“I guess she’s got quite a drug-dealing operation going,” Haven says. “Pharmaceuticals.”
Kevin shakes his head. “That’s so unsurprising, I can’t believe it even counts as gossip.”
“She has a bunch of high-end clients,” Haven says. “Apparently the ladies-who-summer are washing Vicodins down with those bottles of rosé when they have lunch at the Galley.”
“Good for Norah,” Kevin says. He doesn’t even like saying her name out loud. “She found a niche market.”
“The story gets worse,” Haven says.
Kevin closes his eyes.
“I guess. And this is only what I heard, Kev…”
“What?” he says impatiently. He can guarantee he doesn’t want to hear the next sentence out of Haven Silva’s mouth.
“One of her clients is your sister-in-law.”
“My…” It takes Kevin a second. His sister-in-law? Which sister-in-law? No, wait, there is only one: Jennifer. “Jennifer? Patrick’s wife, Jennifer?”
“That’s what I heard,” Haven says. “I thought you’d want to know.”
Kevin finds Haven’s tone so irritating that his first instinct is to tell her that she’s part of the problem. Probably she has shared this juicy nugget with all of the other mothers here at Children’s Beach. Norah Vale, his ex-wife, is purportedly selling pills to his sister-in-law, Jennifer. Jennifer hates Norah. Even when they were part of the same family, Jennifer didn’t have a nice word for Norah. And vice versa.
But Kevin applies his verbal brakes. He can’t lose his temper with Haven Silva. First of all, she’s telling him only because he should know the rumor is out there. Second, and far more important, Haven’s uncle Chester Silva is one of Nantucket’s five selectmen, and if Kevin wants to lease the Surfside shack, he’s going to need Chester’s support.
Kevin smiles at Haven and the smile is sincere. She named her son after her beloved younger brother, taken from them too soon. She is a good person.
“I doubt it’s true,” Kevin says. He lifts Genevieve out of the swing and she squawks in protest. “But thank you for letting me know.”
SUMMER
JENNIFER
Patrick’s release from jail is delayed by three weeks.
Why? Why? Jennifer wants to know why.
“I’m not sure why,” Patrick says over the phone. “Maybe I understood it wrong to begin with? Janine in Processing was adamant. I get out the twenty-first, not the first.”
Patrick sounds like he’s just going to roll over and accept his fate rather than fight it. He has been in jail too long; he’s become submissive. Where is her take-charge, fix-everything husband?
“Have you called Hollis?” Jennifer asks.
“I called him, he knows, but there’s nothing he can do about it, and even if there were something he could do about it, it would likely take the same amount of time I have to wait anyway. It’s only three more weeks,” Patrick says. “I’ve gotten through eighteen months. I can wait three more weeks.”
Maybe he can, but Jennifer can’t. June 1 is decorated with a pink heart on her calendar. In her mind, the day is a starburst. She has rationed her energy and her patience to make it to June 1-not a day longer. And certainly not three weeks longer. She has already planned a family dinner for Patrick’s first night home-poached salmon with mustard-dill sauce and the crispy potato croquettes that Patrick loves. And then the following two nights, Jennifer has farmed the boys out on sleepovers so that she and Patrick can have the house to themselves. She has bought new lingerie and new sheets; she has ordered a tin of osetra caviar and chilled a vintage bottle of Veuve. She has told Jaime, their youngest, that Patrick will make it to his final lacrosse game of the season. The plans are so embedded in Jennifer’s mind that she can’t shift them forward three weeks. She just can’t!
“It sounds like you want to stay in jail,” Jennifer says. “Maybe you have a little romance going on with Janine from Processing.”
“Jennifer,” Patrick says. “Please.”
“Please what?”
“Please try to understand. This isn’t my fault. It isn’t anyone’s fault. It was a misunderstanding. A scheduling glitch.”
Jennifer nods into the phone but she can’t speak. She knows it’s not Patrick’s fault. She knows she should accept this news gracefully and adjust her expectations. She’s an interior designer. She, of all people, understands delays. It happens all the time in her business-carpets from India get stuck in Customs, quarries run out of a particular kind of granite, her son Barrett gets walking pneumonia and Jennifer has to postpone an installation by a week.
“Okay,” she says. “We’ll see you on the twenty-first.”
“That’s my girl,” Patrick says.
Jennifer hangs up the phone. Immediately, she calls Norah Vale.
It’s June 20, the first day of summer, when Jennifer drives out to Shirley, Massachusetts, to pick Patrick up. She can’t seem to control her nerves, despite eating two Ativan for breakfast. Her heart is slamming in her chest, almost as if she’s afraid. Afraid of what? She went to visit Patrick a week ago Thursday and talked to him yesterday afternoon, but this is different. He’s coming home. He’s coming home!
Patrick is standing by the gate with his favorite guard, Becker, a man even Jennifer has come to know and appreciate. Jennifer barely remembers to put the car in park. She jumps out and runs into Patrick’s arms. He picks her up and they kiss like crazy teenagers until Becker clears his throat and says, “You all need to get a room.”
Patrick shakes Becker’s hand and says, “Thanks for having my back, man. I’m gonna miss you.”
“No, you won’t,” Becker says with a smile. “Now get out of here.”
Patrick drives them home. He says, “It’s like the world is brand-new. I missed driving.”
“You hate driving,” Jennifer says.
“I’ll never complain about it again,” Patrick says. “I’ll never complain about anything again.”
It’s a good lesson about the things we take for granted, Jennifer thinks. Patrick reenters the free world with the enthusiasm of a child.
Jennifer says, “What do you want to do first?”
He gives her a look as if to say Do you even have to ask that?
She swats his arm. “After that.”
“I want to hug my children,” he says.
“Obviously,” Jennifer says. “After that.”
“I want to stop at the store and get a cold six-pack,” he says. “I want to smell a flower. I want to take a bath. I want to get into a bed with my head on three fluffy pillows. I want to swim in the ocean. I want to go to the movies and get popcorn with too much butter. I want a glass of water filled with ice. You have no idea how much I’ve missed ice. I want to walk across Boston Common and smell the marijuana smoke and get asked for spare change. I want to wear my watch. I want to download music. I want to watch the sun go down. I want to throw the lacrosse ball with Jaime. I want to meet my new niece. I want my electric toothbrush. I want to wear my shirts, my boxers, my loafers.” He pauses. He seems overcome. “There are so many things.”
“There will be time,” Jennifer says. “I promise.” She knows what he means. He’s here, right here next to her. She puts her hand on the back of his head. She never wants to stop touching him.
“And you,” Patrick says. “You are amazing. You held everything together. You were so strong. You deserve a medal. I wouldn’t have blamed you if you’d left me, Jenny.”
“I would never leave you,” she says.
“I don’t know how you did it,” he says. “I don’t know how you got through the days. It must have been so hard on you and yet you never complained. You are my hero, Jennifer Barrett Quinn.”