Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
W hen Aria and Logan pulled into the Wagner Estate the following weekend, Hilary, Marc, and Renée were on the back veranda, sharing a bottle of Cab and talking about what was left to do in the redesign for the estate.
Surprising everyone, Renée hadn’t done her makeup that day, and her hair was pulled into a messy bun that made her look soft and gentle, like an approachable friend rather than the hard-edged woman she’d pretended to be early on.
Together, Hilary and Renée had decided that the redesign required another full year, at least. Renée was now working closely with Hilary.
She’d taken an entire wing as her home for now, and she always kept Hilary’s favorite foods in stock.
Sometimes she asked Hilary out to dinner or for a glass of wine.
Hilary knew she was lonely, but that wasn’t why she always said yes.
More than anything, she’d begun to find Renée a hoot.
There were bits and pieces of Dorothy in Renée’s personality.
But there was also something unique and shining and wonderful.
Renée was someone special, someone broken who was doing the hard work of putting herself back together again.
“You didn’t tell me Aria was coming back,” Renée said to Hilary, popping out of her chair as Aria and Logan appeared, looking right together in a way that Aria and Thaddeus never had.
Hilary and Marc hurried over to hug their daughter and her new boyfriend and ask them parent-worthy questions about their trip like how long it had taken and whether they needed anything to drink.
When Aria spotted Renée, she faltered for a second, as though all the mental preparation she’d gone through till now hadn’t gotten her ready to actually see her.
In Aria’s backpack were the journals. In her arms was the shoebox, which Dorothy had apparently left behind. Hilary already knew what was in it without asking.
Renée floated up to say hello. She eyed the shoebox briefly, then seemed to dismiss it, saying, “Aria, what you’ve done with the brownstone is absolutely staggering.
When I first saw that place in early June, I thought for sure it should be burned to the ground.
But you’ve transformed it.” Renée extended both of her arms dreamily.
“I know it’ll be done before the year’s end. ”
Renée hadn’t said what she planned to do with the brownstone after this. Hilary assumed she’d put it on the market, unless she wanted to spend more time there, get in touch with the life her mother had had there after Philip’s death.
Aria pasted a smile on her face. Logan, who knew bits and pieces of Renée’s story at this point, looked like he didn’t know what to do with his hands.
“Logan,” Marc said, remembering what he and Hilary had already discussed, “I was wondering if you could give me a hand with something in the garage?”
Logan smiled, eager to help out. (Toward the end, Thaddeus hadn’t wanted to help Marc with anything. Hilary didn’t want to spend all her time comparing her daughter’s two boyfriends, but sometimes it came easily.)
Hilary disappeared to grab another glass for the bottle of wine, and she returned to the veranda to find Renée and Aria in conversation.
It seemed that Renée wanted to explain herself re: Jefferson Everett.
She wanted Aria to understand that she was planning on never seeing him again.
It was Hilary and Aria’s hope that the diaries would put the final nails in the coffin of Renée and Jefferson’s relationship.
It was Dorothy’s love, from beyond, guiding her daughter to a new life.
“Renée?” Aria asked in a soft voice. “I have something to show you.”
Renée stopped her monologue halfway through.
“It’s really strange,” Aria said tentatively. “But they’re journal entries. And they’re all, um, addressed to you.” She unzipped her backpack and procured the little yellowed books, passing them over to Renée.
Renée held them aloft in a stack, as though afraid they were about to explode. “Addressed to me?” she whispered.
Aria nodded.
“Did you read them?” Renée asked, a sharp edge to her voice.
Aria wasn’t sure what to say. “Just enough to realize I shouldn’t read anything else,” she said. “They’re private.”
Renée’s shoulders relaxed the slightest bit.
Hilary took this as her cue to return to the veranda and pour Aria a glass of wine.
Aria sat nervously at the edge of her chair, her hands cupping her knees.
“I found them under the floorboards in your bedroom,” she said.
“Along with this.” She picked the shoebox up and passed it over.
Renée set the journals on the coffee table between them and took the box. After just a brief peek, she nearly dropped it. “Goodness. How much is in here?”
Aria shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t touch it.”
“And my mother left this?” she asked.
“I assume so,” Aria said. “I don’t understand it at all.”
Renée flared her nostrils and looked down at the journals.
It was clear that the tremendous answers to her life’s questions lay in those entries, in those letters from her mother.
Fear etched itself across her face. Hilary fought her urge to throw her arms around the older woman and tell her they would get through this together.
This wasn’t Hilary or Aria’s battle. It was Renée’s.
But they were here, if she needed them.
Before Hilary had the chance to say so, Aria piped up.
“It’s been a privilege to design your home,” she said of the brownstone. “It’s been the best project I’ve ever worked on in my life. But I know it’s brought with it many painful memories for you. I hope you know that I’m here for you, in whatever capacity you need.”
Hilary’s heart swelled. Her daughter was the kind of person to offer that softness, that empathy. Her daughter was the kind of person to lend an ear.
She wondered if Dorothy had ever felt that way about Renée and Rachel, before everything had fallen apart.
A moment later, the shoebox fell to the ground.
Renée had thrown herself over the coffee table to draw Aria in a hug.
She let out three bubbly sobs, then withdrew, wiping her cheeks with her hands.
Before long, she gathered the journals and the shoebox and retired upstairs, presumably to dive into what her mother had left behind for her.
Aria and Hilary were quiet for a long time, watching as the sun made its slow sherbet descent toward the Nantucket horizon.
Before the end of the year, the brownstone would be finished, and by the end of next summer, maybe, the Wagner Estate would be completed as well.
Before long, Hilary and Aria would move on to future projects, future stories.
But something about this particular job was pivotal.
It was the first after Hilary’s marriage to Marc, the first after Aria’s first monstrous breakup.
It had taught them more about life and perseverance than either of them had reckoned for.
It had also, maybe, drawn them apart. Physically. For a time.
Aria confessed this was true. “I want to live in both places. I don’t want to cut Logan’s and my relationship off at the knees.” She couldn’t look at Hilary, maybe because she knew this news would hurt her.
Hilary searched her heart for a pang of sorrow and found it, of course. Every mother wanted to see her daughter every day. Every mother wanted to know the intricate details of her daughter’s heart and mind.
“I think it’s good to have offices in both locations,” Hilary said with a soft smile, surprising herself.
She thought of Marc, who’d told her he would have to go to California at least once a month for the rest of the year.
Why shouldn’t she go to Manhattan every month as well?
Why shouldn’t she take on the whole world if it were available to her?
Love didn’t need to be limiting. It should open your perspectives. It should link you up with every possibility. Aria and Thaddeus’s love hadn’t been strong enough for that kind of thing. But a mother and daughter’s love? That was without boundaries. It extended beyond life and death.