She blamed herself. Just as she blamed herself for Susan’s crazy name-changing, just as Will blamed himself for what happened to Fred.
Her feet felt warm in her fleece-lined slippers as she strolled the dark halls like a tormented sleepwalker. With Susan at Will’s, now might be the time to look through her drawers and see what she needed for clothes. With Christmas coming, she knew Julian wanted to buy her some special things.
But when she got to Susan’s room, she stopped still.
There, standing in the hallway, leaning neatly against the walnut wainscoting, were the two Gainsboroughs that Julian had given her. Alice stared at them, the beautiful paintings in their large gold frames. The little girl, the two small dogs. She remembered what Julian had said in the car on their way to the auction, about Will not being able to afford paintings like these, and she closed her eyes.
This was too much for her. She felt the weight of her daughter’s unhappiness bearing down on her shoulders, and she sank to the floor. Cold drafts of air blew through the rooms. Hugging herself, she lowered her head. Constantly preoccupied with Susan, she was too upset to be the woman Julian had fallen in love with. She was going to lose it all: her new marriage, her security, her daughter’s respect.
Sitting there, alone in the upstairs hallway of Julian’s stone chateau, she whispered one word: ‘Help.’
Sarah had just opened her shop on Saturday morning when she heard the bells above her door tingle. That fresh white-yellow early light was in her eyes, so she leaned down to see around the sunlight. Will Burke and his daughter stood there, holding two white bakery bags.
‘We came last night, but you had already closed,’ the young girl said.
‘You caught me,’ Sarah said. ‘I wanted to go to the movies in Wilsonia, so I closed a little early. What do you have there?’
‘We brought you breakfast,’ Will said. He looked tan and sexy, bundled up in a hunter-green ski jacket. His ears were red from the cold, and the corners of his gray-blue eyes crinkled in the sunlight.
‘You must have read my mind,’ she said, grinning. ‘I’m starved!’
‘Are you really?’ the girl asked.
‘Yes, Snow,’ Sarah said. ‘My stomach is growling.’
Snow’s intake of breath was loud and dramatic. The teenager stood there, one mittened hand over her mouth; she looked pale, with dark circles under her eyes. ‘How did you know I’d changed my name?’
‘You told me you wanted to be “Snow” for winter, didn’t you? Just look outside,’ Sarah said, pointing at the snow-covered street, the new powder lying on all the rooftops and evergreens, on the statue of General Jameson Cromwell standing on the town green.
Snow and her father looked at each other. Some violent feeling was clouding the girl’s eyes. She had been practically wringing her hands, but she began to calm down. She took a deep breath. Removing the plaid muffler from around her neck, she trailed it across the damask-covered bed.
‘Let’s sit back here,’ Sarah said, clearing a place on her desk for the doughnuts, coffee, and juice. Doughnuts weren’t on her list of healthful foods, they were too sugary and fried for her, but there was no way in the world she wasn’t going to have one just then.
With Snow and Will watching her, she selected a French cruller and tasted it, letting herself enjoy every bite. That was her motto: Once you decide to do something, you might as well love it. Such ease of mind didn’t always come freely, but it was always worth the effort.
‘You’re going to Maine, I hear,’ Snow said, placing a small white bag on the desk. Sarah moved to open it, but Snow gestured for her to wait till later. Curious, Sarah slid it aside.
‘Maine? Yes, I am,’ she said.
‘The five-day forecast looks cold but clear,’ Will said. ‘No storms in sight.’
‘Why all the way to Maine?’ Snow asked.
‘To see my son.’
‘You have a son?’ Snow asked, nearly dropping the doughnut she had just chosen.
‘Yes. Mike. He’s not much older than you.’
‘He doesn’t live with you? How come? Does he live in Maine with his father?’
‘Snow …’ Will began.
‘That’s okay. I love talking about him. He’s a man of strong beliefs and opinions, a total individual, and about a year ago he dropped out of high school to go home to Elk Island and save my father’s farm.’
‘You grew up on a farm?’ Snow asked.
‘Yes,’ Sarah said. She gestured at a pile of quilts stacked in the corner. ‘See those? They were made on our farm. About nineteen years ago I started a store like this in Boston because the farm was about to go under. My mother had been sick when I was young, and when I was fourteen she died. My father was just so distracted … especially after she was gone. He found someone from Thomaston who wanted to buy all the geese, and he had a man from Camden who wanted to buy the land. None of that sat very well with me, so I dropped out of college to start my business and support the farm.’
‘Like mother, like son,’ Will said.
‘Exactly. I have no one to blame but myself. Was that what you were going to say?’
‘No, I was going to say your father is a lucky man,’ Will said, handing her a cardboard cup of coffee.
Sarah thanked him, taking a sip.
‘Did you save the farm?’ Snow asked, sitting on the edge of her seat.
‘I can’t actually say we saved it,’ Sarah said, picturing the ramshackle buildings, the tired old geese, the falling-down fences, her Aunt Bess with her ancient treadle sewing machine. ‘But so far he’s been able to keep it.’
‘It’s still running?’ Will asked.
‘Yes. They put out ten quilts a year, and I pay them. They sell geese. Together we just about cover the taxes.’
‘Your father must love you so much! He must be so ecstatic to have Mike living with him now,’ Snow said. The thought made her so happy, she popped two doughnut holes into her mouth, one in each cheek, and left them there as she closed her eyes, basking in the notion of a grateful old father.
‘I’m not really sure how he feels,’ Sarah said.
‘Ask him!’ Snow said, stating what was so obvious to her.
It did sound simple. But Sarah and her father had years and layers of bitterness between them: disagreements over her mother’s treatment, the aftermath of her death, the fact that Sarah had left the island. Sarah tried to smile.
‘Why don’t you?’ Snow asked, looking troubled.
‘You know how I said Mike’s a man of strong opinions? Well, he got that from his grandfather. And most of his opinions collide with mine.’
‘Difficult,’ Will said, looking as if he understood.
‘It is.’
‘That’s no reason not to try,’ Snow said. ‘He’s a person too. If I’d given up on you, Dad, I’d hate to think of where we’d be. Talk about difficult.’
‘Hey,’ Will said. Was he kidding or hurt? Sarah couldn’t tell by his eyes.
‘Worse than difficult,’ Snow said, glancing at Sarah.
‘Fathers don’t have it easy,’ Sarah said. Although for some reason her thoughts slid to Zeke, who had had it about as easy as it got: From the minute Sarah had told him about her pregnancy, he