Half of What You Hear

by Kristyn Kusek Lewis

  “What do you—” I start, wanting to know more about this apparent mommie dearest.

  “No, no,” she says, tapping the table. “Here’s what I want to tell you.” She leans in. “People were always watching me, but Henrietta and Bradley were the only ones who saw me, you know? Once Bradley and I were together, I became more myself. You’re not supposed to say that now about a man, not when you’re a woman like me who’s lived long enough to see some things, but it’s the truth. Those two were the first people in my life who behaved as if I was someone worth loving, and there was something specific about Bradley’s validation that gave me a confidence I hadn’t had before. You’re not supposed to say that, either, but it’s also true.”

  “No, I understand,” I say, thinking that it’s both sweet and sad. Heartbreaking, in a way.

  “Coming back here hasn’t been easy, because . . . well . . .” I see her start to tear up again. “The memories are everywhere, and Henrietta’s gone, and your father-in-law—well, he might as well be, too. We haven’t really known each other in years, you know. Years.”

  I nod as if in agreement, but the way she says it, it’s strange . . . it’s a little too angry, almost like an incrimination.

  “One of my favorite memories of Bradley and me—I was thinking about it just a little while ago, as we were driving here to meet you—is of the two of us throwing coins in the fountain. We made up these silly rules. We said that the wish was especially likely to come true if we were able to hit my great-grandfather’s face.” She laughs.

  “Your great-grandfather’s—?”

  “The statue of him, in the center of the fountain.”

  “Ah, of course,” I say, laughing, remembering how Max says that Clement Greyhill looks like Teddy Roosevelt.

  “We made so many wishes, Bradley and me. Henrietta, too. He really never mentioned her to you? Not once?”

  “Nope,” I say.

  “Hmm,” she says, and starts stirring her tea. I look over at William, thinking of what he told me a little while ago, the rumor about Susannah being somehow involved.

  “Can I ask you something?” I say, emboldened by the candor with which she’s been speaking for the past few minutes.

  “Of course,” she says. “Anything at all.”

  “Your move back here hasn’t been easy. You had the accident. There’s the drama with the land. I have to ask, given the . . .” I pause, trying to find the gentlest way to say it. “Given everything I’ve read about the life you had back in New York, are you happy you returned to Greyhill?”

  She sits back in her chair, a solemnity falling over her face, and I worry that I’ve misread our newfound chumminess and crossed a line. “What does it matter?” she says finally. “There was nothing left for me in New York. In a way, there had never been anything.”

  “What do you mean?” I say. From the looks of it, she had everything anyone could possibly want in New York.

  She stares at me, long and hard, more pointedly than she has yet. “Have you ever seen the dioramas at the Museum of Natural History, in New York?” she says. “The Hall of North American Mammals?”

  “No,” I say, curious to see where she’s going. “But I’ve been to the natural history museum in DC, of course. The Smithsonian.”

  “Yes,” she says. “Well, then, you know what I’m talking about. Our apartment was across Central Park from the natural history museum. There was a time when I used to visit there quite often, sometimes twice a week. The dioramas are really something spectacular—I’m sure it’s the same in DC. They enthralled me, for some reason. The habitats looked so real, you know? There was such detail in the way they were curated, and it was exciting to me that someone had been able to re-create each scene with such precision.”

  “I didn’t know you had an interest in animals,” I say, still confused.

  “Well, I didn’t. I don’t,” she says. “I never even had a pet. But I figured out after I’d been going there for a while—the security guards in those halls must have thought I was crazy, standing in front of the exhibits for hours on end in the little pastel suits Teddy liked me to wear—that I was so captivated by those dioramas because I felt a kinship with them.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m not following,” I say.

  “My relationship with Teddy was a textbook case of having everything and nothing, Bess. It looked a certain way. It looked perfect, down to the last detail. But if you’d looked closely at me, you would have seen that behind the jewelry and the clothes and the houses and the parties, I was every bit as dead behind the eyes as the taxidermied wildlife in the museum.”

  “Oh, that’s horrible,” I say. “I never would have thought—”

  She puts her hand out. “Of course you wouldn’t have.” She twists her lips to the side, as if she’s considering something. “Things aren’t always what they seem,” she says. “But I’m here now, and I have to make the most of it.”

  “Well, that sounds like the right attitude,” I say, though I know it’s pat and though what I really want to do is ask her to tell me more.

  “Forgive me, Bess. I know we’re new friends, but I have to say this.”

  “What?”

  “Couldn’t you stand to learn the same thing?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “We both have to make the most of it here in Greyhill, don’t we?”

  I nod, slowly, wondering what she’s getting at.

  “I don’t want to offend you, dear. Please don’t take it the wrong way. I just mean that you’re new here, too. And maybe there’s a reason we were brought together.”

  “Maybe,” I say, though I’m not sure I believe her.

  “One thing Teddy always said—one of the things I agreed with, at least—is that there are no accidents. Do you believe that?”

  “I don’t know that I do,” I say, thinking of what happened to me at work. I’m also starting to notice that with only a few exceptions, Susannah’s portrayal of her deceased husband is not exactly a flattering one, and she doesn’t appear to be shy about it, either.

  “Well, I believe it,” she says. “In fact, at this point in my life, given everything I’ve been through, I might believe it more than anything.” She smiles at me. “But who knows?” she says. “Maybe I just have to, because otherwise . . .”

  “What?”

  “Well, otherwise . . .” She looks up at the ceiling, shaking her head, and I can see the tears welling up again. “Otherwise, it’s just a sad, sad story. Pathetic, really.” She starts to laugh. “I mean, it all has to mean something, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I say, thinking that of all the things I expected Susannah Lane to be, pensive and melancholy was not among them. “I guess it does.”

  “I hope so,” she says, dabbing at the corners of her eyes with her fingertip. “I really do.”

  Twelve

  After I help Susannah into Cindy’s car, I stand on the curb and wave goodbye, smiling to hide my frustration with myself. I suppose it doesn’t hurt for us to get to know each other, but over the course of the two hours we spent together (two hours!) I asked Susannah fewer than half the questions I’d written down ahead of time. I’d planned to get down to business, to ask her specifically about the land she’s selling and why she’s doing it, and also more about the house and what it’s really like to be back here after so long.

  I puff out my cheeks and pull my phone out of my coat pocket to check for . . . what, I don’t know. An email. A text. A missed call. Something. I scan my inbox, where there’s nothing new since I checked a few hours ago, and in the sun’s late-morning reflection on the screen, I can just barely make out the dour scowl on my face. Immediately, I think of the First Lady.

  “You’re making that face,” she would say, always startling me with her uncanny ability to see the frustration I tried my best to hide when some detail of our day was stressing me out.

  I shove the phone back into my pocket and decide to walk down the block for an impro
mptu visit to see Cole. We almost never saw each other during the workday in all our years in DC. But this is the advantage of living in a small town, isn’t it? I think, lightening at the thought of it. Why not pop in on someone you love, just for fun, just because you feel like it? It’s like living in Stars Hollow, the charming small town on Gilmore Girls, which Livvie has been watching on Netflix. Although, honestly, so far Greyhill feels a little more Desperate Housewives. The star character being me.

  * * *

  I turn the corner toward the inn, a blocky, moss-green Victorian home just off Maple Street with a wraparound porch studded with rocking chairs and a little brass sign by the front doors that reads EST. 1919. I eye the rocking chairs as I cross the porch, thinking that they need a coat of paint, and then squint at the mottled light fixtures on either side of the double doors, making a mental note to start bookmarking new options online. Cole and I have had lots of late-night conversations about the various ways we might modernize the inn, once he gets used to the business. My first priority once we’re both ready, I’ve told him, is going to be the decor.

  “Good morning!” I say to the woman at the front desk. Shawna, I think her name is, and make a mental note to confirm later. Like much of the staff who works at the inn, Shawna lives just south of downtown, in an enclave of small, sweet houses between Greyhill proper and Madison.

  “Is it still morning?” she says, turning to check the time on the old chiming wall clock behind her.

  “Oh, I guess not,” I say, cursing myself again for the unproductive meeting with Susannah. “Is Cole around? I was just popping in to say hello.”

  “I believe he’s back in his office with Mr. and Mrs. Warner,” she says. “Go ahead back.”

  I can hear Bradley’s distinctive, deep-belly laugh in the hall behind the lobby before I’m halfway to the office.

  “Well, hello!” he bellows as I appear in the doorway. Cole is sitting behind the desk his father used for years, a huge, hulking oak thing that I’m glad will never come home with us, and his parents are sitting on the couch to my left where, I’ve been told, Bradley used to take a daily nap after lunch. “Isn’t this a nice surprise.”

  “Bess!” Diane says, her eyes trailing over my outfit. I’m a bit more dressed up than usual today, in a casual dress and boots, though you would think from the way she’s looking at me that I just slunk in wearing a beaded Diana Ross number. “You’re looking . . . sharp. How was your meeting with Susannah?” she whispers, her voice low, like she’s asking about a painful medical condition.

  My eyes dart quickly to Cole, who smiles at me behind his hands, which are folded at his mouth, his elbows on the desk.

  “Fine, fine,” I say, deciding in the moment to leave it at that. I start to pull out the chair across from them and sit down, but Bradley hops up, insisting on doing it for me. He squeezes my shoulder after I sit.

  “I heard you laughing, Bradley,” I say, watching him settle back in next to Diane and thinking about what he must have looked like on the day he drove Susannah to the bridge. I imagine him the way he looks in the wedding photo that hangs in his and Diane’s living room. “Must have been something good.”

  “Oh, it was!” he says, chuckling again. “Cole was telling us about some of the hotel trends he’s been reading about in the trade magazines! Would you believe there is a hotel chain out of San Francisco that has psychotherapists on call for their guests?!” He slaps his knees. “Therapists! Like a room-service item! Can you believe it?”

  “Did he tell you about the pet masseuses we read about?” I say, referencing an article Cole forwarded to me last week. “That was at a boutique hotel in Dallas, I think. They’re available for a meager two hundred fifty dollars an hour, if your pet’s nerves are shot from all the luxury. I looked at the hotel’s website, and they have a separate in-room dining menu. For pets. It actually looked delicious.”

  “Ridiculous,” Diane says, shaking her head and squeezing a small tube of hand cream into her palm like she’s angry at it.

  Cole clears his throat and taps out a few beats on his desk with his fingertips. “So . . .” He looks at me. “Those sorts of things obviously wouldn’t work in Greyhill,” he says, picking a pencil up and twirling it. He’s so fidgety . . . Is he nervous? “But I do think we want to talk before too long about some ways we might, I don’t know . . .” He looks at his dad. “Freshen things up around here.”

  “Freshen up?” Diane says.

  Ah, I think. So we’re doing this now.

  “Well, yes,” he says. “The inn is a well-oiled machine, Mom. It obviously works. But we might think about making some small changes, here and there, just to . . . update things a bit.”

  “Cole,” his dad says. “I know what you’re getting at. No need to beat around the bush with us. It’s like we said when we gave you this job: the inn is yours, to do with what you’d like. No need to ask for our approval.” He looks at me and winks.

  “Thanks, Dad,” Cole says.

  “Just remember, this is a traditional place in a traditional town. We don’t need any . . .” He shakes his head and throws his palms up into the air. “Sushi bars or things like that going up in the dining room.”

  I laugh a little. Whoa . . . sushi bars! But when I look over at Diane, she’s making a face like we’re sitting at a funeral. I look at the two of them, thinking that although I’ve always found it surprising that the two of them ended up together, it’s even more so now, now that I’ve learned about Susannah.

  “We wouldn’t do anything crazy, of course,” Cole says, meeting my eyes for a minute. “Understood.”

  “We just mean little things,” I say, jumping in to help him. “Like, maybe, one idea Cole and I talked about was the possibility of finding ways to bring more of Greyhill into the inn.”

  “More of Greyhill into the inn?” Diane repeats in suspicious bewilderment. “What on earth does that mean? Why would people in Greyhill want to stay at the inn?”

  “Well,” I say. “We don’t necessarily mean as guests. The inn could be”—I look to Cole, expecting him to take over, but he doesn’t—“more of a gathering spot for people in town. We could host more regular events, like the ones you do at the holidays, for instance. And we could also showcase more of Greyhill in the way the inn feels,” I say, referencing a conversation Cole and I had not long ago. “Like, what about, instead of those little chocolate coins the maids put on the beds at turndown, we used little candies from William’s?”

  “Oh, Bess,” Diane spits. “You and the desserts! You really are obsessed with that place, aren’t you?”

  “No . . .,” I say, feeling my face start to flush. Why isn’t Cole backing me up? “But, okay, if you don’t like that particular idea, what about, instead of the generic shampoos and soaps, we feature some of those handmade ones that woman sells at Persnickety, the gift shop down the street?”

  “Linda Booth, you mean?” Diane deadpans, her mouth hanging open. “She is one of my closest friends, Elizabeth, and trust me, the woman can barely get her teeth brushed in time to open that store four days a week. Relying on her to supply all our guest rooms with her little dinky soaps would be a catastrophe.” She looks at Bradley and shakes her head like I’ve just suggested we burn down the building and start over.

  “Are you certain about that, though?” I say, feeling a sudden need to win this one. “It’s not as if we have dozens of rooms,” I say, glaring now at Cole to back me up. “It’s just twenty-five. It’s hardly the Ritz-Carlton.”

  “I beg your pardon!” Bradley jokes, putting a hand to his chest.

  “We . . .” I say, pausing for effect for Cole’s sake, “just thought it might be nice to give the inn a stronger identity attached to the town.”

  “Well, I think we showcase Greyhill just fine,” Diane says, looking from Cole to Bradley. “But what do I know? I’ve only lived here for the past forty-nine years. And Bradley, well, he’s only done this his whole life. But, Elizabeth, don’t l
et us stop you. With all your experience . . .” She shakes her head disapprovingly and starts rifling through the handbag in her lap.

  “Mom,” Cole says. Finally. “You have to admit, the place could use a little sprucing up.”

  She rolls her eyes in a put-off way that reminds me of the twins.

  “Well, I’m all for a fresh coat of paint on the place,” Bradley says, slapping his knees before he stands up. He’s clearly not interested in this conversation, and after decades running this place, I can see why. He retired to retire, not listen to his wife squabble with his daughter-in-law about work.

  “But maybe even a little more than just paint, Dad . . . ,” Cole says, eyeing me. “Like maybe we could do some more with the lobby.”

  I smile at him. This is his way of making it up to me. He knows that of all the things that bother me about the inn, the lobby is at the top of the list.

  “Like what?” Diane says. “What’s wrong with the lobby?”

  “Nothing, exactly,” I say, trying to moderate my tone to appease her now, though what I really want is to tell her that the lobby looks straight out of 1983, with the hunter-green trim, shiny honey-hued wood, and rose-patterned salmon carpet. All that’s missing is some plastic ivy plants dangling over the top of the furniture. “But we could look through some design magazines together. We might find something a little—”

  She stands, cutting me off. “Oh, Elizabeth,” she says, waving her hand at me. “That’s enough, really.”

  “Diane.” Bradley snickers, reaching out and tugging at the hem of her sweater. She swats his hand away, scowling back at him, but then as soon as she looks away, he does it again, a little twinkle in his eye.

  “Bradley!” she scolds, but this time she’s grinning, looking at him like he’s her untrainable puppy. “Cut it out!” Cole says they’re a simple case of opposites attract—Bradley is like the valve that keeps her from exploding. “Elizabeth, it’s clear you have plenty of opinions and that you’ve been giving a lot of thought to all this,” Diane says, scooching past me toward the door. “I just had no idea that the inn we’ve devoted our entire lives to was in such disrepair.”