“A catering company,” Beth said. “That makes sense. So the girls are all right with this, then?”
“They appear to be. Piper just turned seventeen, and she’s developed a very independent, very empowered personality. She’s thrilled that her mother has broken free of male domination.”
“Oh,” Beth said. “What about the younger one?”
“Peyton still loves me the best, thank God,” David said. “But she wouldn’t admit it in front of her mother or her sister. She’s not brave enough. She’s not brave at all.”
“How old is Peyton?”
“Thirteen.”
“I can’t believe you and Rosie split,” Beth said. “I just can’t believe it.” This was dangerous news. Beth stared at the stick ’em on the dashboard, wishing for clarity. David Ronan had split from his wife, and now he was driving around Nantucket with Beth’s name on his dashboard. “How are you doing?” she asked. “Are you… are you angry?”
“Shit, yeah, I’m angry,” David said. “And heartbroken and discouraged and deeply incredulous. I loved Rosie. She saved my life.”
This comment, Beth knew, was aimed at her. What David really meant was: Rosie saved me from you. Beth heard the old pain, the old intensity in David’s voice and she knew where the conversation was headed if she didn’t stop it-blame for Rosie that was really blame for Beth. The first woman who’d left him.
“We’ll have to cancel dinner,” Beth said, cringing at how hardhearted, not to mention rude, that sounded. But the whole point had been to invite the Ronan family. To prove to the kids and Beth herself, and Arch, wherever he was, that this was just a normal friendship.
“I already told the girls. They’re excited to come. But I guess you don’t want us now? I hope you don’t think I’m on the prowl.”
“No, I never-”
“My girls,” he said. “They think this is a date, even though I assured them it’s not. I mean, I told them about your husband. But I haven’t been out, anywhere, well, in six months, so they’re hopeful.” He smiled. “They want me to move on. I explained to them that I’m not ready to move on, and that even if I were, you weren’t ready to move on.” He glanced at her. “I’m embarrassed telling you all this. I came to find you because I knew it was unfair to spring it on you tonight. So we won’t come.”
The world’s most awkward situation. What should she do? If she disinvited David, what did that say? That she didn’t trust herself? That it wasn’t okay for two old friends to have dinner together? “Forgive me,” Beth said. “It’s just that this took me by surprise. You could have told me at the store.”
David tucked his chin guiltily. “You seemed upset at the store,” he said. “About Arch, I mean. I didn’t want to burden you with my problems.”
“It wouldn’t have been a burden,” Beth said. “It would have been useful information.”
“I guess subconsciously I wanted to come to dinner, and so that’s why I didn’t tell you,” David said. “Since Rosie left, the whole island has treated me like an untouchable.”
“You’re not an untouchable.”
David held out his hand. “Prove it.”
Beth stared at his hand, the knobby knuckles, the golden hairs, the clean, clipped nails. How many years had passed since she’d noticed David’s hands?
She squeezed David’s pinky. “I’m sorry Rosie left.”
“Thanks. It makes me feel better to hear that opinion expressed, even by a summer person.”
Beth smirked. She’d only spent ten minutes in David’s presence and already they’d resumed their old roles. Year-rounder versus summer person. How old would they have to be before they rose above. “I hereby cancel my cancellation,” she said. “Please come to dinner. I’d like to meet your girls and it’ll be good for Winnie and Garrett. Just come at seven and we’ll have a good time.” A good time. It sounded so refreshing that Beth almost believed it was possible. “But don’t bring me flowers or anything.”
“No purple cosmos?” he said.
That hit too close to home. Beth shut her eyes, remembering the flowers wilting in her hand because she held them so tightly. They left golden dust on her skin.
“I’m sorry, Beth,” he said.
“You don’t know what I’m like these days,” she said. “Boiled turnips can make me cry.” She wiped her eyes. “Just take me home. I need to shower. Take a nap. And I don’t want the kids worrying about where I am.”
They drove to her house in silence, and then Beth leapt from the van. She needed David to drive away before anyone saw him. “I’ll expect you at seven,” she said.
“You’re sure about this?” he said.
“I’m sure.”
He waved. “Looking forward to it.”
As Beth headed inside, she noticed the mail basket was full. Already, some of her mail had been forwarded from New York. There were two bills, a credit card solicitation addressed to Archer Newton, and a letter for Marcus. The return address was 247 Harris Road, Bedford Hills, New York. It was a letter from Constance Tyler.
Garrett watched his mother closely from the minute she walked in the door from her run. The first thing she did was to look in the hallway mirror-the one that she and Uncle Danny and Uncle Scott had decorated with scallop shells in their youth- and groan.
“I look like a dirt sandwich,” she said.
Although she hadn’t acknowledged him, Garrett assumed the comment was for his benefit, and that he was expected to refute it.
“What do you care what you look like?” he said.
She turned, apparently surprised to see him there, sitting at the kitchen table, eating a lunch that he’d made himself. It might seem a small detail, but Garrett was keeping track of the fact that three days into the summer, neither his mother nor Winnie had offered to make him lunch, although they both fell over themselves to prepare food for Marcus.
“Garrett,” she said. “It’s two-thirty.”
“So?”
“So, don’t you think it’s a little late to be eating such a big lunch? We’re having dinner at seven.”
As if he were likely to forget “the dinner,” which, judging by the way his mother cleaned this morning, was a bigger event than she originally promised.
“I’ll manage,” he said.
As his mother walked toward him, he saw that she was holding some envelopes. She waved one in the air. “Where’s Marcus?”
“I have no idea,” Garrett said, though he had every idea. Marcus was on the beach. Alone. Winnie had come running up about forty-five minutes earlier in a state. It seemed Marcus had given Winnie some flak about not eating. As if my digestive tract is his concern, Winnie said in this bitchy, conspiratorial way, nudging Garrett to agree with her. Although Garrett wanted nothing more than to gang up on Marcus, it wasn’t going to be for that reason. In this instance, Marcus was right: Winnie needed to eat. Garrett said as much to Winnie and she stomped up the stairs, her empty stomach clenched in fury against him.
“Well, can you find him for me, please?” Beth said. “There’s a letter for him.”
“I think he’s on the beach,” Garrett said. “He can read it when he comes up.”
“It’s a letter from Constance,” Beth said. “It can’t wait.”
There was faulty logic there somewhere, but clearly this letter had put ants in his mother’s pants and so Garrett walked out onto the deck and was about to yell down to the beach when he saw Marcus marching up the rickety stairs, loaded down like a pack mule with all the beach stuff-towels, beach bag, and Winnie’s chaise lounge. Once Marcus reached the deck, he dropped the stuff and rubbed his eyes.
“Whoa,” he said. “I fell asleep down there.”