The Arrivals: A Novel
Page 30
Ginny blinked hard. “I’m going to let the others in. Brace yourselves. Then I’m going for a while, to see to things at home. I’ve got to get Rachel to the bus station by eleven. You,” she said to Stephen, with as much manufactured gruffness as she could manage, because she thought that otherwise she might cry. “Take good care of this family of yours.”
Stephen watched as they all came in. Rachel, who was dressed once again in her New York getup: smart skirt, heels, makeup, but carrying Philip, so that she looked like one of those thirty-something professional city mothers he saw all the time and whose existence had always seemed mysterious and otherworldly. William, holding the door open for the others and then stepping aside to let them through. Lillian next. Then Olivia, holding tightly to Tom’s hand and leading him into the room. Olivia made an immediate lunge toward the baby, hands out. “Don’t!” they all said at once, even Jane from the bed. Tom pulled her back and knelt down, one leg out, making a stool for her. “Sit,” he said. “And be gentle.”
“I know,” said Olivia, and they could see that she did know.
Perhaps in a few minutes Stephen would want them gone; his impulse to protect Jane, to let her rest, and to protect little Sarah too, would outweigh everything. But for now he wanted them there. He wanted them! He watched as they arrived and took over the room: his wonderful, messy, imperfect family.
AFTER
The next week, after everyone had gone home, William and Ginny sat on the deck.
“I didn’t expect this,” Ginny said.
“What? The quiet.”
“No, not that. I don’t know what I mean, exactly.” She had expected the quiet. But what she hadn’t expected was the emptiness, the gnawing hole at the bottom of her stomach.
From inside the house the phone rang.
“That’ll be one of them, needing something,” said Ginny. She rose halfway.
“Let it ring.”
“But maybe—”
“No,” said William. “If it’s really important, they’ll call back. Sit down.”
“But.”
“Virginia Owen. Sit back down.”
Ginny sat.
She and William stayed on the deck as late afternoon tiptoed out and evening quietly took its place. William closed his eyes and dozed, but Ginny did not. She was hungry, but she made no move to get up to prepare dinner. She just sat very still in her chair and waited, listening. This is what they didn’t know about, the peace that came with having it almost finished. This you couldn’t know about, ahead of time. She hadn’t known, and wouldn’t have believed anybody anyway, even if anyone had tried to tell her. She knew only now.
Finally the sunset came on, and then the darkness, and nobody moved and nobody made a sound and nobody called back.
Acknowledgments
First I want to thank Elisabeth Weed, my fabulous agent and a formidable editor in her own right, who took me on with such gusto, saw possibilities in this book that I had yet to see, and walked me through the revision process with grace and aplomb.
Reagan Arthur, whose first phone call to me I will forever remember as one of the happiest of my life, and everyone at Reagan Arthur Books, including Sarah Murphy, Andrea Walker, and Marlena Bittner, who have provided enthusiastic guidance along the way. And a big thank-you goes to Jayne Yaffe Kemp.
Iara Santos, au pair extraordinaire, without whose loving care of my children from mid-2008 to mid-2009 this book never would have seen the light of day. You are welcome in our home forever, and not just because of the chocolate balls.
Leslie Blanco, for candid, thorough, and invaluable editorial guidance at a critical time.
Dr. Jill Samale, who patiently answered all of my questions about childbirth and pregnancy complications (though any missteps I’ve made in those areas are mine alone).
Best friends Margaret Dunn, for explaining the nuances of the casting world to me, and Jennifer Truelove, for being an eager researcher in any subject matter, always. Also Susan Love, for the fortifying afternoon chats.
The members of the Newburyport Mothers’ Club circa 2009: an amazing group of women who showed me, and continue to show me, how much it is possible to accomplish with small children in tow.
The Newburyport Public Library, whose air-conditioning (in summer), heat (in winter), and no-cell-phone policy (always) has kept me writing in comfort and concentration for some time now.
A book about families would be impossible to write without the top-notch families I’m lucky enough to be a part of. My parents, John and Sara Mitchell, and my sister, Shannon, nurtured a lifelong love of and enthusiasm for books that has led, finally, to this. My in-laws, Frank and Cheryl Moore, accepted my occasional absences at family gatherings during crucial writing times without question or complaint. The love and affection both families exhibit toward the pint-sized members make for a perfect model.
My beautiful daughters, Adeline, Violet, and Josephine, are constant sources of inspiration and laughter; their love allows me to explore imaginary worlds while their little chirping voices in my ear keep me happily and firmly grounded in my own very fortunate reality.
And finally: my husband, Brian, who always loves, always listens, and always understands. Without you there would be none of this.
Contents
Front Cover Image
Welcome
Dedication
June
July
August
After
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
About the Author
Meg Mitchell Moore worked for several years as a journalist. Her articles have been published in a wide variety of business and consumer magazines. She received a master’s degree in English literature from New York University. She lives in Massachusetts with her husband and their three children. The Arrivals is her first novel.
Copyright
Copyright © 2011 by Meg Mitchell Moore
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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First eBook Edition: May 2011
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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Excerpt from Bread and Jam for Frances by Russell Hoban. Copyright © 1964 by Russell C. Hoban; renewed 1992 by Russell C. Hoban.
ISBN: 978-0-316-12275-7