Maine (27 page)

“Do you remember if there was a green sweater of Grandpa’s?” Maggie asked.

“I don’t remember what I had for breakfast, darling,” Alice said, her voice a false saccharine sound. “Honestly, I only cleared out a few things from the cottage and my house too.”

“Okay,” Maggie said. “Well, if you see that green sweater—”

“Let’s eat,” Alice said. “Out on the porch, maybe?”

She had already set the table there, and so they carried the serving dishes out past the screen door and sat down. Besides the meatloaf and potato salad, there was a dish of bright red tomato slices from Alice’s garden, sprinkled with salt and freshly ground pepper. She had also cut up a banana and placed the slices in a teacup along with ten or fifteen blueberries, showing her old-lady colors in a way that, to Maggie’s surprise, made her feel a bit sad.

Rhiannon placed her napkin in her lap and sat up extra straight. So Alice had intimidated her after all.

“Eat! Eat!” Alice said. “Come on, serve yourselves, we’re all friends here.”

Rhiannon took a spoonful of the potatoes, a few blueberries and tomato slices, and a big hunk of meatloaf—at least a quarter of what Alice had prepared. It was a normal-size portion by normal-person standards, but Maggie knew Alice was probably appalled. In solidarity, she cut herself an equally big piece of meat and took a bite, avoiding her grandmother’s gaze.

Alice sipped her wine, then put the glass down and cut herself a sliver of meatloaf.

“I thought we might get a second meal out of this later in the week, but c’est la vie,” she said. “Haven’t you girls been eating?”

“We’ve done nothing but eat since we got on the road this morning,” Rhiannon said.

Alice nodded vigorously.

“Gosh, Shannon, you must have a hollow leg.”

“It’s Rhiannon,” Maggie said. Alice ignored her.

“How on earth did you two meet anyway?” she asked, with the same fake smile she’d had out by the car earlier.

“We live next door to each other,” Rhiannon said.

“Oh, I see. Where are you from, dear? You have the prettiest accent. Almost Irish sounding, isn’t it?”

“I’m from Scotland,” Rhiannon said.

“Marvelous! My husband was there on business once—he brought me back a scarf. Itchy as hell, but it was gorgeous. Now, sweetheart”—She looked at Maggie and paused for dramatic effect—“I’m dying to know—what happened with Gabe?”

(Apparently, that’s all there was to say, as far as Scotland was concerned. Thousands of years of history and culture boiled down to one itchy scarf.)

No matter what else existed between them, there would always be that generational divide that stopped her from telling the full truth: you weren’t going to tell your grandmother that your boyfriend was a possible cokehead, that you’d skipped your pill and gotten pregnant, and so you spoke in a kind of shorthand. Perhaps Alice did the same, for reasons of her own.

“I caught him in a pretty major lie,” Maggie said.

“That doesn’t sound like Gabe,” Alice said.

“Actually it does,” Maggie said.

“Oh,” Alice said, smiling. “He always seemed so charming. I guess it’s the charming ones you have to look out for, though. Well, that’s—Maggie, I’m sorry. Have you spoken to your mother lately?”

“Yes, we talked yesterday,” Maggie said. “Why?”

“I just wondered if she knew about you and Gabe. She hadn’t told me.”

Suddenly Alice switched gears. “I told Patrick that I want to get the gutters on the cottage all cleared out sometime this week,” she said. “The one Mexican in all of Maine is coming to take care of it. Mort recommended him, and he’s cheap, of course, so—”

“Grandma, don’t talk that way,” Maggie said.

“What? He’s illegal. He’s happy for the work,” Alice said. “All they eat is rice and beans anyhow; how much money do they need?”

Maggie clenched with embarrassment, though Rhiannon chuckled.

“Okay,” Maggie said. “Whatever, that’s fine.”

“This place is incredible,” Rhiannon said. “Such a beautiful spot.”

The house was gorgeous, but it never seemed to fit Maggie’s grandparents. It looked like something you’d see in a design magazine: sprawling open rooms, each on a different level, with staircases connecting them all. The kitchen was all stainless steel, and the bathroom fixtures were ridiculously modern. If you came upon it by mistake, you’d expect to find a pair of Swedish supermodels living inside, hosting lavish parties attended by rap moguls and starlets.

“Thank you,” Alice said. She lowered her voice as if she were about to tell the juiciest of secrets. “Rhiannon, your skin is absolutely gorgeous.”

“Thanks. My ex-husband used to say—”

Alice sputtered. “Your ex-husband? You had a husband?”

Maggie couldn’t tell if this was some reaction to divorce in general, or to Rhiannon in particular. Possibly her age.

“Yes. If you can believe it,” Rhiannon said with a laugh.

“Well, don’t worry. A girl as pretty as you. You’ll have the boys banging down your door again soon, no doubt.”

Maggie took note of the fact that her grandmother had offered her no such assurance.

“Did Maggie tell you her mother is divorced also?” Alice said, as if Rhiannon and Kathleen had some rare and jolly hobby in common—a pair of rowboat enthusiasts, championship jugglers. “Now, there’s a girl who was not suited to it, looks-wise. She put on weight after all that, didn’t she, Maggie?”

Maggie felt like any answer she could give would be a betrayal of her mother, so she just took a bite of potatoes in response. She was desperate to change the subject.

Alice reached for the wine bottle and poured herself a second glass.

“Anyone else?” she asked. “Maggie, you haven’t touched yours. Don’t you like it? Would you prefer a white? I have one open.”

“No, I’m fine,” she said.

Alice frowned. “Are you on the wagon?”

“No. I’m a bit hungover, actually,” Maggie lied, since this was the only acceptable reason for not drinking among the drinking members of the Kelleher family.

Alice filled Rhiannon’s glass and her own, emptying the bottle.

“I will be too tomorrow, if I’m not careful. Don’t tell your mom,” she said, “or she’ll drag me off to rehab with that whoosie what’s-her-name actress.”

“The meatloaf is delicious, Grandma,” Maggie said. Neutral ground.

“It is, so moist,” Rhiannon said.

“It’s just one part ketchup and one part Worcestershire that does it,” Alice said with a pleased grin. Then she slapped her palms against the table.

“Drat, I forgot the rolls!” she said, getting up and rushing toward the kitchen.

Maggie looked at Rhiannon.

“What did I tell you?” she whispered.

“What a character,” Rhiannon said.

Alice returned with a basket of rolls in one hand and a fresh bottle of red wine in the other.

“They’re only burned a smidge on the bottom,” she said. “Still perfectly good.”

Rhiannon and Alice drained the second bottle of wine while Maggie led them in conversation about the most benign topics she could think of—the scaffolding she had noticed outside the church her grandmother attended each morning, movies they had all seen or wanted to see, the weather forecast for the week.

Alice opened a third bottle after they had cleared their plates. Maggie pushed her glass away, still full. Rhiannon’s glass was full too. Alice filled only her own and took a long sip.

“Maggie mentioned you’re a fellow book lover,” Rhiannon was saying. “Are you reading anything good?”

Alice smacked her lips together. “Yes! The most marvelous biography of Vincent van Gogh. Fascinating, absolutely fascinating.”

“How interesting,” Rhiannon said. “There’s an amazing collection of his work in Amsterdam. A whole museum dedicated to him.”

Alice nodded, as if she was well aware of this fact. “You know, there’s an art museum a mile from here, by Perkins Cove,” she said.

Maggie had been there once or twice as a kid. The Van Gogh Museum it was not. But she felt protective of Alice just then, and so she said, “It’s really lovely. It overlooks the ocean.”

“There used to be an artists’ colony there,” Alice said.

“Really?” Maggie had never heard that before.

“Yes,” Alice said. “They were at their height when we built this place.”

“Did you like the artists, or did you find them annoying?” Rhiannon asked.

Alice scoffed. “Annoying? No. We knew them well. I used to be a painter myself.”

“You did?” Maggie asked.

“Yes, you knew that.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You did, Maggie.”

Maggie was sure she had never heard this before. She made a mental note to ask her mother about it.

“Why did you stop?” Rhiannon asked.

Alice threw up her hands. “Who has the time? Between this and that.”

Between
what
and
what?
Maggie thought. Cocktail hour and
Masterpiece Theatre
?

“You should get back into it,” Maggie said. “I’m sure there are some great classes in Boston. It could be a fun thing to try this winter.”

“Please, I’m too old for that,” Alice said.

“You’re not too old for anything,” Maggie said.

She wished Daniel were there, and said so out loud. “I’m sure Grandpa would love to see you painting again.”

“Oh, hush,” Alice said sternly.

“Did he not like the fact that you painted?” Rhiannon asked. She had obviously thought it was a harmless question, but Maggie braced herself.

“My husband never said a harsh word to anyone, least of all me,” Alice said. “If I wanted to paint, he thought painting was just fine.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean—”

“I don’t want to talk about him,” Alice said. “Enough.”

“But why?” Maggie asked. “Don’t you think it could be good for us to talk about him? We both loved him so much.”

“I was his wife,” Alice said sharply. “You don’t get to say that you loved him like I did.”

“I didn’t mean that,” Maggie said, trying to ignore the sting of it, and too embarrassed to look toward Rhiannon. “I’m sure no one loved him as much as you. But that’s the thing: you never talk about him.”

“What exactly do you want to know?”

“Anything! How did he propose? Where did you go on your first date? I don’t even know how you met!”

“How we met?” Alice said, aghast, as though Maggie had asked about their favorite sexual positions.

“Yes, how did you meet Grandpa? I’ve never heard the story.”

“That’s because there is no story,” Alice said.

“There has to be a story.”

“There’s no story,” Alice said firmly. “My brother Timmy introduced us, and that’s all.”

“And what did you think of him? Was it love at first sight?”

“Maybe it’s a bit too hard right now, Maggie,” Rhiannon said.

Though Maggie knew it was childish, she felt slightly betrayed. “But even if it is,” she said to her grandmother, “don’t you ever just want to get it out there?”

Alice’s eyes widened. She looked at Rhiannon. “I hardly think that’s appropriate dinner table conversation,” said the woman who had probably imbibed a bottle and a half of wine over dinner, and brought up the cheap Mexican handyman and Kathleen’s postdivorce weight gain in the first ten minutes.

“Are you gals about full?” Alice said. “Because I’m tuckered out.”

It was exactly the way she had shut down the previous summer when Gabe was there. Maybe there would always be this wall with Alice, no matter how badly Maggie wished things might change, no matter how many times she forgot for a moment that their family wasn’t what she wanted it to be.

Rhiannon stood and began piling the dishes.

“I’ll get those later,” Alice said.

“It’s the least I can do,” Rhiannon said. She stacked the plates and side platters into one neat load.

Alice and Maggie followed her silently into the kitchen.

The wax-paper bag of corn muffins Alice had bought for Gabe sat on the counter. Maggie missed him for an instant, a sharp pain in her chest.

“Should I take these?” she asked.

“No, don’t bother. Leave them,” Alice said. “They’ll go stale, but maybe I won’t notice if I toast them.”

   They were full from dinner and it had started to spit rain, so Maggie and Rhiannon decided not to walk on the beach after all. Still, Maggie didn’t want her to go. She was thinking in a panicked way about her grandmother and her mother. They were both selfish and stubborn, but as parents they had each been tempered by a good, kind man—Daniel, in both cases. She herself would have no such balance if she brought a child into the world. Not unless Gabe came back.

“Why don’t you come to the cottage for a cup of tea before you get on the road?” she said. Maybe simply having another body in the room would calm her down.

“That sounds good,” Rhiannon said. “I think your grandmother got me a bit smashed.” She shook her head. “That’s a sentence I’ve never said before.”

They stood at the kitchen window. Maggie could see Alice across the way on her porch, talking on the phone. Who was she talking to? Probably Ann Marie.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have come,” Maggie said. “It’s going to be so lonely after you’re gone. And my grandmother—I’m not sure I can take her.”

“She’s not that bad,” Rhiannon said.

“Maybe I should call Gabe.”

“Do you really think that’s a good idea?” Rhiannon asked.

“No. Yes? I don’t know. I can’t believe I haven’t heard from him.”

“If I tell you something, do you promise to take it in the spirit in which it’s intended?” Rhiannon asked.

“Sure,” Maggie said.

“Remember when you and Gabe came to my restaurant for dinner?”

Maggie nodded, feeling her heart sink.

“Well, when you were in the bathroom, he put his hand on my ass. I think he tried to kiss me. I don’t know. He was drunk. I wasn’t going to say anything, but—well, I see you holding out hope and it scares me, Maggie. He’s not a good guy. And you’re wonderful.”

With that, finally, she knew for sure what she had been trying not to know for days: it was only her in this; he wasn’t going to be there to raise a child.

Maggie felt foolish about how much time she had spent with Rhiannon, talking about Gabe, without knowing that the two of them shared a secret of their own. Naturally Gabe wanted Rhiannon—what guy wouldn’t? Her body tensed up. She wished she had never introduced them.