The Summer of Good Intentions (26 page)

After dinner, a group started up a game of Clue on the deck while Virgie retired to the living room with her sisters. Jess flipped on the television, and Maggie leafed through a pile of magazines. The night was still warm and sticky, and a much-needed breeze drifted in through the windows. Virgie fanned herself with a magazine. She'd been meaning to call Jackson all day, and now seemed as good a time as any. She snuck upstairs and grabbed her cell. “I wish you were here,” she told Jackson when he picked up. It was the first time she'd admitted it out loud, but she wanted him to know. It felt important.

“Me, too.” She heard him exhale into the telephone. “It feels like you've been gone for months, and it's only been a couple of weeks. What time does your flight get in?”

“Oh.” She hesitated. “About that. I was thinking of extending my stay.”

There was a pause. “What? Why?”

“Well, my dad hasn't been doing so great. I think he needs to get checked out at Mass General. And then, I can follow up with that specialist in Boston. Make sure everything's okay with me.” She hadn't even mentioned the fire yet, but she didn't want to overwhelm him in the first breath.

“All right.” He sounded as if he was considering it.

“Don't you think that's the right decision?” she pressed. She was slightly annoyed that Jackson hadn't immediately jumped on the bandwagon with the idea. Everyone else in her family had practically threatened to handcuff and deliver her to the specialist in Boston. And, honestly, at this point, Virgie just wanted to know what was going on with her. The not-knowing was becoming more excruciating than knowing.

“It's not that,” Jackson said, backing down quickly. “Of course, it's the right decision. I'm just sorry to hear about your dad. Disappointed I won't get to see you sooner.”

She threw herself down on her bed. “Me, too. That part sucks.” She twirled her hair around her finger, staring up at the ceiling. “Oh, and I didn't even tell you.” She paused. “We had a fire in the kitchen last night. When it rains, it pours.”

“What do you mean?” Jackson asked, sounding alarmed. “Is everyone okay?”

“Yes, thankfully, everyone's fine. The kitchen just doesn't look so great.” She gave a small laugh.

“Jesus.”

“I know. My dad forgot to take the kettle off the stove. Melted right into the burner. That's part of the reason why I need to stay out here. Maggie and I are worried he's having some memory issues.” She snorted. “Well, I guess that's pretty obvious.”

“Wow. Okay. Yeah, he should definitely get that checked out. Do you want me to call work for you or anything, let them know you'll need another week?”

She was touched that he would think of such a gesture. He really
was
a good guy. “You're so sweet, but no thanks. Larry is my next call.”

“Sounds like you've got everything covered.”

“I try.”

“I miss you,” he said again, his voice gentle, longing.

Virgie knew she had to get off before she said anything she might regret, like
I need you
or
I think I might be in love with you
. “I'll call you tomorrow, all right?”

“All right. Bye.”

Her next call was Larry. She checked her watch. It was 7:30, which was 4:30 Seattle time. He was probably crossing the last Ts for the 6:00 newscast, but if she was lucky, she'd catch him.

“Hallo?” He picked up on the first ring, and at the sound of her boss's voice, all the pressure of work came flooding back to her.

“Larry. Hi, it's Virgie.”

“Virginia!” he yelled. “Where the heck have you been? I've been trying to reach you all day for a story that's right in your neighborhood. At least I think it is. Nantucket?”

So that explained all the missed calls from Larry today. She'd simply deleted them, not yet ready to talk. She ticked through the list of probable Nantucket stories: A shark sighting? A celebrity visit? Hadn't Jess mentioned that Princess Kate and Prince William were vacationing around here?

“Oh,” she said. “Actually, I was going to ask you if—” But Larry cut her off before she could say more.

“Listen, have you heard of a fellow named Howard Isaacson? He's supposedly a business tycoon and word has it that he's gotten himself into a boatload of trouble. Some kind of wild party he had on his yacht down there. Anyway, he's got ties to Seattle money. I don't have time to get into it now, but could you do some sleuthing around, check it out while you're there?”

She felt the familiar surge of adrenaline. A Nantucket tycoon involved in shady dealings on his yacht? The story had
tantalizing
written all over it. Virgie knew Larry was trying to make up for the Liz Crandle piece. She knew she should jump at the opportunity.

“Sounds intriguing,” she said carefully. “But I'm sorry I can't do it right now.”

There was a pause. “What?”

“I just can't, Larry. The timing is bad. My dad isn't doing well, he almost burned the house down yesterday, and well, I think we need to get him checked out or something.” She couldn't help it. The run of sentences that had been playing in her mind spilled out. “I need some more time. Vacation time. I'm sorry to have to ask. If I need to take it in personal days, that's fine.”

She waited, her heart racing. “Geez. I'm sorry to hear that. Okay. Yeah, sure. Take whatever you need. Let us know when you're coming back.” He clicked off as soon as Virgie thanked him. When she set the phone down, she realized she'd been digging her fingernails into her palm, little pink half-moons popping up on her skin. She'd expected resistance from Larry, possibly a veiled threat of losing her job. That he hadn't offered any made her wonder if she could breathe easily or if, to the contrary, she should worry more. She'd just passed on a potentially huge story, one that she would have leapt on a month ago. Maybe she
was
the one who needed to get checked out.

When she got back downstairs, both sisters were absorbed in their magazines. “Honestly, do you guys read anything other than
Good Housekeeping
?” she asked. “Whatever happened to
Vogue
or
Redbook  
?” Jess volleyed her a look, her forehead pulled into little furrows.

“When you're a mom, you'll understand,” she said.

“I sincerely hope you're mistaken.” Virgie wandered through the living room, picking up stray toys and abandoned flip-flops. She felt anxious after her talk with Larry. She wondered whom he'd pass the story to. Probably Thomas. Well, she honestly didn't care. For the first time in her life, she didn't care.

She sank into the couch, a mystery novel in hand. What was the matter with her?

Arthur was working on his manuscript, urging Inspector Larson to make a discovery, but nothing was coming to him. Why did he think he could write another book? He'd nearly burned down the house the other night, had probably emotionally scarred his grandchildren for life, and now here he was on Sunday morning pretending to care about a fictional world that perhaps only a few other people would ever care to read about.

He got up to pour himself another cup of coffee, his eyes fluttering to the undisturbed trap beyond the kitchen window. Roger must have had a quiet night. Maybe he'd found another family to harass. Even the house was blessedly hushed, everyone else still asleep upstairs. The kids had slept in the tent again last night. He walked over to the bookcase in the living room and skimmed the titles. All his books were there, his life's work. Funny how slim and insignificant so many paperbacks could look on a shelf.

When he saw
The Things They Carried,
he pulled it out and blew the dust from the top. It was one of his all-time favorites. Arthur thought it the most astonishing depiction of war ever written. The weight, the heft, the burden of those soldiers' packs brought so vividly to life. He could almost feel the pack on his own back. The weight of worry. The burden of his own stuff that he carried around with him day after day. Missing Gloria. Worrying about the girls. The stress of trying to meet another deadline. He was getting too old to cart around so much.

He thumbed through the yellowed pages. Someday he'd like to have a talk with Tim O'Brien, ask him if he thought Lieutenant Jimmy Cross's emotional load got any lighter, or did he truly spend all that time missing Martha and feeling bad about Ted Lavender's death? He and O'Brien could share a whiskey, maybe even a laugh or two, over the things a man was meant to carry during a lifetime. He could ask O'Brien what he thought of Gloria's ending their marriage of forty-six years. He bet O'Brien would have some choice words to offer.

He put the book back on the shelf and checked the clock. Only 6:30, a tad early for his morning walk, but so what? He went to fetch his trash gator, tucked in behind the couch, and the trash bag that he'd been gathering his things in. He'd nearly had to rip it out of Maggie's hands the other day when she'd been in the midst of one of her cleaning frenzies. “That's mine,” he yelled, feeling like a stubborn child.

“But it's trash, Dad.” Maggie gave him a bewildered look.

“What's one woman's trash is another man's treasure,” he explained and snatched it from her. She shook her head, not understanding. And how could she? He didn't expect her to covet the things he'd been gathering on the beach over vacation, a hodgepodge of intricate shells, recyclable cans, a child's lost sneaker, some loose change.

Now when he picked it up, the bag emitted a faint pungent odor. Maggie wouldn't approve. He'd have to start hiding it outside, maybe under the deck. He let himself out the sliding doors and jumped to see two turtles, each no bigger than a dinner plate, scratching about in a plastic pool. He'd forgotten about the turtles. Yesterday, the boys had discovered them in the marsh grasses and lugged the swimming pool out from the shed, filling it with water and rocks and a handful of cape plums. It was a moving gesture, trying to make the pool a more hospitable place for the tortoises. What had the kids named them again? Something silly, like Mister and Thomas.

“Good morning, fellas,” he said as he stepped around the pool. “Pretty crappy way to start the day, huh?” He watched while one, perhaps Mister, scrambled up the side, then slid back down again. Arthur imagined the poor thing up all night hatching his escape plan. The other turtle had climbed onto a small rock in the middle of the pool where he sunned himself. When the kids searched through the yellowed guide to Cape wildlife last night, they'd determined that these were boxers, their yellow blotches being the identifying marks. Arthur was tempted to set the creatures free, but then thought better of it. Luke and Teddy would be spitting mad if he did.

Down on the beach, gator in hand, he could see that it was shaping up to be a beautiful day. The weekend had been trying. All he wanted was for it to be over, for the kitchen to be fixed, for the girls to stop looking at him from under hooded eyes. He knew there'd been some discussion about him that he hadn't been privy to. He could see it on their faces all day yesterday. What were they going to do with him? he wondered. Did they think they'd just put him in one of those homes, where old people who couldn't remember what day it was wandered around with their walkers? Where the halls always smelled sour no matter how much disinfectant they used? Where bland, glutinous vegetables were served in the hopes that they would eventually be eaten? Where he was supposed to get excited about placing fall leaves in a wreath with a glue gun?

Being in a place like that would kill him just as surely as a bullet to the head.

He didn't know how many times he could apologize to Maggie and Jess, but he suspected it would never feel like enough. He'd been watching their children, his grandchildren, and he'd dropped the ball. Hell, he'd kicked the ball right into the ocean. He told himself that anyone could forget about a kettle. He'd been absorbed by the Monopoly game. But what he hadn't told anyone was that he was on his second glass of scotch and had decided that a stiff cup of tea would be just the thing to help him concentrate on the miniature boardwalk. All those tiny plastic houses started to look so alike! He wasn't drunk. He'd never get drunk when he was in charge. But he'd had a few drinks, just to ease the way into the evening hours, like he always did. Regardless of the scotch, he would have forgotten the kettle. He knew this, felt sure of it in his old, rickety bones.

But he couldn't imagine confiding this fact to his daughters, ever. Especially Maggie. Then, there would be absolutely no hope of forgiveness. As it was, he didn't know if his daughters would ever exonerate him. The one saving grace was that everyone was fine. And the kitchen could be fixed without huge expense. He'd offered to pay for it all, insisting the girls pick out a fancy new stove with lots of bells and whistles. It was the least he could do.