Page 28 of The Price of Protection

But Eleanor was a tough woman. She beckoned for Willow to come in.

To Willow’s surprise, Eleanor didn’t want her to stay long. Eleanor didn’t offer her tea, water, or anything beyond a brief exchange in the darkness of the foyer.

“I’m going to say this clearly and pointedly. You have made a mistake coming here,” Eleanor said.

Willow took a breath, but Eleanor raised her hand to stop her.

“It was stipulated in the contract we had with your mother, Donna. You were never to come here or search for your birth parents. As soon as you left Nantucket, this story no longer belonged to you,” Eleanor continued.

Willow’s palms were sweaty. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. It felt like a door being slammed in her face.

“But my mother, Donna. She died,” Willow whispered.

“That’s very sad,” Eleanor offered, although it was clear that she was accustomed to death, that the idea of it didn’t affect her. “We wish you our condolences.”

“We?”

Eleanor didn’t flinch. Willow searched the room directly behind her, wondering if they weren’t entirely alone.

“Who is we?” Willow pushed.

“It doesn’t matter. Go back to your life in Boston, Willow. You’ve built a beautiful one, I’m sure,” Eleanor said.

Willow flared her nostrils. “I know who my father is.” It felt like a last-ditch attempt. But as soon as she said it, she realized it was the right thing, in that it forced Eleanor to rethink.

Eleanor’s coloring faded, and she was overwhelmingly pale.

Willow wondered if she was not meant to learn her father's identity. Was her father’s name meant to be redacted in the file, the same file where her mother’s name was redacted?

“You’re bluffing,” Eleanor said.

“I’m not,” Willow said. “I could say his name aloud, right here and right now. I could say it other places, too.”

Eleanor puffed out her chest. For a long moment, the two women looked at one another, assessing each other’s strength and willingness to hold their ground. And then, Eleanor reached for the door, opened it, and said, “I hate to say it, but our time is through, Willow. The last ferry tonight back to Hyannis leaves at ten thirty. That should give you plenty of time to pack.” She smiled. “You don’t want to hang around here, ruining people’s lives, do you? Your mother raised you better than that. You’re not that kind of girl.”

13

The thing about baking macarons was that they required the utmost patience, delicate folding technique, and perfection. That morning, Rose had had a dream, a vision of macarons lining the glass counter, of Nantucket locals coming in and crying out, “Macarons! Rose, you’re brilliant!” She’d imagined them sitting in the bakery booths, allowing the macarons to melt across their tongues. There in the kitchen, she focused on the egg whites, her tongue peeking out, her brow furrowed. Time passed, so much of it that she knew she was neglecting the front room. When at last someone rang the bell by the register, she threw up her hands, called, “Coming!” and prayed to the stars above that she wasn’t making an enormous mistake. Why had she wanted to make macarons in the first place? It was like a nightmare.

But when she entered the front room, all thoughts of macarons fell away. For there, standing on the other side of the glass counter, stood a man she hadn’t seen in years. Her stomach turned cold. Did he recognize her? Based on that handsome, crooked grin, she thought he did.

“Hi,” she said, her voice small.

“Hi.”

Nathaniel Hawkins—Nate—stood in a thick and expensive coat and a pair of slacks. He wore boots and a knitted black cap, pulled low, nearly covering his eyebrows. Rose wondered if he was trying to hide from the public, if he didn’t want to be recognized. But what on earth was he doing here?

Rose thought about Harry Orlett, the journalist digging through her past. Had Harry somehow figured out what she’d been up to in 2000? Had Harry finally traced it back to Nathaniel? Oh, but hadn’t Rose demanded that the Legacy Club fix this?

“What are you doing here?” Rose asked.

Nathaniel shrugged. “I was in the neighborhood. I wanted something sweet.”

Rose knew better than to believe that. What were the chances that her very wealthy ex-boyfriend, a mayoral candidate, wandered into her bakery on Nantucket Island in the middle of autumn?

“Can I get you something?” Rose asked.

“You know, I still can’t resist sweets,” Nathaniel said. “We have to keep them out of the house most days. I don’t know how you live your life, surrounded by all this goodness.”