by Cecilia Lyra
I asked him if there was anything I could do to help him de-stress. He gave me a list. A long one. Eventually, we fell into a routine. I greet him at the door in the evenings. I take his coat and put his shoes away. He changes out of his suit and goes into the living room, where he sits on his armchair to read. I fix him a Scotch, bring him a bowl of almonds, and give him a neck massage. After exactly ten minutes, I leave to check on dinner. We sit down to eat, in what he refers to as a companionable silence, exactly forty minutes after he gets home from work. I try not to complain—everyone is different, and Patrick is affectionate in his own way. But I do wish we were closer.
Sometimes I wonder if it’s our age difference: Patrick is forty-eight, I’m thirty-one. But, mostly, I just think it’s how he’s wired. He’s precise in his habits and forthcoming about his expectations. Yes, this makes him difficult. But, if you think about it, underlying his rigidity is actually a wonderful quality: knowing what you want, not being afraid to ask for it. Janette disagrees—she says his behavior is rooted in a need for control. But what does she know? She’s not married. And it’s not like I would know, either. Sophie and my dad weren’t husband and wife. I don’t have a marriage to emulate. And even though Patrick is like me in this respect—neither of us grew up in a conventional, two-parent household—he has been married before. True, they got divorced—but it’s safe to assume he knows the rules of the game better than I do.
What we have isn’t perfect, but perfection is not the goal in a marriage. Cassie says this all the time on her show. Patrick is handsome, a good provider, and he’s never given me a reason to doubt his fidelity.
I should not be complaining.
Except, I do want a baby.
I didn’t know Patrick when Nate was younger, but I can’t imagine him being this rigid in a house with an infant. It simply isn’t possible. I’m confident that if we have a baby, Patrick’s unyielding ways will dissolve into a distant memory. And I, of course, will have found my calling. I’ve always loved children. I babysat from the ages of twelve to seventeen, and not just because we needed the money.
Also, last week’s incident at the benefit dinner would’ve unfolded in an entirely different way if I were the mother of Patrick’s child. He would’ve been worried about me instead.
“And do you know what it’ll do to your body?” Patrick pauses, exhaling. “You’ll be bloated and irrational.”
I quickly realize that while I’ve been daydreaming, he’s begun listing his Reasons Not to Have Kids. I’ve heard them before, more times than I care to remember. They begin with him discussing the effect pregnancy has on a woman’s body and end with him comparing kids to walking shackles that strip a couple of their spontaneity. A dramatic soliloquy for a man who is supposed to be rational. And who doesn’t have a spontaneous bone in his body.
“If we’re not having a baby, then I’m going to the Hamptons for the summer,” I say, interrupting his monologue. Patrick does not appreciate interruptions.
“Because of that silly provision?” He places his iPad on the side table, his own personal sign of full-blown annoyance. “I told you we’d fight it in court.”
“I don’t want to fight it. If I’m not going to be a mother, then I have to at least try to be a sister again.”
“Half-sister,” he points out.
I wince. Nana never allowed us to use that word, half.
“Why would you want to associate yourself with a woman who encourages people to air their dirty laundry on television?”
“She’s a therapist. She counsels people.”
“She hates you for no reason.”
I bite my lip. Patrick doesn’t know my secret. I almost told him during our honeymoon, but something made me hold back. Something other than fear and shame.
“She doesn’t hate me,” I say softly. Does she? “Besides, staying here feels like a waste of time. You work 24/7, even during the summer. If we could at least do something, just the two of us—”
“What’s going on with you?” he interrupts me. “First you embarrass me at the benefit and now you’re thinking of leaving?”
I feel the surge of tears. “That was an accident. You’re the one who should be embarrassed by the…by your—” I stumble over my own words. Why does this always happen to me?
“Darling, listen to yourself.” He looks at me with an expression that I can only describe as pitying. “It doesn’t make any sense for you to go. You’re confused. It’s understandable, you’ve just lost your grandmother. But I know best. You want to stay here with me. You don’t want to go to the Hamptons.”
Patrick’s tone is calm and self-assured. So much so that for a moment I wonder if he isn’t right. Maybe I do want to stay here. Maybe I don’t want to go to the Hamptons with Cassie.
But then a memory unfurls in my mind’s eye: me, at the age of nine. My mother walking into my bedroom, telling me that I was going to spend the summer with my half-sister and my grandmother, two people I’d never met. My heart couldn’t decide whether to feel terrified or ecstatic.
Which was exactly how I’d felt at the lawyer’s office on Monday.
I haven’t felt that sort of intensity in a very long time.
“This was obviously important to my grandmother, or she wouldn’t have drawn up a will,” I say. “Cassie is my sister. I know we haven’t spoken in a long time, but she’s still my family.” And I want to spend time with her, I think to myself. Nana isn’t the only one who held on to hope for so many years. I also want to believe that Cassie and I can find our way back to each other. I have to believe it.
“Your grandmother was obviously senile, Julie.” Patrick exhales. “Cassie doesn’t want you in her life. Why would you want to share a house with someone who’s just going to ignore you?” He looks at me as though I’m insane to even consider going. And to him, I probably am—he never got along with his half-brothers.
But at this, I feel a spike of annoyance. For such an intelligent man, Patrick can be remarkably blind to his own faults. “Why wouldn’t I?” I give him a pointed look. “I’m used to it by now.”
He stares back at me, mouth agape. It’s strangely satisfying, seeing him at a loss for words. Usually, I’m the inarticulate one.
Maybe his behavior at the benefit was the last straw or maybe it’s the fact that I actually rendered Patrick speechless, but before he can think of something else to say, I get up, grab my purse, and leave our apartment.
I’m in the marbled lobby, trying to ignore the ache in my chest when I hear my phone ringing inside my bag. My heart leaps in excitement—Patrick is calling to apologize—but an unfamiliar number flashes on the screen.
“Hello?” I cringe when I hear my own voice: tentative, sniffling.
“Hi, Julie.” A pause. “It’s me.”
My heart stops. “Hey, um, hi.”
“Norman gave me your number,” Cassie begins. Who the heck is Norman? “I’m calling because of the will.”
I wince. She’s going to challenge it, just like Patrick said we should. And I just told him I was going to Montauk.
“I’m going,” she says.
I blink once, then twice. Then it’s like my eyelashes are replaced by a hummingbird’s wings. It’s a sign. The sign I’ve been waiting for.
“I know you have plans for the summer,” she begins, and I feel my brow furrow. What is she talking about? Then I remember what I said at the lawyer’s office. Norman. That’s who Norman is.
“I can cancel them,” I say quickly. Too quickly. “I mean, it’ll be a hassle, but I think it’s important that we go. For Nana.”
Am I being too loud? Patrick often chides me for being too loud. The doorman is staring at me. I quickly step out of the building. It’s still light outside, the orange skies kissing the treetops in Boston Common. I look up and send Nana a smile. She’s watching me—I’m sure of it.
“So, you’ll let him know you’re going? We have until tomorrow to get back to him.”
I say, “Yes,” at the same time she says, “Or I could just tell him if you want. I have to call him, anyway.”
“You tell him,” I decide. I amble down Beacon Street. Maybe I’ll go into the park for a walk.
“All right then. I’ll drive over on Wednesday.” Her tone is flat.
I want to tell her that we should go together. We do live in the same city, after all. I want to ask her why that is, why she never moved away after Katherine’s death. There’s a lot I want to ask her, actually. And tell her. But there isn’t any room for anything beyond polite scheduling matters. Our exchange is stiff, awkward. Nothing like the intimate shorthand we once shared. How did we end up this way? A dumb question. I know how, of course.
“OK, I’ll do the same,” I say. A white lie: there’s no way I’m driving for over five hours.
We say our goodbyes. She is curt—this is Cassie, after all—but civil.
By the time I make my way through the park’s wrought-iron gate, I notice that the knot in my chest has been replaced by an altogether different feeling.
Hope.
Five
Cassie
Tuesday, June 26th
I think they call it muscle memory, the reason why I still know the way to Nana’s house after all these years. I make a right on Old Montauk Highway, taking in the picturesque horizon—the backdrop of my childhood. The happy bits, anyway.
My first recollection of the Hamptons dates back to when I was four or five years old. It isn’t a particularly remarkable memory: Nana and I chasing seagulls in front of the house, back when my parents still summered here.
It was Gramps who taught me that Montauk is a hamlet in East Hampton located at the very tip of the South Fork in Long Island. Even as a young child I could list its main attractions, pointing out the historical significance of each one. My favorite: the lighthouse. The oldest one in America, around for over two hundred years, and still used to navigate ships in and out on the tip of Long Island. I spent countless hours mesmerized by Gramps’ tales of this place. My mom seemed to think I was indulging him. “How polite of you to pretend to be interested in your grandfather’s stories, Cassie,” she’d tell me. She never understood that listening to Gramps was a treat.
The story I heard most often was of the origins of the house itself, or the “summer cottage”, as my parents referred to it. Gramps had bought it for Nana back when real estate on the island was still affordable. She dreamt of a home on the beach. My grandparents took pride in noting that the house turned out to be a great investment—property values soared in the 1970s and 1980s, when the Hamptons became the go-to summer destination for Manhattan’s elite. But what had always stuck with me was that Gramps had actually bought a house to please his wife. This made sense. This was what husbands and wives were supposed to do for each other: small and large gestures to make the other person happy. In fact, my favorite thing about Montauk was just being around Gramps and Nana. They were an exceptionally happy couple, full of inside jokes and non-verbal communication. So very different from my parents.
Julie may not be my favorite person in the world, but it saddens me to think that she never got to meet Gramps. She missed out on so much. She never got to giggle as he plucked a coin from behind her ear. Never saw him shoo the wild turkeys that would, on occasion, make their way onto the backyard with surprising speed. Never watched him trace Sagittarius with his fingers in the summer sky or listened to him tell ghost stories as he roasted s’mores over a campfire. I know she would’ve loved him because he was kind and funny and patient. And I know he would’ve loved her because everyone loves Julie.
I’m thankful when I hear Daniel’s ringtone. I don’t want my mind on Julie.
“Hey, you,” I say.
“Babe, are you still driving?”
“That’s why you’re on speaker.”
“I thought you’d be there by now.”
“Traffic,” I say. “I can’t complain. It’ll be so much worse once the season begins.” After Memorial Day, everyone and their mother will be summering in the Hamptons. Not that I can blame them, I think, glancing at the endless blue of ocean and sky. There are a few boats at a distance and, of course, the lighthouse up ahead. So beautiful, it looks like a painting. Gosh, I love this place.
“I can’t believe I have to wait until Friday to see you.”
“You’re definitely coming?”
“Absolutely.”
“OK. I told you the girls are coming for brunch on Sunday, right?”
“You mentioned I wasn’t invited.”
“It’s ladies’ brunch. They’re driving all the way to the Hamptons just to see me.” Christina and Rachel offered to come as soon as I told them about the will. I won’t lie: I nearly choked with gratitude. I have no idea how I’d get through the month without my friends, even with Daniel driving over on weekends.
“Fine, I’ll learn to share you,” he teases. “I have to go back to work. I just wanted to hear your voice. Text me when you get there.”
“Will do. Love you,” I say, and we hang up.
Just three more days until I ask him. I am less than thrilled about being stuck in the same house as Julie for a month—but even I have to admit I need a breather from my life in Boston. Especially after the decision I’ve made. I wonder what the girls will say when I tell them. Rachel will be supportive—when is she not?—but I’m not so sure about Christina.
A few minutes later, I pull into Nana’s driveway. The Montauk house is a two-story dwelling made of whitewashed wood and gray-shingled roof. It’s literally on the beach, complete with an oversized sun porch that, from the look of it, seems to have been newly furnished.
As I step out of the car, the salt-heavy wind floods my senses, taking me back in time. To that first summer with Julie, right before our tenth birthdays.
I saw Julie before she saw me.
She and Sophie were standing on Nana’s driveway, talking. Julie had her back to me. I couldn’t stop staring at her hair: long, shiny, and dark. It made me hate my frizzy bird’s nest even more. Her skin was a pretty olive color that made me think of honey. She was smaller than me, too: shorter, with delicate wrists and ankles.
She didn’t look like my sister. At least not until she turned around.
When she did, I saw them. Her eyes, identical to mine. To Nana’s.
Sophie didn’t go in the house. I don’t know if she wasn’t invited or if she chose not to. What I do know is that the animosity between her and Nana was impossible to miss. This did not surprise me at all.
“Our eyes are the same,” Julie said, once we were inside. “Just like our dad.”
Our dad.
She wasn’t wrong—he was our father. But it was such a strange thing to hear.
I shake myself out of the memory. I haven’t even stepped inside Nana’s house and already I’m being haunted by ghosts of the past. I can’t allow this to happen. I need to stay strong.
I dig inside my purse for the keys given to me by Norman-the-lawyer. Unlocking the front door is enough to make my heart swell with recognition and longing.
Once I’m inside, I scan the familiar living room: wicker furniture, beaded cabinet doors, rocking chair. And the pièce de résistance: the farmhouse dining table, seating for twelve. Nana’s pet piece of furniture, though I never understood why—it’s too big. A place frozen in time. It isn’t as dusty as expected. In fact, it doesn’t smell like it’s been closed for the past three weeks, waiting for Julie and me to learn about Nana’s will.
I wonder, for the hundredth time, why Nana didn’t want a funeral. If she had, would I have attended? It would have meant seeing my father. I think back to the last time I saw my grandmother: four years ago, when she came to Boston to take care of paperwork (perhaps her will). We had brunch at Finale: hash browns, pancakes, eggs Benedict. At the time, I was all but starving myself, but that day I ate like a normal person (maybe even a normal, hungry person). I had planned on telling her I was on a diet on
ce we met at the restaurant, but seeing her, hugging her, had brought back my appetite, if only for a few hours. Nana was the one person in my life who always made me feel better. I had been afraid that she’d make me feel guilty for refusing to come to Montauk, but she never did. She understood—she always understood. Nana’s response to everything was compassion. Which is why her final wishes are so confusing to me.
I take slow steps as I survey the first floor. The yellow L-shaped couch. The wooden rocking chair. And, of course, the granite island on the kitchen—Nana’s last addition to the house, at least that I know of. I get a mental image of Nana kneading dough, her face spotted in flour. I see her bending over to fill Sebastian’s bowl with wet food. Every object in this house, every surface, every corner, holds a piece of her.
“Hello there.”
I turn on my heel—really, I give a small jump—to see a tall, tanned man by the door. He has a strong jaw, an athletic build, and hazel eyes. He’s wearing blue jeans and a simple white T-shirt that says “Holly’s” in orange and black. He’s remarkably attractive.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says, smiling. His dimples are boyish.
“Who are you?”
“Where are my manners?” He sticks out his hand. “Sorry, I’m Craig. Bertie’s next-door neighbor. Your neighbor now, I guess.”
