by Nancy Geary
What would happen to Bain? He seemed strong, much less dependent upon her than she on him, but maybe that was nothing more than the roles they’d established, the rhythm they’d fallen into since the day they’d met. And maybe she was underestimating herself. She took care of him; she’d raised their children; she’d run the household. Replicating her efforts would be a challenge for him.
She didn’t want him to be scared. She couldn’t bear for him to be lost. Her mind raced with all the information she needed to impart to him: that colored and white clothing needed to be washed separately; that whole coffee beans should be stored in an airtight container or kept in the freezer; that adding a touch of olive oil to the boiling water prevented spaghetti from sticking together; that he needed to buy all-new boxer shorts and undershirts every six months.
She rolled toward him and kissed his ear. Then she reached between his legs and felt the warm softness of his flaccid penis. She held him in her palm and gently caressed him. He stirred. After a moment, he adjusted the covers, slipped his arm under her torso, and pulled her toward him. He rubbed her hair, her shoulders, and her back. Without opening his eyes, his mouth found her lips.
It was then that she made what might be her final decision. She would take whatever remaining weeks or months she had to teach him to be self-sufficient. But the less Bain knew about her condition, the less time he had to worry, the happier their remaining days together would be. By keeping her own secret, by sparing him the pain, she could show him how much she truly loved him.
Chapter Seventeen
Hurry, Grace, we’ve got to leave,” Bain called upstairs as he stood by the front door. It was five after nine and the broker would be arriving any moment with the well-qualified, very interested buyers.
Grace looked at her reflection. Her skin had a yellow tinge, but the dimming bulb in her wall sconce did, too. She leaned toward the mirror. When had those lines appeared, the crow’s-feet at her eyes and the deep grooves around her mouth? What was age, what was disease, and what was perception? Lost in the warmth of Bain’s arms the night before, and consumed by the passion they’d shared again this morning, she’d felt no older than she had on her honeymoon. Now she wanted to bottle the feeling.
“Grace!” she heard him call again. “They’re driving in now!”
She grabbed the bottle of parfum d’ambiance and spritzed the air several times. The sweet odor filled the bathroom—not what she would call the smell of summer, but at least it masked the mildew. They’d forgotten to turn on the heat as Kay had instructed.
Still pulling on her barn jacket, she descended the steps just as the front door opened. Bain seemed to have frozen on the threshold.
“Oh, my, this is a surprise,” Kay said, obviously displeased. “We did say nine.”
Behind her stood a young couple. The man was tall with broad shoulders, dark hair, and generically handsome features. He wore what Grace assumed was his version of country attire—twill pants, an oilskin jacket with a corduroy collar, and short leather boots. But for the two cell phones and beeper prominently attached to the front of his belt, he could have been on his way to either a pheasant shoot in the Czech Republic or a photo shoot for Barbour outerwear. His wife had strawberry-blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, a long thin face, and lips outlined in a plum-colored liner. Even in her stiletto-heeled boots, she was short.
Ignoring Kay and Bain, the woman reached into her lizard purse and produced a Palm Pilot. Fascinated, Grace watched as she held the pointer in her French-manicured fingertips and began entering information of some sort.
“Yes, yes, we’re sorry. The morning got away from us,” Bain apologized.
Grace blushed. She looked down at the floor, hoping the source of their delay was not made too obvious by her rose-colored cheeks. What would this young couple think of two people who could have been their parents making love before breakfast? What would her own children think? She almost laughed.
Bain extended his hand. “I’m Bainbridge Alcott. This is my wife, Grace.”
“May I introduce Jay and Robin Marx,” Kay cooed.
Robin paused in her data entry to smile and nod.
“How long’s it been? You two living here,” Jay asked with more than a hint of a Long Island accent.
“More than thirty years,” Grace said. “We bought our home in 1972. We’ve raised our family here.”
Bain looked at her with a perplexed expression.
Robin seemed to find that information worth noting and plucked quickly at several keys with the wand.
“And would you say the place is well maintained?”
“That’s an assessment you’ll have to make for yourself,” Bain replied, coolly.
“Looks to me like that roof needs some work.”
“Why don’t we let the Alcotts go about their business and we can take a look around?” Kay suggested. She gestured with one arm, seeming to want to swoop the Marxes inside. “The grounds are fabulous. There isn’t a property with this waterfront anywhere.” As she stepped past Bain and Grace, she gave them a stern glare. “It’s a gracious family home for a remarkable value.”
As Kay spoke, Grace watched a paper airplane fly out through the partially opened window of a navy-blue Range Rover parked in the driveway. Moments later, the side door opened and out stumbled a small child, wearing a Burberry-plaid driving coat. A Hispanic woman quickly climbed down, grabbed her arm, and pulled her up from the gravel.
“Mommy!” the child screamed, flopping down again.
Robin seemed to spin on her stiletto heels. “Juanita, I told you to keep her in the car.”
“I’m sorry, Missus Robin, but she no want.”
“You have to make her stay. Mr. Marx and I are busy. That’s why you’re here.”
The little girl continued to cry. Juanita squatted next to her, whispering words of comfort. “No cry, Isabelle, come, come.”
“Might I suggest,” Grace began, stepping toward the nanny, “that you take her down to the beach.” She kneeled beside them both and addressed the child. She was a beautiful girl, perhaps five but maybe a year or two older, with large blue eyes, fair skin, and brown curls. Although her cheeks were streaked with tears and her hands were dirty from the driveway gravel, she had an angelic quality. Her crying stopped.
As she looked back at the child, an image of Sarah flashed before her eyes. This little girl might be raised in her home, in her bedroom overlooking the Oyster River. She might grow up riding her bicycle to the Stage Harbor Yacht Club and listening to Friday-night band concerts on the village green. Then she’d have the wedding Grace dreamed of for Sarah under a huge tent spread across this very lawn. And if somewhere down the road Robin Marx got sick, her daughter would be there to take care of her. It wasn’t fair.
“There is lots to look at and possibly some shells to collect. Do you like seals? If you look very carefully, you can sometimes see their heads in the water. Or what about seagulls? They’re a lot easier to spot.”
Isabelle stared at her, silent. Her lip quivered.
“My children liked to look for sea glass. They imagined it was special treasure. Would you like to do that?”
She nodded.
“The easiest way to get there is just down those stairs.” Grace gestured to Juanita.
The nanny looked nervously at her employer. Grace followed her gaze and saw Jay and Robin Marx, Kay, and Bain all staring at the three of them standing in the driveway.
“Fine, take her,” Robin directed. “But don’t let her get dirty or wet.”
Jay and Robin disappeared inside, and Kay shut the front door.
“Thank you, senora,” Juanita said to Grace as she took Isabelle’s hand and led her in the direction of the steps.
Behind her, Grace heard Bain start his car. The engine rattled for a moment before turning over. He let it idle to warm up, even though the day was mild. Although the plan was to drive out to Exit 11 and retrieve her car, pick up a few things at the Stop
& Shop on Route 137, and then have a bite of breakfast before returning home, she didn’t want to leave. She felt as though Kay were the National Guard forcing her to evacuate, and she refused. She’d be like those few brave men and women she saw on television whenever there was a serious hurricane or tornado, the ones who decided to sit in their homes and ride out the storm, the ones who preferred to risk death in familiar surroundings, in the places they loved, rather than flee to some overcrowded, converted school gymnasium.
Grace walked down the drive and picked up Isabelle’s paper airplane. Its flight had been short; it had crashed into the lawn just a few yards from the Range Rover. The airplane was colorful. Unfolding it, she realized it was the listing brochure for her home. She stared at the pictures of her dining, living, and bedrooms, the pool, and the water view. “Recent price reduction on this gracious waterfront home ready for your personal touch. Eager sellers, this one-of-a-kind property won’t last,” the brochure read.
Horizons. This home had a personal touch. Hers. And the brochure was wrong again. The property would last. It would outlast her.
“Come on, Grace.” From the driver’s seat, Bain had leaned across and opened the passenger’s-side door. She balled the brochure and climbed in beside him.
Bain didn’t look at her. Instead he drove, staring straight ahead at the road. She could see he had tears in his eyes. “I’m not moving off the asking price,” he said as they took a left onto Battlefield Road. “Not one dollar. Not one penny. Not for those kind of people.”
The house felt different to Grace when she returned, as if she’d been vandalized. There had been other showings but she hadn’t met the potential buyers, hadn’t had to interact, hadn’t engaged with whatever children they might have had. They’d stayed anonymous, which was better for her. Now she could envision the interlopers.
She walked into the library and stared at the spines of dozens of books facing out from the shelves, the photographs of her, of Bain, of the children in tortoiseshell frames, and the knickknacks she’d acquired over thirty years. What had the Marxes noticed? Had Robin and Jay been to the same piazza in Venice where she’d taken a picture of Bain surrounded by pigeons? Had they paused at the pastel portrait of Sarah hanging over the mantel and wondered where that charming girl was now?
Looking around, she realized how many of her secrets this room held, how much evidence of the life she’d led was on display. That the Marxes were privy to this was a violation.
The house echoed with the sound of her hard soles on the pine floors as Grace ran to the kitchen. She pulled out more than a dozen plastic bags that she stored under the sink, then rushed back to the library and began pulling items off the shelves. She grabbed photos, the Limoges box of a birthday cake that Bain had given her when she turned thirty, the collection of arrowheads that Erin had found in the backyard, the first edition of Edith Wharton’s A Backward Glance that she’d found in a rare-book shop in the West Village, everything personal, everything other than the coffee table picture books of Cape homes and gardens that almost everyone had. All this she stuffed into the bags. She worked quickly and carelessly, shoving things in haphazardly. If her home was now public, she wanted them out of public view. Never again would the Marxes or anyone else get to come in and learn about her life.
She paused in her efforts only when Bain entered the room.
“What are you doing?” he asked, although the answer was obvious. He fingered one of the full plastic bags that sat on the sofa and checked its contents. “You should wrap the frames in tissue or newspaper or something. They could break,” he said matter-of-factly.
“I just wanted to get them off the shelves,” she replied. “I can’t bear to feel so exposed.” She squatted and hugged her knees to her chest.
“I know, I know,” Bain said, his voice soothing. She felt his hand on her back. “I was right behind you.” With that, he sat on the floor next to her.
“This is awful,” she said, sighing. “Those people were awful. I don’t want them in our house.” She knew that her words only made it worse for him, more shameful and humiliating, but she couldn’t help herself. This house wasn’t a Palm Pilot project. It was a labor of love. She’d rather have the walls collapse around her than turn it over to someone else.
“If there were some way I could avoid this—avoid this for you—you know I would. But . . . but this house doesn’t make sense. We both know that. Not now and no time soon, or at least no time that I can see. It doesn’t mean you won’t have a nice home, and you’ll always have me. We have each other.”
She couldn’t bear to reply. She couldn’t bear to point out to him how wrong he was.
“There’s a message for you from Dr. Preston,” Bain said later that evening as they sat down at the dining room table. They’d spent the remainder of the afternoon working to sanitize the library, the living room, and their bedroom. In a matter of hours, they’d eliminated almost every display of who and what they were. Bain brought boxes from the porch, and together they’d carefully wrapped everything that mattered. But the fact remained that the house still felt like them—the faint smell of Grace’s perfume and Bain’s cigar smoke lingered in the walls, and no parfum d’ambiance could displace it. Even the sofa cushions seemed to sag with the weight of their frames.
They’d lived there for so long that they couldn’t get rid of themselves even though they tried.
Grace had prepared supper, or rather she’d taken the pasta-and-lentil salad that they’d bought ready-made and put it in a serving bowl. She’d been so distracted that morning at the Stop & Shop that she hadn’t noticed what a strange combination of foods it was as she’d spooned it from the salad bar into a plastic container. But the $6.49 dinner would have to suffice.
“Didn’t you see him yesterday?”
“Him? Who?”
“Dr. Preston. I thought that was why you went to Boston. Didn’t you have an appointment with him yesterday?”
The day before, Friday, already seemed light-years away. With her anger and sorrow over the Marxes, she’d almost allowed herself to forget. Dr. Preston was no doubt calling on a Saturday to check on her progress with Bain, progress she hadn’t and wouldn’t be making. For once she wished her doctor could be less attentive.
“Did anyone else call?” she asked, ignoring his question. Neither of them had bothered to check the answering machine when they’d returned after the showing. And the phone hadn’t rung since they’d been home.
“Hank. He said he’s coming for lunch next week. He wants to discuss the house.” Bain put his napkin in his lap and stared twice at the farfalle dotted with brown spots of beans before digging into the mound with a serving spoon. Then he took a bite. “What is this?” he asked as he chewed longer than a usual mouthful required.
“I’m not really sure,” Grace replied.
He furrowed his brow as if debating whether a second bite was worth the effort. “Why did you tell Hank it was for sale?” Bain said after a moment, the tone of his voice more serious.
“He already knew. He called me yesterday because he’d seen the listing on his computer.”
“Well, just for the record, it’s none of his business. This house isn’t his.” Bain stabbed unsuccessfully at the pasta with his fork, but the gummy bow-tie shapes slathered in oil and beans escaped him.
“He and Susan were planning to come for August. If the house is sold, he needs to change his plans.” She remembered her conversation, the irritation she’d felt as she’d spoken to him.
Was it possible that he’d been more reasonable than she’d allowed? He’d relied on them being there. She might feel as though she was being taken for granted, but wasn’t that a fair premise, one that her son should assume to be true? Did a child ever attain an age where parents didn’t have to be there for him?
“Maybe the Marxes need an adopted son and would welcome his company. Henry could play with that sweet girl, Isabelle.” Grace forced a smile. She felt her stomach tur
n at the thought and pushed her plate away.
“Unlikely,” Bain muttered. He put his fork down and took a sip of the Merlot she’d opened for them. “Not bad. What is this?”
“A bin special of some sort. I’m not sure.” It was a cheap Merlot, but it didn’t taste as bad as she’d expected.
“Look, I don’t want to have lunch with Hank,” Bain said. “I don’t want to get into reasons with him. And the last thing I want is a discussion of our finances.”
“Do you think we should get it over with? Tell Erin and Hank what’s going on and why? We’re going to have to do it eventually.” She couldn’t exactly imagine the conversation; it was not the type of dialogue with which she was familiar. But she thought it might alleviate some of the pressure, especially the pressure on Bain. “What’s the point in carrying on a charade?”
“A charade? Is that what you think this is?”
“I made a poor choice of words.”
But there did seem to be an implicit agreement with both boys that nobody spoke of anything that mattered. She thought of the last conversation she’d had with her brother. Maybe they all wanted to be numb; silence facilitated that. Feelings couldn’t be experienced without some degree of candor.
“I don’t want to talk to them now. It’s about privacy and respect. If we open up discussion on why we’re moving, the next thing you know he’ll ask to see my will. He’ll want to know what he’s getting.”
A Last Will and Testament. Grace shuddered. She hadn’t thought of that, of the necessity of having one. Then again, what was really hers to give away? Everything she had, everything she owned, was hers because of Bain. How he disposed of his dwindling wealth after his death was his business.
“Maybe I need to explain to Hank that it’s time he looked out for himself and took responsibility for his family. I made that decision long ago. Remember when I took the job at Bank of Boston?”
She nodded. How could she forget?
“He shouldn’t be waiting around for you and me to die. He shouldn’t be planning to bankroll his life with an inheritance. And we may outlast him,” Bain said, smiling.