It hadn’t always been like this, she knew. Back when they both held down jobs outside the home, they often met for dinner in the city before heading home. But that was before the girls, and going out to eat with the girls was too much trouble right now.
Around seven, the girls woke, usually together, because they did everything together and because Victoria was scared to walk down the stairs by herself. They’d eat at the table while Hope carried a plate up to Gemma, learning quickly into things that it was best to leave it just outside her closed door. She’d find it when she was ready, even if it had probably gone cold by then.
Then there was the kitchen to clean, and the flower beds to weed, (only thanks to the help of the handyman that Gemma had hired and had been seen chatting with a few times, the yard was looking much better already), and then, when the sun was higher in the sky, she and the girls wandered to their private beach, buckets in hand, a paperback for Hope, not that she could keep her eyes on it much. Oh, she used to love to read! Now, by the time the girls were in bed, her eyes were so heavy that even attempting to read usually put her right to sleep. And she didn’t want to sleep! She wanted to enjoy every moment of the evening, not just for the sunsets that turned the sky coral and pink and sherbet orange, but because it was the only time in the day, the only time at all, that was hers. Only hers.
After the beach, there was the bath, and then, usually, a trip into town. Hope had recovered from the weekend’s disaster and now made a daily habit of it, to be amongst the land of the living. And, maybe, if she was being completely honest with herself, to have the possibility of running into John again. John who made her take on the same expression that Ellie did any time that Simon’s name was mentioned.
Her favorite shop was Harbor House Designs, the home interiors shop just off Main, where Rose had attempted to smash the crystal vase with the candlestick. Now when Hope went inside, she was prepared. Each girl had a lollipop and a promise of another if they behaved. The owner brought in fresh items every three days; she said it was the only way to keep business going with the locals, who were her best customers.
“After all,” Sheila said to her today, “there are over five hundred year-round residents on the island.”
Were there? That was more than Hope would have thought and the figure felt like one with potential, though she wasn’t sure why or how. Still, she picked up a boxwood topiary and set it down, then moved onto some table linens before her eyes drifted to a beautiful armchair in a mint-green buffalo check print.
On a whim, she picked up a charcoal-colored throw pillow with a mint and blue floral pattern and set it on the seat of the chair.
“That’s a bold combination,” said a voice behind her.
Hope’s cheeks flushed as she turned to see the shop owner standing beside her. “Sorry,” she said, reaching for the pillow, but Sheila held up a hand.
“Don’t be. I like that. I like your style.” She tipped her head. “Are you a designer?”
Hope laughed. “No. I’m…” She stopped there. What was she? She didn’t even know how to describe herself anymore. A mom? A wife? No one ever asked her what she did anymore. People just assumed. No one really stopped to ask much about her as an individual at all, she realized. Other than John. “I’m Hope Morgan,” she said, extending her hand.
Sheila gave it a shake. “I heard that Ellie’s sisters were here for the summer. And you have the same eyes.” She motioned to a framed print on the wall, and Hope was surprised to realize it one of her sister’s paintings.
“Your sister has quite a talent,” Sheila said.
“Yes,” Hope said, fighting off a rush of contradictory emotions. Ellie had always followed her heart instead of her head, something that their father warned would only lead to trouble. But Hope felt like the one in trouble. The one without a clue as to what the future held anymore. The one who hadn’t preserved her own identity.
Whereas Ellie…she always knew what she wanted. And who she was.
“I opened this shop about four years ago,” Sheila was saying now as she adjusted a few vases on a shelf. “I’d visited the island before and it was always my dream to end up here someday. You’re fortunate to have grown up here.”
“We only summered here,” Hope corrected, “but…we were fortunate.” They still were, she thought. So long as they still had Sunset Cottage, they still had this island. It was always here. It always had been. It just hadn’t been…practical for a while.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve been back to the island,” Hope said. Too long.
Now, looking back, she felt bad. Maybe they’d expected too much from Ellie. Holding down the fort, taking care of the house. It wasn’t like they had offered to pitch in. But they had responsibilities, and Ellie…well, Ellie was Ellie. And as much as she hadn’t vocalized it, she understood why Gemma had said what she did last summer. She had a good arrangement here. One that Gran had provided.
“I’m looking for some help, if you’re interested,” Sheila said, and Hope had to stop herself from gaping. “Some of my regular clients have been asking for personal consultations. Some of the projects are small—decorating for the holidays or summer parties—others are larger in scale. I’ve advised clients on everything from wall color to floor tile.” She laughed.
Hope didn’t know why, but she felt suddenly seized with panic, as if there was a decision to make, and she wasn’t prepared to make it. It had all sprung up too soon, and there were logistics. She didn’t have childcare. How on earth could she take a job right now? It wasn’t practical, but where had being practical gotten her before? And what about Evan? He’d be coming back soon enough, and what was she going to tell him when he did? What about her lovely Tudor house on Willow Lane? And her car. It was still at the ferry station in Blue Harbor, in the long-term parking lot. For some inexplicable reason, she began to worry that she’d forgotten to roll up the windows, even though she never rolled them down. Still, she should check. She could take the ferry over, ease her mind.
Except, if she got on the ferry, stepped foot on mainland, she wasn’t sure that she would have the courage to come back. Because she knew how she felt here. Good. Too good, maybe.
“Oh, I don’t—” She stopped herself. This was exactly what she wanted, wasn’t it? An opportunity to do something for herself? To pursue her own interests? To use her mind to do something other than keep lists and manage domestic routine?
If there was one thing she knew how to do well it was keep a home. And decorate one.
“I don’t know how long I’ll be staying,” she said, taking the card. It was thick cardstock, creamy white, and the raised font was in rose gold lettering. Effortlessly chic. She could almost picture her own name staring back at her as the idea the woman was offering began to take shape.
This island was full of potential. Beautiful, Victorian homes just aching to be restored to their former glory. It was a project that would inspire her. One that would make her feel alive. She felt more energized than she had in years just thinking about it.
“That’s fine,” Sheila said. “I could use the temporary help if that suits you. Though of course if this works out, I’d be sorry to see you go.”