by Susan Wilson
“Snap out of it.” Kiley squared her shoulders. What parent hadn’t endured this? It was the whole goal of raising a child, after all. Catch and release. Except if you were lucky, you had someone to share the loneliness with, halving it.
Kiley thought of Grainger’s face framed by the window of his truck, the clarity with which she saw him, even to the silver gray touching his temples. He seemed too young for so much gray. Had his life continued hard? She knew next to nothing about him. Only that he was here, that he owned the boat works, and that Will had rooted out his historical relationship with her. Seeing Conor MacKenzie, with his obvious resemblance to Mack as Mack would have matured, then seeing Grainger, had been surreal—not quite a nightmare, not quite a dream. They were at once recognizable, and yet completely different. As was she.
She needed to know what Grainger was telling Will this morning, what version of the story he thought the boy should know.
Kiley tied on her sneakers, her mind seeing only Grainger. She struggled to loop the laces, her hands trembling so much she kept missing. It wasn’t fear that caused her to tremble, but excitement—which was odd. All morning long she’d tried not to imagine what Grainger would tell Will; it was too awful to consider. The facts about herself and her teenage inability to see farther than the end of her own nose were highly unflattering.
Kiley walked along the bluff, oblivious to the spangled sea below her. She walked toward the village, heedless of cars passing by, unaware of bicycles swerving around her. Her route took her past the Yacht Club, past the brick medical building where Doctor MacKenzie had practiced, past the library where they’d feasted on books on rainy days, past Linda’s Coffee Shop and LaRiviere’s Market, where Grainger once lived. Her destination was beyond all landmarks of her youth. Her destination was the old boathouse, now Egan’s Boat Works. Her destination was Grainger.
Kiley paused at the sign with its pretty schooner silhouette. The driveway was no longer swaled, but neatly graveled and smooth. A bend in the driveway and the topography of the shoreline kept the boathouse out of sight until she was halfway down the long drive, when it hove into view. It was so different from the last time she’d seen it, a derelict building, smelling of wino piss, where kids would sometimes congregate to drink.
Kiley hadn’t given rehearsal space to imaginary conversation. She’d let the words come as they would. Maybe they would use Will as a buffer, letting him guide the conversation.
The gravel driveway straightened out to end in a boat ramp. Three boats in various stages of renovation were arranged in a row on cradles of blocks and poppets. One was partially sanded; another still under a parachute cloth of orange, blue, and green; the third was Random.
Across the driveway was the boathouse: a tall shingled building, its gambrel roof providing extra interior height, small casement windows running along the side facing Kiley, each having a window box beneath the mullioned glass, all open to the warm July day. White and purple pansies and deep red begonias were surrounded by dusty miller, and variegated euonymus draped over the edges of the blue boxes. The end of the building facing her was taken up with a sliding plank door, high and wide enough to accommodate a good-sized vessel. The side entry of the boathouse was wide open.
Except for Grainger’s truck, the driveway was empty. Will was already gone. She had a momentary hesitation, a swell of nerves that nearly caused her to turn around halfway down the drive. Then Grainger’s odd-looking dog meandered out to greet her. As he sniffed at her feet, Kiley bent and patted his head. He wore a leather collar with an ornate brass name tag fixed to it. “Pilot. Hello, Pilot.”
Pilot politely wagged his tail and nosed her hand for another pat.
“He likes you.”
Grainger’s voice startled Kiley.
“He’s cute. What is he?” Did her voice reveal her nervousness? It sounded terribly thin to her ears.
“Anyone’s guess.”
Pilot left Kiley where she stood, a few yards from the door. Cocking his head, he looked at his master standing in the doorway, then went inside. Grainger and Kiley remained fixed in their places.
If it had only been the confluence of adolescent hormones and proximity, if nothing had happened that night, maybe they would have simply outgrown their triangular crush and moved on. If Will hadn’t been conceived. But Will existed and this man could be his father. She would never ask anything of him, but it would be good to try and explain why she had never let him know about Will. But, how could one simply step over the chasm dug over nineteen years? Once upon a time, they had been friends; and, no matter who had fathered him, they did have Will between them. Kiley took a short step forward. “How was Will’s lesson?”
“It went well.”
“Good. My father’s happy he’s taking lessons.” Her pulse began to slow back to normal. “You didn’t call me back about Random.”
Grainger pressed a hand on either side of the doorjamb. “I only just listened to my messages.”
“My father’s talking about racing her in the August Races before selling her.”
“To showcase her qualities?”
“Something like that. But he’s pretty infirm and needs a crew.”
“Will’s going to be a pretty good sailor.”
Kiley smiled. “I should have taught him to sail years ago. The truth is, I haven’t been in a boat, except on a lake in a motorboat or a canoe, since…since that summer. I just can’t stomach the idea. I was on the Vineyard a couple of summers ago, and when everyone went out on a chartered catamaran, I begged off and spent the day reading.”
“As I recall, you were always a better passenger than sailor.”
“Oh, stop.”
Their laughter released some of the tension between them.
“Dad wants to know if you would consider being the fourth crewman. He needs someone who knows what he’s doing.”
“I’ll think about it.” He remained in the doorway. “Will you still be in Hawke’s Cove that late in the season? Will you be aboard?”
Her smile vanished. “It depends on certain circumstances. I’m job hunting.”
“Will mentioned what happened. Tough break.” Grainger let go of the doorjamb. “Did you come only to talk about Random?”
“No. We both know there are a few other things we should talk about.”
Grainger nodded and stepped aside. “You’re right. We do.” His voice hadn’t changed from the one in her memory, still husky, as if holding on to words, reluctant to say them. “I have coffee on; would you like some?”
“Yes. Please.” Her voice still sounded indistinct to her, as if from a great distance.
As polite as a host to a stranger, Grainger stood aside and let Kiley pass into the boathouse.
As polite as a guest, Kiley complimented Grainger on the place, on its working nautical decor. She noted the mahogany boat ladder angled against the edge of the loft, the corner devoted to reading and television, the galley kitchen with its marine-sized stove and refrigerator. The center space was occupied by a boat she recognized.
“Miss Emily still looks good.”
Grainger nodded. “Claridge sails her only about twice a season, but he likes to keep her in trim.” Grainger pulled a clean mug out of the dish rack. “How are your parents?”
“Elderly. Which is why I’m here in Hawke’s Cove—to get the house ready to sell.” As she spoke, tears lurched up in one last drive for freedom, and her last two words were drowned in a sob. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s come over me.”
Grainger remained behind the cherry-wood island counter as she tried to regain control. He made no move to console her, watching as one might an unavoidable accident, knowing there was nothing that would stop it.
As suddenly as the crying jag began, it was over, and Kiley hunted through her shorts pocket for a tissue. Released from his stasis, Grainger handed her a box of Kleenex.
“I’ve only done that once, the first day we arrived. I’ve been re
ally good about not letting it get to me.” Kiley dabbed at her eyes with a twisted corner of tissue. She’d long since stopped weeping at the thought of the house being sold; these tears came from being here, with Grainger.
“You’d have to be pretty heartless not to be upset about selling the old place.” Grainger set the Kleenex box back on the counter. “Toby told me you fired him.”
Kiley bit her lip, half in shame and half in amusement. “Sort of. Except that my mother won’t hear of changing real estate agents at this point. I got mad when he said something about tearing the place down.”
“Toby is an okay guy; he’s just an asshole sometimes. No one is going to tear down your house.”
Kiley went over to the boat, running a hand along its smooth, newly painted white hull. “How long have you been back in Hawke’s Cove?”
“About four years.”
“Not long.”
“Not by Cove standards, no. I had some money, so I invested in this place. I make a living doing what I enjoy. Can’t complain.”
“That’s such a Yankee statement.”
“I’m a Yankee.”
“Why did you come back?” Kiley almost didn’t ask the question, afraid to disturb the fragile balance between them. “I remember that you always said you wouldn’t.”
“I’d had enough of traveling, and I finally came to the conclusion that, for good or ill, Hawke’s Cove was home. And my father was dead, so at least one of my demons had been exorcised.” Grainger came to stand beside her, and it felt almost as if he was going to touch her, but he didn’t. “What about you? Why have you never come back until now, when it’s almost too late?”
“I lacked the guts. I believed that as long as I stayed away, I could preserve the happy memories.”
“We all have our delusions. No, ‘delusions’ is a harsh word—we all have our coping mechanisms.” Grainger went into the kitchenette and poured them coffee, then sat beside her on one of the two barstools in front of the short island counter.
It felt almost normal, almost as if, as long as they kept to the present, they could have a civil conversation, that the overwhelming truth of their past might be put on hold. Even if just for a little while.
“Toby told me that your parents are selling the house to pay for Will’s tuition.”
“Toby certainly has a big mouth.”
“He has no idea that I know you. He thinks he’s still living in a city, where no one knows anyone else.”
“So he’s a carpetbagger real estate parasite.”
Grainger laughed and nodded. “That about describes him perfectly. Although, in his defense, he is a pretty upstanding member of the community. He’s always willing to be the clown at the dunk-a-clown booth at the annual carnival.”
“True to type, I’d say.” Kiley added a teaspoon of sugar to the overly cooked coffee. She enjoyed the feeling that this conversation was one they might have had long ago, relishing the familiarity of its rhythms.
“Tell me about Will.”
The feeling of comfort vanished. “He’s off to Cornell in September. He graduated sixth in his class; he was captain of his high school baseball team, and the team went on to the state championships. He works at a burger place, and has saved enough money that I may let him get a car next year.”
“That’s not what I want to know. I want to know why you never told him about me. Or about Mack.”
“Because I didn’t know how.” This time the tears were silent, steady, but did not take her breath away. “Will was a boy, who did boy things and got into boy scrapes and left dirty dishes in his room under clean clothes. He, like you and Mack, loves baseball and other sports. He, like you and Mack, is kindhearted and clever. He, like you and Mack, is good to me. He loves me. He’s a good son.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about him?”
“Because if I kept him to myself, he would always belong to all three of us,” she whispered.
There were still some things she couldn’t speak aloud. As painful as Grainger’s rage was that night, Kiley had hoped that they might eventually be able to shuck their mistakes—her mistakes—and rebuild their friendship. But Mack’s death meant their friendship could never be fixed. How could Grainger ever forgive her? They’d spun out of each other’s orbit that night. Catapulted by the velocity of their mistake.
In the middle of October that year, Kiley realized she carried a child, one who might have been Mack’s or Grainger’s. Had Mack survived and Grainger come back to Hawke’s Cove, she would still have had to choose between them. She still couldn’t have them both. But she did have Will.
“I just couldn’t tell you. Don’t forget that we were kids, his age, when all of this happened. I handled it the best way I knew.”
“Didn’t I deserve to know?”
“Do you remember the last words you said to me? After that, how could I believe that you would ever want anything to do with me?”
Grainger looked into his coffee cup. “You’re right. We were kids, and we had no idea how to handle ourselves. But Kiley, we aren’t kids anymore, and haven’t been for a long time. I would have wanted to know.”
Kiley got up from the barstool. She couldn’t sit there any longer; the conversation was too painful. She moved toward the door, then stopped, remembering the original reason for her visit. “You and Will talked this morning?” She came back to stand beside Grainger.
“Yes.” They were nearly eye to eye as he remained seated.
“Do you want to tell me what you told him?”
“That I behaved badly. That Mack died because of it.”
Kiley reached out and touched Grainger’s shoulder. “It wasn’t your fault, Grainger. It was mine.”
“It doesn’t really matter. Mack is dead because of us.” His words were harsh, but he didn’t shake off her hand as she touched his cheek. He opened his arms, gathering her gently against his shoulder. He rested his cheek against her hair and rocked her slightly, as if they were on the deck of a boat. “I wish you’d told me about Will.”
“I have so many regrets, I can’t even begin to apologize.”
“Do you regret having him?”
“Oh, no. I’ve never regretted that.”
Grainger held her gently, as if holding her closer would break them both.
Kiley pulled away from him. “I should go.”
“Tell your father I’ll crew on Random.” Grainger let go of her. “Tell him I’ll get her in the water by the end of the month. If I can have Will’s help.”
“Maybe you and Will could come back later and we can go over Random to see what needs to be done.” Grainger had walked her to the door.
Kiley shook her head. “I can’t, Grainger.”
He had his hand on the doorknob and leaned his weight against it. “I understand.”
“No, it’s not…I’m having dinner with Conor MacKenzie.” Instantly, Kiley knew she’d said it wrong, but any attempt to rephrase it wouldn’t make it sound any less significant. Grainger held the door wide, and she stepped outside where the sunlight made her squint. “It’s no big deal; I can put him off.”
“No. Please don’t. It was just an idea.”
The fleeting comfort Kiley had enjoyed was gone, in its place a new tension.
There seemed little else to say. “Nice to see you,” seemed an awesome understatement. They were standing on either side of a gateless fence; she had raised the central division between them by speaking Conor MacKenzie’s name.
“Good-bye, Grainger.”
“Good-bye, Kiley.” His dog sat at his feet.
Kiley started up the drive.
“Kiley?”
She hated the involuntary squeeze of her heart at his call.
“Tell Will to come back tomorrow if he wants to help.” Grainger didn’t wait for her reply, but turned and shut the door.
• • •
When Kiley got home, Will was on the porch. He’d made sandwiches and iced tea. She didn’t realize sh
e was holding her breath until she mounted the steps. What would he say to her? She wouldn’t tell Will she’d been with Grainger just yet. She wanted to hear what his reaction was to Grainger’s story. Would he retreat into the grunts and shrugs of adolescence, or would he open up?
Will was flopped in a rocking chair, his feet up against the railing, and half of a ham-and-cheese sandwich already down. “Where were you?”
“Out for a walk.” She sat down and picked up a sandwich. “How was it?”
Will set his big feet down on the floor and put out one hand. Kiley put hers in his, amazed once again how big his were, how manly. She felt the roughness of a new callus where he’d been holding on to lines all morning. She heard her own breath going in and out of her chest, and waited for him to say something.
“It was okay. Grainger was pretty open about stuff.” Will took another bite of sandwich, chewing slowly, as if his first hunger was in abeyance. “He says I’ll make a good sailor.”
“What else did he say?” Was Will being deliberately maddening?
Her son squeezed her fingers and then let go. “Enough. Enough for now.”
Will needed time to digest this story, so long in the keeping. She’d have to let him come to his own conclusions about how to handle what he’d heard. At least—at the very least—he was here, wolfing sandwiches and smiling. It would have to be enough.
“Are you okay with it?” She was allowed that one question.
“I think so. I mean, it is a pretty romantic story. Let’s just say that it could have been a lot worse. I don’t mean that losing Mack like that wasn’t a tragedy; obviously it affected all of you forever. But I mean…” Will set his crust down on the platter and picked up half of a second sandwich. He didn’t bite it, but held it in his hand, studying it. “For a long time I worried that I was the product of a rape, that you made up a fairy tale about the love of your life. Thankfully, I’m not. I’m the product of one of the two loves of your life. How bad is that?”