Chapter 31
Afterward, I roamed the backyard, parked myself on the deck. There were lounge chairs and slatted rockers, an oval table with an umbrella and chairs, a gas grill with the accoutrements. Everything in sight pointed to a joyous family inside the house. But the deck was a facade. As was the amazing house that Lisa had painstakingly renovated and refurbished. I yearned to help Lisa any way I could, but the truth was she had literally made her bed. I worried, but she was a woman in love, found it exciting that Will was a famous chef, that they had interests to share.
I rubbed away tears, wiped my hands on my flannel shirt. Told myself, There’s not a thing you can do. Not a thing you can do to change any of it. She asked you to tell Jake. But that’s her responsibility. After all, she had invited him to go into business without saying a word about the turmoil in her life. That she had a new man—a new baby in tow. That she had no idea how her life would be when Jake arrived, chafing to start working. Would Lisa tell Jake soon? More likely, she would put it off. A choice not in the best interest of my husband and his business plans. In the middle of her mess, she might even decide to forego building the inn.
I pulled my phone out of the back pocket of my corduroy pants.
“Hi. Can we talk?” My solemn tone foretold the importance of the subject matter.
“What’s going on?”
“Your daughter is involved with another man.”
I paused, waited for him to absorb what I had said. Then I continued, “His name is Will. He’s a chef.”
“Is his food any good?”
“She’s divorcing Brian.”
“They can’t work this out?” he asked.
“I told you she’s with this chef.”
“They could stop cooking, put out the flame. It’s been done. She has Macallan to consider here. Have they gone for counseling—isn’t that what I’m supposed to ask?”
“Jake, she’s pregnant. She’s having a baby with the chef.”
“What? How does she know it’s his?”
“She knows.”
“Was there a test?”
“There’s no way this baby belongs to Brian,” I said.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“We need to talk. When are you coming home?” Jake said.
“Sooner rather than later now that Lisa is back.”
“Good. I miss you.”
“I miss you too.”
He missed me. And I missed him. Throughout the years, we’d clung to each other in difficult times, especially those that involved our three children. We found comfort in solving problems together. But those three children were grown-ups now. We could no longer navigate life’s twists and turns for them, make things better. The reason was simple: What Jake and I assumed was better wasn’t necessarily what they would want. Their lives were their own.
And what about my life? Was there something to learn from my daughter, who put herself and her desires first?
I had spent a lifetime kowtowing. First to my parents, then to Jake. Even as I built my business in New York, I placed the needs of my family before work and let Jake be second stringer in taking care of the kids, culminating in a relocation to Florida exactly when my New York practice was as good as singing. And now—what about now? Would I move up here to help? To be with Callie?
After school, I stopped in Callie’s room. She was playing. Both the armadillo and the bear Lisa had brought from Boston were stationed in front of a tower she had built with Legos. I listened in as she spoke for the stuffed animals.
“You’ll love this house. It’s a mansion,” the armadillo said.
“I don’t want a big place,” the bear replied.
“Your children will like all the room,” the armadillo said.
“My children are small.”
“But soon they’ll be big, and very sad if you don’t buy this house.”
“Okay, I’ll take two,” the bear shouted.
“Armadillos usually live alone,” I said, “but this one seems content to be with you.”
“He’s in real estate. Like Di. I might want to be in real estate.”
I began one of our rhymes. “An armadillo learned from Di.”
“You can sell a house to any guy.”
It was so much easier to be a grandmother than a mother.
Downstairs, Lisa appeared before me in scarlet open-toe high heels. If shoes could speak, these would spell SEX in capital letters. Her dress—a sleeveless, low-cut red cocktail number—hid any sign she was four-months pregnant. And after all, I hadn’t noticed. But soon she would show. And what were her plans regarding telling Callie?
“You look wonderful,” I said.
“Thank you, thank you.”
“Lisa, when will you tell Callie what’s happening?”
“Mom, I don’t have time for a discussion with you now. I’m on my way out.”
“I see. I understand. But it seems to me you’re disregarding the elephant in the room.”
She snatched a stuffed elephant, plum with a multicolored trunk. “Here he is!”
I thought I would throttle her.
I pressed on. “Are you waiting to speak to her with Brian?”
“Of course not. Brian will muck it up. He’ll have her in tears.”
Who wouldn’t be in tears? I was bowled over by her insensitivity.
“I’m going to tell her.”
“It seems to me you’re avoiding your own daughter.”
“How’s that?” she said.
“It’s your first night back, and you’re going out in scarlet shoes.”
“Always the shoes. If a man staggered into a room without a head, you’d notice his shoes.”
Probably true.
“And, Mom, you’re here.”
“True, but I’m not you. If Brian isn’t coming home this weekend, she needs to know.”
“I’ll get to it.”
“When? This isn’t New York. Your pregnancy will be big news.”
“What’s news?” I heard Annie call from the entrance as she stepped into the house—without a knock.
Lisa and I clammed up.
“Hi, Annie,” Lisa said. “Thanks for helping while I was away.”
Annie replied to Lisa by displaying a small pocketbook—patent leather, square, with a gold clasp. Circa 1960. A pillbox hat would coordinate nicely with it.
“It’s her bag. She’s back. At Milton’s. With Milton. He’s such an asshole. This was on the coffee table. I dumped her stuff, but I stole her driver’s license. Do you know what a pain it is to reapply for a driver’s license?”
“I think you can replace a license online now,” I said.
“She has all the luck.”
Lisa stepped in. “Think Titanic . Abandon ship. You can stay here for a while if you’d like. I’d be glad to have you. Callie would be delirious.”
“I don’t know. I might go to my friend’s apartment. She has an air mattress.”
Although Lisa was offering Annie help, I could tell she sought to say her piece, pat Annie on the back, and be on her way to meet Will Cook.
Lisa checked the time on her phone. “I’m sorry. I’m running late. Annie, I’m sure my mom will give the advice you need. She has a great shoulder to cry on. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I was there to babysit. Lisa could ignore her child, step into heels, and stay at Will’s until the next day. It hit me. Maybe I was making life too easy for her.
Next afternoon, Annie announced she was going to Milton’s. For a moment, I figured she intended to confront him. But she told me she was taking Lisa’s advice, calling it quits, packing up. I was concerned about her going alone, getting into a battle with him, but she said he’d likely be at the annual antique car show, displaying his vintage Corvette. A friend was coming by to help Annie load the car. Also, she needed to return Jacqueline Kennedy’s bag. With a nasty note.
I imagined her fitting everything she owned in the world into her Honda. When I was her age, I lived in a furnished Manhattan co-op with a walk-in closet full of great shoes and clothes, sets of silverware and dishes given as wedding gifts, a gas barbecue kettle on the terrace. And most importantly, I had Jake. Annie asked if she could store her belongings in Lisa’s house. I figured Lisa would want to help, so I agreed.
“Okay,” she said as she dangled her car keys in her hand. “I’m off.”
“Be careful,” I said as Di marched into the house. Her blonde hair was topped with the wide headband and looked nothing like a wig, even though I knew it was. No one would have known she was ill.
Di put her hands on her hips, looked directly at Annie. “Well, my little friend, it seems Milton finally got his.”
“Got his what?” Annie said.
“You don’t know? Haven’t you heard?”
We stared blankly.
“Tell us,” I said. She was a pain. No wonder there wasn’t a sibling in her family who still talked to her, except the sister/mother in Rhode Island, who had no one else to call. Di hadn’t mentioned her once since she told me she had pneumonia and the operation would be postponed.
“He’s dead,” Di said flatly, as though talking about a character on a television show, not the father of her sons, not the man Annie lived with.
“What?” Annie squeaked.
“Some piece of work killed him last night.”
Annie went white. “With a gun?”
“With a vagina.”
Annie’s eyes went wide. “He died in bed?” she asked, stunned as much by his death as by his fatal last moment.
“As far as I know, he could’ve been doing the deed on the bedroom dresser, but in any case, he did not survive,” Di said.
Annie and I locked eyes, aware we were thinking the same thing: Milton died on top of or under the woman who owned the patent leather bag.
“I get it,” Di said to Annie, who had as good as collapsed on the couch. “You slept here because you caught Milton red handed last night. How old was she? Twelve?”
“Don’t be absurd,” Annie said.
Di plunged ahead. “How old?”
“She was about his age.”
“I love it. He croaked in the arms of a scrawny old prune. That’s what I call justice.”
“She wasn’t scrawny,” Annie said. “She was short and stout.”
“Tell me she had big boobs.”
Annie nodded.
“Oh, my, she wasn’t even his type!” Di said gleefully.
“How did you hear he died?” I asked Di.
“How many times do I have to tell you? It’s a small town. I’m sorry, Annie. Tough going, for sure. But now you can look for a man worthy of you. I wonder if anyone reached Penelope.”
“Penelope?” Annie said.
“Milton’s daughter. A train wreck. She lives in North Adams. She’s his person in case anything happens to him.”
“He has a daughter?” Annie said, a look of surprise on her face.
“Yes,” Di said. “Peculiar Penelope.”
“What about Brian? He’ll be devastated,” I said naively.
“Not really,” Di said.
Di’s phone rang. The quacking sounds. She answered. It was a client.
“Hello. Diandra Summer Lake. My ex-husband died. Father of my sons. What’s your best offer?”
She listened to the caller, then she said, “Too low. They won’t respond. If you want to be walking less than a quarter mile to Tanglewood Music Festival next summer, I suggest you up the ante. Let me know. Maybe listen to the Boston Symphony as you’re deciding.”
Callie rushed in, dragging her book bag and coat behind her, wiped out from a playdate but pleased to see us all. “Yes—my three best grandmas! Oh, except for you, Di, because you don’t like when I call you the G-word.”
Annie approached Callie, placed her arms around the child. “Mac, I have something to tell you. I have sad news.”
Callie searched Annie’s face.
“Milton died last night,” she said as a tear dropped down her cheek.
I was surprised Annie blurted the Milton news out to Callie. Milton was Callie’s grandpa—even though he had no interest in her. I would have sat down next to Callie and explained, held her if she was upset, put in a call to her mom and dad.
“I’m sorry, Grannie Annie.”
“Thank you,” Annie said, wrapping arms around Callie, hugging the child to her chest, holding on until Callie stepped back.
“Mom always said he was too old for you. Grandma Jo, can I have an ice pop?”