“I can’t today,” says Nell. “I’m having lunch with Greta.”
“Oh.” Lizzy pouts. “Can’t you rearrange? I’m on a high and, you know me, I need to keep talking about this.”
Nell laughs. “I know, but you’ll have to find someone else to talk about it with. I said I’d take her into town.”
“Don’t take her into town,” says Lizzy. “I mean, you can if you want, but where are you going to eat? All the old faithfuls have gone.” She grimaces. “Poor Acqua.”
“Never mind Acqua, what about Oscar’s?”
“Ugh!” Lizzy shakes her head. “It’s awful that Oscar’s has gone. Take her to Southport Harbor. It’s so gorgeous. Get lunch at Spic and Span and take it down to the harbor so you can watch the boats bobbing while you eat. It’s very romantic,” she says nonchalantly, her back turned as Nell feels her cheeks fire up. What does she mean? She wants to ask, but doesn’t want to ask. She can’t defend herself when her cheeks are flaming red. “That’s where I’d go for lunch,” Lizzy adds, as if she had never mentioned romance at all.
“I’ll just go and get changed,” Nell says as an excuse to leave. She goes pounding up the stairs and examines her bright eyes in the mirror. What did Lizzy mean? Why did she say that? Is Daisy’s mom a lesbian? Has Lizzy picked up on something Nell has not? It makes her uncomfortable and . . . What is that flutter in her stomach? It feels like excitement, but that can’t be it. It must be discomfort. Even though Nell doesn’t remember the last time she felt this comfortable with anyone, let alone someone she has just met.
She smiles as she thinks how easy Greta is to talk with. Nell has never found it particularly easy to talk to people on anything other than a superficial basis. Years ago someone once suggested, after Lewis had left and she was raising River on her own, that she might want to think about going into therapy. Nell laughed out loud. She was the last person on earth who would ever choose to go and sit in a stranger’s office and tell all her secrets.
Not that she has any secrets. Of that she is certain. Not ones she’s conscious of, anyway.
twenty-nine
Derek discovered FaceTime about six months ago, and ever since, he’s seemed to have lost the ability to make a phone call, at least when it comes to Meredith. Wherever she is, whatever time of day or night, if Derek wants to get hold of her, he FaceTimes her.
Meredith is lying on her childhood bed in her mother’s house, having just woken up from a nap, feeling jet-lagged and sad. Nothing much has changed in here. The bookshelves under the window still contain the Laura Ingalls Wilder books she loved as a girl, the immaculate dolls lining one shelf, her bedspread a sunny yellow. Nell’s room was instantly turned into a craft room once she moved out as a teenager, which was only odd given that her mother was the least crafty person she knew. To this day she’s not sure Ronni ever set foot in that room. But her mother preserved Meredith’s room, and Lizzy’s, as they were.
Her mother was so horrible this morning, in just the way she used to be when Meredith was young, and defenseless, with no ability to answer back. And here she is, at thirty-eight years old, not so young but still defenseless, with no ability to answer back. How can she, when her mother seems so old, so frail? She’s sure Ronni doesn’t mean all the cruel things she says. She never does. This morning, after Meredith came back, her mother apologized profusely, told her she loves her, asked for forgiveness, demanded Meredith come home and stay. So here Meredith is, back in her teenage bedroom, resenting everyone.
Her phone starts to ping and she picks it up, seeing it is Derek FaceTiming her. Propping the phone on the pillow, she turns on her side to see him. There he is, as handsome as ever, beaming at her.
“Darling!” he says. “Look at you! You look like you just woke up. What time is it there? Isn’t it almost lunchtime?”
“It is, but I’m jet-lagged. I didn’t sleep well last night so I just had a nap.” She is aware that this is an unflattering angle, that she looks puffy and double-chinned, but it’s Derek. Who loves her whatever she looks like.
“You can’t nap, sweetness. That’s the worst thing for jet lag. You have to get straight into the new time zone and plow through until bedtime. No more naps!”
“I couldn’t keep my eyes open.”
“How’s your mother? What’s the big news?”
“She’s not well, some kind of neuropathy, and they’re testing to see if it could be anything else.”
“What kind of neuropathy?” Derek fancies himself an amateur doctor, priding himself on Latin medical terminology. “Diabetes perhaps? That’s a common cause of peripheral neuropathy. What are the symptoms?”
“Who the fuck knows.” Meredith is tired, and annoyed by Derek. She didn’t mean to swear, and instantly regrets it.
“Meredith!” Derek barks. “I have people in the room. Good God! I’m so sorry,” she hears him say in apology to whoever is with him. “She didn’t mean that. Meredith!” He chastises again, the jolly expression on his face now gone.
You idiot, she thinks. He does this all the time. FaceTimes her without telling her there are people seeing her, or hearing her, no idea of the etiquette of warning someone on loudspeaker that others can hear. It serves him right. Who the hell cares, anyway.
“Why didn’t you tell me there were people in the room?”
“They can’t see you. I thought you just get upset when people can see you.”
Meredith closes her eyes. “You know what? Let’s just talk later. I have to go.”
“Okay, fine.” He is still clearly unhappy. “I love you,” he says, without much meaning.
Meredith says nothing, just presses end.
She is still holding the phone when the doorbell rings.
“Meredith!” calls her mother from her own bedroom. “Lily has gone out shopping. Can you get the door?”
“Sure,” Meredith yells back. Going downstairs, she pauses by the hall mirror, vaguely amused to see that her hair is sticking up on one side in a faintly ridiculous way. She attempts to smooth it down, but it won’t cooperate. Oh, well. The UPS man will have to deal.
She buttons the buttons on her shirt that have come undone and opens the door with a polite smile.
The man on the doorstep turns to her, with a quizzical expression, followed by a frown.
“Oh,” he says. “I was expecting the housekeeper.”
Meredith frowns back. There is something familiar about him. As her eyes scan his face, trying to place him, the smile slides off his as he looks at her.
“Do we know each other?” he says, squinting slightly as if scrolling through his memory banks to place her.
“I was just thinking the same thing,” she says, and as she does, he breaks into a smile, pointing at her.
“Bookstore girl!” he exclaims with a laugh.
Meredith’s hands fly to her hair. It’s him! The cute man from the bookstore. But what on earth is he doing here? “What are you doing here?” she says, because she can’t think of anything else.
“I could say the same thing to you, but I’ve just realized who you are. I’ve been looking at pictures of you, and your sisters, for days now. Sorry, I don’t mean to sound creepy.”
“Well, it is just a little bit creepy,” Meredith admits as she shuts the door ever so slightly, taking a step back. But then she realizes she’s being ridiculous. He doesn’t feel threatening; he feels friendly and warm. “Who are you?” She peers at him. “And what are you doing here?”
“I’m so sorry!” He shakes his head as Meredith silently prays he not be creepy. He is far too cute to be creepy. “I’m Billy,” he says. “I’m a journalist. Your mother didn’t tell you? I’m a filmmaker too, and I’ve been talking to your mom about making a documentary about her, or maybe writing a piece. We arranged a meeting today?” Meredith looks blank. “She really didn’t tell you?” He frowns, unsure
of what to say next.
“No. But come in, please. She’s upstairs, but I can go and talk to her.”
“Thank you.” Billy comes in, taking his messenger bag off and putting it down in the hallway. “I have plenty of time. Shall I wait in . . . the sunroom?”
Meredith is trying to subtly play with her hair and attempting to smooth it down, but smiles hugely and says, “Yes! Great idea. I’ll go upstairs and see if my mom is ready. It may be a while. She’s not moving so well. She told you about the neuropathy?”
“Yes. She wants it on film. Her illness. A . . . retrospective about her life . . .”
“Yes. She mentioned it, even though I didn’t know you were coming. Please, go through. We’ll both be down in a bit.”
Billy walks down the hallway as Meredith races upstairs to her room, groaning with horror as she stops to look at her reflection. “Fuck,” she whispers, mortified that the cute man from the bookstore is now in her house, and this is the impression she made.
She tears the elastic band off her ponytail and wets her hands under the faucet, dampening her hair before blow-drying it straight and smooth. She kicks off her pajama bottoms and squeezes into jeans that are only about one size too small. I look voluptuous, she tells herself. At least I have a smallish waist. If Beyoncé and Nicki Minaj can celebrate big butts and thighs, I can too. She slips her feet into wedges, then back out. They look ridiculous, as if she is making far too much of an effort. The flip-flops go on, then the tiniest bit of makeup, so little it is almost imperceptible, just enough to enhance her natural features. Mascara to elongate her lashes, shimmery highlighter to give her the appearance of cheekbones, a touch of pale pink lip gloss on her full lips. She steps back, examining her reflection. Her hair was cut in a bob last year, at Derek’s suggestion. He likes it perfectly coiffed, as it is now, which is not how Meredith likes it.
She opens a drawer in her vanity table and pulls out a curling iron she hasn’t looked at in over a decade. She works quickly, curling her hair just enough for a sexy, tousled beach look, tipping her head upside down and shaking her hair out, this time smiling for real when she looks in the mirror.
She goes into her mother’s bedroom and sits on the bed.
“You look nice.” Her mother doesn’t miss a beat. “He’s handsome, that Billy. That was him at the door, wasn’t it?”
“Is he handsome? I hadn’t noticed,” lies Meredith smoothly. “Which wig shall we put on today?”
thirty
Nell gives Greta the whistle-stop tour of Westport by truck. She comes off the Merritt Parkway and drives her up Partrick Road, down Old Hill, pointing out the historic homes and pretty old stacked stone walls.
On through town, where they stop at Neat and grab a coffee, sitting on a bench overlooking the Saugatuck River, Nell telling stories about Westport, not realizing she is also telling stories about her life.
They get back in the truck and drive down Riverside, turning into the sweeping driveway of the rowing club. “It wasn’t like this when I was young,” Nell says, telling Greta about Lewis Calder, about the original rowing club, Coach Mangan, what it felt like to be on the water.
“You didn’t keep rowing?”
“I wish I had,” Nell says, smiling. “But once I had River, and the farm, it was too much.”
“Maybe you can start again now,” Greta says. “I don’t think it’s ever too late to pursue happiness. Especially when you already know what makes you happy.”
“Maybe,” says Nell, watching the launch on the river, a quad glide past, the oars moving as one. She is absolutely still as she watches them, remembering the magic and grace of being in a boat that moved like that. “Maybe.” She turns to Greta. “What makes you happy?”
“My daughter,” says Greta. “My friends. I like living in St. Louis, although I am ready for an adventure. I was a big traveler when I was young, and it has been a while since I’ve gone anywhere other than to California for the retreats. I would quite like to go somewhere else, now that Daisy is grown.”
“Where do you have in mind?”
“I prefer life to unfold in the way that it is going to. I’m quite sure the universe will reveal itself in time.”
“I’m not good at that,” says Nell. “I like to know exactly what’s going to happen. I don’t like surprises.”
“Really?” Greta tilts her head. “The best parts of my life have tended to be the most unexpected.”
Nell thinks about asking what she means, but she doesn’t. There is a part of her that is scared to ask, scared of what she might hear.
“Shall we go?” Nell says instead, as they continue their journey down memory lane. Nell takes her to Main Street, pointing out the places, now closed, that were important throughout her childhood. The Remarkable Book Shop, Klein’s, Sally’s, Bill’s Smoke Shop, the farmers’ market where Lizzy helped out. Il Villano, where a friend’s older sister confessed, after two weeks of working there as a waitress, that they kept a gun in the warming drawer behind the line. Backstage, where they used to go drinking and dancing, when Lewis had a friend on the door who would let them in, even though they were underage. The Westport Country Playhouse, where their mother appeared in countless plays and script readings, even sat on the board for a period of years. The arts center, where Meredith volunteered and where she submitted paintings for its member shows.
“Meredith paints?” Greta asks this a short while later, after their journey has taken them on to Southport. They parked outside the Spic and Span and ordered sandwiches to eat by the harbor, just as Lizzy suggested, with bottles of iced tea and a packet of chips.
“Sort of. Wow, this is lovely.” They sit on a bench and watch the boats bob, and it is just as beautiful and serene as Lizzy promised. Not romantic, though. Painterly, perhaps.
“Meredith doesn’t paint anymore,” continues Nell, taking a bite and washing it down with a swig of iced tea. “Accounting appears to have scrubbed the artist from her soul.”
“Was she any good?”
“Meredith would say she was terrible.”
“Is that true?”
Nell shakes her head. “She is enormously talented. Her paintings weren’t as good, but that was because she wasn’t comfortable with oils; she never really knew how they worked and she was trying to accomplish too much. She would do these beautiful sketches, and took art classes in London for a while, doing lovely work. I always thought she hadn’t really found her calling, that she would suddenly realize she was amazing at making jewelry, or design, but she chose accounting and doesn’t do anything artistic anymore as far as I know.”
“How sad. What made her choose accounting?”
“Our father. He had remarried and wasn’t very present. I think Meredith thought if she chose something he approved of—law or business, or accounting—he might pay attention to her again.”
“Did it work?”
“Does it ever?”
Greta shakes her head sadly. “What a terribly sad thing it is, when parents remarry and have second families that entirely displace the children of the first. Is that why you didn’t ever marry? Because of River?”
Nell is startled. “No. Not consciously, at any rate, although perhaps there was some of that. I never met anyone after Lewis, or rather, no one who was . . . important enough to make me want to open my life and accept someone into it.” She takes another bite. “What about you? I don’t know anything about you, other than you aren’t married to Daisy’s father. Did you have a relationship that was difficult for Daisy?” She flushes slightly, unused to having this kind of conversation, to revealing the intimacies and intricacies of her life.
Greta pulls open the bag of chips. “Daisy was easy,” she says. “And there were no more children for her to feel displaced. Her father and I have remained best friends.”
“Lucky you. That seems so unusual.”
/> “There was much that was unusual about our relationship. I shouldn’t ever have married him, but I was trying to do the right thing, make my parents happy, follow the path expected of me, instead of the path I was too frightened to admit I wanted to follow.”
Nell says nothing. She waits.
“I was attracted to women, although I wasn’t fully aware of it at the time,” says Greta, matter-of-factly, as Nell’s heart starts to pound. “In my senior year things became physical between my best friend and I. We finally admitted that we both had feelings for each other. Her parents discovered us and were furious. They sent her off to school in Texas to split us up. My own parents didn’t understand, so I tried very hard to make everyone happy by finding a nice young man when I went to college, and settling down with him, forcing myself to pretend that I was just like everyone else.”
Nell says nothing, her heart still pounding, her cheeks flushed. Greta glances at her before carrying on.
“We were married for twelve years, and they were good years. Wonderful years, even though there was no physical side. We didn’t have sex for ten of those years, and I probably could have kept pretending. I had completely shut down that side of the relationship, and I told myself it was normal, that all old married people felt like this.”
“Even though you weren’t old,” says Nell.
“Exactly.”
“So what happened? Why did you split up?”
“Because I fell in love with a woman at work. She was one of the facilitators at the retreat. I never thought I would be unfaithful, but . . .” She smiles at the memory and gives a simple shrug. “I fell in love.”
“You had an affair with a woman?”