Sarah G. Levine

Chapter One

 

From the outside, Emma Wilson, tall, blonde and the type of rich that describes itself as "comfortable" but has a yacht club membership and the forty-foot sailboat to match, had a life that seemed perfect.

 

 She lived in a Colonial style mansion that sat high above the crashing waves of the Atlantic. A jewel green lawn sloped down to the rocky ledge at the end of the property proving an unobstructed view of the waves from every room. The house at fifty Highbury Lane, a tiny one way street that dead-ended at their doorstep, on the wealthy peninsula known as Marblehead Neck (home to more yacht clubs than stoplights) had belonged to her maternal great-great grandparents once upon a time.

It had been a summer home to escape the sweltering heat and stench of late nineteenth century Boston, but transitioned to the family's full time residence upon her parent's marriage thirty-three years previously. They had named it Heartfield after it became their primary home (a second home on Lake Winnipesaukee in New Hampshire and a condo on St. Thomas capped off their real estate portfolio), a testament to the lasting love the high school sweethearts had shared.

 

Emma had lived here all her life, except for her time away at Dartmouth, and walked the halls of the house with seven bedrooms, nine bathrooms, a media room, formal and informal dining rooms and a kitchen that had been featured in a Boston area architectural magazine a few years ago, with barely a thought to the sleek styling they'd paid a pretty penny for.

To her, Heartfield and its acres of land were just home. The home where she had grown up running barefoot through the grass, chasing after the various family dogs, while her parents, holding hands, watched her indulgently. The place where, when she was twelve, her mother had died of breast cancer, the long battle finally coming to a tragic end. Where her father's heart had broken and, a decade later, his mind had started to fade.

 

She knew, to those who came to the Neck to walk or run or bike past the well-manicured hedges, who glimpsed the circular driveway with the stone fountain in the middle of the front lawn and the BMW SUV–hers–and Tesla sedan–her father's–parked there, that their home might ooze wealth. But in a neighborhood built on old New England money, theirs was hardly the most ostentatious house in the area.

 

In fact, Emma thought as she ended her morning five mile run in front of the house and turned into the drive, panting and sweating in the end of June sun, the dove gray paint on the shingle facade was peeling in places and needed to be scrapped. After a hard winter and a brutally hot summer, the paint had taken a beating. She'd have to look through Mom's notes to find the housepainter's number when she got the chance. 

 

She waved hello to the landscapers trimming the plants and weeding the gardens, then turned down the shale path that cut through the lawn to the back patio where her father sat, shielded from view by an honest to god physical newspaper.

 

"Morning, Dad," she said, kissing her father's cheek.

 

"Morning, sweetie," he replied from behind the Metro section of the Boston Globe, not looking up at her.

 

She sank down into the teak deck chair beside her father, the breeze off the ocean ruffling strands of blonde hair that had escaped from her high pony and now stuck to her sweaty neck and face. She poured herself a cup of water from the carafe that sat on the small table between the chairs, gulping it down in one long sip.

 

Setting the cup down and looking over at her father, she tried to judge his state of mind. You would never know that three years ago, at the ripe age of fifty-three, Henry Wilson had been diagnosed with early onset dementia. In a dark blue cotton polo, khaki shorts and worn leather boat shoes, he looked like any fifty-six year old suburban dad, reading the paper before heading out for a round of golf with his buddies. His once mahogany-dark hair was now mostly gray but still full, his face a bit weather beaten and lined, his body still ripcord thin from a life of summers sailing on the ocean and falls rowing on lakes and rivers.

 

She felt a small pang in her chest when she remembered that first time she'd gotten a call from a friend who had found him wandering around the golf club, unable to find his car. He had returned agitated, but assuring her he had simply gotten turned around. She had wanted to believe him, so she did, until it became crystal clear she couldn't anymore.

 

She watched him now, trying to divine if it would be a bad day, a day he called her by her mother's name.

 

After a quiet moment, punctuated by the crinkle of newspaper as her father turned the page, the buzz of the lawn mower and the drone of summer insects, he spoke.

 

"I feel you fretting over there," he said, still not looking at her.

 

She pulled an innocent look and said, "Fretting? Who, me?"

 

He lowered the paper so he could shoot her a skeptical glance over the top of it.

She grinned back at him.

 

"If I don't fret over you, who will?"

 

"Let's see," he said, discarding the paper on the side table and shifting to look her full on, lifting his hand to tick off answers, "Anne, my home health aid, who is currently doing the incredibly important activity of sorting all of my pills into a days of the week holder–" he put up a finger to emphasize his point–"Your aunt Isabella, who calls me every three hours to make sure I still remember her." 

 

Another finger went up as he continued, "And--"

 

"Good morning," came a chipper voice from the yard. Emma looked over her shoulder to see a curvy brunette in her mid thirties coming toward them. She wore a pink sundress with yellow embroidery around the v-neckline which revealed a hint of cleavage and sandals with one woven strap across the middle of her feet. They slapped against the stone of the patio as she made her way toward them, an iced coffee in a plastic cup sweating in her hand.

 

"Dr. Georgia Kostigri, M.D., local neurologist and neighbor," Henry said pointedly to Emma, raising a still dark eyebrow at her and gesturing grandly to Georgia with a sweep of his arm.

 

"Are we using full titles today?" Georgia asked, coming to a stop next to her father's chair, resting one hand on the back and the other on her round hip, condensation dripping on the cotton of her sundress. She pushed her sunglasses up into the thick mass of her hair and looked down at them both.

 

"Henry Wilson, MBA and former CEO," she nodded to Henry who dipped his chin regally in acknowledgement.

"Emma Wilson, BA in Psychology and lady of the house," Georgia added and pulled a shallow curtsy. Emma shot her a glare that turned into a grin when Georgia wobbled on the way up.

 

"Careful, old lady," Emma teased, "watch out for your knees."

 

"Ha ha, so funny," Georgia deadpanned and turned back to her father. "How are you doing this morning, Henry? Sleep okay?"

 

"You would think I'm eighty-five and a fall risk the way you both treat me," he humphed.

 

Emma flashed back to that horrible night two weeks ago when he'd woken at two in the morning, disoriented and screaming with no idea where he was. She'd had to soothe him back into bed before giving him a sleeping pill. She'd spent the rest of the night staring at her ceiling, heart pounding and eyes wide.

 

"Maybe we should get him a life alert," Emma quipped, pushing the memory back into a safe little box in the corner of her mind.

 

"We care about you, so sue us," Georgia said with a shrug, ignoring Emma's snark and  slapping Henry on the back.

 

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," her father said as he waved Georgia away, "I'm going in to see if Anne needs help with the pills."

 

"He just wants to get away from us and our womanly concern," Emma stage-whispered to Georgia as her father got out of his chair and turned to walk into the house. Georgia smiled at her and took her father's chair.

 

"How's he doing today, Em?" Georgia asked, leaning forward conspiratorially over the arm of her chair, the pendant she always wore in the shape of a compass rose swung forward with her movement and concern tinged her voice.

 

Emma looked back towards the house and sighed.

 

She said, "I think today's an okay day. He's more annoyed than agitated, which is usually a good sign."

 

"No more nightmares?" Georgia asked, dropping her voice and leaning closer, her dark brown eyes staring intently into Emma's, professional and personal interest mingling in their depths. Emma could hear the question beneath the question, knew Georgia wasn't only asking about her father's mental state, but her's as well.

 

Emma looked out at the water, reluctant to meet the intensity of her gaze and the emotions swirling there.

 

"No, not like two weeks ago," she replied.

 

"And how are you?" Georgia reached out her hand and grasped Emma's wrist, her olive complexion standing out against Emma's paler golden skin, her touch comforting and familiar.

 

Emma let out a long breath.

 

 "Right now? In desperate need of a shower."

 

She turned her head toward Georgia who shot her an appraising look, not buying her deflection but not pushing it.

 

Emma cleared her throat,"So, did you just stop by to see dad?"

 

"Actually," Georgia began, sitting back in her chair and letting go of Emma's wrist, Emma felt a small pang of loss at the absence of her touch, "I came here to talk to you."