Maine: A Novel Part 4

Until recently, she thought she had done well. But the uncertainty of raising three children could wear on her, even nowa"especially now. When she thought about that unpleasant business with Little Daniel and his last job, when she thought about Fiona, she wondered if she was somehow to blame for all of it.

Where were her children at this moment? Were they wearing seat belts? Did they still believe in G.o.d? Did they understand not only how to keep house, but why? Had she done enough? Could a mother ever do enough?

She padded down the hall, careful not to make a sound as she pa.s.sed by the door at the top of the stairs, even though she knew Pat could sleep through a tornado.

They hadnat shared a bedroom since Fiona went off to college ten years earlier. At first, it had been a temporary thing: his snoring kept her up nights, and she wanted a break. But time pa.s.sed and it felt comfortable, really, to be able to spread out, to not have to elbow him every hour and tell him to roll over onto his side. They went on that way, neither of them ever suggesting that they return to sharing a bed.

Ann Marie had seen an entire episode of Oprah devoted to the topic: What happens when a couple starts sleeping in separate bedrooms? But it didnat bother her. That part of their marriage was done, that was all. She still loved her husband. They had a beautiful home and three wonderful children. They got along fine and had loads of friends to socialize with, and they never fought. That was better than a lot of people could say.

No one knew about the sleeping arrangements. They still slept together when the kids came home, though there had been one embarra.s.sing incident when Fiona brought a couple of friends from Trinity for Thanksgiving, and found the bed in the guest room rumpled and unmade. Ann Marie improvised, and told them that she had spent a night in there the week before, when Pat had a bad cold.

aHe insisted, so I wouldnat catch it,a she said in a rush. aI canat believe I forgot to change the sheets.a aWatch it, lady, youare really starting to slip,a Fiona said jokingly, suspecting nothing.

In the kitchen, Ann Marie flipped on the overhead light and ground up some coffee beans that a client of Patas had sent as part of a gift basket. She shook them into the coffeemaker, taking in the rich scent. She added water from the pitcher in the fridge.

She had pulled out her collection of Belleek china yesterday and set the tea service on the counter, in preparation for a tea party with little Maisy tomorrow. Ann Marie would bake scones, and tell her granddaughter about the village in Ireland where the dishes and the teapot were madea"each of them creamy white, and etched with elegant shamrocks. She ran her finger over the stack of saucers.

She sat at the table, where she had left her list of ch.o.r.es the night before, as she did every night, with one column for her (Defrost lamb for P., pick up prescriptions, get the pool guy to come look at the filter) and one for Pat (Send money to Little Daniel, get your oil checked?, pay water bill).

She flipped the list over now and realized what it was: the country club newsletter, reminding them to weigh in on new admissions.

aRats, rats,a she said. The deadline was tomorrow and they had almost forgotten. She made a silent vow to write only in notebooks from now on.

At the top of the page were the words: The individuals listed below and their families have been proposed for membership. The Admissions Committee and the Board of Governors invite your comments, which will be held in confidence.

Her eyes scanned the list: William and Karen Eaves she did not know. Tom and Susan Devine she had met once or twice, but she didnat have any information about whether theyad make good members for the club.

She and Pat had sponsored the Brewers that past summer. They were longtime neighbors of theirs who had more recently become friends. Ann Marie had been amazed at some of the comments people sent in anonymously. Someone said Linda Breweras bathing suit had been too tight at the Prospectives Picnic. Someone else said she took too much from the buffet. They got in anyway. Ann Marie and her husband had been members since 1987: no one would dare challenge a nomination of Patas.

It had been his idea to invite the Brewers along to Maine. Usually they brought George and Laney Dwyer for the Fourth of July week, but this year they were off to a family wedding so Pat and Ann Marie had to search for a backup plan for the first half of the trip. (The second week, Patty would be there with Josh and the kids, and then Ann Marie and Pat would leave and Pattyas brood would have a week on their own. For the last week of the month, Ann Marie would drive up every two or three days to check on Alice until Clare and Joe arrived in August.) aWhy donat you guys go by yourselves? Have a romantic getaway before your grandchildren arrive and shatter the peace and quiet,a Patty had said when Ann Marie told her the Dwyers couldnat make it.

aThat doesnat sound like much fun,a Ann Marie said. aWeare by ourselves all the time.a She had planned to ask her sister Susan, even though Susanas husband, Sean, was a real know-it-all, and Pat resented him because he never offered to pay for dinner, always doing that awkward, labored wallet reach, unfolding every bill as though he were in slow motion, until Pat couldnat stand it anymore and just said, aThis oneas on me, bud.a Susan always made sure to let Ann Marie know that Seanas plumbing business brought in plenty of cash. Since she was so intent on bragging about it, it seemed that he could at least pay for dinner every once in a while.

Anyway, Pat returned from work one night in May and said, aI saw Steve Brewer at lunch and I asked if he and Linda wanted to join us for Maine. He said head have to check with her, but it sounded great to him.a aOh, well, imagine a man checking with his wife before making a major decision,a she said.

What was Steve thinking? Could this be a good idea, or was it too risky?

aA major decision?a Pat said, reaching immediately for a box of Cheez-Its on the counter.

She had meant to hide those. He wasnat supposed to be snacking between meals.

aJeez, honey, itas not like I came in and told you weare moving to Tokyo.a aWell, what if I donat like the Brewers?a she said.

aYou love the Brewers,a he said.

aI know,a she said. aYouare right. Iam only teasing.a She hoped the guilt didnat show on her face.

Ann Marie had been fantasizing about Steve Brewer since the spring fling charity ball at the club in early April. She imagined the two of them getting to know each other better over long candlelit dinners, holding hands across the table. It was more about romance than s.e.xa"that part, she really couldnat imagine. But a courtship sounded perfect to her, something to transport her away from all her worries.

She could sense that he felt the same way. They had been together before that, at group dinners and block parties over the years. But they had never really talked one-on-one before. That night, he had asked her about herself: where she grew up, what she had done before having kids. (aI had a job in the restaurant business,a she said, like always. It sounded better than saying she was a waitress. In college, she had wanted to be a nurse or maybe a teacher someday, but her first baby came before she got the chance, and Pat didnat think the mother of his children should have to work.) His hand brushed hers as he refilled her water gla.s.s, and he left it there until the gla.s.s was full.

aWhat do you and Pat like to do for fun, other than come here to the club?a he asked.

She told him the usuala"they drove out to Maine a lot, where they had a cottage. They took long walks and played tennis in the summertime. Then she told him about her dollhouse. Maybe she had had too much champagne, but she found herself getting as worked up as she might if she were talking to a fellow enthusiast.

aIave just ordered a tiny set of Hummels for the mantelpiece,a she said. aTheyare very rare. Antiques.a aMiniature miniatures,a he said with a smile.

aExactly!a aWhat got you interested in all of this?a he asked, sounding genuinely curious.

aMy grandchildren,a she said. aOr maybe it goes back further than that. Do you remember when Jackie Kennedy redecorated the White House, and then she led the camera crew through? This is the gold room, this is the green room aa She was using her best breathy Jackie voice.

He chuckled. aYes! I remember that.a aIt made me want to design my own perfect house someday,a she said, only now realizing the connection. aDonat get me wrong, our real house is lovely, but with a dollhouse, everything stays pristine; thereas no worrying about kids spilling grape juice or getting shoe scuffs on the floors.a aWell, thatas really neat,a he said. aLinda likes those little light-up porcelain houses at Christmasa"you know the ones I mean?a She felt slightly distressed at the sound of his wifeas name, and she almost wanted to say that dopey porcelain Christmas figurines had nothing in common with dollhouse design. But she only smiled in response.

A few days later, a card arrived. It was a thank-you note addressed to both her and Pat. Inside, Steve had written: Thanks for vouching for us at the club, you two. We promise not to make you regret it! Next dinner is on us. P.S. For your research on the gold room, the green room a Inside the envelope was a magazine, no bigger than a postage stamp. It was a miniature issue of Life from 1962, with a photograph of the young first lady smiling radiantly in a pillbox hat on the cover, over the caption aMrs. Kennedyas White House Makeover.a Ann Marie held the magazine between her thumb and index finger, and felt herself tingle with excitement. She placed it on the side table in the dollhouse living room. She didnat mention it to Pat when he got home.

Ever since, when they hugged h.e.l.lo, even in front of their spouses, Steve always held on a moment or two longer than seemed natural. He never failed to compliment her dress or to ask her about her charity work at the church, and he was genuinely interested, not just making conversation like everyone else. Sometimes in the afternoon, when she was cleaning the house or about to start dinner, Ann Marie would pour herself a gla.s.s of wine, go to the computer in the home office, and type in the website address for Steveas law firm, Weiss, Black, and Abrams. When the page loaded, she knew exactly where to clicka"the staff directory on the left. There was his picture, a broad smile on his face, above the words Stephen Brewer, partner. Below that was a description of his areas of expertise, which she had practically memorized by now: Stephen Brewer is a partner in the firmas Boston office. He has extensive experience with securities offerings and transactions in the United States by non-U.S. companies, representing issuers as well as underwriters.

aWhat does your husband do?a a new neighbor had asked Linda at book club one night.

Linda had responded, aHeas a lawyer.a aOh? What kind?a Linda shrugged. aThe kind that works all hours.a Everyone laughed, but Ann Marie rolled the words around in her head as if they were part of some secret language she shared with Stevea"Securities offerings and transactions, thatas what he does. His experience is extensive.

Ann Marie had been looking forward to their annual Cape Nedd.i.c.k trip for months. At some point in the dead of winter, she had written the word MAINE on a Starbucks napkin and stuck it up under the visor in the Mercedes, so that all she had to do was flip the mirror down and there it would be, a reminder of what awaited her.

After Pat announced that the Brewers were coming along, her vision for the trip shifted, and now she was excited in new ways. Nervous too. She had already bought four new Lilly Pulitzer dresses and a white cashmere cardigan, imagining Steveas face when he saw her in them. She pictured herself and Pat riding caravan-style with Steve and Linda Brewer close behind. The four of them would stop at the Press Room in Portsmouth for a gla.s.s of wine and a lobster roll, and then theyad drive on until they reached the cottage, with its familiar old wood beams and the smell of the ocean drifting through the window screens. Later, while Pat and Steve drank a beer and got settled, she and Linda would drive to the gourmet grocery a couple miles up the road in Ogunquit and load the cart with white chocolate cookies, Brie and salami and olives and water crackers, croissants and organic apple juice, raspberries, and a case of champagne. She would make her signature trifle, even though it wasnat the right season. At the neighborhood Christmas party several months back, Steve had said it tasted like heaven.

They werenat supposed to go to Cape Nedd.i.c.k until July first, four weeks from now. But a few days earlier, their plans had changed. More to the point, her sisters-in-law had shirked their responsibility and somehow, as usual, Ann Marie was the one who got left holding the bag.

On the previous Friday, Alice called to chat after supper.

aClareas ignoring me,a she said.

Ann Marie was sliding plates into the dishwasher. aWhat? Why?a aI donat know! I was watching that Broadway Babies series on PBS and there was a whole piece on the history of gays in the theater. Terribly interesting. Apparently there are lots of them, even that one who wrote West Side Story. So I happened to mention this to Clarea"a Ann Marie poured herself a gla.s.s of wine from the open bottle on the table. This was not a topic she wanted to discuss. She didnat much want to know what Alice thought about having a gay grandchild.

At least she figured that was where her mother-in-law was going. Clareas son, Ryan, starred in all those musicals. Sitting through a single one of his performances, knowing that Clare usually saw his plays several nights in a row, Ann Marie thanked G.o.d that none of her children had gotten the acting bug, but had instead gravitated toward sports (Little Daniel) and Irish step dancing (Patty and Fiona). You could bring your knitting along to a hockey game and not seem rude, and she loved the sound of Irish music; it was a connection to her ancestors that stirred something in her heart.

aAnyway,a Alice went on, aI asked hera"joking really, thatas alla"I asked if she ever worries about Ryan being exposed to that, and you know, getting it. She snapped at me, aMother, h.o.m.os.e.xuality is not asbestos; you donat get exposed to it, you donat get it.a a aPlus, Ryan has that sweet girlfriend,a Ann Marie said. aHeas been with Daphne since freshman year. I wouldnat worry, Mom.a Little Daniel jokingly referred to Ryan as a afairy boy.a But he was just kidding around. It was because Ryan had worn green tights in a production of A Midsummer Nightas Dream.

aI know it,a Alice said. aThat wasnat even what I meant. But since then, Iave called Clare twice and she hasnat called me back. I realize itas her busy season, with all the First Communions and confirmations. But still, is it too much to ask that my own daughter return my calls?a She was getting riled up now. It made Ann Marie nervous when Alice acted that way. Best to change the subject.

aHow are things up in Maine?a she asked.

aChilly, but nice,a Alice said. aThere are four bunnies living under the cottage porch, I think. A mother, a father, and two babies.a aOh, sweet.a aSweet my foot. Theyare eating my tomato plants, and the green beans,a she said. aIam trying everything I can think of to get rid of them. My garden is gorgeous this year. I donat want them wrecking it.a aBetter than last year?a aYes! I finally tried that fertilizer p.o.o.p spray of Kathleenas. G.o.d help me, I think it actually works. Though why canat they come up with a snazzier name for it?a Ann Marie laughed. For years, Kathleen had been sending Alice her fertilizer products and Alice had been hiding them in a box in her bas.e.m.e.nt rather than use them, because she didnat understand how worm feces could be a step up from Miracle-Gro.

aGood question,a Ann Marie said. aWhen do Maggie and Gabe get there?a Ann Marie wasnat fond of her nieceas boyfriend; he seemed a bit too slick for her. And she had heard from Alice, who heard from Kathleen, that he might be mixed up in drugs. She had always been glad her own children had the good sense to date decent people. Patty had married a sweetheart, Josh. And Little Daniel had found Regina, a real doll.

Her youngest, Fiona, was almost thirty and still off in the Peace Corps in Africa. She was a pa.s.sionate girl, serious in her convictions, which had always made Ann Marie proud, though in recent years she had begun to think it was high time for Fiona to come home and settle down.

Having a child is one way to save the world, she had written in a letter to her daughter last year. She told Pat this after she mailed it, and he said affably, aWhite wine and letter writing might be a bad mix for you.a Then, this past winter at Christmastime, Fiona had asked Ann Marie and Pat if she could take them to dinner, just the three of them. Ann Marie was delighted. It seemed a very grown-up thing for Fiona to do, and she could be terribly childish at times. Ann Marie wore her sweater with the poinsettias embroidered across the front. She imagined Fiona was going to tell them she was coming home at last, but instead she uttered those unforgettable words: aAs you probably know, Iam gay.a She had thought over the events of that night so many times sincea"had she been nave not to know what was coming? At the table after Fionaas announcement, Pat had said he had suspected as much, and that he was happy for her. Just like that. Ann Marie had cried. She felt awful about it now, even all these months later. Back at home, Pat cried too. But at least he had the good sense not to let Fiona see.

aI donat know when Maggie will be here,a Alice had continued. aKathleen basically told me to mind my own beeswax when I asked her that simple question. Should be any day, I suppose.a Then she casually mentioned that Maggie was coming up to Maine for only the first two weeks of June. After that, Alice would be by herself until Ann Marie and Pat arrived in early July.

Ann Marie was peeved. She had been told early in the spring that Maggie was going to be there for the entirety of June. (Who had said so? She couldnat recall.) A huge part of the reason Pat had created a schedule for the cottage was so that Alice would never have to be alone up there for long. It wasnat simply a pleasure, going to Maine; it was a responsibility that they all ought to share. Alice was an old lady, whether her daughters were willing to accept this fact or not. Her memory was failing. She didnat always remember to turn off the television or take her keys out of the ignition. She needed looking after.

aMom, let me call you back,a Ann Marie said.

She was booked to the gills that second half of June. She had to make the arrangements for a luncheon she was helping to organize at the club. There was a meeting of the Lucky Star Fund on the twenty-seventh. She had purposefully overbooked herself in June so that she could be at the cottage in peace in July. She wasnat sure shead have the time to go up to Maine and check on Alice.

Two whole weeks. What kind of women left their aging mother alone for two whole weeks?

At the end of June, Clare and Joe would be on their annual buying trip in Taiwan. (Who knew Taiwan was the place to go for vestments, statues of the saints, and crucifixes on silver chains? And how could two atheists run a business based on peddling sacred objects? If you asked Ann Marie, there was something blasphemous about it.) A ball of anger lodged itself in her stomach. She didnat usually do things like this, but without thinking, she dialed Kathleenas house in California.

ah.e.l.lo,a Kathleen said flatly. She had probably recognized the number on her caller ID. Ann Marie was surprised that she even picked up.

aHi there, itas Ann Marie,a she said, feeling uncomfortable, wanting to lighten the mood even before there was a mood to lighten. aHow are you, good?a aSure,a Kathleen said. aIam good.a aGreat. Well, I wanted to call because Alice told me that sheas going to be alone up in Cape Nedd.i.c.k for the last couple weeks of June, and I feel like thatas a long stretch of time for her to be by herself. Itas bad enough sheas alone all May, but Pat and I have at least tried to see her on the weekends this past month. I have a very busy June ahead of me and I canat be going back and forth.a aWho asked you to?a Kathleen said.

She tried again, putting it simply. aAlice will be all by herself for two whole weeks.a aAnn Marie, sheas by herself all year long.a aWell, yes, but itas different when sheas here in Ma.s.sachusetts, close by us. I worry when sheas all the way up there at the beach.a aItas an hour and a half drive,a Kathleen said. Then, her voice intensifying, aWhy are you calling me with this?a aTechnically June is your month at the cottage. I thought maybe we could come up with a plan toa"a aYou realize I live three thousand miles away,a Kathleen said, like this absurd fact might have slipped Ann Marieas mind.

aYes,a she said. aBut I thought maybe Maggie or Christopher could go, even if itas only for a couple extra days to break things up.a aThey have lives. They canat pick up and go to Maine for half the month.a As if she and Pat didnat have lives. aNo one said half the month.a aMaggie and Gabe will be there for the first two weeks. I think thatas plenty,a Kathleen said.

Ann Marie could feel her resolve fading. As always, her eagerness to end this unpleasantness would override her desire for what was fair. She had been raised in a family full of fighters. When she met the Kellehers, she was all too familiar with the slamming doors, the accusations, the hang-ups at the other end of the line. Familiar too was the manner in which they always seemed to find their way back to one another. She recalled a time when she was a teenager and her mother discovered that her father had had an affair with her childhood friend. Ann Marieas mother had chased her husband down the block with a frying pan. Afterward, she swallowed a bottle of pills, hoping to die. Two days later, it was as if it had never happened. He came home and sat down to supper, and after a few drinks, she was in his lap.

Then there were deeper grudges, the ones against family members who simply disappeared after some unforgivable altercationa"their photographs taken down from the shelves, their names never uttered. It seemed ludicrous to her.

Ann Marie promised herself that when she got older, there would never be so much as a raised voice in her home and that she would conduct herself with decorum at all times. Pat agreeda"he said his sisters, especially Kathleen, were so intent on dredging up the past that head already done more than his fair share of reflecting and arguing by the time they met. Kathleen was the sort of person who labeled herself an alcoholic for sympathy, and perhaps also as a way to criticize the rest of them for enjoying a drink every now and again.

(Last Thanksgiving, when Ann Marie opened a bottle of champagne to serve with the pie and said, aJust a taste!,a Kathleen had said, aYou know, people in families with a history of addiction should treat that stuff like rat poison.a) aIf youare so concerned, why donat you go?a Kathleen was saying now, and Ann Marie wished she had the guts to say, aWhy donat you or your sister try lifting a finger for your own mother for once?a Instead, she did the usuala"caved to Kathleenas demands, and jumped to pick up the pieces.

aNever mind,a she said. aYouare right. Forget I brought it up.a Kathleen softened her voice a bit before they said good-bye. aSorry if I sound like an a.s.shole. Iam overwhelmed right now. The farm is crazy. Weare busier than ever.a The farm. Ann Marie and Pat found it terribly amusing that Kathleen always referred to her home that way, as if she were raising chickens and cows and goats. A filthy garage full of worms was not a farm, it was just a spectacle.

Kathleen continued, aAnd Iam worried Chris is floundering.a aIam sorry,a Ann Marie said, and she genuinely felt it. aIall tell Little Daniel to give him a call. They should talk more, maybe have a beer sometime. Or lunch! Lunch would be good.a aThanks,a Kathleen said.

aIt sounds like you have a lot on your plate,a Ann Marie said. aIall handle Alice, donat worry.a She cancelled her plans for late June and arranged to head to Maine on the twentieth, her frustration rising as she made each call, every single excuse. She normally sat for her grandkids on Tuesdays and Thursdays after school, until Patty or Josh got home. Now theyad have to find a sitter.

Her sister Tricia sounded annoyed when she shared the news: aI thought you were taking Ma to her appointment on the twenty-second,a she said.

aIf you do it this one time, Iall take the next three,a Ann Marie said. aAnd Iall do all the runs for her medicine until I leave.a She wanted to call Kathleen and say, aBy the way, I have my own mother to think about too.a But of course she wouldnat do that.

It wasnat that Ann Marie minded caring for Alice; she didnat. She was brought up to believe that you looked after your elders, no matter if they sometimes tried your patience or werenat exactly who you expected them to be. No one was exactly what anyone else expected.

She genuinely enjoyed spending time with Alice, though her mother-in-law could be a handful. For all her good manners, Alice occasionally behaved atrociously in public: She wrapped up dinner rolls and b.u.t.ter pats in a napkin and smuggled them out of nice restaurants, as if she were a pauper. Recently, while they were having lunch at Papa Razzi, Ann Marie had returned from the ladiesa room to see her stuffing a saltshaker into her purse.

Ann Marie was forever afraid of ticking Alice off, since her mood could change on a dime. Though for the most part, they had fun together, getting their hair done, driving into Boston to shop. Alice was an interesting woman; her daughters never seemed to appreciate this. She followed the news and read lots of books and always had an opinion on the latest PBS series. She reminded Ann Marie of herself in this waya"they had both come from humble beginnings and made something of themselves. Ann Marieas own mother, G.o.d bless her, just sat in front of the tube all day, every day, watching some faraway bishop say Ma.s.s over and over on a loop. She had always been a caretaker: From the time Ann Marie was six years old, there was some bachelor uncle or down-on-his-luck second cousin living with them. Her mother never said no to anyone. Now she was morbidly obese and diabetic, two facts that filled Ann Marie with shame.

Alice had stayed lovely and pet.i.te. Without ever telling anyone as much, Ann Marie considered her a sort of role model in the looks department. She met with her personal trainer, Raul, three times a week. And she and Pat walked six miles on the track behind Newton North High School every Sunday after church.

Alice came to dinner at their house on Sunday nights. Ann Marie made sure to send her flowers from Little Daniel on her birthday and Motheras Day. (The girls were good about handling those things themselves.) Pat took care of the taxes and the insurance on the property in Maine, and he looked after the place during the wintersa"driving up every so often to make sure the pipes hadnat frozen, or that trees hadnat fallen during a storm. No doubt, the Maine property would be pa.s.sed down to them when the time came. And then they would be able to go up to the beach for the whole summer, uninterrupted.

Clare and Kathleen didnat appreciate the place anyway.

Her own sisters were Cape Cod people. Early in her marriage, Ann Marie had resented the fact that Patas familyas house in Maine kept her away from them all summer, but over the years she had come to love Cape Nedd.i.c.k. Besides, her sisters always had to rent.

And her children were devoted to Maine nowa"they wouldnat want to go anywhere else. They each had their favorite beach and lobster shack (Fiona and Little Daniel loved Barnacle Billyas. Patty and Josh and the grandkids liked Brownas.) They had their traditions. The kids always drove out to the twenty-four-hour L.L. Bean store in Freeport at eleven at night, and climbed up the giant two-story hiking boot out front, just for fun. In the early morning hours, they fished for ba.s.s off Popham Beach in a boat owned by one of Patas clients. They went to a Portland Sea Dogs game, and Little Daniel brought his glove along to catch foul b.a.l.l.s. Even now, they still devoted one night every summer to sitting in the car eating cold chicken sandwiches and watching grizzly bear cubs climb into the Dumpsters behind Rubyas Market. This always gave Ann Marie a little scare, though Patrick said his own father had taken him on foot when he was a boy, and it was perfectly safe.

Next spring, Little Daniel would get married at the Cliff House in Ogunquit, as Patty had. (His fiance, Regina, had been hesitant, citing the cost, but Ann Marie made it known that Pat insisted on paying.) Ann Marie imagined a time in the future when she and Pat would replace Alice and Daniel in the big house, while next door in the cottage her children and grandchildren slept, safe and sound.

A couple days pa.s.sed, and Ann Marie got used to the idea of heading to Maine early, even a bit excited. She had never been anywhere by herself for so long. Life had been rather heavy lately, between Fionaas news and Little Danielas horrifying mishap at work, which she could hardly bring herself to think about. Some time away might do her good.

She wasnat leaving for three more weeks, but she had already started making a mental list of what to pack: the good beach chair and umbrella and a bag full of sunblock and magazines, and the sweater she had started knitting for Maisy with a pony grazing on the front. Shead be looking after her mother-in-law, no doubt. And there were plenty of wedding ch.o.r.es she could tackle for Regina while she was there. This wasnat a vacation. But still, hopefully shead get to spend at least some time relaxing by the ocean.

Pat had to stay behind and work, but it was only ten days. In July, he and the Brewers would join her, as planned. She imagined greeting Steve Brewer at the cottage door with a pitcher of iced tea.

aYou were so sweet to come up here by yourself and be with your mother-in-law,a head say. aCanat really picture Linda doing that.a She would wave the idea away, saying, aOh my gosh, itas nothing. Come on inside.a

Alice.

On Sunday morning after Ma.s.s, Alice sat out on the screen porch and sipped a b.l.o.o.d.y Mary while she waited for her laundry to dry. She stayed very still, keeping her eyes peeled for the rotten rabbits.

She had put a two-foot wire fence around her garden and the rabbits had simply dug right under it. She had gathered human hair from the local barbershop and spread it in the dirt, and they had continued undeterred. She had sprinkled the plants with ground pepper, which rabbits apparently detested, and they had chewed away as if it were honey glaze. A woman in line at the nursery in York had said that the only real way to get rid of them was cayenne pepper mixed with water. The clerk had piped up that that tore up their bellies and was awfully cruel, but now Alice thought she might have to try it. She refused to feel bad about this, since those creatures were nothing but rats with cotton-ball tails. They had gotten two of her tomato plants and the green beans. Shead be d.a.m.ned if they were going to get the best of her summer flowers too. And so, she kept a careful watch.

It was Memorial Day weekend, the unofficial start of the season. In town the streets were bustling with hopeful tourists, peeking into shops that had just opened and dipping their toes into the still frigid sea. But here on Briarwood Road, it was as quiet as it had been a month ago when Alice arrived, still wearing her winter coat.

Up here, most days she didnat see anyone from noon onward unless she drove out to the Shop an Save on Route 1 or walked up the road to Rubyas Market, where she could get a whole jug of wine for five dollars. (Rotgut, her son, Patrick, had p.r.o.nounced the stuff after taking one sip, but Alice thought it was fine.) On occasion, she went to Rubyas even if she didnat need anything, just to make conversation with Ruby and Mort, the elderly couple who owned the place. Their favorite topic was how disappointing young people were nowadays, and Alice had plenty to say about that.

Ruby and Mort were real Mainers, salt of the earth. Everyone in the southern part of the state knew them, and they knew everyone. They were pleasant enough to Alice, unlike some. The Kellehers would always be considered outsiders here. Six decades of summers meant nothing to the locals. Occasionally Alice might be driving along and someone, recognizing her face, might give her a hearty wave. Then his eyes would land on her Ma.s.sachusetts license plate, and the arm would drop.

Ruby was only twenty-nine when Alice first met her back in the forties, and she had struck Alice as old even then. Almost sixty years later, she and her husband still opened the doors each morning at seven. Mort still stocked the high shelves with canned peas and corn and paper towels. He had always worn a flannel shirt over dungarees, still did. In the fall, he went moose huntinga"theyad eat the spoils all winter, selling the best cuts of meat right there in the market. Ruby washed the whole store with bleach every morning. She baked brownies and hermits and cookies, and wrapped each one in blue cellophane, putting the lot of them in a basket by the register. Ever since their kids moved out, they had had a c.o.c.ker spaniel named Myrtle. When one Myrtle died, another nearly identical Myrtle popped up in her place.

Alice envied Ruby and Mort, still having each other. When she visited them, she liked to imagine that no time had pa.s.sed, even though she knew old age was creeping in, in ways that were manageable, if annoying. She had trouble remembering the names of women at her golf club and the priests at her new church. She could picture the wallpaper that had hung in her childhood bedroom, but she no longer recalled the t.i.tles of books she had read three months ago. She was eighty-three years old, and hadnat had a real health problem to speak of in her life, though she had seen so many specialists in the past few yearsa"one for her sight, another for her hearing, another still for her crummy kneesa"that every time she had an appointment, shead joke to Ann Marie, aIam off on yet another date with a handsome young doctor.a She was what they called a lucky one, which meant that she got to watch every person she loveda"her parents, all four of her brothers, her husbanda"grow old and die, without even the luxury of a little senility to dull the pain.

Aliceas mother had been a lucky one too. She had lived to be ninety-six. Each morning in those last, dark years of life, her mother would dress in a good skirt and flats, and read the Globe, circling the names of the dead men and women she knew, from grade school, from the neighborhood, from churcha"her peers and first loves and even friends of her children, who were, impossibly, somewhere around seventy years old. (Aliceas father, dead more than twenty years by then, had always referred to the obituaries as the Irish sports page.) Near the end, her mind began to slip. She would show up to the funeral parlor in Uphamas Corner and forget which wake she had come for, so shead stop into each of them. Some mornings she would go there without even looking at the paper, reasoning that she was bound to know someone being buried that day, so she ought to go down to Kearney Brothers and pay her respects. When she finally died, hers was one of the smallest funerals Alice had ever seena"only Aliceas brothers and their kids and grandkids, Patrick and Ann Marie and their brood, Clare and Joe, Kathleen and Maggie. She didnat have a single friend on earth to see her off. She had outlived them all.

At Aliceas house in Canton, junk mail still arrived addressed to Daniel. It amazed her how a personas death had no impact on these practical matters. The bank statements and pay stubs and old report cards he had filed so neatly in his bas.e.m.e.nt office didnat vanish into the ether as she wished they would. Nor did the plaque he had received from the insurance company when he retired, or the framed picture of President Kennedy, both of which he had hung in a place of honor over his desk. All of it remained, a constant reminder: He existed, then he didnat. The world spins on, indifferent to the mess.

There were parts of living alone that she hadnat gotten used to, probably never would, even though her husband had been dead nearly ten years. She would never learn to cook for onea"she still poured the whole box of spaghetti into the pot, or made a five-pound roast that took hours to brown up, with onions and potatoes and carrots and turnips in the pan, despite the fact that she didnat care for vegetables.

She would never get used to the quiet that settled in gently, pleasantly once the kids were gone, and then with a ferocity after Daniel. They were married for forty-nine years, and every day of it, much as she loved him, Alice wished he would shut the h.e.l.l up. He read the headlines of The Boston Globe out loud over breakfast. He sang aThe Wild Colonial Boya and aMolly Malonea in the shower. He whistled as he raked the lawn, and bellowed into the phone when the grandkids called, telling them the same jokes he had told his own children decades earlier: A three-legged dog walks into a saloon, hobbles up to the bartender, and says, aIam lookina for the man who shot my paw.a Or: Well, Chrissy, Iam afraid your grandmotheras Irish Alzheimeras has gotten quite advanceda"sheas forgotten everything but her grudges.

Now she missed that joyful way he had, especially in summertime, when she was up here at the beach.

Alice took a sip of her b.l.o.o.d.y Mary, taking care not to let the condensation drip onto her blouse. That was another thing she hadnat gotten used to: dressing down in play clothes, like old ladies were supposed to. She never changed after Ma.s.s. Today she wore white linen slacks with a white sh.e.l.l, a black short-sleeved silk jacket, and sandals. She still put on a full face of makeup every morning, same as she had when she was nineteen and working at the law firm in downtown Boston. She still wore her hair in a straight bob, and colored it black. (Her daughter Clare had once commented in front of company that it was a miracle how Aliceas hair had actually gotten darker as she aged, instead of turning gray like everyone elseas.) No one, not a soul, knew exactly how old she was. Her children loved to say that one of these days they would sneak a peek at her driveras license, but none of them had ever dared, as far as she knew.

As a girl, she had watched the old women of Dorchester, with their thin hair and their housecoats, and vowed that she would never become such a frump. She hadnat. But now she looked at her three granddaughtersa"none of them much older than thirtya"and realized with alarm that she felt the same way about them. They were slobs. When they came to Maine later in the summer, they would trounce around the property in sweatpants and bikini tops, letting their little bellies flop out. Theyad tie their hair back while it was still wet, and never put on so much as a coat of lipstick. Ann Marie said that it was the beach that brought this out in them. But Alice could never be sure. Maybe it was true of Ann Marie and Patas two daughters, Patty and Fiona, but if she came upon her granddaughter Maggie eating Sunday brunch at a caf in Manhattan, she was willing to bet money on the same damp ponytail and cut-off jeans Maggie traipsed around in up here. Both Patty and Maggie had inherited the Dolan leg from Danielas motheras sidea"thick, shapeless stumps that were as wide at the calf as they were at the knee. Fiona, the one who cared the least about her looks, had been Aliceas only lucky granddaughter, possessing the long, lean legs of a Brennan woman.

Through the open door that led into the house, she heard the dryer buzzing into the off position. Alice emptied her gla.s.s and then went to the laundry room.