Chapter Twelve Lily
The next day, Thomas and I meet in the garden by the old white arbor. The roses have begun to climb, wrapping dark green leaves and thorns around the shingles.
It is afternoon and our Rose is out at work. She seems to be gone a lot now—up with the sun, out until after dinner.
Thomas and I walk down the street to the entrance of the bluff walk, saying little. There’s a nervous crackle of energy between us that moves like static.
He walks with his head bent down, hands in his pockets, mouth slightly open as if he is about to begin a sentence before closing it instead and frowning at his shoes.
The only sound is the crunch of shells beneath our sneakers.
In front of us are the small cottages that stand on either side of the bluff walk like walls.
Between the cracks in the periwinkle hydrangea bushes, I can see the ocean.
It is hot enough that I have to take off my sweatshirt and tie it around my waist.
The breeze from the ocean is like dew on my skin.
Thomas trips on a loose rock and then regains composure, running a hand through his hair. It’s the third or fourth time I’ve seen him stumble. He must be nervous. I look at his hand and notice he does in fact have on a simple gold wedding band today. Once again, Rose was right.
“Anyway,” he starts. “You probably have some questions for me.”
It’s funny, because I don’t. Not really. I’ve wondered why he’s here, how he’s doing, what he wants from us, but my own life has been such a mess that I haven’t had time to analyze his presence too much. Maybe this makes me an inherently selfish person.
“Yes, of course,” I lie.
“Well, as you might already know, I knew your mother a long time ago. I loved her.” His voice sound rusty, like he also hasn’t gotten enough sleep the last few nights. “I wanted to marry her, actually, but everyone said we were too young.”
He lets this revelation wash over me, pausing for dramatic effect. I consider acting surprised, but this is old news. I nod, gesturing for him to continue.
“So I went back to the academy, heartbroken.”
I nod again, encouraging him to go on. I know this part of the story. “And then what?”
“I tried to move on with other women.” He coughs uncomfortably, glances at me. “But I could never stop thinking about Rose. Seven years later, I looked her up again.”
This part is new. Rose didn’t mention ever seeing him again.
“I was done with service, beginning my company. I tried looking her up in the phone book but I couldn’t find a Rose Elliot anywhere.
Out of desperation, I asked Lottie. You see, I still knew where she lived, so I came to the island and paid her a visit.
She told me Rose was engaged to a man named James Gardner, your father. ” Thomas clears his throat again.
He exhales. I can’t believe how much my mom hasn’t told me.
“So, what happened next?”
“I was too late.” Thomas smiles a sad smile. “She was pregnant.”
I can feel my mouth slacken with surprise. I’ve often wondered why Rose was with my father in the first place if she didn’t seem to love him. Now I know the reason.
It’s all my fault.
The path has begun to narrow. We are entering the cliff side. The thin dirt weaves through the trees and bushes of Baxter Road, once one of the most expensive streets on the island. In recent years, the mansions have begun to fall into the ocean as the face of the cliff erodes.
These days, everyone is moving their houses to lots on the other side of the street to buy themselves a few more good years.
This is the great dichotomy of the island in action: the constant battle between the unruly natural environment and the residents’ relentless efforts to reshape and control it.
“I don’t mean to upset you, I’m sorry. I feel terrible if I’ve overstepped, but I want you to know the full story.”
The hedges here have grown together to create a pathway above us like a tunnel.
Enveloped in their leaves, it is dark and quiet like a church.
By the bend, there are brightly colored rocks, hand-painted by children.
A few of the stones have carved dates and initials on them, some more than thirty years old.
“I always loved these,” says Thomas from behind me.
I spin to face him. “You’ve been here?”
He looks sheepish. “Of course,” he says. “I spent that summer here when I met your mother.”
“Why did you lie then?”
“I’m sorry for deceiving you. I just wanted an excuse to talk to you.”
Something clicks for me. “You didn’t rent the cottage by accident, did you?”
Thomas shakes his head. “I did, actually. It was a gift from my sister, Rachel. But I’m starting to suspect that Rachel knew the truth.”
“Why would she do that?”
He kicks the dirt. “My wife passed five years ago. I met her after I found out Rose was engaged. A year later, we were married. And then…” He goes quiet.
“And then what?”
“Never mind,” he says. “We built a wonderful life together. I have no regrets. We had two girls together. My eldest lives in Colorado. My youngest is in college in Michigan. I sold my company a few years back, and now I have too much free time on my hands. I think Rachel worries I’m lonely.
Plus.” He smiles. “She always loved a setup.”
I recognize the grief in his eyes—the splinters in his eyes like cobwebs. “I’m sorry,” I say. “About your wife.”
“Thank you,” he says simply.
“So that’s why you wear your wedding band still,” I realize in a quiet voice.
Thomas looks down at his left hand, as if surprised to see the ring there.
“Well, yes. I suppose I should take it off. It’s just…
” He twists the gold ring off his finger and rests it in the palm of his hand.
“It’s sentimental to me,” Thomas says, twirling the ring around.
“We had it engraved with our kids’ initials, and I guess I thought that taking it off would be erasing my wife’s memory, and I don’t want to do that. ”
Looking at his hand, I wonder what the palm reader from the other night would see. Would she see a line for Rose?
He shows me where the initials are engraved on the inside of the band.
“That’s beautiful,” I say. “We lost my Great-Aunt Lottie a year ago. I love it here in part because everything reminds me of her.”
“I’m sorry,” he says sadly, both of us aware of how futile and small the sentiment is compared to the insurmountable fact of grief. “She was a great woman.”
“You knew her? I mean, I guess that makes sense. She must have been around the summer you met my mom.”
“Only briefly,” he says. “But I always admired her.”
“It’s strange because logically I know she was older. I know she was never going to live forever, but knowing that still didn’t prepare me for the reality, you know?” Thomas nods. “Have you ever heard of the lifeboat theory?”
He shakes his head again.
“Essentially, it’s the few people who are so essential to your life that you would need them on your hypothetical lifeboat. Even though I knew on an abstract level that we would lose Lottie someday, she was on my lifeboat. She was essential to me. Without her, I feel like I’m drowning.”
I’m not sure why I’m telling this to someone who is a practical stranger, but Thomas has a reassuring presence, a steadiness and seriousness that make it easy to confide in him.
He pats me on the shoulder. “I understand,” he says. “And I really am sorry.”
We continue walking in silence for a moment, down the path.
There’s a historic home at the end that’s been left abandoned.
It’s dilapidated, falling into itself. Everyone calls it the haunted house.
The old rumor is that it was passed down in a family lineage until a rift split the remaining siblings apart.
No one could decide who got to keep it, so it sat unused until it became decrepit.
As a kid, I would hurry my bike past it, scared to look into the windows lest I see some phantom staring back at me.
I know Henry’s house is coming up soon, too.
The lot is so large it looks more like a military base than a home.
There’s a man-made pond meticulously maintained by the landscapers to look effortless.
“The grounds,” as they call it, must employ a team of thirty just to keep it looking natural, untouched.
It’s only a few doors down from here. He’s the real ghost I should be afraid of. I answered his text last night.
Are you still engaged? I asked.
Yes, he sent back after a few minutes.
Then what do we have to talk about?
I saw the “…” of him typing before it disappeared. He still hasn’t responded.
“So, what’s next?” I ask Thomas now. “I mean, now that you’re here. What do you want?”
“Honestly?” he says. “I’m not sure. I guess I wanted to check with you. Do you think Rose is happy? Do you think it’s best if I leave?”
I consider the question. I know Rose is angry with him. I know she has resentments and regrets about the past, but does that mean she truly wishes he would leave? She said so the other night at the fundraiser, but I can’t help but think that was her hurt speaking.
Here is her past love, miraculously appearing at our front door. Is that not something worth pursuing? Is that not something I would dream of? Henry returning, knocking on the door of the cottage…
Maybe Thomas is someone Rose needs on her lifeboat.
“Why did you fall in love with her?” I ask, testing him.
We stop to face each other. To our right, I can see the high hedges of Henry’s parents’ lawn: the wicker lawn chairs, the purple hydrangeas, the two-story wraparound porch we used to sit on and watch the sunset.
“Because…” He pauses to think. “Because she is selfless and smart. She’s clever but never uses that cleverness against you.
She’s patient with everyone, even her father and sister.
She’s… she’s good. I trust both her mind and her heart.
She made me a better man.” He looks toward the water.
“Or, at least she used to be all of those things. I suppose I don’t know her anymore. ”
“She still is,” I rush to say. “She still has all of those amazing qualities and more, I promise.”
His phone is in his front pocket and when it lights up with an incoming text, I sneak a peek at his lock screen.
It’s a photo of what I assume must be his children on a rocky beach in Maine, all teeth and crinkled eyes.
He seems like a good dad, and I know that good dads aren’t necessarily a given in this world.
For the first time, I really examine his face. It’s a nice face with neat, orderly lines: a nose with a clean, even slope and two straight eyebrows like em dashes. He reminds me of a character in an old movie, someone who might say something like, “Ma’am, you’re going to have to trust me.”
I decide in that moment to do just that.
At least one of us deserves a happy ending, and there is no one more deserving of happiness than Rose. Besides, it was me who got in the way of their second chance. Maybe I can facilitate their third.
“No,” I say. “I definitely don’t think you should leave. Actually, I have an idea.”