Page 30 of The Summer Swap

Maybe it wasn’t so surprising.

Opening that letter and discovering that Cameron had lied about selling the cottage had left a deep wound. The fact that he’d waited until after his death to confess had made things worse. She’d had nowhere to put all the intense emotion that had been swirling inside her.

She’d tackle the mess, she promised herself, but first she needed coffee and something to eat. And painkillers for her headache, which was getting worse not better.

She made herself a mug of strong black coffee and took it outdoors onto the deck.

The breeze fluffed her hair, and the warm sun and blue skies promised her a pretty day. Maybe she’d walk later. Anything to avoid spending time in the cottage. She’d underestimated how difficult it would feel to be here.

Sadness seeped into her. She used to love it here. The cottage had been her special place. Their place. Even when Cameron’s work had started attracting attention, and selling for good money, and then unbelievable (was she allowed to say stupid?) money—even when they’d bought a huge house and had the children—this was the place that made them both happy. Occasionally Cameron’s mother would babysit, and they’d come here for a weekend and paint, and talk, and enjoy being a couple again and not just parents. The pressure seemed to slough away from them the moment they crossed the Sagamore Bridge.

And then there had been an occasion when Cameron had come by himself. He’d needed the space and the peace and the opportunity to paint undisturbed. It had been Kristen’s ninth birthday and Cecilia had been organizing a party for ten classmates, so she’d decided not to join him. As she’d iced cakes and hung balloons and had her head pierced by the high-pitched shrieks of thoroughly overexcited girls, she’d felt envious of Cameron. She loved the children, but she also missed the days before kids when she and Cameron had spent long, lazy weekends at the Cape painting side by side on the beach. Cameron’s career had soared ahead of hers and she didn’t resent that, but she did envy the fact that he was able to devote his life entirely to art, heading to his studio daily, leaving her to fit her own love of painting into the small scraps of time that weren’t taken up by running his life and caring for the kids. On her less generous days she thought, That could have been me.

She’d watched enviously as Cameron had loaded up the car early on that Friday morning and headed to the Cape by himself. The moment he’d driven away she regretted not asking him to postpone for a day so they could go together. The day after Kristen’s party she’d woken with a yearning to spend time with him. She’d contemplated bundling the children into the car and taking them to Dune Cottage and surprising Cameron, but they’d never taken the children there and Winston was going through a stage of hating car journeys, so she’d dismissed the idea. She and Cameron had agreed from the beginning that the cottage was to be their secret hideaway. A place where they could spend time alone. And that approach had worked. It meant that the moment Cecilia stepped inside the cottage she transformed from being an exhausted mother and overworked wife and turned back into an individual. It made the place seem more romantic. It gave it a special intimacy.

She was working on coming to terms with a missed weekend on the Cape when Cameron’s mother had shown up unexpectedly from a trip photographing wildlife in the Galápagos and offered to babysit her grandchildren.

It was so rare for Cameron’s mother to appear (her own parents had died in her first year of college) that Cecilia had grabbed the opportunity.

She’d often wondered what would have happened if Cameron’s mother hadn’t offered to stay that weekend.

She wouldn’t have gone to the cottage. She wouldn’t have decided to surprise him.

She hadn’t even knocked on the door or called his name. Instead, she’d crept into the cottage with a smile on her face as she anticipated his surprise and joy at seeing her.

He’d been in the bedroom and when he saw her there he had indeed shown surprise, but no joy. Instead there was shock on her part, and guilt on his because he wasn’t alone. The girl lying naked on the bed (Cameron and Cecilia’s bed, on Cecilia’s specially chosen bed linen) was smoking a joint even though smoking in the cottage was strictly forbidden.

Cecilia had rushed from the room, and Cameron had rushed after her, excuses spilling out of him as he’d pulled on his clothes. He’d decided to paint a series of nudes. The woman had agreed to model for him. He hadn’t intended to sleep with her. He’d met her on the beach. She was no one. He’d been worried about his work and lonely without Cecilia. It meant nothing.

It had meant everything to Cecilia. From that moment the cottage was tainted. Cameron might as well have spray-painted the walls in garish red. Their special place was no longer their special place. It would never again be just his and hers. She would never again associate it with happy memories.

It had changed the cottage and it had changed their marriage.

Cecilia didn’t know what words were exchanged between Cameron and the woman, but she’d left immediately.

Cecilia did the same. She told Cameron not to follow her because she didn’t want him back in the house. She couldn’t bear to share the same space with him. How could he do this to her after everything she had done for him and everything they’d been through together?

He’d checked into a hotel overlooking Boston Common and she’d told the children that their father was staying in the city for a while because of his work.

Cameron sent her flowers. He sent her jewelry. He sent her a painting.

When she didn’t respond to any of it, he sent her a frantic note. She was his muse. She encouraged him. She was the only one who understood him. She was everything. He said I can’t do this without you.

This time Cecilia wrote back. You’re going to have to.

A month after Cameron moved out, Cecilia decided to make it final. She’d told the children their marriage was over. Kristen had been hysterical. She’d refused to accept it. She’d blamed Cecilia. When Cecilia tried to talk to her, she ran out of the house and that was that.

Cecilia and Cameron had sat by her bed in the hospital day and night. She’d clung to them. Needed them. Separation and divorce were forgotten. They were forced back together by their love and fear for their daughter.

And they’d stayed together, even after Kristen had recovered, but Cecilia had never returned to the cottage.

She’d known that whenever she walked into that bedroom, she’d picture that woman. It would be like ripping open a festering wound again and again. She’d told him to sell the place, and he’d agreed.

Learning to trust him again had been a difficult task but with time and a great deal of effort, she’d managed it. And if a small part of her had sometimes wondered if that had been his only affair, she forced herself to ignore it.

When she’d opened that envelope and discovered he’d lied about selling the cottage, she’d been devastated. What had he been using it for? Why keep it?

She’d put the letter and the key in a drawer and hadn’t touched it again until yesterday, when the painting had been mentioned.

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