Husbands & Lovers

Chapter Twenty Mallory

July 2022

Winthrop Island, New York

I wait until about half past five, when the sun is halfway up above the horizon and the air is made of pink light, before I get out of bed and dress in my running clothes. My head’s heavy; my arms and legs feel as if I was hit by a truck in the middle of the night.

A metaphorical truck, you might say.

To go running on Winthrop Island at dawn is about as close to heaven as I can imagine, at least anymore. I start off down Club Road at a gentle jog. Houses to my left, fairways to the right. The still air tastes of salt and memory. The landscape is peopled with ghosts. There I fly on an old bicycle, chasing the twins toward sailing lessons in Little Bay Harbor, passing Monk and his golfer at the eighth tee. He spots us and lifts his hand to wave.

I run past the silent guard hut, where I usually turn down Little Bay Road and loop back at the harbor. But the endorphins have kicked in early. A sleepless night will do that to me. I keep on running down West Cliff Road, past the old Longfellow meadow and Monk leading me over the grass toward the path down to Horseshoe Cove, where we light a fire and roast the marshmallows we feed to each other, one after another, exchanging marshmallow kisses in the velvet night until a downpour douses the fire and sends us racing back up the hill and across the meadow to make love, soaked and laughing, on the dog blanket in the back of Bessie.

Past the old Fisher estate, a glimpse of the Fleet Rock lighthouse, the cliffs, the sharp plunge downhill to the village, where I veer left and circle the airfield to the path leading over the old bunkers to the dunes and back again along the other side of the airfield. Then back up the sharp pitch of West Cliff Road with all that I have, all the breath left in my body, until I crest the ridge and cruise back high as a kite the way I came, houses stirring now, golfers and caddies appearing on the fairways. Past Serenity Lane and Summerly at the end of it. I avert my gaze from the Seagrapes driveway and turn down the gravel strip toward the Monk house, where a couple of voices reach me from the kitchen.

I drop to a walk, panting, dripping, hands on hips. I can’t help but hear them.

But, Miss Lennox, you said—

A simple sorry, Grace. That’s all I’m asking for. Is that too much to ask? A simple sorry and maybe, just maybe, follow my directions next time?

But I thought—

I mean, do you seriously not know the difference between oatmeal and overnight oats? You told me you did, Grace. I trusted you. So what is this shit? Fucking instant Quaker? Filled with fucking pesticides and GMOs? Am I supposed to put that into my body? Monk’s body?

I’m sorry, Miss Lennox.

If you don’t know what I’m asking for, look it up on the fucking internet. If you can’t remember, write it down. I assume you can write, can’t you? So make a list. You know what? I’ll do it. I’ll type it up with every last fucking detail highlighted so you won’t screw up next time. Okay?

I’m sorry, Miss Lennox.

Sorry really doesn’t cut it here, Grace.

By now I’m storming through the mudroom on the way to the kitchen, where a bowl of oatmeal sits on the wooden counter, studded with fresh blueberries. Lee stands next to the oatmeal, wearing a pair of black capri leggings and a cropped black camisole, yoga-ready. Her hair tumbles down her back like it’s been through a wind tunnel.

“What in the hell is going on here?”

Lee tucks her hair behind one ear. “This is between me and Grace, Mallory.”

“Grace is a friend of mine.”

“I’m sure she is,” says Lee, “but she works for me.”

“She works for Monk.”

Lee smiles. “Honey. I think we understand that means she works for me too?”

“Well, I’m sorry, but I can’t just stand here and listen to you berate someone who’s been working for the family since before you were born. I don’t care if she smashed all the crystal. You might be sleeping with the boss, but you still owe her respect, okay? Don’t act like a toddler. Grace, I’ll clean that up for you. Go take a minute to yourself.”

Lee and I stare at each other for a few seconds. The tears stream soundlessly down her cheeks.

“Look,” I say. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. That’s just not the way we speak to people around here.”

She turns and walks out of the kitchen. I hear the quick thump of her feet as she climbs the stairs to the master bedroom.

Monk finds me an hour later, as I’m helping Sam pack up his things.

“Hey, buddy. Can I talk to your mom a minute?”

Sam looks at me, eyebrows raised.

“Go ahead,” I tell him.

Once Sam passes out the door, Monk says, “What’s going on here? Are you packing?”

“Lola’s invited us to stay with her at Summerly.”

“When did this happen?”

“Last night. You and Lee went to bed early, remember?”

I hear him sigh behind me. “Mallory. Look at me.”

I turn. He’s dressed in a T-shirt and gray jersey joggers. His hair’s a jumble, his face heavy. He frowns at me. “Look, I realize the situation is a little awkward—”

“It’s okay. It really is. Staying here was a mistake to begin with.”

“Was it, Pinks? Was it that bad?”

I turn back to Sam’s drawer and pull out a tangle of shirts, which I dump on the bed to fold. “It’s just awkward, like you said.”

“Can you tell me what happened downstairs just now? Lee’s been on the floor sobbing.”

“She was disrespectful to Grace, that’s all. So I called her out onit.”

“What did you say to her?”

“I said just because she was sleeping with the boss didn’t give her the right to act like a toddler.”

“Jesus, Mallory. You said that?”

“Monk, even your alcoholic stepmother treated Grace like a human being.”

A groan slides from his throat. “So, what happened down there, exactly?”

“Why don’t you ask your fiancée?” I set one neat, folded shirt in Sam’s duffel bag and pick up another. “You know what, forget it. I’m not here to bring the household drama. We’ll be out of your hair in an hour, and I think things will go much better for everyone.”

Monk sits on the edge of the bed, a few feet away, and tries to capture my gaze. “I know Lee can be a little exacting.”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“But she’s a good person, Mallory. She’s been there for me. I was in a pretty shitty place a few years ago, when we got back together. I’d been avoiding commitment, avoiding adult relationships for a decade. And she led me back. Pulled me outside of my own head. Made me start some therapy, wouldn’t take any shit from me. I needed that. I needed her.”

“Monk, that’s a nice story. I’m sure she’s wonderful for you. I’m sure you’ll be fantastically happy together. I want you to be happy together.”

“Pinks, will you stop it?”

“Stop what?”

He crosses the room, stares at himself in the mirror that hangs on the bathroom door, and turns around. “You know what? Let’s have that talk. I think we need to have that talk.”

“What talk?”

“I don’t think you get it. I don’t think you really understand how you destroyed me when you left. I didn’t just lose my girlfriend, the love of my fucking life. I lost my best friend. I lost the one person on this earth I knew I could trust. You broke that trust, Mallory, and you broke me, and now it turns out you broke way more than I even imagined. That boy out there. My son. You kept my son away from me for thirteen years. Who does that, Mallory? Who does that to the guy she’s supposed to love?”

“I thought you had all that figured out. You know, I needed to pursue my art and everything. Be free.”

“Was I wrong? What did I miss, Mallory? What am I missing?”

“Nothing.”

Monk reaches out and takes my hand, just below the bracelet. “Am I the asshole, then? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

“No.”

“What did I do, Mallory? Just tell me what I did to you. For God’s sake. I need some fucking closure here.”

A voice breaks in from the doorway. “Hey, you two. Mallie, could you lend me a hand with the girls’ stuff? Lola’s going to be here in like, ten minutes.”

Monk drops my hand. “Paige, do you mind giving us another second, here?”

I gather up the rest of the shirts and dump them in Sam’s duffel bag. “Hold on, Paige. I’m coming.”

It turns out Lola’s grandmother-in-law celebrates her ninety-sixth birthday in a week, and the entire Peabody clan has gathered to pregame. Lola apologizes for the chaos.

“Dave has seven aunts and uncles, including the steps, and…” She pauses to count. “Nineteen first cousins. I mean, not all of them are here this year, obviously. The hundredth, that’s going to be the rager.”

Mrs. Peabody is a small-boned, shrunken woman with sharp, hooded eyes and coral lips. Her white hair fluffs around her face. She walks right up to me to introduce herself.

“Dunne,” she says. “So you’re Irish.”

“Actually, I’m Jewish,” I tell her. “I love your dress.”

“Don’t patronize me. You should have seen me when I was young. I was really something then.”

“I’ll bet. I understand you’re a writer?”

She cups her ear. “A what?”

“A WRITER!”

“Hell, no. I’m a historian. But I’m required to write it all down so people will remember.” She looks me up and down. “I understand a certain somebody’s got the hots for you.”

“I’m sorry, what? Who?”

“Oh, he gave me an earful on the way to the doctor a couple of weeks ago. I guess I can’t blame him.” She hands me her empty glass. “Fetch me a gin and tonic with lime, will you, please.”

At the liquor table, a dark-haired man expertly rattles a cocktail shaker and strains it into a glass. He looks up from his work and his mouth breaks into a grin.

“Mallory the First,” he says, in a deep, attractive baritone. “What can I do for you?”

Mrs. Peabody looks pleased with herself. She takes her glass and says, “I see you’ve found my favorite grandson.”

“Don’t be too impressed. We’re all her favorites,” Sedge tells me.

“Sedge recently broke up with the girlfriend everybody hated, and he’s terrifically handsome—well, you can see that for yourself—and I understand he makes a lot of money on the internet. Isn’t that right, Sedge?”

“It’s not as sketchy as she makes it sound, I promise,” says Sedge.

“Did Miss Dunne tell you she’s a Jew?”

“It’s Mallory to my friends,” I say. “And I’m only one-quarter Jewish. Sorry to disappoint.”

“It’ll have to do,” says Mrs. Peabody. “We’ve only got one Jew in the family these days, and he could use someone to help him celebrate the high holidays. Sedge, take Mallory out on the beach and see if she’ll go on a date with you. Just keep an eye out for the KGB.”

“What did your grandmother mean by that?” I ask Sedge, once we’ve kicked off our shoes to enjoy the squelch of sand between our toes.

“Apologies. Don’t mind Granny, she’s a meddler.”

“No, I mean about the KGB.”

“Oh, that?” He laughs. “Just an old family legend. They say Summerly was a hotbed for Soviet spies after the war. Kept some kind of secret radio in the guest cottage.”

“Intriguing. I happen to be staying in the guest cottage.”

“Then you should check out the attic some evening.” He sips his beer and stares out to sea. Cheekbones stained pink. “I could help. If you need a local to show you around.”

I kick a little sand and sip my gin and tonic. “Before you make any more irresistible offers, I think you should know I have a thirteen-year-old son who needs a new kidney.”

“Well,” he says slowly, “I didn’t see that coming.”

“On the plus side, I’m not looking for anything serious.”

“That’s supposed to be a plus?”

“You tell me, Sedge the Second.”

Sedge has one hand in his pocket, one hand on his beer. The falling sun hits the side of his face and turns it gold. He examines the neck of the beer bottle and glances toward the house and the generations of Peabodys mingling around, paying us no attention. With his head, he inclines me to the right, where a tangle of beach roses shields us from view. He puts his arm around me and kisses me. His mouth tastes of beer, of comfort. My crushed, bent emotions uncurl and stretch out to warm in the sun. When he lifts his head, he says, “I’m sorry about your son. That must be tough.”

“Yeah, it’s been real.”

He makes gentle, nibbling kisses along my jaw to my ear. “So you’re looking for a little escape from reality, is that what I’m hearing?”

“You’re a good listener, Sedge.”

“I’ve been well trained by my former owners.” Sedge sets the beer in the sand and unfastens the top button of my shirt, then the next. He kisses my neck, my chin, my mouth. “Thirteen, huh? What were you, a child bride?”

“Sweet of you. Not a bride at all, actually. Just a dumb kid who made a mistake.”

A noise to the left springs us apart. Before I can turn to see who’s there, Sedge steps in front of me. “Buddy. Can I help you?”

Around the corner of Sedge’s shoulder, I spot a familiar head of hair.

“Sorry, man. My mistake.”

Sedge says, “Oh, shit. Monk Adams?”

I leap to one side of Sedge. “Wait! Monk! Is something wrong?”

Monk’s already turned away to walk up the beach. A bunch of meadow flowers dangles from one hand. He stops and makes a quarter-turn, so he speaks to me without quite looking at me. “Sorry, Pinks. They said you were down on the beach, I didn’t realize—”

“But everything’s okay, right?”

He looks at the flowers in his hand. “I just wanted to apologize, that’s all. You were right, I was the asshole.”

“Wait, what happened?”

“Another time. When you’re free.” He turns his back to stride up the beach, not toward Summerly but along the water, toward his own house. I stand there staring after him.

“You should probably get that,” Sedge says softly.

“Shit.” I hand him my gin and button up my shirt. “I probably should.”

I catch up with Monk on the other side of the inlet, just as the ground starts climbing upward to form the bluff. “Wait! Monk!” I call out.

He stops and turns. He’s dropped the meadow flowers somewhere along the way.

“Pinks, it’s all right. It can wait.”

“Well, I’m here, aren’t I? So you might as well tell me.”

Monk runs a hand through his hair, a gesture so familiar I think for an instant that I’m twenty-one years old again, that we’ve rewound this movie to the beginning.

“Grace quit,” he says.

“What? No!”

“She spoke to me after you left. She was kind of a mess. I tried to salvage the situation but she—she was too upset. About what happened. About what’s apparently been happening all along, and I never figured it out. Because Grace was too…because she…”

He turns his head away and puts his fists on his hips. The ocean sends a gust of wind to fly around his hair. He lifts one hand to brush a knuckle beneath his eye.

“Because she was too ashamed to tell me, Pinks. She didn’t want to hurt my feelings.”

“It’s not your fault.”

He snorts out a laugh and lifts his head to face me. “It kind of is, Pinks. Right? I’m responsible for what happens in my own house. And I turned a blind eye. Because I didn’t want to see it. I needed this relationship to work. I needed something in my life to last. And then you come along, Miss Integrity. You’re not having any of that bullshit, are you? Three days is all it takes for you to set my house in order.”

“That’s not really—”

“Look, I’ve taken up enough of your time.” He checks his watch. “I have an early flight out tomorrow. I need to get home and pack.”

“You’re leaving?”

“Something came up. Business.”

“What about…?”

“Lee? She left this afternoon. We had a little discussion. About not abusing the people who’ve cared for me all my life. She says she’s been misrepresented and she’s the injured party. I’m sure we’ll work it out.”

I can’t tell if he’s laid some irony on that last sentence or not. Fourteen years ago, I would have known. I could have sensed every nuance of meaning in his voice and face.

“Go back to Summerly, Pinks,” he says. “Enjoy the party. You deserve a little fun.”

“Well, I happen to think this is more important.”

“This? What do you mean, this?”

“I mean you’re upset. You’re unhappy.”

“Oh, so now it matters?”

“I never wanted to make you unhappy, Monk. That’s the absolute last thing in the world I wanted.”

Monk sighs and hangs his hand on the back of his neck. He looks out to sea. “So, you know that shit they used to drink, during the Second World War? When the real coffee ran out, they drank this ersatz coffee. Fake coffee. It wasn’t real. It was made from whatever they could get their hands on. Acorns or chicory. I don’t know what. My grandfather used to tell me about it. He was shot down in France, went down one of those Resistance escape lines to Spain. It tasted like shit, he said, but they drank it anyway because they didn’t have any real coffee and they needed something, right? Something to keep them warm? They pretended it was real, but it wasn’t. And when the war ended and they tasted real coffee again, they wondered how the hell they’d made themselves drink that ersatz shit. How they even got it down. How they survived so long pretending it tasted all right. But it was all they had. And it got them through the war, like I said.”

I cross my arms over my chest and stare down at my flip-flops.

“I’m not unhappy, Pinks. Trust me, this right here? Is not me unhappy. I have a son. You and me, we have a son together. And I am grateful beyond words for that, Mallory. I’m so grateful for Sam, I can’t explain. Just to know something good came out of that summer, something real. So now it’s my turn. My job to take care of him. Keep him around for us to love.”

I tell my toes, “I realize I should have found a way to inform you sooner.”

“Hey. You were a dumb kid. You made a mistake.”

I look up. “Oh, shit, Monk. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

“?’Sokay.” He steps forward, takes me by the elbows, and kisses me gently on the lips. “Good night, Pinko.”

As I walk back to Summerly, my chest feels as if it’s being crushed by a refrigerator. I reach the edge of the beach and hear some shouts. The mother-instinct geysers up. I run to find Sam and discover him right away, watching the other kids play volleyball. No dialysis today, so his energy’s low. He sits in the sand, forearms propped on his knees, fingers linked. He follows the ball with such intense concentration that when it arcs his way on a wild shot, it’s like he manifested it. He lifts one spindly arm and palms the ball. Hurls it back into play. The kids turn around and carry on and something chokes me, a wad of helpless rage.

For God’s sake, Monk, he needs you. He needs his dad.

But as I start toward Sam, a girl about his age drops into the sand next to him. Cute girl. She says something to him, he says something back. I change course mid-stride and walk on, crossing the beach to the terrace, where Paige spots me and waves.

“Did I fuck up?” she asks. “I didn’t realize you had company out there.”

“No worries. I seem to have lost my drink, though.”

“Everything okay?”

“Yes. No. Shit.” I pull the glass from her hand and gulp down about half, while Paige watches attentively. “I think I might need a few more of these.”

“So, what did he want?”

I stare into the glass. A couple of ice cubes have melted into chips. “You know, for a minute there, I was almost happy. All of us hanging out together, like a real family. Beach and sunshine and wine and the rib eyes on the grill.”

“Until Lee came on the scene, you mean?”

“It’s not just Lee. It’s everything.” I hand back the drink. “I need to stand back from his life. I’m in the way.”

“You can’t stand back. You have a son with him.”

“I can’t do this. I don’t fit into his life. We don’t fit into his life. And Sam’s the one who’s going to get hurt.”

“Oh, Sam’s going to get hurt? Is that what you’re telling yourself? Listen to me, Mallie.” She takes my arm. “Look at yourself. All these years, have I ever met a guy you’re dating? Not once. Because you refuse to open yourself up again. You have fuck buddies, that’s all. And now that I’m here, seeing you with him, I finally figured out why.”

“Oh? Why?”

“Because a piece of you keeps hoping it’s going to work out with you and Monk. A piece of you is still in love with him.”

I shrug off her arm. “Fuck off, Paige.”

“It’s true. Whenever he’s in the room, you light up. You get all glowy. And I’m telling you, Mallie, you have to find a way to put out that fucking candle, okay? Put out that candle so you can stand in the same room with him without burning up. You need to move on from him. For your sake and for Sam’s.”

I meet her gaze and think how hard her eyes look, how little she’s slept. “Paige, you know what? You have your own shit to deal with. Don’t worry about mine, okay? For once?”

“Mallie, I’m trying to help, here. Just hear me out. You don’t have to learn to live without him. You can’t, that’s the shitty part. You’re stuck, because of Sam. So, you just have to learn to live with him. You know, like the wise man sang? If you can’t be with the one you love—”

“Incredibly helpful, Paige. Thank you.”

“—love the one you’re with.” She looks past me, toward the beach. “Did I ever tell you how I ran into Sedge Peabody a few times in Boston? Party circuit. Super guy.”

“Paige.”

“Seriously. You know he started this internet company, right? Some kind of boring back-office finance shit. I can’t remember what. He sold it last year for just under a billion dollars.”

“Paige, I—”

“A billion dollars, Mallie. And he’s hot. And he’s single. And—”

“Paige, please shut the fuck up.”

“—and his ex-girlfriend is a friend of this mom in Ida’s class, and the mom says the ex told her it was the best sex she ever had—with Sedge, I mean, and—”

“Hate to interrupt,” says Sedge Peabody, at Paige’s elbow. “Thought I’d bring this woman a fresh drink? But I can come back later if you’re not finished.”

Paige’s eyes open wide at the space between my eyebrows. She lifts her glass and drains what’s in there. “Nope. I think I’m finished here.”

I watch her walk off across the terrace. “I think this is the moment when the earth is supposed to open up and swallow me?”

“For the record,” Sedge says, “it wasn’t even close to a billion dollars.”

“But the sex thing?”

“Oh, definitely true. Here, you might as well drink this. Good for dousing the flames of awkwardness.” He hands me the glass in his left hand. We clink. “Seems like it’s been a pretty rough afternoon for you, Mallory the First. Is there anything I can do to cheer you up?”

I eyeball him over the rim of the glass. The breeze ruffles his dark hair. His hazel eyes are soft with kindness. “For starters,” I say, “you can tell me what Sedge is short for.”

“That’s easy.” He smiles. “Sedgewick.”

Just after dawn the next morning, a phone starts to ring. At first, I think it’s inside my head. Ringing violently. Bouncing off the rocks. Make it stop, I think.

Someone stirs nearby. “Yours or mine?”

The words make no sense. My head hurts like hell.

The ringing stops. “Hey,” says a deep, attractive baritone. “How are you feeling?”

My eyes fly open. I turn my head. Sedge Peabody’s upside-down face grins sleepily at me below the edge of the bed above me. I’m lying on the bottom bunk; a patterned Shaker quilt tangles around my legs.

“Oh, shit.” I jump to a sitting position, back hunched. Heart jagging in my chest. Panic rising to choke my throat. “What—did we—”

“Hey. Relax. Nothing happened.” He grins. “Well, not much.”

I look down at my crumpled shirt. All buttoned up, small stain on the sleeve. The collar of a chaste white undershirt rims the bottom of Sedge’s neck. My heartbeat slows, the panic recedes. I ask, “Where’s Sam?”

“Your sister took him back to the cottage last night with her kids.”

“Oh, fuck. You were going to cheer me up.”

“So? Did I succeed?”

“Maybe a little too well?”

“Like I said.” He reaches down for my hand and kisses the fingertips. “Well trained by former owners.”

“I’ll say.” My gaze snakes along the length of his arm. “Are you sure we didn’t…?”

“What kind of a jerk do you think I am? We fooled around a little, that’s all. Remember?”

I can’t help smiling. “I remember some foolery, yes.”

“All above the waist, I swear. I would’ve tucked you up in a room of your own, but the beds are fully occupied at the moment. And you were—um, unwilling to part, I guess?”

“Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”

Sedge swings himself off the top bunk and sits on the edge of mine, a couple of feet away. Even puffy with sleep, he’s attractive. Dark, tousled hair. Hazel eyes. A reassuring, responsible, grown-up handsomeness. He rubs his thumb along the joints of my fingers. “Hey, what’s up? Buyer’s remorse?”

“I don’t know. Do you come with a money-back guarantee if I’m not completely satisfied?”

“Mallory Dunne,” he says, “you are something else.”

“That’s what they tell me.”

With his other hand, he brushes at some hair that’s falling over my forehead. His expression is so kind, it hurts my chest. “So, Mallory. Do you get nightmares often?”

“What do you mean?”

“Last night. I shook you awake, and I guess it stopped. But it seemed pretty intense.”

I close my eyes to the clash of cymbals inside my head. “I’m sorry. I just get this dream sometimes. When I’m upset about something.”

“Like, a recurring thing?”

“I guess so. It’s pretty much the same dream, every time. I’m running down a burning hallway. Trying to find something. Someone. But there’s fire everywhere and I can’t find whatever it is I’m looking for. The dream always ends before—” My eyes fly open. I clutch my wrist and find the reassuring curve of the bracelet. “Oh my God. Fire. Oh my God.”

“What? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I pull my hand away. “You know what? I feel like shit. I should go home and make myself some coffee.”

“Not on your life. You rest. I’ll get the coffee.” Sedge presses a kiss on my forehead and hoists himself off the bed. “Be right back, sweetheart. Don’t go anywhere.”

As he picks his way toward the door, the phone starts ringing again. Mine, definitely. Sedge scoops it from the floor and glances at the screen. “Boston Children’s?” he says.

I spring up. “Give me that.”

Five minutes later, I’m running down the Summerly drive in the predawn fog. The guest cottage dozes in its rhododendron shawl. I throw open the front door and pound across the hall to the kids’ room, where Sam’s asleep on the bottom bunk.

“Wake up,” I tell him. “Pack your things.”

He props himself up on an elbow and cracks his eyes open. “What? What’s going on?”

“They found you a kidney.”