by Susan Wilson
Grainger got up and touched the top of the headstone. “I’ll teach your son how to sail, Mack.”
Twenty-five
Will was late getting home, as usual, but Kiley still had an hour before she was to meet Conor in Great Harbor.
“I’ll make you a hamburger, if you want.”
Will’s hair was wet from his shower. “Sure. Cheeseburger, though, okay?”
“Sure. And I need you to cut the grass before dark. Toby’s coming tomorrow with a client.”
“I was going out with Catherine.”
“Again?”
Will gave her that slightly askew smile he’d perfected to charm her. “Yeah. Can she have dinner with us tomorrow night?”
“Of course.” Kiley opened the refrigerator and leaned in, mostly to hide her own slightly askew smile. “So now you have your own reason for getting that grass cut. The mower’s in the garage.”
Will’s grumbling was halfhearted as he went out to assess the situation.
• • •
Kiley recognized Anthony’s Restaurant as Marge’s Place from her youth. Now it had gone upscale, serving small portions on large white plates at a price an entire family once spent to eat there. Conor was waiting for her, standing up as the hostess brought her over to his window seat with its view of Great Harbor, perimetered on three sides with slips filled with cabin cruisers. Conor was dressed in a coat and tie, and Kiley felt underdressed in black clam diggers and a yellow cotton sweater.
“I’m sorry I’m late.”
“Not at all, I’m a little early.” Conor motioned to the waiter. “I took the liberty of ordering a bottle of wine. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not.” Kiley knew then that, despite what she’d said to Grainger, this was a date date. Conor had tricked her. Kiley kept her eyes on the waiter as he performed his ritual with the wine bottle. Not an expensive wine; good. Maybe it was just cheaper to order by the bottle. Conor pronounced it fit for drinking and the waiter poured the white wine into her glass.
“I’ve been making some inquiries.”
“Conor, I’m really not sure I want to relocate.”
“Kiley, I have contacts all over New England.” Conor raised his glass. “Shall we toast?”
Kiley raised her glass and waited.
Connor said, “To reunions.”
“How about: To new jobs?”
“Let’s have a reunion first, before we talk business. I want to know how you’ve been. What’s kept you away from Hawke’s Cove all these years?”
Kiley set her glass down on the white linen tablecloth but kept her fingers just touching the stem. “I have a son.”
“So, you did get married.”
“No. Not exactly.”
“Kiley, that’s no big deal these days. Did you want to be a single mother? That’s very brave.”
Brave. No, brave would be telling this near stranger that her son might be his brother’s. “Not really.”
“What’s his name? How old is he?”
Simple, half-interested questions. Polite conversation-starting questions. “He’s named for my father, Merriwell William Harris. But we call him Will.”
“I suppose Merriwell would be a tough name to go around with these days.” Conor had his menu open.
“Something like that.” Kiley took a sip of her wine. “He’s eighteen.”
Conor closed his menu. “I have to recommend the salmon. Nobody does a better salmon than Anthony’s.”
Kiley took another sip of wine and tried not to choke. Was Conor playing with her, or was he being obtuse? “Sounds good.”
The waiter reappeared to take their order, giving Kiley a moment to collect herself. Conor was looking out the window at a big yacht inching its way into the harbor. In profile he looked less like Mack, and more like any doctor she’d ever worked with. Tense about the mouth, preoccupied with what he’d left at his office or in the hospital. Self-aware, cognizant always of the power he held and the power he lacked.
“So, I take it you don’t have any children?”
Conor pulled his gaze away from the window. “No. I keep thinking that I should remarry, find someone willing to have kids with me before it’s too late. But”—and Conor hid his expression behind his glass—“that special someone hasn’t yet appeared on the horizon. Someone willing to put up with the crazy hours and undependable plans; someone willing to shoulder the burden of child-rearing solo, for all intents and purposes. Lots of terribly young women in the medical profession think that’s what they want, but I know from experience, it loses its novelty pretty quick.”
“That’s why your marriage ended up in divorce?”
“Something like that. We were young, and now a lot of time has passed, and I don’t think that I’ll get my second chance.”
Kiley reached across the table and patted Conor’s hand. “That’s not true. You just have to look for it.”
Conor covered her hand with his. “I hope you’re right.”
A shiver of intuition coursed through Kiley. This was not the first time he had used those lines; it was the old vulnerable-man trick. She removed her hand gently and excused herself to go to the ladies’ room. The glass of wine on an empty stomach made her path a little interesting to negotiate, but she got there quick enough to hide the bubble of laughter teasing itself out of her throat.
The salmon arrived as she made her way back to the table. As promised, it was delicious, and they ate in near silence, savoring the flavors. Conor poured her a second glass of wine, and Kiley drank it very slowly. Halfway through dinner, she brought up the ostensible reason for their date. “Where have you made inquiries?”
“Children’s in Boston and UMass Medical. They both have outstanding PICUs and openings.”
“Thank you. Can I use your name?”
“I wish you would.”
There was an excitement beginning to build with the thought of starting again. Maybe, in an odd way, this was her moment, her time to fly away. Ever since that October day when she realized she was pregnant, her life had been on a branch line, switched off from her plans and dreams. Then that branch line had become her main route, her life. She would always miss Doc John, miss the close-knit little office with its wall of children’s artwork and the weekly pizza lunches. But maybe it had been time to change routes, before she spent the next twenty years marking time, waiting for her son to come and visit. Kiley shuddered back the thought. What had she said to Conor about second chances? You have to look for it.
Conor was talking, but Kiley had lost the thread of the conversation. “I should go,” she told him. “The real estate agent is coming early tomorrow.”
“Do you have to? I was thinking we might take a walk along the harbor.”
“Another time, maybe. I really need to go.”
“All right. I should call it a night too. I have an early surgery tomorrow.”
Kiley opened her purse.
“No, no. This is my treat.”
Kiley allowed Conor to pay the bill and walk her to her car. He opened her car door but then blocked her way, his face very close to hers. She thought he was trying to kiss her and turned her cheek.
“Kiley, I think it would be best if we say very little of this to my mother. She’s never gotten over it, and she’s fragile.”
“Tell her whatever you think best, Conor. Nothing, if that’s better.”
“Kiley, I do realize that your son might be…is probably Mack’s.”
“Don’t make assumptions, Conor.” Kiley slid past him and into her car. She wondered what he’d make of that; would he even remember that Grainger had been a part of her world too? That, as easily as Will might be Mack’s, he might be Grainger’s instead? Grainger had lived in his house; Conor’s mother had fed him, washed his clothes, and guided him through his adolescence. Conor had been the big brother, the college man, miles away from them in maturity and experience. Kiley couldn’t imagine what his opinion of Grainger might be.
<
br /> Toby Reynolds called early to say that the couple he wanted to bring over were very interested in buying a big house on the bluff, and had no thoughts of changing anything. “They’re perfect.”
“They haven’t seen it yet. Maybe they won’t like it.”
“Kiley, you have to be positive.”
Toby clearly misunderstood her. She was being positive.
Hanging up, Kiley chided herself that it had to be done. Every moment she spent here in Hawke’s Cove underscored her reason for having kept away. Early on, she knew that there was no way she could have returned to Hawke’s Cove, baby in tow, to be judged by the Yacht Club types whose own “mistakes” were generally the catalysts to good marriages—good in name only, but acceptable. If she had come back a young married with an oversized “eight-month” preemie, all would have been forgotten long ago. The raised eyebrows would have been lowered as the child grew and joined other children around the club. But Kiley had chosen a different path, and it led away from Hawke’s Cove. Soon there would be nothing left to call her back; no one to call her back.
She busied herself with packing the objects she’d chosen not to sell. Before she wrapped each memento in its protective layer of Boston Globe, she made one last effort to choose to leave it behind. Some objects, like the blue tumblers etched with sailboats, were put back in the kitchen. Others she wrapped carefully and nested among the other memory-laden items.
Will was in Great Harbor waiting for Catherine to get out of work, when they would go windsurfing. She was to have dinner with them tonight. Kiley felt a little twitch of maternal concern at his sudden dedication to a girl he’d only just met. Maybe a barbecue was a good idea, a nice informal opportunity for all three of them to get acquainted. Kiley was glad Will had found a friend, which is how he referred to her. Not yet girlfriend, which probably was a good thing. The brevity of their time together seemed a natural barrier to more than a friendship. But she also worried about his heart. He’d been so closemouthed about Lori’s breaking it off; she hoped he wasn’t using this other girl in rebound. Or, worse, that she would break his heart too. Did Will understand the finer points of a summer fling? Have fun, break no hearts? She certainly hadn’t understood. But then, in no way could what she had with Mack or Grainger be called a fling. They had invested years of friendship before their adolescent hormones had changed everything.
Kiley barely saw the objects in her hands as her mind wandered over the oft-visited landscape of her adolescence. Did other adults remember so clearly being that young, being that confused? Did most people outgrow those days, leaving them behind for new experiences? Grainger had, certainly. He’d managed to come back to Hawke’s Cove, make a life. Having seen him, heard his voice, breathed in the scent of his boatyard life, she could not recall the face of the boy he’d been. This mature, rugged face bore vestigial traces of that boy, and the shock of seeing him as a man had teased her with unbidden speculation about the physical adult Grainger. That long ago afternoon they spent together had been imperfect for both of them. Despite their love and tenderness, they were both so inexperienced they’d had physical relief but little understanding of the act. Older now, awakened to bolder gestures of lovemaking, Kiley found herself imagining Grainger’s hands on her, touching her with love. Unlocking the hard nut of his anger and her hurt with his skillful…
She brought herself up short. Nothing like that could happen. They’d had a chance at reconciliation yesterday. Though how do you pile eighteen years’ worth of explanation into the time it takes to drink a cup of coffee? Her mind was cluttered with the said and the unsaid. They were polite strangers, with no hope of returning to their former intimacy. Certainly not the physical intimacy of their one night, but neither the intimacy of old friends who need no explanations, whose history is closely linked. The intimacy she remembered best, and missed most. That wasn’t going to happen; it was obvious by his sudden withdrawal at her thoughtless evocation of Mack by speaking of his brother. The look in his eyes, like a force field suddenly between them. She needed now to stop wishing and set her mind against any further hope of amends. What she’d said to Will was exactly right: it was a détente.
Kiley heard Toby’s footsteps clump up the front steps, and his excited voice, no doubt drawing attention to the magnificent view, rhapsodized about how the intense blue of the sky was reflected in the shimmering blue water. He’d fill the clients’ inaugural visit with all the high points and none of the low, such as the roof or the flaking paint; those things would be called to their attention only after they fell in love with the house.
Kiley hadn’t meant to be in the house when Toby brought the couple, but time had gotten away from her. “Hi, Toby. Sorry I’m still here. I’ll go take a walk.” She wiped her hands on the seat of her jeans.
“Oh no, we wouldn’t dream of putting you out of your house.”
Kiley wasn’t sure how to answer that rather ironic statement.
The speaker, a woman about her own age, right arm linked to a man who might have been her father or her much older husband, realized her gaffe. “I mean, don’t mind us; we don’t want to intrude.”
Toby quickly recovered the momentum of the tour. “Ms. Harris, this is Mr. and Mrs. Carlton Fenster. They’re up from New York and have to get back this afternoon, so, if you don’t mind, we’ll just go in.” A little ring of white appeared beneath Toby’s lower lip, held in a trained smile. Clearly he was irritated that she’d lingered too long and bumped into his prospects. Bad form.
“Not at all.” Mind? Of course she minded. As long as the sale of the house was more or less abstract, she could imagine it wouldn’t take place. If the interlopers had faces, she couldn’t pretend it wouldn’t happen. Childishness, Kiley knew, but her own brand of childishness. “The items marked with orange aren’t included in the sale, and I haven’t inventoried everything.”
“We’re just looking at the structure today.” Toby held the double screen door wide for the couple, who seemed reluctant to break the linking of their arms. Kiley thought, rather unkindly, that Mrs. Fenster was holding Mr. Fenster up. Or else, preventing him from running away. She smiled to herself. Fenster—a name like that would make the first cut at the club.
She should have had her bathing suit on; it was a perfect beach day. Too late to turn around and go back to get it, so it seemed an aimless walk was the only option left to her. She could go visiting, except that there was no one she could just drop in on anymore. That wasn’t quite true. She did know one person she could call on—probably should call on—Mrs. MacKenzie. Hadn’t Conor said she should?
Kiley was halfway there. She could simply walk up on the MacKenzies’ back porch and hallooo in the way she used to as a girl. Mrs. MacKenzie had always been nice to her, lingering with her in the kitchen as she waited for the boys to come home from their jobs, or change into their bathing suits. They’d sip lemonade and chat about girlie things, things her boys would never chat about. As much as she loved them, Kiley did sometimes complain a little, eliciting Mrs. MacKenzie’s soft laughter and commiseration that neither one would go shopping or give a helpful opinion about clothes.
Kiley knew that she should just do it. Go knock on the door and explain that she had Will, and he might be their grandson. Could she muster that sort of courage? By now Conor might have told them about Will. Or had he kept that unproven information to himself? He’d suggested she greet his parents before he knew about Will. What was best for his parents, to know or not to know? At the intersection of Linden and Overlook, Kiley turned left, toward town and away from the MacKenzies’ house.
It seemed the better choice, to keep going. Besides, as long as she was this close to the village, she might as well pick up the things she needed for dinner. That way she wouldn’t have to go all the way into Great Harbor later, even if she’d pay a premium price for it at LaRiviere’s Market.
Main Street was cluttered with day-trippers, shopping bags swinging, filled with souvenirs of their visi
t to a pleasant place. Kiley had to dodge the ones who simply stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, as if alone in the world. She had to step off the sidewalk to avoid the side-by-side strollers, barricading the way with sheer American bulk. When they were kids, they used to make rude remarks to the day-trippers. In the hierarchy of year-rounders, day-trippers were on the lowest rung, followed by the one-week or two-week vacationers. Kiley was only just above that as a summer kid.
“Kiley Harris!” A woman’s voice called out to her from the doorway of a shop.
Kiley stopped, already certain she knew who it was. “Emily?”
“I missed talking to you at the picnic.”
Pleased that she’d guessed the correct twin, Kiley took in the sight of Emily Claridge, noting her rather middle-aged attire of yellow, green, and pink Lilly Pulitzer skirt and sleeveless blouse, the Nantucket basket handbag slung over one arm. Her blond hair, once free-swinging and rather pretty, was a solid helmet streaked by chemicals, not the sun. A huge emerald-cut diamond flashed in the sunlight as she reached out to grasp Kiley’s arm.
“…just thrilled to death to see you. You haven’t changed a bit.”
Rather than lie, Kiley shifted focus. “Are you still here all summer?”
“I wish. Ralph is too busy in his practice to take too much time off and I hate being separated from him, so we come for two weeks in July and two in August.”
“Is Ralph a doctor?”
“No, no. Attorney. Has his own firm.”
“And you? Career?” Kiley knew what the answer would be.
“I was in law school when I met Ralph.” Emily twisted her diamond ring around as if trying to screw in her finger. “C’est la vie.” She flapped her hands in a dismissive what-can-you-do gesture.
“Had to make a choice?” Kiley always tried not to resent women who had been free to choose work over motherhood. She loved her own job, but she would have loved it more if it had been an option, not a necessity.