A Week at the Shore

by Barbara Delinsky

  “Margo says he cheated—and, by the way, I’ve never, ever said anything to Margo about this.”

  “If he cheated, it’s because she did.”

  “Anne—” I start, then stop, remembering what he said to me yesterday. We had an agreement. Neither of us would tell.

  There’s so much we don’t know. I wish Mom was alive to give answers. I wish Dad was of sound mind and approachable. I wish I remembered more.

  I’m guessing my sister’s thoughts are similar, because her anger fizzles. She is whispering again, and I understand that, too. It’s not that anyone is close by, just that whispering is less threatening. “How long have you wondered about this?”

  “Oh, God,” I roll my eyes, “since I was a teenager and had no idea why he was always so down on me. I mean, there were good times. But the bad times are the ones I remember.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “And I didn’t say back then, because it sounded so absurd. But I’m not a bad person, Anne. I’ve learned that. People like me. Joy loves me. There is no one else in this world who treats me like he did.”

  She looks like she wants to argue. Loyalty to Dad has been her credo. I hear a touch of challenge when she asks, “If he isn’t your biological, who is?”

  I shrug, not ready to share the possibilities, much less their source.

  “You look like us.”

  “I look like Mom. We all do. Her genes must be the dominant ones.”

  “Is that why you stayed away all those years, y’know, because we aren’t sisters?”

  I pull her close. Once her initial stiffness fades, I say a soft, “We are sisters. We have the same blood. Look at Joy. She’s probably more like you than she is like me. Nothing will ever change that.”

  She nods against my shoulder.

  “And no,” I go on, “it’s not why I stayed away.” Drawing back, I look her in the eye. “Well, maybe Dad is. He never said he wanted me here—and don’t defend him, you know it’s true. But it was me, Anne. Really. When I left, I didn’t know who I was. I had to find out.”

  “You made a life in New York.”

  “With Joy, but no family.”

  “You have Chrissie.”

  “She’s not like you and me. I want what we had before, Annie. I want us to be close.”

  She sinks against the truck, seeming younger and more vulnerable. I join her there, my arm flush to hers as we look back at Gendy’s, where the last splinters of sun have faded and lights now outline the sprawling house.

  “What about Jack?” she asks.

  “Definitely not family, and definitely not why I came back. I mean it.”

  “You loved him. I assumed he was it for you.”

  “Me, too,” I admit, allowing myself to remember that night and the horror that followed. “But we said awful things to each other. We believed awful things of each other. People who are meant to be together don’t fall apart like that. And he didn’t chase me to New York, did he.” It wasn’t a question. “Didn’t contact me once all these years.”

  “What was it like seeing him again?”

  How to sum that up in a word or two or even three? I settle on, “Confusing.”

  “Confusing, how?”

  “Past to present. He’s the same, but different.”

  “Do you like him?”

  “I don’t know him.”

  “Is he a danger to us?”

  “Nah,” I say without having to wonder. “At least, not directly. He isn’t malicious, Anne. He wants answers about his mother. If those answers incriminate Dad, then yes, he’s a danger.”

  Anne smiled sadly. “You still call him Dad.”

  “I don’t know for sure that he isn’t. He’s the only father I’ve ever had.”

  Anne initiates the hug this time. “I’m sorry, Mallory. You’re so calm about this, but I’m reeling.”

  “I’m not calm,” I say, clinging to her. “I’m terrified. It’s just that I’ve had time to get used to the idea.”

  “DNA test?”

  “Dad would never go for that.”

  “We could take a hair from his brush.”

  “Not as reliable.”

  She draws back, eyes compassionate in a way that makes me feel there’s hope for us yet. “You’ve read up on this.”

  “Oh, yes,” I say, but with a lightness that wasn’t there before. I feel so much better having told her this. Jack knows. Chrissie knows. But my sister is different from them. The fact that she’s moved past the mom-cheated place gives me courage. “He knows, Annie. The answers are somewhere in that mind of his. We need to ask.”

  “I’m not doing that,” she drawls. “He thinks I’m flakey. You’d be better at it. What about asking Margo if she knows? She was the closest to Mom all those years. Maybe Mom said something to her.”

  “If Margo knew, wouldn’t she have said something to me, especially after Mom died?”

  “Not if she thought it would wreck you.”

  She’s right, insightful in this. How many times have I told myself that it isn’t worth the heartache of going public with my fears? “I could ask her. I will. But I need to talk with Jack first.”

  With a half turn, Anne clutches my arm. Her eyes are large and intense. “Don’t flip, Mal. Please don’t.”

  “Flip?”

  “To Jack. Or Margo. I want you on my side.”

  “This isn’t about taking sides.”

  “It is. With families as broken as ours, it always is.”

  * * *

  The salt pond behind Gendy’s is connected to the sea only at times of heavy runoff from streams or tidal storm surge. Half a mile long and far shorter across, it is bordered on the land side by trees and modest homes, on the ocean side by a salt marsh. Power boating is regulated to protect the habitat, but a pair of kayaks glide by as we emerge from the path.

  The beach is shallow and starting to darken under a purpling sky. Bill is sprawled in a weathered Adirondack chair a bit down the beach, but Joy and Dad are farther still, walking hand in hand—which, coming after mention of broken families, is a pleasure to see.

  “Whoa,” says Anne. “Who initiated that?”

  I squeeze her arm. Sisters do think alike. “I was wondering the same thing.”

  “Dad.”

  “Joy.”

  “He really likes her.”

  “She really likes him.”

  Anne snorts and says a dry, “She didn’t grow up with him.”

  “Nope. But she’s desperate for family.”

  “So am I,” Anne says and sets off to join them.

  So am I, I think but don’t follow her. Rather, sinking down near the water line, I ruffle my hand over strands of eelgrass to expose the tiny stones and shells beneath. My thumb and forefinger single out an oyster drill. Cupping it in my palm, I brush off bits of dark sand, and trace it from its pointed spire, over its small ribbed shell, to its flared outer lip. When the snail is alive, its tongue reaches out past that lip to drill into oysters and suck out the meat. I cringe thinking about it—would never tell Joy that these sweet little snails are vicious predators, though, even here in the eelgrass, I see shells with tell-tale round holes. That said, this one’s swirls of amber and white are definitely something to photograph.

  I’m wishing I had my camera with me now, when my phone vibrates. Pulling it from my pocket, I look at the screen. The good news is, no one else sees it this time. The bad news is, well, bad news.

  Chapter 15

  Cops know. Where are you?

  I stare at the words for a frightened minute, then type, Know what?

  Lily, you, Tom’s mind. Can we talk?

  We’re at Gendy’s. Twenty minutes?

  On the beach.

  * * *

  Though Anne doesn’t see my screen, she knows the texts are from Jack. Trusting from his earlier one that my meeting him is necessity rather than choice, she challenges Joy to a game of Scrabble. I remain in the living room long enough to se
e my delighted daughter open the ancient board with reverence, and to warn Anne that Joy is good at the game, before heading to the beach.

  Jack is sitting at the far end of the dock, his back to me, legs hanging over the edge. Leaving my flip-flops at the stairs, I cross the sand and am about to step onto the wood planks when time pauses. Jack, the dock, the breeze in his hair, the low near-night light, the sea—nostalgia hits me hard. When he and I were a thing, I never felt alone. If life was about taking sides, he was always on mine. I may be stronger now, may be my own woman, but I feel a wanting that I haven’t felt in years. Yes, it’s physical. Of course, it’s physical. When they talk about chemical attraction, Jack Sabathian is it for me. Beyond that, though, the wanting I feel now is emotional.

  But not to be explored here. This meeting is about business.

  To drive that point home, I leave a fair space between us when I sit. “What happened?”

  He flicks me a glance. Enough of twilight remains to shadow the grooves between his eyes. “Nick White quit. He called to say he couldn’t work for me—conflict of interest, and all. He also said he’s being watched by our men in blue.”

  “Watched?”

  “Questioned. They think it’s suspicious that all of a sudden Lily is here, he’s here, you’re here. They know Tom’s mind is failing. They think something’s going on, and they want to be in on it.”

  “Like, reopening the investigation?” I ask in alarm.

  “If warranted,” Jack says.

  “Whatever would warrant it? Whatever is new?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Absolutely nothing. I haven’t found any sign of a gun—and, okay, I’m sure he has one if you saw it,” I add, because Jack wouldn’t imagine something like that, “but if he used a gun on your mother, would he have kept it all this time? Really? He was bullheaded, not stupid. He knew the penalty for murder, so even if he shot your mother, he would have ditched the gun. If he has one now, it’s new. Maybe he bought it to protect himself. Maybe he imagines that a defendant he once sentenced to jail is out now and hell-bent on revenge. He rambles. He talks about old cases. He carries on about John Doe, like he’s reliving his time on the bench.” I search Jack’s face. He isn’t disagreeing with anything I’ve said. “Has Nick learned something?”

  “That he’s willing to share?” he asks dryly. “Only that it’s about family money.”

  “It?”

  “The reason my mother and her brother were estranged.” His hands grip the edge of the dock as he stares out into the darkness. “Lily isn’t as innocent as she looks. Seems her specialty in school wasn’t just journalism, it was investigative journalism. She tracked her grandfather’s problems to the collapse of the family estate. It was supposed to have money in it but did not.”

  The estate. I feel a niggling. “Nick told you this?”

  “Yeah. He said it was on my dime, so he owed it to me.” He exhales a vexed breath. “Not that it tells me much.”

  “It may.” I zero in on the niggling. “My father mentioned her family estate. That’s when he went off about John Doe. John Doe? Albany?”

  His head turns fast. After staring at me for a minute, he swears softly, yanks his legs from the water, and, grabbing my hand, pulls me up. I have to scramble as he walks full stride down the dock and across the beach, but I’m willing to do that if something I’ve said helps.

  The closer we get to his house, though, the greater my qualms. This isn’t where I want to be—not with my memories, not with Jack in the flesh. But I can’t quite pull my hand free. I know what he wants and right now, it isn’t me. It’s his computer. And I want to see what he finds.

  The Sabathian stairs are at the far end of the bluff. Not straight like ours, they tack midway around a scrub pine. Same pine as twenty years ago? Looks it. Same stone path leading to the same back stairs, same open deck, same kitchen door. But that’s where same ends. The kitchen, once as traditional as ours, is now white and steel. Also redone, the hall is pale gray and mirrored, and the living room’s cushiony upholstered furniture has been replaced with pieces that are modern and sleek. Shelves piled with books offer the only warmth, but they’re tiny islands in a sea of gloss.

  The wife, I think, looking around in dismay.

  Jack says a chagrined, “Yeah,” and scrubs the back of his head. “Not exactly me, is it.”

  I’m spared answering by what sounds like a herd overhead but turns out to be Guy, who gallops down the stairs and leaps at Jack, who scrubs at his flanks before setting him down. I’m thinking the dog should be taught not to greet a person that way, when Jack moves on to the chrome plank of a desk. As furniture goes, it’s no warmer than the rest, but at least the strew of books, papers, electronics, and chargers make it look used.

  Parking himself on a black swivel chair, he types on a laptop, checks the large desktop, then returns to the keyboard. By now, I’m at his elbow watching the big screen. Guy is on his other side, mercifully unimpressed by my presence.

  “Not John Doe,” he sees. “Ronald Doe, Esquire, with law offices in Albany, New York, better known as Ron Doe, which is the name I do know.” He turns to me. “He specialized in wills and estates. My mother worked with him after her father died. Since she was the business brain in the family, she was the executor of the family estate.” He types more, waits, reads. Then he sags back in the chair and rests his outside hand on Guy’s head.

  Having seen what he has, I sag against the edge of the desk. “Dead. But there have to be records somewhere. Did he have law partners?”

  Jack’s mind is there as I ask it, his body forward, fingers typing again. I watch the screen as he waits, but the answer disappoints. Ronald Doe was a single practitioner. His office closed fifteen years ago, soon after he died.

  “Were there any papers from him among your mother’s things?” I ask.

  “Y’d think. If she was the executor. When my uncle’s family wouldn’t talk with me, I searched our house long and hard. There should have been something, anything about the estate.”

  “Unless she destroyed them.” I regret the words as soon as they’re out. They vilify his mom. He may be furious.

  More resigned than angry, though, he echoes, “Unless she destroyed them.”

  Not wanting to dwell there, I rush on. “You recognized the name Ron Doe. What do you remember?”

  Facing the screen, he chews on the corner of his mouth. When he returns to me, his gray eyes are foggy. “Just a vague … distaste. She went to Albany. She had meetings with the lawyer. She came home upset.”

  “Did he do the work for her own company?”

  “No. She used your father’s law partner for that.”

  “But she told my father about Ron Doe—at least we assume that’s who he meant by John Doe. Or maybe not? Dad also went off on a riff about Peter and Paul—you know, the old saying about robbing Peter to pay Paul, but I have no idea where that fits in to any of this.”

  Jack has gone still. When he finally speaks, his voice is low. “Peter is her brother. Paul is your father’s partner.”

  “Paul Schuster?” I know that name well. Paul was often at our house when I was growing up. I recall a pleasant man, the yin to Dad’s yang, or yang to Dad’s yin. Whichever, he was the more amenable of the two. There were several other lawyers on the letterhead, but Aldiss and Schuster were the name partners. Paul was married briefly, had no children, and was therefore often at our house for holidays. He made a mean apple pie—actually made it himself.

  Lost in thought, Jack runs a finger back and forth on the stubble over his lip.

  “Is he still around?” I ask.

  He nods.

  “I’ll call him.”

  “Robbing Peter to pay Paul,” he says. “It has to mean something.”

  “I don’t know if he’ll talk, client confidentiality and all, but it’s worth a try.” I pause, cautious. “What, exactly, do we want him to say?”

  “Why my mother went missing. Wheth
er she was upset enough to commit suicide. What your father meant by robbing Peter to pay Paul.” He is frowning, the grooves between his eyes pronounced.

  “What,” I whisper.

  His eyes meet mine, then dart away. “There’s an obvious meaning. If you take it literally.”

  Yes. The question is whether he trusts me enough to risk airing it aloud.

  “Between you and me?” I offer, because I am desperate for that trust.

  When he finally speaks, his voice is raspy, as if a broken tone is less condemning than a full one. “What if my mother bolstered her business with money from the family estate that might have helped her brother? Wouldn’t that be robbing Peter to pay Paul?”

  “There’s nothing illegal in it.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” Tilting back in the chair, angled just a tad toward me, he pushes both hands through his hair, leaves them on the back of his head, and raises reluctant eyes. “If she committed suicide—” He stops and clears his throat. “If she deliberately jumped from that boat in the middle of a micro-burst, it would have been because she was in mental pain. People don’t do things like that unless they are. But she didn’t have a history of mental illness. She wasn’t in therapy. She wasn’t taking antidepressants. But if she did take money that could have saved her brother, she’d feel guilty. If her brother lost everything because he didn’t have that money, she’d be devastated. If her business failed in spite of what she took, she’d be destroyed.”

  “That’s a lot of ifs,” I say, though what he outlines sounds frighteningly plausible. “But could she just take the money? Most estates spell out who gets what and how it has to be distributed. Can an executor just help himself?”

  “No. A co-executor, likely Ron Doe, would have a say. In theory.”

  I get the “in theory” part. That would occur if Elizabeth committed fraud, but neither of us is going there yet. “Where does my father fit in? Did he know about her family money?”

  “He had to. They were too close for him not to.”

  “You still think they were lovers.”