Summer by the Sea

by Susan Wiggs

  He recognized the question in her eyes, the same question that had been there twelve years before, when he told her it was over.

  What happened to us?

  Now, as then, he kept the truth hidden. Years ago, he had lacked the emotional hardware to be the person she needed, the one she deserved. She wanted nothing less than everything from him, and he didn’t believe even that was enough for her.

  Her penetrating stare was taking him apart. She was so different now; he couldn’t figure out what was going on behind those darkly lashed brown eyes. “What?” he asked.

  “God, we were so young. I was just thinking about how young we were.”

  “And now we’re old,” he said.

  “Speak for yourself.” She picked a blade of grass, wrapped it around her finger. “Did you know a child laughs an average of three hundred times a day, and an adult just three?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “I read that somewhere.” She uncurled the blade of grass and let it drop.

  They sat in silence for a while, watching the waves in the distance, listening to the timeless rhythm of the surf. A seagull landed on the stump of the fallen tree, perched on one leg. Alex started to worry that Rosa would get bored and take off, so he tried to start up the conversation again.

  “Celesta’s-by-the-Sea,” he said. “I like that. You named it for your mother.”

  “Her cooking inspired the whole concept. Good thing her name wasn’t Brunhilde or Prudence.”

  He lifted his beer can. “To Celesta’s.” He took a long drink, then noticed her watching him. “What?”

  “It’s not even noon yet.”

  “The lady tells time.”

  “Ah, hostile sarcasm. I don’t remember that about you.”

  “I’ve been practicing. Anyway, don’t worry about me. I’m merely observing tradition. When there’s grieving to do, we drink. It’s the Montgomery way.”

  “You call that grieving?” she asked softly. “You haven’t even begun to grieve.” She watched him with those large, unwavering eyes. It was like looking into a magical mirror, giving him an unsettling glimpse of himself. The truth was there, somehow, in her eyes, the most honest eyes he had ever known. He saw the real Alex, hardened and discontented and immeasurably disappointed in himself. It was an image he ordinarily tried to hide, but this morning he was failing.

  “I’m so very sorry about your mother, Alex,” Rosa said again. “What I remember about her was that here in the summer house, you were her whole world.”

  Brand-new grief, as bright and sharp as a fresh knife wound, was taking over, slashing through his control. He felt a squeezing sensation in his chest, and it took him by surprise. People tended to offer their most tender memories of the deceased, and Rosa was no different. The difference was, she understood the dynamics of his boyhood better than anyone he knew. He nodded and looked away, hoping she’d move on to a different subject. In the distance, the horizon line between the sea and sky blurred and pulsed.

  “Now that I look back at it,” Rosa went on, “making you her whole world was a lot to put on a kid, but I don’t think she realized that. I remember how protective she was, how careful of your health. She absolutely adored you.”

  Rosa didn’t understand, he realized. The way his mother adored him was a burden, not a gift. He looked down at his hand and saw that he’d completely crushed the beer can. He had no memory of doing so.

  Rosa was looking at him, too. “It’s normal to be angry.”

  He flung the can into the bushes. “I’m not angry.”

  She smiled at him as though the past twelve years had never happened. “I’m Italian, remember? I’m okay with emotion. The bigger, the better.”

  The tension in his chest eased like a tight coil unfurling. He didn’t have to pretend for her. He didn’t have to behave in a certain way. The sweet relief spread through him, more potent than beer and baby aspirin.

  He heard another car approach and stood up. “I’d better see who that is.”

  She stood up, too. “Maybe you should put on a shirt, Alex,” she said.

  He touched his bare chest. “You’re right.”

  “And I should go,” she added.

  “No, don’t.” He blurted out the words. “Please stay.” He held open the back door.

  She stood there for a moment, then walked to the door and stepped inside. He couldn’t read her expression, yet he came to an unexpected realization. The minute Rosa showed up, his headache had disappeared.

  He grabbed a sweatshirt from a hook by the door, yanked it over his head and went to the front, stepping out onto the porch just as a car door slammed. He instantly wished he had not insisted that Rosa stay.

  “Hello, Dad,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “Clearly not.” His father looked perfectly tailored and groomed, as though for a board meeting. “That would have meant you were checking your voice mail. I left at least a half dozen messages.”

  Checking messages had been the last thing on Alex’s mind, but of course, his father wouldn’t understand that. “I don’t get good reception out here.”

  The passenger side door opened and his sister got out. She shot him a poisonous look. “You should have called,” she said. “The medical examiner’s report is in. Mother killed herself. We just thought you might want to know.”

  eleven

  Madison’s words hammered at Alex, and his headache came pounding back. Oddly, he felt no surprise at the news; in the back of his mind, he’d already known. He looked at them both: his family. They were supposed to be helping each other through this, yet instead they were like three icebergs bumping up against each other, awkward and disconnected.

  “Come inside,” he said to his father and sister. Even as he spoke, he was aware of Rosa’s presence behind him. He held open the door. One look at Rosa’s face told him she’d heard. The shock and horror in her expression made that crystal clear.

  Alex noticed the same look on his sister’s face when she stepped into the musty foyer and spied Rosa. He could see Madison wishing she had kept her mouth shut.

  His father masked whatever he was thinking behind his customary icy politeness. “We didn’t realize you had company.”

  He decided not to point out that they might have guessed from seeing the red sports car parked in the front.

  “I was just leaving,” Rosa said. She headed for the door, paused there and turned back. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  And then she was gone, the door banging shut behind her. Alex’s headache roared like a locomotive. Madison glared at him; his father stood as stiff as a suit of armor.

  “You didn’t waste any time finding someone to comfort you,” Madison said. “God, you just dumped Portia van Deusen last week, wasn’t it?”

  “Last month.” Alex massaged his temples. “And she dumped me.” He should never have gotten mixed up with her. At first, she’d been a pleasant enough diversion. Their families were close, she was beautiful, convenient and apparently crazy about him. They’d had a few laughs—a few too many—and ended up sleeping together several times. He thought that was the end of it. Portia had other ideas.

  “You want everybody to think she dumped you. But the truth is—”

  “Enough.” Their father’s voice brought them up short the way it always had, cleaving like a steel blade through their argument. “We’re here about your mother, not Alexander’s behavior.”

  Alex gritted his teeth in frustration. They were a family, for Christ’s sake. They should treat each other better, particularly now. Just because they’d never learned how was no excuse. In a neutral tone, he said, “Come and sit down, okay? Please.”

  He led the way to the parlor, an airy, high-ceilinged room with a bay window framing a view of the
sea. There, he peeled back the sheets draping the wing chairs and settee, and motioned for them to sit down.

  Alex studied them both for a moment, and a strange notion came over him. He didn’t really know these people. Madison was his sister; she’d known him all the days of his life. Yet she had always been a distant figure, tucked away at boarding school, at camp during each summer, then college, followed immediately by a society marriage and a swift conversion to A-list hostess. She was married to Prescott Cheadle, a partner in a Boston law firm. She had two kids Alex liked a lot, Trevor and Penelope. But he didn’t know their mother—this strong, attractive woman—and somehow that felt like a loss. He suddenly found himself wishing they all knew each other better. No one had ever told them they might need each other one day, and for some reason, they hadn’t figured that out themselves.

  And his father... Alex couldn’t begin to figure him out. On the surface, he was the epitome of success; the heir to a fortune who had grown the empire beyond all expectations, a respected and influential figure. Now he was a man whose wife had killed herself.

  “Dad, I’m sorry,” Alex said, stumbling over the hopelessly inadequate words.

  “I’m sorry, too.”

  The three of them lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. Madison got up and plucked at some of the sheeting that covered the furniture, peeking underneath. “So who was that woman?”

  She hadn’t recognized Rosa. Madison, like his parents, had never realized the significance of Rosa. She was the gardener’s girl, and like every other child of the domestic help, she was invisible as wallpaper. Madison had no idea what Rosa meant to him. She’d never known how profoundly the gardener’s daughter had changed him, long ago.

  But then again, he didn’t know much about his sister’s heart, either.

  “Rosa Capoletti,” he said.

  Madison had no reaction.

  “Pete Capoletti’s daughter,” their father said, like a game show host offering a clue.

  Alex was surprised his father remembered. Madison still didn’t recognize the name. Could she really not remember what had happened all those years ago? He glanced at his father and realized he seemed to.

  “Mr. Capoletti takes care of the property,” their father offered.

  “Oh, that guy. Now I remember him. Nice Italian man, wore a flat cap and sang while he worked. Didn’t you used to play with his daughter?”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Alex said, nearly choking on the irony of it. He didn’t want to explain Rosa; he couldn’t. “She stopped by to pay her condolences. Now, why don’t you tell me about Mother?”

  Madison looked like a model in a luxury hotel ad, sitting there. Her makeup was perfect, her nails done, every golden hair in place.

  Their father cleared his throat and handed him a thick padded envelope.

  Alex’s heart squeezed as he looked over the papers. The state seal crowned the top sheet, and there were two notarized signatures on the bottom. In between lay an official-looking death investigation report and certifier’s forms, the sort you never think you’ll see. He scanned the reports, and his gut churned as he read the contents of his own mother’s stomach, the levels of toxins in her system, even the placement of objects on the nightstand.

  His hands shook as he replaced the papers in the envelope. “Didn’t you know she was hurting?” he asked his father. He raked a hand through his hair in frustration. “Couldn’t you have done anything?”

  “One can always do something,” his father stated.

  His infuriating calmness caused Alex to snap. “Where the hell were you while she was swallowing all the pills and booze?”

  His father gestured at the envelope. “It’s all documented. I was in the study.”

  “You might as well have been on the moon.”

  “Do you want me to feel guilty?” his father demanded.

  “I just want you to feel,” Alex shot back.

  “I feel terrible,” his father said. “I am utterly dismayed.”

  Madison let out a humorless laugh, edged with hysteria. “Dismayed, for Christ’s sake. Dismayed, as in, ‘my stock portfolio dipped.’ Or ‘I just can’t seem to correct that slice in my golf swing.’ Or ‘my wife just killed herself.’ Dismayed.”

  “Madison,” said their father, “that’s enough.”

  “I haven’t even gotten started,” she said, her eyes bright with tears. “I need to know how to feel about this, and you’re not giving me a single clue. You either, Alex.”

  “Don’t you have a therapist for that?”

  “Not funny, little brother.”

  “I’m serious. This is no small thing, and I’m as clueless as you are.” Almost, he thought. He actually did have a clue, but he wasn’t ready to say anything.

  “We’re pathetic.” She stood and wandered to the kitchen, looking around slowly, as though seeking out ghosts. “Anything to drink?”

  “Just beer.” He sent a questioning look at his father.

  “No, thank you.”

  “A beer sounds perfect,” said Madison.

  He heard the fridge open and close, heard the unmistakable crack of a can tab. She returned to the parlor and sat down, then drank what seemed like half the can. She held out her right hand. “I broke a nail opening that.”

  “It’ll grow back.” He sat in silence while she took a few more sips.

  “So is your girlfriend going to blab?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “Roseanne Rosannadanna,” she said, jerking her head toward the front.

  “Jesus, Maddy—”

  “I’m serious. Dad and I haven’t told a soul.”

  “I wanted it that way,” their father explained. “It’s best for all of us. No need to air this tragedy.”

  What was best, thought Alex with a new flash of rage, would have been for this not to have happened at all. But that was life for you. You never know what you’re gonna get, he thought in Roseanne Rosannadanna’s accent.

  “I don’t want anyone to know, either,” said Madison. “God, I hope that woman won’t say anything.”

  Alex wanted to reassure her, to guarantee her privacy would be guarded, but the fact was, he didn’t know. “If she’s the same kind of person she was when I used to know her, she won’t tell anyone.”

  “I swear, you are so naive. Everybody changes, Alex. You of all people should know that.”

  “What do you mean, me of all people?”

  Carrying her beer, Madison got up and went over to the mantel, unveiling the objects there with a flourish—vases and framed photographs, a hobnail glass candy dish. “Ah, just as I thought. Pictorial evidence right here. See? If that’s not naive, I don’t know what is.” She selected an old photo in a tarnished silver frame and handed it to him.

  Alex felt as though he was looking at a stranger. But he wasn’t. On the back of the frame was a label with his mother’s tight, neat handwriting: Alexander IV, Summer 1983. The picture itself showed an undersized, pallid boy. He hadn’t known at the time how sick he was, of course. His mother never would have allowed him to know. But he could see the ravages of illness now, like a shadow lurking in the background of the photograph.

  He was standing in the library of this very house, which had been his favorite place when he wasn’t allowed to go anywhere else. He was dressed all in white; his mother had probably been inspired by The Great Gatsby, which was the first video movie she had ever bought, and watched constantly. But on ten-year-old Alex, the effect was ghostlike. He had hair so pale it seemed translucent, legs so thin they resembled fragile bird bones. The eyes and cheeks were sunken in a refugee motif. His oxygen-starved skin was pale, his eyes almost unnaturally bright.

  Alex put the picture aside, mystified as to why his mother had kept it all these years.

 
Madison sucked down the rest of her beer and got up to pace the room, stopping in front of a picture of their mother seated in one of the wicker chairs, looking out to sea. Given what had happened, the image seemed to have a haunted quality now.

  “I need to know why she did it,” Madison said to her father. “Please, tell us why.”

  The stark desperation in her voice touched Alex, though their father sat motionless. Alex went over to his sister and gave her an awkward hug. His father watched, expressionless; theirs was not a demonstrative family, and neither of them had mastered the proper way to hug.

  “I don’t know,” their father said quietly. “We’ll never know. I wish I could give you more than that, Madison, but I can’t.”

  For the first time, Alex felt a flicker of unity with his father as they attempted to console Madison. “She kept things to herself when she was alive,” he said.

  “What do you mean, things?”

  Oops. “She was a private person all her life. You know that.”

  “Too private,” Maddy agreed, “and now this. Why?”

  “She was unhappy,” their father said.

  “Who’s that unhappy?”

  Someone who lived a lie all her life, Alex thought.

  “If she was always unhappy, then why would she kill herself on that particular day?” Madison asked. “What was special about it?”

  Alex rubbed a weary hand over his unshaven face. “Anything we say would be pure speculation. What’s the point of that?”

  Madison sank down on a draped ottoman. “What’s the point of anything?”

  He frowned, worried by the bleak question. He and his father exchanged a glance. “How are you, Maddy?”

  She looked startled by the question. “I just lost my mother. I’m a wreck.”

  “How did the kids take it?”

  “They were devastated, of course. They adored Mother. Penelope has slept in bed with me the past two nights.”

  With me, she said. Not with me and Prescott. But Alex didn’t go there.