back down at the desk. Next to Nate’s list was the letter from the bank—the one that reminded her she’d been behind on the mortgage payments for six months in a row. Her banker, Mike Roy, had written on the bottom of the form letter: Let’s talk soon—we’ll work something out.
She was lucky she had Mike to deal with. He’d been head of the local bank for almost five years and had always been fair. Maybe a little more than fair. She’d gotten behind in years past, especially at the end of the long dry spell caused by winter. The summer season provided her with the opportunity to get caught up and she’d always managed to get things under control again. At least until last summer. For the first time, she’d gone into the winter still behind, which meant she had an even bigger hole to dig out of this season.
She worried that selling the place might be inevitable. She’d been rejecting the idea out of hand for years, but it looked as if the unthinkable might become the unavoidable.
With a nauseous swell, Frankie imagined packing up her family’s home. Her family’s heritage. She pictured herself transferring the title to the house and the land to someone else. Walking away, forever.
No.
The protest didn’t come from her head. It came from her heart. And the strength of it flooded through her body, making her hands shake.
There had to be a way to make it work. There just had to be. She refused to sell the only thing left of her parents, of her family. She had worked hard all of her adult life to keep White Caps. She wasn’t going to stop now just because the stakes seemed more stacked than ever against her.
She thought of Nate. A fine French chef. Maybe he could, as he put it, get some asses back in those chairs. And she could run some specials on the Lincoln room in the newspapers around the area. There was always Labor Day to look forward to. They already had three rooms booked and usually they had a full house. And hadn’t she read in the paper the other day that tourism was on the upswing after a couple of hard years?
The tide was going to turn in their favor and it would be a damn shame to quit just before things got better. She only had to have a little faith.
Frankie checked her watch and picked up her purse. She needed to go into town to make a deposit before the bank closed at noon and there were a few odds and ends she had to pick up. As soon as she got back, she was going to take care of the lawn. It always seemed as if the moment she finished pushing that arthritic mower around, she had to start on the acres of grass all over again. She’d asked George to do it once but it had looked like a shag carpet when he was finished. It was easier to do the job by herself than try and talk him through the process a second time.
She passed through the kitchen, where Nate was working over the stove, and called upstairs. “Joy, I’m heading into town, you need anything?”
“Can Grand-Em and I come?”
Frankie was tempted to say no. She wanted to get back before the vegetable delivery came and going anywhere with their grandmother was a production.
Joy appeared at the top of the stairs. “Please?”
“Okay, but hurry.” Frankie wondered what the big deal was as she glanced over at Nate. “That smells good. What are you making?”
“Stock. I’m putting what’s left of that chicken to good use.” He turned back to a cutting board and started in on an onion. Half of the thing was reduced to a pile of perfectly cut little squares in moments. The other half he cut in long shreds. “Hey, I told the tow truck I called to move Lucille here, okay? I’ve got to figure out what’s wrong with her.”
And he fixes cars, she thought. As well as names them.
“Fine with me. You can put her in the barn out back.”
“Thanks.” He picked up the fluffy white mélange, threw it in the pot and stirred.
When Joy came downstairs with their grandmother, Frankie got a load of Grand-Em’s outfit for the day. It was a lavender satin gown, and though the thing must have been fifty years old, it still looked beautiful. Somehow, Joy managed to keep all the old gowns in good shape, spending hours with a needle patching and stitching them back together, year after year. God only knew where she got the patience.
“You need anything?” Frankie asked Nate.
He looked up and grinned. “Nothing you can buy me.”
With a wink thrown to Joy, he went back to his work.
As they left, Frankie’s mouth was set. She wasn’t sure what she resented more, his harmless flirtation or her reaction to it.
They headed out into the sunshine to her old maroon Honda. Grand-Em, who was used to being chauffeured, was eased in the back seat and Joy sat beside her. During the drive along Lake Road, the old woman narrated landmarks, commenting on the houses she’d gone to parties in years ago. It was the same patter every time, the same names, the same dates. The speech seemed to have a calming effect on her, as if the old familiarity pulled her mind together temporarily, and Joy responded at the right intervals while Frankie drove.
Downtown, such as it was, was built around a square of lawn that had four thick-trunked maples at each of the corners. In the center, there was a six-sided white gazebo that was a point of pride to residents. Big enough to house the twenty-piece orchestra that played there twice a summer, it was mostly used by tourists as a backdrop for pictures. Glowing in the morning sun, it stood out against the green lawn like a silvery cage.
The Lake Road split in two around the gazebo, rejoining on the far side. Fronting the streets, were the local bank, Adirondack Trust & Savings, a drugstore known as Pills, the post office and Mickey’s Groceries. There were also some touristy shops that sold Adirondack-style trinkets, as well as a few antique stores that hiked their prices up by a factor of ten in the months between May and September. Barclay’s Liquors and the Hair Stoppe were on the far end.
“I’m going into the bank and the post office,” Frankie said, parallel parking into an open space. “Why don’t you two wait here?”
“Sure,” Joy murmured while craning her neck around and looking at the cars parked on either side of the road. With all the Independence weekend visitors, they were a fancier lot than the local traffic. The Jaguars, Mercedes and Audis signified that the owners of the mansions were back in residence.
As Frankie got out, she wondered who her sister was searching for.
He would be up this weekend, Joy thought. He always came for the Fourth of July.
Grayson Bennett drove a black BMW 645Ci. Or at least that had been what he’d come in last year. Two years ago, he’d had a big, dark red Mercedes. Before that, it had been a Porsche. His first car had been an Alfa Romeo convertible.
For a woman who didn’t care about the automotive industry in the slightest, Joy knew a hell of a lot about cars, thanks to him.
There were a few people walking the clean, pale sidewalks and she sifted through them. Gray was easy to pick out of the crowd. He was tall, imposing and he didn’t walk places, he marched. He also tended to wear sunglasses, dark ones that played off his black hair and made him look even more intense.
She realized that Gray would be thirty-six this year. His birthday bash, held every year at the Bennett estate,
