My Kind of People

by Lisa Duffy

  “I’m very close to Sky. And Leo. I don’t feel right standing here making small talk without telling you that I think it was wrong of you to come here.”

  She braces herself for Lillian’s response. Expects to see the woman’s expression turn from placid to something else. Indignant. Offended. Possibly even angry.

  Lillian simply nods. “I know you’re upset that I’m here,” she says. “Agnes mentioned it.”

  Maggie snorts. “I’m sure she did. Though I wouldn’t know. We haven’t spoken since we argued about it.”

  Lillian winces. “That makes me feel worse. Especially since I’ve been avoiding Agnes.” She lowers her voice, glances at Agnes’s house. “I didn’t realize when I accepted her offer to stay here that it was conditional. As in—she would pop in all the time. She kept talking about me being born here and how I had a right to the island and how we were connected because of our ancestors. I haven’t lived here since I was ten. The island has changed so much. Honestly, I don’t even really remember it. Anyway—I have to run. I just wanted to say that I hope you’ll give me a chance. I’m not here to cause any harm. And I hope you work it out with Agnes. I’ve had a couple of people in my life slip away from me that I regret letting go.”

  Maggie wonders if she’s talking about Ann.

  “I know you and Ann had difficulties. I’m sure it must be hard now that she’s gone. You must want to take back those years.”

  Lillian is turning to leave, but she stops, looks at her. “That wasn’t my choice. Sometimes even our children make decisions that we don’t support. Can’t support without changing who we are as a person. No—I regret a lot of things that happened between me and Ann, but I can’t take responsibility for her absence in my life.” She puts up a hand as a goodbye. Turns and walks away.

  Maggie blinks, and watches her go, wondering when it was exactly that her life decided to become a puzzle. One that spilled from the box onto the table. Pieces scattering everywhere. Perhaps never to be found.

  * * *

  Back inside the house, she takes a cup of coffee and the paper to the table on the patio. She sits, blows on the coffee, too hot to take a sip, and spreads the paper in front of her.

  The front page makes her blink in disbelief. Not at the headline: “Summer in Full Swing on Ichabod.”

  No—it’s the collage of photos below that draw her in. One in particular.

  One of Pete.

  He’s on the ferry, leaning over the snack bar counter with a young woman’s wrist in his hand. She’s obviously the galley help. A name tag on her shirt Maggie can’t make out.

  The caption below the picture reads: Police Chief Pete Thompson to the rescue after a galley staff member, Anna, cuts her finger.

  Maggie brings the paper closer to her face, studies the picture. Anna is obviously okay despite her injury—a coy smile on her face, directed at Pete. She’s a young woman—early twenties perhaps. Pretty and fresh-faced.

  Her arm is being held in the air by Pete, who’s leaning over the counter in such a way that his lips are nearly touching Anna’s neck.

  The picture is familiar, even though she’s never seen it before.

  She closes her eyes, remembers the last day of school and her conversation with Agnes. How Agnes had wanted to show her a picture of Pete on the ferry.

  There had been a rainbow.

  She opens her eyes. Studies the photo. Sure enough, there it is. Hazy and faded, a rainbow directly over Pete’s shoulder.

  Weeks ago, Maggie had seen an open call for pictures from residents for this feature.

  Send in your fun-in-the-sun shots!

  There is nothing fun about this picture. Not one person would notice the rainbow—even Maggie has a hard time making it out.

  She knows that Agnes sent in the picture. Confirms it when she sees who wrote the feature. Amelia Dickinson. She recognizes the woman’s name. She’s heard more than once from Agnes how Amelia sings beautifully at the church services.

  She pulls the paper so close it almost grazes her reading glasses, her eyes on Pete.

  The look on her husband’s face as he gazes at Anna. She knows that look, and it guts her.

  She’s been married to her husband for twenty-seven years. She knows every one of his looks. Although this one she hasn’t seen in years.

  A decade, maybe.

  Pete’s looking at Anna with desire. So raw and feral, it jumps off the page and lands on Maggie, claws at her until she’s ripped open, torn apart, the assault too damaging to ignore.

  More damaging than the affair that wasn’t really an affair with his secretary. Or perhaps it’s just the thing that pushes her too far—the thing that makes her get up from the table.

  In the spare bedroom, she digs a suitcase out of the closet, the largest one she can find.

  Then it’s to the master, where she carefully empties his dresser, packing each item in the suitcase carefully, methodically, as though she’s sending a child off to camp. One of her sons off to college.

  Sweet Maggie.

  But inside, a fury has unleashed.

  One that’s been waiting to be free all her life.

  * * *

  It’s dark when she hears the car pull in the driveway. She’s at the kitchen table with a glass of champagne in front of her. She found the bottle in the refrigerator when she was making dinner.

  She’d bought it to celebrate their anniversary months ago. Then Pete had called to say he had to work late. Apparently, they hadn’t found a reason to open it since.

  Now, it seems fitting to drink it alone.

  She hears the side door open and close. Pete walks into the kitchen, puts his bag down when he sees her.

  “Why is it so dark in here?” he asks, flipping on the switch. She blinks, holds her hand up. He doesn’t bother to turn the knob to dim the light. “What are you doing sitting in the dark?”

  Hello, she thinks. Nice to see you too.

  “Drinking,” she replies. She takes a gulp and notices her glass is almost empty. She picks up the bottle, refills the flute until the liquid threatens to spill over the top.

  Pete stands in the corner and doesn’t speak.

  There was a time he would have walked into this scene and joined her. She remembers the days when the kids were younger, and she’d finally get them to bed and she’d sit in the kitchen with a glass of wine, a candle on the table. He’d sit across from her, take her leg and put it on his lap, work his fingers into the soles of her feet.

  Then the kids were teenagers, out late every weekend, and Pete would come home from work and they’d sit at the table, one eye on the clock while they sipped a beer and talked.

  Now, they haven’t seen each other in weeks. They’ve talked on the phone a handful of times. Halting, strained conversations that made her wish she hadn’t called him.

  She knows from his expression, his posture, that he’s wary of what she’s going to say.

  “Come sit,” she says.

  He walks over, pulls out the chair, and perches on the edge, as though he might want to make a quick exit.

  “I’d kiss you, but you seem sort of…”

  “Sort of what?” Maggie asks.

  “I don’t know. Bothered.”

  She smiles at the word. Pete doesn’t use the word angry when it comes to her. Upset, he’ll say. Bothered is acceptable. Angry is too much. Always has been.

  “You made the paper,” she tells him, points to his picture on the front page.

  He frowns, looks down at it, then up at her. “You’d think they could find something more interesting than that.”

  “I find it interesting,” Maggie says, then pauses.

  How to say this?

  “Have you kissed her?” she asks calmly, pointedly.

  His head snaps up. “Have I—what?”

  “Have you kissed her?”

  “Maggie. You’re acting crazy. That’s a silly thing to ask.”

  Silly old Maggie. Such a good girl.


  “Yes or no?”

  “I’m not going to justify that with an answer. She works for me!”

  Maggie laughs. She can’t not laugh. “Your secretary worked for you too.”

  “I can’t do this tonight—”

  She slams the paper on the table so hard, the legs shake. Pete freezes.

  She holds the paper up. “Have you kissed her?” she asks again.

  It’s not what she planned to ask him. Nothing has gone as planned since he walked in the door. She wanted to stay calm. But she’s shaking with anger, her hands trembling when she sets the paper on the table.

  “What do you want to hear, Maggie? That I had sex with my secretary? And kissed this girl—hell, had sex with her too. Why not? I’m that much of a scumbag. Well, I didn’t. And I’m not. And this picture. Christ. It’s just me and some girl who—”

  “Who you’re obviously attracted to! Look at your face! I remember that look. Granted I’m not some young, perky thing like she is. But I was once. And I remember that look. I remember it very well.”

  Pete puts his head in his hands. His forearms are tanned, thick. A part of her wants to run her hands over his muscled back. A part of her will always want the man she married.

  But he’s not sitting in front of her.

  Pete sits up. Something catches his eye and he turns. Looks at the suitcase in the doorway.

  “Is that mine?” he asks, and she nods.

  Her insides are twisted. Her voice caught.

  He stands up, throws his bag over his shoulder. He walks over and picks up the suitcase. Then he’s gone. Crossing the kitchen and out the door, closing it gently behind him.

  As though leaving has been on his mind for quite some time.

  24

  Leo doesn’t bring up selling the house again. He can’t even settle on the right decision.

  The small Cape is a money pit. But it’s also Sky’s childhood home. The one that holds memories of her parents. Who is he to ask her to do anything more than what she’s already done?

  Which is to put one step in front of the other. Try not to get buried under the weight of everything she’s lost.

  He wishes he could talk about it with Xavier. But he still hasn’t told him he’s out of work. They speak on the phone. Text here and there. But it’s all mundane conversation. Xavier replies with one-word answers—if he even replies at all.

  How are you? Fine.

  Good day? Yup.

  Miss you.

  That one never gets a reply. Still, Leo texts it. Because he does miss him. So much it feels as though a part of him is missing.

  He’s made it clear to Xavier that living on Ichabod is permanent—at least until Sky graduates from high school. But even he knows that renovating his childhood home—moving there with Sky—is life changing.

  He can’t deny his heart pumps faster when he thinks about it.

  It’s a dream, really.

  One he’d given up on after his father died and he pretended to be someone he wasn’t. With a woman he didn’t even know. Right there, in his childhood bed.

  He doesn’t remember her name. Only that she was a childhood friend of Ann’s, visiting for the weekend. Brian hadn’t even met her before. And they all got drunk after the funeral. And he woke up the next morning, hungover and naked and at a loss for what to say to this beautiful creature lying against him.

  He ended up telling her the truth. That he was who he was. And he knew what he wanted. And even though the sex had been great (he actually didn’t remember it)—he was in love with another person.

  A man, to be exact.

  She laughed. Said it was no big deal. And then she left, and he never saw her again. Never even told Brian and Ann about it, he was so ashamed.

  But it was a big deal to Leo.

  He felt as though he’d dishonored his parents. The two people who loved and accepted him for who he was. The first people he’d come out to when he was in college. The ones who had looked at him, so concerned across the table, while tears slipped down his face and he’d blurted out that he was gay.

  “Is that all?” his father had said. A hand to his chest. “You scared the life out of me—I thought you were sick or something!”

  He’d asked so much of them and given so little in return. He knew they’d wanted grandchildren. But it wasn’t part of Leo’s plan. Everyone knew that it wasn’t part of Leo’s plan. Brian and Ann never even asked him to babysit. They’d tease him—say they didn’t want to cramp his style.

  He finds it mystifying now that they’ve left their only child to him. But he knows it’s probably a matter of who was left to do the job. Brian’s parents were dead. His only brother was an economics professor in Germany. Ann was an only child. Her father died when she was a toddler. And she hadn’t spoken to her mother in years.

  Crazy Lillian, he calls her now in his head. Even though that isn’t fair. He doesn’t know her. Still, the fact that she moved here at all, free house or not, makes him uneasy.

  He’s been avoiding dealing with it, but just minutes ago, she’d driven past him while he got the mail and waved at him, all smiles, as though they were old pals.

  Now or never, he thought to himself.

  The tide waits for no man.

  He’d gone inside and told Sky to stay put—he’d be back in a couple of minutes. She was watching TV and didn’t take her eyes off the screen, just nodded to show she heard him. He walked out of the house and down the street before he changed his mind.

  Now he’s listening to the doorbell chime, wondering what the hell he’s going to say when he hears footsteps, and a minute later, the door swings open.

  But it’s not Lillian in front of him. It’s Agnes. She raises her eyebrows, pulls the door closer to her body, shielding his view of the interior of the house.

  “Leo,” she says, and stops, as if that’s all the greeting she can possibly muster.

  “Agnes,” he replies. “Is Lillian here?”

  “Is she expecting you?” she asks in a scolding tone of voice. As though she knows perfectly well that Lillian is not expecting him.

  “Nope,” he tells her, and smiles. But inside, his heart speeds up.

  This woman unnerves him. Maybe because she was the school nurse when he was Sky’s age and she always seemed terrifyingly large and deeply angry. He remembers going to her office to get a Band-Aid for a paper cut, and she’d sighed, a long, bothered noise.

  “Be more careful next time,” she lectured, holding out the thin bandage as though it weighed more than she could hold. “Who knew a nursing degree would mean I get to spend my days dealing with phantom stomachaches, runny noses, and paper cuts?” she muttered, waving him out of her office.

  She hasn’t changed much since then. The same pursed lips. Haughty demeanor.

  “She’s busy unpacking,” Agnes tells him. “I don’t want to disturb her.”

  “It won’t take long,” he insists. “Plus, you’re not disturbing her. I am.”

  She doesn’t move, just frowns deeper at him. Leo’s wondering if she’s going to slam the door in his face when he hears a voice coming from behind Agnes. Lillian’s face appears in the small space between Agnes’s body and the door frame.

  “Leo—come in,” she says brightly. “I was hoping you’d stop by.” She steps closer, but Agnes refuses to move.

  There’s an awkward moment when nobody speaks while Lillian peers at him over Agnes’s shoulder.

  “Agnes. Open the door,” Lillian says in a voice that reminds him of the tone she’d used the day he’d met her on the dock, and she told him she wasn’t interested in the past. Just the future.

  Agnes opens the door, brushes past him, stomps down the steps and turns. “Of course, I want you to feel welcome to have visitors, Lillian. But please remember there are valuables—island artifacts—throughout the home.”

  “Of course,” Lillian says. “Although I don’t think Leo’s here to trash the place.” She smiles, but there
’s a flash of irritation on her face. If Agnes notices, she doesn’t show it.

  “Obviously,” Agnes says. “It’s just that I’ve been asked to be the town historian with Mrs. Pearse passing away. It’s my job to make sure the island’s history is preserved.”

  He watches her turn and stomp away. “Bye,” he calls out, but she doesn’t respond.

  “Please, come in. I feel like I should apologize even though it’s not my house,” Lillian says over her shoulder as he follows her down the hallway and into the kitchen. “Agnes has me afraid to touch anything. I’ve never lived in a historic house.”

  “There’s nothing historic about it. I grew up next door. They’re all just old capes built in the forties. She thinks it’s historic because she’s kept it a shrine to her parents. Besides the church and the women’s club, you’re the only one who’s been in here since they died.”

  “That’s pretty obvious.” She looks around the dated kitchen. “I insisted on paying a rental fee after it became clear that free to Agnes means she can pop in whenever she wants. At least now, she knocks before she comes over. Three times a day. Would you like some tea? I have muffins too. That bakery in town is to die for. Delicious but deadly on the waistline.” She grins, winks at him.

  This is not what Leo had expected. He’s not sure what he expected. Perhaps that she would be influenced by Agnes because she’s a guest in her house. That Agnes would convince her that Sky shouldn’t be with Leo. He had mentally prepared for this to be a contentious discussion.

  “No, thank you. I only have a minute. Look—Lillian. Can we back up here? We agreed to meet on the dock, and frankly, you seemed great. And you seemed to understand that I wanted to move slow. And then, just like that, you’re here. On this street.” He leans against the counter, folds his arms. “I didn’t get a clear answer at the Fourth of July party as to how this came about. Explain it to me, please.”

  She gives him a half smile that fades quickly. “I’m not sure I can.”

  He waits. He’s not leaving until he gets an answer. There’s a girl watching cartoons down the street who needs him to be the type of man who won’t leave without an answer.