Summer Light: A Novel (23 page)

Chapter 12

T
HE DAY WAS COLD AND
cloudy, with a fine dusting of snow on every roof and field. Wearing old leather boots and a down jacket, May showed Genny around the property. It was mid-November, and they found themselves talking about the upcoming holidays, traditions, parents, and in-laws.

“Tell me about Serge,” May asked.

“Oh, Serge,” Genny said. “He’s a complicated man.”

“Did you know him well?”

“When I was young. He adored Martin, recognized his amazing talent right away. He’d coach him from morning till night, and often Ray and I got to play along. He was Martin’s idol.”

“Really?”

“Yes. It was one thing when Serge was living at home, commuting to play in Montreal. But then he got traded to the Maple Leafs and soon afterward, everything changed. The assault on Martin happened, and then Serge and Agnes broke up, and after that he never came back anymore. He turned his back on Martin.”

“But it wasn’t Martin’s fault,” May said, thinking of her relationship with Kylie’s father, how it always seemed to be the children who suffered most for their parents’ troubles.

“Of course it wasn’t. But Martin didn’t believe that. He started playing hockey harder, with a vengeance, as if he thought that might win his father back. He made Ray practice with him, with Agnes coaching the two of them out on the lake….”

“Serge missed all that.”

“Don’t feel too sorry for Serge. He was a celebrity before hockey players were seen that way. Between seasons, he lived the real high-life in Los Angeles, Las Vegas—we’d see him in magazines, his arms around models. He only came back into Martin’s life once Martin left home and joined the NHL himself.”

“Once Martin was out from under Agnes’s wing.”

“Exactly. Serge is legendary around Lac Vert, though. Kids idolized him—for being such a great player himself, then for having a son like Martin.”

“Martin never talks about him,” May said, thinking back to the summer, to those awful nights when Martin had slept on the sofa. “Only once.”

“No, I know,” Genny agreed. “Martin wrote him off the day Natalie died.”

“I wonder if someone can really write off his father,” May said, low and thoughtfully. “No matter how much he thinks he wants to.”

The Bridal Barn tour progressed. May couldn’t help trying to see through Genny’s eyes, wishing she had come earlier—with the herbs and flowers in bloom, the old white roses climbing up the side of the barn—to see the place at its best.

They walked into the barn, decorated for autumn with thick sprays of bayberry and bittersweet. Bright, gnarled squashes and gourds lined the old stalls and cross-beams. Owls slept in the rafters, shadowed from the bleak white light slanting through the skylights.

Tobin, finishing up with a new client, glanced over from her desk.

“Oh, this makes me homesick for Canada,” Genny said, waving to Tobin. “I can smell the wood. It’s cold outside, but you have these nice heaters going.”

“Our biggest expense,” May told her. “Keeping this big place warm all winter.”

“Martin must feel like home here,” Genny said.

“I think he does.”

Walking through the great space, Genny touched the silvery barn board and tarnished brass hooks, examined the wide-plank floors, found the hole in the wall where the owls flew in and out. Carrying a pile of manila envelopes, Tobin walked over to meet them by the hay ladder.

“I’ve seen you on TV, at the games,” Tobin told Genny, “but it’s good to see you in person.”

“Good to see
you.
” Genny leaned over to hug her.

“You and May are so famous.”

“Against our will,” Genny laughed.

“Want to have tea with us?” May asked.

Tobin shook her head, glancing down at the envelopes. “Thanks anyway. I’m in the midst, and I’m not sure how long this will take. See you later. Nice to see you again, Genny.”

“You, too,” Genny said.

Climbing the ladder into the hayloft, Genny tapped May’s shoulder.

“Is Tobin okay?”

“I think so.” But May felt Tobin’s distance. For one thing, Tobin and May had always been jealous of outsiders, other women seeming to threaten their friendship. But beyond that, their relationship was changing in other ways and they both knew it.

“It’s a big adjustment,” Genny commented. “Seeing her old friend on TV, in magazines.”

“It’s a huge change for me.”

“The NHL looks glamorous to outsiders,” Genny said. “If they only knew.”

“Martin’s away half the time, recuperating from injuries the rest. We’ve hardly had a chance to get to know each other.”

“Sometimes it’s lonelier being married than not,” Genny agreed. “You love someone, but he’s hardly ever there. And when he is, he’s obsessed with the last game or the next game.”

“That’s it.” May was relieved to have Genny to talk to, but feeling guilty for holding the same things back from Tobin.

They ambled through the hayloft, filled with old gowns hanging from the rafters. Organza, taffeta, silk, and satin swished as they walked through. Some were nearly museum pieces, but toward the back were newer styles, as well as a collection of bridesmaids’ dresses. As in Emily’s time, they stored them up here, out of view, except for the once-yearly showing. But May wanted to show them to Genny.

“Oh, Genny, I haven’t seen you since the wedding.” Aunt Enid came over as they climbed down. “Welcome to the Bridal Barn. How are you? Ray and the kids?”

“Fine, Enid.” Genny hugged her back. “Deep into the hockey season just like May.”

“I thought I’d make tea before the three o’clock clients get here. Want some, Aunt Enid?”

“No, you girls go ahead. I’m just answering mail. Trying to keep warm by the space heater, and it’s only November. Look at me in this getup—I hope I don’t scare the brides away.”

Aunt Enid got cold easily, and she was wearing her habitual fall-winter dress: wool leggings and a thick turtleneck under a gray flannel jumper. Glancing down at her own scruffy jeans and boots, May had to smile: It was a wonder brides seeking stylish nuptials wanted to come anywhere near the place.

“We’re pretty casual around here,” May told Genny as they headed for the back room.

“That’s what people love, I bet. You have this elegant raffishness about you.”

“Ragged, maybe,” May said, plucking the frayed sleeve of her old canvas jacket.

“No,
raffish
. Like a shy country girl with a sophisticated secret. Martin told Ray your smile reminds him of the Mona Lisa.”

“You’re kidding.” May turned on the kettle.

“No,” Genny said. “Up at Lac Vert, right at the beginning.”

“She’s so mysterious,” May said. “I’m nothing like that.”

“That’s what you think.” Genny regarded her. “You look, I don’t know, ‘knowing.’ Wiser than your years. But no one ever really sees themselves the way others do.”

Mulling that over, May set out the tea things. From a pine cupboard she withdrew a bone china pot decorated with cabbage roses and two cups painted with violets and blue ribbons, and set out a plate of biscuits and the last of Genny’s apple butter.

Sipping their tea, May showed Genny her grandmother’s famous wedding scrapbooks. There were weddings in cathedrals, churches, lighthouses, yacht clubs, penthouses, rose gardens, grandmothers’ houses, and onstage at the Silver Bay Playhouse.

Genny talked about her own wedding to Ray, in the parish church at Lac Vert.

“Where he’d been baptized and made his first communion,” Genny said. “Very boring and conventional.”

“No wedding’s boring,” May said. “And being married to a hockey player isn’t, either.”

“That’s for sure. How are you adjusting?”

“I miss him already, and it’s only November. At least we have the holidays coming soon.”

“Don’t get your hopes up. Christmas falls right in the middle of hockey season.”

“I know. I’m trying not to mind. Work keeps my mind off it.”

“I hear people talking about their work, and I think, ‘I want that.’ I walk through galleries and wish I was an artist. At the bookstore I wonder how it would feel to write a book. I want to do something I’m
good
at.”

“You already know what I think.” May said, aware of Tobin watching them from across the room. Why wouldn’t she just join them for tea?

“My jams?”

“I’m serious, Genny. Brides love to spend money. We sell our own herbs here. We have our own label candles, soaps, all sorts of stuff. I keep imagining a basket filled with your jams and apple butter called ‘Wedding Breakfast.’ ”

“I could write up cards about how the fruit comes from Lac Vert, the most romantic lake in Canada.”

“The baskets would sell like mad.”

“I don’t know.” Genny was starting to smile. “It sounds fun.”

“It would be. Strawberries in June, blueberries in July—what comes next?”

“Peaches, nectarines, cherries. Blackberries. Then apples…you saw our orchard. But it’s November now. Nothing till next summer.” Genny laughed. “Which is good. My usual style is to dream about something forever and ever, then do nothing about it.”

“Don’t put yourself down,” May said. She remembered her grandmother always saying to the women who came to see her: “Never diminish your own worth, not even in jest, or someone will start to believe it.”

“Well…” Genny trailed off, as if she were done with the topic of Genny Gardner for the time being.

“Did Trisha work?” May asked suddenly. May’s mother had always advised her second-marriage brides never to ask questions about the first wife, to leave the past alone, not to borrow trouble, but right now May couldn’t resist.

“She ‘worked it.’ ” Genny laughed. “If you know what I mean. She was out for herself—going to spas, taking trips, visiting ‘friends.’ Ray said she was having affairs all along. Serge introduced Martin to Trisha, you know.”

“Really?”

“Trisha was much more Serge’s speed than Martin’s,” Genny said. “Designer flashy, very tan, perfect body.”

“Wonderful.” May looked down at her scuffed boots.

“No—she was never right for Martin,” Genny said. “Ray and I knew right from the beginning. Even Serge recognized his mistake. She’s an L.A. girl—parties, show, and glamor.”

“There must be a part of Martin that likes that,” May said.

“For a little while,” Genny said, looking May straight in the eye, “when he was younger, he only thought he did.”

“I hope that’s true. Because I don’t seem to have much of it around here.” May felt a blast of cold air blow through the owl’s entry.

“You don’t need it.” Genny smiled. “You’re elegant and raffish, remember?”

May shrugged, smiling back. “Oh, right. I forgot!”

“Even Serge regretted introducing them, considering how things turned out. He told me once he wished Martin had met a girl like me. Someone who’d love him for who he was. He’d be very happy to know Martin found you.”

May was silent, listening.

“It’s sad,” Genny said thoughtfully. “I know Serge did some bad things. But he did love Martin in his own way. You should have seen the way he’d look at him, out on the ice—so much pride.”

“I want to meet him,” May told her.

“That will never happen. Martin hates him too much.”

“I thought I hated my father one day,” May said. “And then he died.”

“I’m sorry.”

“The circumstances were very different. I was only twelve. If he hadn’t died, I might barely have noticed we’d had a fight. But he did,” May said, remembering what Dr. Whitpen had said about the veil separating the living and the dead.

“Such a long time ago.”

“In some ways it seems like yesterday. Oh, I wish we hadn’t had that hanging between us. All through my life, I’ve felt there’s something unfinished. I wish I could get that day back so much.”

“I can’t even imagine going through that.” Genny touched May’s shoulder.

May nodded, her thoughts sliding to Tobin, working at her desk. Tobin had known her father; she had helped May through many years of grief. Staring at the owls in the rafters, May thought of her father and Serge, of her growing feelings of distance from Tobin, of what it all meant.