by Luanne Rice
“Her ex—brother-in-law.”
“The plot thickens,” Malachy chuckled. “How does her sister feel about it?”
Sixtus considered the personal question. Perhaps it was his exhaustion, or the fact that he was so far from home, or Malachy's warmth, but Sixtus felt like talking.
“Well, to complicate things a little more, Zeb was in love with Rumer first—years before he married Elizabeth.”
“Are the girls close?”
“They were at one time,” Sixtus said quietly. “Now Elizabeth's divorced, Rumer's alone, and Zeb's back in the picture.”
“You want them together?”
“I don't know what the hell I want,” Sixtus said. “And I have no business saying. Just before I left, I got him to promise he'd look after her. What do I know?”
“Right. Nothing.”
“I'm just the father. Jesus, you have a nice berth here, Malachy Do I take it you're all alone?”
“Well,” Malachy said with a twinkle in his eye. “Most of the time…”
“You have a lady friend?”
“That I do. Perhaps you know her—she comes from down your way, in Hawthorne, Connecticut. Lucinda Robbms…”
“Sure, I know Lucinda. She used to be the librarian till she retired…”
Malachy nodded. “Yes, that's her.”
“You're a lucky man,” Sixtus said.
“Amen to that.”
Malachy was bringing out a second round of beer and shrimp when they heard someone coming down the dock. She was tall and slim, and she wore a picture hat pulled low over her face.
“Isn't that—” Malachy asked, lowering the plate with a stunned look on his face. “Isn't that that moviestar? What's her name—the one who always plays those sexy spies and Shakespeare ladies…”
“Elizabeth Randall,” Sixtus said, lowering his beer to the deck and stepping over the rail.
“Yes, Elizabeth Randall,” Malachy Condon said, his mouth opened in stunned surprise, watching his guest embrace the movie star.
“My daughter,” Sixtus said, grinning into his eldest child's beautiful face.
“Dad, what are you doing here?” Zee asked after she'd been introduced to Malachy and walked her father back to his boat.
“I thought that was pretty clear,” Sixtus said. “Nova Scotia is my stopping-off point on my way to Ireland.”
Zee shook her head, smiling with amazement. Her father was the most hyperbolic person she knew— imagine the audacity of sailing to Ireland! On a century-old sailboat! She was glad she'd shaken the film crew entourage—if anyone, even Bud Stanton her friend and producer, got wind of it, they'd have one of those entertainment shows here on the docks filming news at eleven.
But it was quite stupendous. Zee listened as her father described sailing single-handed from Hubbard's Point to Lunenburg, four days with only a few hours sleep, lashed into the cockpit so he wouldn't be swept overboard.
“The waves were ten foot,” her father said. “Bigger than we get in the Sound, that's for sure.”
“But nothing compared to the middle of the ocean,”Elizabeth said, hugging her father. “My namesake died on a boat in a storm. I've always had premonitions…”
“Get out,” her father said, sounding delighted. “You? My practical Zee?”
“I know, I know, don't tell anyone. I'm the hard-boiled New Englander… thank God Abigail Crowe paved the way for sensible women in Hollywood. But yes, Dad. I've grown up thinking of Elisabeth Randall drowning off the Wickland Shoal, so I'm highly sensitive!”
“In other words, don't go?” her father asked, laughing.
“You got it, Papa.”
Her father yawned, his sunburned face creasing into a million wrinkles. He rubbed his bleary blue eyes, and Elizabeth shook her head fondly. She had seen her father exhausted so many times: staying up late to correct papers, to finish reading a book, to check on Zee's baby sister. Working the steps of AA had allowed her to make peace with her past, with the deep resentment toward her father that she had held for so long.
“You need to sleep,” Elizabeth said, pointing her father toward his bunk. “I don't have call till tomorrow. I'm going to sit on this deck and give praise for the fact I don't have about fifty P.A.'s running all over me while you go get some shut-eye. But when you wake up, I want the whole story.”
“What whole story? About the whales and sharks I saw out at sea? About the filigree clouds over the horizon? About steering by the stars at night?”
“Jesus Christ, no. Rumer's Nature Girl, not me. I want all the dirt, Dad. Every detail about Zeb's great return to the homeland that you can think of. Okay?”
Her father shook his head. He looked very slightly amused but mostly sad. He had never approved of gossip, and he certainly believed that Zee should lay her marriage to rest and let everyone get on with life. She believed it too, but she couldn't stop herself. Steps or no steps, the subject of Zeb back at Hubbard's Point with Rumer close by was too tender to just drop. Especially with Michael right there.
“Let it go, darling,” her father said. “Do us both a favor and drop it. Now let me sleep, and we'll talk later.”
“ ‘Rest now, little father,’” Zee said, quoting Garbo in Ninotchka.
She prowled around the deck for an hour—wound up, adrenaline flowing. She had always been this way, as long as she could remember. As calm as her sister was, Zee was that hyper. She would have made a great executive: She wanted to know all, oversee all, control all— even from across the country. Just seeing her father was wonderful—in spite of the fact that he had aged greatly, that he'd gotten so hunched over—but it was the specter of Zeb and Rumer that had really gotten her thoughts flowing.
In spite of that, the peace of Lunenburg soon overtook her. The air was so clear, the harbor so clear and calm. Sitting in the cockpit, she found herself lulled by the rocking of the hull. She hadn't escaped the set in weeks; it was wonderful to not have hair, makeup, wardrobe, producers, the director, all wanting her for something. Before she knew it, she fell asleep.
When she woke up, it was dawn, and her father had covered her with a blanket. He sat across the cockpit, Bible open on his lap, drinking coffee.
“ ‘There's no use trying to save me, my good man,’ “ she said, glancing at the Bible.
“Ah, a daughter who quotes James Thurber at first light,” her father said, grinning. “I knew I was a lucky man.”
She smiled, remembering how she and Rumer had pored over their mother's copy of Thurber's Men, Women and Dogs. The book had been a Hubbard's Point fixture, and Zee and her sister knew it by heart. Her father brought her a cup of black coffee, and she hiked up on one elbow to accept it.
“I must look a fright,” she said, watching her father move slowly. Everything was soaking wet from the morning mist, especially her hair.
“I'm your father, not your leading man. I've seen you looking much worse.”
“Well, thank you. Coming from you, I'll take it as a compliment.”
They drank their coffee in silence for a few minutes. The day was clear and fine with that Canadian seaside luminosity Zee had come to know after the many movies she'd filmed up here. The sky was bright blue, yet golden at the same time. The rising sun was just crowning the horizon, solar fire with rays of gold shooting into the sky.
“Seriously, Elizabeth,” her father said after a while. “It's wonderful to see you.”
“Didn't think I'd come, did you?”
“You do tend to stay away….”
“Only from home, Dad. Too many ghosts.”
“Your sister, you mean. She knows you too well, and she can call you on just about anything.”
Elizabeth just stared across the harbor. He was partly right, but there was more. He didn't understand the guilt that ate at Elizabeth regarding Rumer. Making amends was a large part of how she stayed sober a day at a time. Although Rumer's name was right at the top of Elizabeth's list of amends to be made, she had so far lacked th
e courage it would take to actually attempt them.
“We're filming in Laurelton and Halifax,” she said, changing the subject. “Just down the road.”
“Two very familiar places to me.” Her father nodded. “As a boy, I spent time in both.”
“Really? I remembered you lived in Halifax”
“Yes, but I know Laurelton too,” he said. His expression darkened, and Zee assumed it was from remembering how it felt to grow up poor, without a father. Her father and his brother had started working when they were very young; he had put himself through college by delivering milk.
“Laurelton is lovely,” she said. “It's like a New England sea-captain's town. Graceful white houses, long lawns sloping down to the harbor, yachts on moorings, white picket fences, and geraniums in window boxes. Very Edgartown, very Nantucket—our story is a period piece, a whaling story set in Nantucket. Laurelton is as pretty, and our cheap money people love the price of filming in Canada….”
“It might be pretty, but…” her father said, scowling. “Never mind. How long do you have?”
“My next call is four today. We can spend the whole entire day together, Dad. Isn't that wonderful? Now, start talking!”
Zee contented herself with hearing about the boat, the Point, Winnie, Hecate, Mrs. Lightfoot, the Campbells and McCrays, and Dana's wedding.
“Oh, that must have been a Dames de la Roche extravaganza if ever there was one,” Zee said wickedly. “One of their own getting married. And to a younger man! Much younger, from what I hear…”
“They're very happy,” her father said. “Sam adores her, and he's a wonderful father to Quinn and Allie.”
“The Grayson girls…” Zee said, shaking her head with resentment. “Horrible, what happened to their parents. Dana stepped in to take care of them?”
“It's not unheard of,” her father said softly. “An aunt loving her nieces—or nephew—that much.”
Elizabeth flinched, thinking of how hard she had tried to poison her son's mind against his aunt Rumer. How could she not? When Rumer had been so good, and Elizabeth had been such a fuckup?
“Anyway, mirabile dictu, he's enrolled in summer school, doing wonderfully”
“How did that happen?”
“I'd like to say it was my influence, but to tell the truth, I think it was a combination of Rumer and Qumn.”
Zee blinked. She swallowed hard, not wanting to show her emotions—which were so strong and overwhelming, she couldn't quite believe it. How could she be feeling this much fury for something that was good for Michael?
“Who…” she began, her head spinning. “Why didn't anyone tell me?”
“Well, we knew you'd be happy,” her father said. “I guess we just decided to go with the flow, see where it took him.”
“Rumer could have called me,” Zee said quietly. “Zeb could have.”
“I think Rumer tried,” her father said. “When she called to invite you to my going-away party.”
Zee breathed steadily, the way she had been trained, to keep from turning red. Yes, Rumer had called. Repeatedly. Zee had gotten messages on her voice mail, from her agent, from the production office… she had called back once, to decline breezily, when she'd known Rumer would be at the office.
Exhaling steadily, Zee forced a smile onto her face. She did a mental somersault, changing direction in order to keep her composure. “Anyway…” she said, her smile growing more radiant. “Dana really robbed the cradle, didn't she?”
“Be careful,” her father said. “Zeb was a younger man. Your little sister's age, precisely.”
“Low blow,” Zee said, the smile evaporating.
“I'm sorry.”
“You think I'm insensitive. You're giving me a taste of my own medicine.”
“Maybe.”
“Well, hit me with the rest of it. How is Zeb? He's a reformed celebrity from what I hear. Cast his career aside to drive across country with his son—when I'm sure it was the last thing Michael wanted.”
“I hope you don't encourage Michael in that. The boy needs his father.”
“I don't try to stop it, Dad.”
“Elizabeth, I learned the hard way that carrying a grudge against a parent does nothing but destroy you from the inside out. You seem to have forgiven me for all my mistakes…”
“I love you, Dad,” she said. “And you never really made that many.”
“Well, it's the same for Michael,” her father said. “We Larkins seem to be a long line of imperfect parents—my mother, me, maybe even you and Zeb”
“Especially Zeb,” she said stubbornly, although she knew he was right.
“I know a lot of this dates back to the time your sister went out to visit and blew the whistle on your drinking. She got Zeb very worried that she'd take Michael away if you didn't clean up your act.”
“I should be grateful to her,” Elizabeth said. “And in some ways I am. But that was not a fun time…”
“I can imagine.”
“Zeb was like the police, watching over me. And when he did have a mission, he'd hire extra baby-sitters and nannies so Michael would never be alone. He made me feel as if I could hurt my own child…” She trailed off because, as she had come to accept during her eleven years of sobriety, she very well could have.
“He could have been more diplomatic, I suppose,” Sixtus agreed. “But he was worried about his son. Your marriage was falling apart. Nerves were raw.”
“And I was in and out of rehab,” Zee said, shaking her head. “You want to know about raw….”
“Anyway, he's spending time with Michael this summer. Trying to set him on the right road to a good education.”
“Only a diehard teacher would care that much about education.”
“I became a teacher to help children,” Sixtus said softly. “That hasn't changed.”
“You became a teacher because you got the whole summer off,” Zee said, laughing and shaking her head. “You know that's true, Dad! And I admire you for it! Look at this gorgeous summer day—let's take a ride and enjoy it, okay? And you can explain to me why I shouldn't be upset with Rumer for taking over my son's life… she's not his mother, you know.”
“I think she's aware of that,” her father said.
To CELEBRATE THE kids’ summer school progress reports, Rumer and Zeb took them out to dinner at Lob-sterville. The great old family restaurant was located in Mount Hope, a thirty-minute drive from Black Hall. Zeb pulled into the wide gravel parking lot, and everyone admired the view of fishing boats, robber barons’ mansions, and the bridge across the bay Zeb glanced over at Rumer. The cool breeze had raised goose bumps on her bare shoulder, and the sight nearly stopped his heart.
“This is a celebration restaurant,” Quinn said. “My parents brought us here when we were little… my father had just bought his new office, I think.”
“Everyone has happy memories of Lobsterville,” Rumer said. “We used to come here when we got good grades… my parents would make a reservation for a window table, and we'd get to order anything we wanted.”
“Cool,” Quinn said. “I'm having steak.”
“At Lobsterville?” Rumer laughed.
“Sure. Lobster is my job, my line of work, my daily bread… I need a break!”
“You sound like someone from Nova Scotia,” Rumer said. “My father told me lobster's so common up there, farmers used to use it for fertilizer—-just plow it into the fields. The inmates at the prison were eating it five nights a week. They got so tired of it, they went on a hunger strike.”
“No hunger strike for this girl,” Quinn said, rubbing her hands together. “I'm having beef! Extra-extra rare—if they don't cook it, it's okay. This is so nice! You didn't have to do it… it's not even for a report card— just a progress report.”
“But you did get all A's,” Zeb said.
Michael said nothing but got out of the car and walked around to stand by Quinn. The last time he had gotten A's, he had been in eighth grade. He
had to be bursting with pride for his achievement—just like his father.
“How do you like this place?” Zeb asked, walking beside his son, on the opposite side from Quinn.
“Looks okay.”
Zeb nodded. He and Zee had taken Michael to some of the most sophisticated restaurants in the world. Taillevent and l'Ambroisie in Paris, la Tante Claire in London, Chanterelle and Nobu in New York, their old standbys Orso and les Deux Cafes in Los Angeles. For oceanside experiences, they went to Ivy at the Shore in Santa Monica or their favorite biker's bar, Neptune's Net, in Malibu. Michael tended to be jaded about dining; Zeb just hoped he didn't say anything to hurt his aunt's feelings. Rumer had chosen this place with pride and delight.
“They're supposed to have good seafood,” Zeb said.
“I know. It's fine, Dad.” Holding Quinn's hand, he pulled her ahead and left Zeb and Rumer walking together. Their feet crunched over the gravel mixed with crushed clamshells. Rumer put her arm around him.
“It's really going well with you and Michael,” she said.
“Yes,” Zeb said. “It is.”
The moral support felt good, but what really preoccupied him was the weight of her arm—small, light, but with enough substance to send serious energy running down his spine.
They gave their name to one of the Keatings, the restaurant owners, and then went into the bar to wait. The bartender offered the adults whiskey sours—the house special drink—but all four of them ordered iced teas. Zeb glanced at Rumer, wishing she would touch him again.
“You never drink, Aunt Rumer?” Michael asked.
“Not too often,” she replied.
Michael nodded, satisfied.
As the kids jostled each other, joking about lobsters and homework, Zeb tried to work his way closer to Rumer. He wanted to brush her hand, to feel her skin. He wanted to lean close to her, slide his arm around her, touch her. Her blue eyes were bright and filled with happiness. Was she as happy as she looked? To be having dinner with him, Michael, and Quinn? Was it possible that this was all it took?
Hearing their name called over the loudspeaker, Zeb followed everyone to the dining room. A beautiful young lady greeted them and led them to a table by the window. She wore hearing aids and spoke as if hearing impaired, and she beamed when Rumer conversed with her in sign language.
