They went to the spare room off the kitchen. From Caroline’s earliest memory, it had been a repository for their mother’s many unfinished craft projects—printmaking, scrapbooking, crochet, painting on fabric, wood carving. Mom was irrepressibly creative, always starting something or other, but with five kids and the restaurant, she’d been too busy to finish anything.

Caroline had already set up her own sewing machine in the room. It was a prized possession, an industrial workhorse she’d gone into debt to acquire while in design school. Back in New York, she’d had to pay a moving company union wages just to get it from her apartment into Angelique’s car, because the thing weighed a ton. Her father and brother had helped her haul it into the house.

“What are we making?” asked her mother.

“The kids just told me their mom buys them new clothes for the first day of school. So I’m going to make them something to wear tomorrow.”

Mom gave her a hug. “Ah, Caroline. What a nice idea.”

“They’re worried about starting school in a strange new place.”

“Of course they are.” Mom rummaged in a box labeled donations. “What did you have in mind?”

“Something red that’s light and slippery, like a windbreaker or some kind of lining.”

“Will this work?” Mom held up a windbreaker with the Sustainable Seafoods logo—Jackson’s company.

Caroline shook out the thin red ripstop garment. “It’s perfect,” she said.

“Great. Put me to work.”

“Can you stencil a slogan on these shirts?”

“You bet. I can use the kit I got to make personalized workwear for the restaurant. Never finished that project, but I still have all the supplies.”

As Caroline made a pattern and cut out the windbreaker fabric, she felt herself unbending, bit by bit. “This is my happy place,” she said. “When I’m making something. Anything.”

“You’ve always been that way,” said Mom. “Remember Grammy’s old treadle machine? You were about six years old when you learned how to use it.”

“I loved that machine,” Caroline said. “Everybody else was in the kitchen or garden, and I was in here making outfits for the dog.”

“You were on your own path.”

“I suppose. I always got the feeling I was doing something wrong.”

“And I always thought you were the most creative of the lot. Look at you now. A designer from New York.”

“From being the operative word. I can’t go back.”

“You will one day if you want,” Mom said. “You’ll return the conquering hero.”

“Right.” She focused on the task at hand, not wanting to think about her ruined career on top of everything else. Their silence was companionable. She caught her mother studying her. “What?”

“You’re so passionate. It’s inspiring to watch. Did you ever think of creating a sewing workshop, or . . . I’m not sure what you’d call it—an atelier?”

“That sounds a bit grand.” Caroline brought up something she couldn’t stop thinking of. “I heard there’s an outfit down in Astoria that used to make garments for the military. They’re going out of business. A woman I met at Lindy’s said they’re auctioning off machines and fixtures and so forth. The problem is, machines don’t fabricate. People do. I’m only one person. One person with two kids, in fact.” She sighed. “Suddenly my options seem to be very limited.”

“I have a suggestion.”

“You always do.”

“Instead of regarding the children as a hindrance, why not see them as inspiration? Look what we’re making right now.” Mom held up the shirt. “Not bad, eh? Those kids are lucky to have you.”

“Those kids are lost souls.” They were the most innocent of victims, swept up in the hidden turmoil of their mother’s life. “I failed Angelique. When I think of all the ways I could have helped and didn’t, I want to throw up. What if I screw up her kids?”

“Listen, they are not meant to be your redemption, Caroline. Don’t cast them in that role—it’s not fair to Addie and Flick. They’re meant to be children, and they have no other job than that.”

Caroline flinched. “Ouch. And you’re right. I’m just scared I’ll miss the signals with them the way I did with Angelique. I don’t know what they’ve seen or experienced. When I ask, they seem clueless. Flick says he never saw anyone being mean to his mom. And I believe him, because that’s his truth. But what I’ve learned about domestic violence is that the secrecy and the shame are almost universal. The isolation and lack of support. I wish I’d done better by Angelique. I’m afraid I’m not the right person to look after her kids. I lie awake every night trying to figure out the right thing to do. I haven’t slept soundly since the moment they landed with a thud in my life. There are times when I feel sure I can take care of them. That I can keep them safe and happy. Then there are other times when I have no idea what I’m doing, and I’m absolutely certain I’ll ruin those poor kids. And it’s not like ruining a design or a garment or a dinner entrée. These are two human beings. The stakes are too high for me to screw up.” She carefully folded the new shirts. “Maybe I should contact social services. See if there’s a family for them, one that would give them a better life. I mean, there might be a couple somewhere with the right skills. With job security.” Could she do that? Surrender the children to a more qualified family? What would that look like?

Mom studied the neatly folded shirts. “What is your heart telling you?”

Caroline felt defensive even though her mother didn’t seem to be criticizing her. “That I’m falling in love with these kids. But that’s not going to put a roof over their heads or give them a secure future.”

“You don’t need to decide right now,” said her mother. “Give yourself some time.”

Caroline nodded. She needed to stop thinking about it for a bit. “I had a nice visit with Lindy Bloom and a woman named Echo who works at her shop. Did you know they’re both domestic violence survivors?”

“Surv—what? Lindy?”

“I was shocked, too. Apparently she suffered for years and no one knew.”

“Good lord. Quentin Bloom?”

“Is that his name—Quentin? I never knew. Always thought of him as Mr. Bloom. That’s what Lindy called him, too—Mr. Bloom.”

“Goodness. I did business at his bank for decades. I’d heard they split up, and he left the peninsula, but . . . Good lord,” she said again.

“I’m learning that this syndrome is rampant. It crosses all boundaries—the fine upstanding banker and the trashy guy Echo was with. I need to learn more. Help more. I need a lot of things. I wish I could reach out to women who have been where Angelique was. Listen to them. Learn from them.”

“Maybe you can. See if there’s a local group.”

“There’s not. At least, none that I could find online.”

“What about finding them in person? I think we’re discovering that this problem is everywhere, even in our cozy little town. Even . . .”

“Mom, what are you saying? Do you know someone?”

Her mother hesitated, then said, “There’s a young woman at the restaurant—Nadine. Georgia hired her last year when she showed up looking for work. She had a broken cheekbone and a restraining order against her boyfriend, and not much else. Zero job skills. Georgia started her in the back, washing dishes and sweeping.”

“Do you think she’d be open to a conversation?” Caroline didn’t know much about support groups. She’d always assumed they were meant for needy, distraught individuals who couldn’t cope on their own. Now she realized just being able to speak openly in a safe place could make a world of difference.

“You never know until you ask,” said her mother.

Caroline felt a spark of inspiration. That gut feeling when she knew something was right. She glanced over at her mother, and their gazes held as an idea took shape. “What if I started a group? A support group, right here in town? Do you think people would come?”

“Caroline, you’ve always been so full of ideas, it must be exhausting to be in your head.”

“I just keep thinking about Angelique. Maybe if she’d had a safe place to talk, friends who were supportive, who listened and understood . . .” She saw her mother stifle a yawn. “Anyway, maybe it’s crazy, but I’m going to look into it.”

“It’s a wonderful notion.”

“Thanks for listening, Mom. You’re the best.”

A fleeting smile. “The older you get, the smarter I get, right?”

Chapter 10

Will finished off Monday morning practice with time sprints around the track that circled the football field. One of the athletes, a senior named Beau Cannon, showed major promise, and he was currently being recruited by several Division I colleges. Will had high hopes for the kid. Beau’s single mom probably wouldn’t be able to pay for college without a scholarship.

“Good work today,” he said as they left the field together. “You’re right at thirty-six seconds on the three hundred.”

“I need to be under.” Beau wiped his brow with the tail of his jersey.

“At the risk of sounding like a broken record—it’s your start. You need to explode off the blocks. Run the first twenty meters like you’re a scalded dog. That’ll shave your time down to where it needs to be. Keep practicing your start and you’ll get there.”