things another way.”
“Good.” She nods, loving being the mother hen again, loving having people to look after. “Oh my gosh,” she says, looking at her watch. “The new tenant will be here any minute and I was hoping to make dinner for all of us, a sort of getting-to-know-you night.”
“Can I help?”
“You most certainly can. I’m making the chowder; you can do the crab cakes. Let’s get a move on and see if we can all sit down for eight.”
Daff puts her bags down and goes over to the window, sinking down and curling her feet up under her, looking out of the window with delight, a sigh of satisfaction escaping her. She has seen views like this many times over the years—sunlight glinting off water, boats bobbing gently in the ocean—but she has been too busy to enjoy them.
She has been too busy to do a lot of things she enjoyed, she has started to realize, things that once upon a time, before she became a wife and mother, fed her soul.
Painting, for one. She hasn’t painted for years, but right before she packed, when she was sorting out her office, she found a tiny travel watercolor kit. She put it in her case, and bought a small pad of watercolor paper to go with it.
She used to listen to music all the time before she was married. She would turn it up loud when she was alone in her apartment at night, and dance, sometimes for hours. She remembers calling it the soundtrack to her life: Neil Young when she was a teenager, Joni Mitchell and Cat Stevens when she went away to school.
Why is it that the soundtrack to her life stopped on the day she got married?
She has started listening to music again. Pouring herself a glass of wine and soaking in a hot bubble bath, Jack Johnson crooning softly as she tips her head forward to take a sip, reveling in having to be nowhere else, having to do nothing for anyone else, for the rest of the night.
But she misses Jess. Oh how she misses Jess. Not the Jess of late, the truculent, angry, hostile teenager, but her lovely little girl, her sunny, warm, clever Jess, a Jess she knows is still hiding somewhere deep inside.
Better though, for now, that Jess is with her dad. Perhaps they both need this break from one another. Daff doesn’t see this move as permanent, and has a strong suspicion that Jess will be on the phone soon, begging to come home. And perhaps then they will find their feet again, will be able to be mother and daughter again, friends and allies instead of enemies. She met up with Carrie and liked her, understanding that someone like Carrie might be good for Jess, and this is just a trial after all, it doesn’t have to last long, just long enough for her to regain her equilibrium.
Nantucket is a well-deserved break, a time during which both Daff and Jess will be able to heal. She has her watercolors in her bag, a burner, and a CD of meditations that she hasn’t listened to for at least ten years, maybe longer.
This is a place to be reborn, she thinks, curling up tighter and hugging her knees. It feels as if a weight has been lifted, as if she can start again, and what a special, magical house to have found.
Everything does happen for a reason after all, she thinks.
“Should we go into the living room?” Nan keeps asking, topping up everyone’s wine glass. “Sarah cleaned in there especially. I really think we ought to be sitting in there.”
“Mom, relax.” Michael smiles at her, taking the bottle out of her somewhat unsteady hand and pouring the wine himself. “Everyone’s happy in the kitchen, and it’s lovely in here. We’ll use the living room another time.”
She smiles at him. “You’re right.” And she lowers her voice to a whisper. “So what do you think of the new tenant?”
Michael looks over at Daff, who is standing next to Daniel at the stove as he fries the crab cakes, asking him quiet questions about his cooking.
“She seems nice,” he says. “But sad.”
“I think so too.” Nan nods. “Terribly nice and probably on a journey to happiness herself.”
“What’s her story? Do you know?”
“Divorced. Single mother. Daughter staying with the father and girlfriend, and I think this is the first time she’s had for herself in years. I rather think she’s slightly lost, doesn’t know