North Haven Read online

  “She can’t stay. Tell her after dinner. We’ll eat, and sit by the fire, and in the morning she will go. On the early boat. Simply tell her that there isn’t enough room.”

  To Libby these words seem to echo through the empty house. Rooms will be filled tomorrow, when the others arrive, but still more will be empty, still half her bed will be empty. She had thought that her parents would love her friend so much, that after the first few days, she would tell them, and they would embrace the whole thing, hustle her friend up from the lonely back hall. “No couple should sleep in separate beds,” they would say. She did not expect this. It is hard to keep back tears, to feel, in this moment, an adult.

  “Are you sure?” she asks her mother, because she can’t believe that she is sure.

  “She needs to go home to her husband, and you need to stay here. I’m sure.”

  Libby sees. Her friend must go back to fucking men, and since there are no men for Libby to fuck at home, she must stay here, meet a nice lobsterman as her sister does every summer, every week; some weeks, every day. Better a slut than a dyke. She understands. Her mother’s certainty has been tied tight around her for years, ribbons pulled painful in her hair, around her neck. Her certainty has sat beside them at dinners in this house, another summer boy. He goes to St. Paul’s, Groton, Westminster, he plays lacrosse, crew, runs the paper, won a painting scholarship. This one will take what you have to give, what you have to lose.

  The sun is low now, and her mother’s hair is fire lit from the side, what is dark as earth and slick as rain, goes red with the light. And here her mother earns her name, in all her beauty and fire and cruelty. Scarlet upon the rocky shores; Scarlet burning bright as the sun dims. Scarlet is the destroyer of worlds with a hand bent delicate at the wrist, a tan line white where her watch has been. Those stolen pearls burn in Libby’s hand, they have hung beside the heart of a dragon, she thinks, and I have stolen them and they will burn my hand forever. There is no letting go, they cannot be put back.

  “We’ll go to town,” Libby says. “We’ll sleep in the inn there. I will not have her stay the night.”

  I will not let her sleep in the house with a dragon, all curled and smoky upon her pile of gold. Greedy.

  She wishes her dragon of a mother slept not on gold but on the dead pile of broken china, Royal Copenhagen, she had smashed at their father’s feet. She had made some deal, once a beautiful princess asleep on the sharp stones of broken plates and the sad, closed faces of smashed teacups, she became a dragon to turn her bed to gold. To keep a man beside her. Libby can’t believe she has never seen this before. For the last fifteen years of her life, she has not smelled this smoke. And now it forces her, her and her friend, out across the water, to the inn on the opposite shore. Libby heads into the house, to roll up her friend’s sleeping bag, to put her books back into her duffel, to take her toothbrush from the edge of the sink. She will cough as they motor over the thoroughfare in the Whaler, a smoky scratch at the back of her throat.

  TWENTY-TWO

  LIBBY

  July 10

  After lunch the weather turned, and the fog rolled in thick; and now the sun was hidden, too tired to burn off the mist. “Soup” their father would’ve called it.

  “The day had such a good start and now . . . ,” said Melissa, coming into the rug room.

  “Socked in,” said Libby, motioning out the arched window.

  Gwen and the boys were each napping. Fog inspired long naps. Libby sat on the chaise in the rug room, her legs crossed, a game of solitaire spread out before her, stacked and cascading, showing her efforts. She imagined playing at a casino, the dealer only letting her go through the deck three times. She was halfway through the second round; she must move slowly. Be deliberate.

  Melissa flopped a pot holder on the coffee table and put a teapot on it. Steam slipped lazily from its spout. The table was half covered with a jigsaw puzzle Melissa had been working on since she arrived. Libby stayed focused on her cards. It’s here somewhere, she thought, the opening, the space, the place to lay the next card.

  “You want more?” Melissa pointed to Libby’s empty mug.

  “Sure, thanks.”

  Melissa poured and Libby set down the deck, decided to let the cards breathe for a moment, consider their next move. A plate of cookies sat next to the teapot, half of which Libby had already eaten. Melissa helped herself. They both stared out the window into the fog, the thoroughfare somewhere in it. Low foghorns bleated far away. Even better than a train whistle, thought Libby, the sound of coming home.

  “Who’s winning?” said Melissa. She tapped a cookie on the plate like she was ashing a cigarette.

  Old habits, thought Libby. “I’ve decided that luck really isn’t a lady,” she said. “More like a fourteen-year-old boy. A distracted quick draw that is totally useless to me.”

  “I think that would make Frank Sinatra a pedophile,” said Melissa.

  “It’s just a theory.”

  “I still can’t get over that dinner on the Fourth.” Melissa held her teacup close to her chest.

  “Lobster can bring out the worst in people,” said Libby, imagining Tom standing on a stack of cookbooks and espousing the slow-cook method. They both looked toward the view they couldn’t see, ghost limbs of trees reaching black-sleeved out of the mist.

  “You know that Tom doesn’t mean to be insensitive or malicious.”

  Just controlling and condescending, thought Libby. “You’re legally obligated to be on his side,” she said as she shifted on the chaise, the wicker creaking.

  “That’s not entirely true. There are a lot of loopholes.”

  “You don’t agree with him, do you?”

  “It’s not that simple anymore.” Melissa sighed. She moved the cookie plate and tried to wedge a blue puzzle piece into an expanse of evening sky.

  “It seemed like you were on our side. I thought you were as attached to this place as we are.”

  “I understand where you’re both coming from, and if things were different, I would be behind you totally, but . . .”

  “What’s different?” Why does that stupid offer seem to make everything different to Tom? Libby wanted money to be what it was for her students, shiny coins best put to use when shoved up the nose or made of chocolate wrapped in foil.

  “Bibs, I love you. I love this family. I love this place.” Melissa turned the puzzle piece in her hand, spun the tiny bit of clear sky between her thumb and finger. “But giving up on it might be what has to be done.”

  “Why do I feel like a puppy you’re about to abandon by the side of the road?”

  “I just—I think Tom is trying to shield you all from what is going on with him, and in doing so he’s coming off as totally insensitive. He doesn’t want to give this place up, Bibs, but it’s how he needs it to go.” Melissa kept forcing the piece into different spots, wedging it and then having to torque it loose, a bad tooth. “Seven hundred thousand dollars would put both our kids through college with some left over. We need this money.”

  “Why on earth do you need it all of a sudden? Oh my God, you’re not pregnant, are you?”

  “God no—not possible.”

  “No?” Libby frowned. That can’t be good.

  “Tom and I are separating.”

  Melissa put her hand on Libby’s, and Libby could feel the heat from her teacup still clinging to her fingers. Was this what her friends had all gone through as kids? Hearing these words from their parents, instead of siblings, hot hands on theirs, disorientation?

  Funny that you can see something coming, thought Libby, and it’s still a shock when it arrives like a bus you’ve been waiting for, coming in too close to the curb, you have to step back suddenly, afraid it will clip you.

  “Are you sure?”

  “He started the ball rolling, and the thing is, now I see I can’t stop it. I tried for a long time. I still do sometimes, but now, I think too much time has gone by.”

  “Do you love
him?” Libby wasn’t even sure why she asked this. She had always assumed Melissa’s love for Tom was unconditional, involuntary, like thirst or watching It’s a Wonderful Life at Christmas. Something commanded by the autonomic nervous system, like blinking.

  “The money, selling the house,” Melissa said, shrugging her shoulders, “would cover the cost of the divorce. It would pay for us to become a two-household family. It would let us make a really smooth transition for the kids, for ourselves.”

  “Have you guys been to therapy? Is there someone else?” How could Tom want anyone but Melissa?

  “There was someone, a while ago, but I ended it hoping that Tom would want to—that we could fix things, but now I can’t pretend that Tom’s ever going to give me what I need. I love him. But sometimes it’s just not enough. I tried really hard.” She began to cry now. “I didn’t want this. Not any of it. I kept saying I’m not happy. I tried to get us into therapy. You can imagine how that went.”

  Of course there was someone else. Suddenly they, as a couple, made sense. Libby could see how Melissa had lasted so long held at arm’s length. She had found company out there at the cold edge of Tom’s fingertips. Libby stood up and took the two steps to Melissa’s chair, hugged her hard. Melissa startled, then went limp in her arms.

  “I cheated, I don’t deserve a hug,” said Melissa into Libby’s shoulder.

  “He knows, right? So I’ll let Tom hate you for that one. When it comes to love, I’m not exactly rigid about things. I was with someone a long time ago,” said Libby. “She was married. Sometimes things don’t work. You want them to, and they just can’t.” She remembered two rings sitting on her bedside table. She remembered watching someone else’s wife climb from her bed, put those rings back on. Libby had wanted to hide them, bury them in the dirt of her ficus tree, as if it were the rings that compelled her to leave each time, to stay gone longer, to never come back. What if someone had told Riley it was okay to leave her husband?

  “Tom knows, but he doesn’t seem to even really acknowledge it. It happened a year ago, and he acts like it never happened. Or that it has nothing to do with us. Or maybe that I don’t. I’ve become a piece of furniture. He’s obviously so angry, but sometimes it feels like he’s been angry for years. And now I’m losing him, and you guys, and my entire life. We haven’t even told the kids.”

  Libby moved back to the chaise so she could look her in the eyes. Melissa drew her knees up to her chest, rested her chin on them.

  “He doesn’t get to decide how this goes,” said Libby. “You get to be in our lives, no matter what.”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t even be telling you. We decided not to tell anyone until the fall, but—I just don’t want you to think that he’s being adamant about the house for no reason. This is a piece of your family.”

  “You know it’s okay to get divorced. It’s okay to want to be happy,” said Libby. Melissa sniffed and blew her nose on a cocktail napkin. She smiled.

  “You could say the same thing about marriage.”

  “Well, I never really thought it would be an option for us, so—” Libby picked up a puzzle piece, black and speckled. It belonged to a building in the skyline.

  “Sometimes it’s better to let go than to hang on to the idea of something. My idea of my relationship will never be the reality. Maybe the idea of being single is what you need to let go of,” said Melissa.

  “I don’t know.” Libby slowly moved the piece over building after building in the half-assembled image. “I like being free.”

  “Lonely, empty freedom.”

  “How did this become about me? You’re dumping my brother; this is about you.”

  “One, he’s dumping me. Two, you are in a relationship that actually works, with someone you love. Just stop being such a chickenshit.”

  Sometimes courage isn’t enough, thought Libby. Sometimes you can take all the risks, and it still doesn’t go the way you want.

  “Do you love the other guy?” she asked.

  Here Melissa’s chin knotted for a moment, she started to say something but stopped. Instead she nodded and shrugged. She began to sigh, but it caught in her chest.

  “I love Tom more, but at a certain point it doesn’t matter.”

  “That’s so fucking depressing.” Libby picked up the deck of cards and looked over her game, realizing she had played it as far as it could go. “Want to play Spit?”

  “Is it too early to start drinking?”

  “Never. You’re on vacation, and your kids are at home. Go ask Gwen what she wants. She’s reading in the great room. I bet you money she turns you down.”

  “Why? Is she on some cleanse?”

  “I have a theory.” Libby held up the deck fanned out and whispered from behind it. “She’s been sleeping a lot, she hasn’t been drinking, and she said something about honey being pasteurized.” She holds the cards to her lips a moment. “I think she’s pregnant.”

  “No. I was thinking her figure was looking a little more hourglass lately. I should’ve guessed. You think she’ll keep it? I don’t want to miss a Willoughby baby.”

  Melissa put her head in her hands and started crying all over again. Libby stood up and patted Melissa’s shoulder, waiting for her breathing to slow, for the shudders to ebb out of her. She offered her a cookie. Poured more tea in her cup. Then went into the dining room to the sideboard, pulled out the whiskey, and returned to the rug room and the puzzle. She unscrewed the cap and poured a good swallow into Melissa’s tea.

  “A hot toddy cures all. Don’t worry, Mel. We won’t let you miss anything. You’re stuck with us.”

  Melissa smiled weakly and took the mug from Libby’s hands. Though Libby could see in her eyes Melissa didn’t believe her. They both looked down at the puzzle, the San Francisco skyline at dusk, the only high-rises for a hundred miles.

  TWENTY-THREE

  ANOTHER OCTOBER

  It is the packing up, the putting away that their mother has avoided, that has kept her here a month and a half past her usual departure. The smell of leaves is strong. The oaks in the meadow are yellow now, their leaves almost translucent, moist, reverting to the full, pulped look of spring, tender in their fading, in their falling. The grass has gone gold, and over it come the leaves that give it a skin, a surface that undulates like water. The water is golden now in the afternoons with the lower sun, and then it turns fast, going gray and finally black with the quickening darkness. Their mother has left it all, each pillow and mattress, each chair, all in their summer spots.

  She is with him here; in the city he will be gone. He lingers here: his feet propped on the porch rail, his hands wrapped around the binoculars, his slapping feet with long toes that thump and shush along the great room floor as he chooses a spot for his afternoon nap. He was a cat always asleep in the sun.

  He is in the water. Tom scattered him there. She told him to, to go alone in the sloop to the center of the thoroughfare and fling his father forth, to live in the atoms of the sea. To settle to the floor of the harbor and billow up when the lobsters pass, when the traps go up and come down. To twist against the rudders of the Johnnies during their races as they swing around the buoy, to shake with the ringing of the channel marker, to wash over the backs of seals and the pebbles of their own boathouse beach. He will have the best view of the jammers now, no need for the binoculars. And when the boats go too fast he can whip himself up into a storm or a fog, to slow the world to puttering motors and dropped sails, to the long bleats of foghorns, like birdcalls, I am here, you are there.

  She made Tom do it. He didn’t want to. She knew her boy hated his father. Her stomach turns when she thinks of that day, watching the All-American swim to shore, rowing back to the float, climbing out of that dinghy and up the path. Her throat closes when she remembers her husband—her ocean, her heart—say to her back, “I don’t feel loved.” She had heard him, but did nothing. She came up the steps, the wet footprints of the All-American still dark on the dry wood
. And there was her Tom crumpled and small in the peacock chair. Her husband had stopped on the path, not yet in view of the porch, stunned by his own realization that maybe she didn’t love him and so there was nothing to feel. She had put a finger to her lips, and took her son, silent, by the wrist, rough and fast around the corner to the south porch. They stood under a stone arch next to a broken lattice gate. She held him by both shoulders and looked up into his eyes. At seventeen he had grown three inches taller than she. He couldn’t look at her; he flailed like a tree in a storm.

  “Be still,” she commanded. He went limp. “Look at me.”

  From his hanging head he looked through his eyebrows at his mother. She looked beautiful, her hair a thicket, her cheeks sunburned, her eyes bright.

  “Your father.”

  He groaned. She would not let him go.

  “He is the greatest man. Whatever he decides, whoever he turns out to be, his greatness is not diminished. Your good qualities are his; you hate him, you hate yourself. And whatever this is, I am just as responsible. I have made a hole in your father’s life. He has responded badly, but who he is with is not the issue. Look at me. Not the issue.”

  And then she turned him loose like a dog desperate to be outside. He stepped off the porch into the meadow and huffed off toward the blueberries, his long legs preceding him.

  And so Tom hated his father. Hated him for her. She knew her oldest had her best interests at heart. But as the baby grew inside her all she wanted was her husband; she no longer cared about the things he did and didn’t do. She saw only how alone he must have been before their split, even in the house with her. How she had left him. She kept words and tenderness from him. She left him in empty rooms to read alone. She shunned his company, his heart. So he found someone who would stay. In the moment, the difference between the young man and his wife was cosmic. But no one better than the other. No, the truth was the young man was better then. Well, kinder. And she, she was lucky. She was not better for him, not for skin or flesh or satisfaction of genetic urges; he simply loved her more. He loved the All-American. She accepted that. But he told her once that the All-American was lightning, ephemeral and brilliantly blinding, and she was the sky, expansive and sheltering, without which there is nothing at all.