Finally, her fingers go to her sunglasses, which she removes. Her eyes are frightened, which is good. I’m glad it’s not just me.
“When I walked into the gym that first day,” she begins, leaning against the stone bench, then straightening again, seeming unsure which to do, “I had no idea who you were. I swear it, Mal. It was pure coincidence that we ended up next to each other. Then we started talking and just kept at it.” She is begging now. “I’d never clicked with anyone like that before. And the conversation had nothing to do with hometowns or parents. It was about the gym and kids and baby fat, and when we went for coffee afterward, we talked about work. Do you remember?”
I nod but am only marginally relieved. “That was the first of, what, a thousand conversations, during any one of which you might have told me who you were? When did you make the connection?”
Her eyes widen, like she fears what she is about to say. After a last pause, she blurts out, “When we exchanged names and phone numbers.”
“That first day?” I ask in horror. Fine. She hadn’t planned it in advance. Still. “You knew all this time? You knew and didn’t tell me?”
“I wanted to,” she cries. “I really did.”
“Why didn’t you?” I shout with a ferocity that sounds harsh even to me. But hell, I’m not the peacemaker with Chrissie. That’s one of the things I love—loved—about our friendship. I don’t need to be in control.
Her eyes grow teary. “I don’t know,” she whispers. “We were at Starbucks, sitting between a geek on a computer and a couple who could have been our parents, listening to every word we said. You gave me your information, and I typed it in my phone, and seeing it there in print, I realized I knew it. But it seemed too bizarre to be true. And if it was true, I wasn’t sure how I felt.”
I drew back. “What does that mean?” If she was embarrassed to claim me as a friend because of the Aldiss-MacKay affair, I would scream.
But no. Chrissie wasn’t that petty, which is small solace in this shitty situation. In place of it, she is off on a different tack.
“I had issues with Bay Bluff. My growing up years weren’t the best. My mother and I were always at odds, my dad was a serial cheater, their marriage fell apart. Suddenly there you were at the gym, my best friend in waiting, and we hit it off so well that I knew I’d met someone special. But I didn’t want you to be from Bay Bluff. I didn’t want any connection to Bay Bluff. Just to be sure, I asked where you were from. Do you remember?”
No. I do not.
Actually, I do. After I told her I was from Westerly, she said she was from New Haven, and I assumed that was where she’d grown up. I continued to assume it even after she explained that she and her husband had lived there before moving into Manhattan. Technically, she hadn’t lied.
Still, I’m devastated. “How could you not have said something, Chrissie? You learned we were from the same itty-bitty little village—I mean, what were the odds? Okay, so you didn’t want any connection to Bay Bluff, but we were miles from there, miles from the people we’d been. Weren’t you even a little excited about that?” A normal person would be jumping up and down. To immediately click with someone and then discover a kind of karma connection?
“I was,” Chrissie insists, sheltering herself with an arm over her head. “You have no idea. But I didn’t say anything that day—I don’t know why—and time went on, and I loved that you were my New York friend, and we grew closer, and you held my hand through my struggle to conceive and then my nightmare pregnancy, and Kian was born, and I fell in love with Joy, and the time was never right, because saying something after years of silence was impossible.”
I could almost understand that. Marginally calmer, I ask, “But why now? Why risk coming back here and being recognized?”
“Your Dad died.”
“And that made it worth the risk?” I ask, skeptical. She and I are on the same wavelength so often it’s scary, but I’m not there with her now.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Your dad died,” she repeats, suddenly disciplined, suddenly the woman who coaches lost souls, the woman who understands love and grief and regret. “Whether or not he’s your biological, he was your dad. I knew you’d be feeling lost, and conflicted, maybe even guilty that you haven’t seen him more. I knew this whole—” she gestures widely back at the cemetery, “business was going to be difficult for you, and I knew your sisters would be here. I wanted to be here for you, too.”
It’s the proper response, but I know Chrissie too well. There’s more. Her look right now is … frightened, pleading, pregnant.
Facing the sea, for all the good it’s doing, I brace my hands on the top of the bench. Its roughness gives me traction as I consider how to proceed. But bluntness is the only way. Diplomacy is beyond me. “What aren’t you saying?”
She doesn’t answer.
My eyes fly to hers then, because suddenly, I see. She’s from Bay Bluff. She’s Roberto Aiello’s daughter. She’s heard the rumors. “You think we’re sisters!”
She hesitates for several seconds more. Maybe she’s waiting for me to elaborate. Maybe she’s hoping I’ll deny it and offer evidence to the contrary. Maybe she’s praying I’ll confirm it, saying I suspected it all along. But how could I have ever suspected it, when she’s kept me in the dark all this time?
She must have realized that, because her words burst out, like horses breaking from the Derby gate. “It makes sense, Mal—us looking alike and thinking alike. I don’t believe in chance, and I don’t believe in cosmic voodoo, but what are the odds that we’d end up beside each other in the gym? So maybe it was meant to be, and maybe I was afraid to let you know who I was, because I suffered through talking about Bay Bluff with my own therapist, and it was too painful to repeat. Maybe I wanted it so badly that I was afraid to give you a chance to say it was not.” She takes a breath, as reality slows her down. “Then your dad got sick. I couldn’t say anything, because it was inappropriate. And once you were back here, you were with him and Anne, and then Margo came, and there was everything you were learning about your mom. When was I supposed to tell you, Mal?” she pleads. “Would it have helped in the middle of all that if I’d told you we were sisters?”
“You’re not,” Paul says in a voice that is kind but firm.
I don’t know when he and Jack approached, but here they are. I’ve been so lost in Chrissie that after years without Jack, I’m actually startled to see him again. In that surprise, he is a momentary distraction. He has taken off his blazer and tie, rolled the sleeves of his shirt to the elbow and pushed a hand through his hair—stunning in all regards.
He has been a rock these last two days.
My rock.
But so has Paul. And since he’s the one who has just spoken, my attention slides there. “You sound sure.”
“I am, Mallory. I told you that Monday.” He eyes Chrissie. I’m not sure if she knows who he is, but between his dark suit, the lines on his face, and his manner, he exudes quiet authority. “The rumors were unfounded. Eleanor Aldiss was never with your father that way.”
Chrissie frowns at Lina, who has come to us right along with the men. “He told me he was,” the older woman says in self-defense. That explains the scrutiny she gave me Saturday morning. She was looking for Roberto in me.
Paul’s voice is gentle, but all the more weighty for its reluctance. “If he said that, then he lied. I know,” he returns to me, just me now, “because your mother denied it. I believe her, because she never lied to me.” Quietly, he adds, “And because I know who is.”
I press a fist to the center of my chest. “Who is?”
Chapter 25
The world recedes. Oh, I’m sure that the ocean continues to roll and its breeze stirs the trees. Birds still call, squirrels still rustle, insects still buzz as they did during the pastor’s words. All I hear now, though, is the pulse of my own blood.
Paul is silent as well. Not so his hazel eyes. This isn
’t the time, they say. We’re burying your father today. If it’s waited this long, will just a little longer hurt?
The words are familiar. Haven’t I just heard them from Chrissie? She has fallen into the periphery, but I answer Paul with the same insistence I did her.
Yes, my eyes shout back. Now.
Releasing a breath, he looks skyward in apology, then at the waves in frustration. But the expression that finally meets mine holds wry amusement. My insistence has surprised him—and not in a bad way, says the small twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Appreciation is not what I need right now.
Sensing that, he sobers and tics his head toward the paved path that skirts the ocean. A low sea wall rises at its edge, two feet of artfully-placed stone packed with mortar to block sea surge. Its flat-brim mosaic of slate and rust is wide enough for mourners to sit. But Paul doesn’t have sitting in mind, not before an audience.
“Walk with me?” he asks, though it isn’t really a question. He is already moving past the bench toward the path.
Suddenly, I do feel a second’s qualm. Do I really want to know? Do I really want to know now? He’s right. This isn’t the best time. But I’ve waited so long, wondered so long—not to mention the tiny part of me that wants it to be now in sheer defiance of Tom Aldiss, who also kept me in the dark.
I am turning to follow him when Jack touches my arm. His eyes are the gray of soft flannel and worry. He wants to know if I’m okay, or want him to come along. The sun glances off his chestnut hair, the tip of his straight nose, his light beard. Knowing he’s here is all I need.
Managing a small smile, I shake my head and set off. I’m safe with Paul. Years of childhood memories tell me that. I catch up with him in an instant, and we walk silently along the path for a bit. Funny, but I feel no rush now. Paul was always measured. He’ll take his time, but I can trust what he says. If there isn’t trust, what is there? And he is, truly, all I have left of my parents’ generation.
We follow the path as it curves along the shoreline. Finally, he stops in the shade of a weeping willow. His hands are in his pockets, drawing back his suit jacket in what should be a relaxed pose. But he is tense. I see it in his face, his ramrod-straight back, even the set of his loafered feet.
He is about to speak. I can still stop him.
No. I cannot.
As he looks toward the waves, the past arrives. “I’ve known Tom for forty years. We met at a law conference in Boston and his mind was the best legal one there. People were always drawn to him for that. I was no exception. I want to say he was drawn to mine the same way,” he slips me a self-deprecating smile, “but he was more interested in the fact that I lived in Westerly. He vacationed here as a child, and it was where he wanted to settle. Our forming a law firm was a natural offshoot of that. We rented space and hired associates and were just getting off the ground when he signed papers to build the house.”
He darts me another glance to check that I’m still with him, willing to let him set the pace. And honestly, I thought he would blurt out a name as soon as we were far enough from the others. Yes, I’m impatient. But I understand his wanting to start the story at the beginning on this day of remembrance. Besides, there is something about his voice—a personal, heart-felt shade—that, while not quite hypnotic, slows me down.
“He was dating your mother then,” he continues. “The house was not yet finished when they got married, so the wedding was in Newport.” He smiles at that. “It was an extravaganza. Tom had lots of friends and even more acquaintances, and he wanted them all there. Ellie didn’t know them. But she did know me. I was her fallback. She kept coming to talk with me when the rush of faces got too much.”
“Was the marriage doomed from way back then?” I ask.
“Oh, no.” His eyes are sincere. “She was good with company after she got to know people. Once the house was done, they entertained often. Bless her, she always included me.”
“You were her rock,” I say, understanding it even more these last two days.
“Your Dad was too, in his way,” Paul insists. “He was solid. Predictable. She knew what she had to do to please him.”
“And when he started having affairs?” I ask. I understand Paul wanting to lead me gently toward my mother’s infidelity. But I also want to think she was provoked.
He raises one foot to the stone wall, leans an elbow on his knee, and circles one set of fingers with the other as he slides me a look of regret. “Not good. She was hurt. Angry.”
“Was he—” shagging is the word I almost say before filtering the thought, “having an affair with Elizabeth then?”
“No. I know there was some history, but Eleanor was okay with Elizabeth. The two of them had an understanding. I’m not entirely sure what it was, but they were comfortable with each other. Living so close may have helped. Each could see what the other was doing, and Elizabeth had her own marriage to protect. Besides, your mother knew that Elizabeth didn’t suffer fools lightly and would have no qualms telling Tom, even during a family event, when he was being a prick.” His eyes widen. “Sorry.”
His gallantry is sweet in an old-school way. “Don’t apologize. He was one sometimes.” Thinking of that, I wonder how far his prick-ness went. “Was he ever physically abusive to Mom?”
“Not to my knowledge. But he was demanding.”
This I knew. I had seen it for myself—demanding husband, demanding father—which brought me back to why we are talking now, Paul and me, about who was unfaithful and with whom.
I refocus. “So my father had affairs.”
“Yes.”
“Mom knew.”
“Yes.”
“Did she have more than one herself?”
Removing his foot from the wall, Paul straightens. “No. There was only ever one. It was meaningful.”
Something about his quiet intensity, the way his eyes hold mine, starts my heart thumping—and not because I’m about to learn what I’ve been waiting for ages to hear. I have a sudden horrendous thought that the answer won’t be at all what I thought.
“How do you know?” I whisper, afraid to breathe.
Willows are notoriously messy. This one has dropped silver-backed leaves along the sea wall. Paul picks one up and rubs its slender length with thumb and forefinger.
“Paul?”
His eyes return to mine. His mouth—that kind mouth—tips into a self-conscious smile. Despite the waves, the cry of a gull, even the distant drone of an airplane at this very minute, the silence is deafening.
I take a step back. But where to go that the truth won’t follow?
“You?” I whisper.
He huffs a laugh, both awkward and apologetic. “Not what you expected?”
“You were my father’s best friend. You were part of the family. It can’t be you.”
His smile is rueful. “Those things made me the perfect candidate. Your mother and I grew closer. And no one suspected.”
“But … behind his back?”
“We didn’t plan it, Mallory. It just happened. Things like that do.”
“It meant nothing?”
In a flash, he is earnest. “It meant everything. I had loved your mother for a very long time.”
“Did she love you?”
He considers his answer, picking his words with obvious care. “She did, though I think in a different way from me. I was a friend, not necessarily the love of her life.”
But she was the love of his life. The implication is there, which raises a raft of questions relating to her life after the divorce.
I can’t go there yet. I’m stuck on the basics, trying to imagine the idea of Paul Schuster and my mother together. On one hand, it’s a no-brainer. Paul was often at our house. He liked being in the kitchen with Mom, while Dad wouldn’t be caught dead there. Paul chipped in with domestic things that Dad considered beneath him. My mother and Paul were easier with each other than either of them was with Tom.
On the other
hand, seeing my mother and Paul working together in the kitchen is very different from picturing them in bed. Naked? Limbs linked? Passionate enough to produce … me?
I cover my face with a hand. There are too many emotions to sort through. For the sake of survival, I distance myself, as if their affair was between people I didn’t know.
My hand slips away. “Was it one night only?”
He seems vulnerable, upset by my reaction. But what had he expected? Unbridled excitement? Oh, biological dad, I love you so much?
As he lowers himself to the sea wall, his eyes are older, begging me to understand. “I loved your mother. That started early on. But she loved your father. I had no idea why, but she did. Then he had one affair too many.”
“So it was revenge?” I don’t want to think this is how I was conceived. Actually, I’m wondering whether Paul is right at all. Oh, I’m sure he and Mom had an affair. He couldn’t imagine that. But the idea that he was around our family all those years harboring this huge, intimate, marriage-blowing secret—me—is beyond the pale. Besides which, he loved my mother. He’s said that twice now. If she didn’t love him the same way, there might well have been other men Paul refuses to acknowledge.
“Not revenge,” he says. “It was more a cry for help. She felt rejected by Tom, and came to me. She knew how I felt and, at that point in her life, she needed to know she was loved.”
It sounds innocent enough. Still, Paul helping Eleanor meant cheating on his best friend, not to mention that he hasn’t answered my question. I repeat it. “Was it just one time?”
He runs a hand down the back of his head and gazes at a far-off barge. “It went on for a bit.”
“What’s a bit?” my out-of-body person asks.
His eyes find mine. “A few months.”
“And before and after? How do you know she didn’t have others?”
“I told you that earlier. She said it, and I believed her.”
“Why did it stop?”
“With us? Guilt.”
Guilt? About cheating on Tom Aldiss? But what about me? If I am Paul’s biological daughter, what about me? It’d be one thing if my biological father was the gardener or the electrician or the goddamned roofer. I’d expect any one of those to cut and run. But Paul? Mr. Kindness? Mr. Caring? Mr. Responsibility? I would have expected more of him. And our talk on the front steps on Monday? I specifically asked him about all this!
A Week at the Shore Page 31