“Sure, you do, and some of ’em would say the same thing as me. Times have changed, but not that much. Get a tattoo before you know what you want to do with your life, and it can hurt your chances. Want to be a teacher? Or a nurse? Or, Christ, a politician, and sleeves like mine’d be the kiss of death.”
“I don’t want a whole armful,” Joy drawls in concession. “Maybe just one?”
“You already have one,” Anne says. Her voice is fond, and I’m sure it’s sincere. The issues Anne has with me have never spilled over onto my daughter. But I cringe, knowing what’s coming.
Joy goes very still. Only her eyes move, shooting me a horrified look.
“Anne,” I caution. “Not a tattoo. A birthmark. And not something to discuss here.”
But Anne doesn’t have a thirteen-year-old daughter. She doesn’t know how sensitive they are about their bodies, even girls as bold and unfettered as Joy. And in front of two men, neither of whom she knows well, one the prim grandfather she wants to impress, the other a man she clearly thinks is super cool?
“It’s beautiful,” Anne argues, speaking to me, which is another sign that she doesn’t know my daughter. Joy is old enough to be addressed directly. But Anne is seeing the baby whose diaper she changed and the toddler who played naked on a deserted Maine beach. She has seen the J-shaped mark low on Joy’s groin. We never made a big thing of it. But she forgets that Joy is now pubescent. Apparently, too, Anne forgets when she was that age with a body whose inborn quirks seemed different in the light of womanhood.
“It’s her initial,” she says with enthusiasm. “It’s unique. It sets her apart. Isn’t that what a tattoo does—except that she inherited hers from Mom, which makes it really special.” Finally acknowledging Joy, she adds, “I wish I had one like that. I could have used the connection.”
Bill has a hand on her arm, though I’m not sure whether he is trying to comfort her or get her to stop.
“Mom?” Joy begs.
“Enough, Anne,” I say.
“Doe is in Albany,” my father puts in.
His interruption has to be one of the kindest things he’s ever done for me. I doubt it was intentional, but the timing couldn’t be better. All eyes go to him.
“John Doe?” I say.
“Yes.”
“A real person?”
“Of course he’s real. Would I mention him if he wasn’t? What is wrong with you? Can you not hear me?”
I wither.
But Anne is smiling at him, indulgent. “Do you remember the case, Daddy?”
His silver brows come together. “Of course I remember the case. I told you. It was the estate.”
“Elizabeth’s?” I whisper, because withering under the press of the past is a luxury I can’t afford. My gut says we’re getting somewhere here.
He doesn’t answer.
“Daddy?” Anne invites.
With a long-suffering sigh, he puts down his fork and looks at her. “It’s about robbing Peter to pay Paul.” Brows up, he turns to Joy and is off on a wave of lucidity. “Know that one? It goes back to the Reformation. They were building two churches, St. Peter’s in Rome and St. Paul’s in London. To pay for the building, there was the Peter tax and the Paul tax. People in London would’ve had to pay two taxes, one for each church. But they couldn’t afford that. So they just paid for the one near them. They didn’t pay Peter in order to pay Paul. Robbed Peter to pay Paul. Took from Peter to pay Paul.”
“That’s a great story,” Anne says because he’s told it so well. I wait for her to ask Dad what it means in the current context. When she doesn’t, I do.
“And?” I coax gently.
Eyeing me in annoyance, he turns his good hand one way, then the other. “Peter. Paul.” He repeats, hand and voice. “Peter. Paul.”
“But how does it relate to what we’re talking about?”
He glares. “What’re we talking about?”
“Elizabeth’s estate.”
He stills. “Are you trying to trap me?”
“No, of course not, I’m just confused.”
He sputters a laugh. “You’re confused. That’s a good one.”
* * *
The parable has to apply. My father was never one to quote scripture to us, was never religious at all. He knew history. Maybe that’s where the Peter-Paul story came from. But it has to relate to Elizabeth. Same with John Doe.
I want to run this by Jack.
But we’re barely done with the lobster when Anne is corralling us to go to Gendy’s for ice cream, and once she mentions it, Joy forgets to be miffed about the birthmark. We pile into Bill’s pickup, Dad up front with him and we three women shoulder to shoulder in the extended cab.
Joy is beside herself with excitement, whispering to the side, “Omigod, Mom, I’ve always wanted to ride in a pickup.” She touches the roof, the carpeting, the leather seat. “Who knew it was so gorgeous?”
“Guzzles gas,” I whisper back.
“Well, I get that, but it’s still cool.”
She also gives this new rendition of the rambling white house that is Gendy Scoops a pass on not being a nut-free facility, and, citing the need for historical reference, orders the traditional banana split after seeing another come through the takeout window. To look at her eating it, you’d think she’d never had ice cream before. But then, it isn’t only ice cream. It’s banana. And one scoop each of Heath bar crunch, cookies and cream, and mint chocolate chip, her three slightly nontraditional choices. And caramel sauce and crushed peanuts. And whipped cream. And a cherry. She eats the whole thing herself, refusing to give me more than a taste.
Dad is preoccupied eating a single scoop of strawberry ice cream with his plastic spoon, one engrossed bite at a time.
Anne and Bill share a hot fudge sundae.
And me? I’m on a wild ride down memory lane, first studying the menu, which hasn’t changed, then admiring the sweet, round white table where we sit under a sea green umbrella in the lingering light of day. I have a chocolate frappe, my usual back then, and snap pictures with my phone until Joy grabs it and slides it under her thigh, which is what I often do with her phone when it outstays its welcome at dinner.
Unfortunately, it is still beneath her leg when it vibrates, which means that she is the one to pull it out and read the text on the screen. Aloud.
Talked with PI. Where are you?
Chapter 14
Talked with PI. Where are you?
Joy looks at me. She has seen who sent the text and is curious. “PI? Like, private investigator? What’s Jack talking about?”
What to say? What to say? I draw a blank, then scramble for an excuse. Joy isn’t the only one awaiting an answer. There’s Anne and Bill, and likely even Dad, who is looking at me along with the others.
I want to tell the truth, but don’t know what that is. Jack’s talk with Nick White could have been initiated by either one of them. It could be about the PI’s growing affection for Lily. It could be that Nick has learned something from her, which could be about Lily or Elizabeth or Elizabeth’s family or Tom. It could be about something else entirely.
Declaring ignorance is the only thing that may get me off the hook. Of course, it only postpones the inevitable. Everyone here will expect me to ask him and report back to them. I mean, forget texting him back now. I’m sure as hell not doing it with everyone watching. What was he thinking, sending a text like that?
Actually, he was thinking that my phone was in my possession.
Retrieving it from Joy, I tell her, “I have no idea what he’s talking about,” which, of course, isn’t enough for Anne, who looks horrified.
“Did Jack hire a private investigator?”
“Yes,” I admit. “He wanted to know why Lily Ackerman is here.”
“She’s working for me,” Anne retorts. “That’s why she’s here.”
“Do you know that she’s Elizabeth’s grand-niece?” I ask, trying to sound curious, rather than confrontational. Da
ring a glance at my father, I find him staring at me. Listening? Absorbing? Understanding? Any of these things would be good. If he joins in the discussion, he may add to it.
“Of course I know,” Anne replies. “I’m not blind, and despite what you think, Mal, I’m not irresponsible.”
“I never—”
“She and I Skyped before I hired her—Skyped twice, because I saw what she looked like the first time and wanted to know more. I care about the shop—and the town—and my family. If I felt she was coming here to cause trouble, I would never have hired her. Can’t you trust me in this, at least?”
I reach across the table and grasp her forearm. “I do, Anne. But you need to trust me, too. I didn’t ask Jack to hire a private investigator. That’s totally his business.”
“But you’re texting with him. How long’s that been going on? I thought you and he were done.”
“We are done. He got my number to call me in New York, so now that he has it, he texts. We all text.”
“Not with an enemy of the family,” she declares in too loud a voice.
Leaning in, I lower my own. The other tables are filled with people Anne has to know, and though we’re outside, where the sound of a passing car mixes with cricket chirps, caws of crows in overhanging trees waiting for crumbs, and the distant surf, Gendy’s patio isn’t large.
“Jack is not an enemy of the family,” I say.
Anne makes a throaty sound. “He’s a pain in the butt. Didn’t I tell you that? He’s still living in the past. He wants someone to pay for his mother committing suicide.” The words barely settle on the table when she asks, “He’s going after Dad. It’s what he’s always wanted. Why else would he hire a private investigator? And don’t say it’s about Lily. Lily is as innocent as Joy.”
Dad, no longer looking at me, has finished his ice cream. After pushing the empty cup aside, he uses his napkin to wipe the small space where it was.
“Yes, it’s about his mother,” I tell Anne in an urgent whisper. “He never got closure. Her family won’t talk with him, and suddenly a relative shows up claiming she knows nothing. He wants to be sure.”
Anne sits back, pulling her arm free. Accusation is in her eyes and her voice. “You’ve discussed all this with him.”
I sigh. “He talked.”
“Is he why you came back?”
“Annie,” I chide.
“He is,” she accuses.
“No,” I insist, but her metal chair is already scraping back on bluestone, and in seconds she is striding toward the truck.
Bill has turned to watch her, a raised hand frozen midair. He clearly doesn’t know what to do.
I do. Catching Joy’s eye as I get up, I gesture at the empties on the table. “Put these in the trash, babe, and take Papa to the salt pond?” I point to a break in the trees. “It’s just down that path. Sunset there will be gorgeous. Let me talk with Anne.” She barely nods, when I take off.
“Wait up, Anne,” I call. My flip-flops slap the heels of my feet as I trot across the gravel lot toward the truck.
She whirls to face me, arms folded, face tight. In her emotion, I see the intensity of Margo, the anguish of Mom. But Anne is so laid-back. At least, that’s how I always saw her. Was it true? Or did I simply want it to be?
“You came back for him,” she repeats the charge, green eyes granite-hard.
“I came back for you.”
“You came back because he’s feeding you lies, and you believe him.”
“That’s not true. I came back for you.”
“But he was the one who got you back. Nothing I said all those years could do it, and I tried, Mallory, I tried until I finally gave up.” Her eyes well, and therein lies my younger sister, the sweet one, the naïve one, the one who wore vulnerability just under the rose-colored glasses. “Why did you come back? What is he telling you? Is he turning you against us?”
“No. No. Annie, listen to me,” I cry, clutching the hem of her tank in an attempt to connect us one way, at least. “You’re my sister. You’re why I’m here.” I want to touch her but am afraid she’ll pull away. That would hurt me more than the sight of her tears. My own eyes may be dry, but my heart cries. “I came back because Jack was blunt about Dad. He said I was dumping it all on your shoulders, and he was right.”
She doesn’t blink. “I told you about Dad. I told you his memory wasn’t good. I told you his moods were up and down.”
“But you kept saying you had it under control.”
Her eyes widen. “So it’s my fault you stayed away?”
“No, Anne,” I sigh. “No.” Taking the risk, needing to attach us somehow, I cup her shoulders and look into her eyes. “It’s my fault. It was easier to stay in New York. Easier to believe what you were saying. Easier to look the other way.”
“Yeah, looking the other way, straight at Margo. I’m all alone here, and you two are ultra-close.”
My stomach dips. The years peel away, and suddenly we’re in a little girl moment, competing to hold Margo’s hand, pair with her on a rubber raft, partner with her playing Trivial Pursuit—or, for that matter, competing for the red Lifesaver, the yellow horse on the carousel, or Mom’s lap. Anne was always more vocal and me more submissive, but she’s wrong now.
“I’m no closer to her than I am to you,” I inform her.
“You both left. You both sided with Mom—and, okay, I understand she’s your mother and she was starting all over again, but he’s your father!”
“Is he?” I ask without thinking, my own vulnerability that close to the surface.
Anne recoils. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing.” Pushing my hands into my hair, I gather it at the crown, then let it fall in a way meant to convey nonchalance. “I mean, he always made me feel different, like I was doing everything wrong, like I didn’t belong here. It’s just me being upset.”
But she doesn’t blink. “So, you said that figuratively?”
Yes, of course, I did, I want to cry. But the words don’t come.
“Literally?” she whispers, seeming terrified. Not even the shards of late-day sun that spill gold across the parking lot can hide the fact that her face has lost color.
I’m guessing mine has, too. Bouncing this off Jack is one thing, sharing it with my sister is another. With her, it’s more real. In the silence, though, I realize it’s time. I also wonder if she hasn’t ever wondered about this herself.
She’s certainly wondering now. Dry now, her eyes are a window to somewhere else entirely. When she refocuses, her voice is tenuous. “Do you remember the hammock on the porch?”
I’m startled by the change of topic. “Our porch? Of course.”
“Remember how you and I would lie there together and listen to the gulls and the waves?”
“Of course.”
“Remember—” she starts, but something on the side catches her eye. She waves a hand to shoo it away. Bill. That’s all he gets, a wave, and I have to say that I’m glad. This is between Anne and me. “Remember the game we played,” she continues sotto voce, “like we were hiding there and no one knew?”
“I do.” We heard things we weren’t supposed to hear, like what early Christmas gifts Mom had bought or what Margo’s stomach cramps were about or … a memory returns, why Roberto Aiello was no longer around.
Distrust. The word pops into my mind. But who said it? When? Why?
I’m searching, when Anne says, “Remember when Mom was talking with Shelly Markham?”
“Shelly Markham,” I echo, testing the name after so many years. I conjure a reedy woman in jeans and a barn jacket. “She was here a lot. She was Mom’s best friend. Is she still around?”
“Gone to Florida, but do you remember when she and Mom were working in the garden? And they were talking about marriage?”
I don’t, but Anne clearly does. I’m starting to feel as frightened as she looks. “What were they saying?”
“That it was hard. That you married som
eone and then learned the bad things, but you were stuck? Maybe those weren’t their exact words, but that’s the gist of it.”
“You remember this? How old were we?”
“Nine or ten, maybe eleven. I haven’t thought about it in years, but I remember being upset about something else Shelly said.” Her eyes sharpen, like she is readying for my reaction. “She said that at least Mom had you. You were her special gift.”
“She said that?” I ask. I don’t remember it at all.
“I was angry. I mean, we were always competing—”
“You were. Not me.”
“Okay, I was competing, and to hear someone say you were Mom’s special gift? I ran off and didn’t talk to you for a week.”
“I do not remember that,” I say.
“Maybe it was only for the rest of the day,” she concedes, “and I seriously haven’t thought about this in years, not until you said what you just did.”
About Tom Aldiss not being my father. But I’m hung up on what Anne claims to have overheard. “Special gift?” I repeat. “What did she mean?”
“I don’t know. But I was supposed to have been her special gift, the one who came last and was another girl, which Dad did not want. He should have treated me different, but he didn’t.”
I glance around the parking lot. There’s no sign of my father or Joy. Or Bill. The sky is a deeper blue than it was earlier. And Anne has mentioned different treatment.
“Then, I wasn’t imagining it?” I ask in a tentative voice. “The way he treated me?”
Very slowly, she shakes her head. “He wanted Margo to achieve like he had, and he just babied me, like he’d given up on the boy thing and thought I was cute. You, you were in between.” She stares at me, puzzled, then looks away.
I wait. A family crosses the parking lot. We watch them enter an SUV, four doors opening and closing in rapid succession. After the engine starts, I step closer. “What, Anne?”
She looks back at me fast. “I knew there was a reason. I knew Mom wasn’t all into the marriage. She cheated on him.”
“We don’t know—”
“Look at the facts,” she cries. “If you have a different father, she cheated.”
A Week at the Shore Page 18
