Trust Fund Babies

by Jean Stone

  Her silence resumed. Gabrielle bent her head to her knees, sitting still for seconds or minutes or hours—time did not matter, it all seemed the same. Finally, she spoke.

  “Aunt Dorothy knew my father wasn’t with me.”

  “I think Aunt Dorothy was afraid of my mother. Without Margaret Atkinson to keep her life together, what would have happened to Dorothy?”

  Gabrielle gave a small shrug. “Well, we’ll never know now.” She thought for a moment. “At least she came to see me. At least she didn’t let your mother get the last word on everything.”

  “Even though my mother never knew.”

  “I think she did.”

  Nikki was puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  “One time in London, I wanted a fur muff. It was so pretty, all fluffy and white. But it was expensive. I said to Aunt Dorothy, ‘It costs way too much,’ and she went into her purse and took out a handful of money and said, ‘Well, Margaret insisted we have a good time, so let’s think of this as part of a good time.’ I never asked her what she meant.”

  Nikki shook her head. Did that mean her mother had not been totally malicious? Did that make up for cheating Gabrielle out of her family? For sending her away, alone? Nikki wrestled with her thoughts. Was it time they all worked toward forgiveness, of both the living and the dead?

  “I always knew it must have been awful to find your mother on the rocks,” Nikki added, “but to have witnessed her jump from the lighthouse … to have watched her suicide …”

  Gabrielle stood up and brushed off her pants. “It was awful, Nikki, but it was not suicide. I don’t know how I know, but I will never, in my heart, believe that my mother killed herself.”

  Carla had spent two nights in a house with a man she did not know. What would Theresa think of that? An Italian at that, even though he was married, even though he spent the whole time mooning over his wife until she got back from New York.

  Yesterday, however, Gabrielle came back but Stefano did not. Carla did not know if he’d left the island; no one told her and she did not want to ask. If she asked too many questions they might remember she was there and send her off on the next slow boat to the Bronx. She figured she had no business being there any longer, not really, even though she answered the phone when Sam called three times a day to check up on Molly and to report that Lester was still among the missing, though he had been seen once or twice in town. So she talked to Sam and tracked the leads that came over the computer, which so far had been five, though they’d turned out to be zilch.

  Mostly she pretended to be busy, like she was doing now, as she tried not to stare at Nikki and Gabrielle on the steps, tried to act as if she weren’t listening. But how hard was that! A real Atkinson drama unfolding right there in her presence; it was better than watching those old movies on TV; it was better than rummaging through the old house looking for clues about the way they lived.

  She’d called Donnie yesterday to see how he was doing: He asked if they were paying for her time and her work. Paying her? To live there among them? To be part of the world she’d only seen from the other side of the desk? Donnie, however, would not understand. She’d told him to think of it as a vacation. She did not tell him that they couldn’t pay her even if they were so inclined, because Lester had taken off with their fortune, and the least she could do was help. She did not tell him that, because she still felt loyal to the man who’d deserted both the Atkinsons and her.

  Stupid, she knew, but such was her life.

  She only hoped she could stay until the Atkinson wedding, though she had no idea what she would wear.

  “Carla?”

  While Carla had been daydreaming, Nikki had entered the cottage.

  Hell’s bells, Carla thought. Had she been caught? She focused on the computer screen, intent on her work.

  “I wondered if you’d do me a favor,” Nikki said. “Gabrielle wants to go home. Would you go to the lighthouse and pack her things? She wants to wait here and I don’t want to leave her. She’s upset about a few things.”

  Carla turned off the computer. “She wants to go home, like to Italy?”

  Nikki nodded. “She went to find Molly; I offered to make the arrangements.”

  She didn’t take the red truck Gabrielle had come in; Nikki told Carla she’d take care of it after Gabrielle had gone.

  Carla parked Nikki’s car and focused on her mission, trying not to get carried away that she was going to see the inside of the lighthouse.

  “Her things are in the guest bedroom on the second floor,” Nikki had said.

  She climbed the spiral staircase, her eyes busily working to absorb everything in the few minutes that she had. For a lighthouse, it wasn’t very exciting except that it was round; for belonging to an Atkinson, it was even less … impressive. She might have lived there herself for the lack of expensive-looking stuff, although she didn’t know if there were lighthouses in the Bronx.

  On the second-floor landing, Carla paused and looked up toward the light, toward the top, from where Nikki said Gabrielle’s mother had committed suicide, but Gabrielle said that she had not.

  She looked around quickly to see if anyone was there, then carefully climbed the rest of the stairs to the top, quietly, on her tiptoes, one small step at a time.

  The first thing she noticed was the canvases all around and the slight scent of turpentine that lingered in the air. She had heard talk about Nikki’s wonderful paintings; she had not seen one until now, until the one on the easel that showed a little girl with red curls. Molly! Carla thought. It was Sam’s daughter, smiling and bright-eyed and clinging to Barbie. She did not look as if she were sick; she did not look as if she had AIDS and might die.

  Then it hit her. Like the time she’d stood up too fast and cracked her skull on an open file drawer, the realization bonked Carla smack on the head. Lester’s paintings, she thought. I never told Sam about Lester’s paintings.

  Oh, God, she thought, smacking her palm against her forehead. Why was she so stupid? And what else should she have remembered about Lester that she’d forgotten?

  “Nikki!”

  Carla froze in place. This time she’d been caught red-handed, the nosey, unwelcome snoop. Worst of all, the voice belonged to Mary Beth.

  “It’s not Nikki,” Carla replied, but as she got the words out, Mary Beth was halfway up the stairs. She stood in Nikki’s studio, looking at Carla.

  “What are you doing here?” She didn’t sound pissed, just confused.

  “I, ah …” If she said she’d come to get Gabrielle’s things, Mary Beth would wonder what she was doing there at the top of the lighthouse.

  “My cousin, Nicole,” Mary Beth said, turning to the portraits as if she’d forgotten the question she’d just asked. “She really is a wonderful artist, isn’t she? If only she’d get discovered, she might be able to support all of us now.” Then Mary Beth laughed. “But I doubt she wants that; she’d rather sit here in this hovel looking out to the sea.” She walked to the window and did just that, looked out to the sea.

  “Do you think she did it?” Carla asked even though she shouldn’t, but she couldn’t help it.

  “Do I think who did what?”

  “Gabrielle’s mother. Do you think she killed herself?”

  Mary Beth folded her arms. “Who told you that? It was an accident, down there on the jetty. She slipped on the rocks …” She turned around to Carla. “No,” she said, “that’s not true. Aunt Rose did commit suicide. My mother told me a long time ago. But how did you know? No one was supposed to know.”

  Well, it wasn’t as if they were trying to talk in seclusion. Nikki and Gabrielle had been outside on the stairs where anyone could have heard. Carla sighed. “I heard Nikki tell Gabrielle that she just found out.”

  Mary Beth nodded. “I never told Nikki. She loved Aunt Rose so much, I never wanted her to think Aunt Rose had done that.”

  Carla didn’t know Mary Beth very well, but she was surprised at that news. S
he’d somehow figured Mary Beth never thought that much about other people’s feelings.

  “Well, Gabrielle doesn’t believe it.”

  “I wouldn’t want to believe it about my mother, would you?”

  No, Carla agreed she would not. “Anyway,” Carla said, “I came to get her things. She’s going home.”

  “Today? How’s she planning to do that? She’ll never get off-island on a freaking Saturday. Besides, I need her to stay for the wedding. The guest list is dropping like flies.”

  Carla shrugged. “Nikki’s trying to make arrangements.”

  “Well, if Gabrielle insists on going, and if Nikki can get her on a flight from Boston, you could always take a ferry with her to Woods Hole where the Lincoln is parked. You could take the car and drive her to Logan. I’d do it myself, but this wedding is driving me insane and Shauna comes tomorrow …”

  “I’d be glad to help,” Carla said quickly, though Donnie would wonder if she’d be paid for that, too.

  23

  The supposed some people might say she lived in denial, but Mary Beth knew that was far from the truth. No one was more aware of the absurdities and the realities of being an Atkinson than Mary Beth was.

  She plunked on the settee in the drawing room with a big glass of wine and a long cigarette, and, for the first time since she’d spoken with Shauna, allowed herself to think about Eric and about Roxanne, and about what this would do to the wedding and to her life. Taking a long drag, she knew she was damned if she was going to let this interfere with the wedding. Only a handful, really, of guests out of six hundred had canceled; perhaps they knew about her money or about Eric or perhaps not. It did not matter. What mattered was that this was for Shauna, no matter what Eric said.

  And, no matter what Eric did, the show would go on.

  Shauna and Dee and Jason would be there tomorrow, and Mary Beth would be grateful for the activity. Despite the fact that it would be Sunday the cleaning people would start: They’d be there every day from now until then, polishing and shining and getting everything Atkinson-worthy; the gardeners would show up Monday and begin to manicure every inch of the lawn, every flower and tree and every grain of beach sand.

  It all would be perfect, because she would demand it. After next week she’d have the rest of her life to figure out how she would pay for it, and for her mother, too.

  In the meantime, Sam might always show up with Lester and her millions in tow.

  Then again, there was probably a better chance of Dorothy getting back her mind.

  Or of Eric leaving Roxanne and coming home to her.

  She stood up and went to the window, where outside the orange sunset reflected off Katama Bay. She thought about Dorothy and Nikki and Gabrielle, and she wished someone were around to make her feel less alone. Instead she’d have to rely on the wine and the smokes, and on crawling into bed before it dared turn dark.

  Nikki had taken Gabrielle and Carla to the ferry because, as Mary Beth had predicted, there was no other way to get Gabrielle off the Vineyard than to take the ferry as passengers, get the Lincoln, and drive up to Boston. Nikki would have gone, but with a new group of kids arriving tomorrow, there was too much to be done.

  Besides, she needed to be with Mack, which was why she had gone to the tavern, dragged him downstairs, and driven out to Philbin Beach, where they now sat alone, watching the sunset and talking through tears.

  “I thought you were still in New York,” Mack said. “I went home to pick up a few things …” His intentions had been innocent, but when he saw Gabrielle on the jetty, he could not help but stare.

  How could he not?

  “What’s done is done, Mack,” Nikki said. “But I told her everything I know now, everything that had been told to Mary Beth and me; everything you’ve told me since. Maybe in time Gabrielle will understand.”

  “And maybe I’ve wasted too many years hoping for that,” Mack replied. “Three times now she’s turned away from me, Nikki. How much longer should I go on pretending things might be different? When do I stop mourning the loss of my family and get on with my life?”

  Nikki frowned. She thought Mack had gotten on with his life. His life on the Vineyard. His life with her. “I don’t understand,” she said. “I thought you liked your life here.” She was careful not to say “our life,” because to do so would have broken their unspoken rule.

  He picked up a shell and tossed it toward the water. “You think I like living in a caretaker’s cottage, hiding from the world, knowing there’s a woman I love not thirty feet from me living in a damn lighthouse because she thinks we can’t get married and live a respectable life, where we can have friends over for dinner and go out to the movies and once in a while hold hands in public? A life where I can be proud of my wife for the good that she gives to the world, and show that pride to others in more ways than hanging up some lousy posters?”

  His words came so fast, his words were so dense, she could not help but think he’d stored them for years, collecting them during those long hours spent in the cottage in front of the fireplace, all that time she’d thought he’d been thinking about Rose.

  “Mack,” she replied, “I don’t know what to say,” because she did not.

  “Do you know I was only twenty-nine years old when Rose died? I was still a child, Nicole. Haven’t I suffered long enough?”

  She took his hand. She kissed it. “I love you,” she said. “I love you, but I never once thought you’d want to marry me. I never once thought we could have a real life …”

  “Because of Gabrielle? Or because of what people might say? Would that make you any different from your cousin Mary Beth?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe I was too afraid myself. Too afraid to let myself be dependent on a man.”

  “Dependent?” He laughed. “Until a few weeks ago, you were the one with all the money.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t mean financially. I mean emotionally dependent. Until we got together, I too often confused sex with real love. I didn’t know how to love, and what was worse was that I knew it. Damn, I knew it.”

  He took her by the hand and led her down to the shoreline, where the gentle surf of low tide was cool on her toes. Then he stopped and took her into his arms and said, “Nicole Atkinson, will you marry me?” Then he kissed her more deeply than she’d ever known, and suggested they stay there all night on the beach, with only each other and a blanket for their love.

  When the telephone rang it was dark outside and felt like the middle of the night. As Mary Beth reached to answer she noticed the clock: one twenty-five. Her heart sped up quickly with the alarm of adrenaline that said something was wrong.

  “Mary Beth, it’s Alice.”

  Alice? Who the hell was Alice?

  “Where’s Nikki? Oh, God, I can’t find Nikki. Is she there with you?”

  Oh. That Alice, the one who ran things for Nikki while Nikki paid the bills, past tense, of course.

  “I have no idea where she is.” She crawled out of bed and went to the window. “What’s wrong, Alice?” She peered out the window: the VW was not parked next to the lighthouse. Nor was Mack’s red truck outside.

  “It’s Molly, Sam’s daughter. She’s had a seizure. Please, Mary Beth, I need someone’s help. Will you come to the hospital? I’ll pick you up if you don’t have a car.”

  Mary Beth shook her head. “No, I don’t have a car. But what can I do? I don’t even know his daughter, do I?”

  “She’s so sweet, Mary Beth, and she’s so scared. We have plenty of medical people, but she needs someone else. Without Nikki or Gabrielle … and even Carla’s gone …”

  “Oh, all right,” Mary Beth said. “But give me twenty minutes to put on some clothes.”

  “I’ll be there in ten,” Alice said and hung up.

  Mary Beth hung up and wondered if because Sam was away looking for Lester, she was responsible for the welfare of his child.

  And, she wondered as she climbed
into last night’s clothes, where the hell was Nikki, anyway?

  She sat in the waiting area of the Emergency Room, wondering if this was a mistake. She barely knew Sam, after all, and God knew she’d never been real good with kids, let alone with sick ones. It was a miracle Shauna had grown into a normal young woman, despite a socialite mother and a social-climbing father.

  Eric, she thought, and instantly needed to wash down the vile taste his name brought to her throat.

  “Coffee?” she asked Alice, who was stuck to the blue vinyl chair beside her.

  Alice turned to her. “I lost my son, you know. To this disease. He wasn’t a child. He was gay.”

  Mary Beth had no idea what to say. How did one respond to that? How could one pretend to understand that kind of pain? “Would you like coffee?” she repeated.

  Alice shook her head.

  Mary Beth got up and went to the vending machine. She took one out of her remaining dollar bills and indicated coffee, no cream or sugar.

  The paper cup thumped down the chute and Mary Beth waited for the spigot to fill it up. Then, looking at the cup, her eyes traveled down to her feet. Her pink high-heeled sandals looked quite ridiculous, out of place in this quiet room where the air was sober and the feeling grim. She glanced around at the others who waited: most were dressed in tourist clothes, shorts and silk-screened T-shirts from golf clubs and resorts in other parts of the country and beyond. A few had cameras that hung from cords around their necks, as if the owners were afraid to leave them in their cars, as if the Nikon thieves would strip them of the photos of their Vineyard vacation while their foreheads were being stitched from their moped accidents.

  Then it dawned on her: It was nearly two o’clock in the morning? How long had those people been there? She couldn’t wait forever …

  “Ms. Atkinson?” a nurse asked. “I’m Eliza. I volunteer at Camp4Kids.”

  Mary Beth did not recognize her, because she’d had her own problems and hadn’t wanted to take on Nikki’s, too.