by Luanne Rice
The trip to Ireland had raised questions too large for Dar or even Dulse to answer. Frequently Dar found that her character was wiser and braver than her creator, as if in Dulse, Dar could travel through her family’s psyche and return with spiritual truth.
But this time Dar felt exhausted, dragged down by all the uncertainty. After a flurry of connection with Raymond and Jack, they seemed to be holding back until the document and its provenance were legally authenticated.
Morgan called one morning; Dar saw her number on caller ID and hesitated a long moment before picking up.
“Hello?” she said.
“Dar, it’s Morgan. Well, the Littles have officially backed out of the deal. He called me last night and said he’s tired of being strung along. He wants their deposit back, so I’ll write the check from escrow today.”
“I’m sorry for all the trouble,” Dar said. “I know you worked hard to put all this together.”
“I’m not giving up!” Morgan said. “Property like yours comes on the market so rarely, I have a waiting list.”
“Oh, Morgan,” Dar said. She would have liked to tell her the property was no longer for sale. But there was still so much uncertainty; taxes would need to be paid soon.
“I know it’s hard to jump right back in,” Morgan said. “But I’m sure people will be making offers right away. You can slow it down, take your time before accepting anything.”
“That’s good to know,” Dar said. “Thank you.”
One day, uncovering the third post along the eastern boundary, Dar heard tires crunching up the clamshell and gravel driveway. She peered over her shoulder and saw Harrison park his blue panel truck. He came lumbering toward her.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey yourself!”
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Uncovering these posts. Four hundred years old.”
“Holy shit,” he said. “Andy told me. Very cool.” He gave the third post, excavated nearly a foot down into the ground, a long look. Then he tapped Dar’s shoulder. “Got food?”
“You’re hungry?”
“Totally,” he said. “I had to deliver an antique Martin guitar to a big house in Aquinnah, and they were just sitting down to lunch, and do you think they’d invite me in? Looked really good, too—leftover roast beef.”
“Well, I don’t have that,” Dar said. “But I could use lunch, too.”
They walked the path from the farmhouse to the Hideaway. Scup had been lying in the shade, but he struggled up and followed them through the tall grass. Every so often one of the old cats would pounce at their feet, then retreat back into the grass forest, green and filled with wildflowers.
“So, what do you hear from Rory?” Harrison asked as they settled into rocking chairs facing the ocean and she served lemonade and tuna fish sandwiches.
“She’s home in Connecticut, busy with the kids.”
“Is she coming out soon?”
“Well, they have school, and activities on the weekend. It’s not so easy for her.”
Harrison wolfed down half his sandwich, chewing furiously as he stared out to sea. Dar sipped from her lemonade, gazing at him. Like Dulse, she saw people’s essences more than their outsides. She could see how tender his heart was, as clearly as if it were beating outside his skin.
“Is she still fucked up over Jonathan?” Harrison asked.
“Yes,” Dar said.
He ate the rest of his sandwich in two bites. She heard the porch floorboards creak beneath his rocker. “Why doesn’t she get over him?” he asked. “He doesn’t deserve her.”
“I think she’s working that out,” Dar said.
“You mean getting over him?” Harrison asked, snapping his head to look at her.
“It’s hard for her. They have children together. They’ve been together since they were so young.”
“A lot of people have loved her since she was young,” Harrison said.
Dar gazed at him, saw overwhelming love in his eyes. “I know you have,” she said.
“I don’t mean just me.”
“Rory loves you,” Dar said.
“She told you that?” he said quickly, his chair stopping midcreak.
“Isn’t it obvious? No one means more to her than you, Harrison. But I’m not sure she can ever really take her heart back from Jonathan. Or at least she’s not ready yet.”
He resumed rocking, gazing over the field with hooded eyes.
“She never saw me that way,” he said. “She loves me, I know. The way you all do, like a big brother. She’d never even guess. Besides, I’m not like tall, dark, and handsome fucking Jonathan.”
“You’re better,” Dar said. “Ten times better. And she would.”
“Would what?”
“Guess,” Dar said. “The way you feel.”
“Shit,” he said. “That’s probably not good.”
“Actually, it keeps her going. Couldn’t you tell, when she was out here for that week? The times we got together with you made her the happiest. Part of her loves you the same way.”
“She actually said it?”
“Yes,” Dar said. “Not in words, but in deeper ways. Her eyes, her laughter, the way she is with you.”
“God,” Harrison said.
Dar watched him hold emotion inside. She wondered, and had all along, what he would do if she and her sisters left the island for good. If Rory did.
“Thanks for telling me,” Harrison said.
“When’s the last time we had a serious conversation?”
He laughed. “I do my best to avoid it.”
Dar laughed, too. Then he leaned over, pointing.
“You going to eat that other half sandwich?” he asked.
“It’s all yours,” she said.
“You’re my good friend,” he said, shoving it into his mouth. In spite of the laughter, she saw weariness in his eyes.
“And you’re mine,” Dar said, reaching for his hand as they rocked and stared out at drifting clouds making shadow patterns on the blue salt pond and the sugary white dunes.
Delia and Pete stood at the ferry landing, waiting for the Island Home to pull in. Pete was silent, and Delia felt so anxious. The sky was brilliant, bright blue with no clouds. Jim used to call it “a brochure day”—the kind of weather tourist towns always wanted on their billboards and brochures.
“Are you okay?” she asked Pete.
“I think so. Are you?”
“Yes,” she said. “Maybe even a little excited.”
“I’m definitely not excited,” he said.
She wanted to take his hand, remind him of the courage he’d shown by taking her to that AA meeting. It had led her to Al-Anon, where she was learning to take life one day at a time, and to respect herself in the process. From as far back as she could remember, she’d given her power and voice to others: her parents, her older sisters, Jim, even Pete at times.
Sometimes it felt as if she’d given up so much, bargained away chips of herself, just to make everyone else happy. She’d stayed busy, kept herself from seeing what was really going on, viewed only what she wanted to see, what she could handle. Now, being awake and alive every moment was sometimes so frightening and painful, so daunting; deep feelings were rising to the surface, making her face them head-on.
The cars rattled over the metal ramp onto the dock and into the parking lot. When Delia spotted the Ford, she nudged Pete and nodded. She raised her hand to wave, and Jim pointed up the hill, to a parking spot where he could stop.
“Safety first,” Pete said, making Delia laugh.
“That’s your father,” she said.
She told herself that this had been arranged primarily for Pete. That she had no idea what would happen between Jim and her. But the sight of him driving their car, knowing he’d come to the Vineyard for the first time in years, touched a very sore place she hadn’t let herself close to in weeks.
He parked the car, got out, and stretched. Now Delia d
id take Pete’s hand. He’d brought Vanessa the doll he’d found in the yard, cleaned it up for her. They hurried up the hill together, came to a dead stop in front of the family car.
“Dad,” Pete said.
“Pete,” Jim said, gruff as ever. Then he reached out to shake Pete’s hand, but instead pulled him into a hug. He was crying hard, shaking his head. “I thought I’d never see you again. I thought you were dead, that you’d never come home to us.”
“I’m here,” Pete said, stiff, but giving in to the hug.
Breaking away, Jim put his arm around Delia. He squeezed her tight, but didn’t say anything. He seemed as emotional as she felt, and she knew he couldn’t trust himself to speak yet. Instead, he let go of her, opened the back door. Delia watched him hunched over, fumbling with the seat belts.
When he turned, he had lifted Vanessa from her car seat.
“Gram!” she cried at the sight of Delia, but Jim handed her to Pete instead.
“Your daughter,” Jim said.
They watched their son hold Vanessa, saw her frown and lean back as she studied his thin face and blue eyes.
“That’s your daddy,” Delia said.
“Hi, Vanessa,” Pete said, giving her a little bounce. “I brought you your dolly.”
“Gram!” she shrieked, and began to cry, reaching out her arms for Delia. Delia took her, looked up at Pete.
“It will get better,” she said. “Just wait.”
“It will,” Jim said. “She’s shy with guys. You should have heard how loud she’d howl any time I got near her. But now I’m ‘Gramp,’ and she can’t wait to come over our house. Right, Deel?”
“Right, honey,” she said. She gazed into her son’s eyes to see whether he felt hurt or rejected, then stopped herself. Dana would tell her to stop feeling everyone else’s feelings and feel her own. So she did; and because she was filled with joy, she smiled and said she wanted to take everyone out to lunch.
They went to the Black Dog, Jim’s favorite, and got sandwiches and brownies to take out. They found a bench in the shade to eat, and they said very little, just looked out at the boats and smooth water. Afterwards they strolled through the Martha’s Vineyard Camp Meeting Association in the center of town, looking at the Victorian gingerbread cottages painted in bright colors.
“Perfectly preserved,” Jim said, said. “What’s that style called again?”
“Carpenter Gothic,” Delia said, remembering being taken on walks here with her own mother and grandmother. She watched Vanessa look from the beautiful cottages to Pete and back.
They cut over to Circuit Avenue, where all the clubs were, where Delia and her sisters had come to dance and drink and look for cute boys. Some of the club names had changed, but the super honky-tonk feeling was the same—even in bright sunlight you felt haunted by nights you could barely remember.
Delia glanced at Pete, wondering if it was triggering him. But he seemed focused on Vanessa, playing peekaboo with her as she half hid her eyes in her grandfather’s shoulder and pretended to ignore him.
At the foot of Circuit Avenue, Pete tapped Vanessa’s hand.
“Hey, Vanessa,” he said. “Want to take a ride with me on that?” He pointed at the Flying Horses, the oldest carousel in the United States. He had loved it as a boy, just as Delia and her sisters couldn’t get enough rides as girls.
“Gramp?” she asked.
“No, honey,” Jim said. “Gramp is too big for that. He might break one of the pretty horses. Go with your dad. Gram and I will be right here watching.”
“Gram?” she asked.
“That’s right, sweetheart,” Delia said. “We’ll be right here. You’ll see us wave when you go by!”
“Dolly?”
“Yes, she can ride, too,” Pete said.
Mesmerized by the horses riding round and round, music and bells playing, Vanessa reluctantly let go of her grandfather’s neck and let Pete take her in his arms as he put the doll in her hands.
He bought tickets, and when the ride stopped, he climbed onto the platform with Vanessa. They walked slowly around as he let her pick out the horse she wanted to ride: bright yellow. Pete buckled her on, and stood right beside her as the bell rang and the carousel began to move.
“Remember when we’d bring Pete here?” Jim asked.
“As if it were yesterday.”
“He’s doing all right?”
“We both are.”
“Deel,” Jim began, but he was choked up again. She held his hand to let him know it was okay.
“What you said to me hurt,” she said. “But it was a wake-up call. I didn’t want to lose you, our marriage.”
“Neither did I,” he said.
They waved at Pete and Vanessa each time they passed, but neither glanced over. Vanessa gripped the pole, her doll pressed under her elbow, and seemed completely focused on her ride. Pete had his arm around her and never once looked up.
Delia took a deep breath. She was standing here with her large, somewhat overweight, graying, conservative, middle-manager Irish Catholic husband. They owned a medium-sized house on a small lot on the outskirts of Annapolis. The Vineyard had always been the magic in her life—the world of her English grandmother, mother, and sisters. She had just embarked on a deep, dark quest—not only the one to Ireland with Dar and Rory, but the one into her own self. She knew without doubt that life was full of treasure. Dar had found a very particular one in the hold of their father’s boat. But standing here with Jim, she knew it was time for real life.
“It would be nice to be able to help Pete get back on his feet,” Jim said.
“He’s doing pretty well, working for Andy Mayhew. He seems to be saving all his money.”
“Life’s expensive,” Jim said, waving again as Pete and Vanessa went around. “Kid doesn’t even have a truck anymore.”
“We can’t help too much; he wants to do it on his own.”
“Not that we’re made of money, anyway,” Jim said.
Delia stared at the carousel. The Flying Horses had been on the Vineyard since 1884. She had no doubt that her maternal grandfather had ridden them as a boy. So much on the island had brought her family delight and wonder.
She’d talked to Rory last night, and she thought of it now, lulled by the carousel. Since returning to Old Lyme, Rory had felt both safe and depressed. The trip to Ireland, learning the truth of their father’s death, the parchment, the frantic need to fight off Realtors and developers—it had all worn her out and gotten her down.
“Jonathan and I have talked a few times,” Rory had said.
“That’s good, right?”
“Well, I guess so. He’s thinking about breaking up with Alys. He said she was so bitchy about him taking the kids while I was gone. She wound up joining them for a hike to Gillette Castle, and he said she was so overbearing toward them, possessive of him . . .”
“So he’s seeing the light! That’s great.”
“He’s not coming home,” Rory had said. “At least not in the near future. He told me he’s been unhappy in our marriage for a while. It was hard for him to get it out and tell me.”
“Hard for him! What a selfish bastard. Have you told Dar all this?”
“I’m not sure why,” Rory had said, “but I can’t talk to her right now. I’m really struggling, Delia, with what I want to happen.”
“About the house?”
“And the land, and the deed, and the amazing, incredible Irish parchment. I almost wish she hadn’t found it.”
“Why?” Delia had asked, even though she sometimes felt the same way.
“Because it’s made everything so complicated. We’re having to fight so hard to keep what we’d always loved and taken for granted. When it was just our family place, it was so lovely and right. It wasn’t about money, or value, or taxes. What a childish way to think, right?”
“That’s how I’ve thought of it, too.”
“Now, dealing with it as ‘property’ has changed everythi
ng.”
“I know.”
“I was happier, honestly, that week when the three of us got together to start packing, knowing we were going to lose the place by the end of May, than I am now—even with the ‘hope’ that if all goes well, we’ll be able to keep it.”
“Do you want out?” Delia had whispered.
“I think so. Do you?”
Rory’s question had hung in the air.
Delia hadn’t answered last night, but standing by the Flying Horses, watching as the ride ended and Pete lifted his daughter down, seeing Vanessa laughing in glee with her arms around her father’s neck, her feelings soared.
Money from the sale would give Jim and her a nest egg, and then, in spite of what she’d said about Pete wanting to do it on his own, they could help him buy his own house in Maryland and play a role in raising Vanessa. Vanessa’s mother was well meaning but unreliable, at eighteen nearly ready to give birth to her second baby, and Delia knew her granddaughter needed Pete in her life.
The thought brought hot tears to her eyes, but when Pete and Vanessa approached, everyone assumed they were tears of joy. Sentimental Delia so happy to see her son and his daughter together, to be with her husband again. They didn’t realize her heart was on its way to breaking, for Dar, for Rory, for the gathering place they’d always so simply loved.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Morgan Ludlow called Dar, giving her fair notice of a second showing.
“These buyers really seem hot to trot,” she said. “We survived the disaster of the Littles, and it would be great if we could manage to not screw this deal up.”
“By ‘we’ you mean me, right?” Dar asked.
“Well, yes. But not that I blame you. Selling family property can be wrenching at best, and I will admit the Littles’ plans were quite extreme. With all your acreage, they would have covered a great deal of it with their chateau or whatever it was. Based on something they saw in the Luberon—inside swimming pool, tennis court, and all.”
“The town never would have given them a permit.”
“Well, true. And that’s why they didn’t sue you for breach of contract. They’ve moved on—to Nantucket, thank God. But Dar. These new people are lovely. John and Martha Riley. You would love them, and I hope you’ll meet, but do me a favor and don’t be there today. They need to ‘feel’ the house again.”
