by Nancy Geary
“Is that how you justify it?”
“Uh . . . I,” she stammered. His harshness set her off-balance. “I’m not offering a justification.” She spoke slowly, choosing each word deliberately. “I’m simply explaining the difference between your situation and mine. Your father and I made our own family. We didn’t turn to his parents or mine for handouts.”
“So what are you saying? I should have taken the corporate route like Dad, and sought out a woman who wanted nothing more than to be my wife? I like that Marley’s got ambition and opinions and determination. I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
“Your wife is your choice. And the division of labor in your household is also your own business. But Erin, you need to take care of your family. Part of the responsibility of having children is providing for them. You’re a grown man.”
“And once you have children, you’re always a parent. Has anyone reminded you of that? Parenting doesn’t come with an expiration date.”
She felt her eyes burn. She wanted a sip of water, something to clear her throat and prevent her voice from cracking. Her son’s animus was shocking. And yet his perspective made her sad. She couldn’t bear the thought that her son felt his parents had prematurely bailed out of their obligations.
Hearing Marley’s voice in the background distracted her. She was talking to Erin, but he had covered the receiver and her words were muffled. Whatever instructions she issued, Grace couldn’t hear.
When Erin spoke again, his voice was calmer. “Look, if you want to view this as a loan, that’s fine with me. Take it out of my inheritance.”
Grace felt the tears roll down her cheeks. Her lips quivered. Rise above it, her mother used to say to her whenever she was upset. Take the high road. Disengage. But this time she couldn’t. She felt angry and hurt and dismayed and betrayed.
Finally she spoke. “We’re not that old. And both your father and I—thank God—are in perfect health.”
“That’s not—”
“If I were you,” she interrupted, “I would not be spending an inheritance in advance. Your father explained to me many years ago that relying on money after someone’s death is a very bad way to live. Besides, in your case, your suggestion assumes you’ll be getting one. That assumption may be incorrect.”
Her ambiguity was deliberate. He was selfish and inconsiderate. She wanted him to think that he might be cut out. But she also knew there might well be nothing left.
There was a click on the other end. Her son was gone. The line was dead.
2004
Chapter Fourteen
We’ll take a reduced five percent commission given the listing price and the one-year exclusivity clause,” Kay Webster said as she passed the document across the butler’s table. The legal-size page was covered in print so small that even Grace, whose vision had yet to fade, needed a magnifying glass.
Five percent of two million was still a hundred thousand dollars. That seemed a high price to pay for taking people on a tour of her home, Grace thought. She’d wanted to sell it themselves, but Bain insisted. Realtors commanded better prices, knew the market, and knew how to contact potential buyers. Besides, he wanted to keep the sale quiet, and there was no way to privately sell a house at this price in a primarily second-home market without substantial advertising. It was a leap of faith already to trust the discretion of a broker. And judging from the number of brokers who had glad-handed them over the past months, news of the pending listing had already gotten around.
Now Bain produced a pen from the inside pocket of his blazer and signed where Kay indicated. Although Grace had expected to do the same, no one asked for her signature.
It was March, and outside the sky was gray. The three of them sat in the library. Bain had poured them all a sherry, but Grace hadn’t touched hers.
“Now then,” Kay said, leaning toward them and resting her elbows on her knees in a decidedly unladylike pose. “Let’s talk repairs.”
Grace cringed. Ever since they’d first discussed listing the house on Sears Point, the broker had hinted that certain improvements needed to be made: exterior painting, a partial reroofing, replacement of nearly a dozen broken mullions, possibly even a new linoleum floor in the kitchen. Those were considered cosmetic. What Kay didn’t know was that one of the bathtubs leaked so badly that the Alcotts had stopped using it six months before, that the powder room remained out of order, and that the hot-water heater was on its last legs—they couldn’t both shower within a four-hour time period.
But Bain resisted. Each of these investments cost money, money they didn’t have. It was enough to keep up with mowing. There wasn’t anything left over for non-operational expenses.
How exactly had they gotten to this place? Grace wasn’t sure. But she didn’t need a degree in finance to know that the market was down, the economy was in a recession, and what little they’d invested had lost at least some of its value. Bain had mentioned that companies were delaying issuing dividends, that their annual return was off by almost 30 percent, and that he was exploring other investment options. His Social Security was still several years away—and that would hardly cover the heating bill. So until something profitable materialized, they had no choice but to sell the house.
Calling it more than what they needed was his way of making clear that it was simply too expensive, too big, and financially unsustainable. But he had yet to mention the word downsize.
“You’re going to get a great return on any of these investments,” Kay continued. “People will pay for bathrooms and kitchens, not to mention curb appeal. The house will show much better with an exterior paint job.” She took a sip of sherry. “And, Grace, you really should get those planters at the end of the walkway filled.”
“This is hardly the time for flowers. I don’t know what I could put in that would last.”
“We’re not concerned about longevity, just sprucing up the entrance. Stick in something artificial if you have to. I saw some half-decent silk roses at the Christmas Tree Shop the other day. From a distance, no one will be able to tell the difference.”
Except that anyone who knows anything about plants will know that roses don’t bloom on the Cape in March, Grace thought to herself. She glanced over at Bain, who seemed fixated on the pen he still held in his hand.
“Just sell it as is,” Bain said without looking up. “This house is for sale in the condition that it’s in. Period. And I don’t want someone nickel-and-diming me after they’ve completed the home inspection. Make sure to tell people it needs work and that’s why the selling price is two million instead of four.”
“I really think—” Kay began.
“You heard me. You and I both know there’s nothing on the waterfront anywhere near this price. We’re practically giving it away because Grace and I don’t want the headache of dealing with contractors. That’s my position. Do you want the listing or not?”
Kay didn’t move. Grace watched Bain with his jaw set. He would never admit to anyone that there wasn’t any money for repairs. He would take the details of their precarious financial situation with him to the grave. Given the recession and rising property taxes, there were lots of homes on the market, but Grace knew that didn’t take his shame away. Even now, he’d tried to keep the listing as quiet as possible. There would be nothing in the Multiple Listing Service, no brokers’ open house, and absolutely no advertising.
“Okay. I think you’re making a mistake. A couple of calls and a bit of work and we could be looking at a much quicker sale, but I’ll follow your lead. Remember, I’m on your side.”
She gathered the papers up and replaced them in her black leather briefcase. Then she stood, removed her coat from the back of the chair, and swung it over her shoulders. “I’ll call as soon as I can line up some showings.”
Neither of them saw Kay out. She knew her way around and would be in and out with potential buyers on her own. She could find the door.
Bain sat in his chair, holding his fa
ce in his hands. Grace stood in front of the fireplace. She felt numb. Their family home was for sale. But the silence between them was worse.
“Life certainly will be simpler with a home that’s more manageable,” she said, trying to sound optimistic even as the teacup in her hand shook. “Think how many hours you spend worrying about the lawn and the pool, the mice in the attic, and the shingles falling from the roof. All those worries will be gone, leaving much more time for—for—” She wondered how to finish her own sentence. What exactly would Bain do? As far as she knew, he hadn’t written a word of his novel. Ever since his retirement, complaining about various problems with the house seemed to be his primary occupation.
“More time for us?” he said, looking up. His eyes were ringed in red.
“If that’s what you want.” She smiled.
“I didn’t mean to impose a burden.”
His words made her flinch. They hadn’t grown apart, had they? She tried to remember the last time they had made love and whether or not it had been in this calendar year.
“Why don’t you go upstairs and lie down?” she suggested. “I’ll bring you a sherry.” She sounded as though she were a nurse soothing the anxious patient with medication.
He glanced at his watch, no doubt relieved to see it was after five. “How about making that a vodka straight up?”
“All right then.” She extended a hand and helped him to rise to his feet, then kissed him gently. His skin felt clammy beneath her lips. He shuffled toward the stairs, moving slowly, and for the first time that she could remember, she was conscious of his age.
Moments later, she carried a small square tray with his drink and a plate of sliced Havarti and crackers up to their bedroom. They’d both missed lunch and, given their current emotional state, would probably forgo a proper supper, too.
Bain stood by the window with his back to the room. The afternoon light cast a shadow, and his form with its beleaguered posture appeared in silhouette. He stared out to sea.
Grace put the tray down on the bedside table.
“I know how much you love this place,” he said softly without turning around. “I never wanted to have to disappoint you. And look what I’ve done.”
She wanted to say something palliative but resisted. He’d see through her feeble attempt to mask the truth. Selling her home left her sad and disappointed. She couldn’t pretend otherwise.
But it was worse for him. He’d done everything in his power to avoid this moment. Judging from his haggard expression and the lack of sleep he’d experienced over the last weeks, just listing the house had taken a tremendous toll. And they were still possibly months away from an actual sale. How would they ever manage to get through that?
“We’ll make a new home,” she replied. “Moving off the water will make upkeep of any place easier.”
Suddenly she envisioned a ranch-style home on a fifth-of-an-acre lot in River Bay with three bedrooms and a pressure-treated deck overlooking someone else’s laundry line. Even that might be a stretch given the skyrocketing costs of Chatham real estate. The thought made her stomach turn. Storing their belongings and spending the rest of their days traveling in an Airstream held more appeal. At least there would be a sense of adventure.
“I worry for the boys, too. They see this as home base, as a place to bring their kids. It’s nice for all of us.”
That Bain chose this moment to be nostalgic seemed ironic. She wanted to remind him of how dreadful the family visits had been. Maybe they could laugh at those memories. What about the time Marley commented to him in front of their dinner guests that he had body odor? What about when India had spilled grape juice all over the antique settee and barged in on Bain in the bathtub to inform him of what she’d done? And then there was the last visit, when Hank brought some ungracious couple from Natick and they’d opened—and finished—Bain’s bottle of Lagavulin? Bain, even more than she, had felt exhilarated when everyone had left.
Given this vantage point and the pending finality, he romanticized the experiences. He was the grandfather, the great provider and protector. Just as she had, he’d seen it as his role, and one that he never would have questioned. But the work, the worry, the strain had been the price.
“Please Bain, come lie down. It’s been a long day. It’ll be just our luck that after all this, nobody will buy it.” She forced a laugh as she reached for his hand and pulled him over to the bed. He sat down, and she took off his shoes and loosened his belt. Then she fluffed the pillows behind him. He lay back, took a sip of his drink, and closed his eyes.
A cashmere throw that they’d bought in Italy on their honeymoon was draped over the end of the bed. She still remembered how she’d seen it in a shopwindow and exclaimed at the beauty of the blue-gray color. Bain had marched in and bought it for thousands of lire without a moment’s hesitation. After they’d made love in the hotel room that evening, he’d wrapped her in it and held her tight to his chest.
Now Grace opened it and spread it over his body. Through the several moth holes, she could see the fabric of his shirt and pants. It was worn, and probably no longer enough to keep out the draft of early spring. She went to the closet, pulled out a synthetic comforter, and folded it at the foot of the bed.
Moments later, he still hadn’t moved. She knew from his breathing that he wasn’t asleep, but apparently he needed to pretend. Perhaps he’d drift off after she left.
She rubbed his back once more, kissed his forehead, and headed downstairs.
Prissy’s mesh basket was overturned and her rake thrown on the sand. As Grace descended the steps to the beach, she could see where the ocean floor had been turned and dug, but there was no sign of the clammer. The wind blew hard, and the salty air bit against her cheeks. She quickened her step, feeling panic creep into her neck.
“Prissy!” she called, scanning the dark water. She’d often wondered what might happen if a wave came up unexpectedly. If Prissy’s waders filled, would she be pinned down? But even though the wind had whipped up a few whitecaps, there was no sign of any real surf and even less evidence of an undertow. Other than where it had been dug, the sand where the water lapped to shore was smooth and flat.
“I’m up here.”
Grace turned toward the dune. Shielding her eyes with her hand to block the odd glare of light that came over the top of the high grasses, she spotted Prissy sitting cross-legged in the sand beneath a Rosa rugosa.
“Is everything all right?” she asked when she’d come close enough to speak without shouting.
Prissy laughed. “You mean because I’m not working? Yeah. It’s fine. I was admiring the view.”
Grace lowered herself down next to her friend. The sand was cool and still damp from the rain that morning.
“It doesn’t get more beautiful than this,” Prissy said, keeping her eyes fixed on the ocean that spread out before them both. The moorings were empty of boats, but a seagull perched on one. Together they floated up and down with the waves.
“If I could have a single image imprinted on my brain for all time it would be this: the Oyster River with Stage Harbor beyond, the water, the sea grass, the bird life. I saw a blue egret the other day and its wingspan had to be thirty inches. The puffins that come in the winter, the piping plovers that this town seems to have single-handedly saved from extinction . . . it’s all magic.”
“And each season is equally beautiful,” Grace murmured, closing her eyes and imagining all that Prissy had described.
“I remember when Kody and I first moved here. I walked this little strip of beach and felt my senses had come alive. I’ve often wondered if I weren’t here, if I had to leave, how life would be. How I’d manage once I crossed the Sagamore Bridge. This place has given me a sense of connection, belonging.”
Grace glanced over at Prissy. Her eyes were filled with tears. What had prompted this introspection? Was it the thought that the Alcotts might leave? When Grace told her they planned to sell the house, she’d never sugges
ted they might abandon Chatham; she didn’t want to leave the area. They were simply downsizing, or half-sizing, whether Bain admitted it or not.
The best part of Chatham—the natural beauty of the landscape as the elbow of land bent out into the ocean—was free of charge. A grand house on the water was not required to admire it.
“You don’t need to imprint it on your brain,” Grace said loud enough for Prissy to hear over the wind. “It’ll always be here. That’s the true beauty. And so will we. With any luck, someone will bury us in these dunes.”
Prissy slowly turned to face Grace. Her eyes looked possessed, her expression a mixture of bewilderment and pain.
It was an expression she’d never seen before. Grace knew instantly that she was hiding something. Prissy’s secret eluded her, but something was definitely off, not right.
For now, though, with the wind in her face and the wetness from the sand seeping into her pants, she was too tired to explore whatever it was that was bothering Prissy or to force a confession. Like many of the changes she knew were coming in her life, she would face that, too, another day.
Chapter Fifteen
Grace drove through the gates and up the long, winding driveway. An array of redbrick buildings and a few white clapboard houses covered the manicured lawns. If it weren’t for the signs clearly marked ADMITTING, EMERGENCY, and OUTPATIENT, the sprawling facility that comprised McLean Hospital could have passed for a New England college campus instead of a treatment facility for some of the most seriously ill psychiatric patients in the area.
She parked in the lot, followed the arrow marked ADATC, and entered the Alcohol and Drug Abuse Treatment Center. After she signed in with the attendant at the front door, a buzzer let her pass inside. As directed, she sat in a faux-leather chair with wooden arms that was one of a dozen lined up along the walls of the alcove that constituted a waiting area. It was family visiting hour, the first time she’d been allowed to see Ferris since his admission the week before.