The Guest Cottage

by Nancy Thayer

  “Hello, you two. What’s this? Key lime pie? Wonderful. Thank you.” Reaching out, he took the plate. “Sorry not to invite you in, but I’m in the middle of watching one of my favorite old movies.”

  “That’s fine,” Trevor told the older man. “Enjoy.”

  The door was quickly shut.

  Sophie and Trevor walked back across the lawn in silence. When they were out of earshot on the patio, they sat down at the table to talk.

  “He looked okay,” Trevor said. “He had shaved today.”

  “Trevor, didn’t you notice how he talked? He barely moved his lips. He smiled with his mouth closed.”

  “Maybe he has false teeth and he’d taken them out.”

  “Well, maybe, although I don’t think he has false teeth. Plus he never used to smile or talk with his lips stuck together like that. And he was barefoot.”

  “Sophie, it’s a hot August evening. He should be able to sit in his underwear in his own home if he wants.”

  “You’re right, I know. Still.”

  “Hi, guys, there you are!” Angie stepped onto the patio. She was glowing.

  “So you had a good time with Hristo?” Sophie asked.

  Angie slid liquidly into a chair. “He’s the most fascinating man! He took me to see his yacht. We didn’t go out on it, but if the weather’s good, we’ll go tomorrow.” Innocently, she added, “Of course you all are invited along. I mean, the kids, of course, and Sophie, and you, too, Trevor.” She was practically purring.

  “Mom.” Jonah slid open the patio door and trudged to Sophie, holding out her cell as if it weighed three hundred pounds. “It’s Grandmother.”

  Sophie accepted the phone warily. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Sophie. Are you having fun?” Hester’s relentlessly sensible voice made the question sound like a schoolteacher asking whether she’d finished her exam.

  “I am, Mom. So are the kids. It’s gorgeous here. You should come visit.”

  “I thought I would, actually. I believe you said you have sufficient room.”

  Sophie almost fell off her chair. She should have remembered that her mother had no sense of polite, good-hearted white lying. If Sophie in any way invited Hester to visit, then Hester would come.

  “Um, that’s great, Mom!” She forced warmth into her voice. “When do you think you can get here?”

  “The day after tomorrow. I’ve made my reservation on the Cape Air Flight 172 that arrives at twelve thirteen.”

  “Well! Well, we’ll be there to pick you up! I’m so glad!” What else could she say? The kids will be thrilled? They wouldn’t be, and Hester knew it. If Jonah or Lacey choked or went into anaphylactic shock, Hester could save their lives, but she didn’t do cozy.

  “I’ll see you then.”

  The moment Sophie clicked the phone shut, Angie said, “When is she coming? Because I’m leaving before then.”

  Trevor asked, “Is she that bad?”

  Angie said, “She’s worse.”

  Sophie said, “Angie, don’t be mean. That’s my mother you’re talking about.”

  “So I should lie?”

  Sophie leaned forward to look around Angie at Trevor. “My mother is practical,” she told him. “She’s an emergency room doctor, and it’s sort of hardened her to normal, everyday problems.”

  “Yeah,” Angie cut in, “she should have been a heart surgeon. She would have loved cutting open people’s chests and digging out their hearts.”

  “Stop it, Angie.” Sophie aimed her words at Trevor. “My mother’s not warm and fuzzy. But she’s not a monster.”

  “Some people might disagree,” Angie muttered.

  “Some people are pretty controlling, critical, and demanding themselves,” Sophie shot back.

  “Only in the courtroom, sweet cheeks,” Angie teased, fluttering her fingers along Sophie’s bare shoulders. “On this island I’m finding a whole new softer, gentler side to myself.”

  “You’re incorrigible,” Sophie declared.

  Angie laughed. “I know. That’s why you love me.” She rose. “Should I find a nice hotel room on the island for a few nights?”

  “Angie,” Sophie huffed, “my mother won’t bite!”

  “I know, but your house is full already. I’m on the family room pull-out, which, I grant, is queen-size, but I certainly don’t want Hester sleeping with me.”

  “Mom can sleep in the other twin bed in Lacey’s room,” Sophie said.

  “God, poor Lacey. She’ll be told to pick up her clothes and she won’t be allowed to read late.”

  Sophie squinted. “I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to find a way to escape staying here so you can be in a hotel room in case you want to bring Hristo to your room!”

  Angie laughed wickedly.

  Trevor rose. “I’m going to say good night, ladies.”

  “Oh, Trevie,” Angie cooed. “Are we scaring you?”

  “Frankly, yes,” Trevor said, and went into the house.

  “Sometimes, Angie, you’re too much,” Sophie said, pulling her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them.

  “No, my sweet, innocent friend,” Angie replied, pulling her chair closer to Sophie’s, “what I am is Machiavellian. We need to make it very clear, crystal clear, bold print in bright letters, to Trevor that you and Hristo are over, fini. Men are dense. Plus, Trevor’s nice. He’s not going to try to interfere between you and a wealthy guy like Hristo. I’ve only made it unmistakably observable by the sweetest of men that you are not in love with Hristo. That you are free for what you would probably call courtship.”

  “Angie, you’re kind of nuts, you know?”

  “And you’re not?”

  “Do you really like Hristo?”

  “I really do. Of course I’ve known him for only one day. But I think he likes me, too. I think we’re two of a kind.”

  Sophie eyed her friend. “You speak French fluently, don’t you?”

  “Mais oui, ma petite,” Angie answered. “Some German, too. Oh, yes, and now I can speak some Bulgarian.” She rose, kissed Sophie’s forehead, and said something that sounded like “Dubro vecer. Good night.”

  —

  That night, Leo played the piano again. DAH-dum-dum-dum. This time Sophie went down to find both Trevor and Angie standing in the music room, watching.

  “Sorry he woke you,” Trevor said. He looked exhausted and sad.

  “It sounds like something I know,” Sophie mused. “A song I’ve heard before.”

  “It sounds like bags under my eyes,” Angie snorted. “I’m definitely getting a room in a hotel.”

  “Angie, I apologize,” Trevor said. “I’ll pay for it.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Angie told him. “You’ve got enough on your hands. I’ll go online and book something.” She hurried back to the family room.

  Sophie quietly padded into the music room and knelt down next to Leo. “You really like those notes, don’t you?”

  Leo nodded. “I hear them when I’m sleeping. There’s more—there’s words—I can’t hear it all yet.”

  “Maybe we can figure it out during the day,” Sophie suggested.

  “Maybe.” Leo yawned and sagged.

  Trevor said, “You need some more sleep, buddy.” He lifted his son and carried him up to bed. Sophie followed, her mind playing the four notes over and over again, searching for the tune.

  When River called Trevor to say a client wanted a face meeting right away, Trevor was glad, even though the client was an anxiety-riddled mass of arrogant neuroses who only needed his hand held by the man he considered “the boss.” He told River he’d fly up tomorrow for the day. He asked Lacey if she could be Leo’s babysitter; he would pay her well. He told Leo he’d be back for dinner, that Leo could spend the day with Lacey, and he prepared to reassure and even bribe his son (big new Lego set) but discovered he didn’t have to. Leo was quite happy to spend the day with Lacey.

  He dressed for the meeting in the city: j
eans, blue button-down shirt, blue blazer. As he drank a cup of coffee and munched a muffin while standing up in the kitchen, Angie and Sophie came in and made a fuss over how great he looked.

  “Goodness, Trevor, you set me all atwitter!” Angie gushed. “Now I kind of wish I hadn’t booked a room in a hotel for tonight.”

  Sophie leaned against the kitchen table and scanned Trevor up and down as if he were a bar code. “You do look extraordinarily handsome,” she told him.

  “Oh, good. That will impress my client,” he responded dryly, but his heart skipped a beat at her words.

  As he drove away from the house, along the tree-shaded curving lanes, on to the busier streets to the airport, an eagerness took hold of him. He had to be careful not to speed, and it was easy to speed on this island where forty-five miles per hour was the fastest you could drive anywhere. It was as if he were in one of those time–space continuum bubbles from a science-fiction movie, a sheer, almost but not quite visible glaze of reality that enclosed him while he was on the island, convincing him that life was all beauty, sunshine, beach and ocean, continents of stars, nights of sweet, deep slumber, and days of pleasure. As he parked his car in the long-term lot and strode toward the terminal, he sensed himself pulling away from this bubble, this fantasy of life, this shimmering existence. He stood in line at the counter to pick up his boarding pass, then stood in line at the gate to board. He walked sedately to the nine-seater Cape Air plane, buckled himself into a seat, and as the plane lifted from the runway over the surrounding water, Trevor felt himself break free of the bubble.

  He stared down at the island, at the shoals lying beneath the water, turning the water turquoise, and the deeper, darker blue of Nantucket Sound. He leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes as the plane rumbled north.

  It had been a successful vacation. Hell, it had been a shocking marvel of a vacation, more than he had ever expected, more than he could have planned or fantasized. For a moment he pictured himself and Leo in that huge Swenson house alone, without the Anderson family. They would have been okay. They would have gotten to know Connor. Perhaps they would have had more adventures—gone on a whale watch, on a deep-water fishing trip; perhaps Leo could have attended a kiddie day camp. But really, they would have been lonely, knocking around in that big house by themselves. Trevor supposed he could have found a babysitter, frequented a couple of island bars, met some summer-romance women, but really? He was over that scene.

  The plane landed. His mind snapped into work mode: briefcase in hand, he walked to the subway, rode to the stop in Harvard Square, and strode through the familiar streets to his office, where he’d go over things with River before his client meeting. Here was reality: college students, university buildings, traffic jams, newsstands, coffee bars, clothing stores, art cinemas, then row after row of streets with triple-decker apartment houses like his own. Some had towering trees and pots of flowers on the porch. Some had barking dogs chained in the yard. Some had children’s plastic toys littering the grass. The houses were close together, driveway touching driveway, trash barrels out on the street for pickup, and a slightly worn olive-green armchair sitting on the curb with a sign pinned to it: Free. Just Take It. He passed through zones of music, as if he were tuning a radio in a car: rap, then country, then jazz, then a talk show in a language he thought was Portuguese.

  He came to a halt when he reached his own apartment building. He took his time to see it. Three levels high, an apartment on each level, a driveway, a neglected yard with more weeds than grass—still he was grateful for the weeds; at least they provided some green. The siding was vinyl, it would last forever, which was a shame, because the owner had gotten a deal on a mustard-yellow color that Trevor now understood would never be improved by anything, not by shutters of pale blue or window boxes of geraniums.

  But he had to remember: he’d rented it because it was so close to transportation, to the beating heart of the city and its business. In only minutes he could get Leo to day care or over to the Museum of Science or the aquarium or the Children’s Museum. And Tallulah—he must not forget how Tallulah had prized this location with its quick access to so many theaters.

  He sprinted up the steps, into the house, up to the second floor, and into his apartment. At first he thought he’d entered the wrong place; then he recalled that River and his girlfriend Nestra were settled there, and that they were slobs, totally and irredeemably, and so the sweaters, shirts, robes, shoes, purses, plastic bags, pizza boxes, dirty glasses, magazines, open DVD cases, empty Cheetos bags, and crumpled candy wrappers were theirs. He checked the small aquarium. The water was clean, nicely aerated, and the fish were swimming normally in and out of their castles.

  He found River in the kitchen, barefoot, shirtless, frantically washing dishes. River jumped when Trevor walked in. He said, “Um. Dude. Sorry about the mess.”

  “It’s fine, River,” Trevor said. “You’ve done a great job with work. But better remember we’ll return in a couple of weeks and Leo has to go back to school.”

  “Yeah, sure. We’ll clean up. All the info on Butterfield’s on your desk.”

  Trevor went into the office, which, he was relieved to see, was relatively tidy, or as organized as it ever was. He quickly scanned the Butterfield info but he already knew all of it, so he went into Leo’s room.

  Here it was exactly as it had been. River and his girl had had the sense not to enter. Leo’s bed, his small bookcase, the Winnie-the-Pooh curtains and bedspread, perhaps too young for him now. They would get new ones. Leo’s dresser, their shrine to Tallulah.

  Tallulah. Trevor stood before her framed photo, studying the picture. She had longed to have plastic surgery. She said that symmetry in features was important for the movies. If he scrutinized her face carefully, he saw that one eye appeared slightly larger than the other, but weren’t everyone’s eyes that way? A person could go crazy thinking about it. The truth was that she was a voluptuous, radiant beauty, a sex goddess, a vamp. He thought he could see in the depths of her eyes a kind of fear, or a fear/hope, that she could be enough to achieve her goals. Loving Leo had not helped with that ambition, nor had loving Trevor, if she had loved Trevor. She had had a one-track mind, one single objective, and nothing Trevor could have done would have made any difference in whether she achieved that goal. Maybe the heroin had made her feel more secure, more successful, more talented. Maybe she had preferred to die with a fellow actor than to live with a normal person like Trevor.

  “I tried my best,” Trevor said aloud.

  He heard no response, not even in the whispers of his mind.

  Shutting the door firmly behind him, he stopped in front of his bedroom, where River and Nestra now slept, and recalling the state of the rest of the place, decided the wiser choice was not to open the door.

  He went into the kitchen, where River was still washing dishes.

  “Okay, man, I’m off to meet Butterfield. I’ll go back to Nantucket after our meeting and text you the results.”

  “Cool.”

  Trevor paused, really seeing River. “Hey, you’ve gotten some muscles, guy. You’re looking kind of cut.”

  River turned red. “Thanks. Yeah, I’ve been working out. Nestra and I are on a health regime. No more pot, less booze; want to get our bodies clear and our heads on straight.” Abashed, enthusiastic, he glanced at Trevor. “We’re going to have a baby. Nestra’s two months along.”

  “River, that’s terrific!” Trevor clutched his employee in a crunching male hug. “I’m happy for you both.”

  “Thanks, man. We hope we can do as good a job with our kid as you’re doing with Leo.”

  Trevor’s jaw dropped. “River, I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me in my life.”

  Embarrassed, River turned back to the dishes. “Yeah, well, you can tell we’ve got a ways to go. But Nestra’s working at a Gap—that’s why the place is such a mess. We’ll have it all good again by the time you return.”
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br />   “I’m sure you will, River.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve gotta go meet Butterfield. I’ll call you from the airport—I’m flying back this afternoon.”

  “Got it.”

  Now his thoughts really were all over the place as he sprinted down the stairs and out to the sidewalk. He stopped again to look up at his mustard-yellow apartment house. Something was different about it—but it had not changed. He had.

  He met with Franklin Butterfield at a new fusion restaurant in Cambridge. The meeting went well, as Trevor had assumed it would, because Butterfield basically only needed to have Trevor go through some of the technological steps that baffled the older fellow. Trevor pulled up some graphics on his laptop, calmly explained how the buttons and links would work, and showed him the progress that had been made in building the website, even though he didn’t tell Butterfield he’d been doing the work on Nantucket—that might have made the man’s head explode. Quite a few really intelligent people couldn’t grasp how much mobility Trevor’s online work made possible.

  He picked up the tab for lunch, which made Butterfield even calmer—it seemed to prove to him that Trevor’s business was solvent, successful. They shook hands, and Trevor retraced his steps: subway, airport terminal, ticket counter, plane, flight back to the island. He felt a sense of sympathy for Butterfield as he stepped out of the plane onto the landing strip of the small, almost toylike Nantucket airport; how could Trevor’s two worlds, so extremely different, exist within an hour of each other? It was as strange and wonderful as pushing a button on a computer and seeing a familiar face on Skype.

  Driving home, he became obsessed with wishing he’d bought gifts, small presents—Red Sox T-shirts, a book, a toy. But no, that was ridiculous: he wasn’t a daddy returning from a long journey; he had been away for only a few hours. Yet it seemed like forever.

  The heartwarming aroma of lasagna greeted him when he opened the door. The house was quiet. He went into the kitchen, popped open a beer, and looked out the window. Sophie reclined in a chair, reading a book. Leo and Lacey were at the far end of the yard, making additions to their houses. Jonah had set up a croquet wicket and was playing his own version of croquet/golf, working on improving his aim.