Maine Characters, page 30
“I’ve never had your pie. And besides, you like pie. I want you to have pie.”
She won’t argue with his logic. His lack of selfishness is refreshing. As they start walking again, she shoots off ruthless, rapid-fire questions. After all, he opened the door for this.
“Are you currently seeing anyone else?”
“Nope.”
“Would you ever get married again?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want kids?”
“Three or four, if I could.”
She’s always wanted a big family, too.
“Have you ever cheated?” she asks.
“No.”
“Do you think you ever could?”
“Knowing how horrible it feels to be cheated on? I think it’s safe to say absolutely not.”
“Okay.” She sighs, satisfied. “Your turn.”
“I get a turn?” he asks, bewildered.
“Of course! I’m not grilling you as punishment. I just want us to get any awful surprises out of the way now.”
He laughs. “Okay, okay. I like that. Well. Let me think…I take it you don’t want Vivian to sell the house?”
“I don’t. I didn’t.” She heaves a sigh. “I don’t know. We’re figuring it out.”
She didn’t realize her response would be so open-ended. How does she really feel?
He shakes his head good-naturedly. “My dad and I are never going to see a dime on the sale, are we?”
She doesn’t want to dwell on it, and frankly, she doesn’t want his opinion weighing on her. It’s a decision she needs to make on her own.
“We’ll keep you posted. Next question.”
“Are things okay with you and Vivian? Celeste was telling me about your…situation.”
Lucy cringes at the idea of Celeste framing their complicated dynamic from her point of view: Technically speaking, yes, my husband had another family, but it wasn’t anything trashy or scandalous. No, he lived with us, and every once in a very long while made a quick visit. Just to be polite, of course.
“Gosh, I don’t even want to know what she said.”
She fills him in from her perspective, explaining the arrangement her parents came up with and the little blips of information she gathered about Vivian over the years. She recounts what that first horrific day was like when her half-sister descended on the house, and how they’ve been attempting to coexist ever since.
“I won’t lie, she was awful at first…and there have been ups and downs.”
To put it lightly.
“But I think we’re sort of starting to find our groove.”
Harrison gapes. “And she never knew about you?”
“Not exactly. She suspected our dad had another daughter, but that’s it.”
It’s actually a relief to have everything out in the open.
He peppers her with questions about it: “I don’t mean to pry, but…” and “You don’t have to answer this, of course, but…” Answering is less terrifying than she’d expected.
For months now, Lucy has felt weak, worn out, a husk of her former self. She’s surprised to find that opening up to Harrison makes her feel strong. He knows she can handle the breakdown of a marriage, the death of a parent, a hurricane of a sister, losing her job. She can weather storm after storm. She’s still hanging on.
Neither of them is picking blueberries anymore. His gaze has snagged on her mouth, and when he notices her looking, his dimple flexes.
“I like you, Lucy. A lot. I want you to know that.”
She’d been developing a hunch that was true, but hearing it out loud gives her goose bumps. “Yeah?”
He steps closer. “Yeah.”
“I like you, too,” she says softly.
The impact of her words cracks over his features, leaving a smile as sunny as an egg yolk. Framed by all this saturated greenery and a pale sky, he’s a work of art. He takes another step toward her, closing the gap between them. When he kisses her, it tastes like hope, like a fresh beginning. Later, when they go to pay at the empty shed, their teeth are tinged blue. Lips and tongue, too. There’s a new buoyancy to him, and her cheeks are flushed pink. Lucy and Harrison leave an extra-big tip.
* * *
Lucy and Harrison swing by the market to pick up pie supplies. They decide to bake at Harrison’s lake house, a cozy red cabin not far from her own. It once belonged to his grandparents. In the living room, the walls are raw wood and the ceilings are low enough for Harrison to touch. Fishing gear hangs on hooks up and down one wall over a braided rug. A retro television rests atop a cabinet bursting with books, and a nubby brown couch is draped with a handmade afghan. In the kitchen, there’s a black, cast-iron wood-burning stove; the drawers creak as they slide open. Thankfully, there’s none of that kitschy decor that often springs up in these parts—faux-hand-painted signs featuring anchors or lobsters that read, “Life is better at the lake,” or “Lake it easy,” or “Even Jesus had a fishing story.”
“It’s small, but…”
“I love it,” Lucy says honestly. “It’s perfect.”
He puts on old soft rock, and Lucy shows him how to pinch the crusts closed with fluted, wavy edges. They coat a vat of blueberries in lemon juice and sugar. As a light drizzle rolls in from across the lake and the rich, velvety fragrance of warm berries fills the cabin, the afternoon takes on a filmy aura of comfort. When the pie is ready, Lucy cuts two generous slices. The crust is golden and flaky. A thick waterfall of deep purple fruit spills from underneath. Scoops of vanilla ice cream melt in sweet swirls.
“Okay. You convinced me. I like blueberry pie,” Harrison announces after his first bite. “Thank you.”
* * *
The kitchen is small, and as they clean up, they inevitably bump into each other no fewer than three times. Each brush of their bodies brings Lucy back to earlier this afternoon when they kissed between the hedges. She leans against the counter and watches him dry his hands on a dish towel.
“Harrison.”
His eyes flick to hers. “Yeah?”
“Come here,” she says coyly with a self-assured tilt of her chin.
It comes out in a confident, unhurried fashion. No one would ever guess she’s felt rejected and undesirable for years.
Harrison bites back a grin and moves toward her. Anticipation tugs low in her belly. As it turns out, she likes being brave. She runs her palms lightly over the width of his chest, feeling the warm muscle and insistent pulse. His hands slide up the nape of her neck and into her hair. When his lips are on hers, she tastes the tartness of the pie. In one smooth move, he places her on top of the counter and steps into the spot where she’d just been standing, skimming her thighs and tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. He plants a kiss on the newly exposed skin. Lucy can’t remember the last time she was treated with this level of reverence.
Despite their uneven start, Lucy feels comfortable with him. They both know what it’s like to have love, once as solid as stone, evaporate. They’ve been molded by the pain of being discarded, left behind, irrevocably alone. And yet they found each other. Even more wildly, they have whatever intangible chemistry draws two people together. Their broken pieces aren’t just shards but files, sanding down each other’s painfully sharp edges into something soft. She’s happy.
Vivian
Lucy comes home with pink cheeks and half of a homemade pie. Fat indigo berries spill from beneath the flaky crust. She cuts two slices and watches them spin in the microwave. The afternoon’s gray drizzle passed, and the timing is just right for a sunset cruise, so Vivian grabs a chilled screw-top bottle of rosé and two Mason jars.
They amble toward the center of Fox Hill Lake at Wine Speed, passing a few other boats facing the horizon, waiting for the show to begin. While Vivian drives, Lucy settles in the bow of the boat with one leg dangling lazily over the lip. Usually, she brings a book on rides like these. Tonight, Vivian’s glad she didn’t.
“Dad would’ve loved this,” Vivian says, gesturing back toward the last stretch of golden hour. Pale light washes over the pines on the eastern shore and reflects off their own house’s tall windows.
Lucy nods solemnly. “He would’ve.”
Vivian imagines him cruising in the driver’s seat instead of herself. He’d have one hand loose on the steering wheel, an Allagash in the other, and a spray of freckles over his nose that would disappear come September. She’s not sure if she misses him, exactly, but thinking about him weighs her down.
“Do you think I was too hard on him?” Vivian asks.
Lucy doesn’t look away from the apricot and aquamarine sky. “I don’t know…You had good reason to be.”
“Did I? I’ve been thinking—I think I finally get why he was so secretive, why he kept us apart,” Vivian says.
“Yeah?”
It’s an idea she’s been putting together bit by bit over the course of the summer, as she’s learned more about his past. Meeting Lucy filled in the missing pieces Vivian didn’t know she needed.
“He was alone after losing his parents. After going through something like that, why would he risk coming clean and pushing me and my mom away? He couldn’t, especially not since he’d ruined everything with your mom, too. He was a liar, yeah. But maybe he was also just hurt.”
“And selfish.”
“And human.”
Lucy nods. “Just human.”
There’s a quiet lull, but not an uncomfortable one. It’s peaceful, being out here on the lake together.
After a time, Lucy asks, “What’s going on with you and Caleb?”
Adrenaline jolts through Vivian. She wants to play it cool for now.
“What about him?”
“Is something going on between you? The way he talks about you…I don’t know, I’ve never seen him like that.”
Her instinct is to keep her mouth shut and deny, deny, deny. Part of her, though, wants to be able to tell Lucy everything.
“I…like him.” The admission gives her a nervous thrill. “And he likes me, too. We’ve only kissed once, though—I mean, once recently.”
Lucy’s brows shoot up. “Just saying, I’d ship you.”
Her approval makes Vivian feel like she’s glowing. “Really? It wouldn’t be weird for you if we got together?”
“And he became, what, like my brother-in-law? I don’t know, sounds ideal to me.”
It’s a wild image, a future with both of them.
“Are you still making your way through my mom’s books?”
Lucy clears her throat. “Yeah. I finally got the first one. Have you read it?”
“Not that one, no.”
“How much do you think she pulls from real life?”
Vivian purses her lips. “You’ve read Naked in New York?”
Lucy groans. “I couldn’t get through it.”
“Ugh.”
“Her other books, though?”
She shrugs. “I know she sometimes puts people she doesn’t like in books and barely bothers to disguise them. When I was growing up, one of my classmates’ moms, this woman Clara, rubbed my mother the wrong way—she never shut up and always tried roping people into volunteering for bake sales and whatever. My mom published a book with a nearly identical character named Farrah.”
“Did Clara ever find out?”
“She loved it. Even recommended it to her book club. Nobody ever recognizes themselves.”
Lucy chews on her thumbnail. “Hmm.”
As they talk, the sun inches lower and lower until it’s a spray of flames on the horizon. They haven’t discussed the potential sale since Vivian gave Lucy equal say in the decision. She hasn’t wanted to press. But Labor Day is only two weeks away. Vivian tries her hardest to soak it all in: the glittering waves, a brilliant oil painting of a sky, Lucy admiring a line of loons in the distance. She doesn’t know if she’ll have many more perfect summer nights like these.
* * *
Vivian crumbles Reese’s into popcorn while Lucy picks a movie. She’s been scrolling through endless choices for five minutes.
“I’m kind of feeling a rom-com tonight…What do you think about You’ve Got Mail?” Lucy asks. “Or, ooh, maybe Sweet Home Alabama…”
“Someone’s in a romantic mood,” Vivian teases.
Lucy ignores her. “When Harry Met Sally? I used to watch it and wonder what life would be like, growing up in the city.”
“ ‘The city’? Just ‘the city’? You’re calling it that now?”
Lucy flushes. “You got to me, okay?”
“Let’s watch it.”
This gives Vivian an idea. She should fix something that’s been gnawing at her for weeks. She shifts on the couch so Lucy can’t see what’s on her phone—not that she’s paying attention anyway—and opens her email. It takes her a minute to find the address she needs, but once she does, composing the message is easy. Her fingers fly over her screen as the opening credits roll.
“You need a sec?” Lucy asks.
Vivian hits send and tucks her phone away. “Nope, I’m good. Let’s go.”
Lucy hits play. As the opening credits roll, she says, “Do you miss New York?”
Vivian watches the movie’s idyllic portrayal of the Upper West Side, the neighborhood she called home for the first eighteen years of her life: all stately brownstones, shelves of novels at Shakespeare & Co., steak frites at Café Luxembourg, crackling orange leaves in Central Park. It’s picturesque, permanently woven into her DNA. She does miss it. But she doesn’t crave it enough to go back.
Lucy
Lucy barely absorbs the movie. She’s seen it a dozen times. No, instead, her focus wanders over the charred logs in the fireplace, the floorboards spattered with water stains from two generations of kids running around in swimsuits, the hanging hats ready to be grabbed on the way outside. Fraying threads escape from the seams of the couch cushions, and the one she’s currently sitting on is sunken in the middle. She could close her eyes and draw it all from memory.
The house is charming; the view, spectacular. Anyone can appreciate that, even Vivian. For Lucy alone, it’s a time capsule, pulling her back to a childhood spent happily in the dark and teen years when she locked away any shred of inferiority and resentment. She didn’t realize it until this summer, but she’d been exhausted from the effort of playing the easy, happy, loving daughter. That was her character. The house was the set; her dad was both the audience and producer funding the whole show. She’ll always love this place, but she doesn’t need it anymore.
With her healthy new salary—for a teacher, anyway—Lucy could get by in Portland. She’d be fine. But she wouldn’t have the opportunity and peace of mind afforded by a few more zeroes at the end of her bank statement. She didn’t do anything to deserve that kind of money—nobody does. She was simply born, though on the wrong side of the tracks. It would begin to even the scales between Vivian and herself. A fresh start.
She pauses the movie. “Vivian, can we talk?”
Chapter Eighteen
Vivian
On the eve of what would’ve been Hank’s fifty-fifth birthday, Vivian picks up Celeste from the Portland airport. They’ve had a few phone calls lately. Celeste relayed amusing stories from the road and chronicled the ups and downs (and further downs) of grief. Unexpected things broke her: the final squirt of the toothpaste they’d shared, a hotel minibar stocked with the crackers he liked. Vivian mostly just listened. Now, though, Celeste has questions: how Vivian is doing, when she’s coming back to the city, how the sale is coming along. After her surprise visit, Vivian barred Celeste from contacting Gray Realty; she appreciates that her mother actually seems to have respected that request.
Vivian turns down the radio. “You know, I’m not actually sure I want to come back. What if I moved to Portland? I think I’d like it there.”
“What if you did what?” Celeste asks, as bewildered as if Vivian confessed to dreaming of herding cattle in Montana.
“Move. Live in Maine year-round.”
“You know the A-C-E doesn’t run this far north, don’t you?” Celeste asks dryly.
Vivian sighs.
“You’d leave the restaurant? Your friends? Your home?” It’s like Celeste refrains from adding, “Me?”
“Well,” Vivian says evenly, “I quit my job.”
She hadn’t wanted to get into all that over the phone.
“Already? Don’t you want to wait until you’re further along with the bar?”
“It was time for me to go.”
Celeste stares. “Are you crazy?”
Vivian sighs. “I know how it sounds.”
“That job was everything to you.”
“It was.”
“Didn’t your boss give you the summer off? Maybe you should give it a few more weeks before making any rash decisions. I bet you could get your job back if you wanted it. He seems really impressed with you.”
Vivian has had so many years of keeping things from Celeste that it’s second nature to evade her questions. But secrets, she’s learning, build walls between people that can’t be scaled so easily. She doesn’t want one between her and her mother anymore. She has to share the real reason she left Della.
“He wasn’t just my boss. We were seeing each other for almost two years.”
There. It’s out. This is all Hank had to do with Vivian: one burst of bravery, one puff of breath to confess.
Celeste’s mouth forms a perfect O of shock. “Did he fire you? You could sue him for that, you know.”
“No, no, no. I left on my own terms. Before I quit, he was going to leave his wife—we were going to be together. He was going to open the bar with me.” She pauses, wincing at her mother’s pinched expression. “But his wife got pregnant. It turned out he wasn’t the person I thought he was.”
