All of These Things

by De Mattea, Anna

  My phone rings almost straightaway.

  “What do you know?” my father asks.

  “Frankly,” I say, “more than a daughter wants to know, but she’s hurt. Sandrine just called.”

  “She called?” He sounds irate. “She had no right to do that. And it’s too fresh to involve anyone, especially my daughter. What is she thinking?”

  “She’s not thinking, Dad. She’s reacting. She’s hurt. You hurt her,” I spell it out for him. “She doesn’t know where to turn. From day one she’s been fighting for you, and now you’ve made it crystal clear that it was all for nothing. You need to do something.”

  “Princess,” he says, adamant, so I brace myself, “I can’t continue with her. I can’t do that to either of us, anymore. I was wrong to let it go on as I did.”

  I notice I’m nodding my agreement. “Did you tell her that?”

  “She really wasn’t in a talking mood, and I couldn’t think straight. But I will. Right now, I have to climb out of my own hell, and it’s nobody’s fault but my own.” The pitch in his voice practically screams for release. “I hope to God you’re never in a situation where you have to swallow such a jagged pill. I loathe myself for this, but even though it’s technically up to me, it really was never up to me. Do you understand that, Caroline? Love isn’t black or white.”

  My thoughts stumble. Which love is he talking about, because my mother and Sandrine couldn’t be any more different? One is clear as day, and the other an enigma—a beautiful, kaleidoscopic bedlam of a soul. I blanch, feeling like my blood has frozen. This has me thinking about Ryan, and if I ever break his heart, and what all the people in our lives will come to think of me. Both Daddy and I wouldn’t be the first people in the world to back away from something smart and solid, but our decisions push us to the forefront of a minor scandal; attracting the attention of savage rumourmongers. Mom’s tendencies and demeanour generate enough gossip and blather, as it is. I’m unsegregated from it all, and it’s a choking pressure to feel like I can’t fuck up even once in my own life like every other human being I know.

  “Daddy?” I say.

  “Princess? What is it?”

  “I met someone.”

  “I see.” I imagine his jaw clenched. “Back home or on your holiday?”

  “Holiday.”

  “I see,” he repeats, not giving anything away, in a manner only a father with unconditional love for his child can manage to hold back.

  “It can just be a circumstance of summer, Caroline, but even a brief season of your life may have you regrouping everything you think you know and faster than you can think. That’s the way it was for me, anyway, when I met your mother, and I had to let a girlfriend go.”

  “Did you love her—that girlfriend?”

  “I thought I was falling in love with her, and everyone around me enjoyed her,” he states. “But I met the love of my life when I was with her, and the love of my life so happens to be the most complicated and beautiful person I’ve ever met.”

  “Do you regret meeting her?” I ask cautiously, picturing the story I heard years back.

  Nathaniel De Andreis married my mother only five months after meeting her. He was walking briskly from a parking lot to the sidewalk of a U-shape driveway at the front of the same hospital I was born. He carried a bouquet of sunflowers and baby’s breath that was intended for his business partner’s wife, who had given birth to a second child. He had looked aimlessly towards the circular garden in the hub of the roundabout and practically halted in a spell. Nathaniel was mesmerized by the most bewitching sight he had ever seen. The woman’s gaze finally shifted, peeping up at his figure. Dad told me everything—how her spine straightened and her feet coiled. That inscrutable air of hers screamed, and oddly, Nathaniel wasn’t alarmed. On the contrary, he was fascinated and approached Mom, giving her the blossoms in his hand. That’s the precise moment the universe bequeathed me a father, and my mother decided I would be born.

  “Do you need to talk about this fellow, or are you still figuring him out?” he asks, breaking off my thoughts.

  “We’re getting to know each other, but he’s different.”

  “Than Ryan you mean?”

  My mind hits a wall.

  “Let me say this, Princess,” my father persists. “Be it Ryan, or some other fellow who comes around this summer, or the next, ask yourself if he appreciates what you endure for your mother. Whoever you choose, I’ll mind my own business so long as I see the two of you laughing more than anything else in the world—because there will be rough times. Be sure he’s worth those rough times.”

  This tête-à-tête makes me feel tiny under my father’s voice. I feel so much younger when we’re alone, eating lunch or working together in his handsome, traditional office. I marvel how supportive this man can be and how much he’s embarked on for us—for both Mom and me. With him as my guardian angel, how can I not take a leap of faith, testing providence, and taking my chances with Alecsander Vaughn.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Nathaniel’s Correspondence with Dr. Toussaint

  In the end, one minute I was determined and decided to give it the best go I ever had, and the next I was even more convinced I didn’t want to give it another go at all. It was an all-consuming realization, and I was pitiful and ashamed. So you can imagine how shocked and horrified Sandrine was, in turn. I fell to pieces, collapsing from grief and the sheer understanding that I have no choice but to finally surrender. I can’t fight the fight anymore. In fact, I won’t.

  You know that I want to want to be with Sandrine. She’s a healthy, smart, sensible choice—a clear-cut and stable companion and partner for me. She’s so willing and open to give and receive. But then, there’s my Amalia, who’s so indisposed—so capricious and hurtful at times, but yet on the good occasions, the ones cobbled together by hopeful moments and days without incidents, she keeps me stuck between her gaps and cracks.

  When I asked you years back about what I could do differently to save the marriage, Amalia was offensive, grudging, and ultimately disinclined. I had to find a balance between accepting what she had decided upon, and still looking after our little girl. You remember those days, Dr. Toussaint. The days she was on a rampage, reminding me I wasn’t Caroline’s father, charging me as a bad husband with every accusation in the book, and exhausting and nearly destroying me. How many intermingling conditions did we look into? Because that’s the thing with mental health. You’ve taught me that a disorder often doesn’t come alone, and if it does, it very well may split up, or run parallel with something else. But we’ve more than scratched the surface with Amalia’s case. If I’ve learned one thing about your field, there aren’t clear answers. That’s why I understand how people I meet at Catherine’s House say it can be worse than a physical ailment. For the longest time I didn’t get that, but I do now.

  Don’t hate me for that, Dr. Toussaint. Please don’t get me wrong; I do believe there are opportunities. I’ve seen for myself the possible leeways and prospects that come from conditioning and coaching, but the patient needs consistency. She needs strong people around her even when they’re her door mat. It takes a certain kind of person to face this head-on for the rest of her life, and Caroline is just that. But I don’t want our daughter’s life getting away from her anymore. It’s time for her to work on finding some balance, too, and I suppose that’s what my niece is trying to communicate in her own extreme way.

  All this to say that I’ve come to a resolution. I was not good for Amalia then. I was looking to have a semblance of a traditional marriage with her, as if our situation was orthodox and typical. She’s unconventional, and we had to work out an unconventional plan to save the marriage. What’s your professional opinion? Can I come clean with her? Can I go around to the apartment and check in on Amalia again, but also tell her I’m sorry for not having been stronger and wiser? The trut
h is, I want her back in any way I can have her, even if I have to keep a distance. Would this revelation be too risky?

  Maybe Alec’s bringing me to his rental property and cooking breakfast there. He didn’t mention it having a pool, so I don’t have to worry about embarrassing myself with that scenario. Oh, why haven’t I signed up for lessons yet? I’ve thought about it a lot, but it just hasn’t pressed on me. Although, maybe I should see a hypnotherapist about my recurrent dream before I can even contemplate learning to swim.

  Breakfast with Alec. I don’t know about this, but I do want to go. It’s clear there’s a frightening, mutual attraction, and I enjoy his company. He’s a well-read, outdoorsy type, and the combination is all too appealing. It makes him quite fascinating, and the accent works like an antidote to his pushy, confident side. Suddenly, I’m recalling the only bikini I own and packed for this trip. I’m worried it’s not flattering enough, but who the hell would have imagined me in this situation just days ago? I’m disgruntled by the thought, and now I’m out of sorts with Ryan popping in my head again.

  This breakfast is a sneaky, callous act. It would be one of the most insensitive and miserable things I’ve ever done, and I shouldn’t have acquiesced. For God’s sake, I almost kissed Alec last night. He’s always saying the right things even when he’s not, and he’s totally under my skin. I’ve never felt anything like it before. He’s exhilarating. Alec wakes my senses to the point I can feel myself being lifted up. It’s not just my arousal, because yes, yes I’m turned on by him, but I feel inspired around him and brand new. And yet, I don’t really want to change who I am. I like what I’ve managed to make for myself with the cards that were dealt to me, and change scares the bejesus out of me.

  I sigh, giving up. I’m definitely going for breakfast.

  After tending to myself in the bathroom I hook up a white bandeau top with an embellished circle of beads at the center of my breasts and pull on the yellow bikini bottom. I slip into a short, white bathing suit cover up dress. After moisturizing my face with SPF 30, I hurriedly massage it into the rest of me. My blond, crimped hair cascades over the slopes of my bare shoulders and reaches mid-way down my back. My eyes perk up with a soft dab of creamy golden-pink shadow, and I choose nude for my lips.

  The house is quiet, and a note is taped to the coffee machine. Sofia-Marie tells me she and Jay are out for pancakes at the Purple Palace and to have fun with Alec. How the hell does that woman find out about everything?

  I’m nearly twenty minutes late, but he’s only now parking by the cottage as I lock it up. Of course, he would have a very distinguished vehicle—a manly, buff-red Land Rover that’s made for someone just like him. It’s bold and very capable of going on some exciting journey with its black roof rails and grills. He’s laid back and a little too comfortable for a driver, but who the hell cares when he’s wearing those aviator glasses.

  “Good morning, beautiful,” Alec says, a wide smile radiating off his face.

  “You’re late.” I climb in and scowl at myself for being economical with the truth. You’re late, too Caroline.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, love, but something told me you would be too preoccupied with my request and proceed to amount the whole idea way out of context. So I went ahead and allotted you some extra time.” I’m sure he winked behind those shades. “You’re welcome,” he adds.

  I make a sidelong squint at him and suck in my cheeks to avoid a guilty smile. God, I’m so tempted to smack him. But I’m dismayed by a sudden moment of self-discovery. I honestly think that sort of reflex would beget some kind of sexual pleasure out of me.

  I frown.

  I note that we’re heading towards Cape Neddick as Nubble Light grows in my vision. I suppose I am a little curious to catch a glimpse of how this man lives—even if it isn’t really his house. It’s rather intriguing to know an artist with paintings arranged in the area for exhibition, but over the course of these few days, I was more surprised to hear about the rest of his portfolio. It holds an impressive amount of properties, and he’s quite implicated in the world of acquisitions. This has me wondering why he hasn’t bought a pied-à-terre in Maine.

  “Do you think you’ll ever buy a place here?” I ask and notice this luxury SUV is equipped with a cooler.

  “Water or orange juice?” he asks, raising the leather lid in between our seats.

  “Juice, please.” Wow. He sure takes breakfast seriously. Alec doesn’t miss a beat. He comes back to my question.

  “I prefer not to buy where I’ve come to get away. I’m here to be inspired and don’t want to deal with any snags and complications.”

  He drives with one hand on the wheel, and for some unknown and absolutely ridiculous reason, I’m finding it so damn sexy.

  “Why is that?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. There’s a lot of stress and trouble when you own a place. The maintainability factor will ultimately outweigh what I purposely come here for.”

  Fair point, indeed.

  “So you’re not one of those who thinks renting is basically throwing away money?” I ask, and I’m right up my alley.

  My accounting degree has firmly integrated me in my father’s company with some time for freelance bookkeeping. I pride myself in keeping abreast with the business world in general, and my forte has always been reconciling numbers. It just seemed the more sound and sheltering choice after keeping up with my mother.

  “Depending on the situation, renting can be the smarter option, but even the lands or buildings I do buy, I rarely hold onto.”

  Abruptly, he turns a corner, and in seconds we’re in a three-park driveway. The house is close to the road, but the opulent spread in classic Cape-Cod charm is magnificent. This already looks like the place to wine and dine.

  “You’re living here?” There’s no mistake in my tone. It completely conveys how amazed I am.

  “No. I’m on Shore Road. I prefer the dusky light and the shadows of the woods when I paint. This is O’Malley’s house... summer house. He resides mainly in Florida with Ms. O’Malley,” he says, as if he’s passing off an opinion of her.

  “This is Paul and Raeanne’s house? What are we doing here? God, that guy was such a pervert the other night.”

  Alec cuts his descent from the Rover short and looks back at me with a hand lightly snatching my arm.

  “What did he do?” he asks austerely.

  “Nothing, really, just that he didn’t stop ogling me Monday night by the fire. They’re such a weird pair. Raeanne was constantly checking you out too with her girlfriends.”

  His tight mouth becomes half a smile.

  “Well they aren’t here. It’s just the two of us and their housekeeper Angela. We’re borrowing the kitchen and backyard.”

  “They give you that much access to their property? How close are you?”

  I’m beginning to feel bad about my hasty comment, and I really would prefer to see where Alec’s temporarily living.

  “Why do we need their kitchen?” I meet him at the back of the SUV. He pulls out a cooler before reaching for a small duffel bag. I attempt to help him but clearly he’s more than capable.

  “I’m painting some original art for them, and I dropped the price on a piece after we bartered their home. They’re in Boston until Saturday, and Angela is around to keep an eye on things for them.”

  “It must be beautiful for you to want to come here just for breakfast.”

  “I like their kitchen, but the backyard is absolutely staggering. You’ll see, love. By the way,” he says just as I hear someone coming towards the door, “you look glorious today.”

  I try passing on a look of annoyance but I’m nervous and twitchy.

  “Good day, Mr. Vaughn. You know the way to the kitchen.” A small, trim woman, maybe in her fifties, wearing white pants and a dark blue Polo shirt greets us at the door with a kind
smile.

  “Thank you. Angela, I’d like to introduce you to Caroline,” he says as he walks past her.

  This place is so beautiful and grand. Its character is unpretentious, yet it’s an absolutely exceptional home.

  “Pleasure, Caroline. Welcome,” she says, smiling once more.

  “Good morning, Angela. This is such a pretty home.” I do understand it’s not Angela’s estate, but she is the caretaker and she keeps it immaculate.

  “Ms. O’Malley has wonderful taste. Please, I’ll take your belongings to the pool house. You can freshen up there after a swim.”

  Did she just say swim?

  Of course, such a place would need a pool to complete it, but I don’t swim. I’ll lounge and dip my toes, but that’s as far as I go.

  I hand her my large tote, trying not to go into panic mode and meet Alec in the kitchen as he deposits groceries on an exquisite white marble island.

  “Don’t twist yourself into a knot, love. You can just sunbathe if you want, but after I’m done with you, I think I’ll have a hard time pulling you out of the water,” he says deviously.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask, jumping a little out of my skin because now I’m very worried.

  “When a little dolly bird told me that a high achiever like herself never learnt to swim, I just had to right that wrong,” he explains. “A quick, sassy girl with such competencies? That’s unacceptable, sweetheart. It doesn’t suit that strong profile you’re trying so hard to preserve.”

  His smugness has reached a whole new level of cocky bastard-ness.

  “That’s why you said I didn’t need to know how to swim, because you think you’re the one who’s going to teach me?”

  I suppress an urge to slap him, and I think I want to get the hell out of this place. Just who does he think he is?

  Alec comes around the island, making his way closer to me. If this guy knows what’s good for him, he won’t dare to touch me right now. His eyes are wild, and I can tell he’s nervous, deliberating on some means of damage control for the situation. He looks apologetic or at least regretful.