Oliver shook his head, seemingly astonished at her confusion. “God, Maren, it shines from your every pore, and you don’t even know it. That trueness, that fineness, it was everything I wasn’t, everything we weren’t.” Oliver gestured around the room, leaving no doubt that the “we” to which he had referred was his family. “For as badly as I behaved, I never forgot that I am the luckiest man, our children the luckiest children. You make me better. You deigned to marry me, Maren, not the reverse.”
Maren could not see in herself what Oliver saw, but she recalled Oliver’s proposal all those years before, how he laughed at Maren’s idea that she might not be good enough for his mother. On this count, at least, she realized he was in earnest. His affair with Khaki was not about her being a Trumbull. Maren felt a glimmer of relief. If there had been even a grain of truth in what Khaki said that night, Oliver truly would have been a stranger to her.
“But if not that, then why?”
He looked at her despairingly, and her heart sank again.
She was so tired of going around and around with him. There seemed to be no way beyond the impasse. He couldn’t answer, and she couldn’t live without knowing. She felt sick, thinking of the children, especially Annie, but there was nothing she could do about that. She saw no other way out.
As she climbed the stairs, her mind coalesced around a plan. She would take the kids to Minnesota for a while. She had to pack, to make arrangements.
She was halfway up the stairs when she heard Oliver behind her.
“She needed me,” he said, his voice low and shaking.
She spun around and looked down at him.
“What did you say?”
He seemed almost surprised at the words that had come out of his mouth, as if he’d not expected them to, but he could not have been as surprised as she.
“You want to know why.” Now he looked a bit afraid, as if he knew she would not like what he was saying. “She needed me.”
“You think your wife and children don’t need you?” Maren asked, scornful.
“No, I don’t think that.” He looked down and spoke quietly. “I know my children need me.”
She reeled, confused. “I don’t understand. What are you saying?”
“She had nothing. She needed me. You don’t. You never really have. Of course, it was wrong,” he added, his words rushing. “I know it was wrong. There is no way I can make it right, but if you want to know why, that’s why.”
“That is just ridiculous, Oliver. I don’t even know what to say.” She was trying mightily to keep up her anger, but she saw shapes now through the fog. If nothing else, she could tell it had cost him something to say this. Once again, he was speaking the truth, or his truth at least.
She sat on the stairs, right where Annie had sat earlier. He climbed up and sat on a stair below her, back to the wall, long legs bent in front of him, feet against the banister, like a child.
“That’s ridiculous. It doesn’t make sense,” she repeated, though with less conviction.
He sat, not touching her, waiting for her to lift her face. When she finally did, she saw his brow knit, the sorry look in his eyes.
“I needed you, Oliver.” It was all she could manage. He reached out then, and took two of her fingers in his hand, gently.
“Needed?” he asked, sad, but resigned to the past tense.
It was a long time before she replied. He waited quietly.
“Give me time,” she said finally. Oliver nodded and looked up at her, grateful.
She did need time. She needed time to forgive him, and time to get to know him better. He was still a stranger to her in many ways, but of a different species than she had initially feared.
She needed time to consider whether all these years what she’d thought was her armor had actually been a weapon.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
August 2008
Haven Point
SKYE
Gran had arranged for Skye to be picked up by Hal Mahaney, a fiftysomething cousin of Georgie’s who made a small fortune carting Haven Pointers to and from the Portland airport. He was a talker, and fortunately seemed content with what was largely a one-way conversation.
“Good thing you got up now, Ms. Demarest,” he said. “Seems like we’re gonna get some weather up here from that hurricane.”
“Really? I didn’t think they knew where it was going.” The hurricane churning away off the coast of Florida was supposed to make landfall somewhere near the border of Virginia and North Carolina that night. Last Skye had heard, it was expected to move up the coast, but the exact path was uncertain.
“The old lobstermen don’t like the look of it. Best case, it moves up offshore. But it’s looking like it’ll hit land again down near Long Island and come up inland.”
“I didn’t think you all even got hurricanes here in Maine.”
“We don’t get as breezed up, what with the cold air, but it’s the flooding that’s a worry to folks on the coast. If they come up inland and put us east of the eye, that’s when we get the storm surges. And we’ve got a full moon coming. Of course, Georgie and your grandma got nothing to worry about, up there on the cliff.”
When they finally reached the causeway, Skye asked if they could open the windows.
“Suit yourself.” Hal shrugged.
The breeze was always a little wild here, more warning than welcome, but she felt a spark of life at the contrast to the stultifying D.C. August heat.
When they pulled into the driveway, Gran came out to the porch, a flash of coral against the gray. Gran was dressed as she might have been at any time in the past forty years—in a knee-length skirt, crisp button-down, and leather loafers—and Skye felt an unexpected rush of comfort at her tidy predictability.
Hal brought her suitcase up to the porch and left. Gran looked a little thinner than she had when Skye saw her in early June, but she gave Skye a sturdy hug then led her inside and upstairs.
Skye’s room had not changed. The doorstop was the rock on which she had painted her name in bubble letters years before. Her favorite children’s books still occupied the wicker shelf on the wall, and the picture of Skye standing between Gran and Pop on the beach was in its usual place on the dresser.
She knew she should see it as a testament to Gran’s devotion that the bedroom always stood ready for her. Today for some reason, it vaguely irritated her, and the warm feeling she’d had moments earlier evaporated. So many things vaguely (or not so vaguely) irritated her lately. It was fortunate Adriene had skin as thick as a rhinoceros, Skye had snapped at her so often.
Skye unpacked, progress hampered by dresser drawers so swollen by salt air, she had to shimmy them back and forth to get them open. She took the back stairs to the kitchen, where Gran was getting dinner ready.
“Can I help?” she asked.
“I’ve got it. Go make yourself at home.”
Skye wandered around the living room, examining the books, pictures, trophies, and art projects that filled the built-in shelves along the walls. For the most part, she felt as she usually did on Haven Point: like an anthropologist studying the artifacts of some ancient tribal culture. One photograph, however, stopped her in her tracks. It was of her mother and her uncle Billy.
Her mom looked about sixteen. She was laughing unselfconsciously, mouth open and face tilted up, as if she might drink from the sun. She radiated uncomplicated joy.
The image echoed Billy’s words at her mom’s memorial service. Skye had found it surreal, how everyone shook their heads in sadness at the great light that had been snuffed out so prematurely. Billy, Gran, Flora, even Adriene—all shed pure tears of sorrow.
“So tragic,” they all said.
Who is this woman they are mourning? Skye had wondered. It wasn’t like she had died in a car accident. From what Skye had seen in those final months, her death had been inevitable.
As Skye turned away from the image of young Annie, she spotted her own young face, framed alon
gside a poem she had written in third grade.
ICE CREAM
BY SKYE DEMAREST
Ice cream is so very nice
I’ll eat it once, I’ll eat it twice
It’s tasty and sweet
Now take a seat
And feel the beat
Move through your feet
Ice cream all the time
In rain and shine
Put down that spoon.
The ice cream’s mine!
“What have you found?”
Skye turned to see Gran standing in the dining area and wondered how long she had been watching.
“The ice-cream poem,” Skye replied. “Pretty experimental stuff for an eight-year-old, wasn’t it?”
“I love that poem. From the time you could talk you were so funny. And such an interesting turn of mind,” Gran said. “Dinner’s ready. Hope you don’t mind eating in the kitchen.”
When they sat down to roast chicken and cold blueberry soup, Skye could tell Gran had something on her mind. She finally came out with it.
“I assume you know Adriene sent me the toxicology report,” Gran said.
The night Skye found her mother, Adriene had been her third call, after 911 and Gran. She had arrived in time to coax from the cops the probable cause of death: “polypharm overdose.” Not a big surprise, given the pills Skye had seen on the floor next to the tub. She had offered to pull strings to expedite the tox report. (In D.C. government terms, “expedite” meant “get it in less than a year.”)
As far as Skye was concerned, whether accidental or intentional, drugs, alcohol, or a combination, it amounted to the same thing: Her mother’s demons got her in the end. For some reason, Gran had seemed eager for the information.
Skye had no desire to know more about the toxicology report. When she asked no questions, Gran changed the subject, unfortunately to the one Skye had hoped to avoid.
“I’m sorry about your job, Skye,” Gran said.
“Thanks.”
“I wonder if it’s an opportunity. You had so little time to look for work when you moved home.”
“Well, I have plenty of time now, don’t I?” Skye struggled to keep the tension from her voice. She’d had a break from Gran’s questions over this past grim year, but she’d known they would start up before long. Are you doing anything freelance? Keeping up with your friends in the sketch comedy troupe? Thought any more about screenwriting?
It was all wrapped up in Gran’s strange indulgence of her mother’s so-called career. When Skye was little, Gran had stepped in to make up for her mother’s shortcomings. When she was old enough, Gran taught her end runs around her mother’s deficiencies.
No one ever said it outright, but she felt the message was clear. Your mother is just too creative to be bothered. We must all work around her genius. It was maddening. Skye had been raised to be the prudent and organized one, but now she had to face judgment for not being sufficiently creative?
“I’m sure it’s not pleasant, but you’re so careful with money. I don’t think it hurts to take a step back from time to time,” Gran said.
“You know what hurts, Gran? Chaos hurts. Uncertainty hurts,” Skye snapped.
“You mean the kind of chaos and uncertainty you grew up with?” Gran replied evenly.
“Yes, Gran. That’s exactly what I mean. And here’s what I can’t figure out: What happens when you’re gone, if I take over as the family’s artist-in-residence? Who’s going to take care of, you know … life?”
Gran looked at her for a moment, more thoughtful than upset.
“Skye, I’m sorry if I seemed to trivialize what you’re facing, or what you faced,” she said finally. “There is no disputing the uncertainty you grew up with, and I can understand your fear now.”
Skye took a deep breath, chastened by Gran’s kindness.
“Thanks, Gran. I’m sorry I snapped. I’m just stressed. The thing is, Randall Vernon isn’t just a politician. He’s a powerful businessman.”
“And what does that mean for you?”
“He’s so vindictive. I promise he’ll do everything he can to prevent me from getting another job.”
“I know some men give an impression of being able to wield that kind of power. But it’s my observation that many fewer actually can, and fewer still would bother to in the end.” Gran looked at her with tender sympathy. “I think you’ll come out of this okay, though I’m sure that’s hard for you to believe right now.”
Skye smiled, a little sheepish. “I’d like to, but the second I start believing it, my anxiety gets very suspicious.”
“That anxiety. Such a troublemaker!”
“Adriene calls it my Neanderthal Greek chorus.” Skye lowered her voice to caveman pitch. “Bad thing gonna happen. Must do something stupid.”
Gran laughed as she took her dishes to the sink. “That reminds me. We should get ready for the sing-along.”
“Oh…” Skye hesitated.
“You’re coming, right? You can’t miss the sing-along.”
In fact, Skye would have liked very much to miss it. It was one thing to sit in Fourwinds with Gran, quite another to throw herself into Haven Point’s social exigencies, the endless stream of events and traditions that filled the weeks there. But as she watched Gran at the sink, she felt her resistance crumble.
Gran still had the Nordic beauty of her youth. Her hair, though now white instead of blond, still gleamed. Neither age nor grief had dimmed her bright blue eyes. But Skye detected a strange hesitancy in Gran’s movements, as if she’d been shattered and pieced back together, and was now worried the glue wouldn’t hold. Gran’s height, which had always signaled robust health, now made her appear more vulnerable.
Like she has farther to fall, Skye thought.
“Of course I’ll come.” She plastered on a smile. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
* * *
When they arrived at the yacht club, Georgie waved from across the room, As they picked their way through the crowd, Skye saw a few familiar faces. Most acknowledged them with small waves and smiles. New England minimalist greetings were appropriate in this community, where you were likely to see the same person the next day.
Georgie stood and gave Skye a perfunctory hug, a lavish display of affection for her.
“What’s the news, Georgie?” Skye asked.
“Oh, Maren, you haven’t heard this one yet. The Hellmonds are renovating Gull Cottage.”
“Horrors.” Maren laughed.
“I guess they’re putting in some fancy Wi-Fi thing so Jill can be ‘virtual.’” Georgie lifted her fingers in air quotes.
“Georgie’s suspicious of renovations,” Gran explained with a smile. Skye was just pleased to discover that a woman on Haven Point actually had a job. From what she had observed over the years (and could see was still the case, looking around the room), the women of Haven Point all had some magical ability to find husbands and have kids, at which point they promptly quit their jobs.
They would encamp to Maine in June and decamp home when school started. When children were old and gone, they followed the sun to Boca Grande, the Hillsboro Club, or Jupiter Island. The way was paved so nicely for them.
A barely distinguishable stream of white teeth and Patagonia half-zips was filing into the yacht club. When the flow came to a sudden stop, Skye looked up to see Harriet Hyde Barrows in the doorway, gazing around imperiously, indifferent to the traffic jam she had caused. When she finally found an acceptable seat and moved aside, Ben’s face appeared behind her.
Skye felt a jolt at the sight of Summer Ben: slightly tan, wavy hair just a touch longer than usual. She kept her eyes on the door, half expecting Charlotte Spencer to enter next, but the only person in his wake was a young man who, except for a sullen expression, looked like the seventeen-year-old Ben that Skye had known—probably his younger brother, Steven, who was in college.
Her first instinct was to pretend she had not seen him come in, to turn to Gran and G
eorgie and feign deep engagement in their conversation. She quickly realized that would be absurd. They would have to acknowledge each other at some point, plus the chair in front of hers was unoccupied, so she had an unobstructed view of where he was sitting. When he settled in and glanced around, she caught his eye and smiled.
A look of surprise crossed his face, and then he responded in kind.
At least he’s being subtle, she thought. Gran knew she and Ben had seen each other a few times, but nothing beyond that.
Fortunately, just as Julian Stevens, who had been the song leader as long as Skye could remember, approached the piano, a man large enough to block her view slipped into the empty seat, sparing her the effort of not looking at Ben throughout the event.
“Page forty-eight, please. ‘Polly Wolly Doodle,’” Julian said, after a few announcements.
As the pianist struck the first few notes and the well-trained crowd began to sing, Skye’s old disconnectedness kicked in. She felt like she was at a living history museum where costumed actors brought quaint, old-world traditions to life. She could be charmed. She could marvel at small children knowing all the words to “Ezekiel Saw De Wheel.” But, as ever, she was on the outside looking in.
After Julian led the crowd through “The Grandfather Clock” and “My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean,” he announced a song that broke through her detachment.
“All right, now. Time for ‘Little Liza Jane.’ Page twenty-three.”
The room was suddenly alive with the sound of excited chatter and scraping chairs. Small children were passed around, until each was in front of, or in the arms of, an adult. As the pianist began to play and the crowd began to sing, Skye felt her throat tighten and tears prick at the back of her eyes.
I’ve got a girl and you’ve got none, Little Liza Jane
Come, my love, and be the one, Little Liza Jane
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