The Book Club Hotel(116)

“We just don’t want you to waste your talents, honey, that’s all. You’re capable of so much. You could be curing cancer—”

Curing cancer? No pressure then.

“I hated medical school.” She didn’t expect them to understand. They believed that if you were smart enough to be a doctor, why wouldn’t you be one? “I want to be an artist, Mom. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. You know that.”

“I know, but where’s the future in that? Your dad and I just don’t want you to struggle financially as we did. Life can be hard, Lily.”

Lily closed her eyes. She knew that. She knew how hard life could be.

“Stop worrying, Mom.” She tried not to think about the tiny amount of money in her bank account. “I’m managing fine. And I’m going to pay you and Dad back.”

“That’s not necessary, honey. We love you, and remember there’s a home and a welcome here whenever you need it.”

Lily’s throat felt full. “Thanks, Mom. And now I have to go. Give my love to Dad.”

She ended the call, wondering why big life decisions had to feel so difficult and wondering why, when there were so many people her mother could have bumped into, she’d had to bump into Kristen Buckingham.

But she wasn’t going to think about that now. And she wasn’t going to think about Hannah, starting her clinical rotation. Twice in the last few months she’d almost texted her. Once she’d even typed out a message, but then she’d deleted it. What was the point?

The friendship that they’d believed could never be damaged, had been damaged. Smashed. Broken. Amelie might as well have taken her scissors to it.

But that was in the past now.

Hannah was living in the city, and Lily was here on the Cape, and if it wasn’t as blissful as she’d imagined it would be when she’d left the smothering security of her parents’ home, then at least it was her choice.

Eyes stinging, she dropped the phone back into her bag and pedalled hard. The call had cost her ten minutes, but if she worked fast she’d still get the work done.

The breeze blew into her face and dried the dampness of tears. One day she’d make it up to her parents. She’d find a way to make them proud, even though she wouldn’t be curing cancer.

She turned into the driveway of a large mansion and cycled up to the house, her sudden stop creating a small shower of gravel. Grabbing her backpack, she sprinted to the front door and waved to Mike, the gardener, who was hauling trays of plants from the back of his truck.

This particular house was a prime beachfront property and was booked solid throughout the summer months. It slept fourteen, and those fourteen had clearly had a good time if the state of the kitchen was anything to go by.

The company she worked for catered to the luxury end of the market (people with more money than sense, the owner was fond of saying) and it always surprised her that those people seemed never to have mastered the basic art of clearing up after themselves.

She scooped up empty pizza boxes, removed a discarded lobster shell from one of the kitchen chairs (she could be curing cancer, but instead she was clearing up lobster shells) and cleared half a dozen empty champagne bottles into the recycling. She wiped, she spritzed, she mopped, she polished and once she’d restored the kitchen to its usual pristine state and reassured herself that there was no lasting damage, she headed towards the bedrooms.

By the time she’d finished it was mid afternoon.

She took a large drink of water from the bottle she kept in her backpack and retrieved her bike.

“I’m all done.” She pushed her bike across to Mike, who was bent over a flower bed.

He straightened, stepped over a clump of petunias and walked over to her. “Where are you off to next?”

“Dune cottage.”

“That place is a mystery.” He pulled his hat down to keep the sun from his face. “I fixed the deck last summer, but the place was empty. Have you ever seen anyone staying there?”

“Never. Easiest cleaning job I do all week. A bit of light dusting. Clean the windows, sweep the deck. Change the sheets in the master bedroom once a fortnight. Report anything that needs repairing.”

“Why change the sheets?”

“Apparently they like to keep the place ready, just in case.”

“In case of what? Who do you think owns it?”

Lily shrugged. “I’m guessing some billionaire from Manhattan who can afford to keep it empty.”

“Isn’t it a bit small for a billionaire?”

“Maybe he’s a small, single billionaire.”

Mike grinned. “A single billionaire. Does such a thing exist? Money is a powerful aphrodisiac.”

“Not to everyone.” In her experience, money didn’t always bring out the best in people. “I have to go. See you tomorrow, Mike.” She climbed onto her bike and pedalled down the drive and onto the cycle track that led to a remote part of the outer cape. The trail took her over sandy dunes and past salt marshes and then finally the cottage appeared, nestled among the dunes, separated from the ocean by soft sand and whispering seagrass. Its white clapboard walls and shingle roof had been weathered by the elements, but still the building stood firm, and it had become as much a part of the landscape as the shifting sands that surrounded it.

Whoever owned it was the luckiest person in the world, Lily decided. Also maybe the most foolish, because who would own a place like this and not use it? It was a criminal waste.