and I settled back into his arms.
The sun was barely a glint on the horizon when I rolled out of the bunk and felt around for my clothes.
Chris stirred. “What time is it?”
“Early. Go back to sleep.”
“You don’t have to go.”
“I do.”
“Julia, you’re thirty. I doubt your mother thinks—”
She probably didn’t. Not that my mother’s WASPy reserve would ever allow us to discuss such things. But I’d brought my mother a houseguest and then disappeared. I wanted to get back before she and Richelle woke up. The least I could do was make some breakfast and spend a little time with them before I had to run off to work again.
“Bye,” I called softly.
Chris was already back snug under the covers, his eyes firmly closed. “Love you,” he mumbled.
Wait. What?
Chapter 18
The sun was just coming up over Eastclaw Point as I scurried up the walk to my mother’s house. Once inside, I wondered, how far was I planning to carry this charade? Should I mess up my bed and put on pajamas? Ridiculous. As Chris had pointed out, I was thirty years old.
In the end, I took a shower and put on clean clothes, then went down to the kitchen to fix breakfast.
I tried hard not to think about what Chris had said. Or rather mumbled. For a few moments at a time, I convinced myself I’d misunderstood him. It was too soon, too fast, too much. But was it? I’d mooned about him from afar for more than half my life. But we’d only been officially going out for six weeks, if you didn’t count the months we’d met for lunch at Gus’s. Besides, what good could come of it? I couldn’t envision any future for myself that didn’t involve going back to Manhattan, and last night Chris had declared he was never leaving Busman’s Harbor—which hadn’t come as a surprise.
Mom arrived downstairs before Richelle. If she noticed I hadn’t slept at home, she didn’t mention it.
“I’m sorry I invited Richelle and then took off,” I said.
“Don’t be silly. She needed a place to stay. Besides, she’s delightful.”
“Morning.” Richelle was in a nice nightgown and matching bathrobe. She noticed me noticing. “Jacquie took me to Topsham yesterday to pick up some clothes.” Topsham was the closest town down the coast offering shopping plazas and big box stores.
Jacquie? No one called my mom Jacquie. Calling our boat the Jacquie II was my father’s idea of a joke. My mother was Jacqueline, nothing shorter.
“We had a delightful day,” Mom said. “A little shopping. Out to lunch.”
Hearing that, I was sure I was in an alternate universe. My mom did not have girlfriends. She didn’t think shopping was a social activity. She thought it was about meeting basic human needs by making decisions and performing transactions as quickly as possible.
“Did you know Richelle came to Busman’s Harbor when she was young?” Mom continued. “Her aunt was Georgette Baker. Remember? The Blue Door?”
I did remember. Miss Georgette Baker had owned a B&B overlooking the back harbor. It was surrounded by a tall fence with a bright blue door. Not a gate, a real door. My memory of her was vague. Through my childish eyes she’d seemed very old. I wondered how old she’d actually been.
“Well, just the one summer,” Richelle said quietly. “She was my great-aunt.”
“Really?” I was surprised. “All the times we talked about how much you loved Busman’s Harbor and how you tried to lead every tour your company sent here, you never mentioned you’d spent a summer here. Or had a relative who lived here.”
“It was so long ago. I didn’t think anyone would remember Georgette.”
“Of course we remember her,” my mother said. “Don’t you, Julia?”
I nodded to confirm I did. I took the pan of scrambled eggs off the burner and over to the kitchen table where my mother buttered toast.
“How long do you expect to stay in town?” I asked Richelle. I thought it was more polite than, “How long do you
The sun was barely a glint on the horizon when I rolled out of the bunk and felt around for my clothes.
Chris stirred. “What time is it?”
“Early. Go back to sleep.”
“You don’t have to go.”
“I do.”
“Julia, you’re thirty. I doubt your mother thinks—”
She probably didn’t. Not that my mother’s WASPy reserve would ever allow us to discuss such things. But I’d brought my mother a houseguest and then disappeared. I wanted to get back before she and Richelle woke up. The least I could do was make some breakfast and spend a little time with them before I had to run off to work again.
“Bye,” I called softly.
Chris was already back snug under the covers, his eyes firmly closed. “Love you,” he mumbled.
Wait. What?
Chapter 18
The sun was just coming up over Eastclaw Point as I scurried up the walk to my mother’s house. Once inside, I wondered, how far was I planning to carry this charade? Should I mess up my bed and put on pajamas? Ridiculous. As Chris had pointed out, I was thirty years old.
In the end, I took a shower and put on clean clothes, then went down to the kitchen to fix breakfast.
I tried hard not to think about what Chris had said. Or rather mumbled. For a few moments at a time, I convinced myself I’d misunderstood him. It was too soon, too fast, too much. But was it? I’d mooned about him from afar for more than half my life. But we’d only been officially going out for six weeks, if you didn’t count the months we’d met for lunch at Gus’s. Besides, what good could come of it? I couldn’t envision any future for myself that didn’t involve going back to Manhattan, and last night Chris had declared he was never leaving Busman’s Harbor—which hadn’t come as a surprise.
Mom arrived downstairs before Richelle. If she noticed I hadn’t slept at home, she didn’t mention it.
“I’m sorry I invited Richelle and then took off,” I said.
“Don’t be silly. She needed a place to stay. Besides, she’s delightful.”
“Morning.” Richelle was in a nice nightgown and matching bathrobe. She noticed me noticing. “Jacquie took me to Topsham yesterday to pick up some clothes.” Topsham was the closest town down the coast offering shopping plazas and big box stores.
Jacquie? No one called my mom Jacquie. Calling our boat the Jacquie II was my father’s idea of a joke. My mother was Jacqueline, nothing shorter.
“We had a delightful day,” Mom said. “A little shopping. Out to lunch.”
Hearing that, I was sure I was in an alternate universe. My mom did not have girlfriends. She didn’t think shopping was a social activity. She thought it was about meeting basic human needs by making decisions and performing transactions as quickly as possible.
“Did you know Richelle came to Busman’s Harbor when she was young?” Mom continued. “Her aunt was Georgette Baker. Remember? The Blue Door?”
I did remember. Miss Georgette Baker had owned a B&B overlooking the back harbor. It was surrounded by a tall fence with a bright blue door. Not a gate, a real door. My memory of her was vague. Through my childish eyes she’d seemed very old. I wondered how old she’d actually been.
“Well, just the one summer,” Richelle said quietly. “She was my great-aunt.”
“Really?” I was surprised. “All the times we talked about how much you loved Busman’s Harbor and how you tried to lead every tour your company sent here, you never mentioned you’d spent a summer here. Or had a relative who lived here.”
“It was so long ago. I didn’t think anyone would remember Georgette.”
“Of course we remember her,” my mother said. “Don’t you, Julia?”
I nodded to confirm I did. I took the pan of scrambled eggs off the burner and over to the kitchen table where my mother buttered toast.
“How long do you expect to stay in town?” I asked Richelle. I thought it was more polite than, “How long do you
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