“My lawyer says I’m a cloud on the title.”
“You’re a cloud on my life.”
“God, Ann. Don’t say that.”
She’d hit a nerve, so why did it make her feel guilty instead of victorious?
“Listen to me: you have no right to this house. I don’t care what you and Poppy spoke about, and I don’t care what your fucking lawyer says. Just go away. Please. Just leave me and my family alone.”
“I am your family.”
She hadn’t expected that. “No. We all just felt sorry for you.”
He winced again. She was reminded of how she’d felt all those years ago when her father finally got out his pellet gun and shot the woodpecker that had been tormenting them for months. Relieved, yes, but the woodpecker was just doing what woodpeckers do. The silence that followed the bird’s death was more relentless than the noise it had once made.
Michael said, “You used me.”
“I used you? Pot, meet kettle.”
“Whatever.” Michael threw back his shoulders and took a deep, jagged breath. A hardness passed over his face, a hardness that took Ann by surprise because she’d never seen him look like that. He’d always been open with her; open to her. Now he was cold, firm. “I’ll force the sale. I can do that. And when I do, the house will go to the highest bidder. You can bid on it for what it’s worth to you, which might be more, or less, than you were asking. But I want you to know that the person you’ll bid against is me.” He reached into his pocket and took out his keys. Ann noticed that the key ring was silly—a picture of a cat and the words HAPPY CAT. She knew that wasn’t a key ring he’d picked out for himself. For the first time, she considered that he had other people in his life, people who gave him gifts. People who loved him.
“I’ll never let you buy it.”
“You might not have a choice.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“I’ve already filed a petition to have you removed as the administrator of the estate.” He crunched the keys in his hand so hard they had to have cut into the flesh of his palm. “You’ve acted in bad faith.”
“Just listen to you, talking about acting in bad faith. You would know.”
Ann began to walk toward her car. She couldn’t take it anymore. She had the wet door handle in her hand when Michael said something that stopped her.
“Does your kid know?” Your kid. The idea of Noah seemed so casual, so distant. Just some kid. “Say he needs a kidney or something.”
“He knows. I told him after Anthony died.” She knew she was dropping a bomb. She needed to destabilize Michael.
“I heard about that.” Michael stood with his arms at his sides as if he didn’t know what to do with them.
“Right. You two were thick as thieves.”
“No, I mean my business partner told me. He’d called—” Michael started to say something more, but Ann wouldn’t listen.
“I don’t want to talk about Anthony. Look, Michael. Do whatever you think you need to do. I don’t understand why you’re making this so difficult. You took his money.”
“I did, but can’t we just talk?”
“No!” Ann stomped her foot like she was shooing a raccoon from a garbage can.
“We have nothing to say to each other. I’m getting out of here.”
Ann stepped into her car, slammed the door, and threw it into reverse. It was a two-hour drive back to Boston, and she was still fuming with anger when she returned to her apartment, an anger made worse when she collected her mail and saw a letter from some attorney’s office in Provincetown. “Oh, no,” she muttered when she ripped the envelope open and saw the words “My client, Michael…”
It was such a relief to see Maureen waiting there for her. She was curled up on the couch under a fleece throw with a book in her hands. The women became friends after their shared ordeal, and Mo occasionally took up residence on Ann’s couch when she couldn’t stand to be alone. The three of them, and even Toby and Brooks, had become close, and a new sort of family had emerged from the tragedy of Anthony’s death. Maureen was like a mother, sister, and friend to Ann, and to Noah she was grandmother, stepmother, aunt, and a bridge to his real father. She was honest with Noah about Anthony’s faults, yet she also told stories about him that were funny and sometimes moving. He’d liked to dance. He was terrified of mice. He loved Bruce Springsteen.
“Oh, Mo. I’ve had the worst day.”
Maureen stood up, grabbed a bottle of wine from the refrigerator, and poured two glasses. The women sat down on the couch. Maureen nudged Ann with her foot. “What’s going on?”
Ann relayed the day’s events, from Poppy’s dismissiveness, to Brad, to Michael’s reappearance and their argument.
“Michael?” Maureen gasped. “In the flesh? He was on the Cape this whole time? That must have really been something.”
Ann nodded. She couldn’t talk about Michael without fighting tears, without seeing this new, sturdier, quieter, handsomer version of him standing on the stoop in the rain, with the slightest crow’s-feet etched into the skin next to his almond-shaped eyes.
“What can I do?” Ann asked. “At first, I didn’t think I even wanted the house. Even before the Realtor canceled the contract I’d thought of holding off, renting it to Poppy, turning it into an Airbnb or something. Noah was beating me down. And now I want it more than anything. It’s our house, it belongs to us. But now the one person in the universe I can’t stand to see it go to—the one person who really let me down—well, Michael’s got a lawyer and a claim, and he says he has money to buy me out. It looks like he’ll have his way, because I’ve been dishonest. I don’t want him to end up with the house. I really don’t.”
“Well,” Maureen said. She took a sip of her wine. “I think I might have a plan.”
There was nothing Maureen could do, Ann knew this. Yet the little glimmer of hope made Ann feel better. “Let’s hear it,” Ann said. She’d indulge her, even though Anthony’s debts had cleaned her out. Now Ann had more money than Maureen did.
Maureen tapped her glass against Ann’s. “You won’t believe it, my dear. The most wonderful thing happened recently. Terrible and wonderful, which is how wonderful comes to me these days, but this is such terribly wonderful good news. I think I can help you, Ann. Help both of us. If you’ll let me.”
THIRTY-FOUR
Poppy
Poppy walked along the shore of Duck Harbor Beach. It was nice to be there so early in the day. She was reminded of the morning she’d gone surfing with Dirk, when she was in her wet suit before the sun had come out. That’s when she first learned how special it was to commune with the ocean in the dark, the water black, endless, lumbering, and mysterious, shimmering in the moonlight.
She’d walked for half an hour or so, and already the sun had begun to rise from under last night’s heavy cloud cover. The beach and sky were bathed in a dusty, rose-colored light. Seeking calm and a clearer head, she’d chosen to walk the bay instead of the back shore. The water here was less aggressive; the waves were gentler. Her mother had always preferred the less dramatic bay side for picnics and beachcombing, and even though Poppy surfed, she suspected she preferred the bay side, too.
When she looked up the long beach, she could see Pilgrim Monument in P-town way off in the distance. She noticed the ribbons of seaweed marking the highest crest of the last very high tide. Terns picked at the sand, while gulls swooped overhead. She took a deep breath of the salty air and tried to relax. It helped to think of Brad. That morning he got out of bed to make coffee for her. She explained that she needed to spend some time alone, and he handed her an old Campbell-plaid thermos, the one her father used to take with him when he’d gone fishing, and kissed her on the forehead. “I understand,” he said. “I’ll hang here with Noah. He promised to show me some of the tools in the barn. Good thing your dad told him what they were used for back in the day. They look like they belong in a surgical museum.”
Poppy thought of t
he last thing she’d seen before she left that morning: Brad standing in the kitchen in his sweatshirt and flannel pajama bottoms, his hair messy, cleaning the dishes from the dinner he’d made the night before—he even cooked and cleaned! He seemed so right for the house in Milwaukee, and right for the Cape house, too. Jesus, was that love she felt when he’d looked up at her and smiled? The pang of tenderness, coupled with desire, was so powerful that she had to look away, almost shy.
Not love. She couldn’t.
She reminded herself of aparigraha, the virtue of nonattachment. She liked to think she was capable of practicing this in all aspects of her life; she ate moderately, and when she thought of buying something, she’d think: Will this bring me peace? Longtime happiness? The answer was usually no, which was how she could travel alone and lightly, just her and her pack. But Brad—even his toes were perfect. She smiled.
No! Do not attach! Do not become bound to a person or a thing. Do not get caught up in outcomes. Do not get weighed down with energetic baggage. Do not, do not, do not. Aparigraha.
She wished she could suggest this fifth yama to Ann and Michael, whose angry voices were still rattling her head from the night before. But then she thought that maybe, just as Brad brought her peace and happiness, so did the house—after all, she’d been coveting it herself. But there was something different about her siblings’ greed; it had more to do with each other. Their desire wasn’t rooted in possession but in jealousy or betrayal, implying the other couldn’t have it. What went on between those two? Poppy suspected that even they didn’t really know.
She needed to meditate.
She lowered herself to sit cross-legged on the beach, detaching first from comfort, trying to ignore the cold dampness beneath her. She straightened her back, set her hands palm-up on her knees, and concentrated on her third eye. It had been a while since she’d done this, but her mantras were still accessible. She invoked an old meditation to clear energy and began to hum in kirtan, touching her index finger to her thumb: sa-ta-na-ma-da-sa sa-say-so-hung. She inhaled and waited for the ancient sounds to work their magic. Again, on an exhale, she touched her thumb and hummed: sa-ta-na-ma-da-sa sa-say-so-hung.
She heard Michael’s and Ann’s voices. She replayed the events of the night before in her mind, her complicated feelings for her sister. Admiration. Guilt. Love. Tension.
The idea of Ann making another appearance the next day, when she would return to pick up Noah, made Poppy’s gut clench. She thought of how they’d all probably lose the house in the end. It could really happen; they’d all have to let go of their grip on the place. She tried to convince herself that was fine.
Don’t attach!
She sang out loud: Sa-ta-na-ma-da-sa sa-say-so-hung. And again, louder, her voice skipping out over the water, rising in the breeze. Brad, the house, Brad, Michael, Ann, Brad.
Sa-ta-na-ma-da-sa sa-say-so-hung!
She was screaming now, and it felt great. Tears ran down her cheeks. She felt something cold against her neck and startled. When she turned, she saw the yellow Lab that had pressed its nose against her. The owner, an older woman in a knit cap and big sweater, wasn’t far back. “Are you OK?” she asked.
“I’m meditating!”
* * *
ON HER WAY HOME, POPPY stopped at Carol’s house near Indian Neck. Like her own house, Carol’s had been in her family forever, and, because she shared it with several siblings, nobody had the money or the will to make any major changes to it. Their home, like her own, made Poppy feel like she was stepping back in time.
Carol rented the other bedrooms out to seasonal workers and divided up the proceeds with her siblings. It was a good arrangement, from what Poppy could tell, although now she worried how long it would last. On that morning, she saw it as a delicate balance, just one family rupture away from disaster.
The home was at the end of a sandy stretch of road, a true beach house with a more spectacular view of the water than the Gordons’ home. Cape Cod Bay stretched out on almost all sides. The house was painted white with green trim, and featured a Victorian-style wraparound porch wide enough to accommodate several dilapidated couches. Whenever Poppy came to visit, someone or other always seemed to be on the couch taking in the view, reading a book, checking their phone. On that morning, it was Carol.
“Hey,” Poppy said, making the shaka “hang loose” sign with her hand.
Carol returned the gesture and smiled weakly. “I was going to call you.”
“Ann and Michael got into it last night.”
“I know.” Carol gestured at the cushion next to her. “Have a seat. I need to tell you something.”
Poppy could tell from Carol’s voice that whatever she had to say would be hard to hear. She was grateful she could at least look out at the water. The tide was high now, almost up to the stack of kayaks at the edge of the beach. A red rowboat bobbed up and down in the choppy water. Carol sucked on her vape. As she exhaled, she said, “Michael called me last night.”
“And?”
“And Pops, he’s forcing the sale. He’s really going to go through with it. My friend in the clerk’s office said he’s already begun filing the paperwork to have Ann removed as executor. That’s the first step.”
“He can’t. I mean, we talked, and I didn’t think—but then again, what do I ever know? I mean, why would he do that without telling me?”
“I guess he’s really got his sights set on that house.” Carol passed the vape to Poppy, who grabbed it with greedy hands.
“Fuck.” Poppy let the news sink in along with the THC, hoping it might loosen up the knot in her gut. Part of her wished she’d stayed in Panama. What would have happened if she’d never returned, not ever?
“He wants the house, and he’s legally entitled to do this,” Carol said. “But here’s the thing. Before I pulled the listing, I was working with a developer. He wants to buy the property so he can create a service road. He’s been circling your house like a vulture.”
“A what? A service road?”
“Right through the property. Where the barn is. See, if he can put a road there, he can develop condos along the water because the lot is large and pie-shaped—”
“No!”
“He’s got investors and deep pockets. Guys like him don’t care about places like yours. I haven’t even told him I gave up the listing to keep him at bay. If Michael forces the sale, he’ll be outbid. Poppy, the house will be destroyed.”
Poppy leaned back against the couch, the weight of the world on her chest. Aparigraha did nothing for her. “Did you tell Michael?”
“I’m telling you.” A seagull alighted on the armrest of a plastic armchair in the sand. For some reason, when Poppy looked at the bird, she thought of her mother. A message? “You know, you always complain about not ever being told anything, of being left out. But don’t you see? As far as I can tell, you’re the only person in your family who can fix this. You’re the glue.”
* * *
WHEN POPPY RETURNED TO THE HOUSE, her face was red and puffy from crying. The sight of the home at the end of the driveway, still intact, still theirs, brought on another jag of tears. She imagined the violence and noise of bulldozers tearing it down, the chimney tumbling one brick at a time. She saw a pile of shingles, shattered beams, broken glass, downed trees, the barn reduced to the slab of pavement it sat on. This would be no place for her parents’ ghosts to return.
She ran into the house. “Brad!”
The kitchen was spotless and smelled of bacon and pancakes. The beds were made. Nobody was home. How could Brad and Noah go away at a time like this? She checked the birthing room, the sunporch, the attic. The house was empty. Vulnerable. She closed the blinds, threw herself in the bed she shared with Brad, and curled up into a fetal position. She remained like that for the rest of the day. When Brad and Noah returned from wherever they’d been and checked in on her, she told them she had a migraine. She could barely even talk. “Please,” she said, “just leave m
e alone.”
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING, STILL WORRIED and heartsick, she took a long shower and prepared for Ann’s return to pick up Noah, trying to think of the best way to approach her. If only Ann had listed Michael as an heir, if only she’d been honest.
Poppy could tell by the curt texts Ann had sent that she was still smarting: tell him to be ready by three and no surprises this time. Poppy dressed, careful to choose an actual outfit with zippers and seams instead of her usual sweats. Once she was dressed, she realized the house was empty again. Hadn’t Brad come to the Cape to see her? He and Noah were two peas in a pod. She couldn’t stand it. She didn’t want to be alone anymore.
She had slipped on her sandals and walked outside, calling Brad’s name again and again, when Noah peeked out of the garage and darted across the lawn to meet her. “Aunt Poppy!” He was breathless. “You have to come!”
Noah’s smile was such a wonderful, refreshing surprise; it almost cut through her feelings of dread and concern. Then her heart broke for him: he didn’t want to lose the house any more than she did. He’d die when he heard about this developer, and about the mysterious “brother” who’d seemed so sweet. She still didn’t know why Michael had lied about being Noah’s father, and now he was forcing the sale without even telling her? She thought of how good it had felt to see him again, and now, just a few days later, she was upset that he was strong-arming the sale. She had to stop Michael. She had to!
“What’s going on?”
“Seriously, you just have to see what Brad found.”
“Tell me it’s not a dead animal.”
“It’s the greatest thing ever. Come! Just come see!”
After a lifetime of summers on the Cape, Poppy wondered what new discovery could make Noah so ecstatic. He grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the barn. He was practically skipping. “Hurry!”
She walked through the sliding door into the musty dimness of her father’s workroom. Noah was hunched over, his hands together in a perma-clap, a broad smile on his face. Brad was smiling, too. How could they smile? Didn’t they know the barn would soon become a road?
The Second Home Page 29