But she says, “I agree.” Then: “I’ll go downstairs and see if I can find another bottle.”
“I’ll go with you,” says Jordan. “I need water.”
Like magic, all the photos are back in their usual spots: the mantel, the hooks on the way up the stairs that earlier held nondescript beach scenes like you’d find on the walls of a midrange motel. Jordan appreciates that her father has gone to the trouble, especially since he’ll have to undo all of it for the open house on Sunday.
There’s a single photo—maybe the only one in the world—of Mae not looking cute, and that photo is now back on the wall. It’s Christmas Eve 2008, and the girls are lined up in front of the tree in their Lenox living room in matching pajamas. Theresa bought them a new set every Christmas. They were allowed to change into whatever they wanted later, but they had to wear them for the photo.
Mae has come to stand beside Jordan.
“Oh my god,” says Mae. “Look at this!”
“I’m dying at your face. What are you so grumpy about?”
Mae peers at the photo. “I think I just got my braces tightened the day before. Remember that feeling?”
“It’s the worst,” says Jordan. “I’m so glad that part of my life is over.” She looks more closely. “Natalie’s hair is on point. Even when she’s ready for bed.” In 2008 Natalie’s hair falls in long sculpted waves, with a side barrette just over one ear, very Scarlett Johansson.
“She was probably going to sneak out and meet a boyfriend.”
“Not on Christmas Eve!” Jordan chews her lip. “Or maybe yes.”
“Probably yes.”
“I just can’t believe someone took a photo during the only two minutes you went through an awkward teenage phase.”
Mae snorts. “Not true. I had the worst skin for half of middle school.”
“I don’t remember that. I don’t remember you ever having even half a zit.”
They both stare at the photo, their eyes growing uniformly damp. “She got us matching pajamas for so long,” says Jordan. “I was a sophomore in college in this photo. I came home from, like, clubbing in Manhattan and had to throw on some L.L.Bean classic plaids.”
“You loved it,” accuses Mae. “You know you did.”
Jordan’s shoulders soften, and the air around them seems to soften too. “You’re right. I did. We all did.”
Monday
Interstitial
It’s just after dawn, and Jordan’s been awake for over an hour. Something kept her from a good sleep. This something could have been the Dixie Cups of wine on top of two gin and tonics, but it could just as easily have been the presence of Scarlett, who was not, as Natalie had claimed, a deep, motionless sleeper, but rather a thrasher, a cover thief, and an occasional whimperer. Scarlett didn’t come as advertised at all.
Bernadette’s voicemails and texts from the day before total seven. They all say basically the same thing, in a variety of ways:Jordan, call me back.
She will not! When she got the email from her father, Jordan put in for vacation time. She hasn’t taken a proper vacation in years, not a full week—the last time she’d been out of touch for more than three days had been when Theresa died. She doesn’twantto call Bernadette back. She’s resisting! Ever since Memorial Day she’s been wondering what her future is at the firm.
But Bernadette does have a hold over her that Jordan wishes she didn’t. She’s taught Jordan everything she knows about the business; she’s paid her well; she’s let her sit at her knee during some of the most interesting cases the firm has had. Jordan shudders. She doesn’t actually want to think about Bernadette’s knees.
A little while later Jordan slides out of bed, leaving Scarlett, who has her arms and legs starfished, her glorious dark hair spread outacross both pillows. (For a slender little girl she really does take up a remarkable amount of room.) She dresses quickly in the bathroom, congratulating herself on being so quiet that neither dog stirs, then tiptoes down the stairs, through the slider, across the patio, down the three stairs to the beach, and onto the sand, still cool, for now, from the night. The tide is low, low, and the beach is absolutely enormous. It feels like the biggest beach in the world.
Jordan starts south, with the water to her left. A few early-morning dogs and owners are up, and so are a couple of solitary walkers, but this beach is so vast Jordan feels like they each have their own universe to themselves. The sun is newly risen over the water, which is a sight that never gets old, no matter how many times Jordan has seen it—and she’s seen it a lot. In the distance, near the new public bathrooms (not so new anymore, but they still seem new, because the old ones were soveryold), the majestic American flag is waving like a greeting. Surfers dot the water. Seaweed, flung by the tide, lies in clumps.
She faces the ocean, looking for strength and fortitude in its vastness, its—well, its relentless optimism, is one way to look at it. Those waves just keep coming back; no matter how many times they’re sent away, they just keep coming and coming, not taking no for an answer. Sort of like Bernadette.
Maybe she’ll just call Bernadette back to remind her that she’s on vacation.
She’ll just do it and get it over with. Bernadette will be up. Bernadette is always up! Bernadette operates a little like a dolphin, resting one hemisphere of her brain at a time while allowing the other to continue to function.
“Hello?” Bernadette’s voice sounds... croaky. Almost like a person who has been...woken up unexpectedly?
