“Helga and I.”
“Me and Helga are going to the outlets. Want anything?”
Sometimes I did go with them. Genevieve London Designs had a shop there, and it always thrilled the staff when I showed up. That being said, it was always a little depressing to see my name but not my designs any longer. “Thank you, no. I’m off, then.”
“Us too. Should I alert the Coast Guard?”
I sighed. “I’m just swimming to the buoy and back. I’ll be fine.”
I went upstairs to put on my swimsuit, by far the most difficult garment for a woman of age. Even though I’d worked hard to keep my figure, there was no hiding certain truths of being eighty-five years old. The skin on my thighs was crepey, and veins could be seen like routes on a map snaking through my calves. My arms and chest were spotted with discolorations I couldn’t pretend were freckles and that laser treatments couldn’t outpace. My feet, though I’d just had a pedicure last week, looked old. The bunion on my right foot looked worse than it did in the spring, and hurt more, too.
Then there was the actual putting on of the suit. I’d given up bikinis in my fifties when my skin began to lose its elasticity. This modest black maillot had a special material that held things up and in, and getting it from my ankles into place required a physics degree and a crane.
Finally, breathless from exertion, I allowed myself to look in the mirror. Minuet barked in appreciation and wagged her tail, bless her sweet heart.
I looked so old. Would my own mother know me? Though she had been dead for decades, I suddenly yearned for her. When was the last time someone had taken care of me who wasn’t paid to do so? When was the last time I could rely on someone? The last time someone else was in charge?
I was so tired. Not physically, not today . . . just tired of living.
Get busy living, or get busy dying. That’s what Red said in The Shawshank Redemption (my recall was perfect today), and that’s what I would do now.
Unfortunately, I had to go to the bathroom first, even though I’d just gone ten minutes ago, which would require another wrestling match with my bathing suit.
Such were the indignities of old age.
Fifteen minutes later, I was down at the dock, dabbing a toe in the water. The sun was strong, and it was muggy out today, the green flies circling and buzzing.
The boys used to jump off the dock here, Sheppard running, his feet pounding the wood, little Clark bobbling behind. Both boys were fascinated at my ability to dive straight into the water at high tide. I’d promised to teach them.
But Sheppard had gone away, and I’d never gotten around to teaching Clark. Everything I’d wanted to be as a mother withered away that year, when each day dragged me further from my beautiful boy.
I would see him soon if I ever managed to kill myself. If he was dead, that was. If not, I’d have to keep waiting. That was, if the afterlife existed. It damn well better.
That was all the impetus I needed, apparently, for the next thing I knew, I was slicing through the water, the salty brine familiar and bracing. The waves were almost nonexistent, the breeze gentle. My shoulder creaked a bit, and my ankles felt stiff, and my knees would punish me later, but I was swimming, turning my head every third stroke for a breath of air. Goggles protected my eyes, but I’d forgotten a swimming cap. Ah, well. My hair would survive.
I’d forgotten how much I’d loved swimming in the ocean. Or the Sound, as the case may have been. It was better than the ocean, even, as there were no riptides, no sharks or squid. I wondered how far I’d have to go before it would be too late to turn back. I was a good swimmer, and the water was warm, so hypothermia would take quite some time. I passed the end of the point, where I’d let dear Miller bury his wife, and kept going. The sails of a few boats dotted the horizon, but otherwise, I was alone.
I swam underwater for a few strokes. Could I do this? Could I just . . . stop? Wasn’t breathing something the body fought for at all costs? Would I have to load my pockets with rocks? A school of small fish swam beneath me, silver and flashing in the clear water.
Once, Garrison and I had taken the boys to Southern California, and we’d swum with seals and sea lions, and the fish had been so beautiful, their colors brilliant in the Pacific. Clark had been three and stayed on the shore with the nanny we’d taken along, but we had to nearly drag Sheppard out of the water. He’d been such a natural at everything.
I looked around now, wondering where the rocky cliffs were. Shouldn’t I be able to hear the sea lions now? Where was Sheppard? Where was anyone?
This wasn’t right! Where was I? There was something swimming at me. It seemed to be a golden sea lion. Very rare, I thought. Or was I imagining it? This didn’t look like the Pacific one bit. Or did it?
Suddenly, my head was underwater, and I wasn’t sure what to do. I was sinking. Sinking! The water was green, and I could see paws above me. It wasn’t a sea lion. It was a dog.
Kick, said a voice in my head, and I did, and then I was above water again, gasping. The dog barked at me and swam closer, and I grabbed onto its collar. There. Over there. A floating object nearby, a green and yellow thing with a rope on it. I couldn’t remember the word—boy?—but I knew to swim to it. I grabbed on, and it held me up, bobbing and slippery. The dog came with me and swam around in circles, barking.
Why was I out here? Who was watching me? Who would help me? Whose dog was this?
Had Sheppard drowned? Where was Sheppard? Was I supposed to be looking for him? He was lost, wasn’t he? Had he jumped in with me? How did I get here? “Sheppard!” I called, but my voice was weak.
“What the hell are you doing?” came a gruff voice, and I looked behind me to see a small boat—a Boston something—approaching.
“Paul,” I said, and then I was back in myself. It was summer, and I was old, and this was Emma’s grandfather, and we didn’t like each other because . . . because of a baby.
The dog barked again. He was mine. Maximilian. Mac. The dear, senile thing had swum out with me.
“Need help?” he asked.
“No,” I said, then immediately regretted it. “Actually, yes. I’ve got a . . .” The word was gone. “A crink.”
“A cramp, you mean?”
“Yes. That’s what I said.”
“Fine.” He turned off the engine, the boat bobbing dangerously close to me, and reached a hand over the side, his lined face scowling. “Come on, you idiot. Why the hell you’d go for a swim all by your lonesome is beyond me.”
“I have the dog for company, don’t I?”
“Yeah, well, where’s his boat?”
His hand felt wonderful, warm and solid. “Pull me in,” I said.
“You gotta help out, Genevieve. This is gonna be a group effort.”
My teeth were starting to chatter. “Just pull, Paul. I’m a bit weak from exertion.”
“Well, you shoulda thought of that before you swam a mile, shouldn’t you? Hate to break this to you, but you’re old.”
“Just help me on your damn boat, Paul, and save your lecture for when I’m not about to drown.”
“I wish you were about to drown. Maybe you wouldn’t be talking so much.”
He had all his hair, which was nice. It was completely white, like mine, and his beard made him look like the perfect New England fisherman.
“If you don’t get me on your boat, I’m pulling you in with me,” I said.
Finally, he heaved, and I was able to grab the side of the boat. However, my legs were not cooperating. “Just swing over,” Paul said.
“If it were easy, Paul, I’d have done it already,” I snapped.
He reached down and grabbed me—my inner thigh, his hand right where it shouldn’t be!—and hauled me on so that I fell onto the bottom of the boat in a rush of water and humiliation.
“There,” he said. “Welcome aboard
.”
“You put your hand between my legs!” I gasped.
“And I didn’t draw back a bloody stump, so we both win,” he said.
“How dare you.”
To my surprise, he laughed. He laughed. I felt my own mouth twitch a little bit.
“Guess we have to get this monster in, too, don’t we?” he said. “Couldn’t it have been the little rat dog?”
Together, we wooed Mac close enough to the boat to grab his collar and haul him in. Once aboard, he shook violently, then turned in a circle and lay in the puddle at the bottom of the boat.
“Two lives saved in one day,” Paul said.
“Let’s avoid self-aggrandizing statements, shall we?” I said.
“Yes, Your Majesty.” He took off his ubiquitous flannel shirt, revealing a blue T-shirt, and handed it to me. I used it to wipe my face, removing my goggles, and then put it on and sat on the seat of the Whaler.
“Thank you,” I said.
“You’re welcome. Can I take you home?”
“Please do.”
He started the engine and sat on the seat next to me, smoothly guiding the boat in a circle and heading back to Sheerwater.
“I’ve always loved the view of the house from here,” I said.
“It’s a looker, all right. So what were you doing out here?”
“I believe it’s called swimming,” I said.
“Looked like drowning to me.”
“As I said, I had a cramp.”
“You said crink, actually.” He cut me a look. “Losing it, are you?”
“I have a brain tumor, in case you forgot. Occasionally bungling a word is a symptom.”
“Maybe people with brain tumors shouldn’t go swimming alone. Just puttin’ that out there.”
“Point taken.” I glanced at him. He was an attractive man, his face weathered and wrinkled. Lovely crow’s-feet. I’d always liked that on a man. He looked a bit like that actor, the one with the deep, deep voice and mustache. Sam Elliott, that was it. That being said, Paul’s eyebrows were out of control, and tufts of hair stuck out of his ears. One could tell he was unmarried. A wife would’ve taken care of that. Those little, personal, rather endearing things that were only between a husband and wife.
How I missed Garrison.
“Would you like to stay for lunch?” I asked.
“Who’s cooking? That German woman who hates food?”
I huffed out a laugh. “No. She and Donelle are shopping.”
“In that case, yes. Is Emma home?”
“No. She’s working at Rose Hill today, and Riley is at Miller’s house.”
“That little one is quite a terror, isn’t she? I stopped by the other day. I’ve been doing a little work for Miller here and there to keep busy.”
“Have you?” I felt miffed that I didn’t know this. Miller was my friend. Then again, I did respect Paul for not sitting idle as so many people our age did.
“She is a terror,” I agreed. “Adorable, though.”
We were at the dock now, and Paul tied the boat up with a dexterity that bespoke experience. Mac jumped out on his own, apparently energized from his swim and brief nap.
“I gather you have a boat on Lake Michigan?” I asked.
“I did,” he said. “Sold it when the wife was sick.”
“Ah. I’m sorry.”
He got off and extended his work-roughened hand, which I accepted. As I stepped onto the dock, I stumbled, and he instinctively grabbed me, close enough that I could feel his warmth.
It had been years since a man touched me, other than a doctor. Decades, perhaps.
“Thank you,” I said, letting go. We walked up to the house. “Go on in,” I said, punching in the code at the back door. “I’ll rinse off and join you in a few moments. Make yourself at home.”
The outdoor shower was lovely; Miller had redone it a few years ago, and it contained a dressing room stocked with bath gel, shampoo and conditioner (Gilchrist & Soames Fresh Citrus collection), loofahs, razors, plush towels and two Genevieve London Spa Edition bathrobes (Beverly’s team’s design, but lovely Egyptian cotton). I’d forgotten what a pleasure it was to shower with the sun beating down. I washed my salty hair twice, breathing in the lovely scent of the shampoo. When I was clean and fragrant, I wrapped myself in one of the robes and went upstairs to change.
Putting on makeup seemed too much of an effort. My face was flushed from sunshine and exertion, and while my eyebrows had been gradually disappearing these past fifteen years, I just didn’t have the desire to sit down at my dressing table and put on my face. Instead, I brushed my hair back into a bun and pulled on a snug camisole to keep my breasts from rambling around like disobedient puppies. Chose stylish, loose-fitting, pale blue pajamas. I was sure Paul wouldn’t notice that they were actual pajamas, or care. They were very snazzy. What was the phrase Riley used? On fleek.
Paul was sitting at the kitchen counter, where I never sat, already eating (no manners, honestly), and indicated my plate. What appeared to be a grilled cheese awaited me; no napkin, no side salad, not even carrot sticks.
I took a bite and closed my eyes in pleasure. Paul had a point. Helga did hate food. This simple sandwich was delicious, abundant with melted cheese, a little hint of mustard and a few thin slices of tomato.
“Delicious,” I said.
“Emma’s favorite thing when she was pregnant.” He took another bite. “Still her go-to comfort food.”
The reprimand was gentle but there.
“I always thought she’d come back,” I said. He glanced at me. Brown eyes. I’d never noticed before. “I wanted her to,” I added.
“You never called. You never visited. You didn’t even send a Christmas card.”
“It was her move.”
“No, Gennie. It was yours.” His voice was neutral for once, not accusatory. Also, he called me Gennie, and no one had ever done that. “Especially after what you said to her. You owed her an apology. Still do.”
“You’re right.”
“Why didn’t you do anything?” he asked. He was looking at me intently now.
He was finished with his sandwich, and I was nearly there as well. I took another bite, not eager to have this conversation. I’d have to make grilled cheese sometime. Mac had gotten inside somehow, but not without rolling in the grass first; his pale gold coat was tinted with green. I gave him a bit of crust, since he’d tried to save me, the dear thing.
“You gonna answer?” Paul asked.
“I’m not as good as you,” I said quietly. “I’m too proud. And, I’ll admit, I was embarrassed. She was eighteen years old, and we’d talked about unwanted pregnancy, and—”
“Did it ever occur to you that the pregnancy was wanted?”
I jerked a little. “She had her whole life in front of her. A wonderful life, Paul, with every opportunity waiting for her. Education, travel, whatever career she wanted, all the money in the world—”
“She wanted someone to love, Genevieve. And she wanted someone who’d love her back.”
Oh, the endless judgment! “I did love her.”
“Yeah, right. She was the burdensome child of a woman who committed suicide and the son you didn’t care about. You were ashamed of her.”
“I was not!” I barked, slamming my fist on the counter. It hurt considerably. “Granted, she was the daughter of a troubled woman, and Clark isn’t exactly the son one dreams of having, but I loved Emma. I took her in and did my best, Paul Riley, and how dare you accuse me otherwise! The real problem was my best wasn’t good enough. I knew that. I’m half-dead inside, and I have been for fifty-five years. I did my best, damn you, and when she went back to you, her real family, her perfect grandfather, I could hardly beg her to come back here, could I?”
My heart was pounding, and I felt slightly i
ll. I couldn’t believe I had said all that out loud, and to this man of all people.
Paul looked at me a long minute. “Feel good to get that off your chest?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. It’s time for you to go. Thank you for pulling me out of the water.” I stood up, and so did he.
“I like you better when you’re not so fuckin’ polite.”
Then, shockingly, he kissed me. Briefly, just long enough for me to feel the warmth of his lips and the scrape of his scraggly beard.
“See you around,” he said, and then he left, his footsteps loud in the quiet house.
The kiss hadn’t been long enough for me to judge its quality.
Still . . .
He’d kissed me.
Greenish Mac woofed and wagged.
“Would you like a treat?” I asked, petting his big, damp head.
The other dogs heard the word from their various locales and came running, and so I doled out pieces of bacon that Helga made each morning just for them.
Then I poured myself a glass of dry Riesling, took the bottle with me into the conservatory and sat in the big leather club chair, my feet on the matching ottoman.
I had been kissed. At the age of eighty-five, no less. And, in retrospect, kissed rather well.
CHAPTER 28
Emma
In mid-July, Genevieve hosted her annual neighborhood bash. If ever a property was meant for such a party, it was Sheerwater.
She’d been a little quiet this past week; not sick, but a little inside herself. Uncharacteristically peaceful, too, which made me suspect something was up. But the party cheered her. A tent was set up on the lawn, and caterers had been hired to provide all the food except for dessert, which Genevieve allowed the guests to bring. Riley invited her brothers and Rav, and they chased each other around with the other kids from the neighborhood.
Miller came, too, with Tess. His in-laws were invited as well, and when I introduced myself to them and said I’d known Ashley a little, Mrs. James started to cry and had to go in the house, Mr. James at her heels, giving me a baleful look over his shoulder.
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