcohol.”

  Elsie pointed in the direction of the cart. “Double finger, dear.”

  “But Nana.”

  Elsie placed her hand on his own and squeezed. “Perry, my love. You must learn to have some fun. Or at least allow the rest of us.”

  Perry sighed. “Be right back.”

  Phoebe found him at the bar cart. “We need to talk.”

  “In just a minute. Nana insists I get her a bourbon.” He shook his head. “I guess one won’t hurt.”

  Phoebe laughed. “One? That’s at least her second. She made Dad fetch her one earlier.”

  Perry set the bottle down. “That minx.”

  “Relax.” Phoebe took the glass from him and resumed the pour. “How many ninety-seventh birthdays does one get?”

  Perry watched her march off in the direction of the birthday girl with the drink in question. “There won’t be a ninety-eighth if she keeps it up,” he called after her.

  Amelia and Emma had still not arrived. When he finally made it to the punch bowl, it was empty. He lugged it into the kitchen.

  “There you are!” His mother, Jane, stood at the counter scraping something dry and blackened off of a tray and into the farmhouse sink.

  “Hello, Mother. What have you there?”

  “It was a tray of Brie and apricot tarts.” She shrugged. “But Nana can’t chew very well these days, so it’s not like she could’ve eaten them anyway.”

  Perry helped himself to a cup of punch and observed the momentary slump in his mother’s posture. She turned to him, straightening her apron. “So, how are you?”

  “Fine.” He held up the punch bowl.

  “You think of everything.” She nodded toward the pantry. “Two bottles of seltzer and one of cranberry juice. You didn’t happen to notice if Jake arrived yet, did you? He’s bringing his Olivia.”

  Olivia. So the new girl did have a name. Perry glanced out the kitchen window at the circular drive. What could be taking his wife so long?

  “She’s a doll, this one. Have you met her?”

  He had not. But that was clearly about to change. “Do I have a choice?” It was tiring. Every special occasion, a new girl.

  Like the rest of the Goodwin offspring, Jake was sharp and handsome. But unlike his more reserved siblings, he possessed a flirtatious streak that coursed back to their high school years, the likes of which had managed to attract the attention of the cutest girls in Perry’s junior class the first week of Jake’s freshman year. Although Perry aced his AP courses and swept the CIAC track and field championship that year, he’d regrettably remained unable to engage in any meaningful interaction with a member of the opposite sex, and so it was young Jake who’d lobbied (and then landed) his big brother a date two days before prom. “There’s room in our limo,” Jake had added.

  Perry had been flummoxed. “You’re going to prom? Wait—you have a limo?”

  Little had changed in the years since.

  The last Perry had heard, Jake was seeing the multipierced blond rock climber from Colorado he’d met at Burning Man. The one who’d lasted almost the whole of the previous year, leaving the family to wonder in not-so-quiet whispers if this one would stick. But then there was the redheaded accountant, at Christmas. If Perry wasn’t mistaken, she was the one who’d giggled so nervously at the dinner table she snorted spiced eggnog out of her nose. Or maybe that was the blonde.

  His mother ignored his question and continued scraping at the burnt tray in the sink. “There’s something about this one. You’ll see.”

  Perry found the seltzer bottles in the pantry and emptied them carefully into the bowl, considering his mother’s choice of words. “There’s always something.”

  “Oh, and I suppose you heard, I’ve asked your sister and Rob to move in with the kids while their new cottage is being renovated. I fear she’s taken on too much, and they really can’t keep living like that.”

  “Is that wise?” Phoebe could be so selfish. It was too much to ask. Let alone of aging parents who already had their hands full with their Nana. He lifted the punch bowl gingerly, measuring the distance between himself and the dining room table where a clutch of women of a certain age hovered in orthopedic shoes, a group his mother referred to as “the biddies.” Mrs. Lorenzo from next door was laughing loudly and gesturing a bit too exuberantly. He and the punch bowl would have to take a different route.

  “Well, I can’t exactly send my grandchildren out on the streets.”

  “The streets?” Perry had been thinking more along the lines of a hotel. Or better yet, telling Phoebe to grit her teeth and live through her self-imposed house renovation like most people did. After all, it was Phoebe and Rob’s choice to sell their perfectly good house, buy a falling-down shack on the lake, and then tear it apart. It was hardly the cottage’s fault it was a hundred years old. “It might not be as temporary as you think, Mom. Renovations always take longer than planned. And the boys are great, but they’re a real handful. When you combine that wit
h everything going on with Nana…”

  There was a sudden clatter. His mother dumped the tray into the sink, and plucked a single cigarette out of her pocket. If she’d pulled out a switchblade, Perry could not have been more surprised.

  “Mom?” The punch sloshed dangerously against the sides of the bowl.

  Jane Goodwin did not smoke. Had never smoked. His father, Edward, enjoyed the occasional cigar, but Perry had no recollection of ever having seen his mother smoke, even in the haze of the early seventies when just about everyone seemed to. She reached for a high cabinet, ferreted around behind the sugar jar, and produced a lighter.

  “Mother. What are you doing?”

  Jane blinked. “Oh, please. It’s just one.” Her heels clicked as she headed for the patio door and flung it ajar.

  Perry watched in horror as she leaned out, lit up, and inhaled. “When did this start?” he asked. Then, “Do you understand how toxic that is? Your lungs!”

  Jane Goodwin was a portrait of health. All his life Perry’s mother had been fit and trim. She played tennis. She ate salad. In a corner of their manicured lawn she tended an organic herb garden.

  She took a deep drag and closed her eyes dreamily. “Take the punch out to those biddies. And not a word to your father.”

  Perry navigated the small sea of guests precariously. Phoebe swept up beside him, and again he had to steady the bowl. “Watch it.” Then, “Since when does Mom smoke?”

  “What? I don’t know. Listen, Rob is going to ask you about joining the Club. I want you to talk it down.”

  “My Club?” Had she not just heard what he’d said about their mother?

  Phoebe trailed him to the dining room, fidgeting with her bracelets. “Jesus, Perry. It’s not yours.”

  Technically, perhaps. But Perry was the president of the Candlewood Cove Clubhouse, a rustic but exclusive enclave on the western shore of Candlewood Lake in his gated community. Residing in the Cove did not guarantee membership. It had taken him four years, since buying his two-million-dollar home, just to be sponsored. And several more to work his way onto the board and up to presidency. Phoebe may have just bought a cottage on the lake, but it was across the way. Outside the clubhouse community. And though he loved his sister, he did not exactly relish the thought of sharing his private escape with her and her boisterous young brood.