Sailing Lessons Read online

  In that vein he’d had to learn how to navigate around Lindy, and later, her girls. Like everyone else who crossed their paths, he was helpless in the wake of their glossy hair, their urgent chatter, the beguiling flood of laughter that erupted as easily as their tempers. The Bailey women had that effect on people, and despite his thinking otherwise, his years of worldly travel and education during his quiet bachelor life had been no match for them.

  Lindy sipped her espresso and stared absently out the window overlooking the green stretch of backyard and the salt pond beyond it. “I’m afraid we’ll have to cancel our trip.”

  Hank blinked. “Tuscany?”

  “I’m sorry, dear. But don’t worry, we’ll still have a party.”

  Hank was not an extravagant man. The idea of the birthday party thrown in his honor was not something he relished. That he’d agreed to a party at all had been cause for celebration. Lindy and Shannon had seized upon it, and since then the party had taken on a life of its own, morphing from an intimate backyard gathering into an event. His September birthday was still three months away! And yet a caterer had been sought. A tent had been mentioned. Hank cringed at every turn; he hated being the focus of attention. He hated getting older. He hated, most of all, a fuss.

  But the real cause for celebration—the sole saving grace of this party—was the trip! He and Lindy would finally be going to Tuscany. The planning for which was as long and winding as the years he’d spent acclimating to family life with the Bailey girls.

  The seed for the trip had also been planted that first fabled night they met at the Squire, just after mention of the daughters and the dogs. The third thing she’d told him that night was that she’d never been to Italy. He’d lifted one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug; many people had not been to Italy. But she’d turned to him then, leaning in close and lowering her voice, as in confession. He’d mirrored her, their noses almost touching. He was so engrossed by the lingering smell of bourbon on her lips—fuller lips he’d not seen—that he almost missed what she said next. That she longed to eat wild boar pappardelle and sip Vin Santo in a trattoria. That she could not imagine her life without biking along a village road and finding a field of sunflowers beside which to set up her art easel. The images that took root in Hank’s mind had caused him to steady himself on his barstool. This woman, who so far had spoken only of wild boar and even wilder children, was unlike any person he had ever met. He’d decided right then they would go together.

  No matter that that decision had taken a backseat to fifteen years of ballet lessons and soccer carpools and, later, college tuitions. To leaving Boston and getting married and moving in together in the sleepy seaside hamlet of Chatham. To walking the ever-quivering wire that was stepparenting three children who on some days clung to him like lovestruck monkeys and on others could wither his insides with their passing glares. On occasions of particular struggle, like the time Piper ran away from Girl Scout camp in upstate Maine to find a boy she’d met at the camp across the lake, or when Shannon and five classmates handcuffed themselves to the band teacher’s desk to protest the board of education’s defunding of the district arts program, Hank had wondered what on earth he’d gotten himself into by marrying into a full-fledged family. By what stroke of madness had he given up his quiet Brookline apartment with its leather wingback chair overlooking the cityscape? In those moments of doubt he’d drawn strength from the gauzy memory of that first meeting with his wife at the pub: the burn of bourbon on her lips, the fearless glint in her gaze, and the promise of a Tuscan voyage, just the two of them. And so with that sole reason to steel himself by, Hank had weathered it all, eventually finding himself so bewitched by each of the three Bailey girls that he committed to seeing them through their complicated adolescences into adulthood year after year. Until this year, with all three finally sprung from the family house, when he and Lindy had booked their tickets for his birthday trip to Italy. They had made it. They would, after all, embrace in slumber in some faraway hotel under a Tuscan moon.

  Hank stared back at his wife. “We’re canceling Tuscany?”

  Lindy set her empty mug in the sink and ran the tap. “You poor thing.”

  But she was not referring to Hank. “I knew hip dysplasia was common in large breeds, but Bowser’s so young. The vet quoted the surgery at five thousand dollars. And then there’s the physical therapy afterward: at least eight weeks. But I think we can do some of that here at home.” She turned to look at Hank, a soapy dish in her hand. “We can’t not do it, honey.”

  As if on cue, Bowser ambled into the kitchen and collapsed on the antique pine floor to nap. Lindy beamed. “Look. Look at that face.”

  Hank did as he was told, but Bowser did not return the gaze. He was too busy staring back at Lindy with the singular and abiding love a dog holds for its person. Hank was not that person.

  Hank sighed and looked instead at his feet that were tucked into worn sheepskin slippers. He needed new slippers. The dog needed a new hip.

  Behind him Lindy clattered a pan in the farmhouse sink. “Don’t worry, darling. Tuscany will still be there.”

  Two

  Wren

  “Damn it.” There were two missing boxes. Maybe three. Wren tore the shipping slip from its plastic sleeve and scrutinized the order. Bas relief art tiles: clamshell, crab, plover. Seahorse, schooner, shark. The shark motif had been a custom request, and she was thrilled when Carol, the artist, agreed to make a limited-edition series for her.

  Ari, her shop assistant, looked up sympathetically from behind the cash register. “No sharks?”

  “No sharks.”

  Thanks to a rise in great white shark sightings in recent years, Chatham had become famed along the eastern seaboard and was now known as the new shark capital. To the surprise of the chamber of commerce, instead of deterring tourists, so far the influx of sharks along Chatham’s shores seemed to be luring them. In that spirit, local shop owners and businesses were trying to embrace the arrival of their finned visitors. The Chatham Merchant’s Association launched a shark artwork installation on the front lawn in front of the Eldredge Library. Five-foot-long “sharks” were sponsored and decorated by local businesses and then displayed in front of the library steps. They were quite popular among both locals and tourists, so much so that on a few occasions a shark had been “poached,” leading to a reward being offered for information about the stolen piece of art. As her own nod to the great white visitors and as a whimsical touch to her new boutique, the Fisherman’s Daughter, Wren had commissioned a special shark tile to be made for her shop. But now it was missing.

  Wren scanned the open boxes strewn across the shop’s hardwood floor. The crabs, clams, and plovers were accounted for. The rest of the order was not. Wren slapped a box shut.

  It was the first week of June, and though tourist season officially started Memorial Day, the real stream of visitors wouldn’t clog the Mid-Cape Highway until school let out. It was her deadline to have the store stocked and ready for them.

  “Want me to call UPS?” Ari asked. “We placed the order. We know Carol made them.”

  “Please do. They’re custom pieces. It’s not like we can refill a missing order by next week.” She checked her watch: Lucy would be home from school in twenty minutes. “I’ve got just enough time to hang these before I go. Though I really want a coffee.”

  Ari scrutinized the boxes and then the look on her boss’s face. “I’ll get it. How about a green tea? It’s calming.”

  “The usual will do: two creams, one sugar, please.”

  Ari shrugged and took the five-dollar bill Wren handed her on the way out. She was the new hire—the only hire—freshly home from her first year at BC and as new to retail as the boutique was to Main Street. But if she had zero experience in sales, she was also unlike the other candidates who answered questions with an apathetic air, seemingly more interested in scoping out the proximity to the beach or keeping their nights free. Ari, her last interview of the
day, had walked in with a book under her arm and then halted in the middle of the store, eyes narrowed.

  “What?” Wren had asked. By that point, she’d had no patience and even less hope of finding someone.

  Ari shook her head. “Nothing.” But her gaze roamed across the painted shelves of maritime artwork that lined the wall, the rack of earth-toned organic cotton clothes, and finally rested on the old pine table in the center of the room where spindly arms of driftwood displayed bracelets, necklaces, and rings crafted by Cape jewelers. Wren watched as she set her book down and moved thoughtfully through the store, peering into the glass jewelry case by the cash register, running her fingers over a teal scarf.

  “That scarf is made from seaweed.”

  “So this is all local?” Ari picked up a necklace, and turned the pearly amulet at its center over in her hand.

  “All of it. And eco-friendly. That’s an antique button,” Wren said, pointing at the necklace in Ari’s open palm.

  “Huh. It looks like carved oyster shell.”

  Wren smiled. “Which is why I love it.”

  Ari looked around once more and nodded, but her expression was hard to place. “Yeah. This place is different.”

  Wren felt her defense going up. “How so?”

  “I don’t know. I guess it feels like you brought the ocean indoors.” And with that statement, Ari was Wren’s right-hand girl for the summer.

  • • •

  But the store had yet to open its doors. Wren had signed the lease that winter and had been fiercely working to ready the space since. There were dark frosted nights when she made dinner for Lucy, tucked her into bed, and left her in Lindy’s care only to drive back into town to scrape and sand the baseboards or prime the display shelves with paint into the wee hours. The short gray days had been filled with making phone calls and placing orders to handpicked artisans. Like Carol, from Provincetown, whose ceramic sculpture tiles were glazed and kiln-dried. Or Joseph, from Sandwich, who provided hand-dyed seaweed scarves so soft your fingers lingered in the twists of their fiber. All of the previous fall Wren had driven up and down the Cape to find these wares and their makers, visiting craft fairs and dipping into local boutiques. Main Street Chatham was already teeming with trendy clothing stores, galleries, and gift shops. Wren was purposefully not like them: she did not possess the largest inventory or carry the trendiest souvenirs. A business move that had initially worried her family.

  “No Lily Pulitzer?” Shannon had asked, blinking. Wren suppressed her irritation. She’d fully expected her older sister’s pragmatism. After all, Shannon did not run a large home over on Stage Harbor and ferry her three children from violin lessons to chess matches to lacrosse practice, while also assisting at her husband, Reid’s, office, without running a tight ship. Reid and his family, all Boston natives, owned Whitcomb Group, the largest commercial and residential brokerage on the Cape, and it was he who had tipped Wren off about the upcoming retail space on Main Street before it even listed.

  “Not her style,” Lindy said, briskly coming to Wren’s defense. Lindy had loved the ecofriendly-boutique concept from the start. Of course she had—she was an artist—but she, too, expressed some measure of doubt. “What about a few pairs of sunglasses? This is a summer resort town, honey.”

  “Not my vision,” Wren explained. Then, winking, she said, “No pun intended.”

  Only Lindy laughed.

  “What? I want to be unique,” Wren said.

  Shannon was not giving an inch. “You want to survive past Labor Day, too, don’t you?”

  Wren told herself she didn’t care if her family didn’t get it. She knew what downtown Chatham retailers had to offer, and she knew what was missing. There would be no Sperry Top-Siders or CAPE COD hoodies in her window. Nor would there be booming music or throngs of teenage girls bent over a basket of sailor-knot bracelets. She wanted her clientele to feel as if they were stepping onto the beach, or back in time. The whitewashed walls were like a stretch of sand bar, the artwork on them like seashells waiting to be picked up and examined. The clothes were fashionable but comfortable: a soft organic cotton sheath, a little girl’s brightly printed smock dress. Wren sought out goods that were not only a pleasure to look at or wear but could also make her customers feel good about where they were putting their dollars. Her family would come around, she told herself.

  It finally happened last week. Shannon sailed in to the shop on the way home from school with the kids and stopped dead in her tracks. Wren led her around, first to the glass case of silver necklaces, then to the rack of flour-sack dishtowels printed with fish, which Shannon had promptly picked up and blown her nose directly into.

  “What on earth?”

  “I’ll pay for it,” Shannon blubbered. “I’m just so proud of you, Wrenny.”

  Only Piper had yet to weigh in. Wren’s little sister had seen the original shop space back in March when she’d come home to the Cape for spring break, when it was still raw and faceless. Curious, she’d tagged along and spent a couple of late nights helping Wren paint the walls a color called “sailcloth.” Though “helping” largely meant keeping Wren company, sitting cross-legged on the unfinished pine floors with a flask of Fireball, regaling her sister with anecdotes about her Boston roommates while Wren was perched on a ladder with a roller. Piper had never been a roll-up-your-sleeves kind of girl. But she was reliable entertainment.

  Now, Wren glanced around the store. Two weeks until opening day. The walls were painted, the floors finished, the old-fashioned cash register installed. Fliers had been made, social media announcements posted, and an interview with the local paper would run next week. Stocking the last of the inventory was all that remained.

  The bell above the shop door dinged. “French vanilla, cream, two sugars.” Ari handed Wren the warm cup. “Oh, and here’s the mail.”

  Wren riffled quickly through the envelopes. Only ten minutes to get across town for Lucy’s school bus.

  “You’d better hit the road. Lucy will make you pay if you forget her again.”

  Wren groaned. “I didn’t forget her.”

  “Try telling her that.”

  It was a half truth. Lately the store had become a bit of a time vortex for her, and the school had called not once, but twice, last week to say that the bus was sitting at the curb in front of Wren’s house and where was she? Lucy had been returned to the school where Wren had found her, arms crossed and her mouth fixed in a straight line, sitting on an office bench. When Wren tried to explain, Lucy lifted one small hand. “I already know. You were at the store.”

  Wren glanced at her watch. “You’re right. Will you sort the mail for me?” She thrust the pile of envelopes back at Ari, but in her haste they fell out of her hand and spilled across the floor.

  “Just go,” Ari said. Wren was about to step over the mess when a pale blue envelope caught her eye. She reached down for it.

  Wren Livingston Bailey, The Fisherman’s Daughter. The scrawled handwriting was as familiar as the veins on the back of her hand. She sucked in her breath.

  Ari glanced up at her. “You okay?”

  Wren jammed the envelope in her back pocket. “I’m late!” She grabbed her purse and keys from the counter and hurried for the door. “Thanks for the coffee.”

  When she was safely inside her car, she pulled the envelope out and stared at it. Livingston came from her great-grandfather, on Caleb’s side. Caleb Bailey was the only person who ever used her full name. Wren swallowed and shoved the envelope in the glove box. It had been twenty-three years since she’d gotten anything in the mail from him, since she’d heard a word, spoken or written, from her estranged father. She threw the Jeep in gear and turned toward home.

  Three

  Shannon

  “Avery, you need to get moving. Tennis starts in ten,” Shannon called up the sweeping staircase. Her oldest daughter had retreated to her room since school ended to presumably work on a Mayan civilization social-studies project
that was due the next day.

  Shannon had checked the family calendar twice. George was in red. Winnie in green. Avery in blue. Reid jokingly called it the command center. Shannon didn’t care; with three busy kids it was what kept them afloat. “I don’t see anything listed here for social studies.”

  “The teacher assigned it today. It’s a graphic novel.”

  “You mean like those comic-book stories?”

  “I guess. But in French.”

  “Wait . . . I thought this was for social studies?”

  Avery rolled her eyes. “It is.”

  “In French?”

  “Mom. It’s interdisciplinary.”

  “Oh.” Interdisciplinary and due tomorrow. She supposed she should at least be grateful the last-minute assignment required just colored pencils and paper, and not a shoe box, an assortment of Styrofoam balls, and acrylic paint. Colored pencils she had.

  • • •

  Shannon returned her attention to the cutting board: two halved carrots, a split stalk of celery, and a cucumber whose green watery depths she’d already scooped the seeds from and sliced.

  “I hate celery,” George informed her, strolling into the kitchen and peering sideways at her work.

  “I know. It’s for your sister. And please don’t say hate. It’s such a strong word.”

  He blinked. “I don’t care for cucumber either.”

  Shannon set down her knife. “George.”

  “What? I don’t.” He sat down at the island and rested his six-year-old head on the mahogany surface.

  “What’s for snack?” Winnie breezed into the kitchen, her soccer bag slung over her shoulder, her cleats making clicking sounds on the new cork floor.

  Shannon swiveled around. “Winnie, the floor. Your cleats!”