“I love you, Lee Lee. Call me if anything changes. I mean it.”
After hanging up, Charlotte stared at her reflection in the taxi window. For decades, she’d been the family matriarch in name only. Lee had actually raised Regan and Cord after Winston died. Now her granddaughters needed stability, and she was running off with a man. But Charlotte didn’t have long left! She wanted to be happy!
“Adios,” said Charlotte, and of course she knew that “adios” wasn’t Greek, but the Spanish farewell felt appropriately dramatic. “Adios, amigo!” she said, throwing open the taxi door. “Au revoir!” she added, for good measure.
She stepped into mayhem, joining a river of cruisers dragging giant wheeled suitcases toward megaliners, as she had once done herself. One man wore a T-shirt that saidFeed Me Beer and Watch Me Dance.
Charlotte shuddered.
She felt very alone. And yet, oh, the human heart, mused Charlotte: Despite the trials of life, the human heart yearned for love! Her human heart, anyway.
Across the parking lot, lit by bright sunlight, she saw herparamour. Paros, too, had aged, but he wore a trim white uniform with epaulets and dashing sunglasses. He looked important, gruff, and Marlon Brando–esque. Charlotte was proud that he had worked his way up, and was now manning the gift shop insideThe Flying Star. In between colossal, gaudy (but fun, oh so fun) cruise ships, Paros’s sailboat was breathtaking—its hull gleaming white, its many sails rippling in the wind.
Herhull—Paros had told Charlotte that you were supposed to call your ship “she.”
Shehad gleaming mahogany rails, bright brass accents, a small gangway staffed by men in uniform. Staring at such a ship made Charlotte feel as if she were living in another time, boarding a vessel to sail across an ocean and start an unknown life.
Ah, if only she were beginning again.
Was it possible—could it be—that she was?
78
Cord
Cord was halfway through hismorning routine when the doorbell rang. He put down his mother’s M.A. Hadley ceramic mug (the one with the little pig).The New York Timeswas open to the Arts section on the counter. Cord assumed that his mother would cancel theTimesat some point, if she really were moving permanently into the Deluxe Cabin aboardThe Flying Startall sailing ship. Then again, Cord was the one who was paying for her Deluxe Cabin indefinitely, including an unlimited tab at the Tropical Bar…maybe she’d let him keep the newspaper.
Cord had also (happily) paid off Regan’s debts, bought her apartment outright, and set up a monthly fund for her and the girls with two caveats: no renting rooms to random strangers and no Bitcoin (or otherwise suspicious) trading. He kept a close eye on her financial transactions and she, in turn, checked in to see that he was going to AA meetings…even calling Handy and giving him Cord’s new phone number. Flora had offered to spy on Regan and Cord told her no way in hell—if Flora was going to go to Harvard, she had better things to be doing with her time than snooping on her mom.
So far, so good. Lee had even written Cord a long, sort ofmaudlin e-mail about how much she loved him and believed in him. He wrote back that he loved her, too.
Charlotte’s bell sounded again. Cord was honestly not in the mood for chitchat with one of his mom’s friends—they popped by periodically, wondering why they hadn’t seen her on the golf course or at Wine Down Wednesday. All of them were thrilled to encounter Cord—he’d racked up weeks of happy-hour invites.
The current caller was tenacious. The bell rang another few times, and finally Cord called, “Com-ing!”
He tightened his mother’s bathrobe and opened the door.
It was Giovanni on the porch.
Gio carried his ratty old backpack—the one he’d hitchhiked with across Italy—and had dark circles under his eyes. His curls were shorter, and he wore a plain black T-shirt and jeans. “Hi,” he said.
Cord was speechless and terrified.
Giovanni shifted his weight. “Can I come in?”
Cord stepped aside, watching as Giovanni took in the living room with its floral sofa, family photos, and large wicker alligator grimacing next to an end table. Giovanni paused at a framed photo of young Cord: skinny, wielding a baseball bat.
“This is where you come from,” Giovanni said quietly.
“It’s where I ran from,” Cord clarified. “Coffee?”
Giovanni nodded, following him into the bright yellow kitchen. Cord poured a mug and slid it across the counter.
“How’s Regan?” Giovanni asked, taking a sip.
“Better. She’s home with the girls.” Cord sat at the kitchen island. “Still struggling, but OK. We have a little text support network going, me and Reeg.”
Giovanni took the seat across from him. “How are you?”
