“And now?” Anne asks.
I’m not sure what she’s getting at. “Now?”
“What happens?” She makes a triangular gesture.
She’s right in bringing us back to this. It is what we need to discuss.
“We’re sisters,” I say, then, looking awkwardly between them, add, “uh, half-sisters. I do have a different father.”
I’m wondering if the time is right for this, when Anne bursts out, “I shouldn’t have said what I did, Mal. I’m sorry. You’re right; we were upset. It doesn’t matter who your father is. We’re all Mom’s, and we were raised together. I know you felt Dad treated you differently, but he thought of you as his, I’m sure he did.”
Margo is watching me closely. “Do you know for sure?”
“Shy of a DNA test? Pretty much.” Mom’s birthmark notwithstanding, I want to know beyond a doubt. Paul offered. I’ll accept. It may be the only thing I’ll ask of him, other than not to hurt Joy.
“Who?” Margo asks.
But I draw the line there. “It doesn’t relate to who we are.”
She would have prodded—I know Margo, she would have—if my younger sister hadn’t been elsewhere. “Dad left me the house,” Anne blurts out, looking frightened, afraid we’ll be upset.
Letting the other go, Margo says, “As he should.”
“Agreed,” I second.
“But I don’t want to be alone.”
“You won’t be,” Margo assures her. “We’ll be back.”
“You will?”
“Annie,” I smile in disbelief, “of course, we will.”
“Even without Dad here?”
Margo snorts. “Especially without him here.”
I’m more nuanced. “If you’re asking whether you’re enough to bring us back, the answer is yes. Of course, you are, Annie.”
But she is eyeing Margo. “You’d come, too? Even with this place being more Dad than Mom? It always will be,” she warns and tears up again. “I used to think of the potting shed as being her. I’d go in there a lot. I’m not sure I ever will again.”
Anne kept the door oiled, then. Not Tom. It’s a nice turn.
But she isn’t done with Margo. “So you won’t have the potting shed either. Mom isn’t here anymore. What’s to bring you back?”
“You,” Margo says.
“How? Why? After all these years?” Anne asks skeptically. “The only times you’ve seen me have been on neutral ground and, then, only because the family diplomat,” she flicks her chin at me, “arranged it. You didn’t go on those trips for me, and if I’m all there is for you in Bay Bluff, you won’t come here either.”
Margo is suddenly pissed. “Where have you been, Anne? Have you never read any of my blogs? Half of them are about you!”
She draws back. “Me?”
“Yes, you. I write about siblings. How we’re permanently connected. What being sisters means. When it works and when it doesn’t. Why being sisters is more than being friends and how we suffer when a sister is lost. Loads of women I know are estranged from a sibling, but I write those blogs because of us. I don’t mention your name—trust me, I wouldn’t do that—but you’re right there.”
She has no reply. Nor do I, actually. But one of us has to speak, so I say, “I didn’t realize.”
“That I was talking about us?” Margo asks in surprise. “Then either I went overboard being obtuse—or you didn’t want to see it. I wrote those blogs to say how much I missed my sister.” She looks at Anne. “You.”
Anne is teary again. “Seriously?”
Margo rolls her eyes. “Must I grovel?” She catches up Anne’s hand. “We will be here. Unless you don’t want us.”
“I do,” Anne cries, looking like she might burst into full-on sobbing. I’m thinking I might, too, my own throat is that tight. But she is suddenly scowling. “As long as you know, I’m not marrying Bill. He can be involved with the baby, he can even live here with us at the house, I have no problem with that, but I am not rushing to lock myself to him just because of a baby. If you did it without a man, Mal, so can I.”
“But Bill loves you,” I remind her.
“Then maybe in time, but not right now.”
She looks at me, then at Margo. There is a sense of expectancy in her that has nothing to do with Bill or the baby. We’re back at the what-happens-now question.
But I do have the answer. I won’t tell them that the words come from Paul, because he doesn’t—shouldn’t—have a place in this circle of three. Nor will I force it on either of them. For one thing, with Tom barely in the ground, this is a time to remember him. For another, forcing isn’t my way. But the idea offers definite direction.
“What if we were to start making new memories?”
Chapter 29
I needn’t have worried about infringing on Tom’s memory. His absence, even beyond those hallowed, hollowed cushions of his chair, is a stark presence in the house. If it isn’t his pen on the floor by the chair, it’s his glasses in the key bowl in the hall or his boat shoes parked side-by-side at the back door.
That said, even if these things hadn’t kept us subdued, caution would have. The truce between us is fragile. No one wants it broken.
That goes for Jack as well. I’m not sure how he ended it with Paul outside, but he is suddenly, solicitously, with us in the house. He runs to the market for cookout makings, then keeps the kids busy readying the firepit while my sisters and I prepare salads, chips and salsa, and trays of garlic bread, condiments, and s’mores makings.
Another time, Margo or I might have noted the stereotype of women in the kitchen, but given Anne’s career, we don’t dare. Besides, there is something soothing in filling a traditional role here together. There’s a sense of the torch being passed now that the last of a generation is gone.
More than once, I think of Paul, who was with us over the years for so many family gatherings. He is grieving for his friend. That should be reason enough to invite him to join us. But I’m not ready to reveal the other, and whether I can have him here without giving it away with a careless word or look is up for grabs. The last thing I want is to muddy the waters of this intra-family truce.
That said, I am sorry he’s alone. Finding a free minute, I slip off to a private part of the porch to phone him, then change my mind and text. It’s the coward’s way, I know. But I’m giving myself permission to be that for once.
Was he very difficult? I type. After sending it off, I return the phone to my pocket and am heading inside, when he texts back.
He says he loves you. Mutual?
As I study the words, I think about the irony of sudden honesty. But how to answer?
It is a minute before I reply. I always did.
Past tense?
Maybe present too. We’re different now. Figuring out what to do with these new renditions of us, homes and careers and all, isn’t easy.
Don’t overthink it, Mallory.
Fine for him to say. But how can I not? What happens between Jack and me impacts my daughter’s life.
Or maybe Paul is right.
Can we talk tomorrow? I ask.
Of course. I’m around.
I’m about to return the phone to my pocket when I think of Chrissie. I could text her, too. Or call. But I’m not ready for either. As hopeful as I’m feeling about other players in this drama, I’m still in the dark about her. Though family ties may fray, they never completely break, but friendship is different. We pick our friends. We can unpick them. Her lack of forthrightness gnaws at me. Granted, I’m super sensitive right now. It’s possible she’s a scapegoat for my upset.
But overthinking won’t help that, either. I need time.
* * *
If the goal is creating new memories, a cookout on the beach works. Everyone chips in carrying things down from the house, cooking at the firepit, spreading blankets, and passing food around, but the real fun begins when the burgers and dogs are gone, the live dog is banished to Jack’
s, and Margo’s boys take up with a soccer ball. Joy, who is no athlete, insists on joining in, and, taking pity on her, I do as well. Before long, we’re all playing. We tell ourselves that it’s a tribute to Dad, but it’s a way of letting off steam for sure.
Naturally, we end up in the water. It was often that way, this progression from sand and sweat to relief. Also, as it often was, by the time we’re toweled off back on the beach, the sun is nearly gone. The sky is orange-pink on the bluff behind and purplish on the horizon ahead, with finger-clouds of every shade in between. We sit comfortably around the fire, which has died to embers that are perfect for toasting marshmallows. When we were kids, this was one of our favorite things to do.
It’s different with Tom no longer the director. The fact of his fresh burial is just beneath the surface of our smiles, but the kids are faster to rebound. Given the eagerness with which Joy makes s’mores for every adult who wants one, I know she won’t forget this night.
Nor will I. It’s a moment out of time, one for updating the past in favor of the future. It’ll stand us in good stead once we’ve gone our separate ways again.
* * *
Once we’ve gone our separate ways again. Funny, how the subconscious can repress a single thought and then, when it pops up for half a second, not be able to push it back down. I have to be on the road back to New York by Friday evening if I hope to work on Saturday morning. That leaves only two more days here.
“Can’t we stay longer?” Joy asks that night. She has taken over Jack’s guestroom, which would have looked as sterile as so much of the rest of the house, if, within minutes of her retreat there, she hadn’t scattered her belongings around. It’s deliberate. She’s already told me that she hates Jack’s ex-wife’s taste.
“I have to work,” I say, clearing the bed enough so that I can pull back the duvet. “This job has been on the books since before we left.”
“But I like it here, and Teddy and Jeff aren’t leaving ’til Sunday. Can’t you put the job off until Monday?”
“Nope.” Propping up the pillows, I wave her in. “The client runs a business out of her townhouse, so a weekday won’t work.” I rummage around for the Lois Lowry.
“Then leave me here for the weekend and come back Monday.” When I dart her a doubtful look, she says, “Or Margo can drive me back?” As I snag the book from the easy chair, she suggests other options. “Or she can put me on the train in Providence and you can meet me at Penn Station, or I can take—”
“You are not taking an Uber or anything else.” Sidestepping Guy, who looks to be asleep on the bath towel Joy dropped on the hardwood floor, I climb onto the bed.
“Well, then,” she tries sweetly, green eyes wide with possibility, “I can stay here until you do come back. Wouldn’t that work? I mean, we discussed the possibility when we first decided to come—”
“You discussed it,” I remind her, but gently. Despite the dread I felt before we came and the angst we’ve experienced here, a tiny part of me doesn’t want to leave. Sensing that a stiff upper lip is needed for both of our sakes, I say, “I gave you the week, which was more than I wanted.” Had we left last Sunday as I initially planned, I wouldn’t have had a chance to reconnect with Jack. Life would have been simpler then.
Joy sits cross-legged with her hair in a mess around her face and, taking my hands, positively beams. “But aren’t you glad you stayed? Think about it, Mom. If we’d left last Sunday, we’d only have had to come back for the funeral, and then you’d have missed those last days with Papa.” Her smile fades. “And with everyone else.” She grows worried. “What happened with Chrissie?”
“We, uh, had a misunderstanding. We’ll work it out.”
“It has to do with Paul, doesn’t it.” She isn’t asking, isn’t even letting her voice rise at the end.
“Indirectly,” I say but leave it at that.
When my silence drags on, her expression darkens. “Are you ever going to tell me?”
Suddenly, it seems silly not to. She isn’t a baby. She heard what Anne said Sunday night on the dock. The fact that she’s waited this long to ask speaks of a respect for my needs that is actually quite mature. How can I make her wait longer?
Without elaborating on what was wrong with my parents’ marriage, I give her a short, cleaned up version of the story of my conception and Chrissie’s misconception of it. Joy is far less interested in the Chrissie part than the other.
“Paul?” she asks with a curious smile. “That’s so nice.”
Her calmness startles me. I might question her loyalty to the man she so recently called Papa. But I know my daughter. Her way of dealing with loss is to fill the hole. Besides, parentage has always been a vague concept to her, given that she knows nothing of her own biological dad.
But I don’t have time to dwell on that, with her bolting onward. “And there’s another reason for my staying here. If he is my grandfather, shouldn’t I spend time with him?”
“Joy—”
“He can drive me home.” She pauses, eyes suddenly keen. “Or Jack, what about Jack?”
“What about him?” I ask, though my heart knocks. I know where she’s headed with this one.
“I mean, here we are in his house, and in an hour, there you’ll be in his room. Are you seriously going to pack up and leave in two days?”
* * *
“Are you seriously going to pack up and leave in two days?” Jack asks so identically that I wonder if he and Joy discussed it earlier.
Granted, several hours have passed since such a discussion would have taken place, and last I checked, she is asleep down the hall. Prior to that, though, we lie in her bed and talk. There’s no reading here. I’m not sure if she fears Jack will think she needs a goodnight story. But how can I argue with talking? Guy seems to agree, since soon after we settle into it, he rouses enough to jump up onto the foot of the bed, stretch out on Joy’s lime tank top, and go back to sleep.
The thought that he might wake in the night and lunge at her throat has crossed my mind. But Jack is right. The vicious pit bull is a stereotype that does not seem to apply to this dog.
And the stereotype of a headstrong Jack? Headstrong can be good or bad.
I do have to give him credit. He doesn’t mention my New York plans when, after I leave Joy to her book, we settle on the back porch with glasses of wine. Out there, we talk about everyone else or nothing at all. The silence of the latter, accompanied by the night sea, is pleasantly arousing. It isn’t until we are upstairs in a state of post-coital half-sleep that he pops the immediate question.
Drowsy and warm, I press my fingers to his mouth and whisper, “Don’t ask that.” The moment is too sweet for reality to intrude.
Headstrong Jack whispers back, “Fine. No asking. Begging. Stay.”
We are lying face-to-face in a mess of white sheets. His long legs tangle with mine, an arm at my waist holds me close. I want to think he’s too tired to be fully aware of what he is saying, but no. Not Jack. His eyes are wide open, reflecting the night.
I slide my fingers along his stubbly jaw, pleading for time with a look.
And he sees it, oh, he does, but he isn’t dropping the bone. “I can’t let you go.”
“I have another life.”
“Another man?”
“No, but a home, a job, commitments.”
“Change them. Move here.”
I exhale into a dismayed laugh. “How noble.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. You want me to drop everything I’ve spent twenty years building? To trust that what happened between us then won’t happen again?” I keep my voice to a whisper, but my vehemence is clear. “It isn’t just me. Joy has a life, too.”
“She hates her school.”
“Did she say that?”
“Yeah, she did. She says people here are more friendly.”
“She hasn’t met any kids here yet, and if she were to, it could happen here, too. She goes against the g
rain. She says what she thinks. Kids her age don’t necessarily like that.”
He arches a brow. Oh, he knows. He lived this himself.
“Jack,” I complain softly, but his large hand climbs higher on my bare back, not letting go at all.
“If she’s unhappy there, can’t she be unhappy here?”
“Jack.”
“Seriously.”
“And what about me? My work?”
“Okay. What if you kept your place there and went back and forth?”
“With Joy where.” It isn’t a question. It’s a problem.
Jack is unfazed. “Here. Anne wants her here. I want her here. Paul wants her here.”
Dropping my forehead to his chin, I close my eyes. “You’re not making this easy.”
“I won’t let you walk away from me again.”
“Who walked away from who?”
“Whom. But I’m not letting either happen again.”
I open my eyes. I want to make him happy, really I do. He has been a godsend to me since I’ve been back, and I do love him. But I loved him before, and it wasn’t enough. “Your way or the highway?”
“Not this time. If you can’t live here, I’ll move to New York.”
For a minute, I don’t know what to say. Then, just shy of stammering, I protest, “You can’t do that. You have a business.”
“It’s called a practice,” he says with a trace of humor, “and don’t tell me New Yorkers don’t have pets.”
Of course, they do, and of course, he could find work there. But I can’t even begin to imagine what a Jack-in-the-city life would be like. Maybe he was right when he said my life in New York was about control. The unknown terrifies me.
“Jack,” I sigh.
“Mal,” he sighs back.
Don’t overthink it, Paul advised, ten times easier said than done with so much at stake.
“Slow,” I suggest.
His frown lines deepened. “What does that mean?”
“It means this is happening too fast. I’ve been here five days. That’s not enough.” Five days is too short a time to make a major life decision.
A Week at the Shore Page 36