Beach Winds by Grace Greene Page A

and clothing, Laurel had solutions for every potential untamed action. Frannie climbed onto the bed and sat cross-legged with the old box balanced on her knees.
    So little here. A letter her father had written her at camp was on top. Had she been ten? About Megan’s age. Below that was an old bar of hotel soap, still in its wrapper, from a trip they’d taken once upon a time. In the bottom lay a tarnished silver bracelet. She cherished it because of the engraving. To Frances with all my love.
    Her heart shivered.
    To Frances, not Frannie. Was ‘with all my love’ a strange thing to say to your young daughter, especially when there was a wife, Laurel, on the scene?
    She tried to remember when her father had given it to her. She hadn’t thought about the ‘Frances’ part back then. It was her proper name, after all.
    The sounds of movement downstairs got her up and moving. She added the cigar box and a few more items to the suitcase and then zipped it shut.
    “ I saw your car.” Laurel stood in the open doorway. “If you’d called ahead, I would’ve had lunch waiting for you.” She made a point of staring at the suitcase. “You’re going back so soon?”
    “ I am.”
    “ Not right away, surely.”
    “ That depends.”
    “ Come down to the kitchen. Martha made some fresh scones.” She treated Frannie to her almost-laugh. “Cranberry. Terrible on the waistline.”
    She couldn ’t help herself. She had to respond in the way she always had in that special code language that families have, responses that said all was well, or wasn’t. “But so good on the way down.”
    Mother smiled and took that as an invitation to move further into the room.
    Frannie asked, “When did it go so wrong between us? Was it always this way and I don’t remember?”
    “ What do you mean?”
    “ Adversarial. That’s our relationship and has been for a long time. Even when we were doing the mom and daughter things.”
    She touched Frannie ’s shoulder. “We can’t help being who we are, but that doesn’t mean we don’t care.”
    Another cue, one with which they were both familiar, and she almost gave the expected response, but instead, she said, “Was my father married before he married you?”
    Laurel paled except for a bright splotch high on each cheek that grew redder. She stepped back.
    “What? Why do you ask that?”
    Frannie persisted. “Was my father married before he married you?” She watched Laurel’s face and after a long silent moment, she added, “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.”
    Laurel strode across the room and back again, agitated.
    “We never told you. Why would we? It was brief, a disaster of a marriage.”
    “ Who was she?”
    “ I never knew her.”
    “ You know her name.”
    “ I refuse to discuss this. If your father had wanted you to know, he would’ve told you. You’ve never respected me or my feelings, but I hope you still have some respect for your father’s wishes.” She turned away and marched out of the room.
    “ Wait.” She couldn’t allow Laurel to walk away, taking her knowledge with her, knowledge Frannie had more right to than anyone. She followed her down the hall and across the open area that overlooked the foyer. The master suite was on the far end. She heard the door close as she reached the corner.
    She started to call out ‘Mother’ but couldn’t say the word. She leaned against the door, fighting the desire to beat her fists upon it. Uncertain, she called out, “We need to talk.” She took a deep breath. “Please, I need to know about Frances.” She whispered against the door, “Please.”
    Laurel opened it slowly, saying, “Understand, it was your father’s wish. He thought that moving here to the city after we married was like a fresh start. He wanted to save you a lifetime of explanations. Questions. Fretting over a woman who didn’t want you.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. That sounds hurtful. I don’t mean it that way. It is simply