“But I repeat,” Paul says, “Tom was my friend, and now he’s gone. I can argue that he’s been gone for months, even years, but death gives ‘gone’ a new meaning. You know?”
I nod, although I’m nowhere near as philosophical about death as he is.
He lifts an arm toward my shoulder but it falls before making contact. Touching is something he isn’t sure he’s earned, and he’s probably right about that. Like death, perhaps, our connection gives touching a new meaning.
A quiet urgency remains on his face. “I turned seventy last summer. Now a good friend has died, and I think of my own mortality. I think about years I missed and ones I may still have.”
I think of those as well. And it isn’t that I’m brooding about mortality. I’m too young, too healthy, too optimistic. Call me in denial, but no one my age plans to die, least of all someone with a thirteen-year-old daughter. Margo and I joke about this, joke about her taking Joy, joke about a drama-queen daughter being the antithesis of her sons. The joking has a point, though. If anything happens to me, she will be a wonderful mother to Joy, and that is the sum total of my last will and testament.
No. For me, it isn’t about death. It’s about things that I’ve missed and now want.
Paul’s urgency settles into a plea. “Like I say, we have an opportunity. Do we use it or just let it go?”
Chapter 28
Just let it go, begs the part of me that clings to resentment. Granted, that part is shrinking fast, but it isn’t entirely gone. With its dying breath, it wants to stoke the hurt of being ignored by Paul all those years—to shut him out of my life as he did me and deny him the pleasure he might have had if he’d acknowledged our relationship before this.
But that, I realize, would be shooting myself in the foot. Joy has always craved family. I can see how happy she is in Bay Bluff. Even with Dad’s burial so fresh, there she is now, down on the beach holding court with her cousins and Guy. I would never spring Paul’s identity on her so soon. We need to mourn Tom first. Then, when the time is right, we’ll talk.
She’ll like having a still-living biological grandfather on the only side of her lineage that she knows. And she does like Paul. Hell, aside from this one massive sin of omission, what’s not to like?
But there’s something else. If I’m being honest, Joy isn’t the only one missing family. Jack’s phone call may have been the catalyst for my return home, but the trip has had its high points. The me who lives in the moment has enjoyed breakfasts at Sunny Side Up, snippets of warm talk with Anne, even Truth or Dare with my sisters and daughter before it went downhill. All I have to do is look at the photographs in the attic to remember what being with family was like. Or look into Jack’s eyes to remember what we had. The memories aren’t all bad.
I may not be philosophical about death, but I am, suddenly, about this. When we don’t have something in our lives, we tell ourselves that we don’t need it, that we don’t want it—because the alternative is aching for it, which breeds a sense of loss. So, we remove it from the picture we make of our lives. What we don’t see, we don’t miss.
Then, as Paul said, something happens, and the view changes. In the process of refocusing, we see pieces that we do, in fact, miss and want restored.
That’s where I am right now. I need to repair things with Anne. And with Chrissie. Jack is a whole other story. I’m not sure where to go with that.
Paul is the easy one. He is patient and sincere, and he isn’t going anywhere. I’m not ready to throw myself into his arms. I need time to absorb everything he’s said. For now, though, I want him to know there’s hope.
Sliding a little closer on the bench, I slip an arm through his and, feeling shy but certain, let it stay.
* * *
The rest of the world gradually reappears. The circular drive is rimmed with cars, but they are all ours—two rentals plus Anne’s, Bill’s, Paul’s, and mine—meaning that mourners have taken pity on us and gone home. The sea breeze rustles in the shrubs, the surf gathers and rolls, threads of teenage laughter rise from the beach. Margo emerges from the house and stands for a minute at the edge of the porch to listen for the kids before going back inside. She hasn’t seen us. Our funeral garb fades us into the bench.
The crunch of loafers on gravel grows closer, until Jack rounds the bench and drops into the space I’ve just left. Subtly, I slip my arm from Paul’s and, once Jack is settled, ask a quiet, “What did she want?”
He lounges defiantly—legs fully extended, ankles crossed, arms folded—and stares straight ahead. “She offered to leave town.”
“Offered?” That’s a surprise.
“With Tom dead, she has no one to haunt.”
“Did she say that?”
“No,” he concedes without meeting my eyes.
He saw my arm in Paul’s, I realize, and, sensing a meeting of minds of some sort, doesn’t know where he stands in the mix. Does he think it’s two against one now? Like it’s a competition?
“She didn’t say she was haunting him,” he grudgingly admits. “But she did say she’d been hoping for answers. I told her I wanted them, too, but that it doesn’t look like we’ll get them.”
“What about the book or whatever she was hoping to write?” Paul asks.
“She claims she isn’t. Claims there isn’t enough to say, so there’s no point. Claims she’s lousy at investigative journalism anyway, since she doesn’t have the guts to prod.”
“And you believe her,” Paul says mildly enough, not even a question, still Jack turns to glare.
“Yeah, I do. She didn’t call you, did she? She didn’t call the cops. She knows everyone in town from working at Anne’s, but she hasn’t called anyone.”
“How do you know?” Paul asks, still mildly but asking for trouble. I want to tell him to just shut up. But the damage is done.
“Because,” Jack barks, “I’m not a rookie. I’ve been asking people questions for twenty years, so I know how to ask them about her without tipping my hand. She hasn’t approached them. And she hasn’t approached you. She knew you were Mom’s lawyer but couldn’t get herself to call.”
“Did you tell her what Paul just told us?” I ask.
“Hell, no,” he replies, only marginally softer. “It’s not her business. The money’s gone, my mother’s dead, we’ll never know for sure what happened on that boat. End of story. So why not let her stay in town? She needs the money. And she likes it here.”
“She said that?” I ask.
“Yeah, and I believe that one, too. I’ve seen her on the beach. And working at Anne’s. She’s having fun. She isn’t a bad kid.”
“What about the PI?”
“They broke up.”
“That didn’t last long.”
“No, but I don’t know if that’s good or bad. I feel sorry for her. She seems lost. She could be a server anywhere, but she has a connection to this place. And then there’s Anne, who doesn’t need the complication of finding a replacement. So, anyway, I told her not to leave. I said it’d be a helluva lot easier keeping tabs on her if she’s here in town.”
“You didn’t say that,” I chide.
“Sure did,” he says with a snide grin. “Naturally, she took it totally the wrong way, like I’m a relative looking out for her welfare. But I’m just being realistic. She can go back to Boise and do research if she wants. She can do research from wherever. If she’s here, she’s visible.”
“I buy her interpretation,” I say. “You’re a softie.”
“It was a decent thing to do,” Paul adds
Jack straightens. Unfolding his arms, he extends one behind me so that the side of his hand hits my shoulder. He doesn’t hold me exactly. But it’s a statement. “Some of us do know what decency is.”
“Jack,” I warn, knowing where he’s heading.
But Paul is up for the challenge. “Okay. Spit it out.”
“She grew up being hurt.” No doubt who the she is. “With Tom dead, that’s over
. I don’t want it starting up again from you.”
“And how might I do that?” Paul asks.
“Paul,” I caution, knowing how tenacious Jack can be.
“No, no,” he reassures me, “this is good. Let’s air it.” He sits forward just enough to squarely face Jack. “How might I hurt her?”
“By disappearing again.”
“I never disappeared. I was always here.”
“Skulking in the shadows.”
“I don’t skulk, and if I’ve been in the shadows, it’s out of respect for Eleanor and Tom.”
“And now?”
“Now, what?”
“Are you promising things you can’t deliver?”
“Like what?”
“Affection. Loyalty. Support.”
After following the dialogue, back and forth, side to side, I’m on Jack. “Excuse me, but I don’t need—”
“And you’ve given her those things all these years?” Paul fires back at him. “From what I understand, you’ve been AWOL for twenty.”
“It’s not—” I try but am overridden by Jack.
“We were young and hot-headed.”
“You were hot-headed. I can’t imagine Mallory ever was.”
“Jack and I—” have discussed this, I might have said had I been allowed to finish, but Jack is unstoppable.
“Which shows how little you know her. She’s independent. She does not need anything from you.”
When Paul mutters into my right ear, “What is he to you?” and Jack into my left, “What is he to you?” I’ve had enough. Jumping up from the bench, I raise both hands. My voice is low and fierce. “I don’t like fights. I’ve spent a lifetime avoiding them. If you … boys … need to argue, you can do it without me.”
Whipping around, I head for the house, then whip back. “But I will fight. I have a life and a daughter, and I won’t have either of you interfering with that. Got it?” Before they can speak, I leave.
* * *
I’m still simmering as I enter the house and spot Margo. Legs crossed, she sits on the living room sofa beside Dan, but there is nothing relaxed about her. Deeper in the room, Anne is stern in the wingback chair by the sunroom door, with Bill at a nearby window, looking out. Before I’ve taken two steps, all faces turn to me.
I glance from person to person. The silence here is nearly as forbidding as the first clod of dirt hitting mahogany this morning. Feeling a thread of hysteria, I ask in a high voice, “Have I missed something good?”
For a minute, there’s nothing. Then comes a rush of replies.
“Just sitting.”
“Exhausted.”
“Finally alone.”
I’m not sure who said what, but the occasional crushed cocktail napkin, partially eaten pastry, and used tumbler speak of guests who returned to the house from the cemetery. From the cemetery. Hard to believe the funeral was just today, so much has happened since.
And there is Dad’s chair, still with the markings of his body, waiting for him to return.
Something snaps in me. Are hollowed cushions really a tribute to the man? We need to find a way to move on.
Crossing the room, I reach for the loose cushion resting against the large back one—then abruptly pause. I look back at my sisters. “This needs to be fluffed. Can I?”
“No,” says Anne.
Margo says nothing, clearly wary of ruffling Anne—which makes me the monkey in the middle—which, ironically, I often was when we were kids in the back yard, playing the game. But I’m not about to push the issue. There are other ways to move on.
Unsure what the best one is, I sink into the sofa facing Margo and Dan. All of them do look exhausted, for which I possibly hold a little blame. “I’m sorry for deserting you.”
“It’s not like you were playing golf,” Margo remarks.
Anne is quiet. With the funeral over and the antipathy of Sunday night hovering again in the air, I expect belligerence from her, certainly distance. Looking at her, though, I have no clue what she’s thinking.
I wait for Margo to speak again. She’s our leader, isn’t she?
Or maybe we need silence. Yes, I tell myself. Silence. I sit through a minute or two, trying to think of Dad or Mom, trying to remember. Only the memories aren’t coming to me, not with so much to say in the here and now.
Clearing my throat, I glance at the men. “I’d like to talk with my sisters. Would it be—would you mind?”
They’re moving before I’m done, dying to get out. And why not? The air in here is grim.
Once we’re alone, I approach Anne. Crouching, I grab either side of her chair cushion. “I’m sorry, Annie—sorry for what I said about the gun. We were all upset and said things that were angry and unfair.”
She stares at me. Her hair is loose now, its waves tipped with the frizz we all know, but the burgundy streak that I’ve come to like seems more truculent than fun. I search her face for my little sister, but that little girl is grown.
So I speak to the woman she is now, who may be more sensitive than I give her credit for. “I’m sorry for what I said about you being naïve. Your optimism has always been one of the things I most love about you.”
Her eyes fill. “You think I killed him.”
I recoil. “Why would I think that?”
“Because I didn’t take him to the doctor when I knew how breathless he got. And I did know it. I’m not stupid. I didn’t take him to the doctor about the memory thing either, and if I’d done that, the doctor might have discovered the heart problem, and if he had, Dad might still be alive.”
Shifting my hands to her knees, I give them a little shake. “Would Dad have been happy with that?”
“No! He didn’t want any of it! But that isn’t why I didn’t take him to the doctor. I did it for me. I didn’t want to know he was sick. It was my fault, not his, mine.”
“No,” I insist, but she races on.
“He was my life here. Oh sure, I have the shop and friends, but Dad is this place. He built it, and he ruled it. You both have other homes.” Her gaze widens to include Margo, who has come close. “Not me. I’ve lived in this house my entire life, and I’ve lived with him that whole time.”
“Oh, Annie,” I breathe, seeing her loss in ways I don’t see my own. She’s the one whose daily life will be different. Of course, she would feel Tom’s death more intensely than either of us. “I’m sorry.”
“But I’m not sorry it’s been that way, don’t you see? We’ve been good here together, Dad and me. I understood him. I worked around his moods, and he loved me for that. The house has been filled with people, and now it’s empty. Everything has changed.”
“Not everything,” I say, thinking of all of us here now.
Margo adds, “Not Sunny Side Up. Not Bill—”
“—who wants to marry me,” Anne wails.
She sounds panicked, which I don’t understand. “But that’s great, Annie. You were afraid he wouldn’t.”
“Wouldn’t want to be tied down to a baby, but then when he said the word marriage, I freaked out. Like, marriage is forever—I mean, it wasn’t for Mom and Dad, but you should be thinking forever when you go into it, shouldn’t you? I have no idea what kind of husband he’d be. I have no idea what kind of father he’d be. I mean, he works in a prison.”
“So did Dad—well, almost,” Margo says, stretching it even with the qualification, though I’m not sure the remark registers with Anne, who remains centered on Bill.
“He has a criminal record, meaning he spent time on the inside. And his tattoos, all those tattoos?”
“I thought you liked them,” I say, startled again.
“I do, but tell me the truth, I mean, seriously, is he the kind of man Dad would want me to marry?” When neither of us is quick enough to speak, she says, “See? You agree. Okay, sure, Dad got used to seeing him around, but that’s a whole different thing from my being married to the guy. And having his baby? Dad would die.”
Squeezing her knees, I whisper, “Dad is not here.”
“Besides,” Margo adds in a very Margo, very Tom, very firm tone, “even if he was, it’s not Dad’s decision to make. It’s yours.”
From the look of the tears that have begun to trickle down her pale cheeks, this doesn’t comfort Anne. “That’s fine for you to say—for both of you. You’ve been making decisions for yourself all these years, but I haven’t.”
“You absolutely have,” I inject. “Look at the shop—”
“Dad’s been part of my life. And I wanted it that way. I liked knowing he was here. I liked knowing he depended on me to keep the house running, and when he got forgetful, I liked being able to help. I didn’t rush him to the doctor, because I wanted things to stay the way they were. I’m an enabler—that’s what I am, an enabler—and now he’s dead.”
“Annie.” I grasp her arms to be closer to her heart. “There is no correlation between what you did or didn’t do and his death. He told me that he didn’t want doctors or medication. But you, you made his last years happy. You didn’t cause his memory problems or his heart problems. You made his life better in spite of them. Think of him having breakfast at your shop. Going down there gave him purpose. He loved it.”
She seems hesitant, but the ghost of hope in her eyes says she wants to believe.
Margo joins in. “You blame yourself, but what about us? We weren’t here. You did it all. But what’s the point of our agonizing over it,” she pleads. “It’s done.”
“You mean, he’s dead,” Anne says.
“Which,” I argue gently, “is what he wanted. It is, Anne. Don’t you think so?”
She doesn’t answer.
Softly, Margo says, “He would have shot himself if his heart hadn’t given out first.”
Anne considers that as she looks between us. “You don’t blame me then?”
“Blame you?” I echo. “You were his savior. We are infinitely grateful for that.”
“Infinitely,” Margo stresses.
A Week at the Shore Page 35