“You’re nuts,” he said. “Cecily hasn’t gone to overnight camp, my dear. She hasn’t left for college, or another relatively safe place where we can get a hold of her. She has flown to Brazil to sleep with a boy we’ve never even met.”
“I guess what I’m saying is that I know she’s coming back,” Therese said. “Unlike W.T., Cecily is coming back.”
Bill collapsed on the sofa. “Oh, God,” he said.
Therese heard soft footsteps on the stairs and Mrs. Hassiter popped into the living room. She looked at Therese expectantly.
“Breakfast is in the hotel lobby, Mrs. Hassiter,” Therese said. “It’s our compliments. Just go on over and help yourself.”
“I already had breakfast,” Mrs. Hassiter said. “I want to talk to you about something else.”
So she’d overheard them. “We’re having a bit of a family situation,” Therese said. “Things might be rather hectic. I apologize.”
“I understand,” Mrs. Hassiter said. She looked at her hands. “I understand because I have a child of my own.”
Therese got a funny twitching in her stomach. “Did you see my daughter this morning, Mrs. Hassiter? Did you see her last night?”
Mrs. Hassiter’s pale blue eyes sought Therese’s, then Bill’s, helplessly. Oh, dear God, Therese thought. She has some part in this. But before Mrs. Hassiter could answer, Bill pointed his finger; his voice was tight and sharp.
“Do you know where our daughter is?” he asked. “Do you?”
Mrs. Hassiter nodded slowly. “I wasn’t thinking as a parent last night. But these kids seem so grown-up. Much older than my own son at that age.”
“What did you do?” Bill asked. Therese dug her fingernails into the buttery leather of the couch. “What did you do to Cecily?”
Mrs. Hassiter took a deep breath. “I gave her the money to go.”
Therese felt all her previous calm fly from her, like her soul leaving her body. Gave Cecily the money! They let the woman into their home and she interfered with the delicate balance they had worked so hard to achieve. She tipped the scales in favor of Cecily and off Cecily went-with a stranger’s money in her pocket-to Brazil.
Bill spoke first. “The nerve of you,” he said. “You had no place doing that.”
“I know,” Mrs. Hassiter said. “I realized that this morning. I should have just let things be. But I was possessed by pride.”
“By pride, Mrs. Hassiter?” Bill said. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Mrs. Hassiter looked at both of them, then her eyes took in the rest of the room: the leather couch, the Turkish rug. “I’m a janitor at your daughter’s private school,” she said. “At Middlesex. I clean the rooms. I’ve been doing it for twenty-one years.”
“You know Cecily from Middlesex?” Therese asked.
“We didn’t know each other well,” Mrs. Hassiter said. “And I didn’t know you folks owned this hotel. But when I saw your daughter here, I couldn’t help myself. Those kids never thought much of me. They were always polite, but they thought of me as the cleaning woman. And they were all so young and beautiful and well-to-do. I wanted to prove I was good for something other than changing your daughter’s linen and cleaning the toilets. So I gave her four hundred and eighty-six dollars. It was money I earned.”
“Well, I hope you’re happy!” Bill shouted. “Because here we sit without our daughter. We’ve been stripped of all our options, Mrs. Hassiter, thanks to you.”
“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Hassiter said.
“That doesn’t fix a goddamned thing!” Bill said.
“Bill,” Therese said. She squeezed this hand; she had never seen him this angry before. Therese looked at Mrs. Hassiter-her shoulders slumping, her feet bright and unlikely in a pair of fancy sneakers. The thought that a woman this age felt she had to prove something to Cecily broke Therese’s heart. She tried not to let herself soften toward Mrs. Hassiter, but she couldn’t help it. The woman gave Cecily the money; in the end, she only expedited the inevitable. “There’s nothing wrong with being a cleaning woman,” Therese said. “I’m one myself. It’s a job I respect.”
Mrs. Hassiter looked at her hands again, as though she were ashamed of them. “It’s not the same. You own this beautiful place.”
“It is the same,” Therese said. “In fact, you can do me a favor.”
“What is it?” Mrs. Hassiter asked.
“I need you to supervise my chambermaids this morning while I take my husband out. Then you’ll see how much our jobs are alike. And just so you know, I would only trust my job to a professional.”
Mrs. Hassiter pushed up her sleeves. “I’d be glad to,” she said. “I’ll go right now.”
Therese said nothing to Bill until they were both in the car and Mrs. Hassiter had safely reached the lobby. Therese turned the key in the ignition, set the air-conditioning, and adjusted the vents so that they blew directly onto herself and Bill. “I know you’re mad at me,” she said, backing out of the parking lot. “But I won’t let myself blame that poor woman.”
“I don’t blame the woman,” Bill said. “I blame myself for double-booking the room. There’s a reason why we don’t let strangers sleep in our home, Therese. They don’t belong.”
“Don’t be angry with Mrs. Hassiter.”
“She tells a sob story and that’s all you need to hear. She’s a saint now and a martyr.”
“I feel for people, Bill,” she said.
“If you’re going to feel for people,” Bill said, “how about starting with Cecily and me?”
“I have always put you first,” Therese said. “Every day for thirty years I’ve put you first, and you know that.” She turned onto Main Street, which was bustling with activity, and she was grateful for the distraction. “I can’t remember the last time you and I were on Main Street on a summer day,” she said. She pointed out the Bartlett Farm truck, its sectioned bed bursting with red and yellow tomatoes, zucchini and squash, string beans, lettuce, and a colorful array of flowers, which bloomed despite the heat. “Look over there. Bountiful summer.”
“My summer hasn’t been bountiful,” Bill said. “First I lose Mack, then my only child.”
Therese gripped the wheel with both hands as they rumbled over the cobblestones. “She’s coming back.”
“Where are we going?” Bill asked. “I see you’re not driving to the airport.”
“No,” she said. “I’m not.”
They reached the Somerset Road Cemetery and Therese wound her way through the sandy paths until they came to W.T.’s grave. Bill gave a little groan and smacked his head back against the seat. “You’re trying to torture me.”
“No,” she said. “I just want to remind you what real loss feels like.”
They stood together on the patch of dry grass in front of the headstone. Therese read the inscription aloud. “W.T. Elliott, beloved son, April seventh, 1970.’” Then, as if she had given them permission, they both started to cry. Bill pulled out his handkerchief and held it to his nose as his body wracked with sobs. Therese cried into the crook of Bill’s arm. At one point, she gained a moment of clarity, enough to wonder what they must look like: two middle-aged people standing in the hottest Nantucket sun on record, crying for someone who died such a long time ago, someone they had never even known.
After a while, Therese let Bill go. She plucked her blouse away from her sweat-soaked body and flapped her arms as if she were a bird, as if she could fly. Then she took a tentative step toward the car. Sweat rolled down her back, and the edges of her mind were blurry with the tears, the grief, and from standing still for too long in the heat. Blurry from wondering-would Cecily be back? Or would they be left to cry in graveyards. Nobody’s parents.