Home Fires (23 page)

“I'll make us a picnic,” Anne said. “After work?”

“I'll pick you up then,” Thomas said, giving her one more long kiss before yielding to her wish and leaving her alone.

T
HE
next morning, when Gabrielle walked into the dining room with a pot of fresh-brewed house-blend coffee and a basket full of blueberry muffins straight from the oven, she couldn't believe her eyes.

There, sitting at his usual place at the table, was Matt.

“Hello, stranger,” he said, grinning. He wore tennis whites, and he was reading the morning paper.

“What in the world are you doing here?” she asked, momentarily stunned. She put the scalding coffee pot right down on the pine table and hurried over to give him a crushing hug.

“I missed you,” he said.

“My ass,” she snorted. “You miss Anne.”

“That is so,” he said, bowing with his classic, courtly charm.

“You need to call her right away. She'll kill me when she finds out about this.”

“I saw her last night. She knows you had nothing to do with it. She called me sneaky.”

“What happened?”

“Her boyfriend showed up. After she asked me for a divorce.”

“Oh, Matt. I'm sorry,” Gabrielle said, trying to gauge his tone. He might have been telling her about a movie he had seen, a book he had read. He spoke with his usual pleasant flair, with no signs of distress.

Matt held up a crossing-guard “stop” hand, that crinkled smile on his face. “I'll wear her down,” he said. “I don't take no for an answer.”

“We're talking about Anne,” Gabrielle said dubiously, thinking of her sister's amazing powers of refusal.

“And we're talking about me. I know a thing or two about determination.”

God, the man did a good job of masking his feelings, Gabrielle thought. He had frown lines a mile deep in his forehead, and he looked as if he hadn't had a decent rest since last August. But he was damned if he'd let anyone know.

Outside, car doors slammed. The girls were arriving for work. Gabrielle steeled herself for the moment when Maggie would come looking for her. She didn't have to wait long.

The dining-room door swung open, and Gabrielle heard Maggie gasp.

“Hey there, Maggs,” Matt said, opening his arms. “Give your uncle Matt a hug.”

Maggie just stared at him.

“You don't belong here,” she said.

“Maggie! Remember your manners,” Gabrielle admonished, embarrassed and not knowing what to do.

“I'm here to set things right,” Matt said evenly. Was it Gabrielle's imagination, or was that coldness glazing over his eyes?

“Anne told me what you did,” Maggie said darkly.

“She did? I'm surprised.”

Gabrielle just listened with amazement to this exchange that excluded her totally.

“Yeah, she did. So don't expect me to be thrilled to see you. You hurt her.”

“That's between me and Anne,” Matt said, with definite iciness.

Although Gabrielle had no idea of what he and Maggie were talking about, she felt her opinion of him beginning to shift. Very slowly but definitely, she found herself regarding him with distaste. She wished that he had found somewhere else to stay.

“What do you want us to do first today?” Maggie asked, turning her back on Matt, facing Gabrielle.

“Let's go into the kitchen,” Gabrielle said, nudging her daughter's shoulder.

“I'm looking for a tennis partner, Gaby,” Matt said. “Can I convince you to play hooky?”

“I'm sorry,” she said, turning on a little glacier of her own. “We have lots of work to do.”

Together, Gabrielle and Maggie left Matt alone at the dining-room table. Gabrielle glanced back at him once. He sat still, gazing out the window. He looked lost and a little crazed, sitting in his old spot at the table. As if the house were still the family's own and he was just waiting for Anne and Karen to come walking through the door. Gabrielle felt a tug of pity. She nearly went to him with a comforting hug. But there had been something cruel in his coldness, and she didn't want to explore further.

Chapter 20

M
att's presence in the house threw everything off-kilter and put Maggie in a terrible mood. All the guests had left the inn, for the beach or wherever, and Maggie was standing at the dining-room table, trying to polish up the spot where her mother had put the coffeepot. No hot plate, no nothing: when stove-hot wet glass meets bare wood, you get ugly rings that don't come out.

Her mother had obviously been curious about the exchange between Maggie and Matt, but Maggie had to hand it to her: her mom had been cool, asking no direct questions, probably figuring that if Anne wanted her to know, Anne would tell her herself.

Maggie had heard her mother's van pull out about ten minutes ago, so she made her way to the phone. Anne answered on the first ring, as if she'd been sitting on it.

“Prepare yourself,” Maggie said. “Matt's here.”

“I know. I saw him.”

“You're not taking him back, are you?” Maggie asked. God, what if she was? Just three hours ago Maggie had stood at this very table, defending Anne and cutting Matt down to size. She would feel extremely stupid.

“No,” Anne said, and Maggie blinked with relief.

“I'm sorry I missed whale watching last Monday,” Maggie said.

“You are?” Anne asked, a big smile entering her voice. “Will it hurt your feelings if I tell you I'm not?”

“He's nice, isn't he?” Maggie asked.

“Yes, very. You gave us a push, and we needed it. Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Maggie said, grinning with shy pride.

“How's Ned?”

“Oh, he's great. We should double-date sometime. He wants to.”

“He does?” Anne asked, and Maggie could hear that she'd gotten Anne's hopes way up.

“Well, he wants to want to. That's a step in the right direction, you know?”

“Yes, it is. All in good time,” Anne said.

Just then Maggie caught a whiff of sweet, acrid smoke. Pot? She sniffed again. Yes, definitely.

“I'd better go,” she said to Anne.

“Okay. Thanks again for what you did for me and Thomas. And, Maggie?”

“Yeah?”

“You've come a long way. I want you to know that I've noticed. You're a different Maggie than the girl I found at the Quality Inn. Keep it up, okay?”

“Okay,” Maggie said.

In some ways, Anne was right. Maggie was entirely changed. She had different goals—shit, she
had
goals. That in itself was new. She didn't need to desecrate herself just to prove something to her friends. No more holes in her body, no more tattoos, no more waking up every morning with cottonmouth and a pounding headache.

On the other hand, the old Maggie was still in there. The smell of pot was luring her, just the way a flute calls a snake. But smoking it was just an evil habit, a way to avoid feeling bad. What did she have to feel bad about? Nothing. It was a gorgeous summer day, and after work she and Ned were going to sail with Josh out to Sandymount Island.

Outside, behind the hedge by Karen's herb garden, she found Vanessa sharing a joint with Céline, a summer girl from Montreal.

Céline had bored, languorous eyes and a pouty mouth, with very blond hair teased up and long bangs combed in a slant across her face. Maggie wondered whether she spent hours in front of the mirror practicing that sex-crazed look.

At the sight of Maggie, Vanessa took a hit and passed the joint.

“Don't do that here,” Maggie said.

“Shut up and take it.” Vanessa giggled.

“Vanessa—”

“You
are
getting stoned, and you are coming out with us tonight. So don't even think you're not.”

Maggie felt really strange, watching her friend smoke grass in Karen's herb garden. It seemed disrespectful to Karen's spirit. Maggie knew this didn't make sense, but she didn't want to set Karen a bad example. She put her hands on Vanessa's shoulders and began gently pushing her into the backyard.

“Are we playing choo-choo?” Vanessa asked. “Come on aboard, Céline.”

Now Maggie felt Céline's hands on her waist, and the three girls wove toward the kitchen door. By the time they got there, all three were laughing, and Vanessa had finished the joint.

“That's better,” Vanessa said. “Making beds and cleaning toilets with a buzz is the only way to go.”

Céline said something in French; not comprehending, Maggie laughed along, relieved. She had withstood the temptation, and she'd gotten them out of the herb garden. Best of all, in just a few hours she and Ned would be sailing the open water.

Maggie couldn't wait.

A
T
the vegetable stand during her lunch hour, shopping for tonight's picnic, Anne bumped into Gabrielle. They'd been standing under the same daffodil-yellow-and-white-striped tent, oblivious to each other. Choosing tomatoes, Anne was lost in the white noise of bumblebees cruising the plums and cars whizzing by on Billow Road. Suddenly someone standing right next to her reached out to fondle a tomato, and Anne recognized Gabrielle's hand.

The sisters jumped at once.

Startled, Anne slapped her own chest.

“God, you gave me a start,” Gabrielle said.

“What are you doing here?” Anne asked. “You have your own vegetable garden.”

“My tomatoes aren't coming in yet. They've been slightly neglected in favor of the inn this year.”

“I understand you have a prize guest staying with you.”

“I swear, on my own husband, that I didn't know Matt was coming. Vanessa Adamson took the reservation, and he booked it under a phony name.”

“Well, it's over,” Anne said, lowering her voice as a sunburned couple sauntered by. “I told him I want a divorce.”

“You know,” Gabrielle began, making sure the couple was out of earshot, “that I totally disapproved of that?”

“Don't start,” Anne said sharply.

“Just listen, you. I've changed my mind. I think. Something went on between him and Maggie this morning, about something he did to you . . . ?” The question in Gabrielle's voice went unanswered, and she continued. “Anyway, I saw a cold side of him that I didn't like. I just want you to know.”

“He's sad,” Anne said. “He screwed up, that's for sure. But now he knows he has to give up.”

“He must have done something awful to hurt you,” Gabrielle said, gently probing.

“Mmmm,” Anne said, examining a tomato.

“Why won't anyone tell me what he did?” Gabrielle asked, suddenly wound up like a top. Her fists clenched, she was pure nervous tension. Her wide mouth froze in a grimace, and Anne could tell Gabrielle had attracted the attention of other shoppers.

“What happened was humiliating,” Anne said under her breath.

“Here I am, trying to be supportive of you, and you're still shutting me out. You and Maggie are closer to each other than you are to me. Don't think that doesn't sting.”

“Gabrielle,” Anne said, shocked by her sister's display of raw pain.

“I know. I know all about it. That rapist, that lunatic in the truck, he was probably a serial killer. And does she call me? She does not. Instead of her own mother, my daughter calls you for help.”

“Maggie told you about that? Good,” Anne said.

“She did not tell me,” Gabrielle said, plump tears squeezing out the corners of her eyes, falling onto the tomatoes. “I overheard her, months ago, when she thought I was asleep, talking on the phone to Ned. I was standing in the hallway, listening to her tell this boy the most horrendous, terrifying story I have ever heard. I was afraid to make a sound. If she heard me, she would stop talking, and I would never know what had happened. All I could think was, she might have been killed!”

“I didn't know what to do,” Anne said slowly. “She was in trouble, that was obvious. And she was afraid to have you find out.”

“Am I so mean? Am I such an ogre?” Gabrielle asked in a voice between a whisper and a wail.

“No, the opposite,” Anne said, reaching for her hand. “We never want to disappoint you.”

“Disappoint me!” Gabrielle said. “I feel so shut out right now. . . . You've confided in Maggie some dreadful thing about Matt, Maggie's all concerned about making sure your love life with Thomas runs smoothly. I'm out of it entirely.”

“No, you're not. I'm sorry if I've treated you that way,” Anne said, knowing that she had.

“I have to leave now,” Gabrielle said, her lower lip quivering. She scrubbed tears out of her eyes.

“Gabrielle,” Anne called, wanting to make peace. “I'm fixing a romantic picnic for tonight. Can you help me out? I need an idea.”

But Gabrielle just waved the air behind her, stumbled into her van. That's when Anne realized just how hurt her sister felt. Never in her life could she remember her sister turning down the chance to help plan a meal.

G
ABRIELLE
drove twice around the island, then took a walk on the deserted end of Salt Whistle Beach. She felt bleached with frustration and agony. Everyone thought she was a brick. Solid Gabrielle, the nurturing sister, mother, and wife. Take her for granted, appreciate her, it didn't matter: she'd keep giving, no matter what.

It had been that way since she was a little girl. She had been a teenager when her parents had died; she had taken on the responsibilities of raising Anne without once looking back. She had sacrificed her senior prom, because she didn't have a sitter. She had missed out on college, travel, all the things she had wanted for Anne.

Maybe that explained it: Anne and Maggie. They had both been raised by Gabrielle, and that gave them a sisterly bond. Well, Gabrielle had had enough of that. They weren't sisters.

A westerly breeze blew square off the water, drying her tears. The sun had gone behind some pillowy clouds, lighting them orange and purple from behind. Gabrielle had a dinner party to cater that night, a clambake for eighteen. She had barely started preparations, but she didn't feel inclined to leave the beach.

Standing at the low-tide line, her bare toes burrowing in the wet sand, she felt the cool waves lick her ankles. When had she last come to the beach without a bunch of people to feed? She was always making beach picnics, hotdog roasts, champagne suppers.

She'd been feeding strangers for years. And now, as if making a nest for her own family were not enough, she had opened her family home to travelers. What fueled this compulsion to feed every hungry mouth from the ferry dock to Salt Pond? And now she was luring them from off-island with mouthwatering ads in Sunday papers everywhere.

For now, nothing fueled Gabrielle. She took a deep breath, forced herself to walk back to her van. In less than two hours she was supposed to have a pit dug, the fire going, and seaweed steaming. Forget it—she'd do the short-form clambake tonight. On top of the stove, in big iron kettles. To hell with the customers, if they didn't like it.

When she returned to Fitzgibbons', Gabrielle found Brian Pearse, a young lawyer from Boston, waiting for her on the front porch. She had chatted with him and his wife last night. They had seemed pleasant, perhaps a little shy, asking her about beaches on the island. It didn't take long for Gabrielle to figure that they were after Haley's, the nude sunbathing beach. She gave them directions to find it, including the only place they could park their car and not get towed.

“Hello,” she called. “Did you find the path to the beach all right?”

He assured her that he had. He seemed hesitant, as if there was something he wasn't quite sure he should mention.

“Is there something wrong?” Gabrielle asked, frowning.

“I hate to even say anything, but we're missing a bottle from our room. My wife remembers packing it, a little bottle of Grand Marnier. Maybe one of the girls accidentally moved it while
cleaning. . . .”

“I'll check into it,” Gabrielle said, thin-lipped.

Marching into the laundry room, she found Maggie, Vanessa, and Céline folding sheets. She did a piercing survey of their eyes, the dilation of their pupils, and thought maybe she detected something funny about Vanessa's. She closed the door behind her.

“I've had a complaint,” she said. “From one of the guests. A bottle is missing from his room.”

Both Vanessa and Céline were wide-eyed, innocent as lambs. Only Gabrielle's very own Maggie showed signs of guilt. A deep blush crept up her neck, straight to the roots of her hair, and her gaze darted everywhere except Gabrielle's face.

“I'd like to speak with you in private, Maggie,” Gabrielle said with what she considered admirable restraint.

Matt stood in the kitchen, helping himself to a glass of milk from the refrigerator. Gabrielle felt like snapping at him:
You're just like any other guest, keep out of my kitchen
. Full of seething, unfocused anger, she walked straight past, ignoring his greeting.

“Creep,” Maggie said under her breath.

“Save it,” Gabrielle said.

She led Maggie out back, to the potting shed. The place hadn't been used in years. Full of old flower flats, dusty potting soil, cobwebs, and garden tools, Gabrielle had planned to make it next year's project: a honeymoon cottage, separate from the main house. But right now she saw only the dust and filth, and she felt mocked.

“How could you?” she asked, turning on Maggie.