One day he had been there, the next he was gone.
At the time, Linda told her he had been sick, that he’d been sick a long time and they had kept it from her.
In her child’s imagination, she had imagined cancer or a bad heart. Something tragic but understandable.
She could still remember learning the truth about a year after her father died. She had been hiding inside one of the circular racks of clothing in the shop with her dolls. That had been her happy place, where she could be alone, away from her mother’s sometimes biting tongue. She used to love sitting inside the rack and playing surrounded by all the cool, soft fabrics of the dresses.
Two of her mother’s customers from Shelter Springs, women she hadn’t known well, had been looking through the rack, not knowing she was there. Shopping and gossiping were perennially two of the favorite pastimes of some of the women around Lake Haven.
One of the women had whispered something about her mother and the store and the ugly clothing Linda had started ordering in to stock the shelves, then they both had laughed unpleasantly.
“She’s awful, isn’t she? Is it any wonder her husband killed himself to get away from her?” the other one had said.
“Poor man,” the other one had said.
Samantha hadn’t known what they meant but knew by their tone it couldn’t be good. She remembered feeling sick, hiding there inside the clothing rack, her stomach turning as if she needed to throw up. She hadn’t wanted to reveal herself to those vile, ugly women, not wanting to let them know she was there at all or that she had heard what they said.
She stayed inside the rack until closing time, when her mother had finally dragged her out so they could go home and have dinner. She remembered barely touching her food that day and for several days afterward, those words running and running around in her head.
Killed himself. Her father had killed himself. He hadn’t had cancer or the flu or some other terrible disease. He had chosen to leave her and her mother.
That moment had changed her fundamentally, though it had taken her years longer to fully understand.
Technically, Linda hadn’t lied. Her father had indeed been sick for a long time, a deep clinical depression that he hadn’t been able to overcome.
When she was a child, she didn’t understand that. She had been hurt and angry, as any child would be. She had missed him dearly, especially as her mother’s personality had undergone a dramatic shift after Lyle Fremont died. While Linda had always been sharp-tongued and impatient, her comments began to take on a cruel edge. Linda had become bitter and angry, had changed from a devoted, loving mother to someone impossible to please, who seemed to find fault in everything Sam did.
As an adult, Samantha had tried to be compassionate, imagining how her mother must have felt after her husband killed himself. Betrayed, abandoned. Alone with a needy child and a struggling business.
She was aware that her compassion and sense of responsibility had kept her in Haven Point long after she would have otherwise escaped.
“We will always miss our mother but we’re managing,” Amelia said now, her voice small and resigned, as if it was taking every ounce of her energy to stay brave in the face of such overwhelming sadness.
“We still have Father,” Thomas said. “And Mrs. Gilbert, who looks after us. And Nana and Grandfather.”
“How very wonderful it must feel to have so many people who love you,” she said.
She would have adored that. After her father died, Samantha had been left with only her mother. Linda had been estranged from her family, something she never spoke about, and Lyle had been an only child whose parents died when he was still a young man.
Linda had been Sam’s only relative. As far as Sam knew, she had been all her mother had, too. Perhaps if she hadn’t been an only child, if there had been another sibling or two in the family, her mother’s laser-sharp focus on her might have been diluted. Perhaps she wouldn’t have had to bear the weight of her mother’s expectations all on her own.
“I suppose you’re right.” Amelia studied the dogs, who had once more started clamoring over Betsey to nurse. “I still miss my mother.”
“I understand. My mother died just after the new year. I miss her very much.” Though, of course, it wasn’t at all the same. She was nearly thirty.
To her astonishment Thomas slipped his hand in hers, his palm a little moist and warm but still providing comfort beyond words. She stood for a moment, staring out at the lake, holding the hand of a six-year-old boy and fighting the unexpected urge to cry.
“I’m very sorry,” he said.
“That’s very kind of you,” she managed through the lump in her throat.
“Was she a nice mother?” Amelia asked.
Samantha did not know how to answer that. No one would ever call Linda Fremont nice. Smart? Yes. Determined? Yes. Nice didn’t really apply.
“She could be nice,” she qualified. “What about your mother? What was she like?”
“She could be nice, too,” Amelia answered, parroting Sam’s own words.
“We’re awfully sad she’s dead. So is our father,” Thomas said. “We miss her terribly.”
“But we’re not supposed to talk about her anymore,” Amelia said.
Sam frowned. “Why on earth not?”
“Our dad said she’s gone and it’s time to move on with our lives.”
Sam stared at her, appalled that any man would tell his children to move on while they were busy grieving the loss of their mother. Could he really be that cold and unfeeling that he wouldn’t let the children discuss their memories of their mother?
Her mother had done the same. She hadn’t wanted Samantha to talk about her father,
