by Susan Wiggs
By summer’s end, she came to grips with the truth and decided it was only right to tell him. Sean was a good man. He deserved a girl who would adore him because she couldn’t help herself, not because she felt indebted to him. As they stood together on her front porch, she searched for a way to explain her heart to him. It was nothing he had done. The failure was hers. She had given everything in her heart to someone else, and she didn’t know how to get it back.
It was late afternoon. Sean was on the night shift and impeccably dressed for work in his crisp khaki uniform and dimpled hat. His boots and gun holster shone so brightly she could see reflections in them. Rosa was torn between telling him now and waiting until morning, when he got off work.
Now, she thought. Afterward he could go to the station, be with the guys, unload on them if he needed to. “Sean,” she said, reminding herself to maintain eye contact, not to chicken out. “I need to be honest with you. I’m not going to see you anymore.”
“Come on, Rosa. What’s this about?”
“It’s about letting you find someone who deserves you,” she said. “Someone who can love you. I can’t be that person.” She took his hands in hers, gripping hard. “I mean it, Sean. I’m so sorry I’m not the one.”
“Damn, Rosa...” He kept hold of her hands, but his shoulders sagged a little. “All right, I wasn’t feeling it from you, but I thought, in time...”
“I thought that, too. But it’s not happening, and I can’t force it. I’m sorry. I wish there was something else to say.”
A late-model Mustang pulled up at the curb and a tall, broad-shouldered man stepped out. Rosa wasn’t quite sure how she managed to stay standing, but she did. She even managed to send a look of icy disapproval to Alex Montgomery.
“Who the hell is that?” asked Sean.
“His name is Alex Montgomery.” She let go of Sean. “Excuse me. I’ll just be a minute.” She stepped down to the curb and faced Alex. “You’re not welcome here,” she said. Her heart was nearly hammering its way out of her chest.
“I didn’t think I would be.” He looked different. Even taller, maybe, his hair longer. The all-American college man. “Rosa, could we talk?” He glanced at Sean. “In private?”
She laughed at his audacity. Two years of silence and now he wanted to talk. “Absolutely not.”
At the hostility in her voice, Sean started to move toward Alex. She held him back, grabbing his hand again.
“I heard your father’s better,” Alex said. “I swear, I don’t expect anything from you. I just want to explain why I left.”
“I know why you left, Alex.”
“You do?”
“Because you were a dumb kid. You couldn’t handle anything more than a summer girlfriend. You didn’t want to be in it for the long haul. Especially my long haul, given what I was going through. I understand. But I don’t forgive you. I never will.” She was appalled by his audacity and by the rage it inspired. She’d needed him when her father’s life hung in the balance; where was he then? “You should go, Alex.”
“You heard her,” Sean said, posturing, his fingers brushing his holster. “Hit the road, pal.”
Alex hesitated, but not for long. He looked at Rosa, then at Sean, then at their clasped hands. He yanked open the car door, got in and sped off.
“Sorry about that,” Rosa said, trying hard not to shake. Her cheeks felt like they were on fire. “I can’t believe he just showed up like that. He’s nobody. Just some guy I used to know.”
“He’s the reason you’re breaking up with me,” Sean said. It wasn’t a question.
part five
ENTRATA
Mamma never did approve of stealing, and she never did explain why a perfectly good fish recipe would be named for San Nicola. He’s been the patron saint of Bari, in Puglia, since Barese merchants stole his saintly relics from Myra on the Aegean coast of Turkey in 1087. Maybe he didn’t care what they did with him after he was dead, but that wouldn’t be very Catholic of him.
Pesce alla San Nicola
Traditionally, individual fish are dressed inside and out with olive oil, garlic, herbs and lemon slices, then wrapped in parchment for roasting, which is a handsome thing to send to the table. But it all works fine with fish steaks or fillets in foil instead of parchment. Halibut, tuna steaks and cod are good choices, or if you live by the sea, try a small, perfectly fresh tinker mackerel (whole) or a small bluefish, sometimes called blue snapper, in season.
Preheat the oven to 400°F, or fire up the gas grill. For each portion, dress the fish with 2 teaspoons extra virgin olive oil, sea salt and freshly ground black pepper, 1 teaspoon minced flat-leaf parsley, 1 sprig oregano, 3 pitted black olives, 2 lemon slices, garlic slivers and 2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice.
Wrap each portion in foil or parchment. Place each packet on a baking sheet and slide into the oven or place on the grill and cover. Bake for 20 minutes, or until the fish just begins to flake.
thirty-one
While Andrea Bocelli crooned in the background, Rosa stared at Alex, who sat next to her on the couch. Her couch, in her home. Drinking her hazelnut coffee while his bruised jaw swelled visibly. The whole situation seemed completely surreal—except that it wasn’t.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “You have something to tell me about that night?”
“Yes,” he said, “yes, I do.”
“You had information about Pop’s accident and you never told me?”
“Not the accident.”
“Then what?”
He looked down at his hands, flexed and unflexed them.
Rosa was startled by his obvious discomfort. “What do you mean?” she persisted. Seeing the deep sadness in Alex’s eyes, she felt an echo of that pain and confusion. A single moment had changed so many lives. Her father had struggled for two years to recover, and she completely changed the direction of her dreams. Alex followed the path that was expected of him, college and business school, a position in the family firm.
“When I heard your father was hurt,” he said, “I didn’t know how to comfort you.”
“You knew where to find me. You could have picked up the phone, or, better yet, you could have gotten in your cute little MG and come to see me.”
“No,” he said quietly. “I couldn’t.”
She studied his face to see if he was pulling her leg. He regarded her with utter solemnity. She forced a small laugh. “What, were you held hostage by the Brown radical underground?”
“No. By a promise I made.” He rested his lanky wrists on his knees and steepled his fingers. It was a gesture she recognized from long ago; he did it when he was thinking hard. “To my mother,” he said at last, and looked up at her.
As she studied his troubled blue eyes, the deepening bruise on his jaw, she remembered something she had discovered early on in their friendship. Alex didn’t lie. He never had.
“So let me recap this very strange conversation. You promised your mother you’d dump me.”
“Yes.”
Rosa got up from the sofa and went to the window, glimpsing her anguished face in the reflection. She composed herself and turned back to him. “Why, Alex?”
“I thought it was my only option. My mother and I made a deal.”
“What kind of deal?”
“She took care of your father’s medical bills.”
Rosa went completely still. It took a moment to find her voice. “Come again?”
“She paid for his treatment, right up until the day he was discharged.”
Rosa felt dizzy with wonderment. “When? How?”
“I went to the hospital as soon as I heard. You were with your family, but the priest, Father Dominic, explained what was happening. He was calling all your father’s clients to let them know. The nex
t day, my mother had everything arranged.”
“I had no idea. None of us did, ever.”
“That was the idea.”
“My God, what was she thinking? It was wonderful of her.” Rosa’s thoughts were spinning. Finally the mysterious benefactor, the person who had given her father a second chance at life, was unmasked. “We tried and tried to find out,” she said, “but the administrator at the law firm insisted we were never to know. I wish I’d known,” she said. “She made a miracle happen. I wish I’d had a chance to thank her. And if we’d known, my family would have paid her back—”
“That’s not what she wanted.” His gaze tracked her as she paced back and forth. “She didn’t want gratitude, either.”
Rosa stopped and turned to him. Although she thought she knew the answer, she needed to hear him say it. “What did she want?”
“For me to stop seeing you.”
So that was the deal. Rosa crossed her arms over her chest and shuddered. “What was she thinking? Did you ever ask her?”
“Of course I asked her. She always wanted me to have a certain kind of life,” he said.
Like the life she’d had? Rosa wondered. A loveless marriage, suicide? Rosa felt furious, manipulated, nauseated. Yet the object of her frustration was gone forever. She’d never get the whole story. “I wonder if she believed it was worth everything she spent.”
He steepled his fingers again. “That, I can’t tell you. She was clearly unhappy about something. Maybe everything.”
Rosa’s heart lurched at the anguish in his voice. He almost never spoke of what had happened with his mother. He did such a good job hiding his feelings that she often forgot what he was dealing with.
He looked at a picture of a seascape leaning against the wall, one she’d never gotten around to hanging, as though searching for answers there.
“So you thought walking away rather than explaining this was the honorable thing to do.”
“She didn’t want it known. Then, after your father was better, I came back to explain everything to you.” He turned to look at her for a moment. “I could tell it was too late. You were with someone else and everything had changed.”
“I didn’t want to hear any explanations from you.”
“So I gathered. I drove straight to the airport that day. I went abroad to study at the London School of Economics. Then I finished my degree and went to business school and, after that, everything—all this—seemed so distant. Like it had happened to other people, in another life.” He got up from the couch. “I told myself it was for the best, Rosa. I was a kid from a screwed-up family. I didn’t know how to make a relationship work. And I sure as hell couldn’t see how our lives could ever fit together. So I left you alone.”
He crossed the room and took her hand. “Everything’s different now.” He smiled with the undamaged side of his face. “Now I see exactly how we can fit together.”
She was dumbstruck as she pulled her hand away. “Why, because we were so successful last time?”
“Because we can get it right this time,” he said.
She escaped him and sat down, absently massaging her bare foot. She felt like crying, or flying into a rage. “You went to your mother for help. Why not your father?”
“That wasn’t an option.” He cut his eyes away. “There’s nothing more to say.”
His quick, evasive shift unsettled her. “There is, Alex. You’re not a liar. You want to try again yet you start by keeping things from me. How is that going to work? I tell you everything, like before, and you hold back. I suppose that’s always been our pattern, only I didn’t see it then.” She realized that she had revealed her heart. Not just to him, but to herself. She went to the sofa and sat down. “Finish the story, Alex. Or we don’t have anything more to say to each other.”
Moving like a man in pain, he sat down next to her. Then he turned and touched her cheek, gently, perhaps regretfully. “Our parents were screwing around,” he said. “I nearly walked in on them the night of the Labor Day picnic.”
Rosa’s first reaction was utter confusion. It took her a moment to grasp whom he meant by “our parents.” Then she wanted to laugh at the patent absurdity of the statement, but all that came out of her was a harsh sound of disgust and impatience. “You should have said something long ago. I would’ve assured you that you were wrong.”
“I wish I was. I’m sorry, Rosa.”
He sounded so sure of himself, but he couldn’t be. Still, this was Alex. He didn’t lie. He believed it was true. She folded her hands carefully in her lap. “What do you think you saw?”
“That night, after we...after I dropped you off, I came straight home. I was thinking about what you’d said, that I should apologize to my mother for fighting with her. I went looking for her. That’s when I heard them...in my mother’s bedroom.”
Rosa’s temples pounded. No. No. No. “But you didn’t see them.”
“Come on, Rosa. I was a dumb kid, but I wasn’t that ignorant.”
She felt hollowed out, a little queasy. Her father and Mrs. Montgomery? Impossible. Although, she reflected, there had always been a part of her father that was like an undiscovered country, one she had no inclination to explore. Her mind didn’t go there, even though he was a widower. She’d been willfully ignorant of his needs as a man. People could go on indefinitely without sex. Lord knew, she was proof of that.
“I don’t believe this,” she said. “It’s insane.”
“I know what was going on, Rosa. I didn’t tell you because I figured you’d freak out, too. And you are.”
“So now that your mother’s gone, you can suddenly stand the sight of me,” she said, not bothering to temper her resentment.
“That was never the issue,” he said.
“God, you’re crazy, Alex.”
She put together the events of that terrible night, adding this new twist. That had always been an unanswered question in the investigation. What was her father doing, out on his bicycle so late at night?
Weeks later, when he regained consciousness, he had no memory of that night, but for the first time she wondered if he might just be saying that.
And by wondering that, she was forced to entertain the idea that her father had had a mistress. And not just any mistress, but Emily Montgomery. Rosa was appalled at the idea, but deep down a tiny part of her opened the door to listen. Emily was an attractive, lonely woman trapped in a loveless marriage. Rosa’s father had been widowed terribly young. Perhaps...
She looked at Alex. “Does anyone else know?”
He hesitated, and she knew that by asking the question, she was buying the story. “No,” he said. “I don’t think so. I sure as hell didn’t say anything.”
How it must have hurt Alex to carry the knowledge around, to see his parents together, knowing what he knew.
“Do you think your father...?”
Alex looked out the window. “If he had any suspicion, he was as silent about it as I was.” He flexed his hands, studying them as though they belonged to someone else.
Chills skittered over her skin. “It’s so...tawdry. They should have known nothing good could come of it. Didn’t they read Lady Chatterley’s Lover?” She looked at him. “What? Don’t you dare laugh, Alex.”
“I’m not. I swear.” He reached behind her and gently massaged the back of her neck. She nearly groaned from the pleasure, but instead, shifted away from him on the couch.
“My dad’s part of the package,” she said. “You know that, right?”
“Why do you need to shape your life around your father?” he asked.
“Because that’s who I am,” she said. “It’s what I do.” She looked at him steadily. “My father’s not going anywhere. I’ve even toyed with the idea of moving back to the house to help him now that he’s getting
older.” She shifted her glance away. “For what it’s worth, he doesn’t seem to like you any more than you like him.”
He dropped his hand from her neck. “I never did a damned thing to him except keep his sleazy secret and leave his daughter alone, just like he wanted.”
“He didn’t want—” Rosa stopped. He did. Pop had barely tolerated Alex. He used to take every opportunity to enumerate all the reasons they didn’t belong together. Agitated, she got up and paced aimlessly. She felt like an accident victim herself, numb with shock, battered and dazed. “I think you should go, Alex.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“Why not? You’re good at it.”
He glared at her. “I suppose I deserved that.”
“I deserve some peace and quiet. It’s late, and I have some thinking to do. I mean it, Alex. Please.”
He studied her face and she struggled to appear impassive.
Finally he stood up. “I’ll call you.”
* * *
Alex was in his office in Providence, cleaning out his desk. Everything else had been transported to Newport. All that was left were the personal items in his sleek Danish maple desk: an antique wooden slide rule that had belonged to his grandfather, a framed photo of Madison with her kids. In the pencil tray of the top drawer lay the egg case of a skate, a treasure Rosa insisted was a mermaid’s purse, a lucky charm. He picked it up. The small dark pod weighed nothing.
“Alexander?” His father stepped into the office. He was dressed as always in a tailored suit, every hair in place, every line of his face arranged to convey disapproval.
Alex slipped the object into his pocket. “I was just finishing up here.”
“There’s no rush, you know.” His father picked up a box and moved it into the hallway.
“I’ve got this,” said Alex.
“I don’t mind giving you a hand.” When his father picked up the next box, the bottom dropped out of it and its contents spilled on the floor. Both of them bent to retrieve the papers.
“What’s all this?” his father asked, picking up letters, cards and notes in all different shapes and sizes, mostly handwritten, a few typed.
