Page 4 of The Quiet Rebuild

“Honestly. You’d know if I liked him,” Lindsey said. “But I told you. I’m not dating right now. It’s a waste of time.”

“Sure, but…” Candice trailed off, as though thinking better of what she wanted to say.

“Come on. Say it.”

Candice sighed. “I mean, how are you spending your days, Sis? No offense. I worry about you.”

Lindsey let her eyes drop where her hands were splayed on the table. “I keep busy,” she said. And then, because she knew it would get her sister off her back, she added, “I’ve been writing.”

Candice’s eyes were illuminated. “Really! Is it non-fiction? Fiction?”

It’s nothing, Lindsey wanted to tell her. All I do is sit and think and stare at the wall. All I do is think about everything that has gone wrong. And then, after I’ve exhausted myself with all that thinking, I get up, call my friends, and go out, if only to forget what’s going on in my head.

“I never knew you were interested in writing,” Candice said, blushing. “I mean, do you want me to look at anything? I could give you notes. If you want that.”

“I don’t think it’s ready to be read,” Lindsey said.

“Sure. I get it. It’s a process.” Candice leaned back and crossed her arms. “You know, it’s been incredible, getting to the root of Mom’s story with you. Our road trip to Tennessee was one of the best of my life. Especially after everything that happened over the summer, I needed that. But I can’t help but think, there’s so little I know about your past. About everything you went through after you left Nantucket, and before we all met up here to read the will. It’s like, there’s a big black hole between then and now.”

Lindsey swallowed the lump in her throat. She reminded herself not to scream.

“There’s not much to say,” Lindsey said. “I had a few adventures. I met a few of the wrong people. Now, I’m forty-three, and I’m back on Nantucket.” She shrugged.

“I hope you know you can tell me anything,” Candice told her, her eyes buggy with disbelief. “The Harbor House is a place of safety for all of us, not just the women we invite into it.”

Lindsey considered it. What would happen if she let Candice into her secret world? What would happen if she spilled the beans about her past and everything that had broken and still broke her heart? But as her heart beat harder and the world spun around her, she heard a man’s voice, calling out, “Candice, Lindsey, hey!” And all at once, their brother, Henry, and Candice’s new boyfriend, Frank, were with them, pulling up chairs and ordering wine of their own.

Lindsey was grateful. They’d saved her from facing her past, from fessing up.

Since their return to Nantucket, Henry had been off and on the island, here to spend time and drink wine before speeding off for whatever business opportunity or meeting he had to take. To Lindsey, Henry was an enigma. But he was always, always fun to be around. Now, he told them stories about his recent trip to Atlanta, where he’d met with a rapper about his career and how he could fine-tune it.

“He took me backstage to a very prestigious concert,” Henry said, laughing. “I have to admit, that isn’t exactly my kind of music. It’s certainly not country western.”

Candice and Lindsey laughed, exchanging knowing looks.

“But there’s something about being swept up in someone’s orbit like that,” Henry went on. “I felt important, shaking hands with famous people, giving them my cards. I have no idea how this guy got my number in the first place, but it might have escalated my career.”

“You’ll leave Nantucket and never come back one of these days,” Candice said with a sigh. “And we’ll miss you like crazy!”

“No way,” Henry said. “I’ve come to love it.” He explained that he’d been looking at houses all day and was heavily considering buying a property here on the island. “I know we can’t all stay at the Harbor House much longer. Madame Gwen is going to kick us out. But I want to be around to keep tabs on everything.”

Candice squeaked with happiness and squeezed his hand over the table. Lindsey buzzed with excitement. It really felt as though they were entering a new era—the three Vanberg children, together.

A little while later, Lindsey got up to use the bathroom. Waiting in line, she pulled out her phone and scanned through social media, grateful to have a few moments of alone time. Most notably, she hated that Candice wanted to pry into her past. She wondered if her sister had ever googled her and found anything. But Lindsey guessed much of that was too difficult to wade through. Lindsey had googled herself before—and found nothing.

She wanted to pretend none of that had happened. She wanted to pretend that she’d never left Nantucket in the first place, that she’d never made herself susceptible to such pain.

On her social media feed, Lindsey spotted a grainy video and, for whatever reason, paused. She recognized the woman immediately as Taylor Charron, one of her favorite actresses from the late nineties and two thousands. Taylor and Lindsey were almost the same age. Sometimes Lindsey felt as though they’d grown up together, although that was obviously one-sided. But she felt a fondness for her that was probably parasocial, but fun.

In the video, Taylor Charron was yelling at someone, pointing a finger as she talked about “bad writing” and how her name was the only name keeping a film afloat. Lindsey had the sound off, but whoever posted it included subtitles, making it easy to follow. Taylor looked angry, backed against a wall, fighting for her life. She also looked exhausted.

In the caption, the poster wrote, "Taylor Charron has a meltdown!"

Lindsey grimaced. The last thing she wanted was for poor Taylor Charron to fall apart. She hadn’t done a film or a TV show in years before this one. Lindsey imagined it was overwhelming, being under those lights and wearing that heavy makeup again. She imagined feeling tremendous pressure to rise again from anonymity.

Maybe that was why the bad script seemed so personal to Taylor. Taylor wanted her return to be perfect.

There’s no such thing as perfection, Lindsey thought of Taylor, before pocketing her phone and looking in the mirror. She looked pretty good for her age, forty-three and red-eyed after a glass of wine. Her dress was form-fitting, a light pink that brought out the blond in her hair. She told herself that when she rejoined the party outside, she’d make jokes. She’d smile as though nothing was wrong. For the rest of her life, she’d be just as good an actress as Taylor Charron. Meaning probably not very good, but passable.