The Guest Cottage

by Nancy Thayer

  Later, Trevor dropped into a beach chair next to Sophie and Angie. He got out his water bottle and drained it. “The wind’s not quite strong enough to keep the kite up.”

  “You were good to try,” Sophie told him. “Let’s let the kids swim a while before we go back to the house.”

  “I’m getting broiled,” Angie said, slowly rubbing lotion on her long, sleek legs.

  “I want to talk to you anyway,” Trevor told Sophie. “Yesterday when I was bathing Leo, he told me that Connor says he’s dying.”

  “What? That’s awful,” Sophie said.

  “Yeah,” Angie chimed in. “That’s what Leo needs, someone else dying on him.”

  “Shut up, Angie,” Sophie ordered. Turning to Trevor, she said, “What did Leo say exactly?”

  Trevor explained it, working to remember the exact words.

  Sophie chewed a thumbnail. “I don’t understand. He’s always seemed—slow, perhaps, but healthy. His hands are strong; he carves. He picked those berries. But why would he say such a thing unless he believed it was true?”

  “He hasn’t joined us for drinks recently,” Trevor said thoughtfully. “Or come out to watch the stars.”

  Sophie was startled to find herself crying. “I thought of him as a kind of—oh, this is silly, but a kind of grandfather figure for Leo and Jonah and Lacey. I mean, my father’s dead, and Zack’s father might as well live on the moon for all the attention he pays to my kids. Grandparents really aren’t like they used to be.”

  “I know,” Trevor agreed. “My parents are divorced. My mom visits sometimes, when she’s not having cocktails with her third husband, and my dad died a few years ago. As for Tallulah’s father—no affection there. When I phoned her parents to tell them about Tallulah’s death, they refused to come for a funeral or have her ashes sent to them. They said she was no daughter of theirs.”

  “Cheese and crackers!” Angie snapped. “Could you two get more maudlin? Come on! It’s a fabulous sunny day! We’re on Nantucket! Your children are happy. Geez, I’m going back to Boston if you two keep this up.” When both Trevor and Sophie shot her the same look, she added, “Oh, no. You don’t get rid of me that easily.” Laughing, she picked up a plastic bucket, ran to the pond, filled it with water, and rushed back to throw it on Sophie.

  Sophie screamed, jumped up to chase Angie, and Trevor rose, too, stretching in the sun, taking in the view: two lovely women splashing in the pond, the sun catching drops of water flying from their skin, for a brief moment flashing with light. Nearby, Lacey held Leo’s hands and pulled him slowly in circles in the water. Jonah was farther out, working on a steady breaststroke. Across the pond, a couple sailed a red Sunfish, gliding through the water, and on the far side, a couple of swans paddled together, ignoring the invaders of their domain.

  Angie was irritating, Trevor thought, but she was right. Carpe diem.

  —

  That evening, they sent Lacey and Leo down to the apartment to invite Connor to join them for a simple cookout on the patio, but Connor politely refused. When Sophie grilled Lacey for Connor’s exact words, they were: “Thanks, but not tonight, kids.” Yet he was dressed and looked fine, Lacey reported. Trevor and Sophie agreed to let the matter lie.

  The next day Trevor had all the kids with him so that Angie and Sophie could spend a day in town shopping. In the evenings, a slight dry coolness hinted at the approaching fall, and Angie wanted new clothes for work. The women changed out of their shorts into sleeveless minidresses—and sandals, because it was still summer and the sidewalks were uneven brick.

  Angie went at clothes shopping as she did at everything: full tilt, fast-forward. She stalked around a shop, eyeing the clothing, spotting a dress here, a skirt there, yanking them from the rack and handing them to Sophie, who carried them over her arm while Angie chose more. In the dressing room, Sophie was the attendant, zipping and unzipping, returning the items to their hangers, handing them to the salesgirl with a request for a different color or size, informing Angie how each dress looked from the back. It was a job Sophie enjoyed. She had never wanted to be a trial lawyer like Angie; she had never needed to care about having a “look.” She didn’t have the kind of energy Angie had. It would have exhausted her to try on so many outfits, to make so many decisions so quickly, and Sophie found herself watching her friend in action as if Angie were a breathing paper doll. For work, Angie dressed strategically: she had mild, diplomatic, let’s-make-a-deal clothes and get-out-of-my-way killer clothes.

  This was the woman Sophie had known from childhood, and it was a blast watching Angie with her work mind on. By two o’clock, Angie had bought several thousand dollars’ worth of clothes, jewelry, and shoes, and both women were practically limping beneath the weight of the shopping bags they carried in both hands.

  As they staggered down Main Street, slightly giddy, laughing, they heard a man say, “Hello, lovely ladies.”

  “Hristo!” Sophie cried, delighted to see her friend—her tall, strong, capable friend.

  “Thank heavens!” cried Angie. “Would you buy us a drink? We’re exhausted.”

  “I can see you’ve both been diligently assisting the local economy,” Hristo said. Without being asked, he reached out to relieve the women of all four shopping bags.

  “Only Angie,” Sophie told him. “I’ve been playing handmaiden.”

  “When I return to Boston, I’ve got a hell of a complicated case coming up,” Angie explained.

  “Have you had lunch?” Hristo asked.

  “Not yet,” Sophie answered.

  “Come. We’ll go to Cru. We’ll eat and drink and you can regain your strength after such a trying ordeal.”

  At the restaurant at the end of Straight Wharf, they sprawled on soft cushions shaded by blue beach umbrellas, drinking Champagne, eating lobster, and chatting. Angie wore her wild black curls up in the classy chignon she wore in court, and as she talked, Sophie understood how Angie could transform herself from warmhearted friend into elegant sophisticate. From time to time, Hristo sent Sophie a questioning glance, as if checking to be certain Sophie wasn’t offended by Angie’s dominance. Sophie smiled politely.

  In fact, as Angie and Hristo got into a profound discussion about the role of the U.S. in international affairs, Sophie relaxed against her bench and let her mind drift. Being around Angie was always exhilarating and exhausting. Angie was driven, ambitious, cutthroat, determined. Perhaps as a teenager practicing the piano, Sophie had been determined and ambitious, but now she realized she had never burned with the need or greed or hunger or whatever it was that drove Angie and kept her happy and on top of her game even now. It was possible…Sophie was just beginning to comprehend this, and she had no pattern or role model for putting it into words, but maybe…maybe she’d never wanted to compete. Never wanted to be the best. Maybe she’d wanted to play piano for herself. The revelation filled her with a kind of dazzling hope.

  “I’m off to the ladies’,” Angie announced. “Want to go, Soph?”

  Sophie forced herself to the present. “No. I’m good.”

  “Slide over, then.” Angie squeezed past Sophie and headed into the restaurant.

  “Ah,” Hristo said. With a teasing smile, he continued, “Alone at last.”

  Sophie returned his smile, but was still swimming her way up from her own private thoughts.

  “You do not mind at all, do you?” Hristo asked.

  “What? I don’t mind what?” Sophie struggled to focus her attention on him.

  There he was, broad-shouldered, dignified, and handsome, almost magnificent.

  Hristo reached across the table and took Sophie’s hand. “You do not mind that your friend Angie is coming on to me.”

  Sophie blinked. “Oh, I’ve known Angie since we were girls,” she said. “She’s always been the show-off.”

  “That’s not really what I’m asking,” Hristo said.

  “Hristo…” She bit her lip, searching for the right words.

 
; “I had the definite idea that you and I would like to see each other after the summer ends,” Hristo clarified.

  “Yes, of course, but, Hristo—I mean, I’m still married to Zack, even though it looks certain that we’ll get divorced—” She was stuttering, tying herself in knots. “And I, I’m happy as a housewife, while you, well, you’re so much!” She spread her hands wide.

  He released her hand. “I don’t believe I have ever been let down in such a complimentary way.”

  Her hand lay on the table. She knew she could reach for his, she could still bring him back, and she was not surprised to hear Aunt Fancy’s exasperated whisper in her mind: Oh, for goodness sake, child, look at the man! Don’t you want some glamour? You could travel to Europe. Plus, please take a moment to imagine what he’d be like in bed. I’ll bet he’s hung like a stallion.

  “Aunt Fancy!” Sophie said.

  Hristo cocked his head. “Aunt Fancy?”

  “Sorry. Sorry.” Sophie waved her hand in front of her face, as if swishing her aunt away. “I had an aunt who was wildly daring. I adored her. She’s not alive anymore, but I think of her often, and I know how much she would have liked you. Liked you, she would have loved you! You are—”

  “And you don’t,” Hristo said.

  Sophie stopped talking. She could have said, I don’t what? but she knew very well what he meant. From somewhere, perhaps from the thought of Aunt Fancy, or perhaps from the energy of the summer sun, or perhaps from a muddled but powerful feeling that her life had finally stumbled in the right direction, from all of that came the courage for Sophie to say, with melodic gentleness, “Hristo, you don’t, either. If you’re honest with me.”

  His smile was wrenchingly gorgeous. “I could.”

  “I don’t think so. You would become bored, and I would become confused.”

  To her infinite relief, Hristo burst out laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” Angie was back at the table, her face freshly and delicately made up, her posture both formal and sexy. How does she do that? Sophie wondered.

  Hristo, ever the gentleman, rose as Angie returned to the table. “Sophie’s protesting that she shouldn’t drink Champagne in the middle of the day. Especially in the hot sun.”

  As if on cue, Sophie yawned. “It’s true. And Angie, you have to admit, I worked hard today, trudging around after you, carrying tons of clothing.”

  “You were an angel,” Angie said. “And I’m grateful. I suppose we should go home,” she added reluctantly.

  “But you haven’t had dessert,” Hristo said. He shot Sophie one last charming and terribly fond look, then turned his attention to Angie. “Why not let Sophie drive home. You can stay for dessert with me and I’ll drive you home later.”

  Angie would always win at poker. She appeared totally unimpressed with this offer, but she languidly looked at Sophie and asked, “What do you think?”

  “That sounds good to me,” Sophie told her. “See you later.” Rising, she gathered her purse and blew a kiss to Angie and one to Hristo.

  Well, Aunt Fancy, she thought as she walked away, I believe I have just finessed my first and probably only international transaction. She couldn’t stop smiling.

  —

  Sophie returned to an empty house. Trevor had obviously taken the three kids somewhere, probably to the beach.

  Her lethargy vanished. She went to the piano, took some sheet music from the bench, sat down, and began to play.

  She started with an easy Mozart piece, slid into a more complicated Brahms, and gaining courage, attempted to remember her favorite Rachmaninoff sonata. Clunkers flew from her fingers, but no one was there to criticize, no one corrected her timing, no one judged. Each note of music felt like a minuscule, invisible, sterling silver key unlocking the chains that had been wrapped around her heart for years—a fanciful thought, but not untrue. As she played, a freedom rose within her, and a happiness she had forgotten.

  Maybe she had never been meant to play for others, but she had always been meant to play for herself. Whoever she was, music was part of her soul, and without it, she was weakened, she was caged.

  She played until her arms ached, until they trembled with exhaustion. Finally she had to stop. Alone in the house, sitting on the piano bench, she wrapped her arms around herself in a triumphant embrace. Hello, Sophie, she thought, it’s good to see you again.

  All right. Back to normal. She checked her watch. It was after four. People would be thundering in soon, and they would be hungry. And she needed to talk with Trevor about Connor.

  In the kitchen she set about rinsing and slicing vegetables, arranging them on a platter around a bowl of hummus so when everyone arrived they wouldn’t immediately dive for the chips. She set it on the dining room table. Upstairs in her bedroom, she hummed as she changed out of her downtown shopping clothes into shorts and a halter top and flip-flops. Glancing in the mirror, she decided it was time for a haircut or at least a trim. Or maybe not. Maybe she liked her hair long. Shoulder-length was more practical, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to be practical anymore.

  As she went down the stairs, Trevor and the kids filed in the door, sunburnt, sandy, hungry, and thirsty, everyone talking at once. She paused on the stairs to listen. Yes, this—childish chatter, sibling sniping, giggling, racing bare feet—this also was the music of her life. Trevor said, “Kids. Look. Sophie’s put out snacks.”

  And Trevor? Sophie thought. He had such a low, pleasing voice. Would he be part of her life, too?

  —

  That evening she prepared an easy dinner: meat loaf, corn and tomato salad, and new potatoes in butter and parsley. Leo fussed about the thin red skin left on the potatoes. Jonah said, “Put butter on it. If you put butter on anything, it tastes good.” Leo had come to worship Jonah and did what he said. Trevor and Sophie exchanged glances.

  “Where’s Angie?” Trevor asked. “She can’t still be shopping.”

  “We ran into Hristo in town,” Sophie explained. “We had lunch with him, and Angie decided to stay for a drink. Hristo said he’d drive her home.”

  Trevor’s jaw dropped. He wore a faded T-shirt that read: If you believe in telekinesis, please raise my hand. His nose and cheeks were fluorescent with sunburn, his teeth gleamed snow white, and his green eyes were wide, almost with wonder. “Hristo is driving Angie home,” he said slowly, as if learning a formula for an exam.

  “Mom.” Jonah pushed back his chair. “I’m done. May I please be excused?”

  “You may.”

  The other kids raced away from the table with Jonah, off to the family room to watch television.

  “Trevor,” Sophie said when they were alone, “could we talk about Connor? I’m concerned.”

  “Yeah, me, too. I asked Leo to tell me again what Connor said, but he repeated what he told me, that Connor told him he was dying, but not to be sad.”

  “I think we should go down and talk to him,” Sophie said. “If he’s ill, we need to get in touch with Susie or Ivan. He’s their grandfather.”

  “I have no idea how to reach Ivan. He’s in India, probably wandering through the desert with a camel.”

  “I can get in touch with Susie if we need to,” Sophie said. “But I hate to worry her if there’s no reason.” She pushed back her chair. “Let’s go see Connor now.”

  “Wait. Let’s take a moment to think about how to approach him. I don’t want to tell him what Leo said unless I have to. I think maybe Leo and Connor have developed a kind of friendship. I don’t want Connor to think Leo, well, tattled on him, or gave away a secret.”

  “I see what you’re saying, but on the other hand, Trevor, is it a good thing for an old man to tell a child he’s dying? That’s kind of scary, isn’t it?”

  “Not the way Leo told me. I’ve been advised that it’s good for Leo to talk about death. He doesn’t comprehend it, but it’s part of life, his mother has died, and I think Connor was only trying to make Leo feel comfortable with the concept.”
>
  Sophie nodded. “True. He may not even be dying, now that I think of it. He’s an older man; perhaps he merely meant to give Leo a sense of—how do I say it—the normalcy of death.”

  “Do we have anything for dessert?” Trevor asked.

  “What?” Sophie blinked at the change in subject.

  “I mean that we could take down to Connor, as an excuse to hang out.”

  “Oh, right. Let me think. We’ve got ice cream, Popsicles, and the last piece of the key lime pie I made yesterday.”

  “Perfect. Let’s take it down to him. That way we won’t have to divide it into fractions.”

  “Good idea.”

  Sophie slid the pie onto a plate and covered it with cling wrap. Trevor told the kids they were walking down to say hi to Connor. They stepped out into the evening.

  “It’s getting dark earlier,” Trevor said. “Have you noticed?”

  “I have. It makes me both sad and glad. Fall’s my favorite season.”

  “Are you eager to get back to Boston?”

  Sophie shot Trevor a wry smile. “I do love the city, but I’ve got a lot of complicated stuff waiting for me. It’s one thing to tell the kids their father and I are getting divorced, quite another to go through with it all. Will we be able to stay in our house? Will the legal bits get messy, dividing up the money and assets, and so on? Not to mention dividing up the furniture, photos, family heirlooms…” Sophie shuddered. “I think I’ll stay here on this faraway isle forever.”

  “You’ll be okay,” Trevor assured her. “I’ll help you.”

  Her breath caught in her throat at his words, but before she could come up with a sensible response, they’d arrived at the apartment.

  Trevor knocked on the door. Lights were on, and they could hear the television. But no answer. He knocked again.

  “Hello?” Connor called.

  “Connor? It’s Sophie and Trevor. We brought you some key lime pie.”

  It seemed a long time before Connor came to the door. They heard the sound of the television muted, and then Connor’s footsteps, more uneven than usual, and then the door opened, but only partway. Connor looked out. Sophie could tell that he was neatly dressed in a white collared shirt and his khakis, but he wasn’t wearing shoes. So what? she thought. She went around barefoot in the summer all the time.