AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Sophie had taken the test on December 28th, many hours before she’d received the call from Ida about Grandma Agatha. She hadn’t even told Patrick yet. Even now, terror pumped through her chest, and she threw the pregnancy test back in the glove box and snapped it closed.
“One thing at a time, Sophie,” she breathed as she started the engine.
But she knew she couldn’t ignore this forever. Babies had a way of growing bigger and bigger until they made themselves known.
Chapter Three
Katrina was antsy as soon as she woke up. Her heart fluttered in her chest as though it were a thousand butterflies, and for what felt like nearly an hour, she sat on the edge of her bed and gazed out at the rolling hills of snow outside her home, trying to calm herself. It was December 31st, the final day of the year, and she’d hardly spent an hour of daylight away from the hospital since her mother’s accident. But tomorrow, her mother would be removed from her medically induced coma. And that meant today, Katrina had to get started on something she was terrified of. She had to go over to her childhood home and begin the long, harrowing process of cleaning it out. There was no way her mother was well enough to return. And Katrina had every intention to hollow it, sell everything at auction, and get rid of the massive old place, once and for all.
Katrina showered, dried her hair, did her makeup, and donned a pair of Levi’s jeans and a big red sweater. Downstairs, she found Grant and Roland at the kitchen table, newspapers spread between them. Like the inseparable brothers they were, they spatted amicably about something sports-related.
When Roland saw Katrina, his face fell. “I’m so sorry to hear about your mother, Katrina.”
Katrina poured herself a mug of coffee. Roland, Grant, and Katrina had all grown up on Nantucket, and they all knew very well the intricacies of Agatha Whittaker’s personality.
“Thanks, Ro,” Katrina said. “It’s been hard. But your brother here has been a lifesaver. As usual.” She smiled at her husband.
“Is that so? Grant, I had no idea you had a heart in that chest of yours,” Roland joked.
“You know I can’t show you my tender side,” Grant said. “You’d take advantage in no time flat.”
Roland laughed uproariously and flashed through the newspaper. Katrina retreated to the living room to sit by the fire and make a list of what she needed to do. The worst of it would come after her mother awoke, she knew. That was when she had to tell Agatha she could never go home again.
The drive out to Siasconset took fifteen minutes. Katrina gripped the steering wheel with white fingers and barely tapped the gas, frightened the wheels would cut across the ice too quickly. When she spotted the old Whittaker House, a historical Victorian with gorgeous triangular eaves, a large porch around the front and a veranda in the back, and rolling hills that crept across the soft white beach, her heart stopped. Although she hadn’t officially called it “home” in many years, it wasn’t hard to imagine she was seventeen again or that she’d just gotten out of school. That she would enter the front door and find her mother in the kitchen and her father in his study, where he’d once written all of his articles as a journalist for theNantucket Gazette.
It was funny how you could trick your mind.
Katrina parked in the driveway, walked up the porch steps, and used her key to enter. According to the schedule she’d arranged for her mother years ago, two maids came in everyFriday to tidy up the place, which meant there wasn’t a lick of dust on anything—not on the framed paintings in the foyer, the plants, or the stone Greek statues that lined the entrance to the living room. Her father had actually picked them up on a trip to Athens many years ago. He’d called them a “blessing from the Greek gods.” Her mother hadn’t liked that. “We can’t even pretend to acknowledge any other gods,” she’d scolded. “It’s sacrilegious!” It was only after her father died that Agatha had put the Grecian statues back out.
Katrina felt like a ghost haunting her childhood home. She floated through the living room, past the kitchen, through the dining room, then the library, and up the stairs to the second floor, where most of the bedrooms were located. Her father’s study was up here, too. Katrina hovered outside the door, imagining she could hear him typing on the old typewriter, then went in, daring herself to face her fears.
Although Katrina had come to the Whittaker House more than once per week since her father had died, she hadn’t had reason to enter his study. Come to think of it, she hadn’t even been upstairs. Now, she found herself at age sixty-five, around the same age her father had been when he’d died, standing in a perfectly preserved space. It felt as though he could come in any time, adjusting his glasses and rubbing at the collar of his sweater. “Move aside, Kat. I need to get this down,” he might have said, dropping into his creaking chair to clack away at the keys of his typewriter.
The typewriter was here, too. Katrina closed the door and tiptoed over to it, then placed her fingers across the keys and exhaled all the air from her lungs. Her father’s book collection lined the shelves, too precious to be in the rest of the library, and she spotted several he’d written himself—mostly about the state of journalism during the sixties and seventies.
Sometimes, when Calvin had been particularly drunk, he’d said, “I never should have had you kids. I could have been somebody. I could have been a famous journalist in the city. Look at me, wasted at theNantucket Gazette! It’s pathetic.”
Katrina hadn’t known what to say. But she’d been captivated by his stories and sat rapt, waiting for the next. It hadn’t mattered to her if some of the stories were made up.
Her brother, Norm, had felt the same. In fact, he’d taken their father’s teachings to heart so much that he’d decided to go to New York City himself.
Katrina still remembered the day Norm shared this news with the family. They were at the dining room table, eating spare ribs and potatoes. Norm put his fork and knife down, cleared his throat, and said, “A kid from high school has a room for me in the city. I’m going to go after graduation.”
All the blood drained from Agatha’s face. “The city?” She was scandalized.
“What for?” Calvin demanded.
Norm realized he was in over his head. He picked his fork back up and traced lines through the mashed potatoes. “For the past few years, I’ve had the lead in the school play.” Norm continued. “I talked to some of my teachers, and they really think I have a shot.”
“At what?” Calvin asked.
“Acting,” Norm said. “On Broadway.”
Calvin burst into laughter. His fork and knife clattered to the plate, and his fork eventually fell to the floor below. Norm was stricken. Katrina imagined he’d practiced this announcement in his bedroom mirror, deciding to keep it simple. “Be strong, Norm,” he might have told his reflection. “Dad loves the city. He’ll support you.”
“Acting?” Calvin repeated. “My son? Acting?”
Agatha shook her head and placed her napkin over her mouth.
