It seems strange that Aunt Lydia bequeathed the cottage to me instead of to her nephews, she ruminated as she took a deep breath of the tangy, salty air. The two men were Lydia’s blood relatives, whereas Caitlin was related only through Lydia’s marriage to Caitlin’s uncle Albert. Lydia had been his second wife, and she’d married him when they were in their late fifties, so while Caitlin had grown close to them in her teenage years, it wasn’t as if Lydia had known her since she was a baby.
Furthermore, Lydia’s nephews had always lived in New Hampshire, and they’d spent a lot more time with Lydia than Caitlin ever did. Yes, when Caitlin was in high school, she’d stayed on Dune Island to help manage the cottages, and she’d developed a close bond with her hard-working yet fun-loving aunt, who’d proudly introduce Caitlin to the guests as, “my right-hand woman” or “my all-around amazing niece.”
But shortly after Caitlin’s final summer there, her family relocated to New Mexico, and she and Lydia drifted apart, only crossing paths at an occasional wedding or funeral in New Hampshire or catching up during a brief holiday phone call.So Caitlin couldn’t help but feel guilty about receiving such a valuable inheritance from her aunt.
She also felt puzzled by why Lydia had required her to remodel the windmill after her death. Although the two of them used to chat about how much fun it would be to turn the loft into a sitting room, Caitlin had thought that was just a lovely but impractical daydream, not something her aunt truly had her heart set on.
I guess since Aunt Lydia put aside the funds for it when she drew up the Trust, the remodel must have meant more to her than I realized. She must have thought it meant that much to me, too, she reasoned after mulling it over.So I suppose I can understand why she’d insist I convert the loft if I were keeping the cottage. But I don’t get why she’d require me to convert it before I’m allowed to sell the property. What’s the point of putting all that effort into designing a sitting room when neither of us will be there to use it?
Most importantly, why had Lydia required her to be present to oversee the project? It would have been possible to handle the arrangements remotely.
Caitlin recognized that most people would consider supervising the remodel in person to be a very small price to pay for inheriting such a valuable piece of property. But that was because most people who didn’t live on Dune Island had never heard about what had happened the last time Caitlin was there. They didn’t know aboutthe incident with Nicole, as Lydia used to call it.
And those whodidknow about it weren’t aware of just how deeply it had affected Caitlin. Not even her aunt.
She couldn’t blame Lydia for that; Caitlin had deliberately kept her feelings to herself. In the years following her final visit to Hope Haven, whenever Lydia had mentioned Nicole duringone of their phone calls, Caitlin would downplay the effect that summer had on her.
“I’m only bringing it up because I’m concerned about you,” her aunt would insist. “If you don’t want to talk to me about it, I understand. But maybe you’d benefit from confiding in another adult, like a counselor? Someone who could help you process your emotions.”
“I don’t need a counselor and I don’t want to talk about it, either. I mean, it was awful when it happened and I was… I was really upset, but I’ve come to accept it. I’m okay now,” Caitlin would counter, and then she’d change the subject.
Eventually, she must have convinced Lydia that she was doing as well as she’d pretended to be doing, because the older woman stopped suggesting her niece would benefit from talking about it.
And in time, Caitlin really didwork through most of her feelings about what had happened. Or at least, she’d learned to ignore them. In any case, it had been years and years sincethe incidenthad preoccupied her every waking thought, as well as most of her nighttime dreams. In fact, she rarely reflected on what happened anymore—which was exactly why she dreaded returning to Dune Island now.
Pushing her memories to the back of her mind had been manageable with time and distance, but what would happen once she returned to The Windmill Cottages, where she’d have to face reminders of that summer in person?
I’m an adult now, not a teenager, so I can handle this,she reminded herself.Besides, it’s autumn, not summer, and twenty years have passed, so I’m sure the island will seem a lot different from the last time I was there…
Yet less than an hour later, when she disembarked the ferry in Port Newcomb, Caitlin noticed that the elegant village appeared almost the same as it had looked two decades ago. While a few shops had been added to the row of Main Street establishments, and some of the older brick buildings were renovated, she still recognized most of the upscale bakeries, cafés, and boutiques from her youth.
Their window displays included decorations in autumnal hues, and wreaths made of dried reeds, woven vines, dark berries, and colorful leaves hung from their doors. Almost every entryway was flanked by barrel planters bursting with mauve, white, and red mums, buttery marigolds, or purple-tinged ornamental cabbage. And up and down the one-sided waterfront street, wrought iron benches provided customers and passersby a place to rest and watch the island’s tallest lighthouse guide the ferries, fishing boats, and other vessels of all sizes into port.
I’d almost forgotten how even on an overcast day, everything in Hope Haven seems postcard perfect—on the surface, anyway, she thought ruefully as she slowly drove along the crescent-shaped road.
Hope Haven was comprised of five towns, and while they were all stunningly beautiful, each possessed unique, distinguishing features. In addition to its appealing downtown shopping area, Port Newcomb was known for its tony yacht club and vibrant nightlife. Highland Hills, which faced the open Atlantic, hosted a vibrant artists’ community. Rockfield had miles of scenic hiking trails through conservation land, as well as a picturesque, privately owned cranberry bog. Benjamin’s Manor was renowned for its quaint harbor and historic captains’ homes.
And then there was Lucinda’s Hamlet, where Caitlin’s aunt and uncle owned and managed The Windmill Cottages. The town sported a long bayside boardwalk with tourist trapsgalore, including a famed ice-cream parlor, an arcade, and souvenir shops and takeout eateries. Abbreviated as “Lucy’s Ham” by the locals, the little village may not have enjoyed the prestigious reputations of the other four towns, but because of its wholesome entertainment and calm bay waters, vacationing families with young children were drawn to it in droves.
Caitlin smiled to herself, remembering how her aunt had once responded after reading a newspaper article about Lucinda’s Hamlet. The reporter had written that the boardwalk was, “an embarrassment to Dune Island, but a beloved one, much like a favorite but loud and tacky relative.”
Lydia had clucked her tongue at the backhanded compliment. “The honest, hardworking boardwalk business owners strive to provide a fun, safe environment, tasty food, and affordable shopping opportunities for vacationing families. There’s no shame in that.”
Caitlin sensed her aunt had also been defending the cottages from those who’d looked down their noses at the ornamental but now defunct windmill and the tiny abodes surrounding it. But such people were in the minority; many tourists considered the cottages and windmill to be so quaint that they’d visit the isolated side street—aptly named “Windswept Way”—for the sole purpose of taking their photos in front of the locally iconic landmark. And most guests appreciated staying in the cozy, well-maintained and reasonably priced cottages so much they returned year after year.
Recalling how her aunt and uncle had poured their time, money, and energy into their summertime business, Caitlin thought,They were so hardworking and humble, and they never complained when they couldn’t go fishing or beachcombing or take a swim because they were too busy meeting the guests’ needs and maintaining the cottages and the grounds. That kind of physical labor couldn’t have been easy,especially because Aunt Lydia had severe arthritis in her knee—and Uncle Albert was probably becoming sick with cancer, even though we didn’t know it yet.
But as industrious as her aunt and uncle were, Lydia always insisted that once her niece’s chores were finished, Caitlin had the rest of the afternoon free to read or go to the beach or the boardwalk or for a hike with her summer friends.
“You’ll have the rest of your life to work,” she’d say. “This is the time for you to enjoy your youth.”
“But what about you and Uncle Albert? You should take a break, too.”
“Don’t worry about us. Your uncle will sneak a snooze in the hammock if he really needs one. And you know me—at the end of the day, I’ll take time to stop and watch the sunset.”
“Stop and watch the sunset” was Lydia’s equivalent of “stop and smell the roses,” which she also said—although because she was on Dune Island, she changed the saying to, “stop and smell thewildroses.” A firm believer in appreciating life’s simple pleasures, especially the beauty of the natural world, Lydia made it a habit to go view the sunset whenever the weather allowed.
Caitlin usually went with her, while Albert stayed behind, preferring to unwind by watching baseball on TV. The pair would cut across the back lawn, through the strip of pitch pines and scrub oaks, and past the fat juniper tree to the long, steep staircase leading down the dune. Because of Lydia’s bad knee, they usually didn’t descend it to the beach below. Instead, they sat side by side on the upper landing, a tight squeeze, with their bare, warm legs pressed against each other’s.
