The Summer of Good Intentions (18 page)

“Hello, there. Have a nice swim?” Gio smiled at him.

Before Arthur could answer, Gloria drifted into the room, wearing one of those long summer skirts she'd been so fond of lately. She was a vision in yellow, an angel.

“Oh, Arthur. Those grandkids are so happy to have you around. You're such a good grandpa.” She sat down beside Gio and patted his leg, smiling up at Arthur.

He was taken aback for a moment and shifted from foot to foot as he considered Gloria's compliment, his dripping trunks, and how to get Gio off his couch. “Thanks. They're a good bunch,” he settled for. “Gio, you might want to try the other couch,” he suggested while he made for the stairs. “It's really much more comfortable.”

Upstairs, Arthur couldn't change out of his bathing suit fast enough.
This was not the vacation he'd been bargaining for!
He could be expected to tolerate only so much. Gio and Gloria might as well move in for the week. Perhaps Arthur should be the one to get a hotel room!

After he found his glasses (“Need these?” Maggie had asked, holding up his wire-rims with a quizzical look. “They were in the fridge.”), Arthur decided to head into town. A walk would do him good. He'd pick up the mail and a few things at Sal's. They were almost out of milk.

When he got downstairs, he heard Gloria yell, “
Resplendent!
That's got to be it. Another word for
wonderful
. Write it in, honey. R-E-S-P-L-E-N-D-E-N-T.” As if Gio weren't sitting right next to her. On Arthur's couch. Arthur let the screen door slam behind him.
Let them do their crossword! See how far they get,
he thought. When he and Gloria used to solve the
New York Times
Sunday acrostic, they would time themselves. He bet Gio didn't even know what
acrostic
meant. It was only a matter of time, he thought wickedly, before Gloria grew bored with her little friend. Poor man didn't even know how to spell
resplendent
.

Arthur remembered to double-check his pockets for his wallet (
yes, still there
) and started into town, feeling slightly better about things. As the path took a sharp turn to the right, he came upon one of those lending library hutches, where a person could take a book in exchange for leaving another. Arthur liked the concept of the thing. They had them back home in Maine, too. This one sat atop a thick wooden post and resembled a birdhouse with glass doors. He walked up closer and pulled open the little doors. Usually, he found a bunch of romance novels, though every once in a while he'd discover a thriller or mystery. In the rare instance when he took a book, he promised himself he'd leave one another day. Of course, he never did. When he opened the glass doors today, however, he took in a sharp breath.

There, wedged between the mysteries and romances, was a familiar title.
Fatal Faults,
the tenth book he'd written. He remembered the number exactly because his publisher had thrown a lavish party in Manhattan to commemorate his ten-book anniversary. Buckets of champagne, bouquets of balloons, a toast by the publisher. Gloria by his side. As he sipped expensive champagne, Arthur told himself that he must remember this moment,
the taste of success
. It felt like a million years ago.

The publisher had put them up at the Ritz-Carlton, where dapper men in black top hats opened the door and exquisite paintings lined the lobby. In their suite, he and Gloria marveled at the miniature cans of macadamia nuts arranged in a neat row on the cherry credenza. In every room there was a vase of fresh flowers (purple irises, if he remembered correctly), and a telescope at the window that focused on the lush sweep of Central Park.
Frederick Law Olmsted designed it,
Gloria read from the hotel's brochure.
Wasn't he the same guy who designed Boston's Emerald Necklace?
Arthur remembered thinking how lucky he was to be married to a woman who could retrieve a piece of knowledge like that on a whim. The day after the publishing party, they'd shared frozen hot chocolates at Serendipity 3.

Now he was lucky if his editor remembered to send him a copy of his own book. And here in the woods was a battered paperback of
Fatal Faults
for the taking. For goddamned free. He slammed the glass doors shut. Like a child, he kicked the post, a sharp pain shooting up from his foot to his knee.

If discovering his book in a lending library in the middle of a thicket didn't sum up his entire career, he didn't know what did.

He kept walking. His throat was burning. He cursed himself for forgetting to bring along a water bottle. At last, the post office with its blue shutters and white brick façade came into view. He supposed he could buy a book of stamps as well. The kids might want to send postcards to their friends.

Arthur knew that having both Gloria and him on the Cape at the same time had his eldest daughter on edge. He felt bad about that. But really, what could he do? It wasn't as if he'd told Gloria to come early. He'd had his time at the summer house scheduled months ago with Maggie, penciling in his vacation at the library. Unlike his ex-wife, Arthur had an employer (well, technically, a volunteer position) to answer to, not to mention a pending deadline for a book. He wasn't about to upend his vacation plans just because Gloria had decided to come early.

The path met up with the sidewalk, already shimmering in the late-morning heat. Arthur climbed the stairs to the post office and mopped the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. The mail, what there was of it, he pulled from the slender metal box and tucked under his elbow. For so early in the day, the line for stamps was surprisingly long, but Arthur took his place at the end.

He hated lines.

He fidgeted from foot to foot, looking about, searching for details that he might work into his writing. But there wasn't much around to get the old wheels spinning. A wooden shelf for writing labels, an assortment of padded packages for purchase, a display of the latest stamp collections available. He helped himself to a few brochures about updates to the U.S. postal system. You never knew when that kind of information might come in handy.

He noticed a poster highlighting new commemorative stamps available. Musicians like Miles Davis and Ray Charles. Artists worth remembering and listening to again and again. He didn't suppose
their
records showed up in any lending libraries along walking trails. He could listen to Billie Holiday, one of their contemporaries, sing “The Very Thought of You” a million times and never get sick of it. It had been their wedding song. Every time he heard it, he'd picture himself twirling Gloria, his arms held out, as if he were still embracing her.

The line inched forward, and eventually a moonfaced young man peered out at him, interrupting his thoughts. “What can I get for you today, sir?”

“A book of stamps, please. The Miles Davis ones.” Arthur tapped his fingers impatiently on the counter. He wondered if this guy even knew who Miles Davis was. If he could name a song by him. It was an outrage how little the next generation knew about music, about art. He'd have to remember to make another donation to the local arts program at the high school when he got home. Something that would make a difference. Maybe a check for five hundred dollars.

He was about to ask the clerk who his favorite jazz musician was, but the melody of “The Very Thought of You” traveled over the intercom.
Their song
. He cleared his throat and said, “Thank you,” his voice unsteady, as the young man handed him his stamps and change. On the edge of his vision, Arthur thought he caught a flash of a white dress, a ball gown, a hint of blond hair. He turned toward it, but there was no one there. Just a long line of restless people trailing behind him. He slipped the change and stamps into his pocket and once again gathered up his mail bundle. He was mad at himself for forgetting to bring his satchel. It would have made the journey home so much easier.

Arthur stepped out into the bright light of day. He could feel his shirt sticking to his back. He hoisted the mail higher under his arm and set out for home, forgetting all about the groceries he'd meant to pick up at the store.

It was Wednesday, Crazy Trivia Night at Grouchy Ted's, and Virgie needed a drink. That, and she needed to get out of the house.

Yeah, yeah, yeah,
she said, when Maggie warned her she didn't think it was a good idea. “It's only been a few days since your fall,” she scolded. “You should be resting!”

But Virgie pointed out that she didn't even need her painkillers anymore. Her neck was feeling much better (she'd shunned the horrid neck brace), and while her purplish bruise had turned to more of a yellow-gray, a little makeup went a long way to cover it. If she spent one more hour cooped up inside, her head would positively explode. Besides, Sal had promised he'd meet her at Grouchy Ted's and be her official chaperone.

Yesterday she'd called Jackson and told him what happened. She didn't want him to worry.

“Well that's easier said than done,” he said. “Should I fly out?” She liked the way he took charge, didn't hesitate to offer to help. But, no, she'd declined and said it wasn't necessary.
Again!
What was the matter with her? Would it kill her to graciously accept help once in a while?

The thing was, she couldn't get past the feeling that having Jackson there would mean
more
work for her, not less. She'd feel compelled to introduce him around, take him to the beach, impress him with this world that was dear to her. And she didn't think she had it in her right now. Nor did she want to hear what her sisters might have to say about him, even if it was all good. No, having Jackson nurse her back to health while her entire family watched was a decidedly
bad
idea. As much as she would love a hug from him. As much as she would relish him lying beside her, his arms wrapped around her.

Maggie and Gloria had been nagging her about seeing the specialist in Boston, coaxing her to go
just to be on the safe side.
The ER doctor had already arranged the follow-up appointment at MGH (
squeezed her in,
he'd said), but Virgie was reluctant to go. It seemed an unnecessary hassle. She would check back with her regular doctor in Seattle. The ER doctor had diagnosed a slight concussion. Even he'd said it was unlikely that MS was the culprit for her blacking out. Nothing time wouldn't heal. She chose to forget about it. At least for tonight.

When she stepped into Grouchy Ted's, the familiar scent of beer and peanuts washed over her. She breathed in.
This
was summer, she thought
. Her summer.
As she headed for the bar, her sandal landed on something hard. When she lifted her foot to check the sole, she discovered a stray peanut shell. Well, she had to hand it to Ted—he'd kept the place classy as ever. She shook it off and scanned the room, trying to make out the faces through the dim light. Rascal Flatts's “Life Is a Highway” played, and the crowd chanted along, drunk and off-key. Apparently, the trivia announcer was taking a break. Finally, Virgie saw Sal sitting at the bar, talking with a handful of friends.

“Hiya, pretty lady,” he said as she sidled up to him. “I saved you a seat.” He pushed one of his buddies off a barstool and wiped it clean with the back of his sleeve.

“Thanks,” she said as Sal gave her a tiny kiss on the cheek. Then, “Sorry
”
to the guy whose seat she'd just stolen.

“How're you feeling?”

“I've been better,” she said and raised her finger for the bartender. “Coors, please.”

“Well, you sure look better than you did the other day,” Sal said and threw back the rest of his beer. On Monday, he'd appeared at the house with pints of ice cream from the local creamery. “Ambrosia,” Virgie said and bowed her head, taking the cartons from Sal. “Nectar of the gods.” While the men took the kids fishing, Virgie and her sisters had gathered up spoons and devoured strawberry, butter pecan, then chocolate straight from the cartons. It felt like old times, lounging around in their pajamas, sprawled out on the bunk beds, and talking about nothing.

“Thanks, again, for the ice cream,” she said now. “It was the perfect get-well present. Those pints work pretty well as ice packs, too.”

Sal grinned and locked eyes with her. His eyes were a warm brown, familiar and kind. His reddish blond mop of hair was soft to the touch. She knew this already. She traced his square jawline with her finger, then stopped herself and looked away. Sal was her good friend. He didn't deserve to be led on. He deserved to know there was someone else.

The bartender set the beer down in front of her. “Start a tab?” he asked.

“It's on me,” Sal said. “And anything else the lady wants tonight.”

“You got it.” The bartender thwacked the counter with his wet bar towel, and Virgie jumped.