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  “And he did?”

  “Of course. He came home from work and took it away. Texted me to let me know when the coast was clear.”

  “Good man,” said Ian.

  “Yeah,” she whispered, tears filling her eyes. Her shoulders drooped, and her voice dropped to a horrified whisper. “But I came so close, Ian. So close. I thought about it. The bubbles on my throat. The sweetness. The coldness…”

  “Okay. But instead, you were strong.”

  She cleared her throat and nodded. “I really need this meeting tonight.”

  “Why didn’t you call Maevis?” Her sponsor.

  Shandie shrugged. “She’s out of town visiting her grandkids.”

  “You could’ve called me,” said Ian.

  She looked up at him “Really?”

  “Of course.”

  She grinned at him. “Call the cute guy from high school to come to my rescue? Yeah. Dale would’ve just loved that.”

  “Okay. Okay.” Ian chuckled. “Doesn’t have to be me. But you can always call someone from this group. You don’t have to wait for the meeting to talk it out. That’s what we’re all here for.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “You’re right. I know. I just…I’m six months clean, you know? I didn’t think it would be this hard after six months.”

  Ian nodded at her. His recovery time was almost identical to hers, so he understood completely. It was a blow every time you realized that it would be a lifelong battle. Not just achieving sobriety but, more important, maintaining it when alcohol was part of almost every social celebration imaginable.

  “I know,” he said. “But you did good. You were strong, Shandie. You’re okay.”

  “Thanks, Ian.”

  Just then, the leader of their meeting stood up at a podium in the front, and the group greeted her in unison after she announced:

  “My name is Kim and I am an alcoholic.”

  ***

  Another important part of Ian’s recovery was getting up early in the morning and taking a jog around the Summerhaven campus. He’d been doing it every morning, regardless of the weather, since the second week in April when someone at the Laconia AA meeting had made the connection between spiritual and physical wellness. If you work out, you’re liable to fall asleep faster, sleep more soundly, and feel more rested when you wake up. Not to mention, recovery is all about change: dropping bad habits and replacing them with good ones.

  When Ian had lived on the streets of Boston for the last two months of his life before arriving at Tierney’s, he’d often sought shelter in the triangle created by Trinity Church, the Boston Public Library, and Old South Church, which also had the benefit of a park in the center. Six blocks away, on West Newton, was a 7-Eleven that opened at 6:00 a.m. and sold beer at 8:00 a.m., per state laws. And that’s where Ian found himself most mornings in those days: purchasing a six-pack of whatever was cheapest to get him through the morning.

  When he’d shared this with Tierney after that particular AA meeting, she’d handed him a pair of Rory’s old sneakers and told him that there was no need to cut out the morning walk, just the reason for taking it.

  Ian had needed to dig deep and find a new reason for putting on sneakers and getting his ass outside. The one he chose? Health. Wellness. Taking control over his abused body and bringing it back to life.

  Six months later, he was in amazingly good shape. Yeah, his liver would probably need the rest of his life to unpickle, but between jogging, hockey, and manual labor around Summerhaven, the rest of him was more fit than he’d been since college. And damn, but it felt good. It was a different kind of rush, a better sort of high, and Ian looked forward to his run every morning.

  Last night at the meeting, Kim had asked all the attendees to reflect on where their addiction had started, and why, hoping that some of them would share their stories over the upcoming weeks. And as Ian’s feet hit the path in familiar, rhythmic thumping, musing over the question, he found himself running in the opposite direction: west instead of east, along the shoreline instead of through the woods.

  The land on which the Summerhaven Event and Conference Center had been built at the turn of the last century was prime lakefront real estate. Bordering the camp land on either side was private property.

  At one point in history, little vacation homes, called “cottages” or “camps,” had dotted the shoreline. These homes were generally painted dark green or brown to blend in with nature, and the architecture was that of rustic cabins. Traditionally, they had a great room with a cooking and dining area, and anywhere from two to six bedrooms—a few private bedrooms for married couples and one or two larger bedrooms filled with bunkbeds for grandchildren, nieces, nephews, and other young visitors. They were simple places, some even without electricity or running water, that were closed up from Labor Day to Memorial Day and only used during the warm, lovely summer months when loons called and the lake water was bath-warm.

  Now two-or three-million-dollar lake homes with stories of balconies, sweeping decks, swimming pools, and custom-built boathouses had replaced the traditional lake camps. Almost all the little summer cottages that used to flank the Summerhaven campground were gone now. All, in fact, except one: Colby Cottage, the summer cottage of the Gilbert family.

  Every so often, Ian would take a walk or run over to the little structure, which had seen much better days in its one-hundred-year history. Once a place of storybook-style charm, it was badly run-down now. The front garden was overgrown, and the picket gate hung unevenly on one hinge, creaking eerily with the breeze. Several of the windows were cracked or broken, and the moss-covered roof looked ready to fall in.

  A “For Sale” sign out front waited for a rich businessman to buy up the property and knock down the old cottage in lieu of a spectacular summer place, but there hadn’t been any bites over the summer. Ian knew this because he checked out the real estate transactions in the newspaper every week. Just to be sure.

  Once upon a time, he’d known one of the Gilberts personally.

  Loved her madly, even.

  And whatever remained of that love meant it hurt Ian to see the old place fall to ruin. He’d even thought about tidying up the garden or fixing the gate, but he had no right to touch any of it. Honestly, he tried to avoid it and all the painful memories the old place conjured.

  But when Kim asked the question last night—how Ian’s addiction had started and why—he’d seen Hallie’s sky-blue eyes in his mind. Immediately. Without hesitation.

  All these years later, and he could remember Halcyon Gilbert’s face with a level of detail that should drive a person insane.

  Rounding a bend at the Summerhaven-Gilbert property line, Ian slowed his pace, approaching the cottage gingerly, like being there was forbidden, like he was trespassing or in danger. He gulped as it came into view—the crumbling chimney against the brilliance of a New Hampshire sunrise. Stopping in front of the gate, he stared at the cottage, remembering how it had looked ten years ago when he’d run to it the morning of Hallie’s seventeenth birthday. He’d raced through the pristine white gate, sweating and panting from his run, banging on the front door and calling her name, but there’d been no answer. Not then, and never again.

  Taking a shaky breath, he turned to leave, but something caught his eye: the bright-white realtor signpost beside the front gate was empty. The last time he’d come to see the cottage, a “For Sale” sign had swung gently back and forth in the breeze. Now? The post was empty. The sign was gone.

  Had someone bought the property? No. Ian wouldn’t have missed the property transfer notice in the local paper.

  If it hadn’t been sold, then it must have been taken off the market, which meant…what? That the Gilberts weren’t selling Colby Cottage after all?

  Since learning two weeks ago that Halcyon was returning to Summerhaven for Rory and Brittany’s Thanksgiving wedding, Ian had refused to think about her. Even in quiet moments, when his brain tried to turn to thoughts of her, he’
d shut it down, desperate to keep her out of his mind. Ten years hadn’t changed anything. She’d hate the sight of him just as much at Rory’s wedding as she had a decade ago.

  He’d stay out of her way out of respect, and she’d avoid him, leaving for Boston after the wedding. And Ian’s life, and his dogged pursuit of sobriety, would continue undaunted.

  But standing before her family’s crumbling cottage—his curiosity piqued about the status of the property, his memories blending with unpleasant thoughts of their impending reunion—Ian couldn’t help but wonder if fate had something else in store for him. And if life wasn’t about to get a wee bit more complicated than he’d planned.

  CHAPTER 2

  There was no way to sugarcoat it:

  Hallie Gilbert’s life was in shambles.

  It all started on February 10th when she’d visited her gynecologist for a checkup. She was having some groin irritation and wanted to clear it up before Valentine’s Day.

  After taking a look, her doctor had leaned away, glancing up at her face with worried eyes.

  “UTI?” she asked. “Thrush?”

  Her nursing background meant that she knew the common causes for such rashes.

  “No.” He cleared his throat, averting his eyes and shaking his head. “No.” He cleared his throat again. “Um, Mrs. Silveira, I’m sorry to ask, but…do you have any sexual partners other than your husband?”

  Her face had flushed uncomfortably as the doctor looked up at her. She scanned his face, trying to process why he would ask such a question.

  “N-No.”

  He took a deep breath, reaching for a prescription pad on the counter next to him. “Antibiotics will clear up the infection in a few days. But you need to have a frank talk with your husband. I think—I think it’s highly likely that he may have sexual partners other than you.”

  That’s how Hallie found out that her husband was cheating on her.

  Feet up in stirrups, sitting mostly naked on a piece of tissue paper in her doctor’s office, Hallie’s entire marriage—her entire world—had crumbled before her eyes.

  Much like the way her husband of five years, Sergio, had crumbled when she confronted him that evening.

  “I am sorry, meu amor,” he’d said, his tanned, handsome face genuinely sad. “But I have too much love in my heart, in my body, for only one woman.”

  “What does that mean?” she’d yelled.

  “I adore you, querida. You are the mother of my child. But one woman forever?” He opened his hands, palms up, and shook his head forlornly, like fidelity was an impossible foe he should never have tried to conquer.

  “Why didn’t you just ask me for a divorce?” she cried as tears streamed down her face.

  “Such an ugly business.” He shrugged with ennui. “We are comfortable, yes? We are mostly happy? Maybe we can—”

  “You’re cheating on me with someone who gave you a venereal disease!” she shrieked. “This is an ugly business! We are not comfortable, and we are not happy, Sergio!” Swiping her tears away, she’d added in a fierce whisper, “We’re over.”

  She’d thrown him out of their apartment that night—no, not theirs. Hers, because she’d purchased it with her own money before their marriage—and found a good divorce lawyer the following day. What she hadn’t known then, was that she was at the beginning of a horrible journey filled with appalling discoveries of her husband’s extracurricular activities.

  Not only had Sergio Silveira been cheating on Hallie since the birth of their daughter, Jennifer, four years ago, but he had regularly solicited the charms of prostitutes and escorts, which had racked up an almost-unbelievable amount of debt.

  By May, she’d learn that he owed almost two hundred thousand dollars on about ten different credit cards he’d taken out on his own—and about which Hallie knew nothing. How had he accrued such debt? Well, unbeknownst to her, he’d lost his job the previous fall, likely due to his proclivities. Every day from October to February, when he left for “work,” he’d party the day away with his whores. And all of those “business trips” to New York and Chicago? Those had been binge weekends in Florida and California, where bottles of Cristal were charged to cards guaranteed by Hallie’s once-impeccable credit rating.

  And just when she thought it couldn’t get any worse? In September, Sergio stopped showing up for court appearances and weekend visits. It wouldn’t take long for her to figure out why. He’d returned to his native São Paulo, and according to his sister, Catina, he had no plans to return. He did, however, ask—through Catina, because he was too much of a coward to get on the phone himself—if Jenny could come and visit him in Brazil at some point, which had almost fried Hallie’s already-frazzled mind.

  The Boston family court had awarded Hallie her divorce and full custody of Jenny, but it had also held her responsible for the debt incurred by her husband during their marriage. With her bank accounts empty, Hallie had no choice but to sell her Boston apartment. She received a little over three hundred thousand dollars for it, which paid off Sergio’s debts. But after realtor fees, conveyance taxes, and moving expenses, it didn’t leave Hallie nearly enough to buy a decent place for her and Jenny.

  Her parents, who owned a beachfront condo in Palm Beach, invited Hallie to move in with them, but giving up her independence was the last thing she wanted. What Hallie really wanted was a fresh start: a home of her own—a safe place where she and Jenny could start over.

  And that’s when she’d remembered Colby Cottage on Squam Lake.

  The modest, cabin-style vacation home had been built by Hallie’s great-grandparents in the 1930s, then passed down through Hallie’s maternal grandmother to her mother, who’d decided to sell the never-visited house last summer.

  Hallie, herself, hadn’t set foot in New Hampshire since the morning she’d left over ten years ago, promising herself that she’d never return. But she’d already be breaking that promise when she returned to Summerhaven in November for Brittany Manion’s wedding. Not to mention, beggars couldn’t be choosers. Although she gathered that the cottage was in a state of some disrepair, it was also empty and rent-free, and Hallie had enough furniture from her Boston apartment to furnish it. If she banked the remaining money from the apartment sale and made updates on the cottage frugally, she and Jenny could live there comfortably until she found another job.

  And so she’d quit her nursing job, hired a handyman she’d found over the internet to get started on repairs, packed up their belongings, and today was the day—she and Jenny were moving.

  “Hey, Jen-Jen,” she said, looking in the rearview mirror at her daughter, who was small for her age and still sat in a five-point harness car seat, “I promise you’re going to love it in New Hampshire. Our new house has the prettiest garden in the front yard, with beautiful bright flowers, and do you know what’s in the backyard? A lake! A big lake with a dock where we can swim next summer. We’re going to be happy there, baby. I promise.”

  Jenny glanced at her mother briefly, holding her eyes for about two seconds before turning to look out the window and slowly feed Goldfish crackers into her mouth.

  Hallie took a deep breath and sighed.

  Of all the destruction Sergio’s behavior had wrought, none hurt Hallie as much as the way Jenny had withdrawn over the past three months. For all that he’d been a horrible husband, Hallie had to grudgingly admit that Sergio had been a decent father to their daughter. Not that he’d ever changed a diaper or made her a meal himself, but he’d loved Jenny, and Jenny adored her father.

  It was hard enough when Hallie had thrown Sergio out—Jenny had grabbed onto her father’s leg, begging him not to go, and she’d blamed Hallie for making him leave. And when Sergio had stopped showing up in September for their weekly Saturday visits, it hadn’t stopped Jenny from sitting on the love seat in the front window for hours, waiting for him. Even after Hallie explained that “Papa moved away to Brazil,” showing her daughter the distance between Boston and São Paulo
on a map, Jenny still sat on that damned love seat every Saturday, insisting to Hallie that “Papa is coming.”

  But the worst was when Hallie told Jenny that she needed to sell their apartment and that they’d be moving to New Hampshire. The four-year-old had screamed so long and so loud, she’d lost her voice for three days after. And since then, Jenny hadn’t said much of anything, though her blue eyes, identical to Hallie’s, said it all: You did this, Mommy. You ruined my happy life. You drove my Papa away. I blame you. I hate you.

  Hallie had taken her daughter to the pediatrician, who’d advised Hallie not to push Jenny too hard.

  “Kids process loss in a lot of different ways. She’s grieving the loss of her father, the loss of your family.”

  “She hates me.”

  “She needs you,” the doctor insisted, “more than ever.”

  “She blames me.”

  “One day she’ll understand what happened here; she’ll see the simple truth: that your husband left and you stayed.”

  “And until then?”

  “Help her.”

  “How?”

  “Can she talk to your ex-husband on the phone? Skype with him? Letting her communicate with her father may make her feel less isolated from him.”

  The mere idea of reaching out to Sergio made Hallie’s stomach flip over and skin crawl, but if it was the right thing for Jenny, she’d figure out a way to include him in their daughter’s life. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Listen,” the doctor had continued, “this is Jenny’s way of having a little bit of control over what’s going on. She can’t make her father come back. She can’t undo the divorce. She can’t make you stay in Boston. But she doesn’t have to talk. It’s all she has right now.”

  “She has me!” Hallie insisted.

  The doctor regarded her with sympathetic eyes. “Then be patient. Try to understand. Kids are resilient. She’ll come around eventually. Let her decide how to communicate and when she wants to start using her voice again.”