His father didn’t see it that way.
When Luke graduated from Chatham High School four months ago, he took the top prize from the English department and was recognized for his magna cum laude performance on the national Latin exam. I was proud of his accomplishments, of course, but I was also proud of what he did next. When the physics instructor walked to the podium to present the award to the student who had excelled in the sciences, Luke twisted in his seat and caught my eye, nearly losing his tasseled cap in the process. “Get ready,” he mouthed, pounding his thumb against the dark blue gown at his chest. “This baby’s all mine.” It was all I could do not to laugh out loud.
His father didn’t see it that way.
When Luke enrolled at Boston College, I encouraged him to sign up for the courses he likes, to pursue the subjects that interest him. After all, I reasoned, Luke is training for his future. And he’s a naturally energetic, upbeat guy. He ought to fashion a future that suits him.
His father didn’t see it that way.
Ralph is a forensic psychiatrist. He’s a scientist at heart, a man who reduces all aspects of existence to their component parts. For Ralph, there is no life problem that doesn’t have a logical solution. And the solution to Luke’s problems, Ralph always tells both of us, is simple: He should work harder. He should be more like Ralph.
Luke doesn’t see it that way.
Tonight Ralph is worked up over Luke’s first-semester schedule. “There’s not a single science course in the lineup,” Ralph told me ten minutes ago. He had repeated this shocking tidbit of information three times since then. And I kept forgetting to gasp.
It occurs to me that it’s a little late to complain about courses Luke selected four months ago, in June, but I don’t mention it. When Ralph’s worked up, I clam up. That’s a routine we established a long time ago.
“He’s taking art history, for Christ’s sake,” Ralph adds now. Apparently this, too, is a capital offense.
Danny Boy has been panting at the living room window, paws on the sill, keeping a watchful eye on us throughout our driveway debate. He starts barking at Ralph now, moving his big paws up to the windowpane, his nails scratching the glass. I’m not sure what prompted his change in demeanor, but I decide to trust his canine instincts. “I’m going in now,” I tell Ralph. “There’s nothing more to say. We disagree. That’s all there is to it.”
He clutches his goateed chin between thumb and index finger and shakes his head. He’s angry—again—that I don’t see life through his cheerless lenses. He opens his mouth, as if he plans to continue the argument, but then apparently thinks better of it. He presses a button on his key chain and the Porsche lights up and honks as I head for the back steps. “Marty,” he calls after me.
He’s got one foot in the car when I turn around, his left hand on top of the open driver’s-side door, his right one still holding the keys, resting on the roof. He juts his goatee out toward the cottage. “Your friend in there,” he says. “Henry.”
“Harry,” I correct him.
“Whatever.” Ralph pauses and shakes his head yet again. He’s annoyed with my attention to unimportant detail. “The guy’s got an attitude,” he says, pointing his keys at the living room window. “I don’t like him.”
Ah, the considered, objective judgment of the scientist. Where would the rest of us be without it? I turn away from him and climb the back steps without another word.
By the time I get back to the living room, it’s obvious that Luke is exasperated. This, in itself, is not surprising. Luke always gets exasperated when he plays chess with Harry, but it usually takes a little longer than the fifteen minutes or so they’ve been playing. He gets up from the floor and flops onto the living room couch. “Wake me up when you move,” he says to Harry, “if I’m still breathing.”
Harry sits immobile on the floor, his eyes glued to the chess-board on the coffee table, the only sign of life his occasional ogle of Luke’s king. “Sure thing,” he answers, motionless.
Luke bounds up again. “I forgot,” he says, pounding a palm against his forehead as if he’s in a V8 commercial. “You cheat.”
“It’s not cheating if everyone knows you do it,” Harry replies.
Luke calls these pearls of wisdom Harry-isms. There’s no reasoning with the guy, he tells me after every chess match. He turns to me now, his hands in the air, his eyes wide. “Do you see what I’m talking about?”
I nod at him and laugh. I do.
“I’m gonna order a pizza,” Luke says, heading for the phone in the kitchen. “Watch the board for me, will you, Mom? You can’t trust this guy for two seconds.”
“Sausage and onions,” Harry yells after him. “And anchovies,” he adds.
“Not on your life,” Luke calls back. “Pepperoni. Nothing else belongs on pizza.”
“Order two,” I tell him. “And one of them had better be half plain cheese.”
Luke pops his head back into the living room to see if I’m serious about this outrageous suggestion. I nod to let him know I am. I’m hungry. And at the rate this chess game is moving, we won’t get out to eat until next Saturday. Luke’s eyes move to Harry, as if he needs a second opinion.
“Your mom’s a plain Jane,” Harry says, his gaze not leaving the chessboard.
Luke rolls his eyes and goes back into the kitchen. Harry’s delivering old news.
Harry looks up when Danny Boy and I settle on the couch to do guard duty. “You okay?” he asks.
“I’m fine,” I tell him as Danny Boy nestles his head on my lap. “But you’re not. My ex-husband doesn’t like you, Henry. You have an attitude.”
He falls backward, slapping the back of one hand to his forehead. “I’m shattered,” he says. “Roscoe and I could’ve been close. We have so much in common. We could’ve had a future.”
We’re both laughing when he sits up, but Harry leans his elbows on the edge of the coffee table and grows serious. “He wants this back, you know,” he says.
“Wants what back?”
“This.” He gestures to our surroundings and I wonder for a moment if he thinks Ralph wants my cottage. “He wants this life back,” Harry continues. “You. His son. All of it. He’s feeling proprietary.”
This is even funnier than the Roscoe comments. Ralph couldn’t keep his hands off his receptionist when we were married. He didn’t seem to remember that Luke and I lived on the same planet. The idea of his feeling proprietary makes me laugh out loud.
“Trust me,” I tell Harry. “Ralph thrives in the fast lane. This is not the life he wants. And whatever woman he’s interested in at the moment is half my age, wearing a skirt the length of my jacket.”
Luke rejoins us and settles into his spot on the floor again. This conversation is over—at least for now.
“You trust me,” Harry finishes, nodding over Luke’s shoulder. “I’ve got a handle on old Roscoe.”
CHAPTER 11
Sunday, October 15
It’s a few minutes past nine when I pull up to Louisa Rawlings’s Easy Street antique home. The Kydd’s small, red pickup is parked at the far end of the oyster-shell driveway, near the house. True to form, he’s the first one at work—no matter where work happens to be. I align the Thunderbird next to his truck and cut the engine.
I grab Louisa’s growing file from the passenger seat before slipping from behind the wheel. A manila accordion folder with a six-inch capacity, it was sand dollar–flat on Friday, housing only the sketchy notes from my initial interview. Now it’s swollen to about half its potential with the fruits of yesterday’s labors: the Kydd’s morning of legal research, his afternoon of copious note-taking. Let’s hope we close the damned thing tomorrow, before it mushrooms.