Chapter 20
It was the end of September, and already the weather had changed, dropping the nights into the mid-fifties.
Helena woke up early, wrapped herself in sweaters and blankets, and went onto the patio to watch the pink light over the rolling ocean.
At ten, she was meant to meet Matteo for a full day of sailing, after which they planned to grab burgers and maybe, maybe, wind up here.
Since they’d begun their dating adventures, Helena hadn’t once invited Matteo back to her place.
They’d gone out sailing; they’d eaten dinner; they’d gone for walks.
But each night, long before midnight, they’d kissed goodbye and gone their separate ways.
Although Matteo was probably curious as to why they weren’t taking their relationship to the next level, he never asked her what was going on.
He never made her think that she was anything but perfect.
Helena took a handful of liver-enlivening medications, then took a shower and drove the ten minutes to the harbor to meet Matteo.
Already, he was preparing the sailboat for her arrival.
The fridge was stocked with their favorite stinky cheeses and fresh fruits.
There was a baguette from the French bakery and fish sandwiches for later, when they got especially ravenous.
When he kissed her, Helena closed her eyes and thought, This is the best day of my life. What did I do to deserve this?
Out on the water, Helena and Matteo alternated between playful banter and wonderful silence, the kind of quiet you could only share with someone you were falling in love with.
But Helena couldn’t possibly tell him that she was falling for him.
She still hadn’t gotten around to telling him that she was dying, for goodness’ sake.
Love felt besides the point. But it was also the full point, hilariously enough. What was she going to do?
“You good over there?” Matteo asked, frowning. He’d seen all those emotions crawl over her face.
“I’m great,” she said, fixing her face. “Maybe I’m just hungry.”
Matteo dropped the anchor near one of their favorite beaches.
Even just a week ago, Helena might have swum in the water, but today, although it was sunny, there was a nip to the air that kept her aboard.
She unpeeled the foil from the sandwiches and set them out on plates, while Matteo poured her a glass of nonalcoholic wine.
He’d brought a beer for himself, just the one.
Oh, she loved the way he looked when he drank beer like that, his eyes to the horizon. Oh, she loved him.
Again, what was she going to do?
She knew she needed to break up with him. She had half a mind to leap into the water and swim away, if only to confuse him. Maybe he’d think she was so nuts that he wouldn’t chase her.
But she knew he would. She knew, too, that when and if she told him about her liver disease, he’d decided to stay with her, to help her through it. That wasn’t what she wanted either. She didn’t want him to stay just because he pitied her. That was the opposite of what she wanted.
When they reached the mainland, Helena helped tie up the boat and then told herself that she couldn’t invite Matteo over after all.
She needed to start putting distance between them.
But when she looked at him, she felt the question spill over her lips.
“What are you doing now? Do you want to come to my place?”
Because Matteo’s car was on the mainland, because he usually either slept in a hotel or on the boat when he came to Nantucket, Helena drove him to the little house. In the driveway, he laughed and said, “I haven’t been here in a while, huh?”
It felt like longer than a while. It felt like years. But in actuality, it had been early June, the second day of Helena’s stay on Nantucket.
She was a different person now. But she couldn’t tell him that.
Inside, Helena opened her fridge and pulled out one of the beers he always drank.
“You bought that for me?” He asked.
Helena blushed. She’d had a six-pack delivered three days ago in anticipation of this. “Is that wrong?”
“No,” Matteo said. “It’s just sweet.” He kissed her cheek, her forehead. Expectation bubbled between them. Helena put her head on his shoulder, closed her eyes, and sighed.
Could she really let herself experience this? Could she really let him sleep over?
But that night, they dressed in thick sweaters and sat on the patio—
him with his beer and her with her mug of tea. They listened to the waves, held hands, and made no move to go anywhere else. Helena had no plans to kick Matteo out of her house, not if he didn’t want to go.
She realized she was beginning to need him, which was maybe the worst thing of all.
The following morning, Helena woke up before Matteo did and rolled over to watch him sleep. He looked peaceful, handsome, like a stoic statue you might see in Rome. Helena had never been to Rome. She supposed she’d never make it there.
Rather than wake him up, she tiptoed to the kitchen to make herself some tea.
A notification dinged on her phone: a calendar appointment with a potential buyer in an hour.
She wondered if Matteo would want to leave before the appointment, or if he’d want to be around while Helena showed off her paintings and put on her “seller” persona.
She imagined Matteo teasing her about it after, pointing out that she sometimes used words when she was selling that she never would have used with him.
“It’s my artist personality!” she’d explain to him, laughing. “You wouldn’t get it!”
Helena drank her tea, responded to messages, scheduled social media updates, and presented five potential paintings to the prospective buyer. She arranged them in the living room directly next to the kitchen, so that he wouldn’t see the mess they’d made of the sink and countertops.
The buyer was Nantucket-based, which probably meant he’d heard about her work through the grapevine of Hilary Salt and her friends.
In Helena’s limited experience, most of the men who’d purchased from her weren’t avid social media users.
She wondered why women were more into social media than men, then decided that men were less keen on connections.
She wondered why that was. Were they too embarrassed to open their hearts to all that?
Fifteen minutes before the prospective buyer was supposed to arrive, Helena heard Matteo’s feet on the stairs. She raised her head to watch as he came into the kitchen, smiling. “Good morning, sleepyhead.”
Matteo had wild hair, which he tried to flatten without success. He came over and kissed her neck, her cheek, her forehead. “Good morning!” he said. “I haven’t slept that well in years.”
Helena was touched by the sentiment. But she knew what he meant. If she hadn’t had this disease, she might have tossed and turned after the divorce. She might have struggled to make sense of long nights alone. In that way, her sleepiness had saved her from her mind, she supposed.
Helena told Matteo that a client was coming by to see her paintings. Matteo teased her.
“You’re so important,” he said. She watched as he expertly made a pot of coffee, as though he’d been there a thousand times before.
She told herself to remember this moment, to keep it in her mind forever, so that she could return to it after he’d gone.
I love you, she thought, but she couldn’t say it aloud.
There was a knock on the door. “That’s him,” she said. A jolt of adrenaline went through her. “Wish me luck!”
“You don’t need it,” Matteo said, kissing her again. “But I’ll see you on the other side!”
Matteo remained at the kitchen island, reading his phone and sipping coffee.
Helena took a breath and went to the front door to shake the client's hand, a man in his forties with salt-and-pepper hair and kind eyes. Something was familiar about him, but Helena wasn’t sure what.
Maybe she’d seen him around the island. It wasn’t so big.
“Good morning! So good to see you,” she said, guiding him into the living room to see the paintings.
As the man assessed the paintings, shifting his weight from side to side, he remained quiet.
Helena listened to the quiet yet clear sounds in the kitchen: Matteo pouring another cup of coffee, Matteo pouring himself a cup of water.
She wondered if there was any food for him.
Maybe she could make them an omelet after this.
Maybe she could chop up a ton of garlic and onions and grate some cheese.
A smile played over her lips. A man she loved was in her house, waiting for her!
The client turned. “I’m sorry I’m taking so long. I don’t know a lot about this kind of art, I guess. I wanted to buy a painting as a surprise for my wife. She’s been having a hard time.”
Helena smiled. “Don’t worry! What is your wife like? Maybe I can help you.”
The man considered this. “Actually, I wasn’t going to say anything, but we’ve met before. You know my wife. Her name is Bethany Sutton.”
Something cold and hard dropped into Helena’s stomach. “You’re Bethany’s husband,” she repeated, although she couldn’t believe it.
“I am,” he said. “I brought Bethany in that night at the hospital? And, yeah. I hate to say this. But Bethany told me about what’s going on.
That kind of disease, it’s just. It’s not easy to carry that kind of thing.
I am really so sorry. I hope you know that you have friends in us.
Whatever you need, no matter what, don’t hesitate to call us.
Especially as things get harder to manage. ”
Helena continued to gape at him. There were no sounds now from the kitchen. She imagined Matteo standing up, a mug of coffee in his hand, staring at the wall between the kitchen and living room. She could feel the gears in his mind turning.
“I appreciate that,” Helena said in a meek voice. She told herself she had to remain upright. She had to continue to sell herself despite how much she wanted to hide behind the chair till he left.
The next few minutes passed in a blur. Eventually, Rod bought a painting for a discounted price of two grand.
Helena packed up the painting, then watched as Rod carried it out to the car and waved goodbye.
She remained in the foyer until he drove away, her body shaking. She thought she might collapse.
All the while, Matteo remained in the kitchen, unmoving.
When Helena finally got up the nerve to walk from the foyer to the living room and on to the kitchen, she continued to shake. She found Matteo on the stool, staring into space. His face was the color of paper.
At that moment, Helena knew that what was about to happen was what she’d known was going to happen from the very beginning. She’d been wrong to think that Matteo would stick around in her world of misery. He’d lost his daughter, for goodness’ sake. He’d wanted easy stories. He’d wanted love.
She told herself to tell Matteo to leave. But instead, struck dumb, she stood there, gaping at him, her heart pounding. She prayed he’d eventually get up the nerve to leave on his own. But physically, she couldn’t ask him to. Her tongue would not work.