My Kind of People

by Lisa Duffy

  “Do you not want to see her?”

  “Can we talk about something else?”

  He studies her. “Yes. But think about it, okay? I do have to give her an answer.”

  She nods, puts a knee under her and sits up taller. “Me and Frankie joined the surfing team today,” she tells him nonchalantly, then giggles when she sees the surprise on his face. “I said surfing team. Not, like, something amazing that would make you look at me like that.”

  “I think it’s amazing! How did I not know such a team existed?”

  “It’s not really an official team. Just a bunch of older kids who surf together. They’re really good though. And nice—Maggie said to tell you that.”

  “How did you sign up to be on the team?”

  She giggles again. “That’s not how it works. They saw me and Frankie surfing the last couple of weeks. One of them waved us over. Asked if we wanted to surf with them.”

  “I knew you were good. I didn’t know you were that good.”

  She shrugs. “Frankie’s better. She’s not afraid of anything. Huge waves and she just goes for it.”

  “Well, I think you’re pretty fearless. Hey—I was going to wait for Xavier, but I think this calls for a celebration. Hold on.” He disappears into the kitchen, watches Sky through the window while he gets what he needs.

  Minutes later, he emerges with two champagne flutes filled with a strawberry-colored liquid.

  “Shirley Temple for the lady,” he says, and hands one to Sky. She beams while they clink glasses. He takes a sip and hides his distaste for the sweet concoction.

  He bought the ingredients earlier after racking his brain for a solution to Xavier’s desire to have a drink together the minute he arrived.

  Cocktail hour on the patio, Xavier called it.

  Guaranteed to send Sky to her room. Or to the den to watch TV. Nothing more boring to a ten-year-old girl than two men drinking white wine and reconnecting, another one of Xavier’s recent words.

  Leo hasn’t wanted to admit it to himself, but it’s glaringly obvious that Xavier’s presence in the house on the weekends throws Leo and Sky off-kilter.

  During the week, when they are alone, their nights have had a certain flow to them. Sky talks nonstop through dinner. They watch a movie some nights. Other nights, they go to town for ice cream. Or go back to the beach.

  Which is why, now, Leo holds his breath when he hears the Range Rover pull in the driveway.

  Sky is telling him a story about Frankie’s epic crash on a huge wave this morning, but she stops talking when Xavier opens the door and steps onto the patio, holding a bottle of wine and two glasses.

  Oddly, he looks surprised to see Leo and Sky sitting at the table.

  “Hello,” he says formally.

  Leo senses immediately that Xavier is in one of his moods, but he smiles at him, rises, and walks over to give him a kiss. Xavier waves him off.

  “I smell like a dog after being crammed on that ferry for the last hour.”

  “I think I’ll live.” Leo laughs and leans in, but Xavier shifts, and the kiss lands on his cheek. The air has changed, thick with tension now. Sky is concentrating on the corn with a laser-type focus.

  “Let’s go in for a moment,” Leo suggests. “Want a refill, Sky?”

  She nods shyly, her eyes flitting to Leo, then Xavier, who has yet to acknowledge her.

  “Sky made the surf team today,” Leo says loudly. Too loudly. “We were celebrating with Shirley Temples.”

  Xavier gives them a forced smile. “Congratulations, Sky. Well, by all means, continue,” Xavier says, and disappears inside the house. Leo follows and finds him in the kitchen, uncorking the wine.

  “Let me get that while you clean up. I’ll pour you a glass and meet you outside. I was just about to throw some burgers on the grill.”

  Xavier frowns, looks at the raw hamburger patties on the counter. “I was hoping we could go to Lola’s tonight.”

  “The sushi bar? It just opened. It’ll be a mob scene. I thought we’d wait a week or two.” Leo pops the cork on the chardonnay and pours a glass. “Plus, it’s not exactly kid-friendly.”

  “I was hoping you’d lined up a babysitter. We haven’t been alone for weeks.”

  “We were alone this past Tuesday. Was it that forgettable?” Leo jokes.

  He’d gone to the city for the day and managed to sneak out of work for lunch. Xavier was working from home, and they’d spent the lunch hour in bed.

  “Don’t do that,” Xavier says. “Stopping by our home for a quickie and to repack your bag isn’t exactly what I had in mind for quality time.”

  Xavier’s anger is palpable. It takes Leo by surprise. They’ve never argued like this before.

  Actually, they’ve rarely argued. In the three years they’ve been together, he can count on one hand the number of arguments they’ve had.

  But what was there to argue about?

  They met through a mutual friend who knew both Xavier and Leo were looking for a long-term relationship.

  Leo hated dating. Xavier hated it more.

  Their physical attraction was immediate. Leo loved Xavier’s masculinity. His athleticism and muscled frame. Xavier loved that Leo hadn’t stepped foot in a gym since high school, yet his body was lean and sinewy, and he made Xavier stay in bed on Saturday mornings instead of going for his daily workout.

  They fell in love quickly and deeply. Leo cooked meals that made Xavier smile and tilt his head to the heavens. Xavier made Leo laugh out loud at least once a day.

  They both made good money. Had similar taste in houses and vacations and cars. They were both frugal. Neither of them wanted kids.

  What was there to argue about?

  Nothing. Until now.

  “You’re angry,” Leo says. “Every time you come here now, you’re angry.”

  “Well, maybe I just shouldn’t come,” Xavier replies, his voice loud.

  Leo reaches to shut the window over the sink, the one that sits directly over the patio table, when he hears a chair leg scrape against the tile. He looks out the window at Sky, walking across the backyard, away from the house.

  Away from them.

  “Nice job,” he says to Xavier, gesturing to Sky. But Xavier doesn’t hear him. He’s already walking to the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

  Leo leans against the counter. There’s a picture of Brian and Ann on the refrigerator. He picks up the glass of wine, holds it up.

  “Here’s to fucking up raising your kid,” he says quietly, and downs the clear liquid in one gulp.

  10

  She checks out of the inn and has a car waiting at the curb. The drive isn’t long—the studio is just outside of town, high on a cliff. They turn down a long driveway and follow it past a farmhouse, then a barn, until the forest is in front of them, the studio to her left.

  She pays the driver and gets out of the car. There’s an envelope taped to the door, a key inside, and she lets herself in.

  It was the location that mattered the last time she stayed here—if she walked to the very edge of the property and peeked through the trees, she could spot Mac’s backyard in the distance.

  There’s a knock on the door, and she calls out that it’s open. A woman’s face appears.

  “My husband said he left you the key,” she says. “I can come back if it’s a bad time.”

  “Now’s fine.”

  “I don’t want to disturb you. I’m Greer—I know we met, but it was so long ago. It’s Henley, right?”

  “Yes,” she lies.

  “Give a fake name,” Mac had said, years ago. “Just in case.”

  And then they’d forgotten to agree on one and when Greer had asked her for her name years ago, her mind went blank. Absolutely blank.

  “Henley!” Mac had said when she told her later. “Like the shirt?”

  She’d nodded. “I panicked. And I was staring at her and saw her shirt and it just popped out.”

  Mac had s
norted. “Good thing she wasn’t wearing a button-down sweater. I’d have to call you cardigan for the next two months.”

  “Are you living on the island?” Greer asks now. “The only people who know about this place are the artists from the co-op in town.”

  She shakes her head. “I’m just visiting. I had your husband’s phone number from when I stayed here before. I took a shot that you were still renting it out. Well, offering it up, I should say, with how inexpensive it is.”

  Greer laughs. “I wouldn’t feel right charging more than we do for this place. That’s still the only heat.” She points to the woodstove. “I still think you were nuts staying here in the winter like you did. I know it’s been a while, but things haven’t changed. We’re still busy as hell. Holler if you need anything. Otherwise, we’re not likely to cross paths.”

  Greer waves and turns to leave, then sticks her head back through the door.

  “I meant to ask—what did you end up having? We never heard anything after you went back to the city.”

  “A girl,” she answers.

  “I thought so—the way you were carrying. Gosh. Time flies, huh? I remember your husband was in the military. I hope he made it home for the birth.”

  “He did.” She touches her thumb to her ring finger, finds it soft. She’d forgotten to put on the ring. “We’re not together anymore,” she says quickly.

  Greer gives her a sympathetic look. “Well, it happens. Sometimes for the best. Is that where your daughter is? With her dad?”

  “She’s at camp,” she says, sticking to her original lie. “But then with her dad, yes. They’re taking a trip together.”

  Greer nods and waves again. “Well, enjoy the time alone. God knows, it’s good for the soul.”

  The door shuts, and she’s alone in the small room.

  Her cheeks are warm.

  She was never very good at lying—Mac was the one who could do it. Look straight at someone and, cool as anything, say things that were completely false.

  She’d meant to slip a cheap ring on her finger. Explain her time here on this island away from her family as normal—a child at camp. A husband overseas.

  She’d have a couple of weeks before Greer started asking questions. But this new lie has just bought her some time.

  Now, she has a fake ex-husband to take care of her nonexistent daughter.

  11

  Maggie is on the phone with Agnes. The conversation isn’t going well.

  They’ve had lunch on the calendar for weeks. And now, just two hours before they’re supposed to be sitting at the restaurant on the harbor, sipping a cocktail, Maggie’s called to say she has to watch Sky—Xavier is in the emergency room, his ankle swollen after an accident at spin class. Leo’s trying to catch the ferry back to the mainland.

  Agnes tells Maggie that she just knew Maggie was going to let this full-time nanny job take over her summer.

  “We haven’t seen each other in weeks!” Agnes exclaims, her voice tight on the other end of the phone.

  “We just saw each other yesterday,” Maggie replies, as gently as she can muster.

  “We bumped into each other getting the mail,” Agnes says. “And I couldn’t get a word in edgewise with Leo talking your ear off. I’m worried you’re getting too involved. You’re practically a full-time nanny.”

  “Yes, you mentioned that yesterday. Five times, actually.”

  She’d hoped Agnes might be nice about it. Tell Maggie that changing their plans last minute wasn’t a problem.

  And even though Maggie is at fault, she’s irritated by Agnes’s reaction.

  No—she’s irritated with Agnes in general, actually.

  “Well, it’s true. Every time I call you, you’re watching Sky. And now, apparently, you’re on call when there’s an emergency.”

  “Oh, stop it. I offered. Frankie’s over at Leo’s and he was ready to take both of them with him to the city. He would have had to drag them to the hospital.”

  “The hospital? For a sprained ankle?”

  “It could be broken, Agnes. We don’t know.”

  Agnes makes a noise on the other end of the phone. “Well, I hope his husband appreciates you dropping everything at a moment’s notice. And canceling our lunch. Our annual lunch. That we’ve had on the calendar. For weeks.”

  Maggie sighs. “I’m not canceling. I told you I’d make lunch here. We can do our annual lunch a different day.”

  “I was looking forward to sitting on the outdoor patio, catching up with you, and making fun of all the tourists getting off the ferry.”

  “I don’t make fun of the tourists.”

  “It’s not like they can hear me. Besides, I only make fun of the ones who deserve it. Remember the woman last year who got her stiletto stuck in the cobblestones? Don’t tell me that wasn’t funny.”

  “It was until she bled all over the street.”

  “Oh, she was fine by the time they got her up and put her ridiculous Cinderella slipper back on. Besides, I was looking forward to talking about something other than the party. To be honest, I’ll be glad when it’s over.”

  “Are you ready?” Maggie asks, happy to change the subject.

  She knows the answer already—of course Agnes is ready.

  She’s been hosting her annual Fourth of July party for decades—her parents hosted it for decades before that—her grandparents before that.

  The enormous tent is already set up in Agnes’s backyard. The tables arranged. Flowers ordered. Vans rented, ready to shuttle people from the town lot to the party, then back again in time for the fireworks show on the harbor.

  The caterer knows the menu by heart—it’s been the same for years now.

  Clam chowder and lobster rolls. Oysters and shrimp cocktail. Corn on the cob and potato salad. Vegetable and chicken kabobs. Ribs and pulled pork. Something for everyone.

  And that’s about who shows up. Anyone who’s anyone on Ichabod.

  “It’s like a goddamn wedding,” Pete complained, just this morning. “Whatever happened to sparklers in the backyard and a hot dog off the grill?”

  Maggie would be going alone. Pete hadn’t been to the party since he took the job with the police force decades ago. He said it was because he had to work. But it wasn’t Pete’s crowd anyway.

  “Ready as any other year,” Agnes replies. “Of course, the local weatherman’s giving his typical Ichabod forecast. Maybe a shower. Maybe not. A chance of lightning if it does rain, but most likely, we’ll see patches of sun. It’s too early to tell. For Christ’s sake—it’s tomorrow! The man couldn’t forecast a hurricane if he was standing in the eye of it—”

  “Agnes, I have to go,” Maggie interrupts. “Sky’s here. I’ll be here if you change your mind about lunch. Otherwise, I’ll see you at the party. I’ll bring my flag cake, as usual.”

  She hangs up and opens her front door. Sky isn’t at her house—but close enough. She can see the two girls walking down Leo’s driveway.

  She hadn’t needed to rush Agnes off the phone. But there was something in Agnes’s voice that made her desperate to hang up.

  Truthfully, she’d been dreading their lunch together. Dreading it so much that when she’d crossed the street earlier to return a bathing suit Sky had left at her house and Leo told her about Xavier’s accident, she’d told him he should go to the city to be with his husband.

  She insisted.

  She hadn’t mentioned her lunch plans with Agnes. Not even when Leo said he could probably send Sky to Frankie’s house instead.

  She doesn’t know what’s going on with her and Agnes lately, but she does know she’s not just irked with her friend.

  She’s mad as hell. Mad that Agnes makes her feel weak for wanting to save her marriage to Pete. Mad that Agnes makes her feel guilty for watching Sky. Mad because—Oh, she could go on and on in her mind. Tallying up all the things that have made her angry in their long friendship that she never admitted to—never had the guts to tell Agnes.
>
  At fifty years old, she’s come to the unfortunate conclusion that she’s pitiful at being angry.

  She can’t remember once in her life saying out loud that she was angry. Even this past year, with the foolishness with Pete and the secretary, she’d only used words like sad Hurt Disappointed.

  She doesn’t know the exact moment she stopped being able to say she was angry. To show she was angry.

  But a memory from her childhood has been replaying in her mind lately.

  She was seven or eight when it happened—she doesn’t remember exactly. Only that it was summer and she’d spent the whole day on the cool cement floor of the garage. She was working on a paint-by-number picture of two puppies sitting in a basket. Her mother didn’t like anything messy. Which was why Maggie wasn’t allowed to paint inside the house.

  She hadn’t minded spending the day in the garage. Her father kept it clean, and she’d spread a towel down underneath her, set her paints up right in front of her.

  Lying on her stomach, her face close to the painting, she’d spent hours carefully staying within the lines. She was going to hang it on her bedroom wall. Look at it at night before she went to sleep.

  She was working on the black tip of the puppy’s nose when her brother walked in, two of his friends trailing behind. They’d always gotten along just fine, her and Ben. Then he turned thirteen and decided she was a pain.

  Maggie the Maggot, he whispered at the dinner table.

  “Go do that inside,” Ben said, walking up so close that the toe of his sneaker was on her towel. “We need the garage.”

  “Give me a second. I’m almost done,” she said, pausing to look up at him before she went back to the painting.

  “You’re almost done?” he asked.

  Maybe she should have seen it coming. His voice had an edge to it. But she was too busy touching the thin tip of the brush against the puppy’s nose, filling the space with black paint.

  Her brother nudged the long handle of the paintbrush with his toe. Her hand jerked. Dark paint smeared across the picture.