East Hope (35 page)

Will put down Crystal's essay. They had been meeting twice a week at the library and this was the second draft he'd seen. It was four thirty and already dark. Rain was supposed to move in that night. Maybe it would even snow.

“So what do you think?” Crystal's steady gaze never left his face.

“It's coming along well,” Will said. He gave her an encouraging smile. “You're almost there.”

“But not totally?” She twirled a few strands of hair between her fingers.

“Remember I told you that the real writing is in the rewriting.”

“Like, every time I see you.” She rolled her eyes in a joking way.

After a rough junior year, life as a senior seemed to be going better for Crystal. Her mother was recovering from surgery and she appeared to be in remission from her cancer. Will had done nothing special for Crystal except to listen, and take the time to help her organize her thoughts. He told her that a pivotal event she was supposed to write about didn't have to be some huge or highly dramatic moment. Sometimes small encounters had the power to alter the course of your life. For him, seeing the ad for Taunton's in
Down East
had been the insignificant thing that seemed to be affecting everything in his own life, especially now.

“Do you still make the fairy forts in the woods?” he asked.

“You won't tell anyone?” She raised her thin shoulders slightly.

He shook his head no. “One day you'll have to show me how you do it.”

Crystal's essay had been about the times her mother had taken her into the woods behind their house in the summer and sat her down on the ground, soft and fragrant with pine, to make miniature villages out of sticks, pebbles, moss, and the other natural materials that they found on their walks. They began by constructing little dollhouses for the fairies. Fairy forts, they called them, tiny log cabins of twigs with moss-covered roofs.

As Crystal grew older, their creations grew more elaborate. Crystal and her mother made tiny paths, pretend villages, a church steeple with acorn caps, a store made from birch bark, and a school surrounded by a wall of tiny pebbles. An inverted clamshell filled with water served as a pond. Crystal's mother, who studied art as a young girl, had spent a summer on Monhegan Island, where building fairy houses in the woods was a tradition.

For Crystal, the project didn't end in the woods. Once home, she wrote stories about the imaginary little people that populated that world. She explained in her essay that this was what made her want to become a writer.

Become a writer,
Will thought. In his mind, Crystal
was
a writer, and Will felt happy that he had been able to help her in this small way. “We'll go over it one more time next week,” he said. “Be sure every sentence, every word is working, there for a reason. I suggest you read it out loud.”

It was five o'clock and their time was up. They gathered their books and coats, and he followed her outside. A light icy rain had begun to fall.

“Do you need a lift home?” he asked. His car and Edna's were the only ones in the parking lot.

Crystal lifted her face to the sky. “Could you? It's pretty gross out. I live out on Bartlett Road. It's the turn after Karen's Café.” She shifted her books in her arms, her shoulders hunched in the cold. “You're sure you don't mind?”

“Not at all.”

Crystal followed him to his car and got in. The road was wet and potentially slippery, so Will took it slowly, periodically testing the brakes.

“Mr. Harmon?”

Will glanced at her; she looked waiflike, wet pieces of hair on her face. Crystal wasn't dressed warmly enough. No hat or gloves and it was November.

“I was wondering if you'd be willing to read some other stuff? Stories, I mean.”

“Sure, anytime,” he said.

“It's right here.” She pointed to a small cape set back from the road. “Just leave me by the mailbox,” she said.

Will pulled the car to a stop and Crystal got out. He watched her walk up the dirt drive, relieved to see lights on in several rooms and smoke rising from the chimney. He backed out of the drive and turned his car toward Taunton's.

Caroline's house was dark. He reduced his speed as if to linger, as if a light might go on at any moment, signifying that she was home. Maybe she had gone to see her son, to tell him about her baby. He remembered holding her the night of the dinner party. The scent of her hair, floral with a touch of wood smoke from the fire, soft against his cheek, kept coming back to him, as did the feeling of her hands on his.

Why was he going to New York? Was it the simple New England stick-to-itiveness that had been drummed into him since childhood, or the longing for an enduring marriage like the one his parents had? Could he recapture what he once had with Mary Beth?

The range of Will's feelings toward his wife was troubling. On the one hand he knew he was guilty: He hadn't gone to see her in California, he'd insisted on this summer in Maine; he'd gone ahead and bought Taunton's with the knowledge that she wouldn't approve. But she was at fault too, he persuaded himself. She was constructing a whole new life for them in New York, as if he would happily comply with the future she envisioned. He thought again of their week together, the final days of summer that he had spent with her. They had reconnected, strengthening the slender threads of tenderness and affection between them. Or had that time been a sort of fantasy, like Crystal's make-believe fairy world, a fleeting construction that would not stand the test of time?

After ten the next evening Rob came in through the door to his old house in Chevy Chase.

“I'm in here,” Caroline called out. She sat on the sofa in the living room in front of the fire. Her knees were drawn up to her chest. She had draped a blanket across her legs.

Rob put down his bags in the hall, a backpack and a black computer bag that used to be Harry's. His hair was longer and shaggy. He came over to his mother, bent, and kissed her cheek before collapsing in one of the upholstered chairs next to the sofa.

“I'm so glad you're home,” she said. “Do you want some dinner? I could heat something up.”

“I ate on the way. Thanks.”

Caroline's heart felt heavy in her chest. “There's something I have to explain.” She had lit only one lamp. The room was in shadow. He could probably see nothing yet. “This has been a terrible year for you,” she went on. “You miss Dad, and I know it's been rough for you to give up our house and—”

“Mom, you don't have to say all that again.”

“It's been hard for me too.”

“I know that, Mom.”

“Something happened that I never could have imagined. I had to make a very difficult decision.”

“What do you mean?”

“In a way, it's an amazing blessing.”

“What are you talking about?”

She heard the impatience in his voice. “Rob, this is so hard to explain.” She drew in a large breath and let it go. “I'm going to have a baby.”

He said nothing. Caroline felt as if the air had been sucked out of the room.

“You're what?”

“Yes. You see . . .” She stretched out her legs, her belly now clearly visible.

“But . . . Dad?” His voice came out barely a whisper.

Caroline couldn't seem to get her mouth to speak.

“Shit,” he said. “So you've got some boyfriend?” His voice cracked like a fourteen-year-old's. “That didn't take you very long.”

“Rob, let me tell you what happened.”

“You'd better tell me,” he said. “How could you?” He looked shocked. His mouth hung open.

“I don't have a boyfriend,” she said. “You know how hard this winter was, and you know how Dad lost almost all of our money. I spent months trying to work things out. Pete was so kind. He explained what had gone wrong and he . . .” The months and months of planned explanations swirled in her head. She had to get this right. “Last May I went to a dinner party. It was that strange warm weekend, and Pete and Marjorie had me to dinner and . . .”
Wait.
She didn't want to bring Pete into this.

“Mom, get to the point.”

“I hated being there. I really didn't want to go out. I had too much to drink and when I came home . . . Pete drove me home. I was at a low ebb, and that and the wine . . .” She couldn't go on. She had already said too much. For a while Rob said nothing. His expression was at first confused, then clouded with disbelief.

“You mean Pete Spencer?” Rob asked.

“Let me explain.”

“Uncle Pete?” he shouted at her. “Dad's best friend? You're lying.”

“I know it was terrible of me. It wasn't his fault. We didn't think.”

He brought his hands to his head. “You waited until now to tell me about this?”

“Please.” Caroline started to get up.

“Don't come near me.”

This was going far worse than she'd ever imagined. She sat very still. “I wanted to tell you this summer. But Melanie was there, and you were so upset about giving up our house.”

“Mom,” he said, his voice choking on a sob.

“Please don't be upset.”

“You don't think I should be upset when you've been screwing the guy who I thought was Dad's best friend?” His words flew at her like bullets.

“Stop saying that. It was one night, one mistake.” Her voice was pleading.

“Have you totally forgotten Dad?”

“Of course not. I would never forget your father.”

“Yeah, right,” he said with disgust.

“It shouldn't have happened, but it did. When I found out I was pregnant I was shocked and scared, but after a while I realized that I want this baby very much.” Caroline pulled a tissue from her pocket and wiped her face and nose. “You see, I—”

“ ‘I, I, I.' How do you think this makes
me
feel? Do you have any idea?”

“Rob, please.”

“First my dad dies; then my mom goes and screws his best friend. Then she lies about it. Then she decides to have his baby. Maybe you never loved Dad. Maybe that was a lie too. If you loved Dad, none of this would have ever happened.”

“Never say that.”

“Dad worked a lot. But it was for us, Mom. He loved us. How could you forget that?”

“I haven't. It's just—”

“Just what? You remember him one day and start screwing Uncle Pete the next?”

“Stop it. You can't say that.” Caroline was suddenly angry. She had wanted to protect Rob, to spare him some of her pain, but now she was exhausted from trying to smooth things over, from carrying this burden alone. “There are things you don't understand.” Caroline paused and wiped her eyes with the back of one hand. “It's hard to talk about. I think you'll see in time . . .”

He rose to leave the room.

“Rob,” she said, “don't walk away from me.”

“I'm out of here. You're disgusting. I can't stay here.”

“Where are you going?”

“Back to school.”

“At this hour? No. We need to talk.”

“There's nothing more to say.”

“When you come to Gram's house for Thanksgiving—”

“Gram knows?”

“Yes. Gram understands why I want to do this.”

“I'm not coming,” he said defiantly.

“Gram expects you and—”

“I'm not coming, Mom.”

“Don't say that.”

“You don't have any right to tell me what to do.”

“I'm your mother. I expect you to be on that train.”

“You don't act like a mother.”

“Rob.” Caroline tried to sound forceful.

“You've forgotten my dad.” His words were measured and harsh. Rob was right: For a few hours she had forgotten Harry. There was no going back.

“Rob—” she said again.

“Tell Gram I'm sorry.”

“Please, for me . . .”

Rob stalked out of the room. She heard him take his belongings from the hall, go out the front door, and slam it behind him. Her son knew the truth. He was gone.

“M
om has some sort of half-baked idea that having this baby is going to be good for you.” Darcy looked up from the cutting board. She was dicing celery for the stuffing, cutting the long green shafts into evenly sized nuggets. Afternoon sun poured into their mother's kitchen in Connecticut.

When their parents had remodeled in the 1970s, they kept the knotty pine cupboards with black iron hinges, but added olive green Formica countertops to match the stove and refrigerator. Caroline remembered washing lettuce at the kitchen sink, and Darcy racing in before they sat down to dinner, always too late to be of any help. They used to argue as to whose turn it was to clear the table or whose turn it was to actually do the dishes.