The Captain's Daughter

by Meg Mitchell Moore

  Mrs. Cabot was already seated when Rob arrived, which put him immediately on uncertain ground. He wanted to choose the table, have the upper hand. He wanted to choose the drinks. Mrs. Cabot had already ordered two Mount Gay and tonics. Before lunch.

  They nibbled on a handful of the pretzels, nuts, and spicy sesame sticks that the Oak Room had been serving since Rob was a small child, picking the pretzels out one by one while his mother drank with her friends.

  When Rob had taken a few sips of his drink, and when he had squeezed the lime with vigor and fear, he cleared his throat and said, “Listen, Mrs. Cabot. About Thanksgiving.”

  She didn’t answer, but she cocked her head in a way that said she was listening.

  Closing his eyes he whispered, “I don’t think the outside is going to be ready by Thanksgiving.” Pause, then onward. “I don’t think the lower-level walkout is going to be accessible from the outside either.”

  Rob had prepared himself for all sorts of reactions: quiet rage, barely controlled rage, louder rage, the ragiest rage. But he had not prepared himself for what actually happened; he hadn’t prepared himself for Mrs. Cabot’s level gaze, and for the four words issuing from her glossy lips: “That settles it, then.” She signaled the hovering waiter—his name tag read MILTON—for the check. He must have been close to Christine Cabot’s vintage; he probably came of age working in the Oak Room, but he moved with surprising agility toward the bar and returned with the black check holder before Rob had a chance to gather his thoughts and answer.

  “That settles what?”

  “Mark and I met about this earlier in the week.”

  “Mark?”

  “Mark Ruggman.”

  “Ruggman?” Thinking about Ruggman with a first name was like thinking about Jesus with a last name. “You met with Ruggman without me?” There was air-conditioning blasting from the creaky vents, but Rob felt hot all over, as though he’d been dipped in a lobster pot.

  “I did. I met with Mark, and he walked me through the problem with the patio, and he told me about the permit. And we decided, together, that we could finish the project. On time. Without the permit.”

  “We meaning—”

  “We meaning Mark Ruggman. And myself.”

  “Without me.”

  “Without you.”

  “But Ruggman told me he wasn’t willing to go ahead without the—”

  Mrs. Cabot placed a platinum card on top of the check, and Milton tottered off with it.

  “We discussed it, and he came around to my view. He was really quite reasonable about it. I’m going to rent a little place up there, an adorable little cabin, and stay there through the fall, so I can visit the site, make sure things are on track.”

  Without Mrs. Cabot, Rob was sunk. Finished. Not only did Rob need the rest of the money from this job, he needed Mrs. Cabot to recommend him to her friends.

  “I can visit the site, Mrs. Cabot! We’re so close. The primer coat is on. The towel racks are in the bathrooms. The carpets are in upstairs. I can rent a cabin!” There was a pain in his chest he’d never felt before. Cardiac arrest?

  “Oh, Rob.” Christine Cabot shook her head. “You can’t rent a cabin.”

  “Of course I can.” He reached for his cell phone. “I’ll rent a cabin right now. I’ll rent two cabins!”

  “Surely you see that that isn’t the answer. You’ve been—how shall I say this—distracted since the building really got under way. You’ve been pulled in many different directions. I’m sure you understand that your work has suffered as a result. But that isn’t the biggest problem here.”

  To his horror and dismay, Rob hiccuped. Milton, who could probably hear about as well as an elderly spaniel, turned from another table and regarded the two of them. “It’s not?”

  “No. The bigger problem is—well, I’m not sure you were ever the right man for the job in the first place. Mark and I have been talking about it, that maybe it was simply a lack of experience that led to some of these problems.”

  Ruggman had thrown him under the bus. Ruggman had seen the bus coming, and he’d picked Rob up and thrown him right under it. Goddammit.

  “Rob,” Christine Cabot went on, and her voice took on a plaintive twinge. “This has been my dream for two years now. My project. My focus. I was just about to get to the fun stuff. Picking towels, choosing sheets, getting ready for the best Thanksgiving my family has ever seen. I was just about to start all of that, and then I was told that I might not be able to. I’ve dreamed about my grandkids frolicking on the lawn. And then I was told that there might not be any lawn!” There were real tears in her eyes. “It was a grandmother’s wish, a perfect holiday with the family. I’m sure you can see how disappointing it was to me, to hear that it might not happen.”

  Rob said, “Mrs. Cabot—” but his voice broke.

  Mrs. Cabot signed the check and handed it to Milton. “I’m sorry,” she said. “But it’s been decided.”

  “What will you tell people? Who ask about me?”

  “I’ll tell them the truth,” she said.

  “Which is?”

  “Which is that we loved the design and had trouble with the execution.”

  She paused and removed her cardigan, revealing sun-spotted shoulders that were surprisingly toned for a woman of her age. “Thank you for the drink, Robbie,” she said.

  “I didn’t buy you the drink,” said Rob.

  “Nevertheless. Thank you.”

  Rob wanted to remain in his chair. He wanted to throw the snack mix across the bar, and stamp his feet like the little boy he’d once been. He remembered a long-ago tantrum in this very room, appeased by his mother, held at the shoulder by her firm hand. He remembered the scent of his mother’s perfume. He wanted to cry on Milton’s shoulder. He wanted to belly up to the bar and drink six more cocktails.

  But good manners prevailed, as they had since Rob was a tot in a swim diaper, and a gentleman stood when a lady stood, so he got to his feet and accepted the dry kiss Mrs. Cabot planted on his cheek, and he tried not to let on that he was shaking like a dog in a thunderstorm, and he tried not to sound bitter and regretful and desperate—though he was all three—when he said, “If you change your mind, Mrs. Cabot, you know where to find me.”

  40

  LITTLE HARBOR, MAINE

  Eliza

  “Evie found us a Plott hound named Jelly Roll,” said Eliza. She and Val were walking Sternman near the harbor, past the wharf, near the outskirts of town. The boats were still out. Every now and then Sternman lifted his face to the wind like he could read a message on it.

  “What’s a Plott hound?” asked Val.

  “That’s what I asked.” Eliza read the text aloud: A LARGE SCENT HOUND BRED FOR HUNTING BOAR.

  “Good heavens,” said Val. “Those kids of yours are something else, Eliza.”

  “I’m pretty sure the wild boar population in Barton is under control, though. So I’m going to tell her no.”

  They turned back when they got to where Main Street veered off, and headed around toward Val’s house. Sternman looked tired but determined, his tongue out, his tail wagging occasionally.

  “Can I ask you something, Eliza?”

  “Of course. Anything.”

  “Did you get everything all sorted out? With Russell?”

  Eliza blushed, and ducked her head so Val couldn’t see her blushing, and then she said, “Yeah.”

  “Good.” Sternman stopped to do his business, and Val whipped out a plastic bag from her pocket. “Those girls of yours, that husband, you’re about as lucky as anyone ever gets, you know.”

  “I know,” said Eliza. “I am, I know. But I’ve done a shitty job of showing it, this summer.” She watched Val tie up the bag. Val made a groaning noise when she stood up, and that reminded Eliza that Val, along with everyone else, was aging. If Joanie were still alive she’d be nearly sixty, just like Val.

  When Val had finished working with the bag she said to Eliza, “No, honey.
Of course not. With what you’ve been dealing with, with Charlie—you’ve done the best you could, as good as anyone would have. Better than most.”

  Eliza shook her head, intent, like a child, on proving herself right. Then she said, “Val? You know that letter you gave me from my mom when I was sixteen?”

  “Yuh.” Val had a strange look on her face, something indecipherable.

  “I wish I had the rest of the lessons, all of them. I need all ten.”

  “Oh, Eliza, you don’t need any more lessons. Look at you. You’ve figured everything else out on your own.”

  “I haven’t,” said Eliza. “I haven’t at all. I’ve been gone, I’ve missed so much, I’ve said terrible things to Rob—” She paused. It was more than the things she’d said, really. Things said in a fight could be forgiven. She went on, trying to get at the root of it. “It’s not just that. I’ve been doing this weird thing where I’m sort of, I don’t know, keeping myself apart from him. Like I’ve not completely bought into our life together, like I’m letting myself be an outsider.” She didn’t mention Phineas Tarbox, but he was there, with his minty breath, his smooth brow.

  Val made an odd noise, like a goat coughing. “But.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. I didn’t say anything.” Val bent to fiddle with Sternman’s collar, which didn’t appear to need any kind of adjusting.

  “Yes you did. You said, But.”

  A long moment passed and stretched between them and then Val stood up again and considered Eliza.

  “There aren’t any more lessons,” said Val. “But there’s more to the letter.”

  That was weird: Eliza’s ears were playing some kind of trick on her.

  “For a second,” said Eliza, “I thought you said there was more to the letter.”

  “That’s what I said.” Val looked straight ahead, her gaze almost presidential in its dignity, its seriousness of purpose. “There’s more to the letter.”

  41

  BARTON, MASSACHUSETTS

  Deirdre

  Mrs. Palmer said she would buy the flowers herself.

  Not really, of course. But during her penultimate meeting with Bree Dawson, the event manager at the club, Deirdre couldn’t help but channel a little Virginia Woolf; Mrs. Dalloway had been one of her favorite books in Modern British Lit at Penn.

  “Almost there!” said Bree. She was young, in her late twenties probably, and head-to-toe gorgeous, with a tousled, short, choppy haircut that only those women blessed with perfect cheekbones can pull off. Deirdre tried to listen to her instead of looking at the hair; she tried to tamp down her envy and think instead about the EANY children, who sometimes had no hair at all. “You must be so excited,” Bree added. There was less than a month to go until the gala, and all of the pieces were sliding into place.

  “I am excited,” Deirdre told Bree. “I am.”

  In reality Deirdre would not buy the flowers herself. (What was she, crazy? She couldn’t buy all of those flowers herself, how on earth would she transport them, keep them fresh?) No. The flowers would be brought up from Lotus Designs, in Boston, and the sometimes overzealous decorating committee would use them to put together the centerpieces, and also a few larger arrangements that would be placed strategically around the ballroom. Deirdre would have to remind them to exercise restraint and caution; she wanted the centerpieces to be tasteful, not to scream excessiveness and waste—excessiveness and waste, of course, represented the opposite of the EANY mission.

  Come to think of it, she should probably oversee the putting together of the centerpieces her very own self. She made a note.

  “Okay,” said Bree, glancing down at her clipboard. “Let’s go over everything.” They sat at a cocktail table near the bar and covered the menu: the passed appetizers, the cold-appetizer station, the sit-down dinner, the specialty cocktail, the liquors, the wine and beer. They walked through the foyer between the grand ballroom and the outside deck where the long tables holding the auction items would be set up. Deirdre produced her list of auction items, and they went through them one by one. They went over the seating arrangements.

  She felt her phone vibrate. Kristi had taken Sofia into Boston for the day; they were going to go on the Swan Boats and get ice cream and maybe do a little shopping on Newbury Street. It was the kind of outing Deirdre would have liked to have with her own daughter, but Judith had told her that the last few weeks before the gala were when the proverbial blank could hit the fan, and that she should stay local. (She’d said it like that, blank.) “Stay on your toes!” Judith had said. “I’m here if you need me.” Deirdre didn’t know what she’d do without Judith. She wished it were possible to adopt someone else’s mother-in-law as your own. She wondered if Eliza might lend Judith out on a semipermanent basis.

  “Excuse me,” she said now to Bree, who was running one hand through her gorgeous hair and making a note on her clipboard with the other. Deirdre dug in her bag for her phone. Sheila Rackley. WANT TO HAVE LUNCH AT THE CLUB?

  She rolled her eyes, hesitated, and texted back, ALREADY HERE. I’LL GET A TABLE.

  When she and Bree had completed their business, Deirdre asked for a table on the outside patio. The day was stunning, not a trace of humidity, and the sun was shining as though it were getting paid by the hour to do so.

  While she waited for Sheila to arrive she checked her phone again, to see if Kristi had texted any photos of her and Sofia on Newbury Street. Kristi hadn’t, so Deirdre checked Sofia’s Instagram account. Nothing. Then Sofia’s fake Instagram account. Still nothing. Well, she’d just have to use her good old-fashioned imagination.

  When Sheila arrived she ordered a burger, rare, no bun, and Deirdre ordered a Cobb salad. Then Sheila ordered a bottle of Piper-Heidsieck. Champagne. Good champagne!

  “I thought you weren’t drinking,” said Deirdre. She hoped that this lunch was going on Sheila’s club tab and not hers.

  “I’m making an exception,” said Sheila.

  “For what occasion?”

  “For the occasion of a beautiful summer day and lunch with my friend.”

  That sounded suspicious. There was something else at play here, Deirdre just didn’t know what it was.

  After the champagne arrived and the fresh young server had opened it and poured it into two flutes and they’d each had a quarter glass Sheila leaned forward and said, “So. Public service announcement. I’d check in on Sofia if I were you.”

  “Why?”

  “Kids are sending stuff around. Body parts.”

  The champagne had gone straight to Deirdre’s head; she was picturing severed limbs in cardboard boxes. “You mean, actual body parts?”

  “No,” said Sheila. “Duh. On their phones. Photos.” She gestured toward her chest and then vaguely beneath the table. “I’d check Sofia’s phone.”

  “Really?” Ugh. “Well, I’m not worried about Sofia doing anything like that.”

  “That’s what every parent says,” said Sheila. “Until they discover that their kid is doing it, was doing it the whole time.”

  Deirdre was pondering the shoddy state of the world and the dangers of social media when she saw a familiar figure striding across the deck. “Rob!” she called. The champagne made her wave extra vigorously. He started toward them, saw Sheila, stopped, probably realized that looked suspicious, started toward them again.

  “Hey,” he said. She watched Rob take in the champagne, the glasses, and say, “Celebrating something?”

  “Not really,” said Deirdre. She tried not to let her eyes meet Rob’s.

  “Just life,” said Sheila. “Why not?”

  “I see,” said Rob, nodding. He looked agitated; he kept shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Was he okay? “Great. Celebrating life. No Sofia? No Jackie?”

  “She’s in Boston,” said Deirdre. “With Kristi. And Sheila’s kids are—where are your kids, again, Sheila?”

  “Camp,” said Sheila firmly. “All day. Thank God for Little
Sailors!”

  Rob nodded again and said, “Actually, I’m thinking of going for a sail.”

  “Alone?” asked Deirdre.

  “Nah,” said Rob. “I’ll scare up a crew.” His eyes scanned the patio.

  Sheila’s phone buzzed and she glanced at it and said, “I’m so sorry, you two, I have to take this, I’ll be quick.” Because cell phone usage was frowned upon on the patio and in the dining room—you could do some covert handbag texting, but you couldn’t really talk—Sheila hightailed it toward the indoor bathrooms, leaving Deirdre and Rob together.

  “You okay?” asked Deirdre. “You look—upset.”

  Rob pressed his lips together and said, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Okay. You want to sit down?” She motioned toward Sheila’s seat. “I can ask for another flute.”

  “No,” said Rob. “Thanks. I’m going to head out.”

  “Wait,” said Deirdre. “Hang on. When you get home, you should check Zoe’s phone. I’ve heard there’s been some texting. Of…” She scanned the patio and lowered her voice. “Body parts.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Rob said. He looked genuinely perplexed: worried and yet approachable, like a shar-pei puppy. “What kind of body parts?”

  “Well,” said Deirdre. “I don’t think they’re talking about feet and elbows, if that helps.”

  Rob understood then. He said, “What?”

  “I know,” said Deirdre. “They’re thirteen. They make bad decisions. Their brains aren’t fused!”

  “They aren’t?”

  “No! They won’t be fused for years.”

  “Yikes.”

  “And, come on, it’s Zoe and Sofia we’re talking about here, they’re pretty innocent. Sometimes I still catch Sofia playing with her American Girl dolls. But even so. Worth checking.” She lowered her voice and added, “It probably all started with Jackie Rackley.”

  She wanted Rob to snort-laugh and say, “Probably,” but he didn’t. He just shifted his weight again and said, “Does Eliza know about this?”