to be done on weekends—running errands, seeing friends, gardening—and Jess would just slot herself in.
But nothing seems to be keeping Jess happy these days. At least this weekend will be fun, and Jess is always better when she’s around other kids her own age.
“Jess!” Daff goes back to the stairs and calls again, finally walking upstairs and knocking on the bedroom door in exasperation. “Breakfast is on the table,” she says, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice, for that is not how she wants to start this weekend. “I’ve been calling you.”
Silence.
Daff tentatively pushes open the door, and there is no Jess.
“Jess?” A question. She checks the bathroom. Nothing. Her own bathroom, for Jess has now decided that what’s hers is hers and what’s Daff’s is also hers—Daff’s hairbrushes, conditioner, bubble bath and makeup all go missing on a regular basis—but Jess is not upstairs.
"Jess?” Daff’s voice is louder now as she shouts downstairs. She’s not in the family room, the living room, the library. She is nowhere to be found.
Daff finds herself tearing around the house shouting Jess’s name, panic rising in her throat when the phone rings. She picks it up, breathless, feeling the tears start to come.
“It’s Richard. Jess is here. I think you’d better come over.”
Daniel hasn’t been anywhere by himself, for anything other than work, for a very long time. It is a very odd feeling, to be sitting on this ferry, surrounded by families going on vacation, going on vacation himself but without his family.
He had wanted to travel there together, wanted still to spend as much time as possible with the girls, but Bee had disagreed.
“You left,” she’d hissed, anger finally starting to take the place of devastation. “You don’t get to pretend you’re still part of this family.”
“But I am,” he’d said, hurt and dismayed. “I’m their father. That’s never going to change. I’m always going to be part of their family.”
“Yes, but you’re no longer part of mine,” Bee had said, putting down the phone.
Some days were better than others. Some days were fine, some found Bee in tears, some found her pleading and others, particularly these last few days, found her in a fury.
Then the vacation was upon them, and Daniel refused to let Bee take the girls for a whole month to Nantucket. He insisted on being there too, wanted to come with them, to pretend for the sake of the girls, but Bee refused.
“If you want to be on the island at the same time I can’t stop you,” she’d said, adding reluctantly, “and the girls would be pleased. But don’t expect me to pretend that everything is fine between us. This isn’t my choice. This isn’t ever what I would have chosen.”
He had Googled rentals, wanting something cheap, easy. Something that he could leave, to come back to Westport for work, traveling back to Massachussetts on weekends.
Cheap and easy doesn’t come cheap, or easy, on Nantucket. He didn’t need much. A whole house seemed extravagant. He assumed there would be a condo, but there was nothing that was suitable, and nothing in his price range. Not that he had ever had to think about money before, but he had no idea what he would be paying in child support, in alimony, and now was not the time for extravagance.
He had found a room in an old house. It looked clean. Nice views. The landlady said she adored children, there’d be more than enough room if the girls wanted to come and have a sleepover.
As soon as she’d said that, his decision was made.
Chapter Thirteen
Daff hasn’t been in Richard’s house before, and she can’t help but be curious. She follows him through to the kitchen, noticing the furniture he took from their shared house, and the new things he has bought—the rugs, the flat-screen plasma, the bookshelves.
It is neat and tidy, far tidier than Daff’s house. Richard spent their marriage berating Daff for her scattiness, and she is astonished at quite how ordered he is. There is not a paper out of place, nor a pile on any of the kitchen counters. But nor are there any of the things that, for Daff, make a house a home. The photographs, the invitations stuck to the fridge, the cookery books stacked haphazardly on the shelves. The little objects she has collected over the years, the shells, the interesting boxes.
I couldn’t live like this, she thinks, sitting down at the kitchen table—Pottery Barn, she recognizes it from