They headed back over to the circulation desk, where Arthur typed “Danielle Steel” into the library’s search engine. Friends Forever was the first title to pop up.
“Friends Forever sound right?” he asked.
“That’s it!” She slapped her hand on the desk, delighted that Arthur had been able to seemingly conjure it out of thin air. “Now where can I find it?”
Arthur eyed the inventory list on the computer. Two copies supposedly sat on the New Fiction shelf out front, making him wonder if Florence had even bothered to check in the first place. He headed for New Fiction, Florence following behind him like a porch dog.
“How are your girls?” she asked. The other thing about small towns, Arthur thought with a modicum of chagrin, was that everyone knew everyone else’s business.
“They’re great,” he said. “Ah, here it is!” He pulled out the novel, displayed on the front shelf plain as day. “I’m going down to the Cape house on Saturday, in fact.”
“Oh, isn’t that wonderful,” Flo said with a purr and took the book from his hands, brushing them lightly with her fingertips. “Family is the most important thing, isn’t it?”
She said the words with a hint of wistfulness, enough so that Arthur was nearly prompted to ask her what she was doing for the Fourth, but he stopped himself. He didn’t want to be put in the awkward position of inviting her over if she didn’t have any plans.
“Will that be all?” he asked as they headed back to circulation.
She hesitated. “Yes. Thank you. Unless you have a recommendation for me? You know how I love to read. Widowhood can be so lonely.” She drew out the o’s.
“I’m afraid I haven’t been reading much lately. I’ve a got a deadline for the new book.” He quickly scanned the novel into the computer and slipped the due-back receipt between the pages.
She laid her hand on the book. “You do? That’s wonderful. I can’t wait to read it. You’re so very talented, Arthur.” He felt a shiver pass through him, as if he should be doing a better job of hurrying Florence along.
“Well, back to work!” He excused himself and headed for the small room where they housed shipments of new titles. He pretended to do a quick inventory until he heard Florence shout “Ta-ta!” After a few minutes, he returned to the desk, relieved that there was no Florence in sight. A small line had formed, and he scanned each book so that it prompted the machine to print out a crisp receipt. How he missed the days of stamping a yellow card at the back of each book! It made such a triumphant sound, that stamp. Funny, how much a person could miss the tactile sensation of sliding a card back into its little pocket. It had taken several years for their sleepy town to catch up with new technology, but once it had, there was no turning back.
Arthur was wistful not just for the old checkout system but for the days when newfangled computers didn’t encroach upon every aspect of life. Technology was forever messing up his writing. He would type sentences such as, “Rita Wigglesworth turned the car window handle, and the summer breeze streamed in,” only to have his editor write in big red letters in the margins: “Arthur, people have automatic windows now!” Once he wrote about Inspector Larson helping himself to a few ice cubes from the tray in the freezer, and his editor picked up the phone to call. “Arthur, you realize that the majority of Americans have refrigerators that make ice now, right? Do they even make ice cube trays anymore? You’re dating yourself.”
Arthur disagreed with her about that one. He felt it to be more a matter of class. To his mind, rich people had automatic ice dispensers. The rest of America still used ice cube trays. One day, he was at Target on an errand, and there, in aisle seventeen, was the most magnificent assortment of ice cube trays he’d ever seen. Red and blue, trays shaped like stars, fish, the alphabet. He’d been so thrilled to be proven right that he stuffed his cart full with them. When he got home, he realized he’d bought more than he could fit in his freezer, so he sent six to his editor, trays with smiley faces, hearts, and pineapples. He wrapped them up as a gift and mailed them to her with a note, saying: Some of us still like our rocks the old-fashioned way! He thought it was clever, but his editor had never acknowledged it. Hadn’t even sent an e-mail ribbing him for his gag gift. Perhaps, he thought now, she hadn’t seen the humor in it.
That was another reason he liked going to the summer house: everything remained more or less the same, even as his family changed, grew up. While Maggie had replaced the refrigerator and stove a few years back, they were nothing fancy, just run-of-the-mill appliances that fit the rest of the house’s unassuming décor. No fancy ice machines. Only recently had his eldest daughter insisted on tossing out their ancient black rotary phone. If ever they needed to dial 911, it would take them half an hour to twirl the numbers around the plastic dial, she argued. They had their cell phones. Arthur agreed she had a point.
He combed through the various newsletters and announcements pinned to the library’s bulletin board. He’d come to think of the board as the town crier, the place everyone gathered for breaking news in their little haven. He pulled down the flyers that had expired—ads for rummage sales two Saturdays ago, a puppy for sale, a lost cat, piano lessons, sign-up for swim lessons, Irish step dance classes. Some flyers he tossed, but a few he stuck in his briefcase to take home. Even if the event had passed, he liked having the information at his fingertips if anyone were to ask him, Say, whatever happened to that ad for cleaning services or dance lessons?
Eventually, the sun began to tilt in the late-afternoon sky, and only a few patrons remained, including a man who’d been perusing magazines for more than an hour. Arthur didn’t mind. He was accustomed to vacationers who came to the library to escape their noisy families, in search of an hour of peace and quiet. A handful of women from the Wednesday knitting club were still gathered in the conference room. As far as Arthur could tell, they only read trashy romances, but it was better, he supposed, than not reading at all. He switched on the front desk microphone to make the “Fifteen minutes till closing” announcement and felt the small rush that traveled over him each time he heard his voice magnified in the hallowed halls, as if he were the Wizard of Oz standing behind deep red curtains.
In time, the solitary man and knitting club gathered up their things and waved good-bye. Arthur did a full sweep of the library, shutting off the lights and making sure no one was lurking in the corners. The building became shrouded in darkness and quiet.
It was peaceful here, he thought, as he let himself out the door and locked it behind him. Peaceful like a tomb. He shook his head, as if to shoo the image away. The thought of a tomb came unbidden like so many thoughts these days; try as he might, metaphors of life and death kept flinging themselves at him. Was he unnecessarily preoccupied with his own mortality? He didn’t think so. When a man reached a certain age, it was hard to stop thinking about it. And now that Gloria was gone . . . He felt a stab of pain in his side. Well, he thought about dying, more particularly about dying alone, quite a lot.
When he got home, he pulled out the minute steaks from the fridge. He found a bag of frozen peas and dumped them in a pot of boiling water. He pushed aside mail piles, magazines, bills, and set the table for one, always for one, and placed the steak sauce next to his plate. These were the meals he used to make for himself when he was a bachelor in his own apartment in graduate school. How odd that he’d come full circle, even after having a life full of family. Here he was in his kitchen, alone, eating the same meal he’d eaten nearly fifty years ago.
When the steaks were done, he flipped them onto his plate, drained the peas. He pulled a hunk of bread off the French loaf in the bread box and poured himself a glass of scotch. He considered saying a small prayer before lifting his fork.
Did he even believe these days?
He wanted to. He really did. Because if there were no God, that meant there was no heaven. And then what? What was left for a person to look forward to? A box set in dirt? No, he wouldn’t go that way. If he went, he
wanted to be cremated, his ashes scattered offshore, perhaps dropped from the cliff where the library sat. That would be appropriate, he thought. He could drift on the sea next to the place that housed his books. All twelve of them, though only one had amounted to anything, two weeks on the local bestseller list.
What on earth had he been doing with his life?
He folded his hands, bowed his head. “God bless my family. Please watch over us. Keep us safe. Keep us healthy. Keep us happy. Amen.” It was succinct, hardly eloquent, but it was the best he could do. He knew if he continued he’d start asking God for miracles, pleading for Gloria to come back to him. And when she didn’t return, his faith would be shaken further.
He cut into his steak. Arthur knew he owed Maggie a call to confirm the details of his trip. He hoped to leave around five in the morning on Saturday and arrive in time for a late breakfast. He’d tell Maggie how much he was looking forward to seeing them all, and then he’d place his breakfast order: a ham and cheese omelet. What had started as a joke between them was now a tradition. He and Maggie had always been the breakfast lovers in the family. Not so with the others; Gloria, Jess, and Virgie snatched their breakfast on the way out the door, a granola bar, a banana, a cup of dry cereal. But he and Maggie enjoyed a square meal, pancakes soaked in syrup with sausage on the side, fluffy blueberry waffles, eggs Benedict. Whenever they got together over the summer, they easily rediscovered their father-daughter bond. Arthur was grateful for this one small thing.
Soon, he’d call Maggie. He got up, cleared his plate, and went to search for one of those microwave bags of popcorn. Maybe there would be something good on television tonight. He knew he’d bought a case of microwave popcorn at Costco a few months ago. Now if only he could recall where he’d put it.
Maggie
Above them, fireworks popped, huge, magnificent plumes of color darting across the night sky. Like s’mores on the beach, peach and rhubarb pie, or the feel of sand across the hardwood floors, fireworks were synonymous with summer in Maggie’s mind. She wouldn’t miss them for the world.
After a slightly crazed start to the week, vacation had settled into a languid pace. Jay had fixed the window, the refrigerator was stocked, the linen closet organized, and now, ever so slowly, Maggie could feel herself letting go, unwinding. Virgie had arrived yesterday, a hot little tamale in her Mini Cooper, and taken the kids for hair-raising rides on the back roads. Lexie, she could tell, was completely charmed by her aunt. Maybe, Maggie hoped, some of Virgie’s enthusiasm would rub off on her.
This Thursday morning, at the crack of dawn, like every Fourth of July since Maggie could remember, the family had set up their folding chairs on Main Street to watch the annual parade of fire trucks, antique cars, and clowns. Luke, Teddy, and the girls chased after red licorice whips and Tootsie Rolls while the adults sat on the sidelines, pulling sodas from the cooler. Maggie spied Gretchen and her kids sitting further down the street and gave a small wave. The parade was loud, noisy, bordering on obnoxious—everything a good holiday parade should be. When the floats with homecoming queens and Little League teams drove by, the crowd cheered, blowing their plastic horns. Even the local dry cleaners had a float, and they tossed inflatable beach balls to the kids. But when the Minutemen shot off their muskets, the boys scurried back to their mothers’ laps like skittish puppies.
“Don’t be such a scaredy-cat,” Lexie chided. But Maggie didn’t mind. She was glad that Luke still needed her to comfort him on occasion.
“You used to jump, too, you know, Lex,” said Maggie. Her daughter rolled her eyes. “You did. When you were Luke’s age.” It was enough to make Lexie lay off her brother. Maggie understood that the only thing worse than being forced to play with her younger brother was being compared to him. How could two sisters be so different, she wondered, when Sophie appeared to be the easiest, most carefree child in the world? Maggie and Jess had had their differences growing up, for sure, but they’d always been bound together by the twin thing, often finishing each other’s sentences. If Lexie and Sophie weren’t identical, no one would guess they were twins.
Now, following an afternoon of swimming, all the kids except Luke were crashed on the beach, watching the fireworks. Maggie crouched down next to him, helping him roast a marshmallow over a flickering flame. “See, you turn it like this, so you get all the sides,” she coached, holding the stick above a narrow gap where the flames licked up. “You have to be patient.”
“I’ve got the chocolate bars,” Virgie called out from the deck. Still in her red-and-white bikini, she approached their group. Well, Maggie thought, at least her sister had had the decency to wrap a blue sarong around her waist.
“If you’re not the Star-Spangled Banner, I don’t know who is,” Mac teased. Maggie swatted at him.
“Shut up, honey.” She was glad, however, that Virgie was her sister, forbidden fruit.
“It’s not fair that you look so awesome,” Jess said petulantly from her perch near the bonfire. “We’re supposed to share the same genes. Honestly, how do you keep so skinny?”
Virgie settled herself into a beach chair and smiled. “Starvation?”
There was a wave of laughter, but Maggie pressed. “C’mon, Virgie. You must do something to stay in shape.”
“Oh, I run all the time,” she confirmed. “And my best friend is Botox.”
“Who’s that?” She’d caught Luke’s interest now.
“Oh, nothing, Lukie. It’s just another way of saying that your aunt Virgie takes good care of herself.”
Mac chuckled, but Maggie thought she detected an undercurrent of bravado to her sister’s comment. Something about Virgie seemed off this vacation. Was it just the first flushes of love with this Jackson guy that made her more cavalier than usual, more reckless? Virgie had always been the one to push the envelope in the family, staying out past curfew, dating boys with earrings, smoking a random joint. But ever since she’d landed her Verbatim with V show, she’d been more grounded, less likely to take chances. Which was why Maggie couldn’t believe that just a few hours earlier she’d been yelling at her baby sister to get off the deck railing.
Virgie had been walking across it like a tightrope walker, as if there weren’t a good twenty feet to drop off the other side onto the beach, Maggie thought when she opened the deck door.
“Get off of there before you kill yourself!” she shouted. “Before the kids see you.”
“Naggy Maggie,” Virgie parroted her nickname from years ago. “Can’t you let a girl have a little fun?” She teetered for a moment, then righted herself, her arms outstretched.
“Honestly, Virgie. What’s gotten into you?” Maggie held her breath as her sister reached the end and jumped down onto the deck, landing as gracefully as could be expected with a loud thump.
She flashed a smile. “Just having a little fun.”
“Well, I have enough kids trying to give me a heart attack,” Maggie said. “Don’t you go joining them. You are firmly in the adult camp,” she reminded her.
“Aw, you’re no fun,” Virgie whined. Still, something about the whole incident bugged Maggie. A few times at dinner Virgie’s words had slurred just a touch, and Maggie wondered if her sister was drinking too much. Again. There’d been an episode after college, and another after that, when, after tumbling drunkenly from a bar tabletop, Virgie had ended up in the hospital with three cracked ribs. The family had called a mini-intervention. And while Virgie hadn’t exactly sworn off drinking, she appeared to at least have gotten it under control. When Maggie wondered aloud to Jess and Mac if maybe Virgie’s “problem” had returned, they told her she was being paranoid. Virgie’s fine, they reassured her. Probably more sane than the rest of us put together, Jess said.
Maggie sighed. Why was it so hard for her to stop worrying? She just wanted things to be like old times. Everyone happy, sound of body, sound of mind.
“Mommy!” Luke yelled, interrupting her thoughts. “I think mine’s ready.”
/> She grabbed the stick from him and carefully slid the crispy brown puff off, leaving the gooey center intact. She watched as Luke fashioned it into a s’more and took a gigantic bite. “Awesome,” he said with a grin, before running off to join the circle of other kids. So easy to please, thought Maggie. She looked over at the children’s eager, upturned faces. They might as well have been watching Neil Armstrong land on the moon, so great was their fascination with the night sky. She was glad her kids would have evenings like this to remember. She could still conjure up the fireworks on the Cape when she and her sisters were little. Gloria had always turned it into an elaborate production, packing rare treats like egg salad sandwiches, miniature hot dogs, and fruit tarts. She’d pretended they were royalty.
When Gloria had begged off joining them for the Fourth this summer, saying she was going to the concert on the Esplanade in Boston, Maggie had been surprised, slightly hurt. Now those plans included someone named Gio. Gloria and Gio. If nothing else, it had a nice ring to it. Leave it to her mother to date a man with an alliterative name! But, honestly, the thought of Gloria’s being with someone other than her dad made Maggie’s throat tighten.
When Maggie had talked to her mom the other night, Gloria insisted on staying at the B and B and confirmed that she was bringing along a “nice young gentleman.” Maggie reminded her that Arthur would also be visiting that week.
“Oh, don’t you worry, honey. We’ll be fine. Your father and I are grown-ups. We’re just friends now.”
But when Maggie broke the news to her dad later that night, it was obvious that the visit wouldn’t be as easy for him. There was silence on the other end of the phone. “All right, then,” he finally said. “I guess I’ve been warned.” Maggie was trying hard not to think about it. Que sera, sera.
She joined Mac on the blanket near the fire. Jess and Tim excused themselves to take a walk along the beach.
The Summer of Good Intentions Page 7