Independence Day (5 page)

“What?”

“Thinking up a list of snappy comebacks.” The woman flashed him a bright smile. “No doubt, you’re going to be the butt of a lot of jokes this week.”

“And you wanted to inaugurate the agony.”

“My pleasure.”

He pushed aside the curtain that separated him from his fellow E.R. sufferers and moved stiffly toward the exit. His left cheek felt numb. He no longer cared that the protective Macy’s bag lay at the bottom of a hazardous waste can. He just wanted to get home. What he really wanted was a return to the day before the Fourth of July.

“Isabel said they saved us some of the dinner they picked up at Boston Market,” Chessie informed him as she followed him to the parking lot.

“I’m not hungry.”

“How long are you going to stay angry at me?”

“If you don’t mind, I don’t feel up for a long drawn-out discussion.”

“What’s really going on here, Nick?”

He stopped short of the SUV where Martha sat reading a magazine. Damn, he’d forgotten the neigh
bors were involved. He turned to his wife. “What’s going on here? Frankly, I don’t know. You seem to be the one with all the answers. Trouble is, I don’t understand them.”

He opened the double doors at the back of the SUV, and crawled in.

Feeling shut out, Chessie climbed in the passenger side.

“How’d it go?” Martha asked.

“He’ll live.”

“But will Eban’s dog?”

“No jokes, Martha,” Nick said from the back. He sounded like a principal presiding at a rowdy assembly. “I’ve reached my quota.”

When Martha shot Chessie a questioning look, Chessie mouthed, “Later.”

They rode home in silence. Nick didn’t forget to thank Martha, but he didn’t stick around for Chessie to follow him into the house.

“Call me if you need anything,” Martha said before backing across the street into her own driveway.

It was eight-forty and starting to get dark, but there wasn’t a light in the house. Chessie entered the kitchen to stare at a sink full of Fourth-of-July dishes and a table littered with paper plates and containers of half-consumed takeout. The girls were nowhere in sight.

She made her way upstairs. All three bedroom doors were closed. She knocked on the closest. Gabriella’s.

“Go away!”

“Gabby, what’s wrong?”

“As if you didn’t know.”

Chessie did know. Having witnessed the debacle on the square, her younger daughter would be mortified. She tried the knob only to find the door locked.

“I said go away.”

Perhaps they all needed a little breathing room. A little perspective. But she couldn’t resist the urge to reassure herself her family was at least minimally okay.

Isabel’s door was cracked a hair and gave when Chessie knocked. Her older daughter, sprawled on her bed with the ubiquitous headphones stuck over her ears, sat up and turned off her CD player when her mother poked her head in the room.

“Are you and Dad all right?”

“He’s just a little sore from the stitches.”

“I mean are the two of you okay? You know…”

“Sure we are. It’s just been a rough day.”

Isabel looked down into her lap. “It’s kind’ve been a rough year.”

“How do you mean, sweetie?” Chessie sat on the edge of the bed.

“I don’t know. I thought moving here would be easier. What with all the aunts and uncles and cousins. I thought you and Dad would be more, well, happy.”

“It’s been an adjustment for all of us.” Chessie brushed a lock of hair from her daughter’s eyes. She worried too much about things beyond her control. “But it’s only going to get better. I promise.”

Isabel turned soulful eyes on her mother. “Why did you go on strike? I don’t understand.”

“A strike is a negotiating tool. I’m trying to negotiate new family dynamics. I want you and Gabby and Dad to see me as the woman I am. An individual. I want you and Gabby to be strong and independent individuals, too. Enough to implement drastic measures.”

“I don’t know….”

“Know this. I love you all very much.” Unwilling to engage in any more dramatic discourse, she gave Isabel a quick peck on the cheek.

Although Isabel didn’t appear reassured, Chessie needed to touch base with her husband. They’d already gone to bed once without making up. She didn’t want to go for a second straight night.

In the master bedroom Nick seemed to be asleep already. In fresh boxer shorts, he lay on his stomach diagonally across the bed, leaving no space for Chessie.

“Nick?” she said softly.

He didn’t open his eyes. Didn’t move or reply.

“I love you. I really do,” she added, in case he was feigning sleep, and backed out of the room.

She headed for a good long think in her studio, which, although cluttered, was far more orderly than the house. After no more than five minutes behind the potter’s wheel, she was startled to see someone in a Red Sox cap out of the corner of her eye.

“Friend or foe?” she demanded.

“Friend, I hope.” Martha stood at the top of the stairwell. “Is it safe to come up? I brought coffee—decaf—and cinnamon buns.” Martha made the very best cinnamon buns in southern Maine.

“Throw the buns up here, then go away!”

“Go chase yourself.” Martha popped above the landing. “Just because you throw a mean jockstrap, you think you’re better than the rest of us desperate housewives.”

Chessie stopped work on the free-form clay prototype before her, a project she’d already entitled “Her Head Was in the Goddess Movement, but Her Feet Were Firmly Planted in the PTA.” It was the piece the trustee at the Portland Museum of Art had expressed an interest in. “How’d you know I was up here?”

“Saw your light.” Martha placed the plate of cinnamon buns and the coffeepot on the lobster trap that served as a table.

Reaching for two handmade mugs on a nearby shelf, Chessie sighed. “I sure could use a cigarette.”

“You don’t smoke.”

“Yeah, well, I sure need something.”

“Chessie, what’s going on over here?”

“I’m not sure any more.”

“I don’t mean to pry….”

“Hell, there’s no prying when I’ve put it out in public for everyone to see.”

“The laundry.”

“And the picket sign, yeah.”

“And the dog bite.”

“I don’t take responsibility for that.” Chessie sat on the lumpy sofa next to Martha and poured two cups of coffee. “Nick stuck his nose where he shouldn’t have.”

“What is it you want—really want—out of all this?”

“Respect. Attention. Space. Hey, it shifts with the moment.” She rubbed her eyes. “After two days I’m not sure any more.”

“Then apologize to your husband. Get it over with and move on.”

Startled, Chessie looked at Martha.

“So you made a mistake,” her friend continued. “Being stubborn isn’t going to make it better.”

“Capitulating isn’t going to either. Besides, I don’t think the strike is a mistake. Nick and I have talked more in the past couple of days than we have in the past few months.”

“If you say so…but your confrontational stance makes it seem as if you see Nick as the enemy.”

“No, this isn’t a war.”

“What is it then? Be fair to yourself, Chessie, as well as your family. You need to be very clear about what you want before you draw a line in the sand.”

“I want— I need—to be a part of this family, yes. A part of a couple, as well. But I also want to be seen as an individual. Not just someone who serves a function, a cog in the wheel.”

“So this is less like a tantrum, more like a cause.” Martha raised her fist in a militant salute. “‘I will not be a doormat!’ I heard you.”

“They needed a wake-up call.”

“So you gave it. Now chill. Let a few things slide. Forgive them and start over.”

“It’s not about forgiveness.” Chessie frowned as she blew on her hot coffee. “It’s a matter of re-education. And that’s not a one-step process.”

“Uh-oh. You mean there’s more coming?” Martha looked dubious.

“This is serious.” Chessie had hoped for more support from her friend. She bit into a sticky bun and let the heavenly jolt of carbs give her a lift. “I haven’t been a doormat exactly. I didn’t do for Nick and the girls because they made me, or even because of any sense of duty. Sure, Nick and I planned a traditional family life, but I pampered them because I loved doing it. I didn’t realize I was spoiling them and they were taking me for granted. I expected more from them. The fact that they don’t reciprocate hurts. There are times I could use a little spoiling.”

“Aw, don’t be so hard on the girls,” Martha urged. “If it’s the laundry you’re worried about, don’t go there. All teenagers are slobs. It’s not a worthy battle.”

Keri was a great kid—smart and popular—but Martha and her husband, George, seemed to see her as a buddy. And sometimes Chessie winced at the things Keri got away with.

“It’s more than laundry,” Chessie insisted. “Gabby and Izzie have grown too dependent on me.”

Suddenly on a roll, she sat up ramrod-straight. “And why should I ask for their help? Our family’s a community. They shouldn’t think of work around
the house as helping out poor old Mom. Each and every task should be the equal responsibility of each and every family member.”

“Perhaps…”

“No perhaps about it. I feel undervalued and overwhelmed. When we lived in Georgia, I heard a wise expression. ‘When Mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.’ Well, I ain’t happy, Martha.”

She saw genuine concern in Martha’s face. “So what would make you happy?”

“One, I want my family to see my pottery as more than some little hobby. It’s Nick’s turn to support me. As an artist. This is the first move where I’ve had space to start a business, and I want to give it a try. Two, the girls need to see me as strong and purposeful, a mentor. Not their personal housekeeper.”

“Hmm…” Martha didn’t look convinced. “Maybe they need a friend as much as a mentor. I know if I came down on Keri like a drill sergeant, she’d be impossible.”

“Am I really expecting too much of them?”

“If Nick weren’t principal of their school, would you be so worried that his kids weren’t perfect?”

Chessie inhaled sharply. “You may have a point.” Nick’s career had always been about more than just the job. It was always about community service and family values and reputation. And Nick wanted that reputation spotless. “Sometimes I feel as if we’re under a microscope. We can’t be just us. Nick and I are more
like a public institution. We seem to have lost the art of being a private couple, able to live on our own terms.”

“He certainly loves you. You can see it in his eyes when he’s with you.”

“Yes, but does he love me madly, passionately, recklessly?”

“How many years have you been married?”

“That shouldn’t matter.”

“Be reasonable, Chess. You have a solid marriage. Security. Two things many women would envy. Nick’s an upright man. A good provider and dad. And easy on the eyes.”

“I know I have a good marriage.” For the tiniest of moments, Chessie felt guilty about not being satisfied. “I simply want it to be better. Hell, I want it to be great.”

“How are you going to get Nick to understand that without hurting his feelings? Without pushing him away? How are you going to win the battle without losing the war?”

Wasn’t that the big question in any revolution? Chessie tried to subdue the niggling doubt in her gut.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
,
carrying a shredded newspaper she’d fished out of the rambling rosebush, Chessie stumbled into the house. She’d fallen asleep on the sofa in her studio again. Another night like that, and she’d be ready for the chiropractor. Another night like that and her no-sex ultimatum would be a nonissue.

Gabriella and Keri, both dressed in bathing suits, were sitting at the kitchen table, picking at leftovers from last night’s takeout and talking in excited whispers. They stopped when Chessie entered the room.

“You’ll make yourself sick,” Chessie remarked, unable to keep quiet. “That food hasn’t been refrigerated.”

Gabriella shot Keri a bored look.

“You’re both up early,” Chessie continued. “What do you have planned for the day?”

“We’re going to bike to the beach,” Keri replied.

“Just the two of you?”

A look of irritation passed over Keri’s face. “We’re going to meet some friends there.”

“Do I know them?”

“Mom!” Gabriella’s face flamed red. “Mrs. Weiss has met all of them. Now stop the third degree.”

Chessie reached for the coffeepot. It seemed to be the only clean utensil in the kitchen. She remembered Martha’s advice to let some things slide, and decided to cross the picket line for just a moment. “Let’s clear away this food and do up these dishes. Together.”

Gabriella glared at her.

“Since we’re biking, we really wanted to get an early start,” Keri said sweetly.

“We all have things we want to do today—”

“Okay!” Gabriella jumped from her seat. “If it will get me out of this house, I’ll do the dishes. Keri, you can dry.”

Keri’s eyes grew wide. “They’re not my dishes,” she said in a low deliberate voice.

“But if they don’t get done,” Gabriella replied just as deliberately, “we won’t be able to…go to the beach.”

Gabriella’s pointed look to her friend made Chessie wonder if the two were up to more than beaching.

“Morning.” At Nick’s terse greeting, Chessie turned to see him enter the kitchen, dressed in a three-piece suit. The summer schedule in the district required little more than casual attire.

“You look handsome,” she offered.

“When I explain why I won’t be sitting for a week, I figured I needed to look as dignified as possible.”

“Good plan.” She kissed him on the cheek, disap
pointed when he flinched. “Coffee will be ready in a sec.”

“I’ll get some at work. Could you drive me to John’s to pick up the Volvo?”

“But you can’t lie down in the Mini. Let me call Martha—”

“No!” He nodded at a pillow on the floor next to his briefcase. “If I stand at work all day, I’m sure I can tolerate five minutes sitting in the car. I’m not going to arrive at school backing out of the cargo space of my neighbor’s SUV.”

“Fair enough. Let me get my keys.”

Knowing this injury wounded his pride more than anything else, she wanted to hug him. But the stiff set of his shoulders warned her off. As much as she needed the hug, he’d simply need a good routine day at work.

In her second concession of the morning, she allowed him his space. As she retrieved her keys and silently headed for her car, Nick, just as silently, followed.

When they pulled into John’s service center, she could see the Volvo parked off to the side, something written in white on the rear window. She dropped Nick at the office, then pulled up next to his car. In paint kids used to write school spirit slogans all over their cars before football games, someone had written Go Dawgs! and drawn a cartoon bulldog, the school mascot. Except this bulldog held a ripped pair of pants between his clenched teeth.

Before she could rub out the graffiti, Nick walked over, and Chessie knew any chance of a routine day for him had evaporated.

G
ABRIELLA AND
K
ERI
pedaled their bicycles not toward the beach but to Baylee Warner’s house.

“Are you sure her parents aren’t going to be home?” Gabriella asked, a nervous knot in the pit of her stomach. Maybe Mom had been right about those leftovers.

“Positive. Both her parents work. Baylee’s watching her little sister this summer, but she’s at soccer camp today. We’ll have the house to ourselves.”

“I don’t know about all this…”

“Look, if you’re going to hang with me and my friends this year, you have to prove you’re up to it. Getting into the Surf Club this Saturday will prove it for sure.”

“Why the Surf Club?”

“’Cause mostly summer people and tourists hang there. Less chance someone will know our parents.”

“And Baylee’s going to make us look twenty-one? In your dreams.” Gabriella actually hoped Baylee couldn’t perform this particular miracle—the dress rehearsal was today—because, as much as she needed to be accepted, she was afraid to sneak into the over-twenty-one beach club. What if they got caught? “In case you’ve forgotten, we’re fourteen.”

“So? Half those models in
Marie Claire
are under eighteen.” Keri pedaled on. “You won’t believe what
Baylee can do. I’ve seen her secret stash of clothes and makeup.”

If Baylee’s stash was secret, Gabriella didn’t want to ask where she’d got it.

“Margot’s gonna be there, too. We’re all going Saturday night.”

Gabriella giggled nervously. “Girls’ night out?”

“Oh, sure. Sometimes you can be so dense.”

“What do you mean?”

“The guys are meeting us there. Our job is to look hot. They’re getting everyone fake ID.”

Gabriella sucked in air. Things were going too far, too fast.

“You chicken?” Keri stared at her. “I could always ask someone else. Margot and Baylee already have dates. Danny’s gonna fix you up—if you want in—with Kurt Ryan.”

“Omigod, he’s so fierce!”

“It’s just a fix-up. Nothing permanent. Unless you can convince him you’re all that and then some.” Keri turned into Baylee’s driveway with Gabriella following. “Your friends can only do so much, Gabs. You gotta do the rest.”

Baylee opened the door before the girls could knock. “I am so excited I could pee my pants.” She gave Gabriella the once-over. “I gotta say I didn’t think you had the stuff. But when Keri told me about your idea to sneak into the Surf Club, well, I thought, totally bitchin’.”

Keri had told Baylee this was her idea?

“Come on upstairs. You’re going to love your options.” Baylee led the way to her bedroom. “Nobody’s here, so you get to see my collection in all its glory.”

Gabriella inhaled sharply as she looked around a room draped in piles of the latest outfits, accessories, makeup and lingerie. “What do you earn babysitting your sister?”

Baylee made a face. “Are you for real?”

“She’s just kidding,” Keri snapped, heading for a gorgeous pink lace bra Gabriella had seen in Victoria’s Secret. She remembered it cost fifty-five dollars.

“Picked that little number up on a particularly good day at the mall.” Baylee smiled angelically. “I even have a couple Wonder Bras for those of us who need a little extra.”

“Dibs on this,” Keri said, clutching the pink bra. “With this!” She held up a sheer turquoise blouse. “And this.” A black paisley miniskirt.

Gabriella’s mouth dropped open. Her parents would kill her if she went out in public dressed in any of those.

“But what about Gabs?” Keri turned toward her with a critical eye. “I think we need to concentrate on her first.”

Baylee ran a hand over Gabriella’s buzz cut. “Let’s work from the hair. She needs to look tough but tender, if you know what I mean. I’m thinking biker chick meets Catholic schoolgirl. Make those old dudes checking ID drool all over themselves.”

Gabriella suddenly felt unsure of her haircut. She’d done it to upset her parents. She hadn’t anticipated she’d have to fill a role with her peers. “I was thinking more sophisticated. Maybe the hair needs toning down. If you had a wig—”

“You’re too funny!” Baylee circled her as Keri dug through the clothes strewn about the room.

“This is so simple it’s brilliant,” Keri said, holding up a plaid pleated miniskirt, a plain white tank top, a man’s tie and a pair of strappy sandals with four-inch heels.

“And no makeup except big sixties eyes,” Baylee squealed. “Absolutely no one will recognize you.”

Good. Because if they did, and her parents found out, Gabriella would be grounded till she was fifty.

S
TANDING IN HIS OFFICE
at four that afternoon, Nick flicked paint dust off the sleeve of his suit. Despite the fact that he’d been brushing at his clothes all day, those minute flakes kept recurring like a bad case of dandruff. Earlier at the service center, Chessie and John had ordered him to stand back as they’d used old rags to erase most of the graffiti on his Volvo. He knew they were trying to do him a favor by hurrying, but he wished they’d used water. He and his custodians had far too much experience with the temporary water-based paint and soap concoction. It washed right off, but when it was dry erased, it turned into a static nightmare.

His suit badly needed a trip to the dry cleaners. So much for dignified.

Hattie—the one person who hadn’t acknowledged with a grin or a nudge or a comment the McCabe family events of the past two days—came into the office and closed the door behind her. “Do you have time to see Richard Filmore?”

Richard was president of the board of education and a stickler for detail. Nick didn’t know if he had enough energy this late in a very long day to engage in a debate with the man. But, then again, Nick was paid to engage in any debate that involved educating the town’s children. “Send him in,” he said at last.

“Coffee?” Hattie’s eyes were filled with sympathy.

“I shouldn’t.”

“You look like you could use it.”

“What the hell.” What he could really use was a vacation. Or an extra pair of hands. Or a few uninterrupted minutes with his wife to sort out their differences. They appeared to have differences that hadn’t even registered on his radar. There had been a tension in the house this morning, and he didn’t like it. And not just with Chessie. With Gabriella and Isabel—

“Nick?”

He looked up to see Richard standing before him, two cups of coffee in his hands. “Hattie sent these in.”

“Sorry. Lost in thought.” He motioned to the seat across from his desk. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll need to stand.”

“So I heard.” Richard sat, then put one cup on Nick’s blotter. “You must have a lot on your mind.”

“Yeah. Filling the last few positions is the biggest headache. I can’t seem to find a Latin teacher—”

“I was talking about your personal life.” Richard leaned forward in his seat. “I like to think of our school system as one big family. As president of the board, it’s my job to see that all the members are happy. Are you and Chessie happy here, Nick?”

That was a loaded question if he’d ever heard one.

“We are.”

“I thought so, too. Your first year has been remarkable.”

“I hear a ‘but.’”

“No buts. I just want you to remain happy. You. And your wife.”

“Chessie’s fine,” he said, trying to keep the edge out of his voice. “She’s starting a pottery business. The girls are fine, too,” he added in an attempt to steer the conversation. “They’re both looking forward to the start of classes.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to be blunt.” Richard put down his cup, rubbed his hands together. He looked uneasy. “Chessie seems to be a little…dissatisfied of late.”

“If she’s dissatisfied, it’s with me.” Nick didn’t like acknowledging that much, but, as a public servant, he’d always been under scrutiny. “It doesn’t have anything to do with this move. Or with my job.”

“I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable, Nick, but Chessie made it an issue with your job when she made her dissatisfaction so…public.”

“Chessie’s an artist. She can be very dramatic.”

“Some people are concerned that she’s…come a bit unglued.”

“It’s none of ‘some people’s’ business.”

“I’m not here to judge. I just stopped by to remind you the board provides our families with an excellent health care package…and that includes mental health.”

“You think my wife is crazy?”

“No. No, I don’t. But recent events have made her appear…let me return to my original description, for lack of a better word, dissatisfied. And counseling can very often put things back on track.”

“We don’t need counseling. We need time to sit down and talk, but time has been at a premium this past year. Chessie was trying to get my attention.”

“I understand, but you have to understand how small towns—”

“Chessie and I grew up in this small town.”

“Then you know that as much as people here live and let live, they’re pretty eager to find out just how the other guy’s living.” Richard sighed heavily. “You’re a wonderful principal. I’d hate to give the perennial malcontents who hang around board meetings any grist for their mill.”

“This is nothing, Richard. Chessie, the girls and I are fine. You’re married. You have kids.” In fact Chris, the football running back who’d broken his leg, was Richard’s son. “You know the ups and downs of family life.”

“Only too well.” Richard shook his head. “But we’re in the public eye. We have to be careful.”

“Point taken. But don’t worry, everything’s under control.”

“Then give Chessie my best.” Richard stood. “I hope to see her at the pops concert on Saturday.”

Nick had forgotten about it. He hoped Chessie’s strike didn’t mean she wouldn’t be at his side. “See you there,” he replied with more confidence than he felt.

He hated this limbo of uncertainty. Hated, too, that at a time when he should be focusing his energies into laying the foundation for a new school year, he was caught in a web of damage control in his personal life.

Normally, he’d head out for a run to clear his head. But the stitches in his left cheek wouldn’t allow it. Not a man to do much talking outside work, he felt an unaccustomed urge to talk to someone. He should talk to Chessie, but their conversations of late had only confused things more. His father? His brothers? He’d been on his own and away long enough that coming to them now with personal issues seemed cry-babyish. And he’d always been the strong one. Maybe the fewer words the better.