Francesca, Benjamin, and Charlotte walked closer to the Lodge. Standing on the lush lawn, Francesca watched as several construction workers tore at the old rooftop tiles and threw them down onto the lawn below. They listened to a speaker, who played songs from the eighties, a time when the Lodge had been vibrant and wonderful, a time when all her children had been around.
For a few minutes, Charlotte and Benjamin explained what they’d already had done to the White Oak Lodge, the interior cleaning that had been required to start construction, as well as the fact that the fire hadn’t destroyed as much of the structure as they’d initially thought.
“Really?” Francesca was incredulous. She’d seen the fire herself and had felt it was all-encompassing, the sort of thing that required a complete tear-down and rebuild. “Was the fire bigger in my memory?”
Charlotte explained that the majority of the fire had been contained to one area of the hotel. “Only a little of the family area had been overtaken,” she said, “although plenty of people have broken in over the years and covered the walls with graffiti and so on.”
“The Lodge has a sort of magical quality for some people these days,” Benjamin said. “Everyone on the island has some theory about why the fire happened and who’s haunting its halls. A bartender in town told me that there are many ghost stories about me, in fact!” Benjamin cackled. “People have said that they can see ghost-me staring out from the kitchen window.”
Francesca eyed the kitchen window, where only shards of glass remained. How many hours had she spent in that kitchen, cooking pasta sauces, blending vegetables, and trying her best to serve her children a wealth of nutrients and incredible flavors? Her eyes filled with tears at the thought of all those years, all those breakfasts and dinners and conversations over glasses of wine. If anyone was haunting the kitchen, it was her ghost.
After Charlotte’s appointment with the designer began in earnest, Francesca and Benjamin returned to the grounds nearthe horse stables, where the construction crew had set up several wooden picnic tables for midday lunches and breaks. Here, Francesca sat while Benjamin hurried off to fetch refreshments. While he was gone, Francesca stared into the dark shadows of the barn, remembering the sounds of whinnying horses and the clop of their hooves. She remembered watching Jefferson Albright as he prepared the horses for Lodge guests, speaking to them in that gorgeous British accent, teasing them and instructing them all at once, so that almost every woman who entered the horse stables had a crush on him by the time their horses clopped off. Francesca remembered that Lorelei, who’d been so young when Jefferson worked at the stables, had found in Jefferson a fast friend, and she’d chased him often, calling his name.
When Benjamin returned, he carried a bottle of wine, three types of cheese, and herby crackers stacked with seeds. He arranged the feast on a platter, humming to himself, before sitting to pour them both glasses. Francesca knew better to point out that it was just past noon and probably far too early for a glass of wine.When in Rome, do as the Romans do, she thought darkly, reaching for a glass.
“I know how you feel about American food,” Benjamin said, raising his glass. “I thought I’d make you comfortable with high-quality snacking.”
It was then that Francesca realized she was shaking. Here before her was Benjamin Whitmore, the man she’d thought was dead for many, many years. He’d just made her a cheese plate, for crying out loud. They were carrying on as though it had been six weeks since their last meeting rather than twenty-seven years.
Tears filled Francesca’s eyes. Benjamin put down his glass with a clink and blinked rapidly, his smile waning, until tears fell and dripped down his cheeks.
Here it is, Francesca thought.I can finally ask him every question I need answered. I can finally force him to reckon with what he’s done to this family and to me.
But when Francesca opened her mouth to speak, she said, “I don’t believe it.”
Benjamin sniffed, waiting for her to go on.
“I don’t believe you burned down the Lodge,” Francesca said. “Alexander told me that you’re taking the fall for the arson. But I can’t believe that. Not after everything you did for this place. Not after everything you sacrificed to prolong its life. No, you were a proud Whitmore. This was your kingdom.”
Benjamin let his shoulders sag, perhaps in recognition of what she already knew. “I saw what they were doing to him,” he said finally. “I couldn’t let it happen.”
Francesca furrowed her brow, initially confused. “You mean with Alexander’s career?”
“The airline was going to fire him outright,” Benjamin said. “His name was mud. And I knew how much he always wanted to be a pilot. I knew he gave his life to that industry, to that career path. To have it all be destroyed by the fire at the White Oak Lodge felt useless. We can’t let that fire destroy still more of our family, not so many years after the fact.”
Francesca flinched. “So you lied to them. That’s why the cops couldn’t do anything.”
“I told them what I’ll tell you,” Benjamin said. “I’d do anything to protect my son. The court of public opinion is terrifying. I knew that once they pinned the blame on me, they’d move on to other stories. They wouldn’t care anymore. Everyone thinks I’m a corrupt old man anyhow. I gave them the story they wanted to hear.”
Francesca was touched that her husband had given away the last shred of his positive public legacy to save his son’s.
“And everyone thinks I should be dead, anyway,” Benjamin said.
Francesca parted her lips to say, "Tell me why you did it." But, suddenly frightened and overwhelmed with hunger, she reached for the cheese plate, put a slab of camembert on a cracker, and bit down. As usual, Benjamin’s taste in fine things was exquisite, and she closed her eyes as the stinky and creamy flavor fell over her tongue.
Had Benjamin been off somewhere all this time, eating nice cheese plates and hiding from the world?
“But Alexander wants to take a leave of absence to work on the Lodge anyway,” Benjamin continued, “which thrills me to no end. You remember how desperate he was to get out from under the shadow of this old place. Now, I’m daring to think of Alexander’s son Xander Whitmore as the next heir to this place.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Whitmore,” Francesca said, squinting at him. “Nobody should be locked into this place who doesn’t want to be.” She certainly remembered how quickly Alexander had fled the Lodge and moved to Key West with Janie. Francesca didn’t like to remember that it had been Benjamin and Francesca who’d threatened Alexander, who’d told him that his inheritance would be zilch if he didn’t come home. Of course, Janie’s pregnancy and miscarriage colored that intense and miserable time. It hadn’t been so very long before the fire. It hadn’t been so long before everything fell apart.
“Benjamin,” Francesca began, realizing that she needed to know something else so desperately that it had to be addressed right now. “Benjamin, have you heard from him?”
Benjamin took a sharp breath and met her gaze. She didn’t have to say the name “Jack” for him to know precisely who she meant: the only child she hadn’t heard from, the child who’d been presumed dead after the fire, the child who’d been closest with his Tio Angelo.
“You know where he is,” Francesca insisted, her heartbeat escalating. “You know what happened to him that night and every night since. Don’t you?” She needed Benjamin to say that, since 1998, he’d been instrumental in ensuring that Jack was healthy, safe, and all right. She needed him to give her an itemized list of all the ways he’d helped Jack through the years. The last child we ever had together, Francesca remembered, picturing Benjamin holding infant Jack at the hospital. Our last great hope for a brand-new love. Because back then, they’d had Alexander, Lorelei, and Allegra to contend with, but they’d also had Charlotte, proof of Benjamin’s horror and Francesca’s transgression. Jack was all theirs, a baby for a new day.
Something about Benjamin’s face told Francesca that he knew precisely where Jack was. All he would have to do was point her in a direction, and she’d find him. She burned to know. She reached across the picnic table and touched Benjamin’s shoulder, an act of tenderness that yanked them both back through time. Benjamin dropped several tears.
