Page 75 of Summer Light on Nantucket
She didn’t want to end the call, but she couldn’t prevent yawning so loudly and hard she thought her jaw would lock open.
“That was rude. I’m sorry.”
Nick laughed. “You are forgiven for being tired after the day you’ve had. Sleep tight.”
She held the phone close to her heart as she went up the stairs.
She quietly went down the hall, peeking in each child’s room.
Holly was asleep, cradling her favorite stuffed animal, Oscar. Teddy slept with his arms and legs flung out, all his covers on the floor as if he’d fought them and won. Daphne snored what the kids called “Daphne’s Signature Snore” as she lay flat on her back, her head in the center of the pillow, her covers pulled to her shoulders and everything as tidy as if she were a letter slid into an envelope.
And Miranda. Her tempestuous daughter lay on her stomach, her light sheet and cotton quilt swirled over the bed and her laptop sticking out from beneath her head.
Blythe quietly entered the room, gently eased the laptop away, andset it on the bedside table. Miranda, who slept operatically, rolled onto her back, emitting a long tremulous sigh. But she didn’t wake up, and Blythe decided not to try to untangle the covers because it might disturb her sleep. She didn’t need to check on Brooks. She knew he was fine.
She hoped he had nightmares.
Was she a terrible person to think that way?
Blythe returned to her room, tired, but happy. Her children were asleep. They were safe. Tomorrow was another day. She brushed her teeth and slid into bed, relaxing on her clean sheets and plump pillow. Sublime.
Someone was knocking on the front door.
Blythe’s heart lurched.No. It couldn’t be about Celeste.
But it was ten-thirty. Who would knock on their door at ten-thirty?
She pulled on her light robe and hurried down the stairs. Frightened and angry—the children might wake—she yanked the door open.
Aaden.
For a long moment, she couldn’t seem to focus. Was she caught in one of those very realistic dreams?
It really was Aaden. In his suit and tie, he looked very professional and very tired. His tie was tugged down, his white dress shirt was wrinkled, and he carried his suit jacket in his hand. His jaw was bristling with a day-old beard and his eyelids drooped.
“Aaden? What— I thought you were in Boston.”
“May I come in?” His voice was scratchy.
“Of course.” She held the door open.
He entered. His rumpled clothes smelled of Scotch. He started to embrace her but caught himself and stepped back.
“How are you?” he asked.
“Oh, Aaden, I’m exhausted and you look exhausted, too. Come in. I’ll make coffee.”
She led him to the kitchen, glad she’d pulled her robe over her T-shirt and boxer shorts.
“Here,” she indicated. “Sit. Are you hungry?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. I do need coffee. How are you? How is your friend?”
“My friend?” She found a mug and poured the water in the Keurig. How sweet of him, and how right, to call Celeste her friend. It was much simpler than ex-mother-in-law, and it was true.
“She’s resting in the hospital. The prognosis is good. She’s in her seventies and in general good health.”
The Keurig rumbled and filled the mug. Blythe got out the milk and the sugar bowl. She didn’t have to ask him how he took his coffee. She set it in front of him and sat in a chair next to him. She folded her hands together on the table, to hide the fact that they were shaking.
