by Nancy Thayer
“Did you take your pill?” Maggie asks. “You need to, Mom. It won’t knock you out. It will help you sleep.”
“The house is awfully cold. Has the furnace gone out?” Frances asks.
“I’ll check.” Maggie looks and sees that it’s a comfortable seventy degrees, according to the thermostat. She turns it up to eighty.
As Frances slowly goes up the stairs, Clarice’s eyes close. Her body sags. Maggie removes Clarice’s shoes and lifts her legs onto the sofa, arranging her body so it’s fully supported, tucking a pillow under Clarice’s head, and covering her with two afghans that Clarice had knit herself. Clarice is soon deeply asleep.
What else can she do? When she goes to her room, she sees that Frances’s door is shut. She leaves her own door open, in case someone calls, and falls onto her old childhood bed wearing all her clothes, too tired even to remove her shoes.
Wednesday morning, Emily drives back to her apartment at UMass to organize her clothes.
She checks her phone and finds a message. One message, from Ben. “Emily. Please call me. Please.” His voice is thick with emotion.
Great timing, Ben, she thinks. Now you deign to return my calls. Tears fill her eyes and she puts her hand to her mouth, as if she could force back a sob and all the sorrow it carries. But they’ve been over this before, they’ve argued, they haven’t been able to agree, and their sweet young love has been transformed by reality into something different, something somehow soiled.
She erases the message with tears streaming down her face. Ben was her childhood love. Perhaps he was the love of her life. But now—she is carrying the love of her life.
In the late afternoon, when Frances wakes from her drugged sleep, Maggie brings her breakfast in bed.
“How is Clarice?” Frances asks.
“Stunned,” Maggie says. “She spent the night here, on the sofa. Now she’s just sitting there. I got her to drink some tea.”
“Have you reached Ben?”
“He drove all night from Vermont. He should be here any moment.”
Frances closes her eyes against the pain. “Poor Ben.”
“Mom, drink some tea. I know you don’t want to—”
“Actually, I do. My throat is raw from crying.” Frances drinks slowly. “Thank you, darling. It’s soothing.” Tilting her head, she remarks, “It’s quiet in here.”
“Yes,” Maggie agrees. “I took the phone off the hook. It was ringing nonstop.”
“Oh, God.” Frances rubs her hands over her face. “People will be coming by soon, won’t they?”
“And they want to know about the funeral.”
“The funeral.” Frances seems to age years right before Maggie’s eyes. Then she tosses back her covers. “I’ll dress. We have a lot to do.”
The front door slams. Ben stampedes up the stairs, energetic even in his sorrow.
“Mom.” He kneels next to the bed, hugging his mother to him. “Fucking shitting hell.”
“Yes,” Frances agrees, smiling wanly. “I would agree with that.”
Ben looks up at Maggie. “Where’s Clarice?”
“In the living room downstairs.”
“I tried to phone but the line was always busy.”
“I took the phone off the hook. Everyone’s calling.”
Frances straightens her back. She throws her legs over the side of the bed. “Let me take a shower and change.”
“Come downstairs with me, Ben,” Maggie says. “I’ll make you some breakfast. You must be exhausted after driving all night.”
“That would be great, Mags.”
Ben follows Maggie downstairs. As she prepares scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast for her brother, she recounts the details of the past hours: Thaddeus on the kitchen floor, the ambulance, the hospital.
“He’s already been taken to the funeral home,” she tells Ben.
“I want to see him.”
“You can. Eat first.” She sets a plate before her brother.
“Aren’t you eating?”
“I’m not hungry. I’m going to see if I can persuade Clarice to eat some toast.”
But Clarice is asleep, resting against the pillow, mouth open, looking shrunken and extremely old.
Frances comes down, freshly showered, wearing a nice dress and a wool sweater. In the kitchen, they sit around the table, drinking tea and making lists of all they have to do, a little trio like it was long ago in the rented ’Sconset cottage, before Thaddeus came into their lives.
In Amherst, Emily quickly discovers online how to get a marriage license in Manhattan. She fills out the application online and pays the fee of thirty-five dollars. The only snag is that both she and Cameron have to appear to sign the application, but the city clerk’s office is down on Worth Street, near Columbus Park, close to Wall Street where Cameron works. It won’t be too much of a hassle and no blood test is required. She emails Cameron the details.
Pushing away from her desk, piled high with research documents, Emily decides to give herself a period of indulgence. And why not? She’s going to be married to a wealthy man. So what if she’s eloping? She should look breathtakingly gorgeous; then Cameron will see how fortunate he is to have her as a wife. Quickly packing a bag, she skips down to her car and drives into Manhattan where she parks in her parents’ garage, then takes a cab to Bergdorf Goodman.
She finds a winter white suit, lined with silk. For the ceremony, she’ll wear this with her large diamond ear studs.
In the lingerie section, Emily settles on undergarments of handmade ivory Belgian lace and silk stockings which, when fastened to the ivory garter belt, bunch into small rosebuds of silk.
On a whim, she buys a gorgeous red wool coat. It’s dramatic, glamorous. She buys a silk nightgown and a silk robe, fabulous high heels, and cashmere sweaters in spring pastels, and, oh yes, a wedding present for Cameron, a brilliantly thin Chopard watch.
Returning to her apartment, she kicks off her heels and spreads her bounty on the bed. The light is flashing on her answering machine, so she absentmindedly hits the Play button.
“Emily, it’s Maggie. Would you call me, please? It’s important.”
Emily closes her eyes. She had always thought Maggie would be her maid of honor, and she would be Maggie’s. How can Emily ask her now, when she’s marrying Cameron instead of Maggie’s brother?
Yet how can she not? Her most profound, enduring relationships are with her parents and Maggie. And Ben.
Screwing up her courage, she calls Maggie.
“Oh, Emily.”
Maggie’s voice is distressed—for a weird warped moment, Emily thinks Maggie somehow knows she’s through with Ben, she’s going to marry Cameron. But of course Maggie can’t know yet. “Maggie, are you all right?”
“No, Emily, I’m not. Everything’s in a terrible jumble. Emily, Thaddeus died. He had a heart attack. It was awful.”
“I’m sorry, Maggie, oh your poor mother. Poor Clarice. Poor Ben.”
“Everyone’s heartbroken, Emily. We’re all completely staggering under this.”
“I wish I could do something—”
“Come to the funeral. Please. It’s in three days.”
Shocked by the coincidence, Emily barks out a choked laugh. Maggie’s silence rebukes her. Immediately, she says, “Maggie, I’m getting married on Friday.”
“What?”
“I’m going to be married. I was calling to ask you to be my maid of honor.”
“How can you be getting married? Good Lord, I can’t take it all in.”
“He’s a lovely man. I’ve been seeing him for a few months …”
“Sleeping with him.”
“Yes. That, too.”
“Do you love him, Emily?” There she is, Emily’s Maggie, her Nantucket sister, cutting through the stormy turbulence of death and Ben and shock and surprise to care if Emily loves the man she’s marrying.
“Oh, Maggie, I never could love anyone like I love Ben. But Ben’s broken off with
me. He won’t answer my calls. And Cameron is—”
“Cameron?”
“Yes. La-di-da name, I know, but he’s truly nice. Cameron Chadwick.”
Maggie’s laughing.
“What? Do you know him?
“Sorry, Emily, sorry. I think I’ve gotten hysterical. My heart is overloaded. It’s the crazy timing of everything. You married the day Thaddeus is buried. It actually rhymes.” Maggie’s voice tatters into sobs. “Emily, I can’t talk anymore. I can’t— Listen. Congratulations. I wish you all the happiness in the world.”
Abruptly, Maggie hangs up.
Emily falls back onto the bed, lifting one arm to cover her eyes. Ben adored Thaddeus. His stepfather was his mentor, his role model, his idol. Ben will be devastated by Thaddeus’s death.
And Maggie will have her hands full. But she can do it, she can hold them all together. Maggie has the vibrant, enfolding warmth of a red tartan cape against a cold wind on the darkest day.
Emily would like to do something to help Maggie, to help them all through this devastating loss, but what can she do? Emily can scarcely make it through the day, she’s always exhausted with this pregnancy, not to mention the approaching marriage. She wishes she had someone to talk to, to ask advice from. Maggie would be best, but Maggie’s overwhelmed.
As often happens these days, suddenly sleep sweeps over her, blanking out her thoughts.
She wakes to Cameron’s telephone call. “Hey, Emily, I want you to come out to dinner with a couple of my friends tonight. I’ll pick you up in thirty minutes, okay?”
“Okay,” she says, returning to her new life.
The funeral is in two days. Frances, Maggie, and Ben are numb and overwhelmed with all the details and complications: the flowers, the phone calls and food, the decisions about hymns and which friends—out of many—would speak at the service. The obituary for the local newspaper. Finding a photo of Thaddeus, a decent photo where he doesn’t look like a gorilla in stained fishing gear.
Frances wants to have the reception at their house, because it so very much represents Thaddeus. Maggie and Frances and Ben attempt to create at least an illusion of order, but everything that needs putting away is something of Thaddeus’s—a net he’s been mending for months, a book he’s left half-finished on the arm of his chair, the grubby, oil-stained down vest he always wore instead of a coat. Frances carries each possession off to her room, cradling it like a child, humming deep in her throat as she chokes back tears.
Maggie takes charge of Clarice, driving her to her house to pack up a bag of clothing and necessities, then bringing her back to the farm. No one wants to be separated. The diminished family senses a need to huddle in one place.
Friends stop by, bringing casseroles, flowers, old photos of Thaddeus from years past. By the afternoon, Clarice and Frances have somehow clicked into a social mode, calm and gracious and robotic, allowing their friends to weep while they sit listening, their own grief locked away deep in their hearts.
The funeral at eleven in the morning is crowded; the reception at noon at the farm almost festive. Maggie’s swept up in the embraces and well wishes of so many islanders their faces blur. Frances and Clarice, both white as paper in their black dresses, stand at the door shaking hands as friends come and go. Finally, around two in the afternoon, Dr. Anderson insists they both sit down and, on his orders, eat some of the food set out on the dining room table and drink a cup of strong tea.
Old Evelyn Story, one of Clarice’s best friends, settles in next to Clarice, and a cluster of gnarled, weather-worn friends of Thaddeus come to lean against the living room walls. They talk about Thaddeus, his strength, his stubbornness, his love of the island. How he had such a terrible temper as a child. The tricks he got up to as a young man. How fortunate it was he met Frances, who made him happy, and how Maggie and Ben were the children Thaddeus never had. As the older people talk, their voices lighten, they laugh, they cry, they seem delighted to remember the slightest foolhardy thing Thaddeus ever did. They talk and talk until they’re hoarse, and the clock chimes three. It really is time for them to leave.
And Frances and her family have an appointment at the lawyer’s.
That morning Emily has her hair washed and set in an elegant French twist. She toys with the idea of wearing some kind of flowers in her hair for the ceremony, but decides against it. At three o’clock, in her childhood bathroom in her parents’ house, Emily steps out of the shower, towels herself dry, and stands studying her naked reflection in the mirror.
She’s never considered herself beautiful, but she understands her looks convey something else. With her long bony face and pale blue eyes, she looks like an aristocrat. Her long, rangy, narrow body is so thin now, from morning sickness, that it provides her with the emaciated, neurotic, edgy appearance of a catwalk model. Her breasts are enlarging with her pregnancy, but her long waist is still trim.
“So here you are,” Emily tells her reflection. “Your last few moments as a single woman.”
Her reflection smiles.
Emily slathers lotion all over her skin, and sprays a light mist of perfume at her wrists and neck and the backs of her knees. In the bedroom, she opens the drawer and lifts out the exquisite new lingerie. Silk stockings, the light wool suit, the high heels—perfection.
She puts on mascara and lipstick. Her pregnancy has truly given her skin a glow. She had her nails manicured and French tipped; she wants her hands to be groomed for the exchange of rings.
Pulling on her new red wool swing coat, Emily takes up her gloves and her purse and flies out into the day.
Brilliant sunshine floods down. On the sidewalks, the snow glitters as pristine as a bridal gown, and the air is clean and crisp. Her friend Tiffany arrives at the curb in a yellow cab. She’s agreed to be a witness for Emily.
“You look amazing, Em,” Tiffany tells her as Emily slides into the cab. “Are you nervous?”
“More sick than nervous.” Emily has told Tiffany everything.
Tiffany laughs her trilling laugh. “Well, I think you’re the bomb, Em. Getting pregnant and married all at once. How efficient is that? And I’ve checked Cameron Chadwick out. He’s loaded.”
“Oh, Tiffany, he’s dreamy,” Emily insists as they ride downtown. “Witty and gentle and decent. Right away we connected, really profoundly. I think in time he would have asked me to marry him. This just happened first.”
“You don’t have to persuade me, hon,” Tiffany says.
“We’re here,” the taxi driver says as they pull up to the city clerk’s building on Worth Street.
Emily’s heart thunders in her chest.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Ben drives Frances’s Volvo station wagon. Clarice rides in the passenger seat. Frances and Maggie are in the back. They drive into town and park near the library, then walk over to India Street and up the stairs to the law offices of Thatcher and Mulroney.
A receptionist rises when they enter and immediately shows them into the office of Kevin Thatcher, the attorney who has handled all of Thaddeus’s legal affairs. With grave courtesy, he shakes their hands and conveys, once again, his sympathy, then ushers them to a leather sofa in front of a wall of bookcases. The receptionist comes in with a tray of coffee. For a few moments, everyone is occupied with the details of arranging themselves for the reading of the will.
Kevin Thatcher is a tall, lean, bald man, so darkly tanned from vacationing in the Bahamas, his skin blends with his brown suit. As his lanky arms reach and pour and hand the coffee around, he looks rather like a giant spider.
At last he deems the party suitably settled for the reading of the will. Clarice folds her hands over the purse lying on her lap. Frances sits with downcast eyes, pressing a handkerchief to her mouth. Ben crosses his arms over his chest, digging his chin down toward his collarbone, a posture Thaddeus often took during a serious discussion. The palms of Maggie’s hands keep wanting to lie against her belly—she clasps them together and lays them in her
lap.
Kevin Thatcher clears his throat. “Before we begin, again, may I offer my deepest condolences to you all. Thaddeus Ramsdale was an unusual man, a good man, and his death is a loss to the island and all of us on it.”
Clarice looks at Frances, who is unable to speak. “Thank you.”
Kevin Thatcher smiles gently. “Now.” He unfolds the legal document and begins. “ ‘I, Thaddeus Devon Ramsdale, do solemnly attest that being in sound mind, this is my last will and testament—’ ”
He drones on. Maggie’s eyes threaten to close. She has been less nauseous the past few days, but more sluggish. Between the heavy maroon drapes, a window displays the bare, nearly black limbs of a tree shuddering in the cold wind. The room is overheated, stuffy—Ben kicks her leg; Maggie lifts her head.
“ ‘—I leave all the property on Polpis Road, including land, house, and outbuildings, to my stepson, Benjamin McIntyre—’ ” the lawyer intones.
“What?” Ben yelps. “Hold on! That’s not right. Thaddeus left his Polpis property to the Land Bank. Or the Conservation Foundation. He told me so.”
“It’s all right, Ben,” Frances said. “He changed his mind.”
“You know about this?” Ben’s voice is shrill with surprise.
Frances nods. So does Clarice. Maggie tries to keep her face in control—she’s so jealous. She always knew Thaddeus loved Ben more, she never really felt comfortable with her rugged, taciturn stepfather. She’s glad for Ben, and yet she feels hideously slighted. Thaddeus could have left her some furniture or something. Anything would have made her feel not so left out, so abandoned. Tears prick her eyes.
“Shall I continue?” Kevin Thatcher inquires. “Very well. ‘I leave all the property on Polpis Road, including land, house, and outbuildings to my stepson, Benjamin McIntyre, with the provision that my wife, Frances, be allowed to live in the house as long as she wishes, or be provided another house of commensurate quality—’ ”
Simultaneously, Ben and Maggie snort out laughs, then flash chagrined looks at one another.
“Sorry,” Ben says.
The lawyer continues. “ ‘I leave the house on Orange Street to my stepdaughter, Margaret McIntyre, with the provision that if my mother, Clarice Livingston Ramsdale, does not predecease me, she will have the right to live there as long as she wishes.’ ”
