Page 38 of The White Oak Lodge

“I didn’t know how deep the lies went.”

“But you were a true friend,” Nina offered.

All Caitlin could say was, “You deserve so much better than a fake love.”

“I’m beginning to think that’s true,” Nina whispered.

Chapter Nineteen

Amos

June 2025

Three days after Daniel’s surprise visit, Amos got up the nerve to invite Nina out to the White Oak Lodge. Over the phone, Nina sounded tentative, as though going back to the property was just as frightening as chasing a ghost.

“Gosh, Amos. I don’t know. I can hardly think straight.”

In the background of the call, Amos could hear Nina’s children giggling, moving around her, asking for ice cream. He could picture them on the boardwalk—a sunny place where he’d once eaten ice cream with his mother.

“I keep wondering if I should just let all this go,” Nina offered.

There was a lightness in Nina’s voice that Amos hoped meant Daniel was off the island. But there was a curiosity, too—proof that, like Amos, Nina kept herself awake at night, stewing over questions that involved Jack Whitmore, Seth Green, Ralph, the White Oak Lodge, and that mysterious letter from Benjamin toFrancesca. It was all so long ago. But why did Amos have the feeling they could go back in time and fix it?

Amos was finishing up a job at one of Nancy’s rental cabins, sitting outside in the sun, watching tourists stroll down the beach and push one another into the waves. He could smell the fresh paint and his own sweat.

“But maybe,” Nina offered, “maybe I want the kids to see where I grew up.”

Amos felt a beautiful and genuine smile stretch across his face. “I think they’d like to see it.”

That Saturday, Amos didn’t have work. He picked up Nina, Will, and Fiona, checking twice on the kids’ seat belts, and drove them down the road to the White Oak Lodge. They’d considered walking from the cabin but had decided they might want the truck to make a quick exit. Will and Fiona were dead set on more ice cream afterward, and Amos agreed that it didn’t sound half bad.

“What flavor are you going to get?” Will asked, furrowing his brow. He didn’t trust Amos because Amos wasn’t his father.

It was a test.

Amos thought for a long while before saying, “Cookie dough.”

Will’s shoulders relaxed. “It’s a good flavor.”

Fiona also looked as though she approved.

On the other side of the truck, Nina remained unsmiling, her eyes focused on the White Oak Lodge as it grew bigger and bigger in the windshield. When he pulled beyond the gate and parked out front, the four of them gazed at it, this once elegant hotel that had spent summers filled with some of the wealthiest high-society people the East Coast had ever seen. Most of the hotel side had been burned to the foundation, and tarps covered the walls, but a great deal of the other side looked more or less salvageable. As soon as Amos had that thought, he tried tobanish it. He had no right to bring the White Oak Lodge back to life. Maybe it was better left destroyed.

“Kids, this is where I grew up,” Nina said reverently.

They got out and walked slowly toward the structure. Will’s and Fiona’s faces echoed the same kind of curiosity their parents had built their careers upon. They held hands for a full minute before remembering they were a little too old for that.

“My father and mother used to sit on that veranda,” Nina explained, stretching her arm to one side to show that at one time the veranda was a lot longer, “and they would entertain guests and play instruments and watch the sunrise and sunset. It was a magical time.”

“Where was your room?” Fiona asked.

Nina led them to the back of the property, where the immaculate sand stretched for miles in either direction. It looked as though a few teenagers had used an area nearby for a bonfire recently; there were black ash and tarred logs. Nina pointed at the second-floor window of busted glass and fading wood. “That’s where my room was. I was sleeping there the night that the fire broke out.”

Fiona took a frightened breath and looked at her mother with renewed respect. Amos knew that burning houses and orphans were popular topics in elementary-level books. Will and Fiona’s mother was like a woman from a storybook. As her children, they were part of that story, too.

Amos needed to talk to Nina desperately. He needed to do it when the kids weren’t listening. But he wasn’t yet sure how to steal her away. So he bided his time, telling stories about the old White Oak Lodge—stories about the whalers, about Nina’s great-great-grandparents, about their beautiful grandmother Francesca from Italy and her world-famous director father. Fiona and Will’s eyes were enormous. Nina watched Amos withsimilar rapt attention, as though she couldn’t believe all he knew.

When the kids grew bored of the tall tales, they scampered off down the beach, removing their shoes and socks to put their feet in the water. Nina called after them, “Be careful! Don’t get in too far!” Will and Fiona were dutiful kids who paid attention to what their mother said. They screamed and splashed each other and never got further in than their ankles. How different they were to their uncle Jack, Amos thought.