Chapter 43 Greta
Greta
Greta was surprised to hear a knock at the side door, and even more surprised when she went over and found Marjorie Westfield
standing there holding a pie. It appeared to be blueberry, and apparently was straight out of the oven, as Marjorie wore oven
mitts in a William Morris print. Where did a person even get such things? Also, there was no way Marjorie had baked that picture-perfect
pie. The only thing she ever made was that insufferable “cookie cake.” The pie was no doubt reheated, from Moody’s.
“Marjorie,” Greta said through the screen. She’d been enjoying the novelty of a quiet house, as Emma and Cody were still asleep
upstairs and Lloyd Ralston had come to take Tom down to the SCPA for coffee with the group of neighborhood men who met every
Saturday. Lloyd had promised to keep a close eye on Tom and bring him home if he seemed to be getting worn out or confused.
Lloyd’s manner—not to mention that this was the first time he’d ever stopped by to pick up Tom—made it clear that the entire
Cove knew now about Tom’s diagnosis. But Tom had been having a good morning and seemed happy to think of walking down to the
clubhouse with Lloyd, so Greta hadn’t objected.
“Hi, Greta.” Marjorie tossed her coiffed silver bob.
The William Morris–print oven mitts coordinated precisely with her periwinkle button-up shirt and sage capris.
The mitts had golden birds and red berries on them, too, and Marjorie—was it coincidence?
—wore dangling gold bird earrings and a necklace of berry-shaped beads interwoven with gold. “May I come in?”
It had been many years since Marjorie Westfield had darkened the door at Innisfree, and Greta supposed now that she had heard
not only about Tom’s diagnosis but also a lot more details from young Jack—about David’s disappearance, possibly even about
Greta and the gun. Marjorie was no doubt here to rake up whatever more dirt she could. “The party’s canceled,” Greta said.
It had been scheduled for much later in the day, besides—but it would be just like Marjorie to show up wanting a front-row
seat to the devastation.
Though it did seem if she were here for the party, she would’ve brought a cookie cake, not a pie.
“I know, I just—”
“It’s not a good time, Marjorie.”
“Just for a moment? Please.”
There was an air of desperation about her that Greta had not seen before. She couldn’t help being curious. She opened the
door. Marjorie walked in, heading for the kitchen. “Do you have a trivet?” she said over her shoulder.
Greta went around to get one out of the drawer. She put it on the counter, and Marjorie set the pie down and gave a trembling
smile.
What on earth was going on? Greta had never seen Marjorie not in perfect control.
“I just. Greta. Jack told me about Tom. And I just wanted to say how sorry I am. I’m not sure if you’re aware. My husband.
Years ago. He—Well, I know what you’re going through, is all I wanted to say, and if there’s anything I can do, anything at
all.” There were actual tears in her eyes.
“Thorndike?” Greta said, for this had been the name of Marjorie’s husband, who had been dead now more than twenty years.
He had been a good ten years older than Marjorie, and he had died over the winter one year, back in Connecticut, so Greta hadn’t heard details.
“Thorndike had dementia? He would’ve been so . . . young?”
Marjorie nodded urgently. “It’s heartbreaking, just heartbreaking,” she said, reaching to squeeze Greta’s hand. “And Tom!
Tom. He’s always been so kind to you, and so obviously in love with you. It’s so clear, just looking at the two of you. He’s
been such a lovely part of The Cove, all these years. Even if . . . even if we didn’t see a lot of you two.”
Greta could count on one hand the number of times over the past sixty-nine years that she’d spoken with Marjorie at all. After
what had happened—the way Marjorie had faded away when they were twelve; the way she’d stopped speaking to Greta; the way
she’d been almost cruel in how she’d made it clear to Greta that Rebecca Brock was her best friend now, not Greta, even if they’d been best friends since they were six years old before that—well, Greta had not felt friendly to her
since then. Not in the sixty-nine years (but who was counting) since then.
“We all were always so glad you found Tom, after what happened to you. We were all so worried that you wouldn’t—that you wouldn’t
get married at all, I guess!”
“What?” Greta said.
“Oh, I don’t mean to bring up—I’m sorry. I just think . . . I’ve always thought . . . you’re so courageous, Greta. I just wanted to say that to you this morning. I can’t even imagine what a hard time your family is going through,
between Tom and David . . .”
Greta put her hand on the counter, feeling the sudden need to steady herself. “What do you mean, ‘after what happened to me’? ”
“The thing with . . . oh, your brother’s friend. I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have said . . .”
“How do you . . . how do you know about . . .” Nobody knew. Nobody knew. That was the way Greta had managed to get through
her whole life. Nobody knew what had happened to her, what her brother’s friend had done to her in the attic at Innisfree
when she was twelve.
“Your mother told my mother. Oh, God, I’m sorry. I thought . . . Are you . . . okay? Maybe . . . sit down?” Marjorie took hold of Greta’s elbow and guided her to one of the stools at the counter. Greta sank onto it just in time. Her knees had turned to water.
“I’m so sorry!” Marjorie said, and there were fresh tears in her blue eyes. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“My mother knew?”
“Oh, God,” Marjorie said again, flinching. She stared for a moment, then turned and hurried to the cupboard and got down a
glass. The glasses were in the same place they’d been for eighty years, so she knew right where to go. She filled the glass
with water at the sink and set it before Greta on the counter, who was having trouble breathing. “You didn’t know your mother
knew?”
“No.” Greta could feel her eyes filling with tears, her lip beginning to tremble, but she’d be damned if she’d cry in front
of Marjorie Westfield. She’d be damned if she’d take a sip of that water, either, though she was suddenly dying of thirst.
Marjorie reached out and squeezed her hand. Greta tried to pull away, but Marjorie kept hold. “Oh, Greta. Didn’t you know
that anybody knew?”
Greta shook her head. “Nobody knows! Nobody knew!”
“Oh, God,” Marjorie said again. She looked away for a moment and then back. She searched deeply into Greta’s eyes. “Greta,
everybody knew.”
“How?” Greta managed.
Marjorie squared her little shoulders, lifted her chin as if about to do battle.
But then she spoke very gently. “I guess your brother Harrison was up in the night? And he saw the guy coming down the stairs? Then he saw you looking strange the next day and he saw bruises, and then Cary confronted the guy? I mean, nobody knew details, but they . . . well, I suppose they put two and two together? And your father, I heard he wanted to kill him, and your mother restrained your father, and they sent the guy away first thing that morning? And then your brother Cary, he beat him up badly once they got back to New Haven.” This last piece, she finally seemed to know for a fact.
“He didn’t kill him, but he put him in the hospital.
Then I think the guy ended up dying in the war.
” She stopped, took a breath like a marathon runner, then finished, “That was what I heard.”
“I knew he died,” Greta spat. “My parents told me.” He had been in the Navy, and Greta had seen it in her dreams: the sinking
ship, a slick of oil, him screaming and drowning in it. Not less than he deserved, in her view.
She hadn’t known anything about Cary beating him up, putting him in the hospital.
“Oh, Greta.”
“How could they not ever say?” Greta said. “How could you—”
“Oh, God, I don’t know! I—my mother told me I should give you space, or whatever the parlance of the day was, it wasn’t that,
but I was supposed to stay away from you. And it was like she thought you were contagious, like what had happened to you could
happen to me, which was horrible, in retrospect, but I didn’t know. I just saw you were sad and you had changed, and I didn’t
know what to say or do, and I didn’t understand what had happened, not really. It was just whispers and then, ‘Keep your distance;
she doesn’t want to talk to you right now.’ ”
This seemed ridiculous. Felt ridiculous. Yet, somehow, Greta believed it with her whole heart. She saw in Marjorie’s eyes
that it was all true. She saw in Marjorie’s eyes that Greta’s best friend, a child of ten, was still in there.
Marjorie blinked. Went on. “And then, the more time that passed, the more terrible I felt and the less I knew what to say
or do. And I think now that I was just horrible to you. You must have been suffering so badly! And then to find out now that
your mother didn’t even let on that she knew? That your family and everybody in The Cove knew? I mean, I never told a soul,
not even Rebecca, but I think it kind of traveled among the adults, you know, just because they wanted to watch out for you . . .”
Greta wanted to scream. Cry. Break things. She yanked her hand out from under Marjorie’s. “I want you out of my house.”
Marjorie stood up even straighter, as if invigorated by the challenge.
“No,” she said. “I am not leaving you.” She went to the cupboard and pulled down two plates.
Greta couldn’t object; she was busy trying not to vomit.
She covered her mouth with her hands. Marjorie opened the drawer and got out a knife and two forks. “Where’s your pie server?”
Greta lowered her hands. “Marjorie! Out!”
Marjorie was digging through a drawer and came up with the pie server, triumphant. “Here!”
Now Greta could only cover her face with her hands. She heard the clinking of utensils and plates, and when she lowered her
hands and opened her eyes, a slice of blueberry pie waited before her on a plate, and Marjorie sat on the stool beside her,
digging into her own slice. “Eat,” Marjorie said. “It will ground you.”
Greta wanted to pick up what was left of the entire pie and smash it into Marjorie’s face, watch it ooze down over that perfect
periwinkle shirt, send droplets onto those perfect sage pants. She wanted to sully her with irreversible stains.
“Moody’s makes the best pies,” Marjorie said, and Greta felt vaguely satisfied to realize she’d been right: Marjorie hadn’t
baked the pie herself. “Seriously,” Marjorie said. “You have to try it. Just try it, Greta.”
Marjorie sounded slightly desperate again, and she was shoveling her slice in so quickly, possibly out of nerves, that her
piece was already half gone. And though Greta found some satisfaction, as well, in these observations of her perfect old friend
seemingly undone now, she picked up her fork. She wasn’t inhumane.
Not, apparently, like the rest of her family, the rest of The Cove. She took a small bite, and the blueberry flavor exploded
on her tongue.
“Doesn’t it make you glad to be alive?” Marjorie said, and the funny thing was, in spite of everything, it did.
They took a few more bites in silence. Greta wished she had a cup of coffee, but she didn’t think her legs would hold her up to go make one, and she was damned if she’d ask Marjorie to do it.
Also, she was damned if she’d drink the water Marjorie had gotten for her.
It was just like Marjorie Westfield to barge in here and . . .
Her thoughts slowed down. What did she know about Marjorie Westfield, really?
Marjorie had never told anyone? Could that be true? Greta had always told herself Marjorie was an incorrigible gossip—but what evidence had she had? None.
“Does Lindy know?” Greta said then. “Does Tom?”
“Oh, God, I don’t know about that,” Marjorie said. She was to the crust of her slice now, and when she cut it with her fork,
part went flying. She reached up like a major-league shortstop and caught it before it hit the counter, dropped it back onto
her plate, and went on as if nothing had happened. “I wouldn’t think so. It was just at the time, the adults talked about
it and were concerned for you. But, you know, even the kids of our generation, I’d be surprised if . . . well, if anybody
but me knew! As I said, I never told anybody. And I’m sure your brothers wouldn’t have told a soul.”
Greta felt the hollow loneliness of her life, of this secret she had kept, this shame of hers, her long-lost friendship with
this woman-formerly-girl, wash over her.
And yet her parents and her parents’ friends had been talking about it—about her shame, about that terrible young man—behind
her back? “Why didn’t anyone ever talk to me? I was so . . . ashamed. I thought that people would . . . cast me out, if they
knew.”
“Oh, God, no, the opposite! Your parents . . . I think they thought . . . you know, back then. People didn’t know. They were
just trying to protect you. They loved you. They were trying their best. People thought talking about things like that made
them worse. They thought it was possible to just forget.”
Greta actually laughed. “I can’t even go up in the attic,” she said, finding she didn’t care a whit about keeping her secrets
from Marjorie anymore. It was like they were eight years old again, the best of friends—only what was true now, too, was that
they would both be dead before long, and all of this would cease to matter. “Not after all these years.”
Marjorie set down her fork. She licked a tiny smear of blueberry from the corner of her lip. “Oh, Greta. I’m so sorry.”
Greta felt again the sincerity of her old friend. It was odd to think—they could’ve been friends all these years?
“I’m selling the place, you know,” Greta confessed brazenly. She needed a friend. She always had. She told Marjorie about Florida. How she wanted Tom to have the best care. How David had tried to
put together the money to buy Innisfree from her but couldn’t. He had good credit but so much debt, such a modest income.
“His lofty ideals,” Greta said sadly. “He’s always cared more about helping people than making money. I’m sorry about it for
Lindy’s sake, and I hope it doesn’t have anything to do with why he’s gone missing. But for me, I’ll be glad to never see the place again. Honestly!”
she added, because of course that last part wasn’t entirely true.
“Oh, Greta.” Marjorie reached for her hand again, and in Marjorie’s eyes Greta saw the sorrow, the long memories, the loss
of her oldest friend, too. (Greta would not have imagined it had affected Marjorie at all.) Marjorie had known Greta’s parents,
her brothers. Everyone who Greta had loved and lost so long ago. Marjorie had known them well. They had been part of her life,
too, when she was young. “No,” Marjorie said, as if her heart was breaking.