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True to form, Valerie didn’t answer her phone. Rebecca gave up after the seventh ring and studied her littlest sister’s profile picture, which featured her on a beach in a bikini and a pair of Audrey Hepburn sunglasses. As a teenager, a modeling agent had told Valerie she had the “it” factor and asked to take her on as a client. When it had come time for their first meeting, Valerie had gone to a beach party instead. “I don’t want to feel like someone owns me,” she’d said.
Of all the Sutton sisters, Valerie was the wildest of them. According to her Facebook, she’d spent her twenties and thirties bouncing from city to city, job to job, and relationship to relationship. Articles in established magazines such as Wedding Today, The Wall Street Journal, The Guardian, and many others called her one of the most exciting event planners of her generation. The party she’d planned after Coachella in 2009 was still discussed as one to beat. She’d been hired to plan Madonna’s niece’s wedding and Adele’s best friend’s. Still, from what Rebecca could glean, Valerie spent as much time out of work as she spent with it—which couldn’t have been healthy for her crazy lifestyle.
Rebecca had confessed to Fred many times over the years how she worried about Valerie. Why hadn’t she reached out? A Facebook friend request now seemed pathetic.
Rebecca took a break from calling on old ghosts and made herself an omelet. From the kitchen window, she watched a flock of seagulls bounce around the golden Nantucket sands. Tourists in flashing windbreakers marched in little groups, and in the distance, sailboats darted beneath the blue sky.
Rebecca sliced extra vegetables and grated more cheese to make Victor an omelet. How long had he been gone? Two hours? Three? Rebecca walked to the foyer and peered out onto the driveway, where her SUV remained parked. Mrs. Walton walked slowly to her mailbox as her terrier nipped at her heels. “Don’t do this to me, Dad,” Rebecca breathed. She then stepped out onto the porch and waved at Mrs. Walton. “How is your day going?”
Mrs. Walton staggered toward the dividing line between their properties. “I saw you had the police over.”
Rebecca nodded. “We’re worried about Mom.”
Mrs. Walton’s eyes flashed. This was real gossip, the kind she could spend all afternoon calling people about. “Strange to see that father of yours around here. He looks like a dog with his tail between his legs.”
Rebecca asked that Mrs. Walton let her know if she heard anything from her mother. She then returned to the kitchen to store the extra omelet ingredients in the fridge, promising herself Victor was just around the corner.
But Rebecca didn’t hear from Victor until seven thirty that night. She’d been breathless when she answered her phone with an outraged, “Dad? Where the heck have you been?”
“Hello.” The voice on the other line was not Victor’s. “I’m calling from the Sunset Cove Bar. I take it this man is your father?”
Rebecca’s heart dropped into her stomach. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing.” She swallowed. “Is he okay?”
“He’s fine. He’s just got the drunken blues, is all. I can’t have him bumming out all the tourists,” the man continued.
“I’ll be right there.”
Rebecca drove in silence. All afternoon, she’d walked around the main floor of that big house, her eyes glancing out the windows, terrified. Yes, the past dictated she wasn’t Victor Sutton’s biggest fan, but she didn’t want anything to happen to him. She didn’t want to add another layer to the tragedies of her year.
The Sunset Cove Bar bustled with sunburnt tourists and laughing honeymooners. Televisions hanging above the bar top counters displayed professional sports and flashy commercials. Rebecca felt like a fish out of water. Many years ago, she and Bethany had snuck into the bar with fake IDs, only to have a friend of their mother’s recognize them at the counter and send them back home.
“Dad?” Victor Sutton looked defeated. He slumped on the counter with his fist against his cheek and his eyes glazed. A half-drunk beer sat in front of him, as did an unpaid bill. Rebecca inspected it, impressed with how much her father had knocked back before the bartender had asked to call someone.
Rebecca said it again. “Dad?”
And this time, Victor jumped and turned to meet her gaze. He smiled softly, drunkenly, as though he’d missed her. “Becca!” He then turned quickly to address the bartender. “This is my darling daughter. She’s a chef, you know. A brilliant one, at that.”
The bartender dully regarded Rebecca, then pointed at the bill on the counter. “Can you make sure to pay that before you go?”
Assisting her dad reminded Rebecca of picking up her children at daycare. Slowly, she coaxed Victor into his coat, helped him find his wallet, and thanked the bartender twice for his help. As they ambled through the crowd, Victor squeezed her upper arm and rasped, “I’m so sorry, Rebecca. I’m so sorry.” His smile crumpled.
“Dad. It’s okay.” She wanted it desperately to be okay even though it wasn’t.
When they reached the SUV, Victor stumbled onto the passenger seat and pressed his hands over his heart. He gasped for breath. “I just can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it.” He said this over and over again as his eyes searched the darkening horizon.
Rebecca wasn’t sure exactly what he meant, but she got the point. So much time had passed, and so much had happened. Their family had been destroyed—and even Rebecca’s and Victor’s attempts to build families elsewhere had been thwarted. She started the engine as exhaustion enveloped her. And as she eased down a street she’d once known so well, she whispered, “It’s going to be okay, Dad. I promise you.” She said it, although she knew it wasn’t true.
Chapter Ten
Summer rainstorms had their way with Doug’s old house. They shattered windows, flung the shutters to the sand, and made roof tiles drop like leaves. Since Ben had moved in several years ago, he’d struggled against the weather, mending floorboards and patching shingles. But every newfound disaster whittled him down a bit more.
That morning, Ben woke up, shuffled downstairs, and discovered Doug’s bed wet with rainwater from a ceiling leak. Doug stared at the mess, disgusted yet too fragile to move. He gestured at the hole in the ceiling as though expected.
“Won’t be long till the sea eats this house whole,” he said.
