Kristie has brought a bottle of Whispering Angel—she remembered, from the day at Archers. She hands it to Annie.
“Lovely,” says Annie graciously. “Thank you.” Introductions or reintroductions all around, then a review of the beer choices for Danny from Steven.
“Come with me into the kitchen,” says Louisa to Kristie. “Let’s see what you want to drink.” Kristie glances at Danny, then follows Louisa. “We have ginger ale, seltzer, water, lemonade,” says Louisa.
“Ginger ale. Please.”
Louisa fills one of the tall frosted glass with ice, then, while her back is half turned, says, “Listen, Kristie. My father is having one of his bad days. He’s not coming down to dinner.” Louisa turns fully toward Kristie and watches a complicated expression cross Kristie’s face, watches her let out a breath. Surely Kristie noticed that Louisa saidmy fatherand notour father.“I’m sorry,” Louisa continues. “I’m really sorry. We can try another time. I know I told you he has good days and bad days, and I was hoping that this would be a good day. I really, really was. I wish I had some control over it.”
A beat, then Kristie sets her shoulders back and smiles. “That’s okay,” she says. “I understand, really.” Louisa watches her slip on invisible armor; her face makes Louisa think of her children attempting bravery after a hard fall on uneven pavement. How valiant it is, the way humans get hurt and just keep going.
Dinner proceeds. It goes okay, considering, and despite Martin’s absence. Lobsters are good for keeping people busy. Children make excellent distractions in any circumstances. Claire spills her milk and Louisa pretends not to mind; she wipes it up cheerfullywhile delivering a joke, like a sitcom mom, even though she had told Claire to move her elbow away from her glass, and on the inside she is irked. One thing that helps the meal move along is that Steven and Danny get on immediately—Steven is full of detailed gardening questions for Danny. Louisa supposes it is this natural curiosity that makes Steven such a good podcaster, and she remembers to be grateful for it. Kristie is clumsy with the lobster, and Claire helps her get the meat out of the claws. Annie is quiet, concentrating on her plate, or passing this and that, making sure everyone has enough melted butter, plenty of chowder. Louisa drinks more wine.
It goes on like this: a meal like any other, except it’s not; it’s a meal built up to over the summer, brick by brick, hour by hour. The water and the sky visible from the picture window do their part by changing gloriously as the sun descends. Louisa looked at the sunset calculator online before dinner; the sun will set just after seven-thirty. It set at nearly eight-thirty when they arrived in June. Summer is marching toward fall.
And then, partway though dessert. A change in atmosphere; an alteration. The night seems to shake itself out, a dog after a swim.
“Oh, sweetheart,” says Annie. “Hello.” They all turn. In the doorway to the dining room, framed in the last rays of the sun, which settle around his shoulders, the imposing crag of his chin: Martin Fitzgerald. Annie half-rises, and there’s an expression on her face, atenderness,that brings tears to Louisa’s eyes.
Louisa says, “Daddy?” and Claire says, “Hey, Grandpa,” and even Danny dips his head and says, “Chief.”
“I’m feeling better now,” says Martin Fitzgerald. He looks around the table, taking it all in. “I thought I’d come down.”
45.
Martin
“I’m feeling better now,” he says. “I thought I’d come down.” And that’s all it takes to get the room moving, all of them fussing.
A chair is pulled out; a napkin appears, then a glass of water, a piece of pie.
The chatter picks back up, but Martin isn’t listening to it. He’s lost in his thoughts, sinking into them. That’s what people don’t understand, that sometimes it’s confusing and disconcerting, where his mind goes. But sometimes it’s comforting and irresistible, when he’s in the past, and the past is like a warm liquid pool, and you can sink into it, down, down, down, but you never drown. You can float on the past forever.
“I thought we’d go up to the house for the weekend,” says Annie over breakfast.
Martin looks up from his paper. It’s early, seven, and Annie isdressed already, jeans, a blouse, ballet flats, earrings, hair styled. Louisa is still in her pajamas, her glorious hair—hair that old ladies used to stop Annie on the street to comment upon when Louisa was a baby—messed from sleep.
“It’s only Tuesday. Are we already planning the weekend?”
“It’s never too early,” says Annie. “The weekend will be here before we know it! That’s how it goes.”
It’s October, and he’d thought their last visit of the season was behind them. “I can’t this weekend. I’ve got to work late all week, and I’ll probably be back at it on Sunday.” He turns back to his paper. Bill Clinton thinks George Bush wants to be best friends with the world’s dictators.
“You can work at the house. My parents won’t bother you, I’ll make sure of it. You can have the downstairs bedroom all to yourself as an office. Or you can work in the living room, looking out at the water! We’ll set up that folding table.”
“I can’t work at the house. I need to be near the office. The papers—” No matter how much Annie claims that nobody will disturb him at Ships View, the fact is that somebody always disturbs him at Ships View. It may be just to see if he needs anything—a blanket, a snack, lunch, a cocktail, a break—but it is a disturbance nonetheless.
“Bring the papers,” suggests Annie equitably. “Can you sneak out a little early on Friday, do you think?” Fenway has lain down just to the side of Louisa’s chair.“You’ve been working so hard I think it would be good for you to have a rest, maybe go out on the boat with my father. Clear your head. The season’s over, you know. They’ll be closing up next weekend. This is our last chance. I know this case is big, but can’t you just bring the papers with you?”
The feminist wave that swept across the country seems to have missed his wife entirely—a blessing, Martin can easily admit, but also often a bewilderment. Annie seems as though she truly doesn’t need or desire anything more than home and hearth, childand husband and parents, a windswept bit of rock, a cocktail and a garden and an occasional new dress. She sees her job as smoothing the way for his job, laying out soft, thick carpet to cover any bumps that he may encounter as he sets his own feet down.
“It’s more than the papers,” he says. “It’s the time in the office.”
“It’ll be winter before we know it, and we’ll wish we had done it.”
“You go ahead without me,” he says. “Spend time with your parents. Go out on the boat with your dad, enjoy the beautiful weather.”
Annie has a wet cloth; she’s wiping something from the floor. She straightens up and smiles at both of them. “You know what?” she says. “I think we might just do that, if it’s really all right with you. Is it really all right with you? Louisa?”
