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Rebecca hadn’t told her children about Victor Sutton or her Nantucket plans. She was terrified about what they would say. Mom, have you gone insane? Mom, you swore you’d never see your father again. Mom, what’s gotten into you? Although she owed them the truth in all things, she simply hadn’t gotten around to figuring out the best way to explain her motivations. She wasn’t entirely sure what those were herself.
Rebecca sobbed all the way down the mountain. She hated how her children worried about her. She hated everyone’s pity. But most of all, she cried with terror about the approaching trip to Nantucket. What could she say to her mother after so many years away?
Esme had been just as quiet as Rebecca. She hadn’t invited Rebecca to Nantucket. She hadn’t told her about her marriage. She’d never met Rebecca’s children.
Still, Rebecca was plagued with guilt. Now that she was a mother, she ached with fear that her children would one day turn their back on her. To Esme, it must have felt like a death sentence.
Victor Sutton waited for Rebecca outside the hotel on the edge of town. It was early, but he looked well-slept, agile, and cool in a pair of jeans, a suit jacket, and a pair of sunglasses. As he swung his suitcase into the back of the SUV, he whistled and said, “Good morning, Rebecca.”
Rebecca smiled as her father got into the passenger seat. Behind her own sunglasses, half-moons hung beneath her eyes. She hadn't slept well in the big, empty house and spent hours tossing and turning.
“You’ll let me know when you want to switch seats?” Victor asked.
“Sure.” Rebecca eased from the hotel and toward the highway that would take them south to Nantucket. She felt out of her mind. “How was the hotel?”
“Not bad,” Victor reported. “They had a pretty good breakfast. Eggs, bacon, pancakes, and even some fresh fruit. The good stuff, too. Strawberries, raspberries, and blueberries.”
“No melon?”
“No melon. Thank goodness. What a waste of time that fruit is.”
Rebecca chuckled. She couldn’t believe she’d remembered her father’s distaste for melon.
During the first hour or so, Rebecca and Victor chatted easily, like two strangers on a road trip. Victor had spent two weeks in Bar Harbor as Rebecca had gotten her children ready for their summer, which Rebecca was curious about. What had Victor gotten up to? Victor reported having eaten his weight in lobster. He’d gotten caught up on some reading and taken some long walks. He didn’t press her about not having allowed him to meet her children. When he’d asked once via text message, she’d said, “Let me think about it,” and neither of them had brought it up again.
As they drove, Rebecca again had the impression her father was much different than he used to be. Was it possible that a couple of decades had softened him? Was it possible he was a world-renowned family psychologist for a reason?
It was almost a seven-hour journey to Hyannis Port and the longest road trip Rebecca had planned since Fred’s and her honeymoon. Back then, they’d driven from Denver to Los Angeles, running up and down mountain ranges in a car that shouldn’t have been able to handle the terrain. They’d made it to LA “on a wing and a prayer,” or so Fred had said.
After two hours, Victor drove for a little while. He had his hands at nine and three, and he asked questions about Rebecca’s children in a way that almost made her regret not allowing him to meet them.
“Shelby’s my responsible child. She overthinks everything,” Rebecca explained. “And Chad’s Mr. Congeniality. He has more friends than I’ve ever had in my life. Oh, and Lily.” She paused with worry for her eldest, all alone in Brooklyn. “She’s my creative child. She has moments of pure sadness and depression. Fred and I did our best to support her artistic pursuits.”
“That’s healthy for a child with so many complicated emotions,” her father said firmly with all the authority of a child psychologist. “You and Fred were right to do that.”
Rebecca eyed her father. A part of her wanted to ask him how he could present himself to the world as an esteemed psychologist. Didn’t he remember their past? But another part of her felt oddly proud that her father respected her parenting skills.
“I didn’t tell them about our trip to Nantucket,” Rebecca explained. “I didn’t want to worry them.”
“They’ve gone through a lot this year,” Victor affirmed. “And as their mother, you have to trust your instincts.”
Rebecca blushed, sensing her father’s pride. He was right. She had to trust herself because she was all she had left now.
Halfway to Hyannis, Rebecca and Victor stopped for lunch at a diner. Attached to a gas station, the diner brought in truckers and road trippers and families on their way someplace else. Rebecca and Victor stretched their legs around the parking lot and warmed their faces beneath the early June sun.
“Remember when we drove to Florida?” Victor asked. They turned toward the front door of the diner.
“Barely. I must have been seven.”
Victor eyed her, his smile faltering. “You and Bethany fought the entire way.”
Rebecca bristled at her sister’s name. She pushed open the diner door, and a bell jangled overhead.
“Your mother had it up to here,” Victor continued, gesturing around his ear. “We got out of the car somewhere in South Carolina, and she demanded you and Bethany explain what was wrong.”
“Huh.” Rebecca scanned the heads of diners, careful to appear apathetic. A server approached, adjusting her apron around her hips.
“Turns out, Bethany thought you’d stolen her doll, and you’d thought she’d stolen your doll. But you’d accidentally switched dolls when you’d fallen asleep and were too tired to figure that out.” Victor’s laughter turned his cheeks bright red.
