Page 62 of Escape to Lighthouse Cove

“Yes, you were. I think you spent most of the summer in your room, writing essays.”

There was no accusation in her voice, but Noah prickled anyway. “Well, it was important.”

“I know, Noah.” She reached out one hand as if she would touch him and then dropped it again. “I’m just trying to explain what you may have missed. Your father and I—we were having problems.”

Noah did a double take. “You were?” That was news to him. He’d always thought his parents were solid, until his dad’s stroke. His mother had cared for him for years until he’d finally died.

She nodded somberly. “That summer… well, we mentioned the d-word for the first time. We’d danced around it before. Your father worked so much, and he liked life in Boston. I loved it up here.” She let out a soft, sad laugh. “Funny, since it was in his family, but I guess he didn’t come here at all when he was a child. And I fell in love with it the first time I did. I was the one who made it into our summer home—it had been no more than a mausoleum before then. And of course your father wouldn’t let me change any of the décor. This place was like a museum to him. To his family, and yet he didn’t want to spend time in it.” She sighed. “We wanted such different things out of life.”

Noah was quiet, absorbing everything his mother had said. He realized not a lot of it was a surprise. He’d known his dad didn’t like it here, had rarely come up. And he’d known his mom had loved it. And, now that he thought about it, he supposed there had been some tension between them—his dad, the smooth-talking investment banker, his mother, a former socialite who preferred gardening and sailing to cocktail parties or tennis clubs.

“You didn’t talk about getting divorced over whether or not you could change the curtains,” he finally said, a statement.

“No.” His mother sighed. “We thought about it because we wanted such different things out of life, and neither of us knew if we could—or wanted to—change. But then Eleanor died, and it was all so tragic and disruptive—do you remember Jem that summer?”

Noah shrugged. “He went into a depression after her death, but I didn’t think they were close.”

“No, they weren’t. Eleanor had a crush on Jem—girls always seem to like those they perceive as the strong, silent types—and Jem didn’t return her feelings. And the day she died, she asked him to take her sailing. He refused—you know how stubborn he could be, in his quiet way.”

“Yes,” Noah said after a moment. Why hadn’t he remembered this? That summer was a blur to him, and yet clearly important stuff had happened.

“And so she went out on her own and she couldn’t handle the boat and then she died,” his mother finished sadly. “It was so horrible, and Jem felt terribly guilty about it all.”

“He didn’t tell me,” Noah protested, as if that made it untrue. Jem had told himeverything. At least, he thought he had. But maybe, in his grief and guilt, he’d built their relationship up in his mind, their twin-level closeness. He knew there were things he’d never told Jem. Why should Jem have told him everything? Why should he have known it?

It was unsettling, to look back and realize things weren’t quite as they’d seemed. As he’d assumed.

“Eleanor was the daughter of one of my oldest friends, from boarding school,” his mother continued. “We hadn’t seen each other that often, but I always valued our friendship. But when Eleanor died… well, she blamed us. Me. She even threatened some kind of lawsuit, although your father handled that. But it ruined the friendship, and your father wanted to close this place up anyway, and with Jem spiraling down… it just made sense. I thought we’d come back, but then you and Jem were in college, and your father had his stroke and we never did. And the more time passed, the less I found I wanted to.” She smiled at him, the corners of her eyes drooping sadly. “Sometimes things just happen, Noah. Time slips by and you don’t even realize it, and you wish you’d done things differently all along.”

“Is that what happened over the last eighteen months?” he asked in a harder voice than he meant it to be.

His mother sighed. “Yes, in a way. We’re both stubborn, you know. You’re so like me. And as much as I regretted what I’d said in a moment of terrible grief, I was afraid to approach you. Afraid you wouldn’t accept my apology. And… feeling guilty felt easier, somehow, less of a risk.”

Noah looked out at the sea, the sun now sinking behind the horizon. It was getting cold; they would need to go inside soon. “I can relate to that,” he said in a low voice.

“Noah, I promise you, I didn’t mean what I said.” His mother reached over and clasped his hand in her own cold one. “Jem’s death was not your fault. He always struggled with depression. It wasn’t your job to save him. Ever.”

He glanced down at her fingers curled over his. “He wanted to leave New York, Grob, all of it,” he told her tonelessly. “It was too much for him, the pressure, the people. And I didn’t listen.”

“He told me too,” she whispered. “And I told him to stick it out. Maybe that’s why I blamed you, Noah. I was terrified of blaming myself, because I didn’t think I could survive that, and yet I did it anyway.”

Briefly Noah closed his eyes. “I’m trying to let go of the guilt,” he said in a low voice. “But it’s hard.”

She squeezed his hand. “I know. And for my part in that… I’m so sorry, darling. I love you. I’ve always loved you.”

“But not as much as Jem.” The words surprised him. They belonged to a little boy, not a grown man, and yet… he’dfeltthem. His whole life, he’d felt them, and he felt them still.

“Noah, no.” His mother drew back, looking distraught. “I never loved Jem more than you. I loved you both in different ways, it was true. Jem needed protecting, coddling even. And you… you needed someone to rein you in and then let you loose. It’s true, we butted heads sometimes, because we were so alike. And because we both wanted to protect Jem.” She sighed sadly. “I’m sorry that you’ve felt that way. I promise you, I’ve loved you just as much as I loved him.”

Noah nodded slowly, not trusting himself to speak. Did he believe his mother? He thought he probably would, in time, but it all felt too raw now. Too much to think about and to accept and to grieve.

And what about Grace? He thought of the way she’d snapped at him, telling him to go. How white her face had gone when she’d realized he and Brad knew each other. Werefriends. He wanted to believe it wouldn’t change anything between them, but he felt as if it already had.

Would Grace even want to know him, never mind love him, now that she truly knew what he’d been like?

And maybe what he still was?

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