by Lisa Henry
Elliott thought he did.
Life was short. Life was fragile. Their dad’s death had Elliott wanting to hunker down, to find shelter, to somehow protect himself from being hurt again. It made him want to take the people he still had and hold them as closely as he could. Grief made Elliott defensive, afraid of making a misstep. It made Marianne braver, unanchored and reckless with it, and greedy to live as much as she could while she could. It made her want to spread her wings and fly.
Elliott had always envied Marianne her courage, while at the same time it worried him how much faith she put in the world, in people, in the universe making sure things worked out in the end.
“I know,” Elliott said softly.
“I’m not saying I won’t go to college,” Marianne said, the corner of her mouth lifting. “Just that I won’t now.”
Elliott nodded. “Okay.”
“Okay?” she echoed, like she didn’t believe he’d give in so easily.
“It’s your decision.”
The quirk of Marianne’s mouth became an actual smile. “It is,” she agreed, and then picked up a figurine of a wizard. She waggled it in Elliott’s direction and dropped her voice to a gruff rumble: “I agree with Marianne.”
“Nobody asked you,” Elliott told it.
“Ignore my brother,” Marianne stage-whispered to the wizard as she set it back on the shelf with its fellows. “He doesn’t even believe in magic.”
***
The bells on the shop door jangled. Elliott straightened up from where he was reorganizing the incense in the pigeonholes beside the counter, but Marianne breezed out from behind the bead curtain and beat him to the customer.
“Hi,” she said brightly. “Can I help you?”
The woman stopped, frowned down at the piece of paper she was holding, and then lifted her gaze again. “I’m looking for John? John Middleton?”
“John’s not here at the moment.” Marianne smiled. “Were you looking for anything in particular?”
The woman looked around the store dubiously. “I called last week. John was putting a DVD aside for me.”
“Hmm,” Marianne said. “Elliott, is there anything behind the counter?”
Elliott bent down to check. He found a cardboard box with On Hold—don’t sell!!!! scrawled on the side in sharpie. He pulled it out and set it on the counter. There were a few DVDs in there, along with a tin of ginger-and-honey tisane, a book about astral projection, a frog magnet, and a pack of tarot cards. All the items had sticky notes attached to them. Elliott flipped through the DVDs. “It might be one of these. Can I have your name?”
“Brandon,” the woman said. She was in her late thirties, maybe her early forties. She had sandy-colored hair cut short on the sides and left longer on top. She was dressed in khakis and a button-up shirt ironed so precisely that the darts looked as sharp as blades. As she moved closer to the counter, her mouth tightened and Elliott saw that her gait was a little uneven. “Deanna Brandon.”
Elliott flipped through the DVDs again. There was one labeled Lt. Col. Brandon. The military rank certainly seemed like a good fit for the woman standing in front of the counter. The title of the DVD—Finding your Center: Viniyoga and Meditation Techniques for Beginners—did not.
“Um, is this it?” Elliott asked, holding it up so she could see the cover.
Colonel Brandon’s mouth thinned. Her brows drew together, and a hint of color rose in her cheeks. “I’m supposed to learn how to relax.”
She said the word like it was an obscenity.
“Viniyoga’s very good,” Marianne offered with a bright smile. “It’s not as physically intense as something like vinyasa or ashtanga, and it’s a great way to really learn how to move, you know?”
Colonel Brandon just stared at her. Clearly, she did not know. “I’m supposed to relax,” she said again, awkwardly.
Marianne’s smile didn’t even falter. “Well, in that case, yoga is fine, but you know what’s really great?”
Elliott very much hoped she didn’t produce the book on tantric sex.
“What?” Colonel Brandon asked gruffly.
“Weed,” Marianne said.
Colonel Brandon blinked at her slowly. “That . . . that’s not something I’m going to do.”
“Okay,” Elliott said, setting the DVD case down on the counter. “That’s, um, nineteen ninety-nine.”
Colonel Brandon cast a wary look in Marianne’s direction, then tugged her wallet out of the pocket of her khakis. She pulled a perfectly crisp twenty-dollar bill free and slid it over the counter.
Elliott rang up her purchase, dropped the penny change she didn’t want into the donation tin for Oxfam, and shoved the DVD and the receipt into a paper bag.
“Have a great day!” Marianne called to Colonel Brandon’s back as she retreated back onto the street again.
The bells jangled aggressively as the door swung shut.
“Really?” Elliott asked.
“What?”
“Can you maybe not tell the customers to get high? It’s not very professional.”
Marianne snorted and gestured around at the store. “Oh, please. As if the customers don’t expect us to be total potheads.”
Elliott reached for the cracked worry stone. “The only reason we’ve got a place to live is because we’re working in the store, remember? Don’t give John a reason to fire us.”
“You worry too much, Elliott,” Marianne said airily.
Probably. But only because nobody else worried at all.
Elliott ran his thumb over and over the crack in the stone.
***
They ate better that night than they had in days. With the specter of greasy diner and gas-station food behind them, Abby whipped up a tofu stir-fry with a ginger-and-honey sauce. It was packed with spinach and snow peas, and Elliott never wanted to look at another grilled cheese in his life.
They somehow all crowded around the tiny table as they ate. Marianne filled Abby and Greta in on their adventures in the store, and Abby and Greta filled Marianne and Elliott in on their adventures in getting Greta enrolled in the local junior high.
“It looks like it was built when the rest of the town was,” Greta supplied, waving her fork dangerously close to Elliott’s field of vision. “It’s probably six hundred percent asbestos, and when I die you can sue the school district for a gazillion dollars.”
“At least you won’t have died in vain,” Marianne said approvingly.
“They’re putting me in honors classes,” Greta said, and wrinkled her nose.
Abby leaned over and knocked her gently with her shoulder. “You’ll do great in honors classes, baby.”
Greta glowered.
“I’m going to talk to John tomorrow about how often he needs us to work in the store,” Elliott said. “Mom, maybe you and Marianne can take most of the hours there, and I’ll look for something that pays?”
Abby raised her eyebrows. “Or maybe you can take a week or two and do nothing, Elliott. Have you thought of that?”
Marianne and Greta were watching him curiously, and Elliott suddenly realized what this was: an ambush. They’d clearly been discussing him behind his back, and painting him as some work-obsessed penny-pincher.
“What?” he asked, setting his fork down.
“I don’t want you working too hard,” Abby said firmly.
“No, Mom, Jesus.” He snorted. “I’m talking about trying to do the bare minimum, okay? It’s not like I’m going to turn into some sort of evil capitalist overlord. It’s not like I belong on that side of the Family.”
“Elliott, sweetheart.” Abby reached out and put her hand over his. “Nobody thinks that.”
Elliott tugged his hand free, a hot burst of an emotion he didn’t want to name rising up inside him.
“Don’t you ever get angry?”
“Elliott,” Abby said softly.
Elliott drew a breath.
“Nobody thinks that,” Abby had said. Nobody though
t that Elliott belonged with those Dashwoods. The cold-blooded Dashwoods.
Maybe he did.
Maybe a part of Elliott—a bigger part of him than he wanted to admit—would have sold his soul right now for a fraction of those Dashwoods’ financial security.
“It’s fine, Mom,” he said. He forced a smile and picked up his fork to continue his meal.
On Friday night, John invited the Dashwoods to dinner to properly welcome them to Barton Lake and, as he said, back into the family. For once, that word—absent of that capital F and all its associated connotations that flashed neon-bright in Elliott’s mind—sounded genuinely warm.
“Do you still live in that little place on Martin Street?” Abby asked.
“Oh, no,” John told her with a laugh. “We’re at the Boathouse now! Do you remember the Boathouse?”
“I think so,” Abby said, but she had to consult their little tourist map before driving them out there in the evening.
The Boathouse was on Pier Lane, a wide winding street that hugged the first curve of Barton Lake. From what Elliott could see, there were no other houses on the street. Most of Pier Lane appeared to be public land, with picnic tables and the occasional playground equipment arrayed along the lakeside. The sun was going down as they arrived at the house, setting the lake ablaze with pink-and-gold fire. It was beautiful.
The house was large, and built in the same deco style as much of the main street. It was stunning.
“This is it,” John said proudly as he ushered the Dashwoods inside. “The Boathouse. It was built in the thirties for the people who came to use the lake. There were changing rooms here, and an open-air cinema that showed movies at night. There was a kiosk that sold soda and cotton candy, and you could even rent a rowboat for the day!” They passed underneath a decorative lintel. “It was in a hell of a state when Paula and I bought it. We practically had to rebuild it from scratch.”
“Oh, it was falling apart the last time I saw it!” Abby exclaimed, distracted by the pressed tin panels in the ceiling. “It’s amazing!”
“It’s taken the past twenty years to get it into shape,” John said. “The county wanted to knock it down. And now look at it! When the girls all head off to college, we’re thinking of opening it as a B&B.”
Elliott took in his fill of the interior. It was beautifully restored. John might have been an old hippie on the outside, but clearly he was channeling the ghost of Jay Gatsby underneath his faded T-shirts, beaded bracelets, and Birkenstocks.
Then again, maybe Paula Middleton had been in charge of the restoration.
Paula was a bottle blonde in her midfifties. She wore her hair in a sleek, neat bob, and dressed like a realtor in a gray skirt suit and a salmon blouse. She couldn’t have looked like a more unlikely match for John if she’d tried.
“It’s so wonderful to meet you all,” she effused, her smile bright. “Welcome! Elliott, and you must be Marianne? And Greta! Abby, goodness, has it really been twenty years? You haven’t changed a bit! Come out to the deck and meet the girls!” Her heels tapped on the floor as she led them through. “Rose and Jasmine are away at college, but Poppy and Violet are both still at home.”
Elliott couldn’t help catching Greta’s gaze as she gave a gasp of something between delight and horror.
“Elliott!” she whispered, her eyes wide. “They have literal flower children!”
Elliott hung back a little as they arrived at the back deck. Poppy and Violet were blonde like their mother. Poppy wore her hair pulled back tightly. Violet’s hair was loose, spilling in haphazard twists. Age-wise, they slotted in between Marianne and Greta. Poppy was in her senior year in high school. Violet was a junior. They seemed polite, perhaps even a little standoffish in comparison to their exuberant father, but—Elliott shrugged inwardly—teenagers. Not that he was that much older, but the past few years . . . Elliott’s adolescence felt as distant and strange as a foreign country.
“What would you like to drink, Elliott?” Paula said, taking him by the elbow and guiding him toward the large table in the center of the deck. In the dying light, it was illuminated by candles in colored glass holders. A kaleidoscope of light fragments danced on the tabletop. “How about a glass of wine? Red or white? Hmm. White, I think.”
Before Elliott could even confirm, a long-stemmed wineglass was pressed into his hand.
“You look so much like your father,” Paula said. Her small smile was almost apologetic. “We were so sorry to hear of his loss.”
“Thank you.” Elliott sipped his wine.
He watched as John led Abby over toward the railing of the deck. It overlooked the lake, and the view was beautiful. The sunset was fading into darkness now, and across the wide expanse of water, Elliott could see the faint glimmer of lights. John drew Abby’s attention to them, and she leaned out over the railing as though she were trying to immerse herself in them.
Chair legs dragged on the deck as the girls took up a position at the other end of the table.
Paula followed Elliott’s gaze across the lake. “Those are the big houses. Summer places mostly, nowadays, but there are a few year-round occupants. Mrs. Smith. Colonel Brandon. The Bells. The Challenors. Your father and his first wife had a place right on the lakeshore. It was sold, oh, about fifteen years ago now, I think it was.”
Too many bad memories? Or just wiping the scandal of Abby and Henry clean? Probably the second one. Paula might have thought the house was owned by Henry, but it wouldn’t have been. Everything the Dashwoods owned was managed by the family trust. And what the family trust giveth, the family trust sure as shit taketh away again.
“It’s a shame,” Paula said with a sigh, and for a moment Elliott thought she was talking about his dad. Then she sipped her wine and sighed again. “There was something so vibrant about this place back when all the big names were here. We would love to get some of those families back. It’d really drive up property values for everyone else, and make Barton Lake a prestige travel destination again.”
For a moment Elliott was so still he imagined he could hear the shallow waves on the lake lapping against the shore. The sharp bob, the suit, the talk of property values . . .
Then Paula shook her head, and her expression softened. “I’m sorry. I promised John I wouldn’t talk about work. I’m on the Tourism Board, you know.”
For a moment Elliott might have mistaken Paula Middleton for someone from his father’s side of the Family, but the Barton Lake Tourism Board and their overuse of clip art and Comic Sans? Paula was no circling shark.
When she reached out to refill her wineglass, her sleeve rode up, and he caught a glimpse of an intricately detailed hamsa tattoo on her inner wrist. The suit was a lie. Elliott had no doubt her weekend wardrobe was full of cheesecloth.
“John!” Paula called out, and both John and Abby turned from the railing. “I was just saying, isn’t Elliott the spitting image of Henry?”
Elliott’s heart skipped a beat, but he looked at Abby to find she was smiling.
She stepped toward him, mouth quirked. “Hmm. When I met him, Henry already had gray hairs. He was still a young man, and he already had gray hairs and frown lines.” She ruffled her fingers through Elliott’s hair. “But he was very handsome, yes. Just like my darling baby boy.”
Elliott flushed and risked a glance at his sisters and the Middleton girls. “Mom!”
“I only do it because I love you,” Abby told him, and plucked his wineglass from his grasp long enough to take a sip. Her eyes were bright. “And because it embarrasses you.”
Elliott stole his glass back. He was tall enough—or she was short enough—that he could hold it out of her reach. He put his free arm around her shoulders and drew her in for a quick hug.
For a moment they were both distracted by the lights on the far shore of the lake. Elliott didn’t have to wonder what his mom was seeing when she looked at them. Who she was seeing. Elliott’s heart ached for his father as well.
Abby sque
ezed him on the forearm, a soft gesture of comfort and reassurance, and then stepped away from him, already laughing in reply to something Marianne had said.
Elliott relaxed, drank his wine, and listened to the conversation flow around him. The candles burned brighter as the night darkened, and their laughter traveled across the lake.
***
Saturday morning dawned bright. Elliott yawned and stretched until the springs in the foldout couch sang, and decided that after a few too many glasses of Paula’s white wine the night before, he needed a coffee to kick-start the day. He climbed out of bed and showered quickly, wincing every time the pipes squealed and hoping he wasn’t waking everyone up.
When he returned to the living area, both bedroom doors were still closed, and he couldn’t hear any signs of life apart from Abby’s snoring.
A stack of binders occupied most of the small dining table courtesy of Poppy and Violet, for Greta’s use at school. They’d taken some of the same classes and had happily handed over their notes. They’d also spent a good deal of last night telling Greta exactly which teachers to avoid riling up. Greta had been unusually willing to listen.
Elliott ran a hand through his hair as he waited for the coffee maker to finish percolating.
They needed to keep an eye on Greta. She liked to pretend she was tough as hell and twice as evil, but underneath her prickly exterior she was a thirteen-year-old girl who’d just lost her dad, her home, and everything she’d ever known. If Elliott was feeling lost still, unanchored, confused by the way the world had so suddenly shifted, then of course Greta was too. And add to all that the stress of starting at a new school, having to make new friends . . . Elliott didn’t envy her.
He drank his coffee while he checked the news headlines on his phone, and then went outside. He didn’t need to be at the store for another two hours yet, so he walked through the narrow yard and into the back alley instead. He stuck his hands in his coat pockets and enjoyed the bite of the cool air.
