Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Present Day
I t was seven thirty the night of Thanksgiving, and Chuck Coleman was eating his third slice of pie. It was pumpkin, his favorite, although pecan was a close second. “I’m going to regret this,” he said to Rachelle, his great-granddaughter who lived in Italy.
Rachelle laughed and told him, “Life’s too short, and Thanksgiving comes around only once a year.” He smiled at that. Rachelle seemed to get something about life, something that had passed him by when he was that age. Over there in Rome, she was trying to make something of herself. Chuck prayed she’d come back someday. But by then, he reckoned he wouldn’t be alive anymore. He was already ninety-three years old, for crying out loud. How long could a body last?
Chuck didn’t feel especially old, not in his mind, anyway. He still did the crossword every morning; he could still recall, with startling accuracy, trivia from forty, fifty, or sixty years ago. He knew all the lyrics to his favorite songs by Bob Dylan, and he could still drive although he didn’t always choose to because his daughters panicked about it. He didn’t like to see their faces all screwed up with worry.
Now, Chuck was in Roland’s living room, seated between Rachelle and his other son, Grant. Across the room from them was Sophie, Grant’s daughter and his granddaughter, who’d just given birth to his great-grandchild, who lay in her arms sweetly. The baby hadn’t woken up once since just before lunch. Sophie glowed with happiness, talking quietly to her cousin Charlie, whose children were down in the basement with their cousins.
Sometimes it boggled Chuck’s mind to remember that his family was back together again. It wasn’t so long ago that they’d been separated by that stretch of water between Nantucket and Martha’s Vineyard. It wasn’t so long ago that he’d thought Grant and Roland would never talk to him again.
Here they were together, so many of the Colemans under one roof. They were the result of his love for Margaret and his love for Mia. The result of his love and his betrayal. But nobody seemed to care much about what he’d done anymore. His reasoning was that people couldn’t hate a man as old as him. He probably seemed so weak and incapable.
Roland’s wife, Estelle—the romance writer—breezed in and out of the living room, fetching fresh glasses of wine and cans of beer. She had the air of someone with unlimited energy. She was in her late sixties, still bright and snappy and creative.
She was writing a story about a lighthouse keeper. But that was all she wanted to say.
She’s secretive. Like me , Chuck thought.
Chuck had, of course, met Estelle when she was a high school student and Roland’s girlfriend. But at the time, Chuck had been up to his ears in the horrors and complications of raising two families at once. He hadn’t had much time to get to know Estelle, not that Estelle or Roland had necessarily wanted to hang around him back then. But it was strange to get to know Estelle now as an “older woman,” a woman who’d stood by his son through thick and thin. What had she thought about Roland taking the hush money from Chuck? Did they still talk about it? Or had that story been buried by a thousand others? That was the way of marriage, Chuck knew. You had to pick your battles. You had to learn to forgive and move on.
Right now, Grant and his wife, Katrina, recalled the night Sophie gave birth.
“It was two in the morning when we got the call, right, Katrina?” Grant turned to his wife, his eyes alight. “Katrina got out of bed like it was on fire. I didn’t even know she already had a bag packed!”
Katrina laughed. “When your daughter needs you, you have to be ready.”
To her right, Samantha nodded. Chuck thought she was mentally taking notes since her daughter, Darcy, would be having a baby soon. Darcy’s fiancé, Steven, was around here somewhere. Chuck didn’t know him well, but he seemed like an earnest and big-hearted islander. What more could Darcy want?
Even more weddings and babies and celebrations lurked on the horizon. Chuck prayed he would be around for many, many more of them.
Someone touched his shoulder from above. Chuck turned his head to see Oriana, his eldest daughter, smiling down at him. “You feeling okay, Dad?”
Chuck wanted to roll his eyes. Oriana was always on his case about his health, how tired he was, and whether or not he needed a nap or a sandwich. He’d literally raised her. Didn’t she remember? But she was a high-powered art dealer with a control freak problem. Everyone who loved her knew that much about her. They all had to deal with her constant worries and big, big heart.
Chuck had always been a control freak, too. She came by it honestly.
“I feel fantastic,” Chuck said. “And you?”
“I feel like I ate a truck.” Oriana laughed, squeezing his shoulder again. “You’ll let me know if you need anything?”
“Will do.” Chuck winked, hoping his playfulness would get her off his back.
The plan was for Chuck to spend the night at Roland and Estelle’s tonight and take the ferry back to Martha’s Vineyard tomorrow morning. Oriana’s and Meghan’s families had booked hotel rooms in the Historic District, but Chuck was welcome with his eldest son. Chuck’s stomach twisted with nerves. Sometimes he pictured the night ahead with joy: him and Roland and maybe even Grant, staying up to watch a documentary or a film. Other times, he was fearful and pictured it like this: Roland saying something snide about Chuck having left his first wife, and Chuck saying something awful that he would regret later.
We’re older now. We know how to forgive , he reminded himself.
By eight, the Colemans had begun to filter out of the house, holding their stomachs and thanking Estelle. Their eyes were small and tired. Chuck got up to hug a few of them until his knees protested. He stayed on the sofa, taking people’s hands and squeezing them.
Oriana kissed Chuck good night and said, “We’ll be here in the morning to pick you up! Eight?”
“I’ll be ready,” he promised. It would be easy for him. He always got up at six thirty, no matter what. It was a habit left over from his working days and his days of childrearing. He couldn’t shake it.
Life began at six thirty. If he slept in, he missed it.
Not so long after that, it was only Chuck, Roland, Estelle, Grant, and Katrina in the living room of Roland’s house. It was nearly nine thirty, but Chuck didn’t feel tired.
From where they sat, they listened to the dishwasher work overtime.
“Thank goodness for that thing,” Estelle said happily. “Rachelle, Sam, Hilary, and Aria scrubbed the rest of the dishes, and my kitchen is already sparkling clean!”
“It means you can get back to work bright and early tomorrow?” Chuck asked.
Estelle made a face. “I’ll still be groggy from food tomorrow, I guess.”
“And it’s Black Friday!” Katrina reminded her.
Estelle snapped her fingers. “That’s right. You still want to check out the sales downtown?”
“I’m ready!” Katrina cried.
“Any chance we swing by to see the baby afterward?” Estelle asked. “I can’t get enough of that little face!”
“Sophie says I’m welcome whenever I want to visit,” Katrina said. “She likes to put me in charge so she can get things done around the house and nap. But I love every second!”
Estelle puffed out her cheeks. “I can’t believe how long it’s been since I was a new grandmother. I still remember holding all of them in my arms.” She held her arms out loosely as though in mourning for the time that had already passed by.
Chuck wanted to tell her there was still so much to look forward to. But he felt quiet and strange, lost in the fact that he’d missed watching his Nantucket grandchildren grow up. He’d been one island over as they’d celebrated birthdays, won soccer games, and learned to play instruments. He’d been so close that the Martha’s Vineyard lighthouse shone its searchlight on Nantucket every night.
Roland got up to look for the remote so they could watch television. Grant and Katrina gathered their things together, yawning as they said goodbye. This left Estelle and Chuck still planted on their cushioned chairs.
Chuck felt Estelle’s eyes upon him. They burned with curiosity.
“You know,” she said, “I wouldn’t mind hearing your story of the lighthouse keeper. I’m still in the research phase for my new novel, and it sounds like you might be the perfect person to talk to.”
Chuck turned to look at her. He was surprised she was digging deeper. Hadn’t he made it clear he didn’t want to talk about it?
Roland returned with the remote control and sat back down. “What about a Christmas film?”
Chuck wrinkled his nose. “I don’t know about that. Nothing too cheesy. I know I’m a great-grandfather and a million years old, but I like good stories. I like good acting. I like good cinematography.”
“That’s right,” Estelle remembered. “You’re in the film club back in Martha’s Vineyard.”
That wasn’t all. Chuck had actually founded the film club at his retirement facility. Every week, they watched internationally recognized, prestigious films. Films that had won Oscars and gotten standing ovations at the Cannes Film Festival.
Roland laughed openly. “Let’s look for something else, then. Something good enough for Chuck Coleman.” He winked.
Estelle left and returned with refills of wine for herself and Roland and a mug of tea for Chuck. Chuck thanked her and settled in, grateful Roland had selected a film from Martin Scorsese. In Chuck’s mind, he was one of the greatest directors who’d ever lived.
Outside, the snow swirled through the darkness, capping the island in white.
The following morning, Chuck woke up at six thirty and padded downstairs to find Roland and Estelle already up with mugs of coffee and slices of toast with butter. Estelle greeted him happily, but the strange glint in her eyes proved she hadn’t forgotten his comment about the lighthouse keeper.
When will you learn to keep your big, fat mouth shut, Chuck? he asked himself. You’re ninety-three years old, for crying out loud!
Chuck enjoyed a small breakfast with Roland and Estelle before Oriana and her husband, Reese, came to pick him up. The rest of their side of the family—the Mia side—had already driven to the ferry and were waiting on them. Chuck hugged Roland and Estelle goodbye and got into the front seat of Reese’s car, buckling himself in as Oriana said a final goodbye.
“You must be tired, Dad,” Oriana suggested from the back as they drove.
Chuck refused to admit he was tired. “I feel great.”
On the ferry, Chuck kept the ruse going. He sat at a table with his granddaughter Alexis—the painter—and her son, Benny, who’d recovered from a horrific bout of cancer just last year and was now the bounciest, happiest little boy ever. From where Chuck sat, he could keep tabs on Alexis’s brother Joel and his family, who’d recently moved back to Martha’s Vineyard after years away. Joel and Reese now owned a company together and were getting closer, recovering from past wounds, just like Chuck, Roland, and Grant.
“We thought we’d grab brunch and go shopping in Oak Bluffs when we get back,” Meghan suggested, walking by Chuck’s table. “What do you think?”
Chuck didn’t want his family time to end. “Count me in!” He could sleep later.
From the Oak Bluffs harbor, Chuck could just barely make out the tip of the old lighthouse, which no longer required an operator, not now that everything was automatic. Alexis informed him that plenty of lighthouses were now being offered “for free” to people who wanted to maintain their beauty. Apparently, you could fill out an online application.
Where were Clarence and Travis now? Chuck hadn’t heard mention of them in years. How had they gotten into the lighthouse-keeping business in the first place? He’d never thought to ask.
They milled through Oak Bluffs for a little while, popping in and out of stores to check out the Black Friday sales. But the air was still frigid—barely twenty-five degrees—and Meghan eventually convinced Oriana to duck into their favorite brunch place for a while. Chuck was frozen, rubbing his hands together to warm up. But the vibrant and happy brunch spot was filled with people he’d known since the eighties and nineties. He spotted Wes Sheridan and his new bride, Beatrice, in the corner, enjoying heaps of pancakes and an omelet to share. Wes got up to shake his hand.
“There he is!” Wes said.
Chuck was quite a bit older than Wes Sheridan, and in Wes’s eyes, he still saw the respect he’d garnered over the years from younger men. In Wes’s eyes, Chuck was still a prosperous businessman and an important member of the community in Martha’s Vineyard. Everyone knew Chuck had come to Martha’s Vineyard to be with his second wife, but Wes, especially, didn’t judge him for that. His life had been messy, too. His wife, Anna, had been cheating on him the night she’d drowned.
It was a horrible story. But Wes had recovered, mostly, as had his three daughters, Susan, Christine, and Lola.
Chuck ordered an egg white omelet, thinking of his cholesterol, plus a biscuit because he still took pleasure in things. He’d already had enough coffee and opted for tea.
He felt Oriana’s eyes on him from across the table. Should he tell her to lay off? Or would that come off as cruel?
“It’s incredible to have everyone back together again, isn’t it?” Oriana said.
“It’s hard to believe,” Chuck agreed. Suddenly, he yawned, betraying himself. He placed his hand over his mouth quickly, trying to conceal his fatigue, but it was too late; Oriana knew.
“We’d better get you back home.” Oriana scrunched up her face.
Chuck sighed and stared down at his biscuit. His shoulders ached.
Not for the first time, he thought how cruel it was that he seemed to fall deeper and deeper in love with life as he got older and time slipped away. He supposed that was always the way it went.
Not long after that, Oriana and Meghan walked him into the retirement facility. The woman at the front desk—Rhonda—greeted him with a smile and bobbed her head in a way that made her Santa hat bounce. Chuck laughed. “That’s some hat, Rhonda,” he said. Sometimes he really resented that younger people regarded older people like him as more like children than adults. Other times, he took pleasure in the fact that getting older meant no longer caring what anyone thought. It meant taking pleasure in silly things.
Mia had been especially good at that, and he remembered now as they strolled the halls and headed for his little apartment. She’d been big-hearted and quick to laugh, always dancing in the kitchen with the girls and playing the radio a little too loud. She’d been such a contrast to Margaret. Maybe that was why he’d fallen in love with her.
Suddenly, another memory pinged from the back alleys of his mind. Mia. The lighthouse keeper. The sinking ship. Chuck stalled in the hallway and took the handrail to steady himself.
“Dad?” Oriana sounded stricken. She touched his back. “Should we call someone?”
“I’m fine, Oriana,” Chuck groaned although he felt desperate and discombobulated. He wanted to sit alone in his chair and read a nonfiction book that had nothing to do with him or his personal history.
“Just tired?” Meghan asked sweetly.
Chuck didn’t answer. He proceeded through the halls and turned into his room. His knees popped as he fell into his chair and adjusted himself. Oriana and Meghan hurried to make him a mug of tea and put some snacks on the table next to him.
His daughters doted on him. His heart swelled with the immensity of their love.
But he couldn’t wait for them to go.
He needed to focus. He had to reject memories of the past. He had to live in the now.
The past was always apt to destroy you. He was certainly old enough to know that.