“Did you eat?” Fritz repeats.
Max acts like he didn’t hear.
Fritz marches into the kitchen, where I’m fetching Max his drink; it’s open to the living room. He takes a casserole dish out of the fridge, opens the cover, and puts it down hard on the counter.
“I wasn’t hungry,” Max mumbles.
“Are you hungry now?” I ask brightly. The mood in here is so darn tense! I want to lighten it up.
Max shoots me a skeptical glance. “I don’t think there’s anything in the house worth eating.”
“Let me see about that,” I say.
I skip over to bring Max his whiskey and head right back to the kitchen. The appliances are new, the countertops are wide and long, and there’s plenty of lighting. Patio doors must show views of the intracoastal waterway side of the island during daylight. And on the other side of the house, past the big sitting area with the furniture Fritz thinks is so ugly, patio doors open to the oceanfront deck. I love this kitchen!
I take an inventory of the cupboards, the spice rack, and the fridge. I come up with only one meal that wouldn’t need a supply trip first.
“I can make you an omelet, Max. First thing tomorrow I’ll go shopping, and then I’ll be able to make anything you like.”
Fritz sniffs. “You overestimate our local grocery store,” he says.
I smile even brighter. I have to really turn up the wattage to cut through his gloom. “You underestimate me,” I reply.
Max laughs. “I like that. Spunky.”
“Can I make you one, too?” I ask Fritz.
“No. I’m going down for the bags,” he says, in a sort of kick-the-floor boyish way that makes him seem about nine years old for a second. I wonder if he was always so serious or if that came later. I still can’t imagine him dating a glam rocker!
“I’ll help,” I offer.
“No. You stay here and wait on your relative. If he extends the same delicate treatment to you that I’ve been getting, you’ll be thanked with repeated insults.”
When Fritz is halfway down the stairs, Max calls after him:
“Henpecker!”
Max eats his omelet like it’s his first meal in months. I watch him the whole time. I want to ask so many questions about my dad. I want to hear how they spent their childhoods, if they went to fishing holes the way boys do in Peaksy Falls, or if maybe they sailed model boats in London parks like I’ve seen in movies.
The way Max shovels his food doesn’t leave much chance for talking, though. And once he’s done eating and drinking his second whiskey, he’s sleepy.
“That was delicious, Merry,” he says around a yawn while I clear his plate. “If you weren’t trying to steal my inheritance, I think we’d be good friends.”
I can’t help myself: I kiss him on the top of his white cotton candy head. He doesn’t seem to mind. He reaches up and pats my arm.
“Better friends than you and my dad were, sir?” I ask.
“What a question!” he says.
“I’m sorry if it’s impolite to ask questions, because I have a whole mess of them.”
“Right. Well. It’s a long and complicated story, my dear, and I’m a tired old man who is in need of a rest. Maybe we can take it up another day?”
“OK,” I say, trying not to show my disappointment.
“You must think that my brother was quite strange to arrange for you to come here?” he asks.
“I’m glad to be here, and meet you, and stay in this wonderful house. I’m just sad that I didn’t get the chance to meet him—I wanted to, my whole life.”
A sniff at the top of the stairs makes us turn our heads to see Fritz standing there, frowning as usual.
“Here’s some company for you, Merry,” Max says, yawning again. “You young people can stay up and chatter if you like. I must retire, though. I’m overdue.”
Fritz gives Max his cold medicine and then excuses himself to go back down to his room, making it clear that he’s no more interested in chattering with me than he was last night.
I busy myself by washing the dishes, but I can’t stop there. The whole kitchen needs a good going-over! I pause often, as I scrub and mop, to make an arm-long list of things I’ll need to buy.
When I finally finish scouring and scribbling, I’m still too wound up to even think about going to bed. So much has happened in such a short time! Plus, the ocean is calling to me. It’s muffled on account of the closed doors and windows, but I can still hear it well enough to know it’s out there.
When I can’t resist a second longer, I open the door and feel the rush.
It’s chilly now, but I’m used to cool mountain nights. The wind is strong; it whirls around me, and I feel something like I used to feel when the fireflies were out in numbers, like I’m invited outside to be part of the night.
Though it’s dark, I’m not scared. There aren’t any bears around here, I’m guessing, and if there were, I’d see them fine because there are no trees to hide behind. The houses are all perched high on their dunes like quiet watchtowers, and down below there’s only sand and water. The moon makes a shining path on the sea and a narrow slice of beach. It’s like a beacon, or a path. Or a yellow brick road that you can’t take very far, only to the water’s edge. But that’s OK. Dorothy’s path wasn’t even real at all—it was only a dream—and she still learned a lot by following it.
Though it’s chilly, I want to feel the sand and water on my toes. I walk down the wooden steps, all the way down, until I’m level with the water.
The sand is very cold, but soft. I walk through it toward the water until I feel it wash over my feet.
I laugh out loud; I can’t help it.
I go to the edge of where the moonlight shines like gold on the sand. I smile because it points toward my father’s house, the place he loved best in the world. Dorothy’s path ultimately led her home. I love that story.
I step into the moonlight spotlight. I twirl in circles, like I’m a little girl again. Like life is just starting for me.
I think I might be able to describe this house better than my mountain home. Since I’m new here, I haven’t put too many of my own feelings and memories in it yet.
I have three rooms, and they go from the front of the house to the back. One room is on the street side; it has white bunk beds, bright linens, and an assortment of toys and games which must come in real handy when families rent the house. There are patio doors to a covered deck overlooking the intracoastal waterway. Pocket doors lead to a full bathroom, which also opens up to an oceanfront bedroom with a queen-sized bed, where I plan to sleep.
I’m tickled about how much space and privacy I’ll have while I’m here. I don’t know how long that’ll be…I’ve got a thousand questions lining up, just waiting their turns.
There’s a knock at my door. I open it to see Fritz wearing fancy pajamas.
“Were you actually outside? In the dark?” he asks.
“Yes, sir.” I can’t help laughing. It was such a wild rush to be out there. I still feel pink and windblown. “It was so pretty! Want to go out? I’ll go again.”
He doesn’t have to say no; his frown leaves no question about it.
“I brought up your bags and put away your new clothes,” he says, crossing the room and opening the closet door. “You’ll see everything is arranged by clothing type. Please take note of how I hung up the various articles. And for God’s sake, read the tags before you toss things into the laundry willy-nilly. The same goes for the things in the drawers.”
“Yes, sir,” I say. The bag I packed from home is still full, leaned up against the wall like a homely girl, watching everybody else dance at a cotillion.
“Did the cosmetologist teach you to apply your own makeup?” he asks. His arms are folded, and he looks like he doesn’t trust me to do anything right, not a single thing. “What about your hair? Do you know how to style it?”
I sit on the edge of the bed feeling like the wind’s been kn
ocked out of me, along with the confidence boost I’d had from getting all gussied up, meeting my surprise uncle, and finally feeling the ocean breeze blow through my hair. It’s like I was brought high only to be knocked low again.
My shoulders sag; I’m worried that I’ll end up ruining all my new clothes, doing my face wrong, and my hair, not to mention all the tasks he’s going to give me. He’ll send me home without anything; maybe I won’t even be able to keep my new outfits. And when I get back to Peaksy Falls, Phil will forget his apologies and lock me out of the Mountainside, and me and my mom and grandma will be homeless.
Fritz is staring at me like I’m already a big disappointment, when I haven’t even gotten a chance to prove myself yet. I feel like Dorothy must have felt when she finally got to Oz and found that the wizard she thought would help her was only a man after all.
It’s like I’d been riding high up on one of the waves I glimpsed at sunset, and now I’ve just plumb crashed. But I make myself stand anyway and try to raise my spirits as part of the motion. “Yes, sir. They taught me,” I say.
Fritz unfolds his arms and sighs. I know he doesn’t want to be here, so none of this is fun for him. He’s not riding up on any waves; he’s just in a permanent crash.
“Did you notice the house next door?” he asks.
“The one that was lit up?”
Fritz nods. “There is a man staying there whom your father liked.”
“Didn’t he like all his neighbors?”
“No,” Fritz says, like he could say a whole lot more on the subject if he had the time or inclination. “The people your father liked, he truly adored. I’m afraid everyone else escaped his notice.”
“Oh,” I say. I wanted to think of my dad as a neighborly person. I wanted to think he was a nice guy.
“Mr. Pershing wasn’t often here,” Fritz says. “This house was mostly a summer rental, which is true for many of the houses along the ocean. The man staying next door doesn’t live there permanently.”
“When did my dad meet him then?”
“Last summer, after he was diagnosed with cancer, your father wanted to come and stay here, and I came along to help him. The man next door was vacationing at the same time with his wife.”
“So you all became friends?” I ask. I sit on the edge of the bed and pat the next spot over for Fritz to sit, too, but he keeps standing.
“Jack—that’s the man’s name—and your father got on quite well. They spent hours sitting in the sunshine talking,” Fritz says, frowning a little.
“And y’all like to sit in the shade?” I ask.
“Indeed. I got to know Jack a bit, though. He and his wife were a lovely couple.”
“That’s nice,” I say, wondering if anyone thinks of Phil and me as a lovely couple. “Maybe we can have them over here. I like the idea of making some new friends right away. I know everybody in Peaksy Falls.”
“I spoke to Jack when I saw that he was back at the house,” Fritz says. “He told me that his wife had died in a car accident.”
“My goodness.” I shiver. An image of Phil holding a casserole pops into my head. The idea of him being dead, and me knowing I’d never see him again, or never taste even one more bite of his cooking? Ever again? Well, I feel awful for the man next door, who made one half of a ‘lovely couple’ and is now alone.
“Jack had been so vibrant last summer…” Fritz shakes his head. “It was depressing to see him so altered. I knew your father would be affected by it.”
“But by then he’d passed on, right?” I ask. I’m not clear on the whens of all this—they’re on my list of questions.
“Right. Your father and Jack had enjoyed each other’s company. They whiled away hours upon hours discussing politics, and sports, and several other subjects that I found exceedingly boring. Your father genuinely liked Jack, and he didn’t necessarily get on with everyone he met.”
“I suppose not,” I say, “Especially if he couldn’t even be friendly with his own brother. Max seems like a teddy bear to me.”
Fritz sniffs. “By the way, your aunt called.”
“She called you?” I ask. “Why didn’t she call me?”
“She did. She said your voicemail was full.”
“Oh.” Likely more messages from Phil. “How’d she get your number?” I ask.
“I left it with your mother, as a backup way to reach you, in case there was an emergency.”
“Was there an emergency?” I ask, thinking of the wary ladies all alone.
“No, no. She simply asked for you to call her.” With his eyebrows raised, he adds, “At home.”
As I finish unpacking my bag from Peaksy Falls, I notice that my new bed looks like it’ll be mighty comfortable. I yawn wide and long and discover that the bed is as cozy as it looks. I stretch out, kick my feet around a bit, and make myself at home.
I turn on my phone and listen to my new messages first. They’re all from Phil. In one, he describes a new soup, and I can almost taste the ginger. It’s hardest to stay mad at Phil when he’s in a sweet mood, calm and tender. He gets that way when he brings things to a simmer or when he bakes. I could live for a year exclusively on his bisque. And, I tell you what, Phil can be downright irresistible with a cheesecake in his hands.
I dial Aunt Betty at home.
“Hello?” she answers right away, like she’d been holding the telephone ready to push the green button.
“This is Merry,” I say.
She pauses for a long time. I picture her sitting in her sterile townhouse. She has it painted white every few years. It never needs it, as far as I can see, but it must make her feel better somehow because she keeps bothering to have it done. She is likely sitting in her white leather rocking chair. Aunt Betty only has one comfortable chair in her living room, and that’s where she always sits. The other seats are hard as planks. I don’t think she wants anyone there but her.
“Yes. Well, I spoke to a young man earlier who was quite rude to me.”
“That’ll be Fritz,” I say. “Sorry he was rude, ma’am. I don’t think he really means it.”
“Who on earth is he, Merry?”
I don’t want to get into the particulars with Aunt Betty. I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t buy the game show explanation; she’s more streetwise than Mom and Grandma, and it’d be pretty hard to hide my lying stutters over the phone. Plus, I’m bone-tired. “I can’t really explain now, ma’am. How are Mom and Grandma? Are they well?”
“Of course they are. I’m watching out for them.”
She sounds like she’s half-focused on something else. That’s how she usually is, even in person.
I cover the phone while I yawn big. I rest my free ear on a soft pillow. “Well, thanks for taking care of Mom and Grandma while I’m away. Tell them I’ll send some goodies soon.”
My grandma’s hearing is so bad that talking on the telephone with her is like a Laurel and Hardy skit. My mom isn’t fond of phones either, except when she calls into Aunt Betty’s show. When I was away at college, we communicated the old-fashioned way: letters and boxes of cookies shipped through the mail.
Aunt Betty doesn’t answer. I wonder if she’s still there. Sometimes she’ll hang up on callers to her show, but usually only when they insult her, like the boys who do impressions.
“Exactly where are you, Merry? And exactly what are you doing?” she asks, just when I thought she was gone.
Two ‘exactly’ questions in a row from Aunt Betty? The words I’ve heard her say to callers at least a hundred times come into my mind and right out of my mouth: “I don’t have to explain anything.”
A few silent seconds pass.
“Ma’am,” I add.
She laughs. It sounds like saccharine and aspartame.
“No, of course you don’t,” she says. “But the old girls are worried, and your friends will wonder where you’ve gone. I hoped you would tell me what’s going on so that I can reassure them.”
“I’m fine, Aunt Be
tty,” I say over the biggest yawn yet. “I’m going to go now because I’m mighty tired. Just tell anybody who asks that I had an opportunity I couldn’t pass up.”
“Can you at least tell me where you are?” she asks.
I stretch out my legs and pull the comforter higher. I’m anxious to hang up the phone so that I can hear the sound of the ocean better, so that it can sing me a lullaby as I shut my eyes on the longest and most eventful day I’ve ever had.
“I’m exactly where I need to be right now,” I say.
And somehow, in my heart, I know that it’s true.
Chapter Seven
IN WHICH MR. MORNINGSTAR TRIES TO BE A GOOD BOSS
As told by Jack, from the edge of the world
During my months spent staring at the endless ocean, I have rarely thought of civilization at all. Sometimes I’ve found my rental house on Google maps and zoomed out, further and further and further, taking comfort in the fact that ahead of me was an ocean so vast that it made everything else seem pitifully insignificant by comparison.
Having dropped out of society, I was surprised on an unavoidable trip to Chicago last week that I still remembered how to put on shoes, and walk through airport security, and make small talk with strangers. I suppose everyday life is like riding a bicycle. I know driving is; I navigated my rental car without consciously signaling to turn, behaving as directed at traffic signals, and safely getting into the lanes I needed to occupy.
I must have because I found myself parked in my old space at the office without really understanding how I got there. I punched my code into the office door and was surprised when it worked. I felt like I hadn’t been there in a hundred years and that the suite within its high-rise building was a relic of another life. It didn’t seem possible that I had worked there, day after day, for years.
“Jack?” I looked up to see Jaycee Hayes staring at me like I was a ghost.
“Hi, Jay.”
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