Starting in September, Lanie would spend two and a half days at home with Benjamin. Her heart raced at the thought of what lay ahead, days that were sure to unfold at a slower pace but that would be fuller, she imagined, in other ways. She was excited to see if by doing less, she could really have more. All the dozens of self-help books she’d read on simplifying life, organizing and downsizing, neglected to point her to the most obvious answer: Spend more time doing the things you enjoy. And for her it meant realizing that the things she enjoyed had changed. She looked forward to, could almost taste, the lazy days ahead with her baby boy, outings to the park, play dates, trips to the children’s museum. Her mother would be proud, Lanie thought, as her sneakers drummed the pavement. At last, she would take the time to savor her three good things each day. She would begin anew today: the fresh morning air on Nantucket; the calm that had been reinstated in her marriage; the anticipation of slower days ahead.
She planned to fill Ellen in on it all, but not till the ferry ride back to Falmouth. She didn’t want to distract her from her time with Henry. This vacation was supposed to be about them, after all—Lanie and Rob were just there as sidekicks. And there was something surprisingly satisfying about not telling her sister first, for once, about the recent developments in her life. Ellen didn’t need to hear every little detail right now.
She began the loop back to the inn, the morning air warming her skin, and passed a few islanders as they walked to their cars for work, their coffee mugs in hand. Thankfully, her only worry today would be making sure Benjamin was wearing enough sunblock. Poor Henry would have to plant himself under an umbrella for the entire afternoon.
“Every great architect is—necessarily—a great poet. He must be a great original interpreter of his time, his day, his age.”
—Frank Lloyd Wright
Rob cracked open another beer. He could get used to island living. The ostentatious homes, the preppy rich who acted as if this lifestyle was their birthright, the sea-stung air. All of it seemed about right, a vision of how the other half lived. The winter months were probably hell, though, isolating and bitter cold. That part might take a little getting used to. He wondered if there was a market for architects on the island. Maybe he could start his own business out here, put out a shingle to build summer homes for the well-to-do. It was a tempting thought.
The girls had gone off to explore the quaint island shops with a sleeping Benjamin in his stroller; he and Henry had opted for a hall pass. “We haven’t tried all the excellent lagers the island has to offer,” Henry explained.
The girls rolled their eyes but agreed to meet them back at the inn around dinnertime.
Rob looked over at Henry now, his face tilted toward the ball game on the big-screen television above the bar. He’d gone from the bright pink of the other day to a darker crimson. It still looked painful as hell, Rob thought, though Henry claimed the burn was feeling much better, layers of aloe later.
“You a big fan?” he asked.
Henry broke his stare. “Of baseball? Sure. Of the Red Sox, not so much.”
Rob nodded.
“When I was a kid, I was a nut for baseball, back in the day when the Brewers were fun to watch. Think we had some Boston guys playing for us, too. Wasn’t it Lonborg and Billy Conigliaro?
“That’s a touchy subject around here,” their bartender, a weathered old gentleman who was wiping up the bar, interjected.
Henry licked some foam off his lip with his tongue. “Yes, I guess I’m showing my age, aren’t I?”
“Pretty much anyone from Massachusetts knows those guys’ names. Lonborg was part of the dream team back in the 1960s, but the Sox handed the World Series to the Cardinals back in ’67. Then the Sox gave up on Lonborg, traded him and Conigliaro in ’71. Fatal error.” He shook his head and wiped at a stubborn watermark on the counter with his rag.
“I remember that,” Henry pitched in now. “That was a historic trade. The Sox lost a couple of games to the Brewers that season when Lonborg was pitching, right? Irony of ironies.”
“Right you are. And another one when Conigliaro had four RBIs. Not that anyone was counting.” Their bartender stopped cleaning and tucked his rag behind the bar. “Of course, that was the year the Sox finished half a game out of first place. If they’d won just one of those games against your Brewers, well, we’d be having a different conversation.”
“Henry, my man, I think maybe we should shut up if we know what’s good for us.” Rob laid a hand on his back.
“Ah, I’m just having fun. It’s nice to meet someone with a genuine love for the game. Cheers.” He hoisted his glass up to the bartender.
“To the love of the game, that I can drink to.” The bartender smiled and clinked a shot glass against Henry’s mug.
Rob was trying to figure out if he liked Henry or not. Not that it really mattered. Ellen could do her own choosing. But she’d crashed and burned with Max. Rob knew that Lanie was hoping the next guy would treat Ellen with the respect she deserved, would spoil her rotten. They both agreed Ellen was worthy of some rich dude who would whisk her off to Europe and feed her oysters on his yacht. Henry didn’t exactly seem the type. To be fair, though, he also seemed pretty harmless. Rob didn’t suppose he was making millions in the greenhouse business, but if the man liked sports and beer and Ellen liked him, then he was all right by Rob. He wasn’t as tough a judge as his wife.
He took another sip of beer and breathed in the relaxed atmosphere. One more night and they were headed back on the ferry to the real world. It was going to be a hell of an adjustment. At least, he counseled himself, the main work was done on the art institute. Now it was just a matter of refining things here and there and overseeing the construction. That would keep them busy well into next year.
“How do you like your Summer of Lager?” the bartender asked.
“Delicious. Not too hoppy. And it’s brewed right here on the island?”
“That’s right. Cisco Brewers. I think they ship to a few other places, but it’s mainly an island beer.”
“I wonder if we could stash a case on the plane ride back?” Henry asked.
Rob laughed. “We’ll have to see how much loot the girls bring back.”
He knew Lanie would quiz him when they got back to their room: What did you guys talk about? Did Henry say anything about Ellen? What are his intentions? But every time he tried to explain to her that guys didn’t “chat” like women did, she didn’t believe him. “How can you just sit over beers and not talk to each other?” she’d ask. “Easy, we drink our beer and watch sports.” She would think he was intentionally avoiding her grilling, but he didn’t feel like asking Henry a million questions. The poor guy had been a good sport already by letting Ellen’s whole “other family” come along on what he probably thought was going to be a romantic vacation. Nevertheless, Rob tried briefly.
“So, Henry, you and my sister-in-law have been dating how long now?”
Henry bit into a salsa chip and thought about it. “Guess I haven’t really been keeping track. Maybe a few months? Isn’t that the woman’s job?”
Rob grinned. “Probably, but you should always be prepared with an answer in case she asks.”
“Ah, a man who knows the ins and outs of dating.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say that exactly, but I do know a thing or two about the McClarety sisters.”
“Now you’ve got me interested.” Henry turned to him. “What else should I know?”
Funny how the conversation had turned into a quiz for him. “Well, don’t forget to mark every anniversary—that means your first kiss, your first movie, your first shooting star—that kind of thing.”
“Maybe I should be taking notes.” He pulled his napkin closer and looked about for a pen. Rob thought he was serious for a second.
“And, it’s good if you have a job that gets you home in a timely manner, but I think that’s true for most couples.” He thought back to the whole Samantha debacle of earlier
this summer, grateful that Lanie seemed to have trusted his word at last. He wasn’t sure what had turned the tide for her, but one day she showed up at his office all smiles with Benjamin in tow and from then on she’d been fine. She’d even gone so far as to apologize to him for jumping to conclusions. Go figure. He’d smiled to see his tie laid out for him the next morning.
“Makes sense, but we’re not even living together.”
“Right, but if the time should come, it’s a good thing to keep in mind. Ellen—well, you probably know this by now—is a very independent woman. She can be a little intimidating, but really she’s just a big softie. She raised Lanie after their mom died, more or less. And she gave me a hell of a time before I proposed to Lanie. It wasn’t till afterward that she told me she’d liked me all along.”
Henry grinned. “That sounds like her.”
“She’s a good woman, just like her sister.”
Henry raised his glass. “To the McClarety sisters.”
“I’ll drink to that—and to our sanity.” Henry chuckled. Rob liked the guy, he decided. They clinked glasses and turned back to the game. End of discussion. He had done his job, as far as he was concerned.
Still, he was sure if Lanie had been around, she would have analyzed why Henry hadn’t added a few potent words to the toast himself, something like “—and to the men who love them.”
Fall
“Kringle-making is less an art of perfection than an art of patience. To achieve a kringle that is light and flaky, one must be willing to roll out layer upon layer, wait for the dough to rise, then spread the filling and weave the ends together before popping in the oven—giving the artist plenty of time to think on other matters.”
—The Book of Kringle
Ellen was sitting on white paper, not so unlike parchment paper, a light-blue gown wrapped around her. She hated how doctors always made a person wait forever. She’d already thumbed through two issues of People and was eyeing the chart on the wall to see if her vision was going, too. She’d had one too many hot flashes on Nantucket, and even her antacids didn’t seem to be helping her stomach pangs anymore. She was ready and willing for a little pill that would make all her symptoms fade away. Estrogen side effects or not, menopause be damned!
She was trying not to feel sorry for herself, sorry that her body was yielding to the ravages of age before she was ready. Forty-five was on the young side for menopause, she knew, but given that her periods had always been erratic, she supposed it wasn’t unusual. But how unfair! She thought back to all the times she’d sat on similar tables, waiting to get the news that the latest fertility treatment she and Max tried had failed. How many times had they tried? Too many to count. Eventually, shortly after the miscarriage, they’d given up, disheartened by their failure to achieve what seemed the most basic right of marriage.
When the doctor entered the room, Ellen quickly smoothed the paper around her.
“Ellen. Good to see you.” Jean Mayer was a kind woman who had delivered plenty of bad news to Ellen over the years. She hoped, though, that she would make this appointment quick, write out the prescription, and send her on her way.
“Good to see you, Dr. Mayer.”
“So tell me how you’ve been feeling lately.”
“Not great. My stomach has been up and down, and I seem to be getting hot flashes every other day. You’re going to tell me it’s early menopause, aren’t you?”
She smiled and took Ellen’s hand. Ellen thought for a moment the news was even worse than she’d imagined. This wasn’t menopause . . . she was dying!
“Actually, no.” She paused, smiled again. “I have some rather surprising news, I guess you’d say.” Ellen waited.
“Ellen, you’re pregnant.”
She laughed. “Good one. Really, what’s going on?”
“I’m very serious. Your blood work shows that you’re about three months along.”
There were no words.
“You’re kidding?” It was all she could come up with. “Pregnant? How? Immaculate conception?”
The doctor laughed. She knew Ellen and Max had parted ways. “You tell me, but you’ve definitely got a baby growing in there. Can you lean back for me so I can feel your belly?”
Ellen looked up at the tiles in the ceiling. Pregnant? It didn’t make sense. She and Henry had been together only once, that night on Nantucket, just a stone’s throw away in time. That wasn’t long enough for a baby to grow to three months old, obviously.
“When was your last period?” The doctor’s cool hands stretched across Ellen’s belly, taking measure.
She tried to think. It had been a while. “I’m not sure. Maybe three, four months ago?”
The doctor nodded. “That sounds about right.”
“But I thought I couldn’t get pregnant . . .”
“Stranger things have happened. Sometimes the body just needs the right circumstances, less stress. We can’t really say, but sometimes it just works. Chalk it up to serendipity.”
“But aren’t I too old to be having a baby? I mean, I’m practically old enough to be a grandma.”
Dr. Mayer laughed. “Not these days. Plenty of women are having babies well into their forties. Haven’t you heard? Forty is the new thirty.”
Ellen had read some such nonsense in a magazine and dismissed it. But still. Pregnant? She thought back to three or four months ago. Whose bed had she been in? Then she realized, with a start, who had been in her bed. Max, of course. The evening of his unannounced visit when he’d wooed her with beef and broccoli. She felt sick to her stomach all over again.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to bring the ultrasound in here. Take a quick look and make sure everything’s all right. We might even be able to see the heart beating.”
“Uh, sure.”
Before Ellen had time to process the news, the doctor was wheeling in a machine with a small screen attached. She squeezed cold jelly across Ellen’s bare stomach and ran a small wand over her skin. All of a sudden the black screen lit up.
“Ah, there it is,” she said. “Can you see the head, and the little arms and feet?” Her finger pointed to various white illuminations. It looked like a small alien.
“That’s a baby?” Ellen asked in wonderment.
“It is indeed, momma. Too early to say if it’s a boy or a girl, but it’s definitely a baby.”
“Oh my God.” It was all beginning to sink in. “A baby? My baby?” She felt tears spring up, unbidden.
The doctor smiled as she continued to move the wand around. “And that there is your baby’s heart, beating strongly.” Ellen looked at the little thumping light on the screen. Her own heart quickened. How long had she waited for this moment? But now there was no Max in her life, no daddy for this child. She breathed in and the baby moved.
“Whoa. You just gave him a little squeeze.”
She wiped a tear away. “Or her,” she said. “A baby,” she whispered, and the doctor squeezed her hand.
• • • •
After seeing the doctor, Ellen headed straight for Lanie’s office to tell her the news, then turned down another street at the last minute and drove to the bakery. She wanted to hold on to her secret for a few more hours. She needed to think it all through. Putting her hands in some dough would do her good.
It was astonishing, a miracle, really, to be pregnant after all these years. On the one hand she wanted to shout it from the rooftops, turn cartwheels down the street; on the other, she was filled with anxiety. How unfair for this child to come around now, when only Ellen was in the picture. Was one person’s love enough? She hoped so.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said when she walked in. Larry was manning the store in her absence.
“We’re getting used to it around here,” he joked. “First, she goes on vacation. Then she comes in any old time she pleases. Don’t worry, the kringle’s all baked to perfection.”
“I can’t tell you how glad I am that you’re back,” Erin said. “
Someone around here is getting an awfully big head.”
Ellen couldn’t stop smiling. She felt like she would burst with the news. Or burst into tears. She focused on the board:
Today’s Drips: Morning Blend; Hazelnut Decaf
Tips: When referring to a general amount, use less. When referring to a specific number, use fewer. Ex: Fewer apples picked yesterday means less kringle baked today.
“Nice.” She nodded to the board. “You two will be grammar wizards in no time.”
“That is our goal in life,” Larry teased. “And, thanks to our good man Fowler, we’ll reach that goal sooner rather than later.”
Ellen chose to ignore the dig.
“But in bigger news, I think we’ve solved your kringle riddle.”
“Really?” Ellen couldn’t hide her surprise. She’d posted it on the board a few weeks ago to see if any of the customers could shed some light on it.
“Yeah, Erin and I were talking about it and we wondered what if “first” referred to the very first state capital of the United States? That would be New York. And lo and behold, it has seven letters!”
Ellen was impressed. “I’m with you so far, but so what? What about New York?”
“Interesting you should ask. We wondered, too, so we did a little sleuthing. Turns out the state fruit is an apple, but that’s nothing new to the kringle world. So, we kept looking and discovered that the rose is New York’s state flower.”
“And?” Ellen wasn’t following.
“And then we started thinking: Rosemary? Nah, that seemed too acrid for a kringle. But how about rose water? Two teaspoonsful of rose water.”
Ellen’s mouth dropped open. “You think that could be it?”
Larry held up a little bottle. “We ordered it online. We’re going to try it in one of the kringles for tomorrow, if that’s okay.”
Three Good Things Page 16