Her father had been a first-term congressman and a rising star in the Republican Party when he met her mother, a waitress at his favorite diner, who was ready with his pancakes and coffee every morning before he even walked in the door. Over time, ordering turned to talking, which turned to flirting, which turned into something more, and before long, she was pregnant with Ellie.
The only problem was, he was already married.
Secrets never stay secret for very long. But they managed to keep this one hidden for four years. Mom refused his money, and let him visit only sparingly. During those times, she later told Ellie, Paul Whitman would hang up his expensive jacket and sit on the ratty floor of the even rattier apartment to play with his daughter for an hour or two—he and Mom barely exchanging a word—and then, when the time was up, he would rise and kiss Ellie on the forehead, try once more unsuccessfully to hand Mom a check, and then he would be gone again.
It might have continued like that for longer if he wasn’t a politician, and if his name wasn’t starting to be bandied about as a future presidential candidate. But as it was, the press had taken a keen interest in him, especially once he decided to run for the Senate. Ellie was four when the story broke. And in its wake, everything else broke too.
For three months, Mom tried to stick it out. For three months, she was hounded by the press, followed everywhere with cameras, harassed by reporters and peppered with questions. The pictures Ellie had seen online showed a younger version of her mother hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses. In every one, she’s carrying Ellie on her hip, pressing her daughter’s face into her sweater to protect her from the glare of the unwavering spotlight.
There were a million reasons to leave. But even so, Mom hadn’t meant for the whole thing to turn into a secret. At first, she just wanted to get away for the summer, and so she rented a cottage in Henley, a place she remembered visiting once as a kid. But when she arrived there, she’d told Ellie, she felt a powerful rush of relief at the quietness of it all. The clouds were scudding across the sky, casting shadows on the water, and there was a man playing guitar on the village green. It all felt so far away from Washington, D.C., with its sleazy scandals and fast-talking politicians, and, mostly, from the father of her child, who had responded to each and every question from each and every journalist since the story came out with two simple words: “No comment.”
So when the first person introduced herself in the ice-cream shop that day and then looked expectantly at Mom in return, apparently oblivious to the infamy that had trailed after her back home, the words Margaret Lawson got caught in her throat.
Margaret Lawson was a twenty-four-year-old waitress from Vermont who had dreamed of changing the world, of saving the environment, of making a difference in Washington, but who instead ended up serving coffee to men in business suits to make enough to pay the rent. She was a woman without parents, without family, without roots. Someone whose name had been splashed across the glossy covers of a dozen magazines, someone entirely ill suited for any kind of spotlight. She was a woman who had made the very worst kind of mistake, even if she had gotten the very best possible thing out of it.
Margaret Lawson had no place in this new town, this new life. And so what slipped out instead was a childhood name, which had gathered dust for too many years, paired with her mother’s maiden name.
“Maggie O’Neill,” she said, extending a hand.
And just like that, Margaret Lawson disappeared, taking Eleanor Lawson with her.
They rarely talked about it anymore, she and Mom. But it was there all the same, when they flipped past C-SPAN a bit too quickly while changing channels, when the newspaper arrived on their front step with a thump each morning, carrying with it news of the political world. And especially when they spoke about money and college, all the things that would have been so uncomplicated if she were still Eleanor Lawson or even Eleanor Whitman, rather than just Ellie O’Neill.
Her father was a U.S. senator now, and a serious contender for the Republican nomination in the next presidential race. The scandal had eventually subsided, as scandals always seem to do. And in every article and blog post and news story on the subject, there was usually still some disclaimer about his alleged affair with the waitress, even after all this time. Sometimes they mentioned the potential illegitimate daughter, but most often that seemed to get lost in all the rest of it. Everyone was far more interested in his real family: his very forgiving wife and their two boys—one a year older than Ellie and one a year younger—who were each as blond as their mother and always seemed to be pictured doing some sort of bonding activity with their father, hunting or camping or fishing.
They undoubtedly ate at fancy restaurants instead of fish shacks, went to private schools with uniforms rather than public schools with budget problems. And they probably wouldn’t think twice about asking their father to help pay for a summer poetry course. And though most of the time Ellie couldn’t imagine trading the life she had for any of that—even if it were an option—it sometimes seemed unfair that she’d never had a chance to see what it was like to be Paul Whitman’s daughter.
If he’d ever looked for them, Ellie wasn’t aware of it. She tried not to think about the fact that a man like him could probably have found them quite easily if he really wanted to, could have been touch, called to talk to her now and then, sent birthday cards, or otherwise marked the passing of years. Maybe it was Mom’s fault, or maybe it was his; maybe he wondered about them, or maybe not; maybe he missed them sometimes, or maybe the articles were true: maybe they were nothing more than a footnote.
Ellie watched as the little girl handed her father a postcard with a picture of the sun rising over the ocean. But the mother had managed to corral the boys out the door and was calling sharply for the other two to join them. The dad shrugged helplessly at his daughter, whose chin trembled as she clutched the postcard to her chest.
“She can just take it,” Ellie found herself saying, and the man spun around with a look of surprise. His daughter beamed at him, then skipped off with the card in hand, a memory that might only make it to the corner, or to the end of the trip, but that would—with any luck—be carried with her at least a little bit further than that.
When they were gone, Ellie turned back to the computer.
I don’t think I can, she wrote to Graham. Sorry.
Afterward, she sat and she waited.
Nine minutes later, he wrote back: Then I’ll just go by myself and bring one over to you later tonight.
Ellie couldn’t help smiling at the idea of him showing up on her porch again, then bit her lip and stared at the keyboard. Tonight isn’t good for me either, she wrote, and then thought for a second before adding, And I still have no idea what a whoopie pie is anyway…
Not even a minute had passed when there was a little ding, and his name appeared again. Then let’s find out.
Ellie hesitated. No cameras?
A minute passed, then two, but it felt like much longer. Finally, an e-mail arrived: No cameras.
This time, she didn’t wait. Okay, she typed, before she could change her mind.
And so, five hours later, she found herself taking the long way down to the cove, wondering if she was making a mistake. She understood that there were certain turning points to these kinds of things, opportunities to think better, chances to turn around. But as she made her way past the bait shop and the hut where they rented out Jet Skis, as she wandered along the edge of the main beach and into the clusters of trees that marked its border, Ellie had the distinct impression that she was barreling past those very warning signs, and that soon it would be too late to take any of this back.
There were dozens of reasons why she shouldn’t go. He would get bored with her and move on. He would be going home in just a few weeks. He was too famous. He would give away their secret, just by the very fact of being him. He would hurt her without even trying.
But there was a sense of momentum that carried her on an
yway, pushing back branches as she neared the cove, the dirt giving way to rocks beneath her feet. She barely noticed any of it, though; she was thinking of the look on his face when he’d stood on the porch the night before, and of all those words they’d sent sailing across the country, each e-mail a kind of poem containing the very best versions of themselves.
Maybe seeing him here was nothing more than a simple addendum to a conversation that had been going on for months now. If the time before she’d known him had been a kind of prelude, then maybe this was all just the postscript.
P.S. Hello there.
P.S. Thank you for coming.
P.S. Here I am.
Ahead, the trees were thinner, opening up to a small cove where the water lapped against slate-colored stones. Ellie came to a sudden stop when she realized he was already there waiting for her, and she hung back amid the trees. He was stooped on the ground, idly sifting through the piles of rocks. As she watched, he held one up, tilting his head to the side, and from where she was standing, Ellie could see that it was shaped like a lopsided heart.
She remembered an e-mail he’d written her just a few weeks ago. They’d been talking about grade school memories, and he’d confessed that he always had trouble making valentines as a kid, especially the kind where you had to fold your piece of construction paper and trace out half a heart.
They always came out looking like pink blobs, he’d written.
Isn’t that really all a heart is anyway? Ellie had replied.
Now she took a deep breath and steadied herself. He half turned, and she could see in his profile that he looked different here on the beach, less striking somehow, more familiar. It certainly wasn’t what she had imagined GDL824 would look like, but it also wasn’t quite like the movie-star version of Graham Larkin either.
At the moment, he was simply Graham.
She thought of the way the Russians would say it—Graham!—and she felt her pink blob of a heart pick up speed. It was, she realized, a shout and a surprise and a jolt of happiness all at once, the truest thing there was, and so, without another moment’s hesitation, she stepped forward to deliver her greeting in person.
From: [email protected]
Sent: Monday, June 10, 2013 4:24 PM
To: [email protected]
Subject: birds of a feather
I couldn’t find the rock you were talking about, but I think I’m at the right place. It’s pretty much just me and the seagulls, so I should be easy to spot…
(I’m the one without feathers.)
Graham was a million miles away when she finally arrived at the beach. He’d been trying to run through his lines for tomorrow’s scene, an impassioned monologue his character makes after leaving his father’s funeral and heading out to the very place where he’d died, an old lobster boat called the Go Fish. But the words were proving slippery today, whipped away by the wind coming in off the ocean.
He was picking through the smooth stones that blanketed the beach—so different from the pale sands of California—when he heard the sound of her footsteps behind him. He pulled in a breath before turning around.
“Hey,” he said, glancing up at her and then away again. For some reason, he was having trouble looking at her directly, though it was all he wanted to do at the moment. Everything around them was gray—the trees, the rocks, the sky, even the slate-colored water—and in the midst of it all, there was Ellie, with her red hair and white T-shirt, her jean skirt and rubber flip-flops. It should have been the most ordinary thing in the world—this girl on the beach—but somehow, it felt to Graham like he was staring at the sun.
“Find any treasures?” she asked, nodding at the rock in his hand, and when he held it in his palm to take another look, he realized that he actually had. It was, to his surprise, shaped like a heart. His cheeks went warm, and he slipped it into his pocket with a little shake of his head. If he showed it to her now, she’d think he was some kind of sap. She’d think he was no different from the characters he played in his movies.
“Want to walk?” he asked, his voice unintentionally gruff.
She nodded, and they set off together down the beach, their feet slipping on the rocks. Neither said anything for a while, but the silence was comfortable, and the sound of the waves provided all the soundtrack they needed. Ellie was half a step ahead of him, and he wondered where she was leading them. The stones were loose and uneven, and Graham found himself stumbling every so often. As he lurched forward once again, he saw a hint of a smile on Ellie’s face.
“This is crazy,” he said. “How can you call this a beach?”
“I guess we’re just tougher out here,” she said with a grin.
“Are you saying Californians are wimps?”
“No,” she said. “I’m just saying you’re a wimp.”
Graham laughed. “Fair enough,” he said. “But when do we get to solid ground?”
Ellie pointed, and up ahead he could see the thin ribbon of a trail leading up a small embankment on the opposite side of the beach. They followed it into the woods, ducking beneath the low canopy of leaves, and within minutes, they were spit out onto a quiet road.
“Are you planning to murder me?” Graham asked, looking around at the empty street, the rutted asphalt, and the swaying trees.
“Only if you keep asking so many questions,” she said as they set off down the road, keeping to the shoulder, which was strewn with pebbles.
“Seriously, though, where are we going?”
Ellie gave him a sideways glance. “We’re on a quest,” she said, as if it were obvious.
“A quest,” he repeated. “I like that.”
“Like Dorothy trying to find her way home again.”
“Or Ahab looking for the white whale.”
“Exactly,” she said. “Only we’re on the hunt for whoopie pies.”
“Aha,” Graham said, looking pleased. “So you’re a believer now.”
She shook her head. “I’m still skeptical. But if there’s anywhere that would have them, it would be this place.”
He was about to ask what place she was talking about, but then the road forked, becoming abruptly busier, and he could see a strip of buildings up ahead—a home and garden store, a real estate office, a used car lot, and right in the middle of it all, one of the pinkest buildings he’d ever seen. The yard surrounding it was dotted with picnic tables, each topped by a bright green umbrella, and there was a giant vanilla ice cream cone wearing sunglasses perched on the roof.
“The Ice Cream and Candy Emporium,” Ellie said, sweeping her arm grandly in its direction.
“Wouldn’t this be the competition?”
“It’s summer in Maine,” Ellie said. “Trust me, there are enough customers to go around.”
“I’m getting a little nervous,” Graham joked as they made their way across the parking lot. “What if they don’t have them?”
“I doubt they will,” she said. “I keep telling you, they’re not a thing.”
“They are,” he said. “They’re the official state treat.”
“So you keep saying.”
Graham paused just outside the door. “Should we put some money on it?” he asked, but her expression changed, the smile slipping away, and he realized he’d said the wrong thing. “Or not money,” he said quickly. “But let’s make a bet.”
Her face relaxed again, much to Graham’s relief. He was reminded of an e-mail she’d sent him months ago, not long after they’d first started talking, about how she’d gotten into some kind of summer poetry course and wanted desperately to go.
So why don’t you? he’d written, but as soon as he’d hit send, he realized what the answer would be, and his face burned as he sat at his desk in the sprawling house, wishing he could take it back.
It wasn’t long before her response reached him.
I can’t afford it, she’d written. Isn’t that the worst reason you’ve ever heard? I’ve got to figure out a way to make it work, because I’d
hate myself for missing it because of something as stupid as money.
She’d assumed he would understand, he realized, because he was seventeen, and what seventeen-year-old doesn’t have money problems? He could no longer remember exactly how he’d responded, and he wondered what had happened, if she’d figured out a way to pay for it. He hoped so.
It was a strange thing, attaching those floating conversations to the girl in front of him now, pinning so many collected details to the person like buttons on a shirt.
Ellie was still watching him with raised eyebrows. “What kind of bet?” she asked, and Graham thought for a moment.
“If they have whoopie pies in there, you have to have dinner with me tonight.”
“That’s not much of a consequence,” she said. “I was kind of thinking of making you do that anyway.”
Graham couldn’t help grinning. He found himself doing a mental tally of all the girls he’d dated over the past few years, the ones who sat by their phones waiting for him, the ones who pouted when he didn’t call. Even the girls who seemed normal when he first met them at the gym or the grocery store always ended up wearing too much makeup or impossibly high heels when they finally went out; they agreed with everything he said and laughed when he wasn’t being funny, and not one of them—not a single one—would have ever made so confident a declaration as Ellie just had.
For the first time in a while, he felt like himself again.
“Okay,” he said, giving her a stern look. “Then we should probably just pick the restaurant now, since there’s no way they won’t have whoopie pies in there. Unless, of course, we’re no longer in Maine. I wouldn’t be surprised if you just made me walk all the way to Canada…”
“We’re only one town away,” she said, rolling her eyes. “And you haven’t won yet.” They were standing just outside the entrance now, the sweet smell of chocolate drifting through the screen door. “If they don’t have whoopie pies in there…”
Jennifer E Smith Page 8
