Lydia and Brick Jr.
Lydia ran her old route through town, clearing her mind. She knew that Jari was off to do his morning run. Three miles. Every day, even if it rained or snowed. It was part of his routine. She’d meet him back at the hotel.
The big clock at the Unitarian church rang nine times.
In town some shops, but not all, had opened, but the streets were quiet, the sidewalks empty.
Everyone was sleeping late. The air was so clear here.
In the summer, the mist in the air caused everything to look like an Impressionist painting.
In the winter, the air was so pure and crisp that heaven seemed to touch the earth.
Her conversation with her mother had oddly clarified a problem Lydia had been wrestling with, and she set her jaw and purposefully turned down Fair Street to her grandfather’s home.
Brick Jr. still lived in the old rambling house Lydia knew so well.
She’d spent hours here as a little girl.
Sometimes her parents would bring all three children to be cared for by their grandparents while they went to church, or off-island for a big shopping trip, or some evenings when her parents went out to dinner with friends.
Lydia was a witness to the chaos in the house because of her younger sister and brother.
She had been a quiet, organized child. At three, she could sit for hours coloring or building with Legos or playing by herself in the backyard while her two-year-old sister stumbled around shrieking and her baby brother sat babbling in the swing chair that was supposed to help him fall asleep but never did.
When she was young, she was her grandparents’ favorite child.
Grandad often took her on little excursions on Sunday morning, leaving the two younger children to splash in the round plastic pool in their grandparents’ backyard while Evangeline and one of her friends sat on lawn chairs, chatting and sipping lemonade.
Grandad took Lydia on a bumpy Jeep ride over the sand all the way out to Great Point.
He took her to afternoon or early evening movies they all knew the two little children wouldn’t be able to sit through.
In the winter, he taught her to play checkers and dominoes, and when she showed an interest in art, he set up a child’s easel in the basement and supplied her with watercolors and pads of paper.
She learned how to be the favorite grandchild by simply being the kind of quiet, industrious child she naturally was.
It had been her grandfather who’d suggested that her father take her into the office on Sunday mornings.
She’d been four years old, and she’d felt left out, shoved aside by her cute sister and brother.
When her father took her to his office, she’d felt special.
When he gave her her “own” desk to work on, she’d been amazed.
Sometimes in those early years, her grandfather came in on a quiet Sunday morning.
He’d often present her with an official, businesslike gift.
A small stapler. A box of multicolored paper clips.
Scented Sharpies. Then Brick Jr. would go into the large back office and talk with Brick Three about company matters.
Lydia would be aware of the deep rumble of their conversation, often broken by laughter, and she felt that this was where she belonged.
One summer weekend three years later, Lydia took the ferry to Hyannis to shop in the mall with her mother, her grandmother Evangeline, and Florie.
Lydia was seven then, and Florie was six.
They always had an exciting time at the mall, buying new clothes for school and eating burgers and fries at establishments that didn’t exist on Nantucket.
She remembered that weekend well, because when she returned home, she realized she’d been betrayed.
While Lydia and Florie were giggling over hair ribbons, Brick Three had taken Lucas, five years old, to show him the office in the brick building on Main Street that Lucas would join when he was out of college.
They showed him the new computers, the new ergonomic office chairs, and the glass-walled private office Lucas would one day call his own.
Lydia was shattered. Learning that her brother would work in that office on Main Street, but not her, not ever her, knocked the breath and all her confidence out of her. She felt as if she’d been kicked off the island, off the planet, and out into cold, empty space.
All sorts of things were happening in the world of grown-ups—politics, medical tests, weddings, funerals—and that year she wasn’t aware of any of it. She was alone, stewing in her own private misery.
Evangeline, whom the children called “Grandma,” had been a loving, hands-on grandparent.
She was the one they raced toward for hugs, kisses, presents, cookies, silly songs, tickles, and laughter.
While Lucas went off with Brick Three and Brick Jr., Evangeline taught her granddaughters how to bake oatmeal raisin cookies and knit and work on complicated, grown-up jigsaw puzzles.
Lydia wasn’t sure what she thought of Beatrice.
She was glad her grandfather had someone to care for him, and she knew it wasn’t fair to compare her to Evangeline, but what it came right down to was the realization that Beatrice didn’t really know Lydia—or her siblings—and Lydia didn’t sense any warmth coming from her.
Did Beatrice like Lydia? Lydia didn’t even know if she liked Beatrice. She was about to find out.
As she walked up the slate stones to her grandfather’s front door, she saw the Christmas wreath on the door.
It was simple. A small evergreen wreath with a small fake velvet bow.
Lydia had seen ones like it selling at Stop & Shop.
When Evangeline was alive, her wreaths were always unique, wrapped with bright ribbons, decorated with ornaments and small figures of donkeys, reindeer, Santas, nutcrackers, and angels. Maybe even a sheep or a cow.
Well, Lydia decided, maybe Beatrice didn’t have time to “fancy it up”—Evangeline’s phrase. Maybe Beatrice preferred simple. Elegant.
Whatever.
Lydia knocked on the door.
It took a while for someone to answer. Then, finally, the door opened and Beatrice stood there, wearing a pretty floor-length robe.
“Oh, my! Lydia! Come in, come in!”
Beatrice held the door wide for Lydia and talked constantly, breathlessly, as she led Lydia to the back room, which in the 1800s had been considered a borning room for childbirth or sickness but was now the family room.
“How are you, Lydia? Lydia, it’s so sweet of you to come over, but your mother has already called.
I’m absolutely fine, well, a few stitches in my arm of course, and I’ll admit I’ve been alternating aspirin with ibuprofin as there is a little pain, but wasn’t that silly of me to cut my own arm?
As you can see, I’m using it as an excuse to be lazy today.
I’m going to lie around in my robe and—” Beatrice stopped walking so suddenly Lydia almost collided with her.
Beatrice leaned forward and whispered, “I’m not wearing a bra today.
Isn’t it the most glorious feeling to not wear a bra?
If I’d known you were coming, I would have gotten dressed, I hope you don’t think I’m lazy… ”
“Not at all, Beatrice.” Lydia took a deep breath. She wanted to speak with her grandfather, but he wasn’t going to vanish in the next few moments, and this woman was part of her family. “You should rest. May I see your stitches?”
Lydia had asked the perfect question. Beatrice’s face lit up.
“Well, there’s a gauze pad over them, but I can always take it off and put it back.” The older woman’s face gleamed with hope.
“Would it be difficult to lift it up just a little?” Lydia asked.
Beatrice’s eyes sparkled. Lydia felt like they were two children conspiring on an adventure.
“I’ll try.” Beatrice slid her arm out of the sleeve of her robe, held her arm out so that Lydia could watch, and showed her the large gauze pad held in place by two wide strands of tape. She carefully lifted the tape and an edge of the pad.
“Oh, my,” Lydia said, bending down close to see the stitches. “You have four stitches! But there’s no red around them, so there’s no infection.”
“That’s exactly what I thought!” Beatrice seemed as proud as if she’d won a car.
“But still,” Lydia reminded her, “you should rest.”
She helped Beatrice slide her arm back into her robe. Beatrice was smiling and Lydia felt oddly pleased with herself. It had taken only a minute and a few words to assure her step-grandmother. Maybe Lydia could slow down. Maybe the little things were the big things.
“Now, here we are,” Beatrice said as they entered the family room.
Brick Jr. was seated in his old stuffed armchair, nose-deep in the Sunday New York Times, as he had been every Sunday Lydia could remember.
“Hello, Grandad,” Lydia said. She waited for him to put down his newspaper—always complicated, because he preferred it perfectly folded—and stand up.
“Lydia! What a surprise!”
She hugged him tight for a moment. Up close she saw his pink pate showing through the few strands of hair so carefully positioned over the top of his head. And she smelled Ivory soap, the soap he had insisted on all his life. Once Brick Jr. made up his mind, he didn’t change.
Or maybe, just once, he could. That was why Lydia had come.
“Sit! Sit! What’s going on?” He gestured to the sofa across from him. He wore khakis and a handsome red polo sweater. He would never be seen in his robe.
Beatrice hovered. “Would you like some coffee, Lydia? Maybe orange juice?”
“No, thanks, Beatrice. I won’t stay long.” Did she want Beatrice here or not, Lydia wondered. She couldn’t guess what her response would be, or how it would influence Brick Jr.
“Grandad, I’m here about Parsons Insurance Company. I know you and Dad always wanted Lucas to take it over. Now that he’s decided he’s going to be a nurse, and Florie is moving to Wisconsin, I wonder if you would consider allowing me to join the firm and eventually be president.”
Her grandfather stared at her. “Well.” He rubbed his forehead. “I thought you were going into hospitality.”
“I was. But Lucas’s announcement has changed everything. And the personal and business skills I’ve learned can help me run the family company.”
“I suppose.” Her grandfather stroked his chin, deep in thought.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Brick Jr., get over yourself.”
Lydia jumped a little when Beatrice spoke up.
“This is the answer to all you’ve been fretting about. Last night you were grumbling about the insurance company fading away, and here this morning is the perfect solution.”
Lydia almost laughed, she was so surprised. She was even more surprised when Beatrice sat down next to her on the sofa and patted Lydia’s hand.
“You two are ganging up on me,” Brick Jr. said.
“Yes, we are,” Beatrice responded. “And about time, too.”
“Have you spoken to your father about this?” Brick Jr. asked.
“No. I wanted to talk to you first.” She hesitated. “If you remember, you were the person who told my father to take me to the office.”
Brick Jr. harrumphed. “It’s good to know I take precedence.”
After that, he relaxed in his chair, staring at the wall, obviously thinking. Beatrice took hold of Lydia’s hand and squeezed. “Hang on,” she whispered.
“I can hear you, Beatrice,” Brick Jr. announced. “Okay. Look. Let me talk to Brick Three about this.”
“Grandad, you know he’ll do whatever you say. And really, you two need me. Who else can carry on the firm?”
Brick Jr. rubbed his chin again. “Brick Three and I have discussed Samantha Morgan. She’s very capable.”
“Brick Jr.!” Beatrice exclaimed. “She’s female! If you’re going to give the company to a woman, it should be your own granddaughter.”
“I suppose you’re right, Beatrice. Okay, Lydia. Let’s do it. Let’s bring you on board. Of course, we’ll have to talk to your father about this, but I think he’ll be happy enough.”
Lydia fought back tears. She wasn’t going to get all soggy when talking about business.
“Thank you, Grandad. You won’t be sorry.” She turned to face her grandfather’s surprisingly helpful wife. “And thank you, Beatrice.” She leaned over and kissed the other woman’s cheek.
Beatrice turned bright pink. “Now would you like some coffee?”
“Coffee, hell,” Brick Jr. said. “I want those chocolate almond bars you’ve been hiding from me.”
Beatrice smiled. “I’ll be right back.” Leaning down, she whispered close to Lydia’s ear, “I would have supported you even if you hadn’t looked at my stitches.”
Lydia grinned. “I can see I’ve got a lot to learn.”