Chapter 15 #2
Estelle beckoned, and Hilary handed the envelope over and sat at the kitchen table. Her mother remained standing, flipping through the photographs. Her eyes were shadowed and mysterious.
“Do you know him?” Hilary asked, trying to sound innocent.
“I recognize him,” Estelle said. “But I don’t know from where.”
“That’s what I was thinking!” Hilary tapped her fingers across the table.
“It’s driving me crazy.” She explained where the envelope had been hidden and her speculation that whoever had taken the photographs had been in love with him.
“Was it possible that Dorothy had an affair of her own? It appears that the photographs begin in the early eighties. Maybe even the late seventies?”
Estelle nodded and pointed out that one of the pictures had been taken in front of a Manhattan hotel that she knew for a fact hadn’t existed beyond 1980; something to do with a bankruptcy and the owner having to flee the country at the last minute.
Estelle’s knowledge of this felt like proof of the longevity of the relationship between the person who’d taken the photographs and the man in them.
It was clear that they’d been together for at least twenty years.
“It’s hard for me to put this all together,” Hilary whispered. “I mean, when I met Dorothy, I never imagined all this.”
“It’s like that for all older people, I feel,” Estelle said sadly, gathering up the photographs once more, stacking them tenderly. “They’ve all lived tremendous lives, filled with countless stories. But when younger folks look at them, all they see is adorable, incapable old people.”
Hilary felt a stab of recognition. She didn’t want people to think that way about her one day, but she imagined they would. It was inescapable.
More than that, she really didn’t want people to think that way about her mother and father. But because they were in their late sixties and early seventies, she imagined that many people already thought of them like that.
How awful. How inaccurate!
How terrible that we must grow old , Hilary thought.
The night went on. Hilary returned to the veranda, where she sat and listened to Renée in conversation with Sam, talking about Renée’s memories on Nantucket. It was a surprise to hear her open up like this. Was it because of the wine?
“My sister and I used to think we ran this island,” Renée said, throwing her head back so that her hair draped over the back of the chair. “We were sure that half the beaches were for us and us alone and grew resentful when anyone ‘entered our domain.’” She laughed at herself.
“We were the same way,” Sam said, gesturing toward Hilary.
Renée’s smile faltered, albeit briefly. She still hated that Hilary was there when her mother died. She hated that Dorothy liked Hilary at all. She hated that Hilary was still around.
But, Hilary reasoned, something about this dynamic appealed to Renée. She’d been welcomed into a family. She’d been drawn into the warmth that her life hadn’t allowed her.
It was probably a complicated feeling.
Hilary was grateful that nobody in her family brought up Dorothy Wagner, nor the fact that Renée hadn’t yet organized a memorial service. The Colemans had greater tact than that.
But that night, Renée let her guard down so much that she managed to fall asleep on the outdoor sofa, her lips parted gently, her eyes shifting behind their lids, as though she dreamed. Above her, the sky was blanketed with stars.
Estelle, Hilary, and Sam hovered off to the side, unsure of what to do.
The temperature would dip into the sixties soon, and although it was perfectly safe to sleep on the veranda—comfortable, even—it didn’t sit right to leave her there.
Hilary confessed she was frightened to wake her up.
“She can be like a bear,” she whispered.
Sam and Estelle nodded gravely.
“Let’s let her sleep a little bit longer,” Estelle said kindly. “After that, she can either stay here, or you and Marc can drive her home. Whatever works best for her.”
Hilary was not looking forward to that drive back to the Wagner Estate.
Back in the kitchen, she found her father and Marc at the table, drinking from a fifty-year-old bottle of whiskey.
Roland liked sharing things with Marc, be them fine spirits or spirited conversations.
It was because Marc had dropped his life out West for the love of Hilary, Roland’s daughter.
It was because Roland could be a softy, and all he wanted was for his family to come together in love and good humor.
“Dorothy’s daughter is something else,” Roland said when they entered.
Estelle pressed her finger to her lips, telling him to lower his voice. “She’s asleep.”
Roland winced, then shrugged. “She takes after her dad, all right. You can tell she’s got a temper on her.
Philip Wagner could change on a dime. I watched him get into a wild dispute with someone at the sailing club.
Something about the price of a vintage French sailboat he wanted to buy.
” Roland raised his glass, his eyes elsewhere, like he’d dropped himself back in the eighties.
Hilary felt a thump in her chest. Her father had known everyone in the eighties. He’d dealt with all kinds of moneyed people. He’d traveled all over the world.
It reminded her of something.
She reached for the yellowed envelope and put it in front of her father.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Look inside,” she said. “Do you know that man?”
Roland raised his caterpillar eyebrows and shuffled the photographs onto the table. The others in the kitchen craned to see what he was looking at. Immediately, Roland let out a cackle. “That son of a gun! I thought I’d never see him again.”
Hilary couldn’t breathe. “Who is it?”
Roland snapped his fingers. “The name’s on the tip of my tongue.”
That didn’t help her. Hilary sat on the chair beside Marc and took a sip from his whiskey, coating her tongue with bitterness. “I found them at the estate,” Hilary said. “They were hidden away.”
Roland looked mischievous. “Honey, his name’s lost in this old brain of mine,” he said. “But I can tell you his connection to the Wagners. That’s easy.”
Hilary was stricken. Was it really so simple? So public?
“This man was Philip Wagner’s business partner all through the sixties and seventies,” Roland said, waving one of the photographs in the air between them.
“If I remember correctly, Philip forced him out of the company. No amount of legal battles could right the wrongs Philip committed against his supposed best friend. I knew never to cross him after that. I knew to keep him at arm’s length. ”