Page 11 of These Summer Storms

She’d liked how different he was, not like the refined, polished boys of her youth or the frivolous, boisterous man she’d been planning to marry. Long Legs had been full of quiet steel when he’d punched a photographer and taken her hand in the darkness. And then he’d been deliciously rough—his palms stroking over her skin, the way he kicked the motel-room door closed behind them with a massivethud,his gruff words as he’d pressed his heavy weight to her, asking what she liked. Telling her what he liked. Praising her body, her touch, her kiss.

No hesitation. No apologies. Just…truth.

Truth was rare and precious in Alice’s life, so, yes. She’d basked in the truth of that man and his desire and his ability to anchor her to her own body for a few hours.

A calm before the Storms.

Alice tossed her bags into one of the three skiffs moored at the far end of the salt-weathered dock, loosened the lines and fired up the outboard motor, tucking the night away, a secret to keep with all the others as she sailed out of Wickford Harbor for the first time in five years. Since the day her father exiled her, finally, after she’d disappointed him for the last time.

The storm from the night before had blown east toward Cape Cod and out to sea, but the scars of it remained, Narragansett Bay churning beneath the small boat, choppy enough to make the six and a half nautical miles to Storm Island a challenge.

Alice had sailed since before she’d walked, however—learned at Franklin Storm’s feet how to adjust and accommodate, how to work with a mercurial sea, how to respect it. It might have been years since she’d been at the helm of a boat, but she fell back into it with ease, heading into bright sun, reveling in the sting of the salt water on her skin.

She navigated the small boat northeast into the Bay, unthinkingly taking her father’s favorite approach—via the southern tip of Storm Island, where a small, ancient building housed a fog bell atop the steep, rocky slope.

For many, this was the least interesting angle of Storm Island, but her father loved an entrance, and this route, around the cliff’s edge on the western side of the island, gave visitors and gawkers a breathtaking surprise, the rock sliding away to reveal a patchwork of trees and fields marked by centuries-old stone walls, leading to an enormous nineteenth-century manor house on the highest point of the island, like a character in a gothic novel, but without the woman in the nightgown running away from the ghosts within.

To be honest, though, the day was young.

Alice slowed the skiff as she came around the cliffside, taking in the view. The house, tall and imposing, all gables and stained glass,surrounded by a few acres of lush wild thyme in deep greens and bright whites and purples. The boathouse, with its weathered cedar shingles, large enough to house her father’s prized sailboat,The Lizzie,in the off-season. Rugged slate steps from the dock up the rocky hillside to the house. Ancient trees—her father’s favorite red oak, enormous and strong. Still there.

Five years, and nothing had changed. Except everything.

She pushed the thought away, shoving it past the knot that rose in her throat as she docked the skiff and climbed the hill to Storm Manor, letting herself in through the unlocked front door (the benefit of a private island—difficult to burgle), hoping she was the only person awake.

Hoping she’d have some time to armor up.

The door closed behind her, shutting out the bright morning sun, returning the foyer to quiet darkness. Alice’s eyes adjusted, and a tall, lithe, perfectly pressed, artfully graying woman came into view, descending the wide central staircase.

There would be no time for armor. Her mother had arrived ready for battle.

“Alice!” Elisabeth Winslow Storm gave her third child a long inspection. “You came.”

There was no excitement in the observation, only a slight edge of surprise.

“Nice to see you, Mom,” Alice said, ignoring the bait, dropping her bags inside the door, and running a hand through her hair, wild from the wind on the Bay.

“I didn’t hear the helicopter.”

Alice hadn’t ridden in a Storm helicopter in years, and Elisabeth knew it. “I took the train.”

“Did you.” A beat as Elisabeth hovered on the final step, one long, graceful hand barely touching the elaborately carved newel post. “How resourceful.”

Resourcefulwas one of Elisabeth’s words. The ones all mothers have, designed to push all the buttons they’ve installed. The ones that serve as placeholders for other, more pointed words. In Alice’s mother’s case,resourcefulwas joined byinteresting, creative, modern,andcharming,andrequired a tonal reading that often flummoxed the recipient (it should be said that the only thing Elisabeth had ever in her life found authentically charming was Franklin Storm, and even that hadn’t lasted).

Alice’s first language had been her mother’s, however, and she knew the meaning ofHow resourceful. It translated to,That was awfully stupid.

“That must explain why it’s taken you a full day to get here. Though, I wasn’t sure we’d see you at all.”

Irritation flared, and Alice couldn’t help her reply. “Mom. Really?”

Elisabeth lifted a slim shoulder. “You haven’t been here in years, why would I expect you now?”

Because my father died. Because your husband died. Because this is what families do—even ones like this.

Too much for six in the morning. “I’m here now,” Alice said.

“Mmm.” That single sound held an entire State of the Union address. “No Griffin?”

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