“Do you need help?” he asked as he stood up again. He seemed to move more slowly than she was used to seeing him move. When had that happened? Gradually, over time? Or only since he’d seen Brandon’s letter?
“Owen showed up unannounced, too,” she began, ignoring his question. “I think he saw dollar signs in my future.”
“Enough to take you back to court to try to get you to pay the last of Rafe’s education.” His comment was not a question.
She snorted. “At least Rafe’s a senior.”
“There’s always grad school.”
“I’ll manage.” She stirred milk into her coffee, then asked if he’d bring the plates and mugs to the table.
While he did as she asked, she sat down, and then so did he, and they fell silent again. She thought of the ship’s clock at Evelyn’s, almost hearing it tick-tock in the background.
“What about the . . . college?”
“Do you mean ‘what about tenure’?”
He nodded.
She forced a short laugh. “I don’t know yet if I have it, Dad.”
“You’ll get it. Manchino’s too young.”
There was no point reminding him that Manchino had published two books and more articles than Maddie had. He was a single guy without a son or a father to take care of and seemed to devote all his spare time to studying or writing. Besides, Maddie and her father had more important things to discuss.
“Dad?” she asked. “Why didn’t I know? Why didn’t anyone tell me that Mom was a Native American? That I’m one, too? And who made up that story about us being Iberian?” Now that she’d started, the questions tumbled out, the muscles in her face tightening with each one. “And what about Grandma? Why did you tell me years ago that she was dead? I had a right to know the truth. And now so does Rafe.” Her hands shook; she folded them, hoping he wouldn’t notice.
He stared at his muffin as if wondering whether or not it was safe to eat. “It’s a long story, Maddie.”
“I have time.”
Breaking off a piece of the muffin, he put it in his mouth, then brushed a few crumbs from the front of his short-sleeved white shirt. In spite of it being summer and he was on the island, Dad wore a collared shirt, dress pants, a belt. And shoes. Slip-on, leather shoes. With socks. Back when he’d been teaching, he always added a tie and sports jacket to complete his conventional ensemble.
“When your mother and I started seeing each other, she said she envied me. That she’d give anything to see what it was like to live on the mainland. With lots of places to go and lots of things to do. I thought she was joking. She was the happiest, most talented, prettiest young woman I’d ever met. And she loved her life here.”
Nearly the same way Evelyn had described her.
Maddie lowered her eyes. Whenever she thought about her mother, yes, she did remember how happy she was. And how much she made Maddie feel loved. Her father’s words, however, felt as if he’d rehearsed them all the way from Green Hills.
Her lip started to quiver; she swallowed her tears.
“Hannah intended to tell you everything before you started first grade. She thought you’d be able to understand it better then. She also wanted to share her culture with our community—but not until you knew first.” He paused, took another bite, perhaps rehearsing again. “I never did figure out why she wanted to wait. But then she was gone . . . and I . . . well, I never told you because I didn’t know how. I didn’t want to confuse you. And then you were grown up and it was too late. I convinced myself there was no need because you’d never have to come back . . . here.” He let out a big whoosh, as if to say,Thank God, that’s over.
Squeezing her hands together, holding in her rising anger, Maddie said, “But Grandma Nancy came to Mommy’s funeral.” She was startled to hear the word “Mommy” come out. But it had been what she’d called her mother. She’d missed out on the growing-up years when a child often shifts from calling her mother Mommy to Mom and sometimes Mother.
Her father nodded, his eyes still focused on the damn muffin instead of on her. “Yes. Your grandmother was at the funeral.”
“Which was the last time I saw her. When you wouldn’t let her park the camper in the driveway.”
He nodded again.
And for an instant, Maddie had a strange feeling that he was preparing to lie to her again, that he needed to hold back the truth.
“Your grandmother and I argued,” he said at last. “But not about the camper. She wanted you to continue to come to the island every summer, even without your mother. I could not let that happen.”
“Why not? She was my grandmother, Dad. She wouldn’t have hurt me.”
He pushed the plate away. He put his face in his hands. “It was complicated, Maddie.” He stood up and started to pace. He paused at the fireplace and looked at the mantel, at her mother’s sunset painting. Then he returned to his pacing. “Time passed.” He huffed, and she sensed another fabrication forming. “I thought it was better to keep you home, not share you with a woman whose ways and whose culture I didn’t know much about. So I said she was dead. For which I am sorry. But once I’d done it, there wasn’t a good way to take it back. It never occurred to me that you’d find out otherwise.”
