The Shore House - Heidi Hostetter Page 0,21
did. When I talked to her earlier in the week, she said he’s coming for the summer too.” She glanced at Ryan. “Why?”
“No reason.” Ryan’s reply came too quickly, and Stacy felt her eyes narrow with suspicion.
“Why do you ask?” she repeated, staring at him.
He shrugged as he slowed for a stoplight. “It’s just that I happened to see a selfie of him on Instagram a couple of days ago. The geotag was someplace in Oregon.”
“Oregon? What’s he doing all the way out there? What day was this?”
“I don’t remember the exact day.”
“Try.”
“I don’t know, Stace.” Ryan sighed as he flicked on his blinker and turned the car onto their street. “Do you really need to have your brother there every time you visit your parents?”
“Yes.” Stacy’s reply came automatically. “Yes, I do.”
Brad had always been her mother’s favorite and Stacy had spent too much of her life trying to compete for her mother’s attention. Her honors’ classes and perfect grades went unnoticed while his C-minuses were noticed and applauded. During the summer, birdhouses Brad made with their grandfather in the work shed had overshadowed Stacy’s swim-team medals from the club. Later, in college, Kaye encouraged Brad to travel, and he did; graduating in six years instead of the standard four. Through it all, Brad seemed oblivious to the favoritism. Had he been anything other than a genuinely good person, Stacy would have been much more resentful.
The upside of Brad absorbing their mother’s attention this summer was that Stacy would be left alone. There would be much less pressure to be perfect.
They came to a stop in the driveway, their tires crunching on the white gravel.
“Bibi’s house!” Connor’s shouting woke his sister. He’d been three years old the last time they’d visited the shore house and Stacy didn’t think he’d remember it. Apparently, he did.
Ryan stepped out to release his son from his booster seat. Stacy reached across to untangle a bewildered Sophie, who rubbed her eyes and looked around.
“Time to wake up, monkey,” Stacy whispered. “We’re here.”
“Bibi’s house?” Sophie’s words were slurred with sleep.
“Yes.”
“Come on,” Connor tapped on his sister’s window as he eyed the front door. He’d been told to wait for his sister, though it seemed to take considerable effort. “Bibi has presents. She always has presents.”
The moment Sophie emerged from the car, Connor grabbed her hand and they ran toward the house, a burst of excited energy and chatter. Stacy hadn’t seen him this happy in a while, certainly not for soccer. Maybe a summer at the shore house would be good for everyone.
“It’s a good thing you’re doing, coming here for your dad,” Ryan offered, as he opened the trunk and pulled out a suitcase. “I know how tense things can get between you and your mother.”
“I hope so,” Stacy replied.
The shore house was strictly her mother’s domain. Kaye was the one who packed the car and drove them down, who opened the house and stocked it with food, who issued invitations for backyard parties and scheduled events. During the summer, her father felt like a visitor. He joined the family on weekends, arriving on the Friday evening train after working all week at his office in the city, like most of her friends’ fathers. Stacy remembered waiting at the town’s little depot as the sun set, slapping away mosquitos in the humid evening air, listening for the deep rumbling of the engine and the shrill whistle as the train pulled in. She’d carry her father’s briefcase as they walked back to the house, updating him on news of the week.
“The house looks nice, doesn’t it?” Ryan set a suitcase on the graveled driveway.
It looked the same and there was comfort in that.
The shore house was set in the middle of a quiet road in an area of town whose families had summered in Dewberry Beach for generations. The house itself had originally been owned by Stacy’s grandfather. He was the one who’d planted the oak tree in the yard, the same tree whose branches now shaded the house and whose leaves still rustled in the summer breeze. The house itself, cedar-shingled and well-loved, had long ago weathered to a soft dove gray. In the front, three steps led to a wide front porch, set with white wicker furniture and a trio of rocking chairs for anyone who wanted to sit and visit. On the second floor, yellow and white striped awnings shaded front bedrooms from the afternoon sun.
The porch swing was new, Stacy noticed