Chapter 36
January is bleak in Rhode Island. The sun sets at four thirty over the frigid Atlantic, all blues and purples like an aging bruise.
On a Tuesday morning, Gus has just left for school, and Christopher and I are at the grocery store.
This is a new thing for us, his coming on my errands.
I am practicing not taking no for an answer by telling him that the cart is heavy and that I need help carrying the bags.
It’s good for him to be out and seeing people.
He even has a jokey rapport with the checkout girl.
He’s reaching deep into a shelf to pull out the last can of chickpeas when I see Victoria coming down the aisle.
“Dolly,” she says.
“Hi,” I say. “Victoria. This is my brother, Christopher.”
She extends a hand to him and he takes it, but with his left hand. This is something we should work on, and I’m bolstered by the thought of Christopher being a person who is out in the world, shaking hands with people.
“Do we know her?” he asks me.
When you’re going through hell, keep going. “Yes, she’s Stewart’s mother.”
He gives his mischievous smile. “She liked him,” he tells Victoria.
Her eyes go to me, and I think I’m probably expressionless. We all know what went down. Of course I liked him.
“Are those good chickpeas?” she asks Christopher.
“No,” he says, and I am relieved by the subject change.
“They’re for a salad, and Christopher is going to give me a hard time about salad until I’m an old woman,” I say.
Victoria nods and looks around at the acre of cans ahead. “Gladys is visiting her brother until tomorrow, so I’ve been in charge. Should have just picked up crabcakes, actually.”
The mention of crabcakes tightens my chest. Henry being so pleased with me and then so disgusted. “I remember Henry liked those,” I say.
It hangs there. A movie playing on a screen between us. Henry saying how much he loved our crabcakes while Stewart rested his hand on my shoulder.
“Well, I’ll get back to it,” she says finally. And then to Christopher, “Thanks for the warning about the chickpeas.”
The next day I’m behind the counter at the fish house when Victoria calls. I watch my phone ring for a bit before I answer.
“I was wondering if you could come for tea this afternoon,” she says. “I think maybe we should talk.”
I do not reply. I don’t want to go to Eight Oaks. I also don’t want to act like it’s a big deal to go there. He’s in Boston or New York or wherever he goes when it’s not summer, but I don’t want to walk through the memory of it all.
“Dolly?” she says.
“Yes,” I say. “Sorry. What time?”
Gladys opens the front door (I am not bringing fish today, I’ve been invited), but due to some self-protective mental block, I was not expecting to see her.
“Oh,” I say as a greeting.
“Dolly,” she says. “Come in.” I do and she closes the giant door against the January cold. She’s wearing her usual uniform, and I am too: jeans, a gray wool sweater, brown boots.
“How have you been?” I ask.
“Fine, quiet. Winters out here take a bit of getting used to, but come summer they’ll all be back.”
I look at my hands. I know something has come across my face, and I know she’s seen it.
I live here now, and I don’t want Stewart coming back.
I don’t want him wandering into the fish house for halibut.
I’m even sick of seeing the big yacht he’s so scared of on display in the center of town. I let out a breath and look up.
“Mrs. Whitfield is expecting you. Come,” she says.
Tea is served in a little library off the big living room.
It’s mahogany-paneled, with the same coffered ceiling, but cozy, with two overstuffed armchairs in front of a fire.
There’s an oil painting of white peonies on a black background over the fireplace, and I can almost smell them.
Leather-bound books line two walls. I could spend the rest of my life in this room.
Victoria stands when we walk in. “Dolly, hello.” She gestures to the other chair in front of the fire.
I sit. “This is the most beautiful room I’ve ever been in.”
“It’s my favorite in the winter. My office looks out at the water, and it’s a bit grim in January.”
“Everything is,” I say. She pours me a cup of tea in the china pattern my mother loved so much.
It takes my breath away to see so many pieces of it—kelly-green ivy with a thick gold band around the rim.
There’s a small pitcher of milk and a little silver bowl of honey.
“How long will you be here? Wouldn’t you normally be back in Boston by now? ” I ask.
“We’re trying it out, being here year-round. Henry retired, so.” That hangs in the air for a second, heavy. “How have you been?” she asks. Numb. Empty. Angry.
“Fine. I’m subbing a bit at the elementary school, and Gus is playing hockey, which is great.
” I smile at the thought—Gus playing a sport and doing it well, Gus having real friends.
I remind myself that this was the fantasy all along, and I like that Victoria knows him.
“Gus is happy. It’s everything.” It’s such a cozy thought that I sink in my chair and look at the fire.
“It is everything. When there’s a crisis with one of my kids, nothing else matters. And I hate to tell you, it’s never over.”
“I was starting to suspect that,” I say. “How’s Busy?”
“She’s in Boston, working for Stewart.”
My eyes fall to my teacup. I want to skirt around his name, and I don’t want to picture his face. “What’s she doing for him?” I ask my tea.
“He has her in a management training program. His idea.”
“I saw Grant is CEO,” I say.
“Yes,” she says. “It’s a yearlong appointment, to see how it goes. With fraud accusations they couldn’t hire Stewart, but I think the board wants to give him another chance.”
“It wasn’t fraud,” I say.
“Because you went to the Kramer dinner, it crossed a line. So Stewart’s back to working around the clock to prove himself.”
We’re quiet for a bit while I decide whether I want to keep talking about him. I’m surprised to find that I do.
“I was never convinced he really wanted that job,” I say. “More that it was his responsibility to keep things going. He wanted to preserve what his great-grandfather had created and take care of you all.” I’m talking about him like he’s dead.
“I don’t know why he feels like that’s all on him,” she says. “He’s terrible at asking for help.”
“Dr. Meyers calls him Atlas.”
“Who’s Dr. Meyers?” she asks, refilling her cup.
“His therapist.”
“I didn’t know he was in therapy.”
I laugh again, that humorless ick of a laugh. I reach for a raspberry cookie. “Sorry if I violated some kind of HIPAA law for fake relationships.”
“I’m sorry about whatever happened between you two.”
“So am I,” I say. She doesn’t say anything.
I keep talking to the fire. “I believed it was real between us by the end, with my whole being. I’m so angry at him, and it’s eating away at me.
I don’t need Dr. Meyers to tell me I need to stop.
” I turn to her and she’s watching me. “You were clearly disapproving from the beginning, which I get.”
She smiles. “It wasn’t that I didn’t approve of you. I knew the second I saw that photo in the Post that it was fake. Stewart doesn’t know how to change a tire.”
“He really doesn’t,” I say, shaking my head.
“But then I saw you two together and there was something between you. I was worried you were being taken advantage of.”
“Maybe I was. Who knows.” All that anger bubbles up again. Hot in my chest and rising to my face.
“I’m not sure. I’d never seen Stewart like that. Not even with Audrey. I think he was in love with you. I thought he’d have called you by now.”
I don’t say anything.
“Were you in love with him?” she asks.
I shrug. “Of course. Yes. I mean, I was all in. And he acted like he was too, like the whole thing was stretching out into forever. And then he just disappeared.”
“A very weak move,” she says.
“He sent me a check by messenger.”
“As his mother, I’m sorry.”
“One thing I’ve been thinking about lately is not letting people off the hook so easily,” I say.
She raises her eyebrows at me.
“I kind of want to yell at him.”
“Me too,” she says over her teacup. “But you go first.”
I raise my cup in agreement, and she smiles.
We sit quietly and watch the fire for a bit. I ask, “So what do you have planned for the spring?”
“I’ve agreed to more hours at the ER and at the clinic because one doctor is going on maternity leave. And I’m opening the chapel for a string concert in April. I love that chapel, I wanted to get married there.”
“So did I,” I say with a sideways smile. I don’t know why this is so easy, and also so healing. It’s like I’ve gone and told on Stewart to his mother. Or maybe it’s just having a mother to talk to.
“Would have been beautiful. Henry’s mother had her heart set on a huge affair, and I went along with it. You pick your battles.” She gets up and puts another log on the fire. “Shall we switch to sherry?”