The Summer of Good Intentions

by Wendy Francis

  Yes, Virgie had come out tonight to get away from the madhouse that Pilgrim Lane was turning into. One more plaintive look from Arthur to Gloria and Virgie was going to lose it. One more terse exchange between Jess and Tim (and what the hell was going on between those two, anyway?) and the whole house might erupt. And frankly, Maggie’s Florence Nightingale routine was starting to wear on Virgie’s patience, too. What she needed was a good ol’ night of fun. Drinking, dancing, and kicking up her heels. Sal would provide that. She wasn’t going to feel guilty about having fun with an old friend.

  She pulled herself away from the group and breezed past Arthur and Tim. “Hi, guys.” She gave a little wave and pointed in Sal’s direction. “Gotta get back to Sal,” as if that explained why she would not be joining them tonight. She grabbed Sal’s hand and pulled him onto the dance floor. “C’mon!” she yelled over the music. It was Depeche Mode. How could they not dance to Depeche Mode? The band had had as big a hand in defining her teenage years as big hair, acne, and lip gloss.

  “Are you sure you’re okay to dance?” Sal leaned in to ask.

  Virgie rolled her eyes. “I am,” she said, shouting into his ear, “so sick of everyone asking me if I’m okay. Just please stop for the next few hours,” she pleaded.

  Sal pulled his head back and watched her. She noticed that his hands had shifted to her waist and his fingertips softly tapped to the beat of the music. “Okay, Virginia. I think I can manage that.”

  “God bless you,” she said. Sal smiled his earnest, good-guy smile, right before he dipped her to the sticky, salty floor. It felt like heaven.

  Maggie

  Maggie was distraught. Her entire world was on spin cycle, like when she threw a bathroom rug in the washer and the whole thing went off-kilter, thumping and bumping until the machine had traveled a foot across the floor. When that happened, she would ask Mac to shimmy the washing machine back into place. No harm done. But life was so much more complicated.

  What a fool she’d been to think that this summer would be like summers past! She should have switched the QUE SERA, SERA sign to one that read ENTER AT YOUR OWN PERIL.

  She was embarrassed by her mother’s overtures toward Gio and her seeming inability to sense when she was making Arthur uncomfortable. Or perhaps Gloria knew full well the strength of her powers and didn’t care. Maggie wouldn’t put it past her. Gio was awkward—there was no other word for it. He didn’t belong at the summer house. He acted more like her mother’s porter.

  Then there was Virgie, who couldn’t seem to care less about her medical condition (for that’s how the doctor had referred to it: a possible medical condition). Was it denial? Or was Maggie overreacting? When she asked Mac, he told her it was Virgie’s business. But, honestly, what could her sister be thinking? Going out drinking only a few days after her fall? And then there was Jess, who clearly needed to get the burden of cheating off her chest and whose marriage was evidently in trouble. When Maggie broke the news to Mac, he hadn’t been nearly as surprised—or judgmental—as Maggie. “Tim’s a better guy than you give him credit for,” Mac said. “He’ll get over it. I’m sure his pride is just a little wounded, that’s all.” All these worries, and that was without even touching upon Arthur, who appeared to grow more absentminded by the minute.

  “Haven’t you noticed?” she asked Mac in the privacy of their bedroom. “Something’s off with Dad.”

  “Oh, honey.” Mac sighed. She was wearing him out with her constant fretting, she could tell. “I love that you want to help everyone in your family, to make things right, but sometimes you just have to let people live their lives. Arthur’s not getting any younger. I’m sure some of what you’re seeing is plain old age.”

  “No, that’s not it,” Maggie insisted. “There’s something wrong. Like he’s forgetting things. And I don’t just mean the window. The other day he left his glasses in the refrigerator!” She was propped up on her elbow, staring at the tiny red hairs sprouting from Mac’s chin.

  “Old age. People lose their glasses all the time.”

  “But in the refrigerator? Next it will be the microwave.”

  “Well, that would be an interesting science experiment, wouldn’t it? Bet the kids would enjoy that one.”

  “Mac, this isn’t funny. I don’t think you’re taking me seriously.”

  “Oh, I’m taking you seriously, all right,” he said and pulled a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Just not as seriously as you’d like me to, maybe.”

  “C’mon. You’re a cop.” She was growing annoyed. “You spend your life looking for clues. Don’t you think there’s something suspicious about Dad’s behavior?”

  He held up a finger. “First of all, my job is not nearly as interesting as you make it out to be. Second of all, Dad’s getting a little dotty in his old age. So what? He’s still writing books, isn’t he? He’s still building raccoon traps.”

  Maggie clicked her tongue. “Yeah. Like that’s going to catch anything. And then the other day . . .” She paused. She wasn’t quite sure how to describe it. “I was putting folded laundry on top of his suitcase, and I found this old trash bag sitting by the couch. I thought someone had forgotten to take it out from the night before, but when I went to throw it out, Dad nearly took my head off. Said it was stuff he was collecting. He had his birthday candles in there and some other junk—mostly rocks and shells and, well, trash to be perfectly honest.” She traced little circles on the sheets with her index finger.

  “And that upsets you?” Mac asked. “That’s just further evidence that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” Maggie sighed. Maybe her husband was right. She had been on everyone’s case about recycling their plastics and glassware this summer. Who was she to point a finger?

  “So, aren’t you going to tell me about Lexie?” Maggie had been dying to hear. Mac and Tim had spent all day with the kids out on the boat, and when they got back, Mac told her he knew a secret about their daughter. Her mind raced with the possibilities: an eating disorder? As far as she could tell, Lexie was still eating all her favorite foods, but maybe she was bulimic. Maggie had read somewhere that bingeing and purging could start as early as ten. Nothing was beyond her worry zone.

  “Lexie has a boyfriend.”

  “What? You’re joking.” Maggie shook her head. It wasn’t possible. Lexie wasn’t even interested in boys. Every time Maggie brought it up, her daughter made a retching sound. “How do you know?”

  “Lexie was texting on the boat and I took her phone away from her,” Mac said. “When I read her texts, I saw they were from some guy named Matt.”

  Maggie’s mouth dropped open. If she had done such a thing, Lexie would have refused to talk to her for weeks, maybe months. Such an invasion of privacy was unthinkable. “What did she do? Mutiny?”

  “Not quite. There was lot of yelling, but eventually she recovered. Thank goodness we were in the middle of the ocean.” Mac was grinning now. This was classified information worth millions, and he knew it.

  “No wonder she’s been moping around here,” Maggie exclaimed. “She’s heartsick. All for a little eleven-year-old boy named Matt. That’s so sweet.”

  She leaned back on her pillow. “Wow. And to think I never saw it coming.”

  “I know.” Mac grinned and wrapped his arms around her. “With all the worrying you do, you’d think you would have picked up a bleep on the radar.”

  “It’s this house,” Maggie said and smoothed the sheets over her. “I can’t keep track of everyone’s problems. Maybe if I had my flowcharts back home . . .”

  But Mac was holding a finger over her lips, shushing her. “That won’t be necessary.”

  “You don’t think?” Maggie asked in all seriousness.

  “Don’t you know,” he said, kissing her softly, “there are other ways to relax?”

  After they made love, she drifted off, but a bang downstairs startled her awake. Maggie struggled to place the noise in her half sleep. Was someone knocking
on the front door? Maybe one of the kids (they were all now sleeping in the tent) needed to use the bathroom. Then her mind flashed to Virgie. Of course. Virgie was home from the bar and locked out. Probably drunk, she’d forgotten they left the side door open at night.

  Maggie stood up and wrapped her robe around herself. Mac snored, fast asleep.

  She hurried downstairs and flicked on the porch light. When she saw who was standing on the front porch, she inhaled sharply. Gloria and Gio.

  “Mom, what’s going on?” Maggie asked as she pulled open the door. Gio was holding their suitcases. “I’m so sorry to bother you, honey, but a pipe burst at our B and B and they’ve evacuated the whole house. Would it be too much trouble for us to crash here? It’s just for tonight.” Maggie studied her mother for a moment. Her mascara was blurred in dark half-moons beneath her eyes, and her blond hair stuck up in messy tufts.

  Jess came up behind Maggie. “What’s going on?” Maggie could feel her carefully constructed house of cards tumbling down around them.

  “Oh, nothing,” Maggie pronounced with false cheerfulness. “Mom and Gio can’t stay at their inn tonight, so they’re going to crash here.” She willed herself to open the door wider. “Come on in, Mom. It’s your house after all.” Maggie hoped the words would encourage her feet to move out of the way.

  “Thank you, honey.” Gloria snaked around her, Gio following behind.

  From the living room, Arthur called out: “Maggie, is everything all right?”

  They froze, four deer caught in the headlights. “It’s fine, Dad. We’ve got it covered.”

  “It’s just us,” Gloria piped up.

  “Gloria?” Arthur asked. Maggie groaned. The hallway light flicked on, illuminating her dad’s face, a pale, hungering moon. “What on earth is going on?”

  “Oh, a silly little pipe burst at our hotel, so Gio and I are going to sleep here for the night. Don’t mind us. Where would you like us, honey?” She turned to Maggie. “In the living room? On the pullout?”

  Maggie yanked out her ponytail holder and smoothed her hair. She pulled it up again and looped the elastic band around while contemplating sleeping arrangements. That scenario wouldn’t work, of course, because Arthur was sleeping there.

  “I guess you could sleep in my bed,” she offered, though her voice sounded reluctant even to her.

  “Nonsense,” Gloria countered. “We’re absolutely not kicking you out of your own room. Besides, I’m sure that husband of yours is already asleep. Am I right? Mac was always such a sound sleeper.”

  Her mother had a point. Maggie’s thoughts somersaulted.

  “Gio, be a dear, and go get the rollout bed ready, would you?”

  “But . . .” Arthur began and shot Maggie a worried look.

  Suddenly, Jess began to giggle until she was full-out laughing. “I’m sorry,” she got out between breaths. “I can’t help it. This just all strikes me as hysterically funny.”

  Gloria looked at Maggie. Maggie looked at Jess. “Wait a minute!” Maggie nearly yelled. If she’d had a whistle around her neck, she would have blown it. This was not happening. “Dad’s already sleeping on the pullout. You guys can sleep in the bunk room. All the kids are camping in the front yard tonight anyway.” Why hadn’t she thought of this obvious solution in the first place?

  She glanced at Gio, her mom, and Jess, who all appeared to be digesting the new sleeping arrangements. “Look, people, this isn’t rocket science. We can make it work. Just keep an eye out for Virgie whenever she decides to roll in. That’s her bedroom, too.”

  “All-righty then,” said Gloria. “We’ll head on up.”

  “Here, let me help you with that, Gio.” Jess grabbed a bag and followed them upstairs while Maggie checked to make sure she’d left the porch light on for Virgie. Maggie felt a tiny burst of satisfaction that she’d saved the night, one that only moments ago had disaster written all over it. They all had sleeping quarters, and Arthur and Gloria were nowhere near each other.

  But when she got back upstairs, Maggie couldn’t fall back asleep. She tossed and turned while Mac slept beside her. Noises emanated from all corners of the house. The dehumidifier clicked on and off at odd intervals, and the ceiling fan hummed above her, interrupted by the occasional shuffle of feet down the hallway or a toilet flushing. Doors opened and closed, and at one point, Maggie thought she heard the stairs creak. She willed herself to stay in bed, to let the house and its inhabitants fall asleep at their own pace.

  But her mind wouldn’t stop spinning. Her dad, she realized with a swift certainty, needed Gloria. Without her, he was orphaned, heedlessly making his way in the universe. As curmudgeonly as he could be, he still loved his wife and had come to depend on her all these years. He still did, a fact that was dawning on Maggie only now. The thought saddened her. He must be so lonely in the house in Maine. She flipped onto her side. She would do better by her dad, she resolved. She would make frequent trips up to Maine to check on him. They’d invite him down for the holidays and make a point of helping him feel more included, a part of their family.

  The last time they’d visited Arthur, it had been over Thanksgiving. They’d picked him up at the house, where he’d been waiting in the front yard, and then gone out for dinner at the Sea Shack. Their Thanksgiving dinner was a buffet of clam chowder, fish, lobster, and French fries. The meal was rushed, slightly forced, with the kids complaining about the lack of gravy and turkey. Luke kept insisting that Grandma would show up any minute, and each time he mentioned her, Arthur would look up expectantly, as if he, too, were waiting for his former wife to appear.

  Maggie flipped her pillow, fluffed it, and squinted at the clock: 12:30. She climbed out of bed and crept down the hallway to the bathroom. As she passed the kids’ room, she nearly bumped into someone.

  “Oh, hi, honey,” Gloria whispered. “You startled me.”

  “Sorry, Mom. You go ahead first,” Maggie said in the dim glow of the hallway night-light. She gestured to the bathroom.

  “Thank you, but I’m all set. Nighty-night.” Gloria turned in to the bunk room and shut the door.

  In her half fog, Maggie realized her mom had been coming up the stairs. Was she getting a glass of water? Saying good night to Arthur? Maggie tiptoed to the top of the stairs and listened, but all was quiet. She went to use the bathroom, then threw back two Tylenol and prayed they’d help her sleep, stop her mind from whirling.

  When she got back to bed, Mac had yet to stir an inch. She crawled in next to him and lifted the sheet over her. At last, the room had cooled down. She listened. The house had quieted as well. Only the whir of the fan and Mac’s breathing. Somewhere beyond the window she could hear the familiar trill of crickets punctuated by the croak of a lovesick frog. She remembered Lexie, heartsick and mopey. She would try to talk to her in the morning.

  Maggie was starting to float into sleep again when a tremendous crash jolted her awake. Again. She sat up, wide eyed, her heart racing. Then she remembered: Virgie. Home from the bar at last. She stood and crept downstairs, where she flung open the door, expecting to see her sister hanging on Sal’s shoulder. But what she witnessed instead made her lift a hand to stifle her laugh.

  Because there, in the light of the full orange moon, sat Roger. On top of the overturned crate, nibbling away on a corncob that Arthur and the kids had jerry-rigged to the crate. His yellow eyes glowed out at her in the night, as if mocking every well-intentioned thought she’d ever had.

  Jess

  It was Thursday—four excruciating days since her husband had spoken to her, really talked to her. While she waited to see if he would forgive her, she was simultaneously fuming that he was making her suffer so. She knew she was in the wrong, but wasn’t Tim a little bit, too? If, say, Jess was seventy-five percent guilty, couldn’t Tim assume the remaining twenty-five percent of that guilt? He’d suspected something might be going on between her and Cole and had done nothing to stop it. Was that somehow worse, she wondered, than if he had
? Was he truly invested in their marriage, or would he use Jess’s betrayal as a way out?

  Her nails were bitten down to the quick, something Gloria was fast to point out. “I’ve never understood why you just can’t let your nails be,” she carped over breakfast that morning.

  “Mom, let it go. Jess is a grown-up. She can do whatever she wants with her nails,” scolded Maggie.

  “I know,” Gloria said, then exhaled heavily, as if Jess’s raw fingernails were among the biggest disappointments of her life. “It’s just so unsightly.” She paused. “Or do I mean unseemly?”

  Jess had had enough. She grabbed her coffee and headed down to the beach. The kids were still asleep. It was while walking along the beach that she ran into her husband, returning from the other direction. She’d wondered where he’d gone when she woke up this morning, the bed vacant beside her. She approached him tentatively, hesitantly, as if he might be a con artist or a thief. He slowed when he saw her. Eventually, he headed her way.

  “Hey, there,” he said. Dark aviator sunglasses hid his eyes. Jess recognized the prescription glasses that Tim had paid a small fortune for last year.

  “Hi.” She dragged a flip-flop across the sand, forming little parallel lines. Where to begin when so much had happened? For a brief moment, she considered dialing their therapist on her cell phone. Then she remembered how much Tim disliked their therapist.

  “So, this has been quite the vacation, huh?”

  “Yeah,” she said, looking out over the water and trying desperately not to cry. “I came here with my husband and my kids,” she said softly. “Now I’m wondering: Will I be leaving with them?”

  Tim pushed his sunglasses up on his head, and she saw the green eyes she’d fallen for in a bar in South Boston. Little lines fanned out from them now, but his eyes were still beautiful. His face was tanned, and for the first time, she noticed he’d also lost some weight this vacation. He was, she realized, looking more like his old self.