“That’s a miracle,” I quip, but fearing he’ll take it as an insult, rush on. I keep my voice low, just between us. “I’m only here for a visit, but Jack said you landscaped his half of the bluff, and I’d like you to do mine. Do you have any time?”
“This week?” He winces and, when Lily appears with a paper bag, wedges a battered wallet out of his back pocket. He darts me a little glance as he pays. When he’s done and we’re alone again, he says as low as me, “This week is packed, summer people back after the winter and wanting work done. But working weekends and all, I take Mondays off. I could come over tomorrow and take a look.”
If I’ve learned anything working in New York all these years, it’s how to shoot for a mile when you’re offered an inch. It’s also a version of Margo’sAccept what you can’t change by changing what you can’t accept.
I brighten my big smile with hope. “How about coming over tomorrow toplant?”
He seems amused. “I haven’t seen the space. I don’t know what you want.”
“The space is exactly like Jack Sabathian’s, and I want what he has.” The names are with me, each one in my mother’s lyrical voice. “Switchgrass. Goldenrod. Beach plum. Bayberry.” When he scratches his head, I sweeten the pot. “I’ll help plant. So will my daughter. And Jack. AndAnne.” I whisper the last with a quick shotat the kitchen, and there she is, watching us, but I’m not turning back. Jack has to work, of course, and Joy is counting on going with him, but at some point they might help, even for an hour, and Anne, well, Anne won’t be able to fight me here. “I’ll pay. I’ll give you a check there and then.” Summer people don’t do that. They take their sweet time paying. I remember hearing grumbles to that effect from our electrician, though, in fairness, he was a surly guy.
Mike Hartley wears a crooked grin. “Well, I don’t remember this.You’retough.”
“Thank you,” I say with a perky grin of my own. “What time will I see you?”
We agree on a time that allows him to first load his truck with plants, loam, and fertilizer from the nursery. He has barely headed for the door when Anne is hissing in my ear, “I was supposed to do that, not you.”
“I’m helping,” I insist, but I’m careful to keep my excitement from sounding like gloating. “It’s one less thing for you to have to worry about.”
“Yuh,” she drawls. “And you’ll tell Dad?”
“That’s the best part,” I gush, unable to hold it in. After too much frustration, here is a bit of light. “He and I were on the beach before we came here, and he was the one who raised it. Hetoldme to do something. He actually complained that Mom hasn’t.” I don’t mention the paying part. I will happily pay. No doubt, Anne already does her share.
“He thought Mom was here?” Anne asks with a sorrowful glance at the front corner table. Dad is still hidden behind the paper.
“Just confused,” I say and put a confident hand on her arm. “I got this, Annie. You go back to work and cross one thing off your list.”
Returning to the table, I’m feeling good. I still have calls to make to Paul, who may be able to shed light on Elizabeth, and to Shelly Markham, who may know whether my mother had anaffair. And Jack has his to-do list. But this is my first real sense of accomplishment.
My satisfaction lingers through breakfast as one table clears and another fills. When the screen door opens yet again, though, and I see my sister, my contentment fizzles.
It isn’t my younger sister. It’s the older one.
Chapter 17
Margo. Too chic in her blouse, stacked sandals, and capris. Too formal with her dark hair in an artful coil at her nape and her makeup just so. Too wide-eyed to uphold the rest of the confident image.
She glances quickly around Anne’s shop before zeroing in on me, by which time I’m halfway to the door. I want to be pleased that she’s come, but her presence here is as shocking to me as it is to her, if the dazed look on her face is any measure. It was her vow never to return, spoken aloud more times than I can count. Just yesterday, when she realized where I was, she was angry.
My whisper is urgent. “What are you doing here?”
“Rescuing you?” she whispers back. Her glazed eyes have landed on Dad, who is studying his crossword puzzle. “I was on my way to the house when I saw your car. Omigod, doeshelook old.”
I understand her shock. Prior to coming here, I’d seen myfather every few years, but for her, it’s been the full twenty. Memory freezes the past in ways that can be good or bad.
“He’s not well,” I tell her, “and it isn’t just his mind. He gets winded with even the slightest exertion, which he wants to ignore—”
“Hiiiiiii,”I hear from behind, and, in a flash, Margo’s expression changes. Her eyes light with genuine pleasure, her arms open to hug her look-alike niece. It is a warm moment for me, even a comical one. What we have here is conservative versus funky wearing the same face. It has been this way since Joy began choosing her own clothes. But Margo adores her, for which I will always be grateful.
“You. Are. Gorgeous,” my older sister says against my daughter’s hair. As quickly, she holds her back and looks her up and down. “How old did you say you are?”
Joy glows. “Thirteen andlovingthe nail polish you sent for my birthday. Iadorethat it’s free of the worst baddies, like formaldehyde and camphor. The purple is delish,” she runs on, still half in Margo’s arms, “but my favorite,favoritething is doing alternate nails purple and green, or two purple for every green? Like Gem and Tabitha—gorgeousshades. If I’d known you were coming, I’d have done that so you could see.” She slides a hopeful look past Margo toward the parking lot. “Jeff and Teddy?” She adores her cousins.
“No,” Margo apologizes. “They’re on a guys’ trip with their dad. They’ll be disappointed when I tell them I saw you.”
Accepting that, Joy says, “But I’m so gladyou’rehere.” She spares me a suspicious glance. “Did you know she was coming?”
“I did not.”
