Summer Harbor (27 page)

As they drove to the Yacht Club, Tony talked nonstop about the Lexus and all its attributes. Kiley couldn’t decide if he meant to impress her, or was truly in love with this car. She nodded and made the same sorts of responses one might about a new baby. Nice, but not hers.

A string quartet played Mozart and voices burst through the open windows, a steady mutter punctuated by laughter. Kiley closed her eyes for a moment and imagined that she would be walking into a room full of kids, the Mozart an aberration. The taste of ginger ale came to her. Then Toby’s voice opened her eyes and she took his arm.

Inside, clots of people filled the floor. Some sat on the bamboo and floral-cushioned settees—new fabric, same old furniture—others leaned against the window frames, large adult bodies taking up the view. The beach-stone fireplace was, as always, cold, and two tall men leaned elbows on the mantel, facing each other like conspirators or adversaries. Did she know them; were those familiar faces embedded in heaviness? This was going to be worse than a high school reunion. At least there, people had uniformly been out of touch and wore name tags. These folk had continuity. They had always been here; they didn’t see the changes in each other. About half the group were dressed like Toby, in spiffy insouciance. The other half wore black tie, their dinner jackets shiny with age, no doubt hung under plastic bags from the dry cleaners, hauled out once a year for a summer event like this one and made to fit with moved buttons or held-in potbellies. No one looked comfortable.

The women all looked alike: dressed in linen suits, hot pink the color of choice this year, prevalent among green, yellow, and blue; streaked blond hair and tanned faces with white raccoon rings where sunglasses kept the sunlight away from tender, tightened skin. They all seemed much older than she was. Truly middle-aged, not quite her mother’s age, certainly more than her own. They all held their martinis with practiced grace, props for the evening. Kiley looked around in near panic for someone she knew. As if on cue, Emily and Missy appeared and headed in her direction.

“Thank God. I thought I was going to be the youngest person here.”

“Nonsense, all our set show up for these things. We’re just glad you made it.”

Had Emily really used the word “set”? Kiley imagined herself in an Edith Wharton novel. It was easy now to tell the twins apart. Emily had matured, Missy had expanded. The two men who had been holding down the mantel came over at Missy’s signal, and introductions were made. Ralph Fitzgibbons belonged to Emily, Fred Detweiler to Missy. They seemed pleasant enough, clearly on familiar terms with Toby, who arrived to hand Kiley a glass of indifferent white wine and earn her the sideways glances of the twins.
Take that,
Kiley thought, knowing they had expected her to show up solo—not that this was a date.

It was a pleasant enough few minutes until Fred Detweiler got wound up about a business project he was involved in. Kiley felt her eyes glaze over with the effort to look politely interested, and she looked around the room for someone she could excuse herself to greet. No one recognizable appeared, and it seemed as though her mother had at last proved her argument that hanging around with “those boys” would stunt Kiley’s social life.

Finally, there was a call to start the auction. Kiley had no intention of adding to the stuff she already had to bring home, and it seemed like a good time to make her excuses.

“Toby, I have to finish packing, so I’ll walk home. You stay and bid.”

“No, no. The night is early yet. I was going to take you out to dinner after the golf weekend goes up for bid.”

“I really can’t.” She wasn’t going to let him make this a more intimate evening.

“Well, you certainly can’t walk home in those shoes.”

“I’m fine.”

“Kiley, come on, just hang on a little while, then I’ll take you home.”

It was a reasonable suggestion, and the truth was, her feet were already sore. “Okay. But not for long.”

After a few items were auctioned off and the golf weekend seemed no closer than it had been, Kiley excused herself. “I’m going to the head.” She edged out of the crowded room into the quiet hallway.

The ladies’ room was empty, the scarred wooden stall doors exactly the same as she remembered them, carved with initials she recognized from her youth. “A.S. ‘hearts’ S.P. ’79” and “Gina loves Roy Truluv 4-evr ’81.” The place still smelled damp, like a bilge. All the money that belonged to this place, and they couldn’t improve the lavatories? The only improvement was the condom machine bolted next to the tampon dispenser. Kids were so much smarter now—which made her think of Will. She knew how intense last nights could be, and she fervently hoped that he and Catherine were being smart. She shook off the unwelcome thought as she shook her hands under the weak dryer.

She lingered in the ladies’ room, putting on new lipstick and fussing a little with her hair, loose and swinging on her bare shoulders. She should have brought a wrap, but didn’t have one. The July night was warm, but Kiley knew that the breeze would begin to dampen and cool as the evening went on. There was weather predicted for tomorrow—another good reason to have everything ready to go. If it started to rain, they’d be trying to jam the little car full instead of working it through like a puzzle. At least she hadn’t decided to bring home any furniture, and she’d put all the artwork back on the walls. The imaginary lighthouse would stay.

Kiley could hear the auctioneer’s voice wheedling another five bucks out of the audience. Maybe she should have donated some of the stuff to sell here tonight. The lighthouse picture might have raised a couple of dollars, and the seaglass-filled lamp.

According to the program, they were getting close to the golf weekend. Almost time to put an end to this troubling evening. She folded the program neatly and stuck it in her purse, then pulled open the heavy door.

“Kiley.”

Conor MacKenzie was coming down the hall. She smiled in greeting, then noticed that Conor was not.

“Do you know what your son did tonight?” Conor drew close, putting himself between her and the ladies’ room door.

A familiar shot of maternal dread tensed Kiley for battle. “What?”

“He showed up at my parents’ house. Did you put him up to that?”

“No. Certainly not. In fact, I told him he shouldn’t…”

Conor cut her off. “One of two things should have happened. One, you told us about him from the beginning, or two, you never brought him here. What were you thinking?” Conor’s blue eyes, no longer similar to Mack’s, were dark with anger.

“I’m thinking that it’s really none of your business. It never was, and it never will be.”

“It most certainly is, now that your kid has foisted himself on my mother. If we’re lucky, she’ll just pretend he’s her grandson; if we’re not, she’ll go back into a depression. I hold you responsible.”

“He’s eighteen years old. He can do what he wants.” Kiley was furious. Even though Conor MacKenzie had no right to upbraid her, Will had no right to inflict himself on the MacKenzies. It wasn’t bad enough he’d disobeyed her; if Conor’s anger was any indication, he’d opened up the wounds she’d hoped had healed over. “Look, I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do to change it. What’s done is done.”

“Is that how you felt about Mack’s dying over love of you?” Conor was very close to her, making her step back against the wall. She could smell the metallic odor of gin and fruit on his breath.

The emergency exit door to the back drive opened, and through it walked Grainger Egan.

Conor moved away from Kiley. “Egan.”

Grainger stood a moment, assessing the scene. “Conor.” His voice was a warning.

Kiley pushed away from the wall, toward Grainger.

Conor squared himself. “What do you know about her kid?”

“Will? Everything you do, I suppose.”

“Do you think he’s yours, or Mack’s?”

“I think it doesn’t matter.”

“I think it matters very much.” He looked at Kiley. “Keep him the fuck away from my parents.” Conor walked back into the crowd.

Kiley remained where she was, aware of Grainger, aware of the distance between them.

Then Grainger came to her, gently resting one hand on her shoulder. “Are you all right?”

“I think so. Except I’ve probably lost my job reference.”

Grainger lifted his hand from her shoulder to stroke her hair, as if to calm her racing heart.

How handsome he was. Clean-shaven for the first time since she’d seen him again, his shaggy hair now expertly trimmed, Grainger stood tall, straight-backed and lean, in a well-fitted dinner jacket. His gray-blue eyes studied her as if he was no longer looking at her through the stained glass of memory, but through the clear glass of the present. They were no longer the teenagers they had been; they were adults, matured by their experiences, independent and unrelated to the overwrought beings of their youth. For the first time, Grainger and Kiley looked at each other purely as man and woman.

“I didn’t know you would be here,” they said simultaneously, then smiled and laughed softly.

“I suppose we should link little fingers and say, ‘Jinx, you owe me a Coke,’ like we used to.”

They stood in the narrow hallway, the sounds from the main hall clouding the silence between them so that it didn’t feel like silence.

“Kiley, you look beautiful.”

“So do you. I mean, handsome. Wonderful.”

“I clean up pretty good.” Grainger flashed her a smile. She saw the hidden dimples, rarely exposed until he was happy, dip into the tender flesh beside his lips.

They had been so careful to keep their new acquaintance within the bounds of his boat works, so diligent in keeping to the rules they had tacitly agreed on: the present, not history. Standing here, in their old place, it was too hard not to get pulled back into the past.

Kiley grasped at the first thing she could, to save them from plunging. “They’ve already gotten more than halfway through the auction. I hope you weren’t planning on bidding on something at the beginning.”

“No. I only came because I donated an afternoon’s charter on my big boat and they gave me a ticket in thanks. I don’t usually come to these things.”

“Still?” It came out like an inside joke.

“I suppose. I’ve done work on most of their boats, and half the time some member comes up to me to see if he can wheedle me into hurrying up, or into giving him a deal. I don’t think this crowd really cares if I come to their fund-raisers or not; they just like to keep me happy so that I give them preference.”

“So why did you come?”

Grainger’s dimple showed again. “Just to show the flag, support the kids’ sailing program. What about you?”

Kiley felt a desire to reach out with one finger and press it into that small, hidden indentation. “I have no idea. Toby Reynolds strong-armed me. I think that I was in such shock at the offer he’d brought that I was speechless, and he took it as a yes.”

“Are you really selling it, Kiley? You’ve accepted the offer?”

“Yes.”

“But you could change your mind?” Grainger was close enough that she could smell his shaving cream—something vaguely limey, pleasant, not overpowering like cologne.

“It’s too late. I’ve signed.”

Grainger took Kiley’s elbow with a tentative touch, as if afraid she might pull away from him. “Can we go outside?”

She nodded and let Grainger lead her out to the boardwalk.

The lights coming through the windows illuminated their path, bright enough to cast their shadows before them; alternate people, doppelgängers. Kiley paused to remove her shoes, Grainger still holding her elbow for balance.

“Are you cold?”

She must have shivered. “No. Well, maybe a little.” Not cold, but excited.

Grainger slid his jacket off, his white shirt glowing in the muted moonlight, and draped it around her shoulders. They walked in silence to the pier and went out to the very end, to lean against the pilings, facing each other in the growing darkness. They stood exactly where they had stood on the last night of their youth. As it was on that night, the water slapped at the thick, tarred pilings, and halyards clinked against aluminum masts, chiming the rising of the wind.

“Don’t sell the house.”

“I have to. My parents have made it clear it’s necessary to pay for Will’s college.”

“I’ll pay for his education.”

Kiley felt a lump rise in her throat. How easy it would be to say yes. And how impossible. “No. Thank you, but no. You can’t do that. I won’t let you.”

“Kiley, I have the resources. I don’t want to see you lose the house.”

“Grainger, it’s not your problem.” The lump in her throat grew heavier. What was he saying? “Why are you making such an offer? You have no obligation to him. To us.”

“Kiley, until three weeks ago, I had no idea of his existence. And, now, having begun to know him…” Grainger’s husky voice softened and his sentence drifted off. “I don’t have anyone else, Kiley. I want to treat him as Mack would have wanted.”

“How can you know what Mack would have wanted? How can either of us make that claim?” Kiley turned away from Grainger, away from the look on his face, half hope, half grief. She dropped the jacket on the damp boards of the pier and walked away from him. She couldn’t stand there another minute. Grainger’s adult face mirrored the face she’d run away from all those years ago, before she knew Mack would die, before she knew she carried a child. Angry, upset, grieving, jealous. It frightened her, drawing her into the emotions so long held away.