Authors: Susan Wilson
Grainger couldn’t bear to listen to the chatter on talk radio, so he slipped a Muddy Waters tape into the truck’s player and turned up the volume. Blues was what he felt, blues was what he needed. Having Kiley so close was like being faced with a living specter. She sounded like Kiley, she mostly looked like Kiley, but she wore neither the fangs nor claws of the Kiley he had created in his imagination all these years. The girl to whom he had attributed a callous disregard of anyone’s feelings—a cavalier notion that she wouldn’t break hearts—the friendship splitter, the betrayer, had never existed and he knew it. Kiley was simply a good mother, a caring person who, like him, lived too much in the past. It was past time to come to terms with it. Because of his own stubborn notion of keeping ancient history in his heart, Grainger had denied himself the one thing that might have given his empty life ballast: Will. At least she wasn’t denying him Will any longer.
They had come so close this morning. He still felt the light weight of her in his arms, how his heart raced at the possibility they might be able to mend this great tear in the fabric of their friendship. Grainger turned up the volume, trying to crowd out the voice in his head with the voice on the tape. Fool. In one sentence Kiley had reminded him, once again, that he was in second place. She probably thought that if he forgave her not telling him about Will, he’d forget he hadn’t ever been her first choice.
He drove past the hardware store, although he needed more sandpaper, taking the road that led up the hill and out of town. One of the benefits, or drawbacks, of his profession was too much time for thinking; much of what he did required only muscle memory, and his thoughts ranged freely. He was in no frame of mind to touch power tools, so he kept driving, the blues accompanying his incomplete thoughts.
Spontaneously, Grainger slowed down and turned into the gate of the old burying ground at the top of the hill beside the brownstone Episcopal church. It was a pretty place. The oldest graves appeared to be randomly placed around trees and up and down the gentle hillocks. Surrounded by flowering quince, apple, and pear trees in the spring, from a distance, the graveyard looked like an orchard. Grainger got out of the truck, leaving a complaining Pilot in the cab. He didn’t know where he was going, only that the quiet peacefulness called to him, as if he was being pulled toward a solace as yet unexplained. The peaceful realm of the dead. The sea breeze fluttered the little flags the VFW had placed on veterans’ graves for the Fourth. Someday they would put one on his grave, although he only spent two miserable years in the service and never saw action anywhere.
Grainger drifted, thinking vaguely of going into the church, of seeing if the small nave might take up the large and uncomfortable feelings filling the space around his heart.
When his mother first left, the MacKenzies brought him with them to this church, the old priest there attempting consolation by getting him into Sunday school. As if he could find any consolation in stories like Joseph and his coat of many colors; a story that only verified the treacherous behavior of families.
Grainger walked past graves of people he knew: a teacher dead of cancer; Howie Randall, who ran the drugstore, a coronary; and several others who had given their lives to the sea. To a man who had made his living on or around the water, who grew up surrounded on three sides by it, drowning and death on the water were commonplace. By the time Grainger was twenty, he could count on both hands the names of people lost whom he knew. Accidents, all. A wave over the top of waders, an underestimated undertow, a capsized boat. Or like his father, a drunken entanglement in fishing net. Or like Mack, gone overboard.
He’d left Hawke’s Cove that night. In the morning,
Blithe Spirit
was found caught between the rocks near Bailey’s Beach. It isn’t unusual for the sea to keep what it takes. Eventually the search for Mack was called off, and a headstone placed above an empty grave in the family plot—as close to a burial as the MacKenzies would have.
In all the time he’d been back in Hawke’s Cove, Grainger had never visited the gravesite. Every time the anniversary of Mack’s death came, he’d plan to go and put flowers on it, but somehow he never did.
He hadn’t known that Mack was in danger. He’d been hitchhiking to Great Harbor, aware of the wind and rain only as they mirrored his black mood. Anger and hurt had been the only feelings occupying him.
A woodpecker hammered now at a dying tree. On his own unhappy road to Damascus, Grainger paused in mid-step. For an instant he felt exactly as he had years before, standing atop the mainmast of the schooner before plunging into the dark water. For he knew suddenly what it was he was looking for: it wasn’t forgiveness between only Kiley and himself.
He had betrayed Mack by trying to take Kiley away from him.
Then he had run away, aware only of his own wounded pride. If he had stayed, maybe Mack wouldn’t have gone out. But even if he had, Grainger and Kiley might have been able to grieve together. Like diving again from the mainmast, a cleansing impact was what Grainger was looking for. It was Mack’s forgiveness he wanted. Impossible, and forever too late.
There it was, tidy and tended—Mack’s gravesite.
William “Mack” MacKenzie 1966–1984. Beloved son.
Beloved son. William.
Seeing Mack’s whole name carved in the soft white marble, Grainger knew that Mack had to be Will’s biological father. And Kiley had to have somehow known. Grainger sat on the ground, in front of the polished headstone marking the forever empty grave.
Will couldn’t know he was named after Mack. Otherwise he wouldn’t have asked which of them was his father. Kiley must have some reason she wouldn’t tell him the truth. A reason that was tangled up in her desire to keep the mythological threesome alive. She was letting them both believe there was no answer to that question. Given his behavior that night, Kiley had every right to keep him out of Will’s life. If Will hadn’t discovered him, would Kiley have continued to try to keep them unaware of each other?
Atonement.
Grainger rolled the word around in his imagination. If Mack had lived, there was no doubt that Grainger would have come to him seeking to repair the damage to their friendship. And no doubt that Mack would have done the same. But there had been no chance, and he could never know under what circumstances their reconciliation might have taken place.
Until now. He’d do what Mack would have wanted done. He’d make a good sailor out of Will—and give him the boat,
Blithe Spirit
. She was Will’s heritage. Even if Mack had died aboard her, she was still his beloved boat. She hadn’t killed him,
he
had with his betrayal.
Grainger got up and touched the top of the headstone. “I’ll teach your son how to sail, Mack.”
Will was late getting home, as usual, but Kiley still had an hour before she was to meet Conor in Great Harbor.
“I’ll make you a hamburger, if you want.”
Will’s hair was wet from his shower. “Sure. Cheeseburger, though, okay?”
“Sure. And I need you to cut the grass before dark. Toby’s coming tomorrow with a client.”
“I was going out with Catherine.”
“Again?”
Will gave her that slightly askew smile he’d perfected to charm her. “Yeah. Can she have dinner with us tomorrow night?”
“Of course.” Kiley opened the refrigerator and leaned in, mostly to hide her own slightly askew smile. “So now you have your own reason for getting that grass cut. The mower’s in the garage.”
Will’s grumbling was halfhearted as he went out to assess the situation.
• • •
Kiley recognized Anthony’s Restaurant as Marge’s Place from her youth. Now it had gone upscale, serving small portions on large white plates at a price an entire family once spent to eat there. Conor was waiting for her, standing up as the hostess brought her over to his window seat with its view of Great Harbor, perimetered on three sides with slips filled with cabin cruisers. Conor was dressed in a coat and tie, and Kiley felt underdressed in black clam diggers and a yellow cotton sweater.
“I’m sorry I’m late.”
“Not at all, I’m a little early.” Conor motioned to the waiter. “I took the liberty of ordering a bottle of wine. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not.” Kiley knew then that, despite what she’d said to Grainger, this
was
a date date. Conor had tricked her. Kiley kept her eyes on the waiter as he performed his ritual with the wine bottle. Not an expensive wine; good. Maybe it was just cheaper to order by the bottle. Conor pronounced it fit for drinking and the waiter poured the white wine into her glass.
“I’ve been making some inquiries.”
“Conor, I’m really not sure I want to relocate.”
“Kiley, I have contacts all over New England.” Conor raised his glass. “Shall we toast?”
Kiley raised her glass and waited.
Connor said, “To reunions.”
“How about: To new jobs?”
“Let’s have a reunion first, before we talk business. I want to know how you’ve been. What’s kept you away from Hawke’s Cove all these years?”
Kiley set her glass down on the white linen tablecloth but kept her fingers just touching the stem. “I have a son.”
“So, you did get married.”
“No. Not exactly.”
“Kiley, that’s no big deal these days. Did you want to be a single mother? That’s very brave.”
Brave. No, brave would be telling this near stranger that her son might be his brother’s. “Not really.”
“What’s his name? How old is he?”
Simple, half-interested questions. Polite conversation-starting questions. “He’s named for my father, Merriwell William Harris. But we call him Will.”
“I suppose Merriwell would be a tough name to go around with these days.” Conor had his menu open.
“Something like that.” Kiley took a sip of her wine. “He’s eighteen.”
Conor closed his menu. “I have to recommend the salmon. Nobody does a better salmon than Anthony’s.”
Kiley took another sip of wine and tried not to choke. Was Conor playing with her, or was he being obtuse? “Sounds good.”
The waiter reappeared to take their order, giving Kiley a moment to collect herself. Conor was looking out the window at a big yacht inching its way into the harbor. In profile he looked less like Mack, and more like any doctor she’d ever worked with. Tense about the mouth, preoccupied with what he’d left at his office or in the hospital. Self-aware, cognizant always of the power he held and the power he lacked.
“So, I take it you don’t have any children?”
Conor pulled his gaze away from the window. “No. I keep thinking that I should remarry, find someone willing to have kids with me before it’s too late. But”—and Conor hid his expression behind his glass—“that special someone hasn’t yet appeared on the horizon. Someone willing to put up with the crazy hours and undependable plans; someone willing to shoulder the burden of child-rearing solo, for all intents and purposes. Lots of terribly young women in the medical profession think that’s what they want, but I know from experience, it loses its novelty pretty quick.”
“That’s why your marriage ended up in divorce?”
“Something like that. We were young, and now a lot of time has passed, and I don’t think that I’ll get my second chance.”
Kiley reached across the table and patted Conor’s hand. “That’s not true. You just have to look for it.”
Conor covered her hand with his. “I hope you’re right.”
A shiver of intuition coursed through Kiley. This was not the first time he had used those lines; it was the old vulnerable-man trick. She removed her hand gently and excused herself to go to the ladies’ room. The glass of wine on an empty stomach made her path a little interesting to negotiate, but she got there quick enough to hide the bubble of laughter teasing itself out of her throat.
The salmon arrived as she made her way back to the table. As promised, it was delicious, and they ate in near silence, savoring the flavors. Conor poured her a second glass of wine, and Kiley drank it very slowly. Halfway through dinner, she brought up the ostensible reason for their date. “Where have you made inquiries?”
“Children’s in Boston and UMass Medical. They both have outstanding PICUs and openings.”
“Thank you. Can I use your name?”
“I wish you would.”
There was an excitement beginning to build with the thought of starting again. Maybe, in an odd way, this was her moment, her time to fly away. Ever since that October day when she realized she was pregnant, her life had been on a branch line, switched off from her plans and dreams. Then that branch line had become her main route, her life. She would always miss Doc John, miss the close-knit little office with its wall of children’s artwork and the weekly pizza lunches. But maybe it had been time to change routes, before she spent the next twenty years marking time, waiting for her son to come and visit. Kiley shuddered back the thought. What had she said to Conor about second chances?
You have to look for it.
Conor was talking, but Kiley had lost the thread of the conversation. “I should go,” she told him. “The real estate agent is coming early tomorrow.”
“Do you have to? I was thinking we might take a walk along the harbor.”
“Another time, maybe. I really need to go.”
“All right. I should call it a night too. I have an early surgery tomorrow.”
Kiley opened her purse.
“No, no. This is my treat.”
Kiley allowed Conor to pay the bill and walk her to her car. He opened her car door but then blocked her way, his face very close to hers. She thought he was trying to kiss her and turned her cheek.
“Kiley, I think it would be best if we say very little of this to my mother. She’s never gotten over it, and she’s fragile.”
“Tell her whatever you think best, Conor. Nothing, if that’s better.”
“Kiley, I do realize that your son might be…is probably Mack’s.”
“Don’t make assumptions, Conor.” Kiley slid past him and into her car. She wondered what he’d make of that; would he even remember that Grainger had been a part of her world too? That, as easily as Will might be Mack’s, he might be Grainger’s instead? Grainger had lived in his house; Conor’s mother had fed him, washed his clothes, and guided him through his adolescence. Conor had been the big brother, the college man, miles away from them in maturity and experience. Kiley couldn’t imagine what his opinion of Grainger might be.
Toby Reynolds called early to say that the couple he wanted to bring over were very interested in buying a big house on the bluff, and had no thoughts of changing anything. “They’re perfect.”
“They haven’t seen it yet. Maybe they won’t like it.”
“Kiley, you have to be positive.”
Toby clearly misunderstood her. She
was
being positive.
Hanging up, Kiley chided herself that it had to be done. Every moment she spent here in Hawke’s Cove underscored her reason for having kept away. Early on, she knew that there was no way she could have returned to Hawke’s Cove, baby in tow, to be judged by the Yacht Club types whose own “mistakes” were generally the catalysts to good marriages—good in name only, but acceptable. If she had come back a young married with an oversized “eight-month” preemie, all would have been forgotten long ago. The raised eyebrows would have been lowered as the child grew and joined other children around the club. But Kiley had chosen a different path, and it led away from Hawke’s Cove. Soon there would be nothing left to call her back; no one to call her back.
She busied herself with packing the objects she’d chosen not to sell. Before she wrapped each memento in its protective layer of
Boston Globe
, she made one last effort to choose to leave it behind. Some objects, like the blue tumblers etched with sailboats, were put back in the kitchen. Others she wrapped carefully and nested among the other memory-laden items.
Will was in Great Harbor waiting for Catherine to get out of work, when they would go windsurfing. She was to have dinner with them tonight. Kiley felt a little twitch of maternal concern at his sudden dedication to a girl he’d only just met. Maybe a barbecue was a good idea, a nice informal opportunity for all three of them to get acquainted. Kiley was glad Will had found a friend, which is how he referred to her. Not yet
girlfriend,
which probably was a good thing. The brevity of their time together seemed a natural barrier to more than a friendship. But she also worried about his heart. He’d been so closemouthed about Lori’s breaking it off; she hoped he wasn’t using this other girl in rebound. Or, worse, that she would break his heart too. Did Will understand the finer points of a summer fling? Have fun, break no hearts? She certainly hadn’t understood. But then, in no way could what she had with Mack or Grainger be called a fling. They had invested years of friendship before their adolescent hormones had changed everything.
Kiley barely saw the objects in her hands as her mind wandered over the oft-visited landscape of her adolescence. Did other adults remember so clearly being that young, being that confused? Did most people outgrow those days, leaving them behind for new experiences? Grainger had, certainly. He’d managed to come back to Hawke’s Cove, make a life. Having seen him, heard his voice, breathed in the scent of his boatyard life, she could not recall the face of the boy he’d been. This mature, rugged face bore vestigial traces of that boy, and the shock of seeing him as a man had teased her with unbidden speculation about the physical adult Grainger. That long ago afternoon they spent together had been imperfect for both of them. Despite their love and tenderness, they were both so inexperienced they’d had physical relief but little understanding of the act. Older now, awakened to bolder gestures of lovemaking, Kiley found herself imagining Grainger’s hands on her, touching her with love. Unlocking the hard nut of his anger and her hurt with his skillful…
She brought herself up short. Nothing like that could happen. They’d had a chance at reconciliation yesterday. Though how do you pile eighteen years’ worth of explanation into the time it takes to drink a cup of coffee? Her mind was cluttered with the said and the unsaid. They were polite strangers, with no hope of returning to their former intimacy. Certainly not the physical intimacy of their one night, but neither the intimacy of old friends who need no explanations, whose history is closely linked. The intimacy she remembered best, and missed most. That wasn’t going to happen; it was obvious by his sudden withdrawal at her thoughtless evocation of Mack by speaking of his brother. The look in his eyes, like a force field suddenly between them. She needed now to stop wishing and set her mind against any further hope of amends. What she’d said to Will was exactly right: it was a détente.
Kiley heard Toby’s footsteps clump up the front steps, and his excited voice, no doubt drawing attention to the magnificent view, rhapsodized about how the intense blue of the sky was reflected in the shimmering blue water. He’d fill the clients’ inaugural visit with all the high points and none of the low, such as the roof or the flaking paint; those things would be called to their attention only after they fell in love with the house.
Kiley hadn’t meant to be in the house when Toby brought the couple, but time had gotten away from her. “Hi, Toby. Sorry I’m still here. I’ll go take a walk.” She wiped her hands on the seat of her jeans.
“Oh no, we wouldn’t dream of putting you out of your house.”
Kiley wasn’t sure how to answer that rather ironic statement.
The speaker, a woman about her own age, right arm linked to a man who might have been her father or her much older husband, realized her gaffe. “I mean, don’t mind us; we don’t want to intrude.”
Toby quickly recovered the momentum of the tour. “Ms. Harris, this is Mr. and Mrs. Carlton Fenster. They’re up from New York and have to get back this afternoon, so, if you don’t mind, we’ll just go in.” A little ring of white appeared beneath Toby’s lower lip, held in a trained smile. Clearly he was irritated that she’d lingered too long and bumped into his prospects. Bad form.