The Guest Cottage

by Nancy Thayer

  Trevor stepped onto the patio.

  Sophie’s face lit up. “You’re home!”

  “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!” Leo cried, jumping up and beginning to run toward Trevor.

  “Hi, Trevor!” Lacey called, running alongside Leo up the lawn. Jonah was more sedately dragging himself up to the house.

  Sophie rose. She wore white shorts, a blue T-shirt, and flip-flops. “Dinner’s all ready. We were just waiting—”

  Trevor interrupted her. Taking her shoulders in his hands, he turned her to face him directly. In a low but firm voice, he said, “I want to marry you.”

  Her book fell from her hand. She stumbled backward in surprise.

  I am a clod, Trevor thought. I have the sensibility of a gorilla. I should get down on my knees, I should have an engagement ring, we should be alone on the beach…

  But Sophie was smiling a great big ear-to-ear smile. “Okay,” she said.

  “What are you guys doing?” Lacey yelled, skipping up the lawn.

  “Okay?” Trevor repeated, amazed.

  “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!” Leo ran onto the patio, crashing into his father’s legs.

  “Okay,” Sophie repeated. “But let’s not announce it tonight. We’ve got to get organized first.”

  “Organized is not the first thing I want to do,” Trevor told her hotly.

  “Daddy!” Leo tugged on Trevor’s pants.

  Sophie’s gaze on Trevor’s face was like a kiss. “You might notice we are surrounded by children.”

  “Mom.” Jonah stood nearby, arms folded like a high school principal.

  Sophie aimed a sunrise of a smile at the children. “Trevor and I are making plans, kids. We’ll tell you about them later. First, wash hands. It’s time for dinner.”

  I should have known, Sophie thought wryly. We both should have known. This is how life works, without violins and the glorious sunset. Lying—alone—in her bed, trying and failing to read, she turned off her bedside light for the fiftieth time and tossed over to her side, forcing her eyes closed.

  This morning before he left, Trevor had made Leo’s cheese-and-mustard sandwich with Leo watching. They’d packed it up with the cold drinks and fruit in the cooler to carry to the beach. Leo had waved goodbye to his father without the slightest tear or whimper. Sophie had driven the gang to Surfside Beach, where they established their home camp in the usual place.

  At lunchtime, to everyone’s amazement, Leo declared he wanted a hot dog from the concession stand, like Lacey and Jonah. Sophie’s heart skipped around in a private little happy dance. They ate lunch, rested, played in the water, played in the sand, came home and showered, then watched television while Sophie threw dinner together.

  At dinner, everyone was cheerful, even silly. Lacey told knock-knock jokes. Trevor entertained them with descriptions of people he saw in the city trudging along in suits, lugging heavy briefcases, newspapers under their arms. Jonah patiently waited for everyone else to eat their fill, then devoured the leftover lasagna, almost half the pan. Sophie noticed that he’d grown at least another inch during the summer.

  Whenever she looked directly at Trevor—“Would you like more salad, Trevor?”—he grinned mischievously and Sophie knew she blushed. She couldn’t eat, not really; she was too wired, too excited, too nervous.

  Then, as they were all carrying their plates into the kitchen, Leo stopped, bent over, ralphed, and vomited down his front, onto his feet, and all over the floor.

  “Oh, no, it’s the hot dog,” Lacey cried.

  But as the evening slid into night and Leo continued to retch and hurl, finally and weakly dry heaving, they took his temperature, which was 102, and decided he had the flu. It was going around, Sophie had heard from other mothers at the beach. The good news was that it was a twenty-four-hour flu, intense but short-lived.

  So much for romance.

  Trevor stayed with his son, wiping his mouth, settling him in bed, rubbing his back. Sophie drove into town for ginger ale and Tylenol. Finally they all went to sleep, Trevor of course sleeping on the other twin bed in Leo’s room.

  Maybe it was a good thing. Was it a good thing? Was it karma? Fate? Was she about to make a mistake, with the goddesses watching over her keeping her from being a fool?

  But you didn’t tell someone you wanted to marry him unless you were serious about it.

  On the other hand, Sophie was thirty-six. Not so very old, but it had been ten years since she’d had a baby, and she hadn’t gotten pregnant in those ten years, although she’d always used precautions, and recently she hadn’t needed to because she and Zack seldom had sex. Clearly Trevor longed for a family, a complete television-commercial family with the full complement of father, mother, children, and probably a dog…A dog would be nice. Jonah and Lacey had been agitating for a dog for years, but Zack said they were too much trouble. They wouldn’t have to get a big dog. They could get a West Highland White Terrier, those cute dogs with button eyes and the sweetest faces…Jonah wanted a golden retriever, though. But he would be home for only three more years before he went off to college…A rescue dog, that would be the best thing, a funny-faced mutt…

  Sophie fell asleep.

  —

  In the morning, Leo’s temperature was down and he wasn’t throwing up. He’d slept most of the night, but restlessly, and had no appetite. They enthroned him like a small maharajah on the family room sofa, swathed in light quilts, pillows tucked around him, a glass of ginger ale and a handy bucket within reach. Trevor had dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep and sat on the sofa with his son in case Leo needed him.

  Sophie spent the morning doing laundry and tidying the house for her mother’s arrival. Lacey agreed to ride to the airport to get Grandmother—Jonah begged off, no surprise. Five minutes before they were to get into the car, Lacey made a giant O with her mouth, bent from the waist, and spewed her breakfast all over the floor.

  “Mommy, I don’t feel so good,” she cried in a wobbly voice.

  Sophie sprinted into action, pulling off Lacey’s stinky clothes, wrapping her in a towel, and ushering her into the family room to join Leo on the sofa. Trevor hurried into the kitchen, returning with a bucket and sponge. Without a word, he set about cleaning Lacey’s vomit. When Sophie saw this, she thought: Wow. He must really love me. Lacey had a fever and Sophie prepared a glass of iced ginger ale. Trevor promised to watch both invalids, and Sophie raced to her car. She was already late to pick up her mother, who would not be amused.

  Hester was waiting in the terminal, arms folded beneath her bosom, eyes hidden by sunglasses. Sophie always forgot how pretty her mother was: petite, slim, and blond, with perfect posture and wide blue eyes.

  “Mother, I’m so sorry,” Sophie said, rushing to hug Hester. “The moment I was going out the door, Lacey threw up. There’s a twenty-four-hour flu going around the house, I’m afraid.”

  “I’m so glad I came,” Hester responded dryly, allowing herself to be kissed on the cheek.

  “It hit so suddenly—Would you like to go home and return another time when everyone’s well?”

  Hester shook her head. “I’ll be fine. Perhaps I can help.”

  “Nonsense.” Sophie picked up her mother’s luggage. “You’re on Nantucket. You’re on vacation. You’re going to relax.”

  “Yes,” Hester joked wryly, “because I excel at relaxation.”

  It was true. Hester was happiest when she was at the hospital. She preferred to be busy and tidy. Her house could not be called cozy, but it was definitely clutter-free and clean. When she wasn’t wearing scrubs or a white coat, she wore jeans, a blue shirt, and a navy cardigan with pockets. Glamour didn’t appeal to her; she was all about practicality.

  As they buckled themselves into their seat belts, Sophie felt Hester take a good look at her.

  “Your hair,” she said. “It needs a trim.”

  Sophie stared at her mother and realized that for years she’d worn her hair exactly like Hester’s: short and pract
ical. “I’m growing it out,” she said. “Why be a blonde and have short hair?”

  “Princess Di was a blonde with short hair and she looked lovely,” Hester reminded Sophie.

  “Princess Di would have looked lovely in dreadlocks,” Sophie shot back.

  “Heaven forbid.”

  Sophie turned the key in the ignition. Two minutes in the car and already they were having a spat. She started over. “I can’t wait for you to see the house. It’s amazing.”

  “It must be if you had to dig into your legacy from Aunt Fancy.”

  “If there were ever an emergency, this is it,” Sophie said sadly. “I’ve spoken exactly once with Zack. He wants a divorce.”

  “I never liked Zack,” Hester reminded her.

  Sophie allowed her mother this point. “You were right, as it turns out.” She recounted her conversation with Zack, and her talk with her children about the forthcoming divorce. “They seem okay with it, but I’m sure when we’re back in our house and they see Zack again and all the hard stuff begins, they’ll go through some difficult times.”

  “Or maybe not,” Hester said calmly.

  When Sophie drove into the driveway of the guest cottage, the door opened and Trevor stepped out. He came to the car and courteously opened it for Hester.

  “Hello, Hester, I’m Trevor Black, your daughter’s housemate.”

  Hester stepped out and shook his hand. “How nice to meet you.”

  “May I carry your luggage to your room for you?”

  Hester glanced at Sophie and a small smile melted across her face. “Excellent service in this hotel,” she said. “Yes, Trevor, that would be helpful.”

  “How are the kids?” Sophie asked as they entered the house.

  “Lacey’s asleep. Leo’s perking up. He drank some ginger ale and ate some dry toast.”

  “Great!”

  “Wait. Jonah’s started hurling.” With a nod toward Hester, he said apologetically, “I mean he’s vomiting.”

  Hester smiled again. “I’m familiar with the term hurl.”

  Sophie allowed Trevor to escort her mother to her room while she went to the family room to check on Lacey. Her daughter was curled in a fetal position on the sofa, with a pillow under her head, a light cover over her, and a bucket next to her on the floor. Tubee was tucked in her arms.

  “I gave her Tubee to make her feel better,” Leo explained. He sat at the other end of the sofa, watching television and looking at a children’s book.

  “That’s nice of you, Leo.” Sophie gently laid her wrist against Lacey’s forehead. “Are you hungry or thirsty?” she asked Leo.

  “Nope.” Leo thought a moment and added, “Thank you.”

  Sophie found Trevor and her mother sitting in the living room, talking.

  “Jonah’s asleep,” Trevor informed her.

  “Good.” To her mother, she said, “Sorry you can’t see the children right away. Would you like to go to the beach?”

  Hester sniffed. “I’ve never been crazy about sand in my shoes.”

  “We could go into town and look at the shops.”

  “I’ve heard about the prices here. Besides, there’s nothing I need to buy.”

  Sophie chewed her lip. What would entice her mother? Maybe Sophie could bring down her laptop and Google a nice article about the plague.

  “Maybe you’d like to hear Sophie play the piano,” Trevor suggested.

  Shocked, Sophie shot Trevor a “thanks a lot” look. Hester turned toward Sophie, puzzled. “You’re playing again? Why yes, yes, I’d like to hear you.”

  “You would?” Sophie nearly fell off her chair.

  “I would. Very much.”

  Sophie swallowed. “I didn’t know when I rented the place, but there’s a music room here.” She led her mother to the room, gestured toward the rose-covered sofa, and wondered what to play. What would please her mother? She decided on some Rachmaninoff. Her mother hadn’t heard her play since that terrible moment at the competition—well, Sophie thought nervously, ha ha, Hester didn’t get to hear me play then. Nervously, Sophie began.

  When she finished, Hester said quietly, “That was beautiful.”

  Trevor rose. “I’ll check on the kids.” He diplomatically slipped away.

  “Thanks, Mom,” Sophie said. She felt awkward, as if she’d been playing the piano wearing only a bra and Spanx.

  Hester stood up. “Let’s go for a walk.”

  “A walk?”

  “Yes, where we put one foot in front of the other. We can do it outside on the road in the shade of the trees. It’s good for the heart. I do it for thirty minutes every day, rain or shine.”

  “Let me tell Trevor,” Sophie said. She stuck her head in the family room and saw that Lacey was still sleeping and Trevor was working on his laptop. “We’re going for a walk,” she said, rolling her eyes.

  “We’ll be fine,” Trevor promised.

  Her mother had been right, Sophie realized. It was shady and cool beneath the trees, and the lane curved this way and that like a magical path. Houses were hidden behind hedges or tall evergreens or fences spilling with flowers. Her mother walked with a definite rhythm, not too fast, not too slow, and Sophie fell into step with her.

  Hester said, “I’ve always been amazed at your playing. You really have a most exceptional gift.”

  “I suppose. I’m so sorry I never succeeded.”

  “Well.” Her mother looked straight ahead as she walked, not touching Sophie, not taking her hand. “Maybe it’s a good thing. Maybe you’ve had a better life than you would if you’d continued competing. I know your father never thought he had ‘succeeded.’ He always thought he should be given more fame, more honors, glory, money, academic awards, for the work he did on prostate cancer. I’m not exaggerating when I say there was a time when he thought he would win the Nobel Prize in Medicine. As the years went by and younger men surpassed him, as technology changed, Ken grew bitter. He worked harder; he became obsessed. You remember, he was seldom around as a father, or as a husband for that matter. There was no way I could make him happy.”

  Sophie only nodded, afraid to break the flow of her mother’s words.

  “You, like your father, were such a perfectionist.”

  “Ha. I’m hardly a perfectionist these days.”

  “No one with children can hope for perfection. No, I’m speaking about your music. For you it had to be all or nothing.”

  “Mom.” Sophie stopped walking. “You and Dad were, too! Dad told me I could either be a winner or a loser! You both encouraged me—you didn’t force me, but you helped, you pressured, you pushed. It was always clear to me that perfection—total and public success—was the only thing that would make you both proud of me.”

  Hester stood still, looking down at the ground. “You were extremely talented. We were, naturally, proud of you. We wanted only the best for you.”

  “You wanted only the best from me.”

  Hester met Sophie’s eyes. She nodded. “I suppose that’s true. We were younger then, like you are now with your children, hopeful, believing you were capable of excellence.”

  “You and Dad were disappointed that I wasn’t good at science. That I didn’t want to go into the medical profession.”

  Hester continued walking, Sophie at her side. “Yes,” Hester admitted, “that’s true. The need is so great.”

  “I’m sorry I failed you,” Sophie said quietly.

  “You didn’t fail me, Sophie. You failed only one competition. Maybe you stopped playing piano at that point because you disliked competing.”

  “I mean I’m sorry I didn’t—oh, I don’t know—help the world, like you and Dad.”

  Hester raised her arm to move a low branch away from her face. “But Sophie, you can still help, and in your own way.”

  “I can?” Sophie chuckled. “I can’t envision going to nursing school.”

  “Can you envision playing piano in a nursing home?”

  Sophie stumble
d over a branch. “Huh. I never thought of that.”

  “Music is one of the most efficient mood elevators we have. People in nursing homes, whether ambulatory or even bedridden, whether lucid or not, would be provided with great pleasure by your playing. Maybe they could even dream, return to the best times in their lives, when they were loved.”

  Tears filled Sophie’s eyes. “I’ve never heard you talk like this.”

  Hester’s posture stiffened. She didn’t do sentimental. “I haven’t heard you play the piano for years. Why would I think of it?” She glanced at her watch. “We’ve walked for fifteen minutes. Shall we turn around?”

  Sophie waited for her mother to continue, but Hester was quiet. She’d never been one to gush—but she was a good, no, a great doctor, Sophie remembered. “I wish I could help Connor. I wish you could help Connor.”

  “And Connor is?” asked Hester.

  Sophie explained about the older gentleman in the apartment, his move from the Midwestern state where he’d lived all his life, his wife’s death, his talent for carving. “You’d approve of his worktable,” she told her mother. “Everything in its place, all neat as a pin.”

  “So why do you wish I could help him?”

  “When Leo was talking to Connor about his mother’s death, Connor told him that he, Connor, was dying. Since then, he hasn’t joined us for dessert or even for a chat. He has a limp, and I think he has a bad foot, but his eyes have always looked bright and healthy. Maybe he’s just depressed, but it was such a strange thing to say to a child, although he apparently meant it in a consoling way.”

  “I’ll talk to him,” Hester said.

  Sophie smiled. “Good luck with that.” As they turned onto the drive of the guest cottage, Sophie paused. Gently putting a restraining hand on her mother’s arm, she asked, “Mother, were you happy?”

  Hester pulled back slightly, as if offended. “What kind of question is that?”