A Week at the Shore

by Barbara Delinsky

  “Are you good, Mom?” Joy asks as she arrives, following my gaze to the pharmacist. “Yeah, aren’t they a pair? They’ve been married for three years. She’s younger than his own kids.” The last ends on a rising note that screams Euwwww!

  “Where do you get your information?” I ask.

  “Lily. She knows everyone. Lovvvves gossip.” She glances toward the kitchen. “Ah. Okay. They want me,” she says, clearly delighted by this, and heads back.

  A bit later, as we munch on the last of our toast, I return to the matter of Mr. Henderson. Do I even know his first name? No. Do I want to? No. This is one of the negatives of Tom Aldiss turning out to not be my biological father. Whoever is may be worse.

  At least, the dad beside me is a known entity. And sad now, actually. He is withering into himself. If I weren’t here, he would be sitting alone. For no other reason than that, I’m glad I’ve come.

  The door opens, and a man enters. About my age, he wears a tired tee shirt, jeans, and work boots. The logo on the back of his shirt is fading, but enough remains to have me jumping up to follow him to the cash register, where he is picking up breakfast to go. Close up, memory stirs.

  “Mike?”

  He regards me with curiosity, then surprise. “Margo?”

  “Mallory.”

  He grins. Mike Hartley is a handsome guy. Back in high school, he was sweet on Margo, but he wears a wedding band now. “It’s been a while. I didn’t know you were in town.”

  “That’s a miracle,” I quip, but fearing he’ll take it as an insult, rush on. I keep my voice low, just between us. “I’m only here for a visit, but Jack said you landscaped his half of the bluff, and I’d like you to do mine. Do you have any time?”

  “This week?” He winces and, when Lily appears with a paper bag, wedges a battered wallet out of his back pocket. He darts me a little glance as he pays. When he’s done and we’re alone again, he says as low as me, “This week is packed, summer people back after the winter and wanting work done. But working weekends and all, I take Mondays off. I could come over tomorrow and take a look.”

  If I’ve learned anything working in New York all these years, it’s how to shoot for a mile when you’re offered an inch. It’s also a version of Margo’s Accept what you can’t change by changing what you can’t accept.

  I brighten my big smile with hope. “How about coming over tomorrow to plant?”

  He seems amused. “I haven’t seen the space. I don’t know what you want.”

  “The space is exactly like Jack Sabathian’s, and I want what he has.” The names are with me, each one in my mother’s lyrical voice. “Switchgrass. Goldenrod. Beach plum. Bayberry.” When he scratches his head, I sweeten the pot. “I’ll help plant. So will my daughter. And Jack. And Anne.” I whisper the last with a quick shot at the kitchen, and there she is, watching us, but I’m not turning back. Jack has to work, of course, and Joy is counting on going with him, but at some point they might help, even for an hour, and Anne, well, Anne won’t be able to fight me here. “I’ll pay. I’ll give you a check there and then.” Summer people don’t do that. They take their sweet time paying. I remember hearing grumbles to that effect from our electrician, though, in fairness, he was a surly guy.

  Mike Hartley wears a crooked grin. “Well, I don’t remember this. You’re tough.”

  “Thank you,” I say with a perky grin of my own. “What time will I see you?”

  We agree on a time that allows him to first load his truck with plants, loam, and fertilizer from the nursery. He has barely headed for the door when Anne is hissing in my ear, “I was supposed to do that, not you.”

  “I’m helping,” I insist, but I’m careful to keep my excitement from sounding like gloating. “It’s one less thing for you to have to worry about.”

  “Yuh,” she drawls. “And you’ll tell Dad?”

  “That’s the best part,” I gush, unable to hold it in. After too much frustration, here is a bit of light. “He and I were on the beach before we came here, and he was the one who raised it. He told me to do something. He actually complained that Mom hasn’t.” I don’t mention the paying part. I will happily pay. No doubt, Anne already does her share.

  “He thought Mom was here?” Anne asks with a sorrowful glance at the front corner table. Dad is still hidden behind the paper.

  “Just confused,” I say and put a confident hand on her arm. “I got this, Annie. You go back to work and cross one thing off your list.”

  Returning to the table, I’m feeling good. I still have calls to make to Paul, who may be able to shed light on Elizabeth, and to Shelly Markham, who may know whether my mother had an affair. And Jack has his to-do list. But this is my first real sense of accomplishment.

  * * *

  My satisfaction lingers through breakfast as one table clears and another fills. When the screen door opens yet again, though, and I see my sister, my contentment fizzles.

  It isn’t my younger sister. It’s the older one.

  Chapter 17

  Margo. Too chic in her blouse, stacked sandals, and capris. Too formal with her dark hair in an artful coil at her nape and her makeup just so. Too wide-eyed to uphold the rest of the confident image.

  She glances quickly around Anne’s shop before zeroing in on me, by which time I’m halfway to the door. I want to be pleased that she’s come, but her presence here is as shocking to me as it is to her, if the dazed look on her face is any measure. It was her vow never to return, spoken aloud more times than I can count. Just yesterday, when she realized where I was, she was angry.

  My whisper is urgent. “What are you doing here?”

  “Rescuing you?” she whispers back. Her glazed eyes have landed on Dad, who is studying his crossword puzzle. “I was on my way to the house when I saw your car. Omigod, does he look old.”

  I understand her shock. Prior to coming here, I’d seen my father every few years, but for her, it’s been the full twenty. Memory freezes the past in ways that can be good or bad.

  “He’s not well,” I tell her, “and it isn’t just his mind. He gets winded with even the slightest exertion, which he wants to ignore—”

  “Hiiiiiii,” I hear from behind, and, in a flash, Margo’s expression changes. Her eyes light with genuine pleasure, her arms open to hug her look-alike niece. It is a warm moment for me, even a comical one. What we have here is conservative versus funky wearing the same face. It has been this way since Joy began choosing her own clothes. But Margo adores her, for which I will always be grateful.

  “You. Are. Gorgeous,” my older sister says against my daughter’s hair. As quickly, she holds her back and looks her up and down. “How old did you say you are?”

  Joy glows. “Thirteen and loving the nail polish you sent for my birthday. I adore that it’s free of the worst baddies, like formaldehyde and camphor. The purple is delish,” she runs on, still half in Margo’s arms, “but my favorite, favorite thing is doing alternate nails purple and green, or two purple for every green? Like Gem and Tabitha—gorgeous shades. If I’d known you were coming, I’d have done that so you could see.” She slides a hopeful look past Margo toward the parking lot. “Jeff and Teddy?” She adores her cousins.

  “No,” Margo apologizes. “They’re on a guys’ trip with their dad. They’ll be disappointed when I tell them I saw you.”

  Accepting that, Joy says, “But I’m so glad you’re here.” She spares me a suspicious glance. “Did you know she was coming?”

  “I did not.”

  “Nor did I,” says Anne, joining us as my daughter had seconds before.

  My sisters hug in a perfunctory way, and I can live with perfunctory. It could be worse. Anne resented Margo for siding with Mom; Margo resented Anne for siding with Dad. I’ve been the bridge between them over the years, orchestrating our every reunion. But those were in neutral space. Bay Bluff is ground zero.

  Would Jack ever have a field day with that image, I think. I have a sudden urge to text him
.

  But Joy is impossibly touching us all with her arms, turning it into a group hug. “I love this,” she sighs, “everyone together.” Her pleasure makes my heart clench. This is the family she wants.

  “I was in New York with friends,” Margo explains before Anne can ask. “I called Mal to see if I could stop by her place, and when she said she was here, I figured I’d better come, too.”

  “Crazy,” Joy says, still in delight mode, which is probably good, since we three have no clue what to say.

  When Margo slips free and approaches Dad, I gesture the other two off. Either they understand that simple is better for him, or Anne just doesn’t want to witness the reunion. Whichever, slinging an arm around Joy, she ushers her toward the kitchen.

  Dad doesn’t look up until Margo slips into a chair. His eyes are blank at first, then puzzled. “Margo?” he finally asks.

  She nods.

  Sitting straighter, he breaks into a wide smile. “Margo,” he repeats, and I breathe in relief. She hasn’t talked with Dad since he and Mom split. He might have been furious. Might have told her to leave or gotten up and left himself. Here is selective memory at its best. As tragic as that is, to my peace-loving mind, it’s welcome.

  “How are you, Dad?” Margo asks in an atypically wavering voice.

  “I’m fine. Fine.”

  “You look fine.” She does not. She looks nervous. After what feels like an eternity of silence, she spots his cast. “What did you do?”

  He flicks the wrist. “I tripped. You know, all those rocks on the beach. Where’ve you been?”

  She has no idea where to begin, simply sits there looking bewildered.

  “Chicago,” I put in, as if it’s just a reminder to him. “With her husband and sons. How are they?” I ask Margo, who readily grasps the line I’ve thrown.

  “They’re great. They’re in France,” she tells Dad. “Dan took the boys there to do the whole World War I tour. That’s one of the reasons I went with my friends to New York.”

  Dad is frowning. “When did you get married?”

  “Seventeen years ago.”

  “Do I remember the wedding?”

  He hadn’t been there, hadn’t been invited. Actually, Margo had eloped. She said it was what she and Dan wanted, since he had a difficult family situation as well. After the fact, we had a small celebration in Chicago for which Anne had come, but that was it.

  “I don’t remember things like I used to,” Dad announces, blue eyes spearing Margo in challenge. “I have Alzheimer’s disease. My brain is going. Did she tell you?” he asks, cocking his head toward me.

  Margo kindly avoids implicating me. “Are you sure that’s what it is?” she asks instead.

  “Know what happens?” he instructs. “You start forgetting small things. Then you forget big things. Then you forget how to walk. And talk. And eat. And breathe. That’s when you die.”

  “Jesus,” Margo murmurs. She and I have run through this progression, but hearing Dad say it unnerves me, too.

  He snorts, darkening. “Got nothing to do with him, or he’d change it. It’s a bad way to go. Knowing it’s coming.” His eyes are suddenly distant. Returning to his puzzle, he makes markings with his pen, not whole words, just letters here and there.

  Margo’s eyes meet mine. She’s thinking about the medicine route, which we’ve also discussed. When I give an infinitesimal headshake, her expression asks, Why not? in a way uncannily like Joy’s hands-open duh look when confronting the obvious.

  Because, my adamant eyes answer Margo, I’ve tried convincing him but he refuses, and anyway, this isn’t the time.

  Accepting that for now, she sits straighter and looks around. “This place is adorable. So, who do we know?”

  Henderson has left without a glance at me, for which I’m very happy. “Uh,” I scan faces, “over there, Mr. Babcock.”

  “My history teacher?” She passes over him before doing a double take, then, gawking, returns to me. “Ancient,” she whispers, but her gaze has shifted. It is now riveted on Lily, who is approaching a table with four breakfasts perfectly balanced, two per arm. “Who is that?”

  I explain the relationship to Elizabeth, as well as how Lily came to be here, and neither of us holds back the eeriness of it. Jolting Dad to talk is the point. But he remains placid, his mind either elsewhere or empty.

  Then Anne whips out of the kitchen and makes a beeline for us through the mosaic of tables. She leans close to Margo. “Can we talk? Outside?”

  With an almost imperceptible nod, Margo gets up. When Anne gestures me to come, too, I hold back. They haven’t seen each other in nearly nine months, and I do know what’s coming. It’s the same indignant, why-are-you-here discussion Anne had with me. I don’t imagine Anne will mention being pregnant, so she doesn’t need me to support her in that. I figure I’m better off at this table, holding the fort with Dad.

  But she gestures again, insistent now. I need you with me, her eyes say. She wants a moderator. After a quick look at Dad, who is blissfully unaware, I follow her out. Truth is, I have my own agenda. If Anne is abrasive, Margo may turn and leave. But now that she’s finally here, I don’t want that.

  As it happens, Margo is quiet. When Anne asks the expected question, she isn’t belligerent. She seems torn, eyes avoiding ours and wandering instead to the base of the square. The shops are open now; a sprinkling of tourists walk from one to the next. The clouds I saw near the horizon at dawn are drifting closer.

  Margo says, “I should have come a while ago.”

  “Yuh,” Anne scoffs, “like twenty years ago?”

  “I couldn’t then. But after Mom died…” Her voice trails off.

  “Like since you lost one, you should go to the other? Like since you had Mom’s money, you should go after Dad’s, too?”

  I put a warning hand on Anne’s arm, but her only concession is to lower her voice. The underlying rancor remains. “For what it’s worth, he left it in trust for the sake of the house.”

  Margo is visibly offended. “I’m not here for money. I wouldn’t take it from him even if he offered. I have plenty. So, forget money.” Her tone moderates with a return of doubt. “Think Mom. There were things she told me…”

  We wait through beats of stillness. My anxiety rises. “What, Margo?” I coax.

  She is silent—and not for effect, though she is perfectly capable of that. Her uncertainty clearly has to do with whatever it was that Mom said.

  “You’re making me nervous,” I advise in a low singsong.

  Finally, tentatively, she speaks. “Dan has been after me to talk with you, with you both, because it’s been eating at me. She was angry when we first moved to Chicago, and even after her life came together there, she would get heated when she talked about Dad. She did have feelings for him.”

  “He had feelings for her,” Anne corrects, as though the two can’t both be true.

  “What is it, Margo?” I’m convinced by now that it has to do with whoever fathered me, that Margo doesn’t want Anne to hear because she will latch onto Mom’s infidelity as proof of blame for the divorce.

  “Did you know that Mom and Elizabeth went to school together?” Margo asks.

  I’m taken aback.

  Anne is puzzled, too. “School? Like high school?”

  “College. They were friends before Dad met either of them.”

  That’s not what I remember. “I thought they met after the houses were built here.”

  “Well, that’s what we were told. But they both went to U Penn. I checked it out.”

  “It’s a huge school,” Anne argues. “Are we supposed to believe that they met there, two individuals out of thousands, and then ended up enemies here?”

  “They weren’t enemies back then. Mom said she and Elizabeth were together at a party in Philly when they met Dad.”

  Anne laughs at that. “Party? Dad?”

  Ignoring her, Margo says, “He was at the law school there those same years. Mom sa
id he started dating her, then had an affair with Elizabeth behind her back.”

  “And Mom agreed to live in a house right beside her after that?” Anne asks in disbelief. “What woman would do that? Come on, Margo. You always said Dad played around. What’s new here?”

  “Mom loved Elizabeth.”

  The words hang in the air.

  “Loved,” I echo.

  “As in, loved?” Anne asks.

  “Was attracted to,” Margo confirms. Her voice is apologetic, but not in doubt about what Mom said. Rather, she regrets betraying a confidence.

  I’m dumbstruck. Nothing in my mother’s manner ever led me to think she was drawn to Elizabeth in any way, the very least being physical. “Mom said that?”

  Margo folds her arms, though whether to brace herself or show strength, I’m not sure. “She did.”

  “That’s crazy,” Anne decides. “You say in one breath that Elizabeth slept with Dad and in the other that she and Mom were lovers?”

  “I didn’t say they were lovers,” Margo snaps and lowers her voice. “Mom and I used to meet for dinner after work sometimes. That night, we were sitting at the bar waiting for a table. You know Mom and martinis. One’s her limit, but she had two. She went on about a co-worker who had just come out after raising four kids in a traditional marriage, and then, out of nowhere, there it was. She smiled when my jaw dropped, but she didn’t take back the words. She claimed she and Elizabeth never acted on it. Women didn’t back then. But the way she talked about Elizabeth that night, well, I could hear it. She was mesmerized. She loved that Elizabeth was independent and strong. She loved that Elizabeth had ambition.”