Chapter Eighteen
Vivian
On the eve of what would’ve been Hank’s fifty-fifth birthday, Vivian picks up Celeste from the Portland airport. They’ve had a few phone calls lately. Celeste relayed amusing stories from the road and chronicled the ups and downs (and further downs) of grief. Unexpected things broke her: the final squirt of the toothpaste they’d shared, a hotel minibar stocked with the crackers he liked. Vivian mostly just listened. Now, though, Celeste has questions: how Vivian is doing, when she’s coming back to the city, how the sale is coming along. After her surprise visit, Vivian barred Celeste from contacting Gray Realty; she appreciates that her mother actually seems to have respected that request.
Vivian turns down the radio. “You know, I’m not actually sure I want to come back. What if I moved to Portland? I think I’d like it there.”
“What if you did what ?” Celeste asks, as bewildered as if Vivian confessed to dreaming of herding cattle in Montana.
“Move. Live in Maine year-round.”
“You know the A-C-E doesn’t run this far north, don’t you?” Celeste asks dryly.
Vivian sighs.
“You’d leave the restaurant? Your friends? Your home?” It’s like Celeste refrains from adding, “Me?”
“Well,” Vivian says evenly, “I quit my job.”
She hadn’t wanted to get into all that over the phone.
“Already? Don’t you want to wait until you’re further along with the bar?”
“It was time for me to go.”
Celeste stares. “Are you crazy?”
Vivian sighs. “I know how it sounds.”
“That job was everything to you.”
“It was.”
“Didn’t your boss give you the summer off? Maybe you should give it a few more weeks before making any rash decisions. I bet you could get your job back if you wanted it. He seems really impressed with you.”
Vivian has had so many years of keeping things from Celeste that it’s second nature to evade her questions. But secrets, she’s learning, build walls between people that can’t be scaled so easily. She doesn’t want one between her and her mother anymore. She has to share the real reason she left Della.
“He wasn’t just my boss. We were seeing each other for almost two years.”
There. It’s out. This is all Hank had to do with Vivian: one burst of bravery, one puff of breath to confess.
Celeste’s mouth forms a perfect O of shock. “Did he fire you? You could sue him for that, you know.”
“No, no, no. I left on my own terms. Before I quit, he was going to leave his wife—we were going to be together. He was going to open the bar with me.” She pauses, wincing at her mother’s pinched expression. “But his wife got pregnant. It turned out he wasn’t the person I thought he was.”
Celeste swallows this information. “Well,” she says slowly, “I’m sorry he disappointed you.”
Vivian can’t believe this. “You don’t think I’m awful?”
She hesitates. “Not necessarily. I know these things are complicated. Maybe he was doing her a favor, letting her move on.”
Vivian was expecting judgment, maybe a few zingers expertly crafted to take her down a peg. Instead, she hears her mother’s compassion.
“Tell me about Oscar. As much as you want to share.”
Enraptured, Celeste listens as Vivian describes that first stolen kiss, their vineyard getaways, how he made her feel so special and loved. Their plans to leave Della together. Her fight with Hank the day he died. She feels lighter once it’s all out there. She told her mother the full truth, and it was received well—she’d been underestimating her.
Celeste stares out the window as they roll by a chicken farm, mind swept off elsewhere. Eventually, she says, “I shouldn’t be saying this to you…”
Vivian’s stomach tenses. “What?”
“Do you know how mortifying it is to write romance for a living and feel like no matter what you’ve tried over the years, there’s this distance with your husband that you just can’t bridge?”
She’s stunned by her mother’s transparency. That irony had always been one of the elephants in the room that Vivian felt she had to ignore. Her dad did it well.
“No.”
“I’m supposed to be this expert. And, well…” Celeste trails off bitterly. “Let’s just say I wasn’t writing much from personal experience.”
“I’m so sorry, Mom. I hate that he made you feel that way.”
She must have been lonely. Vivan thinks about Hank’s letters to Dawn, and guilt twists in her stomach.
Celeste shakes her head. “He made all of us feel this way. He shut down after his parents died, and that was it.”
“Why didn’t you leave him?”
“I loved him.” She shrugs helplessly. “Then I didn’t want to rock the boat while you were growing up. And then…I was successful. I write about love. I couldn’t leave and look like a failure in front of all those people. It’d be humiliating. A career killer.”
“I don’t think your readers would judge you for that, though.”
Celeste looks perturbed. “They’d think I’m a fraud. I can’t gush over him in my dedications and acknowledgments, and in interviews and at events, and all over the internet, and then turn around to say, ‘By the way, my dead husband and I were essentially roommates.’?”
“Well, you wouldn’t have to phrase it that way.”
“How would you say it then?”
Vivian’s mind goes blank. The paved street has disappeared, and now there’s just Loon Road’s winding strip of dirt under the truck’s wheels.
“You’re the writer, you could figure out something. My point is—maybe this would make you more real to them. More relatable.”
“But I’m not. Martha Stewart sends me Christmas cards.”
Ah, there’s the mother Vivian recognizes. They pull into the driveway.
“If anything, I need to be more impressive. I need this book to be a bestseller.”
Vivian takes one last stab at attempting to help Celeste. “You don’t have to be perfect.”
Celeste frowns. “Well, you don’t build the kind of career I have by being mediocre.”
She tried.
Celeste gets out of the car and smooths her clothes.
“Can you get my bag from the trunk?” she calls, striding toward the house. “I don’t know how to open the hatchback or tailgate or whatever it’s called.”
Vivian sighs and unclips her seat belt.
Lucy
Lucy and Vivian coordinated their plans so that Vivian and Celeste would arrive at the lake house after Lucy had already left for dinner at Dawn’s. This way, the Levys have the space to catch up before the four of them reconvene tomorrow to say goodbye to Hank for good. On her way over, Lucy picks up a box of Foxy Roxy’s wings.
Between bites, she tells her mom about the latest with Harrison. She’s embarrassed to flaunt how happy she is, especially to her mom, who hasn’t bothered with dating for decades. But then Dawn surprises her.
“So,” she says, a hair too loudly, like she’s been holding this in all day. “I met someone.”
Lucy drops her fork. “What? Who? When?”
Dawn holds up her hands. “Whoa, one at a time.”
She tries to compose herself. “Okay. Talk to me.”
“This summer, I’ve been realizing that I don’t want another thirty years to go by with me sitting on the sidelines. And I know I’m old, I’m too set in my ways, I’m scarred and flabby and my jeans don’t fit the way they used to. But—”
“You deserve to be happy with someone,” Lucy finishes.
Dawn considers the idea. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”
Apple, tree , Lucy realizes. It had taken them both far too long to figure that out.
Dawn fidgets with a half-eaten wing. “I asked Vivian to help me get set up on Match.”
“I’m sorry, you did what ?”
“I figured, you know, a girl like that from New York, she must know a thing or two about online dating. Sex and the City , that kind of thing.”
Lucy blinks. “Sure.”
Dawn says that everything about her maiden Match voyage startled her: how setting up her profile felt astonishingly like a doctor’s intake form (height? body type? does she drink? smoke?); the swift judgment she was expected to pass on the other users; the equally critical lens the men must be turning on her; the banal conversations; the pressure to boil her life down into a few sentences that convey who she is and what kind of person she wants to be with. That last part stumped her. As Vivian had asked, what is Dawn’s type? She doesn’t know. Her past boyfriends, Dennis and Wayne, were primarily appealing because they were the opposite of Hank.
Some people online had clearly been around the virtual block a few too many times. One wrote: “I’m sick of people who lie. All I want is someone who’s trustworthy, honest, respectful, and who wears their heart on their sleeve like myself. If that’s a problem, we probably wouldn’t be a good match.” Another simply stated, “I really do not want to be online dating.” The negativity extended to harmless subjects, too: “I hate country/rock music, or as I call it, crock.” Others were maddeningly vague: “Looking for an awesome woman!!” or “Just be ur self.”
She encountered an abundance of mirror shots, car selfies, photos of motorcycles, proud portraits showing off fish. There were a surprising number of references to preparing for the impending zombie apocalypse, though whether these men believed that was real or fictional wasn’t always clear. An “entrepreneur,” as he called himself, wrote, “I’ll bring home the bacon, you’ll cook it.” (She says she’s done enough of that at Miss Pancakes, thank you very much.) A tattooed fifty-nine-year-old advertised his weakness for braces, making Dawn wonder exactly how old he wants his matches to be.
So, when Dawn was asked out by Curtis, a contractor with a grizzled beard, Vivian encouraged her to say yes. Nothing about his profile particularly called to her, but there were no blatant turnoffs, either.
Lucy understands completely, but she can’t help the salty reaction that slips out. “Because it’d be such a terrible thing if word got around and I found out?”
“You weren’t going to tell me?” Lucy asks.
“I was,” Dawn protests. “I am.”
“But you could talk to Vivian about this kind of stuff?”
“Lucy Louise,” Dawn says, sighing, “I know you worry about me being alone. I didn’t want to get your hopes up if I went out on a few dates and decided to call the whole thing off. Does that make sense?”
Lucy unfortunately has to admit that it does.
On Dawn’s first date with Curtis, the conversation was stilted—even though, thanks to thirty-five years in the service industry, she can usually spark a friendship with a brick wall. The stale stench of cigarette smoke clung to his fingertips. She was grateful for the waitress who quickly cleared their plates and brought the check. She wanted to split the bill, but he insisted on treating her.
“How’s this, you get the next one?” he had said.
When he signed the check, she peeked at the tip. Not even 15 percent. That’s when Dawn decided there would be no second date. She slipped a ten-dollar bill into the booklet on her way out.
After that, she went out with Rick, a fireman five years her junior. He had a buzz cut and a banjo, which he played with confident enthusiasm in a video on his profile. They met at a dive bar for drinks and pool. Dawn’s normally a good shot, but that night, she was having too much fun talking to Rick to bother aiming straight. Afterward, he asked if he could walk her to her car. They lingered. His voice trembled ever so slightly when he asked if he could kiss her. He could run into burning buildings and still be unnerved by a crush, which made her feel powerful. She said yes—and enjoyed it very much.
“We’ve only been out twice,” she explains. “It’s nothing serious.”
But her pink cheeks and barely concealed satisfaction are significant. The last time Dawn had a budding crush like this, Lucy was studying for the SATs. Her mom is finally doing something for herself.
“I’m proud of you, putting yourself out there,” Lucy says. “And happy for you, too.”
She clamors to see photos, which Dawn bashfully supplies. (His uniform unquestionably suits him.) They have an upcoming date planned, a bluegrass concert. Maybe this will become something, maybe not. But either way, Lucy knows her mom is open to a new kind of future—finally.
On Hank’s birthday, Lucy enters the lake house with an uncharacteristically quiet Dawn behind her. Her mom’s hair is blown out in a soft curtain around her shoulders, and she’s carrying a beautiful bouquet—not overdyed grocery store roses, but exquisite dahlias from the good florist over in Sanford. Celeste is working at the kitchen table; the rhythmic clack of her nude-polished nails against the keyboard halts as they enter.
Celeste stands up with a gleaming smile. “Good to see you again,” she says, embracing Lucy with an air-kiss.
“Yeah, hi,” Lucy says, fumbling for her words. Her mom’s nerves amplify her own.
Then Celeste floats toward Dawn with her hand extended. “Celeste Levy,” she says, as if there’s any remote chance Dawn wouldn’t know her name, wouldn’t have a whole collection of voodoo dolls in her likeness at home.
“I know who you are,” Dawn says, sounding polite but determined.
“So, we finally meet,” Celeste says.
Dawn nods. “Here we are.”
There’s an awkward beat of silence, then footsteps coming from the back deck. Vivian enters the house and hugs Dawn.
“These are gorgeous,” she says, leaning close to sniff the bouquet. “Thanks for bringing them. Let’s put them in water.”
“Here, I’ll grab a vase,” Celeste says, opening a nearby cabinet, then frowning at the sight of plates and bowls.
“No, Mom, it would be—”
Dawn already has her fingers around the knob of the correct cabinet. A flash of guilt crosses her face when she realizes what she’s done.
“Lucky guess,” she tells Celeste.
“Well, it is just so lovely to meet you,” Celeste says, a touch too enthusiastically. Everyone knows it’s a line and nobody calls her out for it.
“Thank you for coming all this way. The drive is, what, six, seven hours from New York?”
“I flew.”
“That’s nice.”
“Ugh. It’s only my third flight this week.”
Nervous energy crackles between the women.
Lucy attempts to break the room’s tension. “So, the weather…”
“Might not be perfect,” Vivian jumps in. “Sixty percent chance of rain.”
“When was the last time you checked?”
“I mean, yesterday, but…” Vivian glances outside, where radiant sunshine brightens the lawn. “I’ll check again now.”
They all watch as she retrieves her phone from the charger. Dawn fidgets like she isn’t exactly sure how or where to stand comfortably.
“You never know! It could be beautiful.” Lucy has the frantic positivity of a cruise director on a sinking ship.
“Yeah, no,” Vivian says flatly. “It’s nice now, but it’ll get cloudy and chilly. Maybe drizzly. Sunset is at 7:34 p.m.”
“Well. We’ll see,” Lucy says.
“We can’t do it now?” Celeste asks. “Instead of waiting around all day?”
Embarrassed, Lucy says, “He loved the sunset. I’d rather do it then.”
Vivian backs her up. “We’re doing it at sunset.”
Celeste sighs and sinks into a chair. “Is it too early to open a bottle of wine? I’d say I’m joking, but I’m not really.”
Dawn chuckles awkwardly.
“It’s barely noon,” Lucy points out.
Celeste claps. “A round of mimosas, then!”
“Everyone having?” Vivian asks.
Three heads—even Lucy’s—nod desperately back at her.
Every minute of painful small talk ticks by slowly. Celeste makes four unnecessary references to her marriage. Dawn innocently asks Celeste if she ever pays attention to Goodreads. Lucy asks about life on tour. Vivian tops off every glass the minute it’s halfway empty.
In a lull that stretches on for too long, Vivian catches her eye. Lucy hesitates, then nods. They need something to fill the hours before sunset.
“So, we have news,” Vivian says.
“Oy.” Celeste takes a dramatic sip. “More?”
“It’s been a busy summer,” Vivian says. “Lucy, do you want to tell them?”
She does and she doesn’t. She’s worried about how her mom might react, though she’s confident they’ve made the right choice for themselves.
Spine tall, palms flat on the table, Lucy looks straight at Dawn and says, “After your construction is done, we’re going to put the house back on the market.”
Dawn gasps, but she takes this gamely.
“This is news?” Celeste asks.
“Once it sells…” Lucy says. “Vivian, you tell them this part.”
Vivian clears her throat. “I’m splitting the money with Lucy.”
Dawn’s hands fly to her mouth.
Celeste’s eyes bulge. “What?”
“She has just as much of a right to this place as I do.”
The words still make Lucy flush with pleasure.
“And we’re both moving to Portland,” Vivian says.
“Separately,” Lucy adds.
“Right. I’m going to find a space for my bar. I already have appointments to check out a few spots.”
“And I found a job.”
Dawn squeals and hugs her daughter. “You did it.”
“You really don’t mind me moving?” Lucy asks.
She nods emphatically. “I’m so damn happy for you.”
The kitchen is silent as Celeste finds her words. Lucy senses that Vivian craves her mom’s approval more than she might admit. Something shifts within Celeste, like she’s seeing her daughter in a new light.
“This is really what you want?”
Vivian doesn’t hesitate. “One hundred percent.”
Celeste nods. “Okay, then. I’m proud of you.”
They scatter to separate corners of the waterfront, reading in the shade, floating in the lake, tanning on the dock, taking the Jet Ski out for a spin. It’s a good way to pass the afternoon. When the day is winding down, Vivian goes upstairs to prepare a salad for dinner, and Dawn offers to help.
“Need another hand?” Lucy calls from the boat.
“Nah, I’m good,” Vivian says.
They climb the stairs, chatting on their way up. Lucy listens for the sound of the screen door sliding shut behind them. Only then does she approach Celeste, who’s writing by hand on an Adirondack chair.
“Hi,” she says.
Celeste looks up. “Hi.”
“Mind if I join you?”
Celeste puts down her pen. “Sure.”
She sits. “I finally found a copy of The Mistress in the Mountains .”
Celeste’s poise doesn’t waver. “Oh, really? Have you read it yet?”
“I just finished it. It was great.”
With a gracious tilt of her head, Celeste says, “Oh, that is so lovely to hear, thank you so much.” She resumes writing.
Lucy barrels through her nerves. “There was one scene I found particularly interesting.”
Celeste looks up again. “Mmm?”
Holding her gaze, Lucy says, “I think you know which one.”
If Lucy is wrong, things could get ugly. She has no choice, though. The ceremony will start in two hours, and it wouldn’t be right to have Celeste lie her way through it.
Celeste’s lips press together in a tight line. The polite camaraderie they built up over the course of the day has hardened into something unrecognizable.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Chapter nine?”
“The whole thing is a work of fiction,” she says icily.
“Your ideas have to come from somewhere.”
“ Vogue once called me ‘magnificently creative.’?”
“But still.”
Celeste sighs. “Have you told Vivian about what you read? About whatever it is you think you know?”
“No. I wanted to come to you first.”
“Well, I appreciate that, thank you,” Celeste says curtly, rising from her chair.
Lucy isn’t done. Far from it. She stands to meet her, eye to eye, and spells out her theory. She’s never felt this bold in her life.
Celeste squints out at the lake. Lucy takes her silence as all the confirmation she needs.
“I’m right, aren’t I?”
“That is an awful accusation,” Celeste says, sounding a hair shakier than usual.
“But it’s true, isn’t it?” Lucy presses.
“I’m not having this conversation with you.”
“I won’t say a word to Vivian until you do,” Lucy promises. She means it. “And I need you to tell my mom the truth, too.”
Celeste whips back. “Are you serious?”
Lucy can’t second-guess herself. Not now. “If you don’t tell them, I will.”
“Please don’t,” Celeste croaks. “Please.”
“No more secrets.”