“Do you know what would be really good for supper tomorrow night? Lasagna. I’ve got my interview in Providence in the morning. On the way back I’ll pick up some of that Italian sausage you like so much from the deli downtown. I should be home by twelve-thirty or one, so you and I could make the lasagna together in the afternoon.”
Because this would be the first time after Sylvia’s death that Ivy was going to be alone for several hours, Zoey scheduled her interview as early as possible, so her aunt would only have to spend the morning by herself.
“I’m going to be late because I have band practice and then I’m going to Amy’s house,” Gabi said. “Her mom always invites me to stay for supper, so you two should eat without me.”
Amy was the fourth-chair flutist in the school band, a sophomore, and Gabi had practiced with her three times last week. Zoey was glad her niece had made a connection with someone other than Aidan, but it surprised her that Gabi never played her instrument at home. She repeated the excuse that she didn’t want to hurt Moby’s ears. Zoey supposed that was possible, since the girl seemed to have adopted Sylvia’s pet, or vice versa, and she went out of her way to tiptoe past Moby whenever he was taking a cat nap.
“A whole lasagna for just two people? That’s too much food. I can make chicken soup on the stovetop,” Ivy proposed.
“It’s kind of hot out for soup,” Zoey objected. “Gabi, why don’t you invite Amy here to practice for a change? Then she could eat supper with us.”
“I already told her I was going to her house.”
Zoey tried a slightly different tack to get the cooking ban lifted. “Later in the week you should have Aunt Ivy show you how to bake a strawberry-rhubarb pie. Yesterday I bought strawberries at the market and I saw rhubarb at the farm stand when I went for a walk on Friday. I could pick some up,” she suggested. “Aunt Ivy taught my mom and yours how to make the most delicious, flaky crust you’ve ever tasted. She tried to teach me, too, but I never got the knack of it. It always turns out tough.”
“That’s because you handle the dough too much,” Ivy chided.
“I bet Gabi will catch on right away, like Jess did.”
Ivy clasped her hands together. “Gabi, did I ever tell you about the time your mother found rhubarb growing in the woods in Rockfield? She was about your age and she loved to bake, so when she happened upon all that free fruit, she must have picked a hundred stalks. She had so many she couldn’t fit them all in the bicycle basket, so she wrapped the rest in her beach towel and carried it over her shoulder, like Santa’s sack. ‘Aunt Ivy, Aunt Sylvia, look what I found!’ she shouted when she cycled up the driveway. You would have thought she’d discovered gold, she was so excited. She brought it into the kitchen and even before she unwrapped it, I knew from the smell, it wasn’t rhubarb. It was—”
“Skunk cabbage!” Zoey chorused with Ivy. The two of them had to wipe their eyes from laughing but Gabi hardly cracked a smile. Zoey figured that was because she didn’t know the difference between the two plants, but when she explained how nobody would want to make skunk cabbage pie, Gabi just rolled her eyes.
“My Denny loved strawberry-rhubarb pie, too,” her aunt remarked, her eyes sparkling. Zoey knew exactly what she was going to tell Gabi next. “Every time after he’d eaten his last bite, he’d scrape the plate clean with the side of his fork, push back his chair and pull me onto his lap. ‘Ivy,’ he’d say, ‘The best pie is like my best girl. They’re both sweet enough to savor and tart enough to make me pucker up.’ Then he’d kiss me.”
Again, Gabi’s smile seemed like an effort. Kind of likeshe’dtasted something sour. Zoey couldn’t tell if she was embarrassed by her aunt’s saucy anecdote, if something else was bothering her, or if it was just run-of-the-mill teenage moodiness.
Before she could ask her what was on her mind, Gabi excused herself to go finish her homework. She kissed Ivy’s cheek as she usually did. “Good luck with your interview tomorrow, Aunt Zoey,” she said before leaving the room.
Zoey understood that her niece had other things she’d rather do than hang out with her aunts, and she had no intention of pressuring her into it. But she had kind of hoped Gabi would want to learn to bake a pie. Not only because that might motivate Ivy to use her new oven. But also because Zoey was trying to drum up an activity her aunt might enjoy besides playing cribbage or sitting in the living room, staring at the photo of Denny.
Ivy had frequently commented that she didn’t know what she’d do without Sylvia and Zoey was beginning to see that was no exaggeration. Now that her sister-in-law was gone, Ivy seemed at a loss for ideas about how to occupy her time. Unless Zoey did the same things with her that Sylvia had always done, Ivy aimlessly flitted from room to room, often breaking down in tears. She was fairly confident that after the worst of her aunt’s grief passed, Ivy would be able to manage —albeit, slowly—most of the physical tasks that were required in order to take care of the house and herself. And she could increase Carla’s visits or employ an additional person to do the more arduous chores and errands. But, even though it was important to Ivy that she maintained her independent lifestyle, Zoey wasn’t quite as certain about her aunt’s ability to cope emotionally with Sylvia’s absence. So, before she left, she hoped to help her develop a social network, as well as to become engaged in a hobby or a daily practice she enjoyed.
Suddenly, inspiration struck. “Aunt Ivy, I’ve got an idea. Why don’t I go online to check out what kinds of programs the senior center offers?”
“You’re far too young for that, dear. But I read in theGazettethat the library offers watercolor and oil-painting classes. A local artist teaches them for free. Emily-something-or-the-other is her name… I still have the article in the kitchen. I’ll go get it.” Her aunt leaned forward to put her teacup and saucer on the coffee table.
“Thanks, but that’s not what I meant. I was suggesting we could check to see if there’s an event or class that might interestyou.”
“Me? I’m too old for the senior center.”
Zoey had heard some of her friends say their parents or grandparents who were in their sixties, seventies and even eighties felt they were tooyoungto go to a senior center, but she’d never heard that anyone had claimed to be tooold.
“I’m sure there’s not an age cut-off.”
“Maybe not, but I’ve read the center’s calendar listing in the newspaper, too. Yoga classes. Computer tutorials. Trips to go wine tasting and to the theater in New York City. I wouldn’t be able to keep up with any of that. And a penny per point is as much as I’m willing to gamble so I have no interest in playing Bingo on Tuesdays with them, either.”
It was a fair argument. Zoey had read somewhere that the year-round senior population was fewer than two hundred people, and the vast majority of them were in their mid to late sixties and still working. And since it was so secluded on the island, no one had ever built assisted living or senior housing. But Zoey kept trying to persuade her aunt, saying, “There must be at least three or four people your age living here. If not in Benjamin’s Manor, then in one of the other Hope Haven towns.”
“The only person on Dune Island who’s my age is Phineas Witherell. I can’t really picture the two of us being friends again, even though it’s been, what, some sixty years since our… our falling out.”
After years of listening to her aunt’s stories, Zoey thought she’d heard everything Ivy had wanted to tell her about her life on Dune Island. But now, in a single sentence, she’d dropped two bombshells regarding local lore. The first was that Mr. Witherell’s given name was Phineas. No one, including Ivy, had ever mentioned that in front of Zoey before now. When she was a girl, she didn’t think he evenhada first name. Phineas. Phineas Witherell.It suits him,she thought.
The second shock was that he and Ivy had once been friends. As soon as Zoey heard that, the rumors Gabi told her about Sylvia and Mr. Witherell fleetingly came to her mind. But she knew better than to give them credence; just because Ivy and Mr. Witherell had been friends didn’t mean Sylvia and Mr. Witherell had been lovers.
“I didn’t realize you and Mr. Witherell were close. I thought you hardly knew him.”
“‘Close’ is too strong of a word. But for a time when we were young, we were more than acquaintances.” She explained that the summer after her mother died, she was so inconsolable that she’d walk to the end of the peninsula where the lighthouse was and sit by herself, watching the boats coming in and going out for hours. She’d bring a lunch that the housekeeper had made, but in Ivy’s words, she was “off her food.” So she’d give it to Mr. Witherell when he’d come out to survey the grounds before going to bed.
