Family Tree

by Susan Wiggs

  “I think I can handle that. How about you pick one, and I’ll pick one.”

  “Go, Dog. Go!” he said immediately, heading for the stairs.

  Ethan bagged up the trash. “Are the garbage cans in the same place?” he asked.

  “No,” she said. “I’ll show you.” Caroline held open the back door. “Over here. We had some trouble with bears, so it’s different now.”

  Darkness had descended, and a few early stars pierced the sky. Caroline used her phone to light the way around the side of the house to the bin. Once a week, Kyle hauled the recyclables and trash down to the transfer station.

  “Pretty slick,” said Ethan, checking out the bear-proof mechanism. “I could use something like that in Dominical. Not for bears, though. For monkeys.”

  Caroline didn’t know what to say to that. The name alone reminded her of the slashing arguments they’d had over it. When Kyle was a senior in high school, he’d been eager to take over the maple business—almost as eager as Ethan had been to hand it off to their son.

  Ethan had shown her pictures of a Costa Rica surf camp, reminding her of the conversations they’d had before the kids came along. He’d found a property. He wanted to buy and develop it.

  Caroline assumed he was kidding. It sounded so far-fetched that she’d actually gone along with the fantasy for a while, describing the breezy open veranda she’d like to design, swagged with colorful woven hammocks. There would be a special corner for her easel and paints, where she could see the ocean and listen to the waves while she worked.

  When it became clear that Ethan was serious about developing the property, her objections failed to stop him. “I’ve lived this life with you for nineteen years,” he’d said, his voice sounding tired with regret. “I’ve tried to like it. The truth is, Caroline, I can’t do this anymore. Come with me. Let’s all go together.”

  She refused to consider it. There was the farm, and her parents. They couldn’t just dump it all in Kyle’s lap for the sake of Ethan’s daydream.

  He claimed he had to leave her—leave their family—in order to save them from himself, and the angry, frustrated person he’d become. He craved a more exciting and varied life, and if she wouldn’t join him on the adventure, he swore he’d go it alone.

  Caroline had not been blindsided by his discontent. She’d seen it coming. A part of her was relieved to say good-bye to the tension and darkness of living with someone who yearned for another life. Even so, the abject terror she’d felt at the prospect of raising the kids without him, the worry over sharing custody with someone who lived half a world away, had overtaken her. What she could never admit, even to herself, was that the Rush family maple farm had never been her dream either. She did love it, but this was not the life she’d pictured for herself. Still, it was a safe, familiar home for her children, and with Kyle coming along so quickly after they married, it had made sense to stay.

  Ethan had never really found a moment of contentment in their life here. The idea that he was just sticking it out until Kyle was old enough to take over made Caroline wonder if he’d ever loved her at all.

  Now, years later, a hot spike of anger broke through. “Maybe Imelda could scare the monkeys away,” she said to Ethan.

  He laughed, unfazed by the remark. “I’m not with Imelda anymore. Haven’t been for a while.” Then he grew serious. “You’ve always had my heart, Caroline.”

  The statement hit her in a soft spot, but she held on to the anger. “You have a funny way of showing that. You couldn’t wait to get out of here.”

  “I did wait. And I tried. Christ, I waited nineteen years, and I tried like hell to make it work. Then when I wanted to go to Costa Rica, you balked.”

  “Did I? Did you even ask me? Maybe there were things I wanted, too.”

  “Like what? And how was I supposed to know to ask?”

  “I wanted to study art,” she admitted. “I wanted to go to the Pratt Institute.”

  “In New York? I thought you loved the farm,” Ethan said.

  “I loved you,” Caroline shot back, then gasped, wishing she could reel in the words she’d just blurted out. “But you took off.”

  “Then why did you stay after I left? You could have gone anywhere.”

  “I needed a place to raise our kids. I needed help from my parents, and when they got older, they needed my help. God knows, you never gave it a thought.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Oh? And what’s fair, Ethan? Answer me that. Was it fair for you to leave?”

  “I left so I wouldn’t self-destruct. But I never stopped loving you. I never stopped missing you.” He raked a hand through his hair—that abundant ash-blond hair, as sexy now as it had been in his youth.

  “Why should I believe you? Those are empty words.”

  “You’re right. They’re empty unless I do something about it.”

  “So you’re going back to Costa Rica in order to . . . what? To love me some more?”

  He grew quiet, and in the darkness, she couldn’t read his expression. “I’m not going back.”

  “That’s news to me.”

  “If you’d talk to me about something other than Annie, you might have learned that I sold the surf camp.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “The paperwork is being processed as we speak.”

  She felt a dull sense of shock. “You abandoned your family to build that place. Was it all for nothing?”

  “No—God, no.”

  “Then why would you do something like that? Why would you sell your dream?”

  “Because ultimately, it was empty, as empty as me saying mere words. The place is paradise. I wish you could have seen it. But even after all this time, it doesn’t mean a thing without you.”

  “And you’re just telling me this now?” She stared at him, incredulous.

  He took a step toward her. “I’m ready to move on to the next big adventure.”

  “Oh, really? And what is that?”

  “What if I said the next big adventure was you?”

  23

  Swimmers, take your marks.”

  Annie sat on the top bleacher of the aquatic center, high and dry. She wore her old, woven wool letterman’s jacket over a new swimsuit. At her feet was her lettered team duffel bag with a towel and change of clothes.

  The buzzer sounded, and Annie tensed briefly, conditioned by years of training right here at this pool. It was twenty-five meters long and L-shaped, with the diving area at the far end. The lanes were demarcated with floating ropes.

  The young swimmers dove off the blocks, torpedoing through the water with all their strength. Coach Malco walked along the deck with her stopwatch and clipboard, exactly as she had done when she was Annie’s coach. The race—a fifty free sprint—ended within about thirty seconds.

  Annie turned to Pam and Olga, who had accompanied her to the pool. “I competed in a triathlon a couple of years ago. And I finished.”

  “No surprise there,” Pam said, and told Olga, “She was always the best athlete on the team.”

  Annie sighed. “Now I’m challenged by walking from the locker room to the rec pool.”

  “You don’t have to do this today,” Pam said.

  “Yes, she does.” It was Coach Malco, seemingly unchanged from years past. Same iron-gray hair, marble-hard expression, steely glint in her eyes above the reading glasses. “Get over there in the rec pool and start your workout, Rush.”

  “You have no mercy.” Annie levered herself up.

  The coach grabbed her hand, helped her down the bleachers, and pointed her in the direction of the rec pool. “Welcome back, Rush,” she said, and offered a quick smile.

  “Thanks. I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired.”

  She managed one lap. It was a start. It felt good to be in the water, though she was ridiculously weak. Pam and Olga swam with her, urging her on. She dragged herself out, panting but triumphant. Then she spied Fletcher, Sanford, and Teddy c
oming toward her.

  “That’s three generations of handsome right there,” Pam murmured.

  “Olga, look!” Teddy ran up to her, brandishing a cloth badge. “I’m a flying fish.” He turned to show Annie. “I made flying fish.”

  “Cool,” Annie said. “Congratulations.” She tried not to check out Fletcher in his swim trunks, but failed. It was impossible not to check out Fletcher in his swim trunks. She felt an intense burn of lust, and suddenly it hit her. She had gone more than a year without sex. Her cheeks flared with heat as she looked up at him. “Hey,” she said.

  “Hey, Annie. Back in training?”

  She felt her cheeks turn redder. There was a time when she had shot effortlessly through the water. “Just getting started.”

  “Help me out with my leg, will you, buddy?” Sanford said to Teddy, heading over to a bench.

  “You didn’t call me back,” Fletcher said.

  He’d left her a voice mail and a text. “I didn’t call you back,” she said. “That was totally rude of me. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. Just say yes. As in, yes, I’d love to go out to dinner with you.”

  “Fletcher—”

  “Dad,” called Teddy. “Dad, let’s go!”

  Fletcher stared at her intently. “Call me back,” he said.

  Annie caught up with Olga, who was walking toward the locker room. “You told them we’d be here?”

  Olga offered an elaborate shrug. “Pam and I think you need a man.”

  “I need a life first,” Annie said. In the locker room, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. “Ick,” she said. “I’m pasty. And hairy.”

  “Yes,” Olga said bluntly. “You need a lot of help.”

  “Not the kind you got in rehab,” Pam said.

  And without further discussion, they took her to the Maple Grove Day Spa for a facial and waxing, manicure and pedicure, followed by a trip to the Peek-a-Boutique for a new outfit and makeup.

  Annie studied her image in the shop mirror. The coral sheath dress fit perfectly. The strappy wedge sandals showed off the pedicure. She still wasn’t used to having short hair. She tried to tell herself that it was a good thing, starting her life over with new hair. But lately, she wasn’t so good at lying to herself. “These curls are awful,” she said.

  “Oh, come on,” said Pam. “They’re adorable.”

  “I look like Betty Boop.”

  “She’s adorable.”

  “She’s a cartoon.”

  Olga combed her fingers through Annie’s hair, expertly styling it with a few pins. “Better,” she said. “You need more lipstick and blush.”

  Annie knew it was useless to argue with Olga. She submitted to the finishing touches, then checked the mirror again.

  “Look at that,” she said, unable to keep from smiling. “I’ve rejoined the living.”

  “It’s good news,” said Lorna Lasher, the brand consultant Annie’s father had hired. She had convened a meeting one Friday morning at her office in Burlington to go over the plan to launch the barrel-aged Sugar Rush. Everyone around the table—Annie, her brother, her parents—leaned forward, tensing.

  “We like good news,” said Annie. Since the pool workouts, she looked and felt strong.

  “Don’t we all? You’re approved for distribution, which was a no-brainer, thanks to your track record. The labeling is finished, so you’re good to go.”

  “Nice,” said Kyle. “Everything’s bottled and ready for shipping.”

  Annie’s father kept watching Lorna. “That’s not the good news,” he said.

  She grinned. “You’re right. That’s the expected news. The good news is, I got you placement in the media.” She passed out a list of broadcasts, websites, and magazines that were going to feature the new product.

  Mom gasped. “Oprah Magazine. The holy grail.” Her mother looked especially pretty today, Annie observed. She’d had her hair done and wore a dress that showed off her figure. Annie wondered if it was for the meeting—or for Dad.

  “The Today show,” Annie said. “Even better.”

  They went over a plan for the product launch. Everything about the meeting felt familiar to Annie—the jargon, the rapid-fire discussion, the charts and spreadsheets. Everything—except her father. It was strange, seeing him in this context.

  There were things she noticed now that she had not realized as a child. He was a good businessman. He kept control of the meeting and created a plan with Lorna that made perfect sense.

  And he had some news of his own. He had finalized an order for a hundred cases of syrup from upscale gourmet shops all over New England and upper New York, with his family firm as the sole distributor.

  Afterward, they went to lunch at an old restaurant on the shore of Lake Champlain. The building used to be an icehouse, but for as long as Annie could remember, it had housed a restaurant famous for family celebrations—graduations, bar mitzvahs, weddings, and anniversaries.

  Walking through the door was like stepping back in time to the day of Kyle’s high school graduation. She was ten years old, dressed in her favorite pin-tucked summer dress and sandals. Back then, they’d been a party of six, her grandfather seated at the head of the table, Gran at his side. Annie remembered standing at the deck railing to watch the Lake Champlain ferryboat. She’d ordered a Shirley Temple and lobster claws with pappardelle pasta, feeling entirely fancy when the dish arrived. In that moment she knew nothing but happiness and security, never imagining it would be the last time the family celebrated anything together.

  A couple of days later, Dad had announced that he was leaving. And just like that, the sky fell down.

  Now, twenty years after, Annie realized her father’s leaving was key to the way she thought about men.

  “Everything all right?” asked her dad, leaning across the table toward her.

  “Oh, fine,” she said, waving away his concern. “Just . . . thinking.”

  “About what?” He offered her the dad smile, the one that used to make her proud to have the handsomest father in all of Switchback. She had idolized him, put all her admiration and trust in him—and then he’d left.

  “Thinking about the last time we were all together at this restaurant,” she said, shrinking from telling him—or anyone—what was truly on her mind. “Gran and Gramps were with us.”

  “Kyle’s graduation,” her mother said, darting a glance at her father.

  Annie studied her parents now, sensing . . . something. She caught Kyle’s eye and tried to convey a what’s-going-on question, but he was Kyle and he was a guy and he was clueless.

  The sommelier came with a bottle of Billecart-Salmon, and she knew for sure something was happening. “Pink champagne,” she murmured. “And so early in the day. What’s the occasion?”

  “Let’s have a toast,” her father said, once all their glasses were filled.

  “To barrel-aged Sugar Rush,” Kyle said. “And to our other new product, Head Rush.”

  “Wait,” said Annie. “Head Rush?”

  Her parents exchanged another look, both seeming as mystified as she was.

  “I qualified for a growing permit to supply a licensed dispensary.”

  “Oh my God. You’re going to grow pot,” said Mom.

  “Awesome,” Dad said under his breath.

  “For medical use only,” Kyle told her, “until it’s legalized, which is likely to happen in a year or two.”

  “And Beth’s on board with this?”

  “Mom. Quit worrying. Beth is fine with the plan.”

  Their father took a sip of champagne. “You’ll figure it out on your own. The syrup, the farm, the weed—everything.”

  “That’s been the idea all along, Dad,” said Kyle. To Annie’s knowledge, her brother had never directly confronted their father about leaving, but there was an edge to his comment.

  “What your father is trying to say is that he—I—we won’t be directly involved from here on out,” said Mom. “We�
��ve got plans.”

  Annie’s skin prickled. We? Plans?

  “What kind of plans?” asked Kyle.

  Their parents looked at one another again. They reminded her of nervous teenagers trying to figure out how to admit to a fender bender. There was something about them, something new and awkward, that made them look like teenagers.

  “Your father and I . . . We’re moving in together,” Mom said in a rush.

  “What?” Annie exploded.

  “Jesus,” Kyle said at the same time.

  Dad took Mom’s hand. “Since I’ve been back, we’ve been . . . talking.”

  Annie had a sneaking suspicion that “talking” was code for . . . She wouldn’t let her mind go there.

  “We’re getting a place in New York,” Dad said. “We found an apartment in Chelsea.”

  “What the heck are you going to do in the city?” asked Annie.

  “I’m going to start continuing ed classes at Pratt, and your dad’s expanding the fine-food division of his distributorship to Manhattan.”

  “You’re serious,” said Kyle.

  “We are,” said Mom. “It probably sounds rash or sudden, but we’re serious. And happy. And we want you to be happy for us. Happy with us.”

  She was glowing. Glowing. Annie had not seen her mother glow since she was a young mom, being waltzed around the kitchen when Dad came in from work.

  This was her shot, Annie realized. Her mother’s shot at art school, the one she hadn’t taken all those years ago. Annie felt nothing but pleased about that. But getting back together with Dad? With a guy who had walked away from her twenty years before?

  “I do want you to be happy,” Annie said.

  “But,” her mother prompted.

  “I’m skeptical,” Annie said. “How do I know this is going to work out better than it did the last time?”

  “You don’t know,” Dad admitted. “You have to trust. I can promise you, we’re in this to make it work. And we will.”

  “Do you hear that?” Annie asked her brother. “Does any of this make sense to you?”

  He was in the middle of chewing on a dinner roll. “No,” he said. “The one it has to make sense to is Mom.”