Holiday In The Hamptons

Her mother slept like the dead, but had her grandmother known she was sneaking out?

Harriet had known, but she’d never said anything. She’d pretended to be asleep so she wouldn’t have to lie if questioned.

Fliss glanced around the room.

Not much had changed. Two beds were tucked under the slope in the roof so that you had to duck your head before you stood up in the morning. She strolled to the window and gazed down into the garden, noting the offending apple tree with its curved branches and thick trunk. The roots were visible on the surface, as if it was trying to remove itself from ground it had occupied for so long.

And there, beyond the apple tree, was the gate.

She’d oiled that, too, turning it from an alarm to an ally.

From her vantage point high in the house she could see that the path to the beach was overgrown. It didn’t surprise her. No one used the path except the inhabitants of Sea Breeze, and she doubted her grandmother was in the habit of taking the rough sandy trail that led through the sand dunes to the beach.

For a moment she was tempted to kick off her shoes and run down that path as she had as a child, eagerly anticipating the moment when she crested the dunes and saw the rolling waves of the Atlantic Ocean.

Her feet were halfway out of her shoes before she stopped herself.

She needed to stop giving in to impulse and behave responsibly.

She slid her feet back into her shoes and instead rose on tiptoe and leaned her forehead on the cool glass, trying to see past the knotted vegetation that obscured the path to the dunes beyond. She knew every dip and curve of that path.

People said that memories faded in time, but hers hadn’t faded at all.

She could still remember that warm summer night in minute detail, every sound, every color, every touch.

She moved away from the window. What was the point of torturing herself? It was behind her. She should be moving on. And she would have been doing exactly that if she’d just told Seth the truth when she’d met him earlier. A few words, that was all she’d needed to say. Instead she’d pretended to be Harriet.

Why had she done that? Of all the stupid, impulsive—

And she wished she’d known about his father. If she had, she wouldn’t have asked that tactless question about his family. She’d probably hurt him, and she’d already hurt him enough.

And by pretending to be Harriet she hadn’t been able to offer anything more than conventional platitudes. Her twin wouldn’t have understood how close they were, or how much he had admired his father. Fliss understood that. For a fleeting second before he’d hidden it she’d seen the raw pain in his eyes, and she’d ached for him. She’d wanted to wrap him in her arms and offer whatever comfort she could. She wanted to tell him that she understood.

Instead she’d uttered a few meaningless words. And in pretending to be Harriet, all she had done was postpone the moment when she came face-to-face with him as herself.

Now what was she going to do?

The question wasn’t whether she would bump into him again, but when.

Which left her with only two options. Either she carried on pretending to be Harriet, or she confessed all and told him she was Fliss.

That would be both awkward and embarrassing. He’d want to know why she’d pretended to be her sister, and he’d read too much into it.

No, until she could work out a way to extract herself from the lie she’d spun, she’d have to continue the pretense. Which raised the question of what she was going to do about her grandmother.

She’d promised Harriet that she’d tell their grandmother she was Fliss.

And she would. She just had to hope Seth and her grandmother didn’t meet until after she had untangled the mess she’d made.

Why did everything she touched get so complicated?

Frustrated with herself, she flung open windows, letting in the smell of the ocean.

Then she went back downstairs into the kitchen and unloaded the food she’d bought at the roadside stand.

She piled fruit into a bowl and placed it in the center of the table. The long cedar table had a few more scratches than she remembered, but other than that it looked the same as ever. Some of her earliest memories were of staying here, and she was glad nothing significant had changed, as if by finding things the same, a certain level of happiness was guaranteed.

How many meals had they eaten here, the three of them, wriggling impatiently on their chairs, waiting for the moment they could return to the beach? Because summers had been all about the beach. The beach and freedom.

The beach and Seth.

And that was the problem, of course. Seth was part of almost every memory she had of this place. Which meant that somehow she had to fill her head with something else.

Fliss returned to the entryway and picked up her suitcase. She’d unpack and then drive straight to the hospital.

She’d tell her grandmother the truth, and then try to work out a way to unpick the lie she’d told Seth.

* * *

SETH FINISHED EXAMINING the dog. “Chester is doing well, Angela.”

“Good. I need him fit for the Fourth of July.”

“You’re doing something special for the holiday weekend?”

Angela lifted Chester down from the examination table. “No. We’re staying home. That’s why I need him fit. He hates loud noises. He was so scared last year I almost called you and asked for a tranquilizer.”

“That’s always a possibility, but there are other methods I prefer to try first.”

“Such as?”

“Back in 2002 there was a study by an animal behaviorist and psychologist that showed that classical music had a soothing effect on dogs in shelters.” Seth washed his hands. “And a few years after that another study by a veterinary neurologist showed that slower tempos, single instruments were more calming than busy, noisier music.”

“So you’re saying I should be playing Beethoven instead of Beyoncé?”

Seth tugged paper towel from the dispenser and dried his hands. “That’s your choice. There are other things you can do, of course. Close doors, windows and curtains so that you block out the noise as much as possible.” At this time of year he delivered an endless stream of advice about keeping pets away from fireworks and checking the yard for debris.

“I’m dreading it. Chester hates fireworks, and our neighbors love them.” Angela stroked the dog’s head. “The moment they start he tries to escape.”

“Take him for a long walk during the day,” Seth suggested. “It will tire him out and he’s more likely to relax. As for the noise, have you tried turning up the TV?”

“No, but it’s a good idea.”

“And make sure your yard is secure. This is the busiest time of year for the animal shelters. They have to deal with a number of terrified pets who have escaped.”

“Chester is microchipped. We had it done after a friend suggested it last year. Just in case. I couldn’t bear to think of him out there running around, terrified and lost. I’m keeping all the doors shut. And my TV will be booming.” Angela reattached the dog’s lead. “So you’re back from the big city. There were a few people who thought you’d stay there.”

He heard the question in the statement and knew that whatever he said by way of an answer would spread through all the local villages by noon. “This is my home. There was never any chance that I’d stay there.”