Trust Fund Babies

by Jean Stone

  “Of course it matters. We’ve got to go with him! We’ve got to find Lester!”

  “Mary Beth, shut up,” Nikki said, pulling out of the lot and steering toward the Shore Road. “We’re not going anywhere. I have responsibilities here with the camp. And you have a wedding one week from today.”

  One week from today? Oh, God, she thought. Only seven days!

  “And while we’re at it,” Nikki continued, “you might have thought to mention to Gabrielle that her husband was waiting for her on the Vineyard.”

  “Excuse me, my mistake. I’ve had a few thousand other things on my fucking mind.”

  Nikki shrugged. “You managed to concoct a scheme for Gabrielle to get to Connor. And by the way, I will not be taking his money—for me or for you—and if there’s one thing that I don’t need it’s to get, as you put it, laid.”

  Mary Beth looked out the window into the darkness and wished she had stayed on the pier.

  She’d once read a magazine article about sabotaging relationships, and Gabrielle had wondered if that pertained to her. But that had been before she’d married Stefano. That had been before she thought she’d learned to trust.

  She curled up in the small bed at the lighthouse.

  If Stefano had lied about knowing who she was, what else had he lied about?

  Was he Angelina’s lover?

  Had they been lovers all along?

  Had he only married Gabrielle because he had known about her money and that someday the truth would surface, and that even if they divorced he would be entitled to … to what? Half?

  He would never be entitled to Rosa, would he? And could Gabrielle really take Rosa from the man she thought was her father, the man she loved so much?

  Nikki had brought her dinner, a peace offering of baked fish and rice and salad. But Gabrielle could not eat: She could not force the food down.

  The hours slowly passed. Her head ached and her stomach churned as if she were on a ship, caught in a sea of roiling waves of discontent. She only knew she could not return to Italy, not until she could think clearly. So she’d spent the night awake in the lighthouse, her eyes wide open, thinking about secrets, thinking about lies.

  When dawn finally came, she was gifted with sleep that did not seem to last long before she was awakened by the sound of a soft, young voice.

  “Gabrielle? Would you like to sleep at the camp? You could sleep in my cottage. We could get another bunk bed.”

  It was Molly.

  Gabrielle reached out and ruffled Molly’s curls. The little girl looked pale today. Perhaps she hadn’t slept well, either. Perhaps she knew that her mother had died and her father had gone off and perhaps she feared he’d never return. She wondered if Rosa was worried that Gabrielle would never return. A small tear crept into her eye. “What are you doing out here at the lighthouse?” she asked, forcing a smile.

  “I came to sit still for Nikki. She’s painting my picture.”

  Gabrielle rubbed Molly’s tiny back. “Oh, honey, that’s wonderful. Would you like me to braid your hair?”

  Molly shrugged. “Maybe later, okay? Nikki said we have to go back to camp now, because it’s almost lunchtime.”

  “Lunchtime?” Gabrielle asked, surprised that it was so late.

  Closing her green eyes, Molly said, “Yes, but I could rest here with you until Nikki is ready, if that’s okay.” Then she crawled onto the small bed and snuggled against Gabrielle, and Gabrielle knew that no matter what, she needed to get home; she needed to see Rosa, no matter what Stefano had or had not done, no matter what she decided to do or not to do.

  Mary Beth stared at the phone in the library. She couldn’t believe there were sixteen messages in the two days since she’d been gone. How many were from Phillipe? Were any from Eric? And where was her cell phone and why had no one called her on it?

  Holding her breath, she pushed the Play button. After all, there was a wedding in the making, and the calls must be important.

  “Darling, this is Raven Fitzgerald. As much as we were looking forward to your lovely daughter’s wedding, I’m afraid Carl is going to be out of town. So sorry.”

  Beep. Shit. Another cancellation.

  “Ms. Atkinson, this is Ertha at Tiffany’s. We’ve shipped your order to Martha’s Vineyard today.”

  Good. Beep.

  “Mary Beth! It’s Lauren James! Must cancel on the wedding. Dad’s having surgery in L.A.”

  Mary Beth frowned. Why was she thinking what she was thinking?

  Beep. Thirteen more calls. Two from Phillipe: When could he expect payment? Ten more cancellations.

  Ten?

  The last call was from Shauna.

  “MOM! Where is your cell phone? Are you on the Vineyard? I’m at the apartment, and I think that we’ve been robbed!”

  Robbed. Yes, Mary Beth thought as she slumped on the chair, we’ve been robbed, all right. They’d been robbed of the trust fund, and now Shauna would be robbed of the joy of her wedding if half the people didn’t show.

  When Gabrielle awoke again, Molly had left and Nikki was gone, as was the VW from outside the lighthouse.

  She wished she could talk to Rosa before Stefano got home. But Angelina did not have a telephone; she depended on the one in the piazza when she needed to make a call.

  Gabrielle brushed off thoughts of that pay phone, the place where her journey had begun what seemed so long ago. She pulled off her nightgown, slipped into clothes, and went downstairs to use the phone. The lines to Air Italia were busy, would she please try again?

  Perhaps a walk would settle her growing agitation.

  Out on the sandy path that led down to the jetty, the sea grass was shorter than when she’d been young. Back then the path had seemed like a magic tunnel, with walls on both sides of fine, green straw swaying gently together and a floor of white sand and a ceiling of sky blue.

  It was different when she’d found her mother, because it had been almost dark.

  Gabrielle caught her breath and tried not to remember, the way she’d tried so many times. She wanted instead to think about Stefano and Rosa, and if she could fix all the wrong that she’d done, and if she could forgive Stefano for what he’d done in return.

  She wanted to think about those things, but there on the dunes, the sun and the scent and the sound of the waves that licked the shoreline of Katama Bay mixed together the then and the now and what was real and what was not.

  If only she could smell the grapes and hear the cowbells and the rustle of olive leaves. Then she would be away from all of the hurt and she would feel better and life would be good again.

  Instead of a cowbell, Gabrielle heard a buoy bell, the low clang at the mouth of the bay, now closed in by the jetty from there to Chappaquiddick, the refuge of birds and berries and all things that had escaped the ravages of time and the intrusion of tourists.

  Much like Tuscany, in their little-known, secluded village.

  She stopped on the jetty and looked back at the land, at the lighthouse, Nikki’s home.

  And then she began to cry. Slowly at first, until her vision grew watery and she knew she could no longer hold back. She started to cry, then took a step forward. Her foot caught on a rock. She stumbled. Stay off the rock jetty; Aunt Margaret’s voice was in the wind. She slid. It’s dangerous, it’s dangerous. She tumbled. Down the rocks where her mother’s body had once fallen …

  She grasped a rock, she gasped for breath. Sharp edges scraped her palms; her belly bumped against the jetty. She dug her feet into the rock pile just as water lapped her ankles: her footing held. She lay motionless a moment, catching her breath, quieting her shock, thinking only that she was where her mother had been, facedown and cut up, but Gabrielle was not dead, no, not dead.

  Stay off the rock jetty. But Gabrielle had not.

  Then, on quite unsteady legs, she righted herself, brushed small bits of blood and stone from her hands, straightened her sweater, and adjusted her ponytail, each movement a painful
reminder that she was very much alive.

  Slowly she began to trek back toward the lighthouse. That’s when she saw a man up on the shore.

  She stopped. How long had he been there? Had he seen her fall?

  She turned back toward Chappy. Maybe she should go that way. She was so embarrassed.

  But who was that man? And what was he doing on the property? Was he the caretaker? A trespasser? A worker for the wedding?

  She turned back to him. He continued to watch her. Yes, he was watching her. And Gabrielle realized she was trapped between him and Chappaquiddick Island, trapped by the puddle of the sea that floated in between.

  “Are you all right?” he called out.

  She shielded her eyes against the sun. She saw more than his outline that time, more than the shape of him, more than a shadow.

  She blinked. “Who are you?” she demanded. “Why are you on our property?”

  The man did not move. If he were the caretaker, he could have said so. Instead he said nothing. And then he turned. And as he began to climb the dunes back up toward the lighthouse, an aching chill inched up Gabrielle’s spine. And suddenly, she knew. The man who had been standing on the shore was Mack Olson; it was her father.

  22

  The old red pickup was parked at the top of the hill by the caretaker’s cottage. Gabrielle stomped toward it, fueled by anger and pain and the ache of betrayal that now balled into rage for the seven-year-old whose mother had died and whose aunt had sent her away, off across the sea, so they did not have to see her, so they did not have to … what? Remember that she lived?

  When she reached the truck she was panting and exhausted. Her hands still stung; her stomach was bruised. She pressed against a stitch in her side, then squinted and tried to focus. She did not see him; he was not near the truck.

  And then it hit her. Of course! He was the one driving the day she’d been walking; he was the one who’d almost run her down. Wouldn’t that have been something, she thought, as she yanked the truck door open, if her father had run her over and killed her?

  The keys were in the ignition.

  She hesitated, then she did not.

  Without further thought, she climbed into the truck and turned over the engine.

  What was he doing there?

  Had he known that she was there?

  Had he followed her to the Vineyard and, if so, from where?

  She jammed the column shift into gear and started up the driveway, just as she saw movement from behind the curtains in the caretaker’s cottage.

  Oh, God, she thought, and gasped again.

  He was the caretaker.

  He’d been there all along.

  And Nikki knew.

  She barreled up the driveway. Directions to the camp raced through her mind. The edge of the state forest … between the airport and Oak Bluffs. Go right, go left …

  How could she have been such a fool?

  What had ever made her think she could fit back into her family?

  And why had they been hiding him from her?

  Him! Her father! The man whose fault it was that her mother died.

  Her breath came in short puffs. She pulled to the side of the road, stopped the truck, rested her head on the steering wheel, and started to sob.

  She sobbed and sobbed and sobbed for her mother and for herself, and for all that could have been but had not. She hugged her arms around her stomach and rocked slowly back and forth.

  Her mother.

  Her father.

  Her mother was dead.

  Her father was alive.

  She sobbed until she ached, until the tears at last subsided in that mysterious ceasing that happens to all tears, as if the pain was gone now, washed out from the soul.

  Gabrielle wiped her cheeks and dropped her hands to the seat. Then she lifted her eyes and ran her palm over the worn seat where her father had sat, up to the dashboard coated with beach dust. There was a cup holder; inside was a cardboard container that held about two swallows of unfinished coffee lightened by cream.

  She sat still a moment and stared at the cup. Her hand moved toward it, then abruptly jerked back as if it were too hot, for her father had touched it, had held it with a hand that once held hers, and her father had drunk from it, with lips that once had kissed her cheek.

  With eyes misting again, Gabrielle reached over and lightly touched the cup’s rim. “Daddy,” she whispered. “Daddy, remember me?”

  Mary Beth called Shauna and left a message explaining that, no, they’d not been robbed, that she’d said she was redecorating, hadn’t she? And by the way, she was sorry she had missed her, and she must have left her cell phone in the car, which was over in Woods Hole because of the damn ferry.

  She was about to hang up when Shauna picked up the line.

  “Mom?”

  Well, who else would have left that message? “Yes, it’s me.”

  “I went there to see if we could talk, but when I walked in half the furniture was missing and so were you.” Her daughter sounded odd, as if she’d been awakened from a nap or been taking Valium.

  Mary Beth stood up from the chair and tried to circle the old library desk, reminding herself that one of these days she must get a cordless phone, if she didn’t sell this place.

  “I told you I was going to redecorate,” Mary Beth replied. “Did you forget?”

  “Mom?” Shauna asked as if she hadn’t heard her. “Is your trust fund gone?”

  It would be better now if Mary Beth could go upstairs to one of the half a dozen bedrooms, pull the drapes against the sun, and lie down and take a nap. It would be better if this call, this day, this life of hers had never happened. Sadly, it was too late for any of the three.

  “The man who administered my trust fund has disappeared,” she said. “There is no cash, and I expect that soon there will be no credit. In the meantime, the truth is I had to sell some things to pay for your grandmother’s care.”

  “Can’t you find him?”

  There was no need to explain that they might have had a better chance if she’d not been so stubborn, so fearful that people would find out, which it appeared they were anyway, what with the wedding cancellations. “We’ve hired someone, but it may take time.”

  “We?”

  Mary Beth frowned. “Nikki. And my other cousin, Gabrielle.”

  “He stole their money, too?”

  “Well, yes. I assumed that’s how you found out. From Dee.” But as she said the words, she hated the squishing, squeezing, sickish feeling that was moving from her brain down to her toes.

  “So Daddy was right,” Shauna said.

  Daddy. Of course. As she had dreaded and suspected. “When did you see your father?” She sounded calm and in control and wondered why.

  “I had lunch with him yesterday.”

  Mary Beth returned to the chair and sat down. “Did he mention if he’s still planning on coming to your wedding?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Did he ask about me?”

  “No. Not really.”

  Not really? What the hell did that mean?

  “I mean, he asked if you were handling things okay without any money.”

  The blood crept more quickly to her cheeks than she would have wanted. “And did he happen to mention where he’s staying?”

  “He, ah …”

  She felt the inside of her cheeks suck themselves against her teeth. “He, ah, what, Shauna?”

  “He didn’t have to tell me, Mom. He didn’t come to lunch alone.”

  I have other options, he’d said quite plainly, and so apparently he had.

  She tried to laugh. “Anyone I know?” she asked as if it didn’t matter, as if this happened every day.

  Shauna began to cry.

  Mary Beth closed her eyes. Oh, God, she thought, and feared that all the courage in the world would not brace her for what Shauna was about to say.

  “It’s Roxanne,” her daughter finally said. “Daddy has mo
ved in with your best friend.”

  In a perfect world Gabrielle would have taken one look at Mack, and Mack, one look at her, and they would have dissolved into those tears of old movies, flinging themselves into each other’s arms, father and daughter, long lost and long loved, reunited at last.

  In real Atkinson life, it did not work that way.

  Gabrielle drove into the camp and parked the red truck—Mack’s truck—on the lawn. She stumbled from the driver’s side; Carla saw her from the window, and called to Alice, who ran down to the dining commons in search of Nikki.

  By the time Nikki got there, Gabrielle was sitting halfway up the steps of the registration cottage as if she didn’t have the strength to make it to the top.

  Nikki sat beside her, took her by the hand, and slowly, very slowly, tried her best to explain.

  “It was not his fault, Gabrielle. It was my mother’s. God help us, she’s the one who hurt you.”

  Gabrielle did not move. She hugged her hands around her knees.

  “I know your mother’s death was not an accident,” Nikki continued, and put her arm around Gabrielle’s shoulders. Though Gabrielle did not comment, neither did she pull away. “That it was suicide,” Nikki said, rubbing Gabrielle’s shoulder with small, gentle touches. “I only just found out.”

  They sat quietly, the distant sounds of children the backdrop for their emotions.

  “My mother was terrified of a mark against the family name. It’s no excuse, but it’s how things happened then. She was terrified you’d tell. So she threatened your father. She said she’d have him arrested for your mother’s murder, that she would say he pushed her from the top of the lighthouse.”

  Gabrielle did not even blink. God, Nikki wished that she would blink, move, do something.

  “She also said she would cut you off from the Atkinson money, that you would be poor forever.”

  There was nothing else for Nikki to say except, “I’m sorry, Gabrielle. All those years that we thought you were together, he lived in fear for you. He had no idea my mother would prevent us from being in your life. When he showed up here ten years ago, he wouldn’t talk about you. He said the two of you had had a ‘falling out.’ ” She took a deep breath. “That’s it,” Nikki said. “That’s the whole truth. For both of your sakes, please try to forgive him. He thought he was doing what was best for you. He loves you so much, Gabrielle.”