They’d agreed, after that, not to exchange gifts. He could give something to the kids, if he wanted, but that was it.
“Oh,phew.” Now, in the barn, Timothy actually wipes his brow. “I was so worried about this. I’m glad it’s out in the open. Are we good?”
Still, something is gnawing at her. “Logically, we should be good. It shouldn’t upset me, like I said. But on the other hand, it feels a little smarmy.”
“So we’renotgood?”
“Well. What upsets me is that you lied about it.”
Timothy frowns. “I didn’t lie about it.”
“But you did. You didn’t tell me when you hired me. It was a lie of omission. And now that I think about it, I feel sort of dumb, like I wasn’t really qualified for the job. Like you’re just funneling money to me because you feel bad for us.” Embarrassingly, her voice cracks at the end of this unanticipated monologue.Isshe qualified for the job? Maybe not! Maybe once Timothy realized how close he’d be living this summer to Amy, he figured out a way to assuage his guilt for everything that had happened with Rose, and that’s the only reason she’s here.
“Oh, geez, Amy. If I was looking to funnel money to you I’d, I don’t know, pay Henry’s Middlebury tuition! If Greg would ever allow it. Which he wouldn’t.”
Amy concedes that Timothy is right there. Greg is way too proud to accept something like that, although, truth be told, tuition for private four-year colleges is practically criminal, and paying it probably wouldn’t make even a tiny dent in Timothy’s financial situation.
“Amy.” Timothy stands and puts a hand on her shoulder, and she thinks about shrugging it off, but in the end she lets it stay. “I hired you because I need you, and because you’re qualified, andbecause you are kicking ass at this job. Okay? Don’t think about the money.”
“Okay,” she says. “It’s all good.” (Amyhateswhen people say something is “all good.” Why did she just do it?) “I mean, thank you. Thank you for hiring me.” Now she feels like she’s groveling. Is she groveling?
“You’re welcome. I’m happy to have you. I need you. I think this is nothing we need to speak of again. Your paycheck will be here Monday, and we’ll be back on track after that.”
“Thank you,” she says again, more formally this time. It’s fine, but it’s also not fine. She’s all mixed up inside. TGIF, she thinks. She needs to hop that ferry and get off this island, away from her brother for a few days, and back home to Greg, where she belongs.
Timothy
At Floyd’s house Timothy sleeps with the bedroom windows open, allowing in the sea breeze and the gentle hooting of a barn owl that seems to live nearby.
Today, when he wakes, he stretches and cracks his neck, once on each side. And if he doesn’t exactly spring out of bed, at least he puts his feet down rather lightly on the area rug. He bends forward at the waist to come as close to touching his toes as is possible, then stretches his arms above his head in what he learned is part of a “sun salutation” sequence. He learned that in his first and last yoga class, lured there by a woman he’d dated the previous fall. He hated most of it—pigeon pose, cow face pose, even warrior were all beyond his interest or capabilities (andeveryonecan do warrior, the woman he was dating told him)—but the beginning of sun salutation has become part of his daily routine, even if he does it out of order and not very well. He likes the name.
The doors to both Sam’s and Gertie’s bedrooms are closed. Not a surprise. Sam sleeps like a teenager, Gertie like a nighthawk. Timothy’s propensity for the early morning hours had often been a bone of contention between him and Gertie when they were married: he was always yawning by 10p.m., right when Gertie was getting her second wind. He’d had to adjust for the theater world—secretly he loved Mondays, when the theaters were darkand he could slip into bed early—but since he’s been back in Hollywood and on his own he’s returned to his natural rhythms. Who cares if people notice his early departures from parties and premieres? He’s a single man now, beholden to no one. He can sleep and wake as he pleases.
When he went to bed last night Gertie and Sam were hanging out in the living room, so he stuck in his earplugs. It wasn’t any noise, however, but the memory of the conversation with Amy that kept him awake; his mind insisted on turning it over and over, looking for the holes or the weak spots. Finally he fell into a deep slumber—Amy said everything was fine, and he needed to trust her. When he slept, he slept like a baby, like a rock—like a baby rock!
Now he considers his morning. Coffee on the deck, overlooking the water: yes, please. If anyone had ever suggested in high school that Floyd Barringer would own ahigh-quality espresso machinethey’d have been laughed right off the island. Of course hardly anyone at all drank espresso in the late 1970s. What a long way civilization has come—and at the same time, he supposes, what a long way it’s fallen. (Just look, he thinks, at TikTok.)
Timothy feels so good that maybe he’ll even take the steps down to the beach and put his toes in the sand or in the water. Maybe he’ll dunk his whole body in the ocean! He dresses in swim trunks, just in case. Supposedly there are health benefits to a cold-water dunk once a day. Friends in Los Angeles have begun adding cold-plunge tubs to the ever-growing list of improvements for body, mind, and soul that money can buy. Infrared saunas. Powdered collagen. Heavy weights lifted and lowered for a mere three seconds every day. Kimchi.
After he’s dunked, or not dunked, he’ll look over his rehearsal notes, read through act 2 once again, and touch base with Alexa to see if there’s anything going on in L.A. He’d like an update on the koi, for one thing, maybe even a short video of them.
He has a full day ahead of him, a productive day, just the way he likes it. He can’t believe howalivehe feels, with a good night of sleep and a robust to-do list. He practically jogs up the stairs to the main level of the house to warm up the espresso machine. Like a sleepy teen, the machine requires some time to prepare for the day.
At the top of the steps he pauses.
Things up here look a little—differentfrom how they looked when he repaired to his room the night before. The neatly folded blankets on the couch are strewn about the room. One has a half-full teacup resting on it. Spilling hazard! Two of Gertie’s scarves—no, wait,threeof them—are hanging from the lampshade. (Fire hazard.) The television sound is off, but the picture is on. (Environmental hazard.) A bottle of rum and two shot glasses sit on the coffee table—directlyon the coffee table, no coasters. (The rum is not, Timothy is relieved to see, the thousand-dollar-plus bottle from Blake, but it is a Black Tot Master Blender’s Reserve—not exactly Captain Morgan.) In the kitchen he finds a hairbrush, two hair clips, another of Gertie’s scarves, a cell phone charger plugged in but with the cord dangling onto the floor (tripping hazard), an uncapped Sharpie, a piece of celery with a bite taken out (what?), and two bowls with something (olive oil? butter?) pooling in the bottom. The garbage, which Timothy emptied three days ago, is overflowing. Four beer cans are sitting on the counter, as though they are expected to saunter into the recycling bin of their own free will.
Timothy begins to fume. He takes a break to make his coffee, foaming the milk perfectly and topping it with a shake of cinnamon. Then he sits on the deck, watching the day breaking all around him—the owls have been replaced with chirping sparrows, the moon with a vigorously rising sun. When Gertie emerges ninety minutes later, he’s back in the kitchen, fuming resumed.
“I can’t wake up today,” says Gertie, yawning. She opens the refrigerator and stares into its depths for an inordinate amount of time (he has forgotten this habit of hers—a food spoiling hazard!) before turning and seeing Timothy’s expression. “What’s going on? Is something the matter?”
Opening his mouth just enough to let the word out, Timothy says, “Yes.”
“Well, what? For heaven’s sake, it’s a beautiful morning in a beautiful place. What could possibly be the matter?”
Timothy emits a puff of air. “You two are the matter!”
“What two?”
