Family Pictures (34 page)

I’m careful not to talk about mom. He doesn’t ask, and I don’t tell. Nor do I ask anything about his other life. We started when Dad sent me a book,
A Separate Peace
by John Knowles. He asked me to read it and let me know what I thought, and that evolved into this book thing we share, like an unofficial mail-only book club.

We’ve been taking turns choosing books to read, then writing to each other about them. Dad always chooses something like
The Catcher in the Rye
or
Lord of the Flies,
and he was worried about my choices, but he thought Gary Paulsen’s
Hatchet
was great.

I also wouldn’t tell Mom about Grace’s partying. I’m on Facebook with her a few times a week, and half the time I can hardly understand what she’s saying because she’s slurring. She swears she’s not drunk, but tired. I’m not twelve anymore.

I got mad at her a few months ago, and she refused to speak to me for three weeks, until I apologized. I told her I was wrong, and I haven’t brought it up since.

I can’t bring it up with Mom, as Grace still doesn’t speak to her, and that would only make things so very much worse. Chris is convinced it’s nothing serious, just the usual partying at college, and maybe he’s right. Maybe it is. The last couple of times she’s come up on Facebook wanting to chat, I’ve ignored it because seeing her drunk just makes me mad. I’d rather talk to her during the day.

I get home, kiss Mom, grab half a sandwich in the fridge and the carton of milk, and take them upstairs without Mom seeing. The computer clicks and whirs as I swig, then log in, boxes immediately popping up all over my screen of people wanting to chat.

Grace. I ignore her.

“C’mon little bro,” she writes. “I know you’re there. I just saw you go online. Wanna video chat? I haven’t spoken to you for ages. I want to say hi.”

I know she’s probably drunk. I know it’s going to make me mad. But it’s my sister. And I love her. And right now, I’m all she has.

52

Maggie

The feeling of happy has softened, without disappearing. I don’t remember the last time I felt this way, more than happy,
alive.
I’ve come back to life. I have no idea how or why—I didn’t even know this was something I wanted, but these past few mornings, I’ve woken up with this crazy excitement about all that life has to offer.

Even my tips are bigger at work. Patty and Barb keep teasing me about my secret boyfriend being the cause of this newfound giddiness, but—sadly—I have no way to explain it other than a seismic shift in the core of my being.

I swing a U-turn by the grocery store, remembering that Mrs. W had dropped off a vast bowl of peas, picked that morning, ready to be shelled, and although I have never been a particularly good cook, I have a sudden impulse to make a pea soup.

At the grocery store, I fill my basket with remembered ingredients: shallots, bacon, butter, chicken stock, sour cream and chives to garnish, pausing to grab a couple of loaves of fresh soda bread.

“Maggie?” I turn as George walks up to the checkout, a large smile on his face as I put the basket down and give my old jewelry teacher a big hug.

I’ve been so busy with my beading, the pendants, I haven’t seen him for a couple of weeks, and it is only stepping back and looking at his familiar creased face that I realize how I have missed him.

“Ethel away again?” I look down at his basket: one can of Campbell’s soup, one frozen dinner, a pack of frozen spinach, and a huge tub of caramel crunch ice cream.

“Shhh. Don’t tell her about the ice cream. She’d kill me.”

“That frozen stuff’s more likely to kill you,” I say. “You need some fresh home-cooked food. Why don’t you come back to my house? I was planning on making a pea soup. You can keep me company while I cook, and take some home—there’s more than I know what to do with.”

“I can’t disturb you,” George says in a very unconvincing way.

“You’re not disturbing me. Maybe you can have a look at my pendants. I keep meaning to bring them over to you to polish them, I just haven’t managed to finish them. I’m still struggling with soldering the jump rings on.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so!” George’s face lights up. “I’ll be happy to do that for you! Shall I follow you home?”

*   *   *

The soup is simmering gently on the stove, George sitting happily at the kitchen table, jump rings soldered, local paper in front of him.

“Ethel seems to be traveling a lot these days,” I say carefully, sliding a plate of cheese and crackers in front of him. “It must be quite hard for you to be on your own so much.”

“Oh no.” George pops a cracker into his mouth. “Not when you hear her complain. It’s peaceful when she’s gone, but don’t tell her I said that.”

“So that’s two secrets so far.” I grin. “No mention of ice cream or complaining. Is that the key to a happy marriage, then?”

“Happy?” George barks with laughter, which soon dissolves into a coughing fit. “Sorry. Cracker got stuck. I’m not sure Ethel and I could ever be described as having a happy marriage.”

I slide into the chair opposite him. “Really? But weren’t you in love with her when you married her?”

“In love? Pshaw. All you young people talk about being in love, but real life isn’t really like that. We were right for each other, certainly. Our families knew each other, and the time was right, and I think each looked at the other and knew we had found a good fit.”

“You never wanted … more?”

“Oh, I had more.” George smiles wistfully as my mouth drops open.

“You had an … affair?” I’m shocked.

“Of course not!” George says, affronted. “But I did have a great love, and it was everything it is supposed to be, but great love and great marriages do not always go hand in hand.”

“What do you mean?” I lean in, fascinated. “Why couldn’t you marry her?”

“Her family had their own plans for her, and we were from very different worlds. We always knew she would be marrying one of her own, and we just had this very brief time together, when everything in my world seemed brighter, and better, and more beautiful because she was in it.”

“Oh, George,” I sigh, reaching over the table to stroke his hand. “That’s so sad, that you couldn’t be together.”

“It’s not sad, it’s life.…” He pauses, looking up as the handle of the door turns and Mrs. W, clutching a bottle of prosecco, stands in the doorway.

“We’ve got the most wonderful news!… Oh!” She stops dead in her tracks when she sees George.

“Come in!” I’m thrilled to see her. “Come and sit down. What’s the news? This is my friend George Pawley.”

“I know George,” Mrs. W says.

“Hello, Leona.” George, sitting straighter, sounding crisper, stands up to pull a chair out for Mrs. W. “Please sit down.”

Mrs. W lowers herself into the chair silently, looking up at George once she is seated, their eyes softening as they gaze at each other.

“How do you know—?” I am being polite, but I trail off, seeing how their eyes have lit up, both of them smiling. Of course George knew who lived here. But can Mrs. W be the woman he was just talking about? I stop, looking from one to the other, knowing George must have known where she lived, hence his reluctance to leave—he must surely have been hoping to see Mrs. W, who almost certainly appears to be the great love of whom he was just speaking.

“Would you like a glass of prosecco?” I ask Mrs. W, but for once she doesn’t answer. She doesn’t appear to hear, too absorbed in delight at seeing George.

“I have to go upstairs for a minute.” I’m not sure what to do. “But you two stay here. Make yourself at home.” I feel like an intruder, and now I’m terrified I have unwittingly started something up again. The last thing I should be doing is leaving, but I feel like a third wheel, and I run upstairs to figure out what I should do.

Upstairs I wash my hands, splash cold water on my face, then take a deep breath before heading back down to find George and Mrs. W are standing by the front door, about to leave, both of them laughing.

“You’re leaving?” There is an edge of panic in my voice. Are they running away together? Embarking on the love affair they never finished? They certainly seem to be enjoying each other’s company.

“George is joining us for dinner.” Mrs. W smiles widely. “Mr. W just popped in to see where I’d got to, and he invited George up. And you must join too. We have a lovely surprise. Cole is home.”

“Cole, your son?”

“There isn’t any other.” She smiles. “Bring the pea soup. We’ll eat around eight?”

I smile as I go upstairs, wishing I hadn’t always been so hopeless at saying no.

53

Maggie

I have so few pretty clothes left, but tonight I want to look, if not pretty, then at least decent, better than the jeans and sweatshirts that have become my daily uniform.

I have one pair of black leggings that are ratty at the hem, but if you turn them up, it is barely noticeable. Ballet flats and a loose, thin fringed sweater bought back in February when North Cove Outfitters was having its closing-down sale, yet to be worn.

I’m curious to meet Cole. I know little about him, other than that he is enormously loved, and enormously missed. There are pictures dotted around the tables in the house of a young, handsome man, hair in a buzz cut, smiling widely at the camera. Or of him as a little boy, the expression on his face impish and naughty as he looks over at his sister.

He was born the same year as me; I remember that. He has never been married, and despite his parents talking about prior girlfriends, I have often wondered if he is gay and—given his parents’ Waspish, old Yankee sensibilities—reluctant to tell them.

Whoever he is, I want him to like me. I want to make a good impression, and I have done my hair carefully, adding lip gloss and mascara for this special occasion.

“Hey, Mom.” Buck pauses on the path as we walk through the garden, waiting for me to catch up. “What if you and their son fall in love and get married? Wouldn’t that be cool! Then they’d be my grandparents for real!”

“Don’t be silly.” I shush him. “And can you just keep your voice down? Never mind the fact that marriage isn’t something that needs to be part of any conversation. I don’t want to ever get married again, and even if I did, this is not the man for me.”

“How do you know?” Buck grins. “You’ve never even met him.”

“I just know. Trust me.” We continue up the path, Buck softly singing “Love Is in the Air,” as I keep my mouth shut. Anything I say at this point will only encourage him, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a tiny bit curious.

*   *   *

There are voices coming from the living room in the front, but I go through the back door, as I always do, and into the kitchen to set the soup and bread down.

Elsa is there, the “woman that does,” and has
done,
for Mrs. W for almost forty years. She is tiny and round, her eyes always twinkling, a smile fixed on her face as she bustles around the kitchen, getting things ready for the dinner.

She gives me a big hug, ruffling Buck’s hair as he goes straight to the tray of hors d’oeuvres, dipping a finger into the artichoke dip and sucking it clean with a loud sound of approval.

“Buck!” I’m horrified.

“What? Elsa always lets me have a taste, don’t you, Elsa?”

“
Sí.
He’s a growing boy, missus. He needs his food.”

“No wonder you’re over here all the time. Please tell me he’s not eating you out of house and home?”

“I love it,” Elsa says. “All the children are grown up and gone now. I love having this boy around.” She looks over at Buck with love in her eyes, and once again I am filled with gratitude at landing in this place, with these people who have become my family, a family so very much more functional, and loving, than my own.

We walk down the hallway into the foyer, and then into the living room as I look around me, loving this house. It has an old-world elegance that has all but disappeared. The walls of the living room are paneled and painted, oil paintings of Wellesley ancestors lit by ancient brass picture lights, groupings of mohair sofas, damask hard-backed chairs, ottomans with the books now removed, waiting for trays of hors d’oeuvres.

The rugs are Persian, and threadbare. No one ran in to replace them with a plush, new version at the first sign of a stray thread. It is the very fact of their age, and disrepair, that makes them beautiful.

The chintz curtains are held back with heavy corded tassles. Some might describe the room as old-fashioned, or dated, but few could argue it being formal without being intimidating.

It is the look I always wanted, the look I tried to have in the “formal living room” in the New Salem house. Of course, now I realize I could never have achieved that look, for this is a room that has been put together over many years, with love and care. No interior designer chose those paintings or embroidered the pillows. The furniture is ancient, glowing with beeswax that is rubbed into a shine by a conscientious Elsa.

Standing by the bar, placing the crystal decanter back on the counter, is a man who must be Cole. He is taller than I expected, and bearded, not at all how he looks in the photographs, most of which were taken at least a decade ago, it seems.

There are deep creases around his eyes when he smiles, which he does when he comes over to introduce himself, and I am instantly struck by how handsome he is. I hadn’t expected to think this, which is ridiculous, really, given how good-looking he is in the photographs.

I think perhaps I hadn’t expected him to … strike me. It is more than just looking at him and finding him handsome. It is almost as if there is something in his face, his being, that resonates with me.

And that I didn’t expect. I find myself looking over to the clean-shaven, short-haired man in the photographs on the table next to us.

He follows my gaze. “I’m Cole. An older, hairier version than the me over there.”

I blink as I look up at him, eventually recovering to respond in kind, introduce myself, laugh in a way I hope could be described as “prettily,” when he tells me he has heard so much about me.