Michael walks through the Wauwinet, smiling at the understated elegance, the quietness and luxury that he remembers from when he was a chid.
He walks through to the porch at the rear, seeing Jordana immediately, trying not to stare at the people sitting around having drinks, people he recognizes from the papers, celebrities, politicians, business moguls, all of them in shorts and T-shirts, all of them looking like regular Joes.
He approaches Jordana nervously, apprehensive about what he has to say, uncertain of how he can convince her that having a baby won’t be a good idea.
She is sitting facing the ocean, shaded by a large straw hat and huge Gucci wrap-around sunglasses. She is in a sparkly white beaded sarong, an embroidered gold Buddha on the back offset with gold sequins, and flat, strappy sandals. She would look perfect in the Hamptons, but here in Nantucket, where everyone else is in cycling shorts after long bike rides, baseball caps, faded T-shirts and not a scrap of makeup, she looks like a fish out of water.
Again he wonders what on earth he was thinking, those moments when he allowed himself to believe, to truly believe, that he and Jordana might have a future together. His whole affair was so completely out of character, it was almost as if he were playing a role in a movie—nothing about it was real.
And how unfair, he thinks, fear settling onto his chest as he approaches her table, that the consequences are this real.
Jordana looks up, sees him, and takes her sunglasses off. Her eyes are red, puffy. It is clear she has been crying for many hours. For a second Michael feels a twinge of irritation—her sunglasses came off so quickly, was she trying to make him feel guilty at hurting her so badly, trying to manipulate him in some way?
“How are you?” He doesn’t know what else to say as he sits down and orders a coffee from the waiter, who appears obscenely cheerful given the circumstances.
Jordana shrugs. “I’ve been better.”
“How many weeks are you?”
“I don’t know exactly. I missed my last period, so probably seven, maybe eight.”
“What does your doctor say?”
“I haven’t been to the doctor yet.”
His heart jumps. “So maybe you’re not pregnant? Maybe this is all a mistake.”
Jordana looks at him witheringly. “I’ve missed my period, my breasts are enormous, and I’m throwing up every day. What do you think that is? A phase?”
“It could be anything.” Michael grabs on to false hopes, desperate for things to be different.
“No.” She shakes her head. “I’m pregnant. I know.”
“But how do you know?”
“Because I’m a woman and I just know.”
“And you’re definitely keeping it?”
“What do you mean?” Jordana’s voice is cold.
“I mean, have you thought, seriously, about what this means? Jordana, of course I’ll do the right thing. I can’t make you give the baby up or get rid of the baby, but you and I aren’t going to be together, this isn’t going to be the cement that holds our relationship together. I’m so sorry for everything, for splitting you and Jackson up, for . . . for everything.”
For getting involved with you
is what he was about to say, but he held back.
“I am so sorry that this is happening,” he continues, “and if you go ahead and have this baby, of course I will do the right thing for the baby. I would be involved in the child’s life, I wouldn’t just walk away and have nothing to do with it, but you and I are not going to be together, and Jordana, have you thought, have you really thought about what it’s like to be a single mother?”
“I know plenty of single mothers,” Jordana says archly. “I know exactly what’s involved.” But her voice is shaky.
Michael plows on, certain she’s not convinced, certain he can change her mind. “I know women who spent their entire lives wanting to be mothers, who found themselves pregnant, without partners, and went ahead,” he urges. “My friend Suzy got pregnant after a short fling, had always wanted a baby and now has an eight-year-old daughter, and hasn’t been out in eight years. And when the little one was a baby, Suzy was exhausted all the time. There was no one to relieve the burden, no one to support her when she was at the end of her tether, couldn’t cope. And you know what Suzy says now? She says that although she wouldn’t change anything, although she loves her daughter more than anything, if she could have done things differently she would have done. She won’t say her daughter is a mistake, but she does say the circumstances were a mistake, and that she has had no life for eight years.” Michael pauses, letting the words speak for themselves.
“Is that what you want, Jordana? Is that really what you want? Because this isn’t about a cute baby in designer clothing, who you can treat as an accessory. This is hard work. Exhausting. Much, much harder as a single parent.”
“Don’t patronize me,” Jordana says bitterly, when Michael has quite finished. “I know exactly what I’m doing, and however hard it might be, I am not going to have an abortion. I couldn’t live with myself knowing I had destroyed the life of our baby, and I’m disgusted you would even seriously suggest that to me.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to patronize you. I just think these are the worst circumstances in which to bring a baby into the world. This isn’t an unexpected gift, this is just wrong.”
“So is that it?” Jordana stands up, pushing her chair back so hard it almost falls over.
Michael sighs again. “I don’t know what else to say,” he says quietly.
“How about good-bye?” And she storms off inside, leaving Michael to walk miserably to his car.
The dinner has been served, and quiet conversations are occurring around the table, replacing the raucous laughter that erupted throughout the meal.
Roasted leg of lamb stuffed with figs and feta, Israeli couscous, a sumptuous raspberry pavlova for dessert. Never has Daniel eaten so well, nor felt so comfortable.
This
is what he has been missing, he realizes;
this
is what he was looking for during those years of driving past gay bars, yearning. Ironically,
this
is why he was so reluctant to leave Bee all those years—because he didn’t know there was anything else out there, didn’t know it could be like this.
Three couples, all men, two of them married, and he and Matt. None of them having to prove anything, or hide anything, or feel anything other than completely relaxed in their skin.
Daniel looks around the table until his eyes finally come to rest on Matt, who is smiling at him.
“What?” Daniel cannot help a smile in return.
“It’s nice, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“Being out of the closet. Being with others like you.”
Daniel nods, swallowing a lump in his throat as Matt reaches over and gives his arm a reassuring squeeze.
“It feels like I’m home,” he says finally, tears in his eyes. “I just never thought it would feel this normal.”
“I know,” Matt says. “But it is normal. Just not the normal you were used to. Speaking of which, how are things with you and your wife now?”
“Soon-to-be-ex wife,” Daniel corrects. “Not great. She didn’t take it well, obviously, but there seems to be a détente for now. I’m trying very hard to remind her constantly that whatever we feel about each other, it isn’t about us, it’s about the girls.”
“And by that I suppose you don’t mean us?” Matt gestures around the table and Daniel laughs.
“No. These girls are much shorter and they’re related to me.”
“You’re such a big girl. I can’t believe you’re flying all by yourself.” Richard had wiped tears from his eyes as he stood hugging Jess good-bye at security.
Jess had squeezed him tightly, not wanting to leave, not wanting anything to change, but Carrie had sat at the computer with her yesterday, and they’d looked at pictures of Nantucket, read about the beaches, the museums, the boat trips, and she couldn’t help but feel a shiver of excitement at going somewhere new.
“Tons of celebrities go to Nantucket,” Carrie had said, and they’d looked up a list on the computer. Jess had gone to bed and dreamed of being discovered by someone famous; maybe Tom Hanks would spot her and decide she’d be perfect to play his daughter in his next movie.
In the departure lounge, she had looked up and she had actually seen someone famous! For a minute she thought it was someone she knew, a friend of her dad’s, but then she realized it was the actor who played the dad in her favorite sitcom. It was Walter Driscoll. She watched as everyone gradually became aware of his presence, a dull murmur that went around the room as people pointed and whispered, eventually coming over to bashfully ask for an autograph or a photograph.
She was desperate for an autograph, had never been this close to a celebrity before, but she was embarrassed, didn’t know what to say. She sat there, pretending to be buried in
Harry Potter,
pretending not to be interested in Walter Driscoll.
“Is anyone sitting here?” His familiar baritone was directly in front of her, and Jess looked up and immediately blushed as she shook her head.
“I see you’re enjoying it.” He gestured to her book with a smile. “I finished it a couple of weeks ago and loved it. I bet you were at the bookstore at midnight for that.” He raised an eyebrow and Jess smiled and nodded.
“Thought so. Don’t tell anyone—” he leaned toward her— “but I was too.”
“I . . . I really like your show,” Jess ventured, deciding that he may be a celebrity, but he was also a real person and, more than that, he seemed normal. Nice.
“You do?” He seemed genuinely delighted. “Who’s your favorite character?”
As Jess chatted away, charmed by Walter Driscoll, she forgot she was supposed to be scared of flying for the first time on her own, forgot she was supposed to be missing her dad, and by the time she and Walter made their way onto the plane, Walter was regaling her with stories of what he got up to as a teenager on Nantucket, and she couldn’t wait to get there, to drive on the sand as he did, to go out lobstering and picnic on Coatue.
“Excuse me?” The woman sitting next to her on the plane leaned forward. “I have to ask: that man you were talking to in the departure lounge . . . was that Walter Driscoll?”
“Yes.” Jess nodded, proud to have been the one whom he chose to befriend.
“I told you,” she said, turning to an older man with a smile. “My dad said it wasn’t, but he’s only seen his show once. Is he nice?”
“Really nice,” Jess said. “He gave me his address in Nantucket and said my mom and I should go and see him.”
“Wow. You must have made a good impression.”
“Well, I told him I want to be an actress when I grow up.”
“That’s a very good thing to be.” The woman nodded. “I’ve got two girls, but they’re much younger than you, and right now they both want to be fairy princesses.”
Jess smiles. “I used to want to be a fairy princess too when I was younger.”
“I’m Bee,” says Bee. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Jess gets off the plane, and walks over to the gate with Bee and Evan. She says good-bye to Walter Driscoll—his wife is picking him up at the airport—and scans the crowd of people there, desperately looking for her mom.
There she is. Looking so familiar, so like Mom. Jess breaks into a run, and seconds later she is wrapped in her mother’s arms as both of them start to cry.
“I’ve missed you, baby.” Daff squeezes her tightly, not realizing until this very second how much that is true.
“I’ve missed you too, Mommy,” Jess sobs, sounding so like a little girl, so like the sweet little girl she used to be, that Daff never wants to let her go.
“There he is.” Bee sees Daniel, standing next to a woman who, oh what a small world this is, is obviously that sweet girl Jessica’s mother. Jess and her mother are now wrapped around one another, and Daniel is watching them, a smile in his eyes. How ridiculous, she thinks, that in different circumstances she might have thought he and this woman were involved.
Bee walks over to Daniel, holding her father’s arm, standing back as Evan and Daniel shake hands.
Daniel looks straight in his eyes. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
“Thank you, son,” Evan says, before looking around at the airport. “Good God. Look at this place! It’s huge.”
“Huge?” Daniel laughs. “It’s not huge. It’s tiny.”
“No, it used to be tiny,” Evan says. “The last time I was here was many years ago, and this really was tiny. Goodness. It makes me feel old.”
“Old but healthy,” Bee says, taking his arm, unhappy that she still has to rely on Daniel for so much, but knowing that it was easy for him to meet them at the airport, to pick up the girls on the way to their house.
“Thank God,” Evan says, and they walk over to the car.
Nan is standing on a step ladder painting the front door a bright purple, Lizzie and Stella, both with their own paintbrushes, are crouching at her feet and working on the bottom of the door, as the car pulls into the driveway.
“What is she
doing
?” Bee says.
“I have no idea.” Daniel grins, opening the door. “Nan? What are you doing?”
“I’m fed up with all this Nantucket gray,” Nan says. “I wanted some color, and the girls wanted a project. We think it looks great.”
“Doesn’t it look great, Daddy?” echoes Lizzie, suddenly catching sight of her mother as she opens the car door. “Mommy!” she squeals, and she and Stella go running toward the car.
“Guess who’s here!” Bee finishes squeezing the girls, covering them with kisses, and turns to her father. “It’s Poppa!” But Evan is now looking deathly ill, immobile, as white as a ghost.
“Oh my God!” Bee whispers as her heart skips a beat. “I think he’s having a heart attack. Daniel, do something. Help!”
Daniel and Nan rush over to the car, and Nan is starting to open the door, when she sees Evan’s face.
“Oh my Lord,” she whispers, and she passes out cold, sinking into Daniel’s arms.