At Last (The Idle Point, Maine Stories)

by Bretton, Barbara

  The need to slap back at him was undeniable. "She left you, didn't she. She fell in love with my father and dumped you." She felt dizzy, disoriented, as if bits and pieces of her essential self were being torn from her.

  "That's not how it happened."

  "Yes, it is. That's exactly how it happened." She spun around. She wanted him to see her face, to be reminded in some small way of the woman who had walked out on him. "She didn't love you anymore and she left you for my father."

  "She didn't leave me, Graciela, I left her."

  "That doesn't make sense. You loved her. You said so yourself. Why would you leave her?"

  "Because I was young." He braced himself against the kitchen table, fingers splayed against the scarred wood. His left arm trembled slightly. She could see every spot, every vein, every bone clearly. "I wanted more than she could give me... she was like quicksilver, your mother... she was so beautiful and the men—God, how they followed her, sniffing like hounds. I was always looking over my shoulder, watching... wondering. I needed a solid foundation, a woman I could lean on while I rebuilt the Gazette."

  "So you married Ruth."

  "I married Ruth," he said, "but I never once stopped loving your mother."

  The story was taking shape in front of Gracie, cryptic comments from Gramma Del, Ben's despair, Simon's anger that had seemed so hard to understand.

  "But my mother didn't love you any more, did she. She loved my father."

  "She loved me."

  "No!" The water was running in the sink. Why hadn't she turned it off? "That's not true. You're lying. She loved my father and he loved her. They were happy together."

  He rode over her words. "We found each other again. Our marriages were both barren. We were both lonely and then suddenly we weren't. The love we'd had as teenagers was still there, still burning..."

  "Shut up!" Gracie screamed. She kicked at the chair in front of her, knocking it on its side with a crash.

  "... we decided to run off together. We were still young, barely forty. We still had many years ahead of us. We would divorce our spouses. I would sell off the Gazette to one of the conglomerates hammering at my door. Then we would disappear from Idle Point forever." Paris, he said. London. Rome and Florence and Cairo and Tokyo. He would show her the world.

  "I don't want to know any more," Gracie cried. All of her pretty stories were being smashed under his heel. "Please stop—"

  "We had it all worked out. I would leave Ruth and Noah well-provided for. She would let Ben down as gently as she could and you—"

  "No! Please..."

  "—would be with us."

  She tried to leave the room but he stepped in front of her, blocking her way. They were almost the same height. Both tall, both lean, both brown-eyed.

  "Do you understand now, Graciela?"

  She pushed against his chest but he didn't budge. "I don't care about anything you have to say. It's old news. It doesn't matter anymore."

  "We were going to be together, the three of us. That's where she was going the day she died. We were going to be a family."

  "She wouldn't do that. She would never have taken me away from my father." Ben hadn't been drinking then. They had been a happy family.

  "She wasn't taking you away from your father, Graciela; she was taking you to him." He forced her to meet his eyes. "I am your father."

  #

  Done, Simon thought, as he left Gracie behind. He had seen her dreams crumble with his own eyes.

  He waited for the elation but so far there was none. Where was the sense of payback he had sought for so long. That Mona had died and her daughter lived... unfair... more than unfair... unthinkable... she had ruined everything the girl had... better she had never been born... that's why Mona stayed with that drunk she'd married... for the child... for that plain and forgettable child...

  Hot. Why was it so hot in the car? He fiddled with the air conditioning. Beads of sweat dripped down his temples and down his cheeks. His shirt stuck to his back. He hated the heat... felt better when it was cold out... brisk, he called it... heat made him queasy... dizzy... hard to focus on the road... pull over for a minute...maybe call Ruth... the car phone... it's somewhere... that's what he should do... catch his breath... catch his breath... catch

  #

  Keep moving, Gracie. Don't stop. Put your bags in the trunk. Leave the house keys on the kitchen table with the letter for Ben. Now you know why he drinks, why he does everything short of putting a gun to his head in order to stop the memories. Of course you can't tell him that. You can't tell anyone anything at all because if you do you'll be forced to believe it and right now that's more than you can take. Isn't it enough that your heart is breaking and there's nothing anyone can do to make it whole again?

  Don't think.

  If you think, you'll go crazy. If you think, you'll start crying and you'll never stop.

  Forget all the sweet stories. Forget the mother you thought you knew. The mother you dreamed about. The father who broke your heart. Don't think about his pain because if you let it seep into your skin you'll never be free of it. Forget everything that made you who you are because it is all a lie.

  Write a letter to Noah. You can leave it here on the kitchen table because you know he will come looking for you. You wrestle with each word, but what can you say now that could possibly matter? Let him go. Don't burden him with questions. Tell him it's you, all your fault, tell him that you thought you could do it but you couldn't leave everything behind, school and work and all your dreams of a future to call your own. Tell him that you wish him Paris and sidewalk cafes and garlicky wine-soaked lunches with Hemingway's ghost. Tell him you wish it could have been different but maybe you had been a fool to ever believe it would end any other way.

  And then just tell him goodbye.

  #

  Five o'clock came and went.

  Five-fifteen.

  Quarter to six.

  By six o'clock Noah was convinced something had happened to Gracie and he climbed back behind the wheel of his sports car and started toward her house. Damn it. Why hadn't he pushed the issue and picked her up at home the way he'd wanted to in the first place. What if Ben had come home, drunk and pathetic, and begged her to stay and help him. She didn't need that. She shouldn't have to deal with it. Or maybe that old car of hers had finally fallen apart and she was stuck in the driveway, hoping he would show up.

  The roads were clear. It was the lazy end of summer when everyone moved more slowly than usual. Tourists stayed at the beach past sundown. Townies headed over to Hidden Island or one of the other secret spots. He'd never fit in with either group, a stranger in both camps which was a lot like the way he felt at home. More like a visitor than a real member of the family.

  But that didn't matter anymore now that he had Gracie. She was his family, his home. She made him want to be more than he thought possible, if only to make her half as proud of him as he was of all she had achieved.

  He was about to turn off the main road and head toward the docks and Gracie's house when he recognized his father's Town Car angled onto the grass on the opposite side of the street. Simon's head rested against the driver's window. The engine was still running. A knot formed in the pit of Noah's gut.

  Screw it. You should be on your way to your wedding right now. You didn't see anything.

  Noah made it to the corner before his conscience kicked in. He made a U-turn and pulled to a stop just behind the Lincoln. He beeped the horn. No response. Okay, maybe his old man was napping. Simon was on a lot of medication these days and those things all had side effects that could drop a horse. He'd make sure Simon was okay, then move on. He owed his father that much.

  "Dad." He rapped twice on the window. "Dad, are you okay?"

  No response.

  He rapped again. "Say something, Dad! Open the door."

  Still nothing.

  "Shit." He tried the door. It was locked. He ran around to the passenger's side, tried that but
it was locked as well. Simon looked dead white. A sheen of sweat glistened on his sunken cheeks. "Oh, Jesus..."

  There wasn't a soul in sight. No pay phones. Simon's car phone rested on the passenger seat but what good did that do him with the doors and windows locked tight. Gracie's house was less than three minutes away. He could call the cops from there, make sure they brought out an ambulance. He could do that much for his father. Gracie would understand. She would do the same. He knew that. Shit. Her house seemed so far away. What if his father died? Don't think about that. That wasn't going to happen. It couldn't happen. He'd call the cops, the cops would call out the ambulances, they'd make Simon better. It had happened before. It was happening now. They'd deal with it.

  But what if Simon died while he was getting help? He had to do something now. He knew CPR. He'd do what he could then get help. There was no time to waste. He glanced around for a rock or heavy branch then opted for a scissor kick that smashed the passenger side window. A second later he was in the car next to his father, unbuttoning the man's shirt, clearing an airway, calling for help. Time slowed down to a crawl as he worked in a vacuum of fear and silence.

  "No."

  He jumped at the sound of Simon's voice.

  "It's okay. I'm here. An ambulance is on its way."

  "No!" Louder this time, more frantic. He pushed at Noah with flailing hands.

  "They'll help you," Noah said, trying to calm him. "You're going to be okay."

  "Graciela..."

  "What?" Noah leaned closer so he could hear his father's words. "Say it again."

  "Graciela... no... no..."

  "Don't talk," Noah said. "Rest." They could argue this ten years from now while the grandchildren were playing outside.

  "Gone... finally... gone."

  "Listen!" The siren's wail grew closer. "The ambulance will be here any second."

  "... her fault... she ruined everything..."

  A chill ran up Noah's spine. "Ruined what? Dad, what are you talking about?"

  Simon's eyes closed. His breathing stilled.

  "Come on, " Noah muttered. "Come on, damn it." Where the hell were the cops? The ambulance should've been there by now. His father was dying right in front of his eyes and there wasn't a damn thing Noah could do to help him.

  "Goddamn it, Dad." He pumped his father's chest in a desperate attempt to save him, but it was too late. It had been too late the day Noah was born.

  "I'm really sorry, Noah," said Pete Winthrop, son of the old police chief. "The EMT staff said you did everything you could."

  Noah felt drained. Beyond tears. Beyond sorrow. The weight of things left unsaid was crushing. He wished Gracie were there with him. He needed her more than he'd ever needed her before. He wanted to see her face, touch her hand, reassure himself that the future they'd dreamed of was still within reach.

  "Noah."

  Noah started. "Sorry." He forced himself to pay attention. "What did you say?"

  "You'll want to tell your mother before she finds out some other way."

  "Oh, Jesus." He felt like crying. His mother's world revolved around Simon. What would she do without him? "Yeah, I'll tell her." He had to find Gracie. His mother liked Gracie and he knew Gracie thought highly of her in return. He couldn't do this alone. He wanted to climb behind the wheel of his sports car and break the speed of sound getting the hell out of there. He was good at running away from things he didn't like. That was one of the first things you learn when you're six years old and far away from home and everyone you love.

  He had to find Gracie. Gracie would know how to handle this. She would know the right way to tell his mother.

  "Noah." Pete Winthrop's voice broke into his thoughts. "You okay to drive?"

  He nodded. "Yeah. I'm fine."

  Pete stepped closer. "You don't look so good."

  He pushed past him, trying to get to his car. He had to get out of there. He had to find Gracie. He'd stop by her house. It was late. Hours past when they were supposed to meet. Gracie was logical. Clear-headed. She would go home and wait for a phone call, wait for him to show up with an explanation. He had to get to her. This would all make sense when he saw her again, when he held her in his arms.

  Minutes later he whipped into her driveway. Her car was nowhere in sight but that didn't mean anything. Maybe she called Gabe's Cab Service and got a lift. Maybe she'd left her car back there in the parking lot with a note for him under her windshield wiper. Maybe if he kept moving it would all start to make sense.

  His heart beat so fast and hard that it hurt. Jesus, what the hell was going on. He banged on the door. No answer. He tried the door. It was unlocked. He stepped into the front room. "Gracie!" He moved toward the hallway. "Mr. Taylor?" His footsteps sounded like cannon fire. The rooms were clean and neat. There were no signs of life anywhere, not even Sam the Cat. He stepped into the tiny kitchen. The dishes were washed and put away. The floor sparkled. He noticed wet streaks in the white tiles. He glanced at the kitchen table. Sugar bowl in the center. Creamer next to it. Salt and pepper shaker. Two envelopes, one with his name on it.

  He opened the envelope and pulled out a folded sheet of typing paper. Gracie's handwriting—formal and precise—angled across the page. She was sorry... she loved him but... school... the future... sorry... so very sorry...

  He stood there in the middle of the quiet kitchen for a long time and then when the world reassembled itself around him, he walked out of the house, away from Idle Point, away from Maine, away from the world he'd known, away from the life he'd dreamed about, the girl he loved and the lies she had told and it would be a long time before he looked back.

  Chapter Ten

  New York City, eight years later

  It had occurred to Gracie more than once over the last week that she just might be crazy to even think about returning to Idle Point for her father's wedding. She didn't usually attend Ben's weddings—he'd had so many of them, after all, and not one of them had lasted—but it wasn't every day your father married the girl who used to sit behind you in English class back in high school.

  Maybe if he hadn't called her on the day the hospital put her on suspension she might have begged off and sent the happy couple a potted plant and her best wishes, but, as luck would have it, he'd caught her as she walked in the door to her apartment with her arms piled high with files and Rolodex cards and an old cat named Pyewacket who didn't seem all that pleased to be there.

  "Graciela," Ben had said in his flat Maine accent, "this is your father."

  "Hello, Dad," she'd said, ignoring the little tug of emotion the sound of her given name aroused. Nobody but Ben called her Graciela. You wouldn't think such a simple thing could still hold such power over her heart but it did. He was her father, not Simon Chase, no matter that her DNA might say otherwise.

  They had come a very long way since the terrible day of Gramma Del's funeral. He never knew that Simon had come calling. The note she had left him said nothing more than, "Went back to school a week early. Gracie." She had been shocked to learn months later that Simon had died that very afternoon not far from her house. Shocked but not saddened. All she felt was a deep regret that she would never be able to ask the many questions that had plagued her ever since.

  A few hours earlier and her life and Noah's would have been entirely different. Then again, that was part of the fantasy. If what Simon had told her was true—and she had no reason to believe otherwise—her future with Noah had been doomed from the start.

  She only thought about that every other day.

  Her newfound relationship with her father had started slowly with Hallmark greetings and an occasional picture postcard of the Idle Point lighthouse or the Lobster Shack with the blue and white buoys hanging from the weathered shingles. From there it progressed to phone calls on Sundays when the rates were low. To her amazement, Gracie had found herself looking forward to those calls. He was her only family and it mattered to her. Three years ago he drove down to Manhattan to see wh
ere she was working and she took him to all of the tourist spots, including the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty, and Central Park and her eyes actually filled with tears when it was time to say goodbye.

  She told herself that she was being a sucker and that if she'd learned anything in life it was the fact that you couldn't trust anyone but yourself, but there was still no denying that Ben Taylor was a different man these days. He had been faithfully attending AA meetings for over seven years and Gracie had endured a painful telephone conversation where he apologized for his transgressions and vowed to make amends. I know the whole story, she wanted to tell him. I know about my mother and Simon Chase. I know what she did to you... what they both did to you. I know I'm not really your biological daughter... They both knew that nothing he could do would ever be enough to erase the years of neglect. If only she knew how to tell him that she understood more than he could imagine.

  Funny the way things sometimes worked out. Simon Chase had destroyed her future with Noah on that long-ago afternoon, but his revelation had made it possible for her to understand Ben in a way she had never before been able to do. Simon had given her the gift of compassion. So much about her life made sense now to Gracie. The way Ben had kept her an arm's-length away from him. His reluctance to talk about her mother. The deep hatred between him and Simon. The cloud of bitterness and despair that seemed to surround him.

  She wondered sometimes if he knew the truth or only suspected. It wasn't something she could bring herself to ask him. Her mother and Simon Chase were long dead. Gramma Del was gone. Her father—and that was who he was to her; Simon's words would never change that—was finally making some sense of his imperfect life. What could be gained by derailing him now? Let the past stay where it was, buried beneath old newspapers and discarded photographs where it belonged.

  Over the years she had grown very good at burying the past.