Chapter Twenty-Two Rose
James and I face each other in a small restaurant hallway. We’re standing with our backs to either side of the narrow passageway, waiting for the single-use bathroom door to open. I called on the way here to see if we could add one more to the reservation.
The restaurant, Brotherhood of Thieves, is a quick walk away on Broad Street, so once we put everyone’s bags into the Jeep, we didn’t have to give up our coveted parking spot. Although, we received many glares from the passing cars James kept waving away.
“You’re going to ignore me?” James says now, arms crossed. “Real mature, Rose.”
I imitate his posture. “I’m not ignoring you. Consider me stunned speechless.”
“Don’t be like this, Rose. Come on, talk to me.” He leans closer, but a waiter is passing by at the very moment, and we squeeze back to make room.
When the waiter is gone, I hiss, “What’re you doing here?”
“What? I can’t visit my own kid?”
“Not like you showed much of an interest in visiting your kid recently.”
How long has it been since we’ve seen him?
I rack my brain. Two years? Three? He didn’t even attend Lottie’s funeral.
We’ve seen him once since the pandemic ended, and that was for a quick dinner in which his wife lectured us on the “negative effects a child experiences when growing up in a broken home,” courtesy of her new career stint in child development.
Maren is always switching interests, going back to school for different degree programs, all of which she promptly drops within three to six months.
Most recently, she was a “spiritual coach” offering mental health advice online for $300 an hour.
As a therapist and, more generally, as a rational member of the human race, I find it all a bit worrying.
“Rose, that’s not fair. You know, for someone who claims to despise me so much, you’ve spent an awfully long time wearing my last name.”
“It’s a good last name. It’s a good bit, that’s all. James”—I lower my voice—“seriously. What’s going on?”
“Something has to be wrong for me to visit?”
It’s strange how familiar he is to me still, like a childhood friend I can’t shake.
Or maybe more like a really annoying cousin I wish would just leave me the heck alone.
I know his posture: slightly slanted, always slouching.
I know his hair: dark, gelled, and subtly thinning at the hairline but still full and handsome.
I know his stubborn expression best of all.
“The timing is a little strange you must admit. You just happened to be on the same ferry as my dad and sister? And you didn’t think to call before you came?”
“Okay,” he sighs. “You caught me. They invited me to come. They said I could crash at their place.”
I slam my palm against the shiny wood-paneled wall. “Damn it, James, there’s always something fishy with you. Why can’t you be honest for once?”
Dad has always had a soft spot for James, by which I mean he lets him get away with absolutely everything, even impregnating his daughter and cheating. Just once I wish he would stand up for me.
I have a realization and groan again. “James, their rental isn’t big enough for you. It’s a guesthouse that can barely fit them. I had to call in a favor from a friend to even get them that much space.”
“That’s fine,” says James, but he looks dejected. “I’ll just get a hotel.”
I think about the prices this time of year, especially last minute. I don’t know why I say it, but I do. “You can stay with us.”
James smiles his winning grin, and I realize this is the problem; this is why James always gets what he wants, from me, my dad, his parents. There’s something about him that’s childishly disarming. Lily is going to be furious.
He moves closer, and I have a sudden sense of claustrophobia. I wish the hallway would split open to allow more air in. The ceilings are low with dark wooden beams visible. It has the effect of making me feel like I’m in the bow of a ship.
“Rose,” James says, trying to get me to look at him. “I split up with Maren.”
“Oh God,” I groan into my hands. “What happened?”
James grabs my arms apart and puts them at my sides, staring intently at my face.
I can’t help but laugh. “What is this? Please don’t tell me you’re here to try to win me back or something pathetic.”
I think about Thomas and William’s almost showdown at the wedding two weeks ago and imagine throwing the absolute disaster that is James Gardner into the mix. There’s been enough chaos this summer.
James scoffs, but somehow, it’s not a cruel sound. “Jesus, no. We’ve been there before and it didn’t work out. Listen, you’re still smoking hot and all, so I’m not saying it’s completely off the table but—”
“Now might be a good time to remind you that it didn’t work out the first time because you cheated on me.”
“Ancient history,” he scoffs again. “Plus, we both know we were never a good match.”
“So then why are you here?”
“I just wanted to see Lily,” says James. “Look at me. I’m a twice-divorced fifty-year-old man with nothing to show for my life except for some money in the bank and a terrible relationship with my only daughter. Is it so wrong to want to remedy that?”
“You didn’t exactly catch her at the best time,” I warn. “She’s extra sensitive right now.”
The sound of a toilet flushing makes us move apart again, and out of the stall walks a woman in a ridiculous head-to-toe pink outfit, like an advertisement for Pepto-Bismol. It’s fitting since James’s surprise visits always give me a stomachache.
“Ladies first,” James says, gesturing.
I flip him the bird and open the door. “This conversation isn’t over.”
Back at the table, a waitress brings around lobster rolls and crispy fries. My dad sits at the head of the table with a plastic bib tucked into his collar. Mrs. Clay, the cat, perches in a kid’s booster seat to his right.
“Lily, how’s work? Are you still fetching coffees?” asks Dad.
“I am not,” says Lily, with some degree of irony.
“Good for you! You were always too good to be someone’s lackey,” says my dad. “What’re you doing for work now?”
“I’m a receptionist at the yacht club here,” she says with forced neutrality, clearly anticipating his reaction. “I answer phones. It’s all very glamorous.”
“Well,” says my dad, adjusting his bib. His white hair looks electric in the single ray of bright light coming in through the sunken window behind his back.
“That’s probably better. Less risk of spilling, anyhow.
” He turns toward me. “I do wish you had confided in me before turning Lottie’s cottage into some sort of lodge,” he sniffs.
“Now I have to get a rental like a tourist.”
“There’s not enough space for all of us to stay there at the same time anyway.”
“Still,” my dad chides. “A stranger staying in your house? Using your sheets? It’s a little disturbing, isn’t it?”
“It’s economical and I swap out the sheets.” I pause, debating the next part. “Besides, I know the tenant.”
“You do?”
“I’m fine with not staying there,” Elizabeth interrupts. “I never liked that cottage anyway. It’s too… old and moist. I’m convinced I got sick from mold last time we stayed.”
I avoid rolling my eyes by digging the nails of my left hand into my thigh. “There is no mold, Elizabeth.”
“Tell that to the pneumonia I developed three summers ago. Besides, Lottie got sick. What if it was something in the house?”
“It wasn’t anything in the house.” My heart aches at the thought; it feels accusatory, like I could have done something more to help my aunt, when in reality, I tried everything I possibly could. Right?
“Who’s the tenant?” my dad asks again. “Is it another friend of yours like Josie? I always liked her, and she was so helpful with finding us a place to stay—thank God someone was or else we’d be vagrants, wandering the streets. My own daughter casting us aside.”
Lily gives me a pointed look; I can tell what she’s trying to communicate. It’s like we have special mother-daughter telepathy. Be careful, her eyes caution.
“It’s Thomas Wentworth,” I say, refolding the napkin on my lap to avoid their stares.
Elizabeth slaps the table and Mrs. Clay startles. “No way!”
I look around the crowded room. The space is cramped and dark, like an old-fashioned pub.
“Dear God,” says my dad.
James leans back in his seat and smirks. “Well, I’ll be damned. Tommy Wentworth back from the grave.”
I shoot him daggers.
“Thomas Wentworth, really? Is he still off playing sailor?” my dad asks, leaning forward. Mrs. Clay meows.
“He was in the Coast Guard, Dad,” I say. “And no. He founded a very successful business, actually. It’s a hardware company that designs chips for computers.”
My dad uses a steak knife to cut into his lobster roll. “Well, good for him, I suppose. Maybe you should have married him after all.”
Lily guffaws. Her mouth drops agape, and I imagine my expression is a mirror image of her own.
“Are you serious?” she says. I give her a look to tell her to stop, but she ignores me. She’s in defense mode. “You’re seriously going to say that after you’re the one who discouraged her from the engagement in the first place?”
My dad releases an exasperated breath and puts down his utensils. “What are you going on about now?”
“You’re the one who wrote the letter, telling Mom to call off the engagement.” Lily is leaning across the table now, too, her fork in the air pointing in his direction as an accusation.
Dad waves off her concern, digs back into his roll. “I only wrote that letter because Lottie asked me to. I didn’t much care myself, truthfully. I was happy to have someone take Rose off my plate, if I’m honest.”
My brain tries to simultaneously process the hurt and confusion and short-circuits. It’s like I can hear the synapses forming, the electricity flowing at rapid speeds as the past realigns itself.
“Are you being serious?” I ask my dad. My heart feels like it’s trying to escape from my throat, bobbing up and out of my mouth and spilling onto our lunch.
“Of course I’m being serious,” says my dad.
“Do you really think I cared that much? It’s your life to live.
I’ve never stopped any of your bad ideas before or since.
Heck, I even let Lily run off and play artist.” She glares at him.
“Lottie told me she was worried you were too young to be attaching yourself to someone with an uncertain future. She wanted me to caution you against it, so I did.” He chews and thinks.
“Although, I suppose I did wish he wasn’t a Catholic. ”
“Lottie did this?” I repeat to myself, barely more than a whisper. “This was Lottie’s idea?”
I can’t imagine it. Lottie was the one who held me as I cried, the one who comforted me when I received the letter. She was even-keeled, impassive, never taking a side in the debate as I went back and forth… Or was she?
Did she not subtly encourage me to listen to my dad? Did she not tell me that there would be others, other loves and adventures I had not yet met? Did she not emphasize how young we were, how rash we were being?
Did she persuade me?
This whole time I’ve resented my dad, but in reality, it was Lottie, my closest confidant, who was really to blame. And most of all, me, for being so foolish and easily molded.
It’s like the walls of the restaurant are falling down around me, everything I ever believed in collapsing at my feet. I’ve held Lottie up my entire life as a role model, a certain feminine ideal, the kind of person I strived to be. And all along, she was covering up this huge secret.
The waitress approaches. She has kind eyes and an optimistically high ponytail that bounces when she speaks. She looks around Lily’s age. “Can I get you all anything else?”
“What about your number?” James winks. Lily hides her face in her hands. “What?” he says. “I’m kidding, obviously. Just trying to lighten the mood.”
“We’ll take the check,” says Lily from between her fingers. “Thank you, and I’m sorry.”
“I’ll be right back with that,” says the gracious waitress.
I try to communicate my sincere apologies through my eyes without embarrassing her further. She comes back seconds later with a receipt and places it in the middle of the table.
“What a nice family gathering you have here,” she says. “I hope you enjoy your stay.”
I look around the table. James is checking his reflection in the spoon he holds in his left hand.
My dad is attempting to feed Mrs. Clay a piece of lobster.
Elizabeth is scrolling on her phone, no doubt looking up mold poisoning symptoms. Lily is staring at James in disgust, holding her knife upright in the fist of her right hand, ready to stab.
As the waitress leaves us, I think about her words. “Nice family gathering” all right.