Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
F our days after Victor’s conversation with Bree, he pulled into the house they’d once shared in Providence. He hadn’t been there in months, not since he’d come to fetch the antique books from his library that he’d then sold. He felt a pang of sorrow over the loss of those books. It reminded him of the loss of his ex-father-in-law—a truly brilliant man. Thomas and Victor had spent thousands of hours debating and talking about everything from history to philosophy to psychiatry to sociology. Thomas was one of the great thinkers of his lifetime, but professionally, he’d never pushed himself beyond the Book Club. He’d never needed anything but Nantucket, his family. Victor had once wondered if the reason behind this was because Thomas had lost his wife so young. Perhaps you couldn’t crawl back from something like that. Maybe it reminded you of the darkness that lurked on the edge of everyone’s lives.
Victor cut the engine of the rental vehicle. His heartbeat ramped up. What am I doing here? Why does she want to see me? His tongue felt thick, and he thought he might get sick. He realized he hadn’t had anything in his stomach all day except for coffee from the hotel. He’d been too distracted to remember to eat.
Victor checked his phone to see if Esme had contacted him at all. There was nothing. And it was clear, too, that she hadn’t told their daughters what was going on. Valerie continued to write him emails regarding their upcoming book project. Bethany shared photographs of her children. Rebecca was sending pictures of the plates she prepared for the restaurant at the Sutton Book Club. Sometimes their generosity of spirit was too much to bear—especially because Victor knew it would be short-lived. As soon as he returned to Nantucket and saw Esme again, everyone would recognize the chill between them. They would take Esme’s side. He would have taken her side, too.
Even though I really tried this time. I really tried not to hurt her.
Victor still had no idea why Bree wanted to see him. But as he got out of the rental moving van and strode up the front walkway, he couldn’t help but visualize the many decades of his life in which he’d lived here: cutting the grass, watering the flowers, fixing the rooftop tiles after a storm. He’d put the panes in the windows himself. He’d picked out the color they’d painted the shutters.
Bree’s sister Marcy opened the front door and leered out at him angrily. Victor was surprised to see Marcy. He tried a smile that fell off his face immediately.
“Marcy,” he said. “Did Bree tell you I was coming?”
Victor had written that morning to ensure Bree still wanted him to stop by. She’d said yes.
“She told me,” Marcy said sternly. “And she knows I don’t approve.”
Victor inhaled and raised his shoulders as though to say what can you do? Marcy opened the door wider and let him in. It was strange, Victor thought, to be “allowed in” to your own house. A house he’d bought and paid for. A house he’d picked out.
Bree had done even more decorating and altering since the last time he’d been there. He didn’t recognize a single painting. He imagined the money she’d gotten in the divorce had served some artists well, and then he dismissed that thought and cursed himself for being bitter. He’d left Bree; they’d fallen out of love but built a life together. They’d done it despite Victor’s commitment to someone else. They’d done it despite Victor’s commitment to his family.
The television was on in the back room. Victor searched through the shadows, looking for Bree. Usually, she was hustling around, spry and light, happy and singing. The singing had admittedly lessened as the darkness had brewed around them. But there was no mistaking it: Bree was often in a good mood despite everything. Despite him.
“She’s back there,” Marcy said with a sigh. “I have to run to the store. I’ll be back in a bit.”
“Sure.” Victor felt a jolt of fear that he hadn’t accounted for. Something is wrong. Why does Bree want to speak with me so badly? Why am I here?
Marcy disappeared and traced the driveway with her little Buick. Victor’s heartbeat filled his ears.
And then he heard her little voice. “Victor? What’s taking so long?”
Victor steeled himself, fixed his smile—to the handsome one he knew had once won the hearts of both of his ex-wives—and strode through the shadows to the room with the TV. He found Bree tucked away under blankets, her bottle-blond hair spread out across a pillow, her feet propped up. She looked the way she had when she’d gotten the flu. He had a sudden memory of 2020 when she’d gotten COVID early on, and he’d staggered with worry for her from his upstairs office. There had been masks strewn everywhere.
We had such a life! he thought.
Victor sat on the chair beside the sofa and folded his hands. “Are you all right, Bree?”
Bree reached for the remote and muted the TV. Her hands shook.
“Oh, I’m fine. I am,” Bree said. She sounded flippant. “I just want to come out and say it so we don’t waste any more time. The doctors diagnosed me with multiple sclerosis.”
Victor felt the words like a knife through the chest. He was already back on his feet, wordless, his arms swinging. His thoughts were inexplicable. What do I do? What do I do?
“Sit back down, Vic,” Bree urged him. “You can’t solve anything by panicking.”
Victor’s eyes welled with tears. Internally, he begged himself not to cry, not to give himself over to his raucous emotions. He had to be strong.
Victor sat back down. Silence stitched itself between them. Once upon a time, they’d been able to sit together in silence, reading, journaling, or thinking. One of his favorite things about long-term relationships was the fact that you learned to be quiet with one another.
Toward the end, they’d been too quiet. But it was a delicate line.
“When did you find out?” Victor asked.
“Not long ago,” Bree said. “Maybe three weeks?”
Victor nodded. “Thank you for telling me.”
“I didn’t really want to,” Bree confessed. “Not to toot my own horn, but I was doing great without you. I dated all summer long. Two men who were younger than me fell in love with me!”
Victor searched his heart for a sign of jealousy but found nothing but sorrow.
“It sounds fun,” Victor managed to say.
“They were some of the best times of my life,” Bree said. “No offense to you and the life we shared, of course. We had some good times, you and me. But it was always so fraught. Do you know what I mean?”
Victor stitched his eyebrows together. Bree continued to smile.
“We had to move mountains to be together,” Bree said. “Remember? We had to leave Nantucket. And I loved Nantucket! So much! Sometimes I wonder if I loved Nantucket more than I loved you. Why did I fall in love with you the way I did? Why does anyone fall in love when they do? I was young, and you were so broken. But you told me you didn’t want more children in your first year! Okay, I thought. That’s fine. Maybe he’ll change his mind. But you never did.”
Victor felt a hollow ache in his chest. I’ve ruined two women’s lives.How many people’s lives have I actually ruined with my crappy family psychology?I am a broken man.
“I can see the gears in your head turning and turning,” Bree said. “But I didn’t ask you to come here to make you feel bad about any of it.”
Victor wanted to ask, Then why did you bring me here?
“I brought you here,” Bree said as though she’d heard his thoughts, “because I didn’t want you to hear about this from someone else. I figured I owed you that.”
“Thank you,” Victor said, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry it was always so fraught.”
“It’s okay. It really is. I’ve made my peace with it,” Bree said.
Victor palmed the back of his neck. His heart thudded. “I want to be there for you. I want to help you.”
He thought, I didn’t give you children to stand by your side during your time of need. It has to be me.
Bree scoffed. “No.”
“Bree, you’re going to need care,” Victor said.
“Trust me. I know that,” Bree said. “I’ve been reading everything there is to know about MS. I’m mentally preparing for the physical event of a lifetime.”
Victor remembered that Bree had always been prepared for everything. It was part of the reason she’d been such an excellent secretary. Esme had been more of an intellectual, but Bree had never forgotten a single thing at home.
“I have my sister. I have amazing friends,” Bree said. “And thanks to you and your illustrious career, I have more money than I know what to do with.”
Victor swallowed. “My career wouldn’t have been half as illustrious without my secretary.”
“You’re too kind,” Bree said. “I did hustle for you there for a while. But after that, your career was like a rocket to the moon. Moving so fast. Unstoppable. Everyone wanted a piece of Victor Sutton! And I got to marry him.”
Victor still felt as though she’d stabbed him all the way through his chest. He was having trouble breathing.
“Does it hurt?” Victor asked finally.
“Sometimes,” Bree said. “But I’m enjoying my days of leisure. The men who fell in love with me this summer still come by with snacks and presents. But I know they won’t stick around for long. I don’t want them to.”
Victor bowed his head. “What can I do for you, Bree? Tell me. Please.”
He felt so helpless.
“I just want you to know something.” Bree’s eyes were on the curtains that hung over the window, blocking the glossy September afternoon. “I want you to know that I’m sorry.”
Victor was surprised. “What could you ever be sorry about?”
“We blew up your life. We destroyed your wife.” Bree’s eyes shimmered. “Esme. She was always so kind to me. She was always so good.”
Victor’s hands were clammy. He suddenly wanted to get out of there.
“I don’t think you ever really got over her,” Bree stammered. She gave him a soft smile.
Victor wasn’t sure what to say. He remained quiet.
“You dreamed of her sometimes, you know,” Bree said. “I was too annoyed with you to mention it, and I didn’t want you to overthink it. But you sometimes said her name in your sleep. And you always woke up looking so haggard and lost. You looked at me like you didn’t know how you’d gotten in bed with me.”
Victor clicked his head back and forth. “It’s not true,” he said although he was sure it was. “I was always so happy to have married you. We had a wonderful few decades.”
“We did,” Bree said. “But many things can be true at once. We loved each other. And you always regretted and missed your ex-wife.” She raised her shoulders. “This was the one life I had to live. And now that my body is going to break down on me, I have to reckon with what I’ve done and how I want to spend my last years. I want to spend those years saying exactly what’s on my mind.”
A tear drifted down Victor’s cheek. He raised his hand to scrape it off.
“Poor, old Victor,” Bree said. Her voice was soft. Sweet. “You don’t even realize you’ve been given a second chance, do you?”
Victor was quiet.
“Esme’s husband died, didn’t he?” Bree asked.
“He did.”
Bree raised her eyebrows. “That poor woman.”
“That isn’t how I think of her,” Victor said.
“How do you think of her?”
Victor’s mind filled with images—thousands of them. He remembered Esme at nineteen at the beach, telling him she was supposed to be married to Hank that day, that she couldn’t fall in love again. He remembered Esme at Christmas that year, telling him she was going to college and that she didn’t have time for him. He remembered Esme’s move to Boston, her decision to remain with him at Harvard, and her big, happy face when she’d learned she was pregnant. He remembered her, draped over piles of books, making notes to herself, play-acting as the intellectual she should have always been. He remembered how proud she’d sounded when she’d told him she’d gone to Harvard—like him. It was where she’d met Larry. It was where she’d had the kind of life she’d always planned for.
“I think of her with respect,” Victor said. He cleared his throat. “But I didn’t always.”
Bree nodded. “You have to tell her. Otherwise, she won’t know.”
A few minutes later, Marcy returned from the store to check on Bree and shoo Victor out of the house. According to her, Victor had already stayed longer than Bree had wanted him there for. Bree laughed it off and said, “He’s behaving himself, Marcy. Don’t you worry about that.” But Marcy watched him like a hawk until he prepared to leave.
“You’ll let me know if I can do anything,” Victor urged Bree. “I’m not so far away. I can be here whenever you need me.”
“I don’t need you, Victor,” Bree said. “You’re just here because I wanted to get some things off my chest. You owed me your listening ear.” She laughed gently.
Victor stepped outside into a sparkling afternoon, got into the rental moving van, and drove away. He didn’t want to stop too close to the house. He didn’t want Bree, Marcy, or anyone he knew to see him break down. He went all the way to a hotel on the outskirts of Providence, rented a room, and collapsed with tears on the bedspread.
He had the sudden and very strange instinct to call his mother. To ask her for help. But his mother was dead, as was his father.
“We come into life,” Victor muttered as he drew a bath, “and learn to love and lose.”
Again, he checked his phone for messages from Esme. He sent the twelfth text of the week, which simply said, I’m so sorry, Esme . Then he took off his clothes and eased himself into the bath. His heart and head were pounding. But he felt strangely grateful, too. He was glad Bree had wanted to tell him face-to-face. They’d meant something to one another. They’d been essential parts of each other’s stories. Bree wanted to honor that.