Page 3 of The Havenport Collection

Cecelia

A s I pulled into the driveway flanked by blooming wildflowers, I couldn’t help but notice the chipped paint and wood rot on the garage.

Once a great beauty, my mother’s house was slowly but surely falling into disrepair and losing its vibrancy and charm.

Despite her wear and tear, she was a grand home and had been filled with a lot of love and adventure over the years.

The state of our family home used to make me sad. These days, it makes me feel validated. The old girl had been through some hard times and was showing her wear and tear.

My parents had bought it for pennies in the early eighties when Havenport was a dingy fishing town, before it underwent a massive revitalization into the commercial and tourist hub it was today.

Over time, they lovingly fixed it up and made it their own.

This house had seen generations of families, births and deaths and weddings and graduations, and still she stood, proud but a bit humbled by age. I could have learned a thing or two.

I was halfway through my cleansing breaths when my mother burst out the back door, a blur of flying scarves and jangling bracelets.

“Cecelia! My love. Get over here and give me a hug.” Where I was quiet and thoughtful, my mom was loud and energetic, always moving at high speed to the next thing on her to-do list. Her waist-length raven hair was streaked with gray and woven into an intricate Game of Thrones style braid.

Dangly amethyst earrings highlighted her long, graceful neck, and she was, of course, barefoot.

She embraced me with her skinny but deceptively strong arms, and I was engulfed by the smell of sandalwood. “You look gorgeous, honey. I am so thrilled you are here.” She squeezed me tighter and took a big breath. “I love you so much and I am so proud of you.”

I pulled back a bit, feeling smothered. “Mom, I do not look gorgeous. I have most of my earthly possessions in this car because my life has completely blown up. I am broken out, sleep-deprived, and have been eating nothing but Ramen for the last two weeks.” I did not add that I was so bloated my Toms barely fit on my feet right now and my hair hadn’t been washed in a few days.

My mother’s unwavering love and support could get old at times, especially when I just wanted to wallow and eat ice cream.

Having her tell me she was proud of me when I was not proud of myself was a bit of a blow.

My mother smoothed an unruly curl out of my face.

I did not inherit her height, her build, her green eyes, or her zany energy, but I did get her wild hair.

Our hair was thick and curly and resistant to any scientific advances in hair care.

It grew quickly and in every direction, and I spent a small fortune to try and keep it under control. Thanks, genetics.

“Cecelia Marie Leary, I do not allow negative self-talk in my house. You are a gorgeous butterfly, and you just need to get a little break so you can spread your wings and fly. Now let’s get you unpacked. I’m hosting moonlight meditation tonight. You’re gonna love it.”

“Mom, I don’t think I’m up for meditating tonight. I just want to be alone.”

“Nonsense, Cecelia,” she says, crossing her arms and tapping her foot—oh my God, this woman cannot keep still—“you just got back and I want to spend time with you. I have to pop over to Lucy’s—she just had surgery and I made her some freezer meals today, vegan and gluten free, obviously—and then I have to stop by Burt’s and return the book he lent me and then we can make some dinner and meditate.

It will be just like when you kids were little.

” I forgot just how fast my mom speaks. My head was spinning.

I just wanted to sleep and maybe watch some Bravo.

“Mom, I need to be alone right now and lick my wounds.”

My mom smiled at me and gave me a pitying look.

Oh shit. Here it comes . “Darling, I love you. You are the light of my life and I think you are amazing.” She reached out to gently squeeze my cheek, and her eyes turned steely.

“But if you think I’m going to let you wallow in despair under my roof then you are sorely mistaken.

” With that, she bent down, grabbed a suitcase, a backpack, and a cloth shopping tote, and walked through the slider into the kitchen.

So I guess wallowing is off the table…

After some cathartic ice cream and a forty-five minute full moon meditation with my mother and some of her friends in the backyard, I was feeling much better.

I looked around, savoring the feel and smell of my childhood home.

The sunroom was our favorite place growing up and it had not changed over the years.

It was filled with light and plants and shelves stacked with board games.

In one corner was an ancient couch, and on the other side was an enormous, battered wood table and eight mismatched chairs surrounding it under a Victorian-era chandelier.

As kids we always wanted to eat dinner in here to see the sunsets through the giant windows.

So, one weekend, mom went out and found a table and some mismatched chairs at a yard sale, and the kitchen and dining room hadn’t been used since.

We ate many meals and played many games in here, first as a family of four and then a family of three after my dad died.

Not that it mattered to my mom where we ate—she made sure we were always laughing, having fun, and loving one another.

I had spent a lot of time judging my mom’s meditation group, but it was actually a pretty cool group of people made up of some neighbors, some of my mom’s teacher friends, and my aunt Joyce. It was all women except for Burt, who never went anywhere without his Yorkie, Coco Chanel.

After meditation, everyone retired to the sunroom to lounge and drink wine.

My aunt Joyce droned on about her crystals while I zoned out for a bit and attempted to enjoy myself.

How long had it been since I had enjoyed the company of other women?

How long since I had meditated or practiced yoga or done any self-care? Way too fucking long.

I took a long sip of my wine and settled into the old armchair, happy to just fade into the background.

This was actually not a terrible way to pass an evening.

Of course it was not meant to last. Probably desperate to get off the topic of crystals, Emily turned to me.

“So Cece, are you going to stay in town long? It is so nice to have you here.”

Emily was a beautiful, eccentric soul who had married her high school sweetheart and popped out three kids before hitting thirty.

She never wore makeup and had the kind of shiny, shampoo-commercial hair that made you instantly hate a person.

She was a preschool teacher turned stay-at-home mom and was a genuinely kind, lovely person.

But at this moment, when the chatter hushed and I felt multiple sets of eyes on me, I wanted to slap her.

I took a deep breath. “Well, I’m not sure. I needed a break, so I decided to come home and spend some time with my family”—I exhaled, while scanning the inquisitive faces in the room—“and I am so glad to be back.” I pasted on a fake smile and hoped the topic was closed.

Aunt Joyce leaned over the arm of the old sofa. Her oversized sweatshirt was covered with kittens and matched the giant dangling kitten earrings in her ears. “Are you still working? Your mom told us you sell drugs?” Oh Jesus, Joyce, she knew what I did for a living. She was my aunt, for Chrissake.

“I don’t sell drugs,” I said through clenched teeth. “I am a pharmaceutical marketing executive. I was laid off a few weeks ago when the company I worked for stopped manufacturing the product I sold. I am looking for a new opportunity.”

“There are so many marketing jobs up here, away from the city,” my mom's friend Ronnie added.

Belinda Wilson, my fourth grade teacher, nodded. “Oh yes. I know lots of people who are hiring.”

“I think I’m fine for now. Thanks.”

“Actually,” Mrs. Quinn piped up. Annie Quinn was a tiny, wiry woman who terrified me.

She was my mom’s best friend and one of those women who could silence you with a glance.

I wasn’t fooled by her batik-print tunic and linen pants.

Behind the new age facade was a fierce woman.

She was married to Captain Quinn, a local fishing tycoon, and was the mother to three boys.

She had held my mom’s hand after my dad died and helped her pick up the pieces.

For that I will always be grateful to her, but she still scared the shit out of me.

“You know, my son Liam owns Binnacle Brewing. He is doing very well and is super busy right now. Just last weekend he was over for Sunday dinner telling us how he needs some help with marketing. I bet he could use a creative, successful woman like you to help him!”

Huh. Liam Quinn. I remembered him from growing up.

We used to play all the time when our moms were together.

I remember when he and his brothers built a bike ramp in their backyard and dared me to do it.

My older sister, Maggie, refused, but I was nine and criminally stubborn.

I went off the jump, flipped over the handle bars, and wound up in the emergency room getting stitches.

It hurt like hell, but definitely earned me some street cred with the older kids.

Our childhoods had overlapped—he was only a grade above me in school—but after high school we lost touch.

She stared at me over the top of her wineglass, as if daring me to defy her. “Thank you, Mrs. Quinn. I need to be back in New York in January, so I’m not staying.”

“And,” I added, hoping to nip this conversation in the bud, “I’m not sure I’m qualified to work in a brewery.”

“Why not?” Shut up, Aunt Joyce . “I’ve been over there and it’s fabulous what Liam has accomplished. It would probably be really fun for a bit.”

“You know,” said my mom, totally betraying me, “Joyce is right. What a fun thing to try! And Liam is such a close family friend, it would be so great if you could help him out temporarily while you are staying in town. You have so much marketing experience.”

“The brewery is adorable. Industrial chic,” Burt added.

Mrs. Quinn looked at me expectantly. “The taproom is only open on weekends. It’s quite fun. We all pitch in sometimes. My boys Callum and Declan help out when they can.”

I just stared, trying to think of some polite excuse.

“I’ll text him and tell him you’re available to interview tomorrow.” She reached for her phone.

The room was silent while I felt the weight of a dozen sets of eyes on me. I didn’t know what to say.

“Thanks, Mrs. Quinn. It does sound like a ton of fun,” I said, lying through my teeth and trying to figure out how to make my exit and escape to my room. “But I’m sure he doesn’t want someone who knows nothing about brewing or beer.”

“Oh no!” exclaimed Mrs. Quinn. “He will be thrilled for the help. The fall is very busy with all the town festivals, and you are a childhood friend and sooo accomplished.” She gave me an encouraging smile.

“He starts brewing early in the morning. I would get there around nine a.m. and see if it’s a good fit. ”

The entire room was smiling and nodding and encouraging me. Including my turncoat mother who just a few hours ago had held me while I cried and fed me ice cream.

Emily squeezed my shoulder. “This sounds so exciting! I can’t wait to come see you there.” God, she was so damn sweet.

I looked around the room at all the kind, excited faces. I didn’t have the heart to tell them that the last thing I wanted was a pity job. “Okay,” I said, raising my glass to the assembled ladies, “I’ll give it a try.”

My mom raised her glass. “To new opportunities.”

“To new opportunities,” everyone echoed.

I took a deep gulp of wine, wondering just what the hell I’d got myself into.