The Second Home

by Christina Clancy

  Poppy tried to recall their phone conversations, but her dad always said her mom was out on a walk or at book club or working in the garden. She thought of all her dad’s excuses for why they couldn’t come visit, tried hard to remember how long it had been since she’d spoken with her mom. She didn’t know, couldn’t remember.

  “Hey, I know this is hard. My grandfather, he—”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t … I can’t…”

  Brad was quiet, waiting for what he’d said to sink in.

  “Why wouldn’t my dad say something?”

  “What good would it do? What would it change?”

  “Oh God. He’d asked me to come home last summer but I was in the middle of moving to Panama. Maybe he meant to tell me.” She rose onto her knees and sank back down into child’s pose as though she’d been dealt a body blow. Brad folded himself over her, and rocked with her as she cried. “Didn’t he know I would have come back to help if I’d known?”

  “Maybe that was the problem. Maybe he was worried you’d feel obligated.”

  “They were my parents!”

  “What could you do?”

  “Do you think Ann knew?”

  Brad didn’t say anything. Ann did know, she could tell from Brad’s expression. How could she not have told her?

  What else didn’t Poppy know?

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Michael

  Michael could see that the listing agent, Carol, was one of those Cape Codders who seemed out of place in an office, but he understood why she was there: you have to pay the bills somehow. She’d been completely unruffled when he stormed into her office. He guessed she bartended on the side. She had a bartender’s confidence, like she could deal with anyone’s bullshit. He could tell from her Dennis bracelet and the WFLT tattoo on her wrist that she probably went three, four, five generations back—one of those locals who don’t even think of the Cape as part of America.

  This time of year, the windows of the tiny real estate office were covered with tattered and yellowed printouts of last summer’s listings that still hadn’t sold. Some of his friends were Realtors, but it wasn’t as profitable now that people used sites like Airbnb and HomeAway to rent their houses, instead of relying on agents to manage their rental listings.

  “I was told the title was clear,” Carol said.

  “Clear as mud. I’m an heir.” The word “heir” seemed too fancy for a guy like him, but he said it with confidence, even though it had been over a decade since he’d publicly identified himself as a member of the Gordon family or had any reason to say their name out loud.

  “Mr. Gordon, if you are—”

  “Davis. I’m Mr. Davis.” The title “Mr.” sounded foreign to his ears, as if he were saying his father’s name. Hardly anyone out here went by their titles, like teachers. “Michael,” he said.

  “I’ve seen you at the Pig. Trivia nights. You’re friends with Deedee?”

  “You could say that,” Michael said. The Outer Cape in the winter was a small place. “How do you know her?”

  “Kayaking.”

  It was no surprise that they knew each other through kayaking. What did anyone do out here before kayaks were invented?

  “Still,” Carol said, “if you aren’t in the immediate family, you don’t have a claim at this point.”

  “I am a member of the immediate family. I was adopted. It’s a long story.”

  “I’ll bet it is.” She opened a drawer and pulled out a file marked GORDON. “I was very careful to ask about other interested parties. I’m surprised, frankly. I didn’t see this coming. Do you have proof?”

  “That I’m adopted? Yeah, I can show you proof.” He kept his adoption paperwork in a safe-deposit box in the Cape Cod Five Cents Savings Bank.

  “If you can demonstrate you’re entitled, you’ll need to go to the clerk’s office and file a notice of an interested party, unless you just want to approach your sisters yourself?”

  “I might,” he said. “Look, I’ve always loved that house. I don’t want to raise trouble. But if they plan to sell it anyway, I want to buy it. I’m entitled to do that, no matter what Ann says. Or doesn’t.”

  He knew that house. He still knew that the latch to the old cellar often got stuck, and he remembered which steps to the attic creaked, and which floorboards buckled. The girls took the house for granted, letting it sit empty the way they did. Not Michael. He’d buy them out if he had to—it would be a stretch, but he just might be able to afford it. He wanted Avery to grow up there. “What else do I need to do?” Michael asked.

  “I’m not your lawyer. I’m just the Realtor. And I’m apparently getting screwed on this deal.”

  “That’s not my fault,” Michael said. He scooted his chair closer to her desk. “We’re both getting screwed. Please, can’t you just tell me what to do?”

  Carol yanked the ponytail holder out of her hair, shook her hair loose, and gathered it all back up again into a new ponytail. She twisted it around, secured it again, and just like that she had a mound of hair on top of her head that looked exactly like the one she’d had before. “You’ll want to meet with a probate attorney. You’ll need to furnish evidence.”

  “Like I said, that’s not a problem.”

  He was agitated. For years anything that had to do with the Gordon family felt like a secret. Now he was telling her, a complete stranger—well, maybe not a complete stranger, if she knew Deeds—about the house he loved, the family he belonged to. He wiped the sweat off his dirty forehead. He was always sweating dirt.

  “I swear, nobody cares about these old summer houses until it’s time to sell and then suddenly relatives come out of the woodwork like termites.”

  “Termites. Thanks a lot.”

  “You know what I mean. Look, if you’re really an heir, you have two options. You can sign onto the deed on the property or release your claim.”

  “Why would I release my claim? I’ll buy them out.” He could tell Carol thought he didn’t have two nickels to rub together. He wore a ripped-up fleece, a pair of old jeans, big boots. His hands were covered in dirt.

  “Either way,” Carol said, “I’m out of the picture. Nobody wants the property if someone else claims to be on the deed.”

  “I really want that house.”

  “I can see why you would. I had half a mind to buy it myself. It’s a special place.” She flashed him a smile. She seemed harsh, like so many of the year-rounders. But he could tell she was kind.

  “So, it was Ann who told you the title was clear?”

  “I’d really prefer not to get involved. I think you should ask her yourself.”

  “But I’m right here and I’m asking you.”

  “Like I said, I’d really rather not get involved.”

  “You were lied to.”

  Carol paused. She shuffled through some of the paperwork and passed a form across her desk. She pointed at Ann’s signature on the bottom line. “See?”

  “I see.” Michael pushed his chair away from the desk and stood up abruptly. “I’m sorry about your listing.”

  “Maybe it was an honest mistake.”

  “Nah. Ann’s mistakes are never honest.” He walked toward the door to leave but hesitated.

  “You can’t cut a house into three parts,” she said. It was charitable of her to offer advice. “You can buy out the other interests, or come up with a way to share the property. That’s easiest. Actually, it’s easiest when there’s a will, but there’s no sign of that.”

  “I’ll bet Ann’s made sure of that. Ed was the kind of guy who would have left a will. He taught history. He documented stuff.”

  “Ann said she’s looked everywhere.”

  “What does it mean if Ann says something? She might have found it and destroyed it if my name was on it.”

  “Maybe, but I don’t know. Seemed to me she would have preferred a will, like she felt bad about selling in the first place.”

  “Any other options?”

/>   “Worst case, I suppose you can file a petition to partition.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You force the sale. The house usually ends up at auction. It’s not your best option. You might end up bidding against each other. It could end up going for more than you’ll be willing to pay. And you risk it going to some other party.”

  “Nobody is going to get that house but me.”

  “Good luck, Michael.” He thought about asking her out—there weren’t many people to date on the Cape—but he had too much to think about.

  Michael pulled the door open, and a gust of cool air blew into the office.

  “Can you do me a favor and not say anything about seeing me? I need to figure out the best way to work this out.”

  “She needs to know sooner than later. Look, these things can get messy. I see it all the time.”

  Michael appreciated her concern. “Oh, it got messy a long time ago.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Ann

  Ann buried herself in work to avoid her trip to the Cape—or, really, to avoid Poppy. The house. Her grief. Everything.

  But she really was busy, and Ann was terrified by the talk of layoffs. Evaluations were coming up in a week, and her assistant, Mindy, had sent her yet another screwed-up spreadsheet, but the mistake landed on Ann’s shoulders.

  As she tried to make sense of Mindy’s work, her phone buzzed. Poppy again. She let her sister’s call roll into voice mail. She’d check it later. The last time they’d spoken, Poppy told her that Brad was buying the Milwaukee house. Brad—of course! Why hadn’t Ann thought to ask him if he wanted to buy it?

  Now Poppy was headed for the Cape, and Ann had given her a list of to-dos that had to be taken care of before the house could go on the market: leaky gutters; a well test for arsenic, radon, and bacteria; and questions about the plat map that needed to be resolved with the town. Apparently, the shed encroached on the neighbor’s lot and needed an easement. Ann didn’t want to talk to Poppy about the house, didn’t want to think about it. However, she wasn’t sure whether they could act like sisters again.

  Later, she thought. Maybe later. Had her dad ever told Poppy about Anthony and Michael? She doubted it. Ed and Connie had only learned about it themselves shortly before they’d died.

  One night last summer, when Noah was away at camp, Ann decided to drive to Wellfleet to see how her mom was doing, and also to see how her dad was holding up. The constant care she required wore on him. Ann entered the house without so much as a knock, startling her parents. Her dad was laid out on the floor stretching his back, and her mom sat in her usual chair, a book on her lap, her readers balanced so low on her nose they might have slipped off. “Annie?”

  The house smelled reassuringly familiar, like old wood and sea salt, although it seemed so empty with just the two of them in it. They looked old; how did that happen? Her dad stood up and gave her a hug. His hair was fully gray, and so thin that he’d cut it, because it no longer fit in the usual low sprig of a ponytail. Her mom, in her sleeveless nightdress, seemed soft. She’d gained weight. Her biceps showed no sign of muscle or bone. “What brings you out here?” Her voice was sweet and warm as always. “Where’s Michael?”

  That was a question her mother asked with heartbreaking regularity as her dementia grew worse. This time, the question almost broke Ann. She dropped her overnight bag and slumped against her father’s chest. “Oh, Daddy.” She hadn’t called him “Daddy” since she was a little girl. “I wish Mom could come back to us.” She cried softly, allowing herself the rare luxury of weakness, of being parented, of letting go.

  “It’s better now that she’s not as aware of what’s happening to her. It made her so frightened. Now here she is.”

  Her mother’s pale skin was translucent, her blue eyes glassy. Her memory slipped away like a pulled thread from a sweater, unraveling backward, leaving her in the past, when their family was still together. The doctor had described it as a cassette tape being erased from the end to the beginning. As far as she was concerned, Ann, Poppy, and Michael were still young, still at home. She was happy in those memories—why upset her? Ann let her mother fuss over her, making her a bowl of macaroni and cheese (powdery, because she forgot to add milk), freshening the linens on her bed. Her mother went to sleep, and her father checked on her a few times. “You look tired, Dad.”

  “I’m OK,” he said. “But I sleep with one eye open now. She’s taken to wandering, and, well, you know. We’ve got a state highway on one side and a tidal marsh on the other. This would be the last place you’d build an old folks’ home.”

  Ann held his hand and ran her fingertip along the thick network of veins.

  “Want to go for a walk?”

  “What about Mom?”

  “This is the time of night she sleeps best. She’s out, and we won’t go far. Tell you, I sure could use some fresh air.”

  It was a warm night, and the moon was full and bright. The tide was coming in, and the surface of the cove glimmered in the blue-white light.

  “So, what’s on your mind?”

  Ann hesitated. Her father had so much to deal with, did she really want to burden him?

  “Anna Banana, talk to me.”

  Ann smiled. She’d always hated it when he called her that, only now it sounded sweet. She began haltingly, nervous. “It’s about Noah. Dad, there are things I should have told you.”

  “I know,” he said. “I knew you’d tell me in your own time. It’s OK. Speak your truth.”

  “Michael isn’t Noah’s dad,” she said.

  He didn’t say anything, although she could see relief wash over him, the same relief she’d felt saying those words out loud. Soon, the rest of the details of that sordid summer came out like a blast of water from a fire hose: Anthony, the pond. When she finished he didn’t speak for a long time, and she was grateful. The moonlight lit a streak in the cove like a searchlight.

  Finally, he said, “I always knew something was off.” Her father was thoughtful, concerned, sad. He wrapped an arm over her shoulder. “I wish you’d told me. I don’t know why you didn’t.”

  “It was a lot. And I didn’t know what you’d do to Anthony, or what he’d do to you, or what he’d do to me, and you’d taken in Michael because I asked you, and—it’s so stupid. I mean, I tell you all this now and I could have handled it better, but at the time I was doing what I thought I had to do. The story was out. It was easier to just go with it, I guess.”

  Her father looked out at the tufts of beach grass sticking out of the small islands in the water. “I understand, I do.”

  “I felt so … responsible.”

  “No more blaming yourself. I know this isn’t your way, but you need to learn to lean into people.” He wiped a tear from his eye.

  “That’s what I’m doing now. It’s just taken me about sixteen years.” Ann laughed, and so did her father. She loved his gravelly laugh.

  “And now we have Noah.” Her father smiled at the thought of him. “That kid, he’s exactly right.”

  A baby red fox rustled in the bushes along the bluff. The stars twinkled the way they always had. It was so nice here, so peaceful. Why had Ann felt she needed to run from the bad memories when the good ones were here, too? They walked a long time without speaking, their feet crunching along the path. They could have walked all night, walked all the way up to Provincetown. “We need to find Michael,” he said.

  Ann stopped in her tracks. “No!”

  “But he—I just don’t get it. It’s not like him. Any of this.”

  “He took money, Dad. Anthony gave him money to send to me. Michael set up the account. The checks were in his name. When they stopped I couldn’t go after Anthony, because he said he’d sue for custody. And I didn’t know how to reach Michael, and frankly, I couldn’t stand the idea of even talking to him after what he’d done.”

  “He was a son to us, Ann.” Her father’s voice broke. “Losing him was so painful. I felt I’d fa
iled. Your mother and I both did. I feel we ought to at least have a conversation.”

  “No!” Ann wanted to leave Michael behind the locked door of her past. “He exploited my situation. I loved him, I did. He knew it. And he took advantage. Promise me.”

  Her father didn’t promise. He just put his arm around her and nodded.

  She returned to Boston feeling wonderfully unburdened, happier than she’d been in a long time, determined to finally confront Anthony. Little did she know that would be the last time she’d see her parents alive. They’d stopped in Boston just before their fateful trip, but only Noah saw them, because she was at a furniture conference in Chapel Hill. She figured there’d be another time. Christmas, the next summer, whenever.

  Now she was haunted by her father’s silence when she’d asked him to promise not to reach out to Michael. Only once in all these years had she tried to find him herself. Once, during her last job search, she typed his name into LinkedIn on impulse. Who knew there were over two thousand Michael Gordons? She didn’t even allow herself to scroll, and cleared her browser history as if she’d been searching for porn, scolding herself. Now this search gave her comfort. Suppose her father had tried to reach him? Wouldn’t he also have hit the wall of Michael Gordons, and even more Michael Davises?

  Was it possible that Michael knew her parents had died? He’d already profited from her. Surely he wouldn’t try to get a piece of the pie?

  The will, the will! She’d looked everywhere for it, in both Milwaukee and Wellfleet—between her parents’ mattress and box spring, in the secret hiding space next to the fireplace, in every drawer, cupboard, and filing cabinet, even folded between the pages of books. She just needed to sell the houses quickly and get it over with so he couldn’t come out of the woodwork. She had absolutely no intention of sharing the proceeds of the estate with him. When she filled out the forms the lawyer gave her, she didn’t include his name, didn’t signal that anyone else might have a claim.

  Ann looked up at the potted plant on her shelf, and at the padded cubicles in the now-empty office. A cleaning person was emptying the garbage. Just beyond her window she saw the sun setting over the Prudential Tower. Somewhere out there was Cape Cod—and Poppy. All these years of not knowing or even being able to imagine where her sister was, and now she was home. Once the houses were sold, what would happen to her family? Would they become just a memory with no physical ties to place, no history? Is that what houses really were, containers for families? And once the containers were gone, the people inside were just set loose in the world, particles.