Page 100 of The Beach Trap

As I pull into the driveway, I look up at my parents’ house. My mother’s pride and joy—two stories and more than four thousand square feet. It was too much house for the three of us when I was growing up, so I can’t imagine how lonely it feels for her now.

“Hey, Mom!” I call out as I let myself in.

“I’m in the kitchen,” she answers, her bright and cheery voice echoing through the house.

I set my purse on the entry table and remind myself that if the law presumes people are innocent until proven guilty, I should, too. I walk past the aptly named “piano room,” where the Steinway has sat silent since I gave up lessons in third grade, past the formal family portrait from before I discovered the magic of keratin, and through the arched doors of the kitchen.

“Something smells good,” I say, giving my mom a kiss on the cheek.

“It’s rosemary lemon chicken,” she says, and waves of love and loss swell inside me.

“Dad’s favorite,” I say.

She turns and gives me a shaky smile, and I realize beneath her smiling exterior, my mom is still grieving. Not just for her husband, but for the life she thought they had. For the financial stability she never had to worry about until now. Another reason she should let this house go.

“Would you believe I miss cooking for him?” my mom asks, her voice cracking just the tiniest bit.

Maybe this isn’t the best time to bring up the issue of Blake. I spent fifteen years not knowing the truth; there’s no harm in waiting a little longer. A few more weeks, another month or two. Forever?

“The man only liked a handful of dishes—you’d think I’d be thrilled to have the freedom to make anything I wanted,” she says.

“I miss him, too,” I tell her, my eyes filling with tears. I think about something Henry said the other day, how emotions are complex and that it’s okay to be angry with a person and still miss them at the same time. To miss the person they were, but also the person they had the potential to be.

I’m not sure how my mom would feel about my recent revelations, and now doesn’t seem like the time to bring them up, so instead I ask, “Can I help set the table?”

•••

Twenty minutes later,Mom and I are sitting at the dining room table, quiet other than the occasional clang of silverware against the good china as we eat.

Since Mom has already filled me in on the latest gossip from the club—Lyn’s son got engaged, Robin’s daughter made partner at a law firm, and one of the Carols is getting divorced—there’s not much left to talk about.

Everything in my life that’s worth sharing with my mom—Henry, the house, the Rachel Worthington sponsorship I still haven’t heard back about—all comes back to Blake.

As the silence continues past the point of being comfortable, I realize that if I don’t talk about Blake, I’ll be doing the same thing my parents have done my whole life, pretending problems away.

If I want my mom to be real with me, I’ve got to start being real with her. Life isn’t perfect. It’s messy and it’s hard, but I don’t want to be left with regrets about our relationship the way I am with my dad.

Before I lose my nerve, I say, “Things at the beach house are going really well.”

Mom looks up at me with surprise. She knows I’m in Destin every other week, but other than a few things about sponsorships I’ve secured in Atlanta, it’s a topic we’ve both managed to avoid.

“That’s nice,” she says.

“It really is,” I tell her. “I’ve mostly been helping with the décor, but this last week I helped refinish the floors.”

Mom nods and continues to chew, quiet and thoughtful.

“You’d hardly recognize the place,” I tell her, letting myself imagine her coming down with me to spend a week just like the old days. Of course, it might be awkward if Blake is there, too. A living, breathing reminder of my dad’s decade-long affair.

But Blake isn’t a secret anymore. She’s part of my life, and I’m not going to pretend she doesn’t exist. And as we’ve learned this past year, sweeping something under the rug doesn’t make it disappear.

Besides, I don’t want to pick and choose which parts of my life to share with my mom. I take a steadying breath, then look up at my mom. “Blake has really done most of the work,” I tell her.

My mom’s face remains stoic. She doesn’t so much as flinch as I say the name I’ve avoided speaking or even thinking about for the last fifteen years.

“It’s amazing how handy she is,” I say, wondering how far I can push my mom until her porcelain mask cracks. “Her grandfather who raised her was a contractor, so she knows what she’s doing.”

Mom clears her throat and takes a sip of water.

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