Chapter Six
Addison threw on her robe, gave her hair a quick shake, and opened the front door to find a smiling woman who looked to be around her aunt’s age.
“Addison?” she asked familiarly.
“Yes,” Addison answered, with an air of caution.
“Wow, strong genes,” the woman observed, staring deeply into her eyes. Addison couldn’t help but blink.
“I’m Margot,” the gray-haired woman said, pushing the door open with her hip and wheeling in her bag. “Gicky sent me.” She sat down on the couch and took a deep, that was a long walk from the ferry type of breath.
Her air of familiarity was unnerving. Addison immediately leaned out, acting more like the proprietor of a bed-and-breakfast than an interested party. She grabbed the handle of the woman’s wheelie bag and said, “It’s nice to meet you, Margot. Let me show you to your room.”
Margot stood and followed.
The guest cottage was clean and already stocked with everything on Gicky’s list except for the fresh flowers and cold water. Addison would pick those up while the woman settled in and then spend the rest of the weekend, aside from the daily awkward breakfast ritual, avoiding her.
As with all of her best-laid plans lately, this one soon went awry.
“Yoo-hoo,” Margot called out, with a light rap on the back screen door. “Can I come in?”
She looked quite adorable, in that old-lady way, in a black-and-white-polka-dot swim dress and an enormous sun hat. The hat must have been a recent purchase, because Margot’s skin was tanned to a shade between saddle and I’ve never heard of sunblock. Addison pictured her covered in baby oil, sitting with a reflector somewhere, like Miami, or at one of those famous old beach clubs on the south shore of Long Island.
“Want to hit the sand?” she asked. “Take a dip in the ocean?”
Addison was more of a lake girl. The waves scared her. She had never been in deeper than her ankles.
“I have errands to run in town,” she said, thinking fast. Since she had to board up that doggie door, she would go to the hardware store and get supplies. At least she hoped there was a hardware store.
“Nonsense,” Margot said. “Your errands can wait. We have so much to talk about.”
The horror movie scenario ran through her head again, sending a shiver up her spine.
You can take her, Addison thought while giving all five feet nothing of Margot the once-over.
“Do we?” she said with a cautious smile.
“Yes. I told you; your aunt Gicky sent me. You know, to explain things. There is a lot more involved than what it says in the letter she left you.”
Answers!
“I’ll only be a minute!” Addison exclaimed before hightailing it to her bedroom to change for the beach.
Addison and Margot sat on the sand under an enormous umbrella. At first their chairs were side by side, but soon, after Margot began opening up about Addison’s estranged aunt, Addison found herself more focused on Margot than on the picturesque ocean. She adjusted her chair accordingly and devoured each word and every expression.
Addison had learned early on that asking questions about her aunt Gicky was not welcome. Her father’s eyes would tear up at the mention of her name, and her mother’s would harden and recoil. Margot’s eyes filled with delight as she spoke of her oldest friend.
She went on to explain how her nickname—Gicky—was supplied by Addison’s father. For most of his childhood, Morton Irwin had depended on Gicky as more of a mommy than a sister. For little Morty, Gloria plus mommy came out as Gicky—and the nickname stuck. Addison’s grandmother, whom her father rarely spoke of, was in an institution for most of their childhoods. Margot described her as a sweet, kind soul who never recovered from the circumstances that had brought her to America from her small Russian town. It did not surprise Addison that she’d never heard this story. Mental health issues of any kind were not discussed in the Irwin family.
“I can only imagine what she went through, though my gut says it was unimaginable,” Margot bemoaned.
Addison teared up for the grandmother she never knew. It surprised her. Margot noticed Addison’s reaction and softened things.
“I don’t want you to think it was all bad. It was anything but—especially for your dad. Gicky adored him. She taught him everything she knew—how to retrieve pink Spalding high balls from the sewer and sell them back to the kids playing stickball for a quarter, which Morty would hold on to till he heard the ice cream man. She taught him how to play all the sidewalk games, ring-a-levio and kick the can, and how to read—even though the teachers at school insisted that Morty had learning issues. Which, mind you, was not how they described it in the sixties. By the end of sixth grade, Morty was at the top of his class.”
“I can’t believe my father never told me any of this!” Addison interrupted, breaking Margot’s stride.
“Your father, I hate to say it, was quick to put all that behind him and never speak of it again. I never understood it, and neither did your aunt. I can tell you that your dad was overly concerned with blending in, while Gicky was always more interested in standing out. And yes, it was tough growing up with an absentee mother and a father who was always working, but there was still a lot of love in the house. In the end, if you are fed and clothed, which your grandfather made sure of, feeling unconditionally loved goes a long way toward a happy childhood. I don’t want to bad-mouth your mom, but I think the rift had a lot to do with her. The Grand Concourse was a long way from the tony Chicago suburb where she grew up, and your mother rarely let anyone forget it.”
Addison knew what Margot was saying was the truth. Her mother was a snob and quite controlling. It was one of the main reasons Addison hotfooted it out of Chicago as soon as she became an employable adult.
“I think when Gicky got away from it all, when Morty left home and she no longer had to care for him, she desperately craved freedom,” Margot said. “There was only enough money for one child to go to college, and it was common back then for the boy to get the education. Plus, when it would have been time for her to go to art school, which is what she wanted, Gicky was at home taking care of your dad. She was so excited when you went to art school. She kept tabs on you through some cousins, and she occasionally checked out your social media. Gicky lived to travel, to paint and sculpt. She was always in motion. But she would come back here every summer. This island—it was her anchor.”
“I’m not an artist like Gicky,” Addison admitted. “I’m more of a sellout. I do graphic design for an ad agency. Well, I did. I’m between jobs.”
Addison paused, thinking about the Big Terrible Thing.
“Did she resent my dad for it all?”
“No. She jumped for joy when he got into the University of Chicago. She couldn’t have been prouder.”
“Do you know what the Big Terrible Thing was?”
“You mean the final nail in the coffin? That’s how Gicky referred to it.”
Addison braced herself for the reveal.
“I do not. She didn’t want to talk about it in specifics. We lost touch during that time, but I know she felt that losing your dad was the greatest failure of her life. And while she didn’t care for your mother, she was quick to say that your dad was responsible for his own actions, no matter how tight Beverly’s leash was.”
Addison knew it to be true, but she was also familiar with the freedom of getting far away from family and relishing in that anonymity, as her dad had obviously done by staying in Chicago. She knew it pained her father to be estranged from his sister. She also knew how important it was to him to keep the peace at home. There comes a time, as an adult, when you take off the rose-colored glasses—or the crap-covered ones—and see your parents for who they are. People. With flaws. Like all other people. Addison was in that phase, though she felt embarrassed that her dad didn’t appreciate the sister who had given up so much for him. But the truth was, she could cite many an example of times when she herself hadn’t stood up to her mother. Beverly was a force better not to be reckoned with.
They talked and talked until the twelve o’clock siren—one alarmingly long bell that seemed to echo from every firehouse on the island to test the emergency system.
“What’s that?” Addison asked.
“Gicky used to call it the chuckwagon bell. It goes off every day at noon. Time to ride to the market for lunch!”
Addison began packing up, but Margot stopped her.
“No one will take this stuff except the high tide, and that’s not expected for hours. Leave it. We can come back after lunch.” Addison leaned in and took her lead.
Margot was very familiar with Bay Harbor. Apparently, Bay Harbor was very familiar with Margot too.
“Margot Ginsberg!” an older man called out to them from the top of the beach stairs as they approached. Margot’s face lit up in recognition.
“Shep! As I live and breathe!”
“Surprised to see me still living and breathing?” he retorted.
The two hugged like old friends before Margot introduced Addison.
“Have you met Gicky’s niece? Addison Irwin?”
“I have not had the pleasure.” Shep wiped his hand on his shorts and reached out for a shake. Addison obliged.
“Gicky left me a painting, so she said. Keep an eye out for something with my name on it, please.”
“Me too!” Margot added, laughing, “And I thought I was special!”
She put her hand on Shep’s arm. “We will have a good look for them before I go.”
Shep looked satisfied, then perturbed.
“So, Addie, let’s come right out and ask. What are your plans for your aunt’s house?”
Aaaah. Introducing the crazy widowed neighbor, Addison thought, before reminding herself that he wanted to steal her house. I will not be bulldozed, she promised herself.
“It’s Addison, not Addie,” she corrected him, adding a smile so as not to come off too rude. “And I have no plans. I only just got here.”
“Well, the entire block is worried you’re going to knock the place down and build a monstrosity. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we are possibly the only monstrosity-free street in this whole town. We asked the real estate agent about it, but she was quite tight-lipped. That young lady is only interested in one thing.”
Young lady. Addison laughed inside, while Shep rubbed his thumb and forefinger together—the universal sign for money.
Margot sensed it was time to change the subject.
“Are you free for dinner tonight, Shep?”
He was. The two clearly had a lot of catching up to do.
“You can join us,” Margot said to Addison afterward, adding, “Gicky told me Shep has been crazy lonely since his wife died.”
Addison thought to joke, I don’t know about lonely, but I got an earful on the crazy from the real estate agent, but then thought again. There was no need to be mean. She cited a prior commitment instead. She was happy to have a break. The complex family history was a lot to take in, and she knew the afternoon would be filled with more of the same.
And she was right. Later, back on the beach with their lunch, Addison learned how Gicky occasionally struggled with depression herself. She had been old enough to remember her mother rocking and crying on the bathroom floor and being taken out of the house in a straitjacket. Scenes that Addison’s dad had escaped by being too young to recall or by Gicky protecting him.
“The thought of having a toddler hanging on her leg again, or, God forbid, passing down her mother’s depression gene, stopped her from ever considering having children of her own. Until she reached her forties and began worrying about her old age and keeping her beloved house in the family.”
That part frightened Addison. She’d be thirty-five on her next birthday. Surely, she had time left for a family, if she decided she wanted one. A month before, she wanted nothing more than that promotion at work, and now her future felt like a blank slate—a scary blank slate.
“Family was everything to Gicky—and then it was nothing. That sense of loyalty defined who she was for so long. I guess it never left her. She loved this island too, though, and leaving this place to your father would have been an insult to it. He may not have even visited before selling.”
Addison knew that wasn’t true. She knew that his estrangement from his sister upset him terribly. She remembered witnessing him crying in the den when she was young. She had climbed up on his lap and put her hands on his cheeks, asking him, “What’s wrong, Daddy?” And even though she was just a little girl, he had answered her honestly. “I miss my family,” he’d said. His parents had both passed away by then. “And I don’t know how to make things better with my sister.” He’d wiped his eyes and changed his tune from remorseful to forceful, adding, “Promise me you will never let anything come between you and Ivy.” And even though she was quite young, she always remembered that promise. Sometimes, when her sister was particularly awful, that promise was all she had to keep her from crossing the line.
Addison took pity on her dad. She herself was often guilty of compromising just to keep the peace at home. In her gut, she knew that was most likely the lion’s share of his reasoning here. At least that was the excuse she had used when he took the easy road in life—which meant siding with their mother. It wasn’t a good excuse, but it was what they all needed to do to survive. And she had to admit, leaving your baggage behind was quite tempting.
“I’m not trying to pressure you,” Margot added kindly. “You should do what you need to do regarding this place.”
Addison reached into her bag to apply more sunblock. She usually forgot to reapply, but Margot’s leathery skin worked like an ad for the stuff.
“I understand about my dad, but why did Gicky leave the house to me alone, and not to me and my sister?’
“Ivy, right?”
“Yes.”
“She said that Ivy had settled down and that you seemed to be anchorless.”
“Anchorless.” Addison repeated it quietly, like a word she needed to keep in her pocket to think more about later.