Maine Characters, page 9
“Nice,” he says, nodding as if that’s the end of her spiel.
“Oh, we’re just getting started,” she says, relishing the pleasure of being on her own turf after forty-eight hours at sea.
Amused, he gives a slight apologetic bow. “By all means, go ahead.”
“So, if we’re talking cab sauv, the classic choice would be a bottle from Bordeaux in France. We could go for Château Lafite Rothschild—it’s to die for—but I’m guessing you’d rather not drop a thousand dollars on a few drinks.”
He nearly chokes on his beer.
“Right, no. It’s the Fourth of July, so let’s go with something homegrown, right? In the US, California cab gets all the glitz and attention. It’s flashy. And unless I’m wildly mistaken, you’re not that kind of a guy.”
“No.”
“Jeans instead of a tux.”
“Yeah,” he says, pleased.
“So let’s look at the Walla Walla Valley in Washington. It’s kind of flown under the radar for a while. Now one of the winemakers out there, Drew Bledsoe, I think he used to play for…” She squints and crosses her fingers. “The Patriots?”
Caleb lights up. “No way, really? He was a quarterback. I had his jersey as a kid.”
She’s thrilled to be nailing this.
“There we go. I only know of him because of work—don’t you dare test me on other athletes.”
He grins. “Patrick Mahomes? You gotta know Travis Kelce.”
She rolls her eyes. “Drew moved back home to Walla Walla and actually makes some of the best cab sauv in the world. Like, he’s won international awards.”
“Whoa, really?”
“Yep. His cab has notes of blueberry, blackberry, cherry, with a little bit of a floral element on the palate, too. And it’s half the price of a bottle from Napa.”
Caleb gives a slow clap. “That was unbelievable. Sold.”
Warmth spreads through her chest. Neither of them breaks eye contact. “That’s my job.”
Once everything is cooked, they carry it all back to the firepit. Lucy is sitting sideways across an Adirondack chair with her knees slung over one arm and a drink in her hand, looser than Vivian’s ever seen her.
“Here we go again…” Vivian mutters, steeling herself for another awkward encounter.
“Take it easy. She’s had a rough go of it.”
“Wait.” She nudges his shoulder with hers. “Can we not tell Lucy that we know each other? At least not yet. Things are already so bad between us.”
“I don’t know…Is it a big deal? I don’t think she’d care.”
She doubts that. “Please? Things are tense enough already.” She can see the wheels turning in his head.
“For Lucy’s sake, fine.”
Vivian exhales. “You’re the best.”
Lucy
Lucy hasn’t been this drunk since Halloweekend back in college. At some point while she stewed, watching traitorous Caleb flirt with Vivian from afar, somebody must have gone up to the house to retrieve a bottle of Hank’s favorite Scotch. At first, the amber liquid scorched her insides as it slid from her throat to her stomach, but now she’s only pleasantly warm and woozy, like she’s wrapped in the fleece blankets she and Patrick used to share on frigid nights.
It got late. The sun went down in a flaming ball of tangerine. Paige went home to Kyle and Nora, and now Lucy’s alone with Patrick on the boat, tethered to the dock, gently rocking over midnight blue waves. Depending on how she squints, he’s either her ex or her husband. Without thinking, she burrows under his outstretched arm and leans against his chest.
“Do you really think we should be sitting like—” Patrick starts.
“Why are men supposed to like Scotch?” she asks, nose-deep in her Solo cup. “It’s like getting punched in the face by a tree on fire.”
He laughs, which makes her feel glowy and alive again. “Don’t drink it if you don’t like it.”
She tips her head back to look at him. “Can I tell you a secret?”
“Yeah.”
“I do kind of like it.”
He laughs. “I can tell.”
A loud crack! bursts over the lake. With a jolt, she sits up—slopping some of her drink down her front—and sees a spray of white light over dozens of scattered boats. Fireworks! How could she have forgotten?
“Oh, look!” she says, pointing, as if he could possibly have missed it.
“Yeah.”
She feels him watching her, though, not the sky.
Lucy settles back against him and threads her fingers through his. The fireworks shoot up and explode into big, beautiful pinwheels. Bang! Bang! Bang! In their wake, clouds of smoke linger, then fade. She finds herself watching that more closely than the pretty bursts. The haze doesn’t linger long, and she imagines it settling over the lake, swirling into the water the way ashes would. She can’t hide her tears for long.
“Hey, hey,” Patrick says softly, rubbing her arm.
“He’s not here to watch with us.”
“I know. I wish he could be.”
“No, no, it’s not just that.”
She sits up, and in a thick, trembling voice, tries to spell it all out: It’s the fireworks, the gunpowder, the lake. It’s Vivian threatening to dump the ashes out of spite. It’s missing the funeral, missing the chance to say goodbye, missing the chance to even tell Hank that Patrick left her. It’s being a failure of a wife, and now failing at wanting to move on. It’s sobbing in Patrick’s arms, exactly where she’s supposed to be, except he doesn’t want her anymore.
“Lucy, hey, breathe,” he says.
Most of her words are unintelligible smears at this point anyway. She sucks in air.
“You’re not a failure.”
“You’re done with me.”
“That’s not—” He sighs. “I’m sorry for hurting you. I really am.”
“You are?”
“Of course I am.”
It doesn’t compute. He left her.
“Why are you here?” she asks.
“Because you shouldn’t be alone right now,” he says softly.
“Yeah, but do you actually want to be here? This isn’t your job anymore.”
Lucy can hear the nastiness in her tone but can’t rein it in. She tries to anchor herself by focusing on his green eyes. The problem is, he has four of them.
Then her face puckers again. “I don’t even know if you’re an organ donor.”
He frowns. “What?”
It takes a few tries, but eventually, she ekes out, “I’m your wife and I don’t even know what’s supposed to happen if you die.”
In Patrick’s pupils, fireworks crackle emerald and gold.
She wipes her nose. “I’m still your wife, you know. Legally.”
“I know.”
“You made a face.”
“I was trying to remember if I’m an organ donor. Luce, I don’t even know. Here, let’s find out.”
He digs his wallet out of his pocket and shines his phone on his driver’s license. In the bottom right corner, the card is printed with “ORGAN DONOR” next to a little red heart. She’s just sober enough to clock that he’s talking to her like she’s a child, but drunk enough that she doesn’t care.
“Now we both know,” he says gently.
“I think I’m an organ donor, too.”
“That’s great.”
The sky lights up in what must be the grand finale, and as they watch, she settles against his chest. He strokes her hair. Lucy closes her eyes and lets herself sink into the sensation—but then it abruptly stops.
“Hey,” Caleb says cautiously, standing above them on the dock. “I just wanted to see how everything’s going over here.”
“A little sad,” Patrick says. “But we’re managing.”
“We’re both organ donors,” she explains.
“Huh?”
“Just go with it,” Patrick says. “I need to run up to the house for a sec. Can you sit with her?”
In his absence, her arms and legs break out into goose bumps. Caleb takes over on Lucy duty.
“I brought you the rest of your dinner,” he says, stepping into the boat. “And some water.”
She picks up what’s left of her drink and sloshes it toward him. “I’ve got my liquid dinner.”
“It might help to put some more food in your stomach.”
She snorts. “Like what you made with your…your…” She tries to think of a coolly biting insult but comes up short. “Your cheeseburger assistant over there?”
“I was being friendly, nothing more,” he says calmly. “But hey, maybe keep your voice down a bit when talking about her. She’s right over there.”
“Sure, I’ll be careful with Vivian’s feelings,” Lucy whispers sarcastically. “That’s important.”
Caleb gently removes the liquor from her grasp, trading it for solid food and water. It’s not just the burger she abandoned earlier after two bites—he also added a hot dog in a golden toasted bun drizzled with ketchup and a bright yellow ear of corn shining with butter. She sinks her teeth into the burger, not caring that a little juice runs down her hand. The patty is rich with flavor and grilled to perfection; the cheddar is a hearty, gooey delight; a fat red tomato and a leaf of lettuce round out the satisfying bite.
“Are you okay with him being here?” Caleb asks. “Things looked…cuddly.”
“Yeah, and?”
Drunk people can play dumb, too.
“I just want to make sure you’re doing all right.”
Lucy’s vision fills with tears again. “I’m not. Of course I’m not. But I have a really great burger, and you, and Paige, and probably the last fireworks I’ll ever see here, and…” She hiccups. “The burger is actually incredible, though.”
This is more than dinner. It’s proof she still has someone besides Patrick who will care for her when she’s too much of a mess to fend for herself. Happy Independence Day.
Chapter Four
Lucy
Waking up the next morning feels like slowly extracting a syrup-slathered screwdriver from her brain. Lucy’s tongue is sandpaper-dry and tastes like she’d been French-kissing a sewer grate. As she runs it over her mossy teeth, snippets of last night stumble forward: the bonfire’s sweet smoke, the fireworks, the sinful comfort of curling up under Patrick’s arm. And—oh, no. The bathroom floor, up close. The acidic burn of Scotch coming up the wrong way. His hands holding her hair back.
She doesn’t remember coming back up to the house or going to bed, but the pieces in between are embarrassingly clear. Slumped on the floor, sitting by the open toilet, she’d asked Patrick to take her back—or, no, not asked. Pleaded.
“You’re my husband. You love me. You’re here. What’s the problem?” she’d asked, tripping past a few consonants and vowels.
Several times.
“Let’s talk about this tomorrow, okay?” he’d said.
Tomorrow’s here. He’s gone.
* * *
Downstairs, Vivian is at the kitchen table, sipping from the old mug with the fading, outdated New York skyline. On her phone, there’s a photo of Hank with toddler Vivian on a wintry city sidewalk lined with elegant brownstones. He still had a dark crest of JFK Jr. hair. They’re in parkas. Snowflakes dot Vivian’s lashes, and a sled trails behind them. Hank bought Lucy a sled for Christmas when she was eight, but nature wasn’t on her side that winter. The snow didn’t line up with his short, sporadic winter visits. They’ve never sledded together, and now they never will. It still sits in Dawn’s garage, collecting dust.
Vivian flips her phone over, looking irritatingly awake. Her hair is twisted and clipped up, with tendrils spilling out just so. Whenever Lucy tries to do her hair like that, she looks like a mom in the school pickup line.
“Morning.”
The word reverberates painfully in Lucy’s skull. “Hi.”
She fills the kettle and peels one of the bananas Paige brought for her yesterday.
“The fireworks were nice,” Vivian says.
Lucy barely remembers them. “Yeah. You and Caleb seemed to get along pretty well.”
Vivian nods. “He’s a nice guy.”
“Are you into him?”
It’s a bold question—too bold—but Vivian is probably going to sell the house out from under Lucy tomorrow and then they’ll never see each other again. She might as well ask.
Vivian gives one sharp ha. “I’m in a relationship.”
“It seemed like you were hitting it off.”
“We didn’t want to get in the way of you and Patrick catching up.”
“Mmm. Thoughtful.”
Vivian keeps prying. “So, you’re separated, but he came over anyway?”
“I didn’t invite him.”
“Which one of you ended things?”
Lucy can’t really say if they’re even over. The details from last night are fuzzy, but she remembers feeling peaceful in his arms. He was tender with her. He cared.
“That’s a very personal question, Vivian,” she snaps.
She flinches and holds up her hands. “I’m sorry.”
Lucy goes upstairs to find aspirin for her pounding head. She pads past her unmade bed, then stops short when she sees two plump, stuffed garbage bags leaning against her dad’s bedroom closet.
“Hey, what’s this?” she calls, wary.
“What’s what?”
“The trash.”
Downstairs, there’s the scrape of a chair over linoleum, then footsteps on stairs. “I’ve been cleaning,” Vivian says, equally wary, as if she knows this could cause a fight.
Lucy kneels to untie one black plastic bag. Panic rises in her chest as she sifts through the soft mess inside, a jumble of clothes and swim trunks.
“You’re getting rid of his things?” she asks, alarmed.
Lucy spills the bag’s contents onto the sand-colored carpet. She reaches for a forest green sweatshirt with Foxy Roxy’s logo on the back and its name embroidered in front. The inner layer of fleece has worn down to nearly nothing over the years, and the cuffs are frayed. She remembers wearing this when she was five or six years old—or, no, maybe she’s just seen that photo of herself in it so many times, she can’t tell where memory ends and imagination begins. There aren’t many pictures of her with Hank from her early childhood since other people were rarely around to take them. But that summer, her dad had gotten a fancy digital camera with a self-timer. One afternoon, Lucy borrowed the sweatshirt to warm up after a cold swim. It fell to her knees. They must have propped up the camera on the coffee table. The timer went off as they both were scrambling back to the couch with silly smiles, zero poise, a natural kind of ease. She hadn’t had to try back then.
“It’s old junk,” Vivian says. “Half of it was falling apart twenty years ago.”
Lucy clutches the sweatshirt to her chest. “You can’t throw all this out.”
Vivian picks up an errant sock. “This is sentimental?”
“It’s not about the sock.”
Lucy scoops up armfuls of clothing and heaves them back into the closet. It’s not wrong to want to keep pieces of him alive, intact, and on his own property.
“Lucy…” Vivian sighs. “You can’t fight this forever.”
She whips around. Her headache boomerangs with her. “You don’t get to have the final say on everything! We’re not getting rid of all this.”
“It can’t just sit here.”
“You can’t throw it all out because you’re mad he didn’t tell you about me!” Lucy says, a little more shrilly than she’d like. “He just died, can’t you respect that?”
“Respect?” Vivian echoes in disbelief. There’s an unsettling edge to her voice, and her dark eyes glint with emotion. “Yeah, let’s talk about that. If he had respect for any of us, we wouldn’t even be in this situation. He wouldn’t have lied straight to my face for my entire life, and he wouldn’t have made a fool of my mom. And if he respected you, he would’ve done more than just play house together for a few weeks a year.”
That does it.
“It. Is. July,” Lucy says, shaking with anger. “I am being generous by letting you stay here during my month. You might have had more time with him, but you know what? If you actually loved him, you wouldn’t be able to stomach throwing all this away.”
Vivian shuts down. “I’m not doing this,” she mutters.
She walks away, leaving Lucy with a blinding headache and a whole wardrobe of old clothes.
Vivian
Vivian needs to get away from Lucy. Far away. Down at the dock, she straddles the Jet Ski and zooms away. With a squeeze of her hand, she rockets to fifty miles per hour. She takes wide, arcing curves, leaning far enough to one side for the thrill of centrifugal force to kick in. She drives in circles, bouncing over the ripples from her own wake. She’s still too angry to breathe properly.
If Lucy wants to cling to ratty T-shirts, fine, let her. She can take all of them if she cares so much. What rattles Vivian is that Lucy got close enough to the truth. When she overheard that damning phone call all those years ago, it was like the first snag in a sweater. She could’ve sewn it up—confronted him or let it go. Instead, she took note of every single one of Hank’s infractions and watched the wool unravel.
There were the standard poor-little-rich-girl complaints: He was always working late, pecking out emails on his BlackBerry during family vacations in Aruba, skipping her AP Art show for a business trip, whatever. (It occurs to her now—maybe there was no business trip. Lucy probably graduated from high school the same week.) And look, Vivian wouldn’t want to be married to Celeste, either, but he made that choice. If he couldn’t give his wife his full respect, Vivian felt he ought to have let her go. She could probably find someone else. So could he. Instead, Celeste contorted herself to make him happy and always came up short.
