The Halo Effect

26 | nantucket

I dropped my duffle bag onto the hardwood floor of the foyer, the echoing thud unnerving.

Regardless of the time of year, the house on Nantucket would always hold traces of sand and the halls carried the dry scent of the ocean. After all, the cedar shingle Cape Cod-style house sat just beyond the stretch of wispy beach grass that led down to the sandy dunes of Madaket beach and out to the Atlantic. It seemed the grains of sand and the tang of the ocean was all that remained as the otherwise stark emptiness of the foyer made my heart sink like an anchor into my stomach.

I paused in the doorway of the front sitting room, noting the entirely new collection of pristine furniture, though the classic blue and white coastal color palette remained. I scanned the space, struck by the absence of photos and personal decor of any kind. There was nothing that spoke to all of the summers I'd spent here or the England family's formally happy existence. I never thought closure entailed the obliteration of history.

I stalked over to the kitchen to find Dad stacking the few groceries we'd brought into the empty refrigerator. Darkness pooled outside the French doors leading to the deck, though Dad had only bothered to flick on the modern fixture above the sink. The unfamiliar shadows cast disconcerting shapes across the floor.

"There's no furniture. Why is there no furniture?"

"You're exaggerating, Chandler," Dad answered without looking around. He must've known exactly what to expect upon our arrival at the house. "Everything we need for the weekend is here."

I huffed, well aware of the fact that I was exaggerating, but sometimes exaggerating was the best way to get the point across. "This doesn't feel like our house. Did the oversized armchair just magically vanish from the sitting room?"

"Your mom had Debbie stage the house so it's ready to hit the market in May," Dad explained, referring to our family's longtime interior designer. Even at the Beacon Hill townhouse, Mom always had Debbie redecorating one of the rooms. The only space she'd never touched or even stepped a designer heel into was Dad's study.

I yanked a clear chair away from the long wooden kitchen table that I'd never seen before and sat down. The new furniture was objectively nice, but it didn't belong here. "Our furniture was fine."

Dad finally turned to face me, the pale light of the refrigerator illuminating his thin smile. "It's okay to be sentimental, Chan. We had a lot of great years here."

I interlaced my fingers, setting my hands on the smooth surface of the table. "I'm not sentimental."

"That's fine," he acknowledged, and his smile suddenly expanded. "Besides, I have some news that might improve your outlook on the weekend."

"Oh?" I leaned back in the chair, arching both eyebrows. "Care to enlighten me?"

"Patrick and Dallas Gunther are joining us tomorrow!"

I instantly detested how genuinely enthusiastic Dad was and why he thought I would share that same enthusiasm. I could only summon a singular word.

"Why?"

I failed to keep the artful combination of disdain and shock out of my voice. There was no scenario in which Dallas Gunther was coming to Nantucket willingly, and there was absolutely no need for us to commiserate. I resented having to be here, and I was in my own house.

I glanced down at my phone, half-expecting to see a text from Dallas in which he would somehow blame me for dragging him kicking-and-screaming (more like brooding-and-scowling) into my current circle of hell. But there wasn't.

Aside from his stupid attempt at antagonizing me at the Diamond Duel last weekend, we hadn't actually talked since that night at the Cornell Club in March. The last time I'd texted Dallas was to inform him that I wouldn't need his help with the ACT math section.