by Sarah Healy
“Oh, I don’t want to trouble you,” protested Mary, glancing briefly at Stefan. “If we could just use your phone.”
Martina made a sound. Tsk-tsk. “Oh, no, no,” she said, then she looked at Hannah and gave her a warm smile. “This little one looks cold.”
Hannah, who resembled a Victorian street urchin with her tattered stockings, ill-fitting coat, and stolen earmuffs, turned to Mary for corroboration or direction.
Mary tilted her head, suggesting reluctant accord. “I think she is a bit chilly.”
“Well,” said Martina. “Let’s get you something warm to drink while Stefan sees to your tire.” She waved for the girls to join her, leading them past the expansive French doors, beyond which several of the other women sat craning their necks and offering their vanilla smiles.
Mary and Hannah followed Martina into the kitchen, with its hunter green walls and glimmering copper pots. “Let’s see,” she said, opening and closing cabinets, looking for something. When she found it, she emitted a pleased cluck. “Do you girls like hot chocolate?”
“Oh, I’m fine, thank you,” assured Mary.
“What about your sister?” asked Martina.
Hannah looked from Mary to her hostess. “Yes, please,” she said, her voice not more than a thimbleful.
“Good girl,” said Martina, as she pulled a white packet from a box and marched over to the sink. She pulled a mug from a shelf and set it on the counter, then, giving the packet a brisk tear, dumped its contents inside. Positioning the mug under a small faucet, she pulled a lever, sending in a steaming rush of water. “Alright,” she said, as the cup filled. “One hot chocolate coming right up.” Pulling a spoon from the drawer, she stirred as she walked back over to Mary and Hannah.
“Careful, sweetie,” said Martina, as she set the mug on the counter. “The water from there is very hot.”
Mary gave Hannah a sidelong glance and an instructive nod.
“Thank you,” said Hannah immediately, as she took her seat at the counter.
Martina turned to Mary, giving her a warm smile. “Now you, big sister,” she said. “Would you like something else? A glass of wine?”
Mary’s hand halted the offer with a polite wave. “Oh, no, thank you.”
“No?” said Martina, the bottle already in her hand, gauging Mary’s interest. Martina’s words carried the easy warmth of drink. “Oh, well,” she said, setting it back down. “I’m from Germany. We don’t let anyone come to our house during the holidays without offering them wine.”
Mary emitted a polite chuckle.
“Alright, well, why don’t you girls stay here,” she said, turning to leave the room. “We’ll see what Stefan has to say about your car.”
Mary watched her go, then took the seat next to Hannah. “Don’t worry, Bunny,” Mary whispered, seeing Hannah’s nervous eyes. “Everything’s okay.” With her hand on Hannah’s knee, she glanced around the room. Framed family photos were positioned on the walls and shelves—elegant professional shots of two handsome boys, of a beautiful mother and a dignified father.
“Stefan!” Mary heard Martina call from the front door. “Was denken Sie?”
After a few moments, the front door clicked shut and Stefan’s voice echoed through the foyer, with its high ceilings and hard floor. “Die Mädchen waren richtig. Es ist eine Reifenpanne,” he said. “Wir sollten den Abschleppdienst rufen.”
“Can’t you change it for them?” asked Martina, switching to English.
“They don’t have a spare.”
“You were right, girls,” said Martina, reentering the room with her handsome son trailing behind her. He found Mary immediately. And Mary let her eyes hang on to his for one long moment before looking back at his mother. His face was the sort that lent itself to stone—sculptural and timeless. “We need to get your car to a repair shop,” Martina said. She then turned suddenly to Stefan. “Honey, are there going to be any open tonight?”
“Uhhhh . . . ,” he said, running his hands through his hair and trying not to look at Mary. “Spillane’s over on Cross should still be open.”
“Really?” asked Martina. “Even during the holidays?”
Stefan gave his mother an amused smile. “Yeah, Mom,” he said. “Even during the holidays.”
She clucked her tongue and turned toward Mary. “He’s teasing me. He thinks his mother is clueless,” she said, trying on the word. Mary could see why she was so often described as charming. Martina Kelly, the charming wife of businessman Patrick Kelly. “Stefan,” she said, her attention back to her son. “You will help the girls? I’m going to check on our guests.”
And Martina was out of the room again, off to update the other wives who would listen—rapt and concerned—to the happenings in the kitchen. Poor little things. It was easy to feel charitable toward Mary and Hannah. It was like taking in two little kittens.
As soon as his mother was gone, Stefan turned to Mary. And in the glorious serendipity of their chance meeting, he lifted her out of her stool. “What are you doing here?”
“Well, I don’t know if you heard, but I have a flat tire,” Mary teased, as he set her back down on her feet. She was at her most lovely in front of the boy who sailed his white boat into Sandy Bank.
“I mean in town?”
Mary let her hand rest on Hannah’s head. “My sister and I live here now,” she said, twisting a finger through one of Hannah’s blond curls. “We moved here after our mom died.”
Stefan’s face fell. “I’m so sorry,” he said.
Mary nodded, conjuring up emotion that wasn’t entirely feigned. “Thank you,” she said. “Hannah and I are doing alright, though.”
Stefan turned to Hannah. “Hannah?” he asked, confirming her name. She looked at Stefan with her big eyes and messy blond hair. “It’s nice to meet you,” he said, extending his hand.
Hannah glanced at Mary, who nodded once, prompting her to take it. “It’s nice to meet you, too.” And as they looked at each other, Hannah and Stefan, Mary felt a burst of joy so intense that it caught at the back of her throat, slicked her eyes. She blinked it away and smiled.
“So . . . ,” started Mary tentatively. “Is this where you live?” Mary knew the answer, of course.
“Yeah, well . . . no. I mean, I grew up here. It’s my parents’ place. I’m just home for the holidays.”
Mary’s eyes narrowed, as if looking into the distance of memory. “I wish I had known that you were from here,” she said. Then she smiled at him, poking his foot with hers. “I might have looked you up.” After all, it had been so long ago. And Stefan couldn’t understand what he meant to her.
But he just smiled. “Well, it’s good to see you,” he said. The Kellys, after all, were a family to whom fate frequently delivered the fortuitous, the serendipitous.
At that moment, Mary heard a different voice from behind them. “Stefan?” She turned, and it was another generically pretty blond woman, this one younger. Her eyes skipped from Stefan to Mary, reading the space between them, all the things that hadn’t been said.
“Oh,” Stefan said, disoriented but pleasant, as if pulled from a lovely dream. “Hey, Beth.” He straightened and swept his hand toward Mary. And she remembered how much she liked the confident ease of his voice. Of his gestures. “This is Mary.”
Mary stood and extended her hand. “Mary Chase,” she said. Beth looked at it for a moment before taking it. “Beth,” she said, her lips in a polite curve. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“You two know each other?” asked Beth, a false lightness in her voice, a barely detectable helium high.
Stefan pointed as if gesturing down the coast. “We met a while ago. That summer I sailed down to Virgin Gorda. I spent a few days in Sandy Bank.”
Beth’s eyebrows lifted, but she kept her slim smile. Sandy Bank was a down-market little tourist trap, its heyday having passed in the 1920s. No one went there anymore but high school kids and blue-collar families with fat kids and Jersey acc
ents. “Oh, how funny.”
“And her car got a flat outside . . .” Stefan and Mary looked at each other, Stefan’s smile more restrained in the presence of Beth. “So, we were just catching up.”
The pleasantries finished, Beth turned to Stefan. “Your mom just wanted me to tell you that the Terrells are on their way.” It was a subtle urge to move things along, get the girls on their way.
“Okay. Thanks.”
Beth gave Mary a final smile. “Good luck with your car,” she said. Then she looked at Hannah. “Merry Christmas, sweetie.”
Stefan watched her go, then turned back to Mary, sobered but reluctantly so, brought back to the duties and obligations of the evening and his family.
Mary smiled, her eyes kind. “We should probably call that tow truck now,” she said.
“Right,” he said, remembering why the lovely Mary from Sandy Bank was sitting in his kitchen. He pulled out the yellow pages and flipped quickly through them, then he picked up the phone and dialed, leaning against the wall behind him, crossing an arm across his broad chest when a voice came from the other end.
As he gave the information and instructions, Mary turned to Hannah. “How’s that hot cocoa?”
“It’s really good,” whispered Hannah. She seemed to weigh the benefits of speaking again before adding, “I like the marshmallows.”
Mary whispered to Hannah while Stefan was on the phone, talking to her about their plans for the holidays, making everything seem wonderful, magical. Tomorrow morning, you and I are going to make cookies. I got sprinkles and icing, and you can decorate them however you want.
When Stefan hung up, he looked at the girls. “They’re going to be here in half an hour,” he said.
From the doorway came Martina’s voice. “Everything is taken care of, Stefan?” she asked, as she leaned into the kitchen.
“Yup,” he said. “It’s going to be about thirty minutes.”
Martina’s eyes flitted cautiously to Mary, to whom she offered a less effortless smile. “Beth says that you know each other?” Charity was Martina’s stock in trade, but a personal connection had not been bargained for, especially not with a girl from Sandy Bank.
Stefan smiled. “Yeah, Mary and I are old friends.”
“Well, why did you not tell me?” she said, a mock scolding for a son she clearly adored. Martina looked at Mary and Hannah. “You girls must come join us, then,” she said. “While you wait for the tow truck.”
In the living room, Mary and Hannah took their seats on tufted chintz chairs as Martina Kelly’s friends welcomed them, their manicured hands wrapped around wine stems, their berry-colored lips curled into welcoming smiles as they asked their questions. A flat tire, is it? And you know Stefan? And where did you say you were from?
Mary gave the room a lovely smile before speaking, mournful but brave. “We moved here only recently from New Jersey. After our mother died.”
The women offered a collective gasp, their hands covering their hearts. “So it’s just the two of you?” asked Martina, so willing to be won.
Mary nodded.
Another woman, who was seated next to Beth, leaned in. From the similarities in countenance and appearance, Mary took her to be Beth’s mother. “And where is your father, dear?” she asked, her chin lifted, her words as elongated as a snake’s tongue.
Mary’s eyes snapped to hers. “London,” she answered, without pause, the challenge not entirely wrung from her face. “But we don’t see him. His wife prefers her space.” If she noticed Hannah’s confused expression, she didn’t acknowledge it.
Some of the women exchanged glances, intrigued by the turn the conversation was taking and relishing reports of the selfish whims of later wives. Beth took a sip of her wine, her foot slipping out of the back of her heel. And Mary decided that Beth was the perfect name for her, with her slightly upturned nose, ambivalent eyes, and hair like spun white gold. She could be a Blair or a Blake. But Beth was perfect.
“Well,” said Martina, clapping her hands, ready to right the conversation and steer it toward topics more jovial. “You girls must attend the Christmas concert at the Streinbach.” The Streinbach was the very well-regarded performing arts center in town. “They do all the old carols.”
Stefan, who had been leaning against the door frame into the foyer, looked at the ice in his tumbler and gave it a gentle twirl. “The arena also has ice skating on Christmas Eve,” he said. “We used to go every year.”
“We have to go to Willow’s while we’re home, Stef,” said Beth, leaning back in her seat and speaking only to him though he stood across the room. “They do that amazing torrone this time of year.”
“See this?” joked Martina, looking at Beth’s mother. “We have to drag these two back from Boston for the holidays even though they are filled with nostalgia for their home!” As her wine deepened in effect, Martina’s English became less natural.
After the room shared in a requisite charmed smile, Beth’s mother turned back to Mary, the arm holding her glass of wine resting on her knee. “So what brought you to Northton in particular?” she asked, wanting to know more about the beautiful girl who seemed so acquainted with Stefan. “Do you have friends here?”
“Well, not exactly,” said Mary, giving a self-conscious downward smile. “But my father used to live here.”
From the doorway, Stefan looked up.
“Your father?” asked Martina.
Mary nodded. “Yes,” she said. “He grew up here.”
“What’s his name?” asked one of the generic blonds, her lips slick and eager.
It was impulse that throbbed through Mary then, a reflexive response to a challenge. “Robert Mondasian.” She said it without knowing she would. She said it without thought of consequence.
No one emitted a sound, but the shock pulsed through the room. Robert Mondasian was Northton’s demon son. Revered and reviled and known for being charming and abusive and brilliant and narcissistic. He moved to Europe when he was kicked out of his elite boarding school and found his way into the gossip sheets for indiscreet dalliances with lesser royalty. A known womanizer, he used his first wife’s family money to begin purchasing interesting art and was soon reputed to have one of the keenest eyes in the world for emerging talent. The town of Northton was fascinated with him, and the local paper often reported on his doings, though his parents were now dead and he had never returned. Mary had first encountered his name in a magazine of her mother’s. She had read the article over and over, fascinated by him. And when she found out that he and Stefan were from the same town, well, to a girl like Mary, so prone to the quixotic, the grandiose, it all felt somehow preordained.
Finally, it was Beth’s mother who spoke. “I didn’t know Robert had any children,” she said.
“He and my mother weren’t married,” replied Mary.
“Well” was all Martina could manage. She looked at Mary, whose almost unsettling beauty did have something of Robert Mondasian to it. “Your father is certainly an icon in the art world,” she said, recovering. “He has a terrific collection.”
For the remaining time that Mary and Hannah sat in the Kellys’ living room waiting for the tow truck, the women treated Mary with reverence and caution. It was as if they had discovered the kitten that they had been batting about was actually a tiger cub. Stefan looked on, silent and curious. Robert Mondasian’s bastard daughter.
When the conical lights of the tow truck finally shot through the night outside, all the women stood, like hens at the coop door, extending their hands and wishing Mary and Hannah a Merry Christmas. Stefan walked the girls outside and down the driveway to where the driver was inspecting their Blazer, assessing how best to get it up onto his truck. His hands were sunk into his pockets, his breath was white and vanishing. He and Stefan exchanged a few words, and then tow cables were attached to the Blazer. There was the mechanical noise of gears grinding and moving as the Blazer was slowly hoisted up onto the flatbed.
Mar
y and Stefan stood facing each other in the streetlight-lit darkness. “So, it was really nice to see you,” said Mary.
“How are you going to get home?”
“We can ride in the truck and then walk from there,” said Mary, tilting her head toward the cab of the tow truck. Boosk Avenue was only a couple of blocks away from Spillane’s.
Stefan smiled at Mary. It was a warm thing, his smile. It was a nearby star. “I’ll drive you,” he said, his words near and quiet. “I’ll take you past the ice-skating arena. Show you where it is.”
Mary bit at her smile. “Okay,” she said, then she rested her hand on Hannah’s back. “What do ya say, Bunny?” she asked.
“Bunny?” asked Stefan, questioning Hannah’s unusual nickname.
Mary’s face was soft when she spoke. “That’s what I call her,” she said. She and Stefan looked at each other, their breath finding pace. “Ever since she was a baby.”
As he drove the girls back to Boosk Avenue, Stefan offered commentary on the town, pointing out the best place for omelets and the hill where you could sit on the Fourth of July and watch fireworks burst in the sky, their booms following moments later. “My dad used to take us here,” he said. “Right after dinner so that we could get a good spot.”
“Was your dad at your house tonight?” asked Mary.
“No,” said Stefan. “He’s away for work.” Through the windshield, he glanced up into the sky, as if his father were hovering around them somehow. “He and my brother Teddy are actually flying home from Tokyo right now.” Mary knew that the elder Kelly brother had gone to work for their father while Stefan, apparently, had resisted that path. “They’ve been over there for a month.”
When the trio pulled up to the apartment on Boosk Avenue, Stefan took in the peeling structure. There were a half-dozen beat-up old cars in the gravel parking lot, and some of the tenants had wrapped Christmas tree lights around the insides of their windows. It was a dismal-looking place, especially for someone unaccustomed to dismal-looking places.