CHA PTE R 17
ENDALL GETS QUIET AFTER HER third glass of wine, Ellen doesK not. She wants to know when anyone is going to bother opening the pool house this summer. She wants to know if Henry plans on having the south tennis court repaved or if he’ll just let that languish too.
Grant rattles the ice in his bourbon to free the last sip.
“Put Stewart on that. Maybe he could hire a bunch of artisans from Europe to come hand-pave the whole thing.”
“Good one,” Stewart says.
Grant turns to me. “Preservation. That’s his thing.
Nothing new and efficient, nothing that makes money.
Stewart likes to stick to the vision.” He uses a single air
quote, which seems lazy.
Ellen says, “Grant, you’re drunk.”
“Am I, Mother?” He rolls his eyes and says to me, “He’s going all in on some restoration project in San Francisco.
We’ll ride his love of old crap all the way to the poorhouse.”
Stewart turns to me and says, “Grant’s not a huge fan of the Kramer deal. If it were up to him we’d tear down the Paul Revere House and put up a 7-Eleven.” I match his smile and rest my hand on his to show my loyalty. I am distracted by the way the skin on the back of his hand feels against my palm and the way he loops his pinkie over mine, like a tossed leg over a bedsheet in the morning.
“I’m sure the San Francisco project will be lovely,”
Victoria says.
Henry folds his hands on the table and leans in. “Nothing wrong with honoring the family vision if it’s also going to make money,” he says.
“Stewart missed the part about how making moneyis the family vision,” Grant says.
Stewart takes his hand from me and leans forward. “The numbers on the Kramer deal are quite good.”
Grant says, “Quite good,” and rolls his eyes. “Quite good isn’t good enough, especially for a project that’s going to take forever. I have three projects lined up to close in nine months that will outearn your Kramer project by double.”
“But is this dinner boring enough?” Busy asks, sipping her coffee. “That’s the real question.”
Henry shushes her. “This will be a big topic with the board in the fall.” He looks at Stewart directly. “It’s important to have an eye toward change. Grant’s strip malls and cell towers aren’t pretty, but they’ll keep the lights on. I have a hard time believing the numbers for San Francisco are that great.”
Victoria places a hand on his forearm. “Can we not?”
“There’s a lot more to it than the returns,” Stewart says.
“If you see the drawings and understand the history. If I walked you through the whole thing, you’d see it’s much more in line with who we are.”
“Broke?” asks Grant with a laugh. “I didn’t know that’s who we are now.” He’s definitely drunk.
“There comes a time to rethink who we are,” Henry says.
“It’s saved our asses more than once, having the instincts to shift gears when we needed to. My grandfather did. My dad did too. And with every new generation it’s a crapshoot to
see if we have that kind of leader.” He’s looking at Stewart, a challenge.
Stewart stiffens next to me. His hands are folded tight on the table, as if he’s trying to crush something inside them.
Henry takes a sip of his coffee. “Otherwise, we’ll all have jobs handing out brochures to people who show up for tours of this old place.”
Victoria starts to say something, but Grant interrupts her with a laugh. “I can totally picture that. Crowds of people gawking at Great-Granddad stuff, listening to the story of how Stewart Whitfield took the reins and let it all go to shit.”
“Ah, there it is,” Busy says. “Grant’s prediction of who gets the job.” Oscar laughs, but Henry keeps his hard stare on Stewart.
I turn to Stewart because it’s his turn to say something mildly insulting to Grant. But his face seems frozen, almost expressionless.
“Excuse me,” he says to the napkin he’s placing on his plate, and he walks into the house. My eyes follow him until he’s disappeared into the living room. My heart is telling me to go after him, but I don’t listen.
Oscar passes me the tray of biscotti. “Sorry, Dolly. These two. It never ends. When we were little, they’d race to that bunch of rocks in the middle of the bay. Loser would have to swim back naked. They’d race the horses on the beach.
They’d even compete to see who could make their ice cream last the longest.”
“Stewart always won that,” Busy says. “Made of steel.”
“Denying himself any kind of pleasure is his superpower,”
Oscar says with a laugh, though I don’t know why that’s funny. “Grant has no patience. Hence the strip malls.” Grant
raises his glass in agreement.
“And did you compete too?” I ask Oscar.
He leans back in his chair. “Never. While they fought to
the death, I got all the girls.”
Lilly gives him a little shove.
“What? I can’t help it if I’m the handsome one,” he says and grins.
Busy laughs and tosses her napkin at him. “Oh please.”
You’ve got to love the middle child. The tension that was simmering at the table is broken. I look across at Oscar, and he is handsome. Light brown wavy hair that dips low over green eyes. He has a devilish smile that likely works wonders at getting women undressed. I can imagine him honing his ability to keep things light when his little sister was so sick. I think of Stewart and all the pleasure he denies himself, working tirelessly to protect the legacy of the people around this table—none of whom seem to be concerned about his absence.
Dinner is officially over and Stewart still isn’t back. Lilly’s talking about her kids’ swimming program, and no one seems to think anything of the empty chair next to me. As the minutes pass, I get more and more worried. Something is clearly wrong. I know Stewart well enough to know that he is duty bound to a fault. He wouldn’t leave me alone here, uncomfortable with his family. I excuse myself to use the restroom, hoping I’ll find him wrapping up an urgent call in the big formal living room. He isn’t there, so I make my way through the dining room and into the main foyer. I stand on the black-and-white-checkered marble floor, looking up the wide white marble staircase. I don’t dare climb the stairs and start opening doors to all the places he could be—a bedroom suite, a private office.
I text him and get no reply. Worry spreads across my chest. He’s not okay. Stewart’s under a lot of stress. He has
panic attacks. No one in his family seems to be doing anything to make things easier for him, and I wish I could.
“Are you looking for the restroom?” Gladys asks from the doorway.
“No, actually. I’m looking for Stewart. Have you seen him?”
She gives me a solemn smile. “He left through the kitchen. He won’t have gone far. He wouldn’t have left you.”
Ah, Gladys is the one who knows him the way I do.
I follow her back through the formal living room, then the dining room, toward the kitchen. I thank her and wave awkwardly at two women who are washing dishes and make my way out the delivery entrance. It’s quiet out here, with the huge limestone house blocking me from the waves. The only sound is my feet on the gravel, like I’m walking on diamonds.
I walk toward the formal gardens and find Stewart sitting on the ground with his back to a small stone bench. His large frame is slumped over his knees, and I crouch down next to him.
“Stewart. Look at me,” I say. He raises his head but doesn’t meet my eyes. “You’ve gone pale. Are you okay?”
He’s taking shallow breaths and shakes his head a tiny bit.
“Want me to get you inside?” I ask, and he shakes his head no. His eyes are unfocused, and his forehead is damp. I reach up to touch his cheek and then his forehead, like I would to Gus. He’s clammy. “Tell me what you need,” I say.
“Is this a panic attack?”
He keeps taking shallow breaths, and I place a hand on his chest. His heart is beating so quickly that it scares me.
“Stewart, say something.”
“Yes. Panic attack,” he says.
“Okay,” I say. “You’re going to be okay.” I put my hands on his face again and force him to look me in the eye. “You’re going to be absolutely fine. I’ve got you.” He nods, but his eyes are heavy. “Is it okay if I put my arms around you? A hug is good to reset the nervous system.”
“Yes,” he says.
Without giving it any thought, I climb sideways onto his lap. I wrap my arms around his neck and am hit by the narcotic smell of him, but I can’t meet his eyes from this angle. This hug isn’t about me floating into another reality; it’s supposed to be about bringing him back to this one. I hike up my dress and shift so I’m straddling him. I place a hand on either side of his neck, and his eyes focus on me. He rests his forehead against mine, and I make a big show of breathing deeply to remind him to do the same. I weave my fingers up into his hair and back down his neck, letting the rhythm calm me too. “You’re okay. We’re okay,” I say over and over until his breaths start to deepen.
“I’m sorry,” he says after a while. “I’m fine.” He runs a hand through his hair, and I feel the ghost of where it had been resting on my thigh. I shift off his lap to sit beside him, arranging my dress the best I can.
“Do you want to go back inside?” I ask. Some of his color has returned. “Or I could throw you in the back of my getaway car?”
He gives me a weak smile and stands up, offering me a hand. When we’re face-to-face, he pulls me into a hug. I can feel his rabbit heartbeat against my cheek as I wrap my arms around his back. He smooths the back of my hair with one hand and holds me tight with the other. “This is actually lifesaving touching,” he whispers. “Thank you.”
I’m not ready to break the hug. It’s resetting my adrenals too, so I hang on for an extra few seconds. His shirt has been
laundered in lavender and I breathe it in. “Okay, that was crazy,” I say when I pull away. I reach up and touch his face again. I run my thumbs along his cheekbones. Last time it was diagnostic, but this time I just feel like it. We have broken the touch barrier and are standing inches apart, looking at each other with new eyes.
“I’m fine,” he says. “A little embarrassed, but fine.”
“Don’t be. Your dad’s kind of terrifying.” I rest my hand on his chest. “Your heart is still beating fast, let’s walk around a little bit.”
He loops my arm through his and we make our way through the gardens in silence. We pass snapdragons and white spray roses. I stop to run my finger over the tiny sharp petals of a red dahlia.
Beyond the formal gardens is an ivy-covered archway that’s dripping with cherry tomatoes in all stages of ripeness.
Without thinking, I pick one and pop it into my mouth. It explodes with unexpected sweetness. These are not Stop n’ Save tomatoes. He reaches a hand toward my mouth, then stops himself. “Just there,” he says, as I lick a tomato seed from my lip. His eyes stay on my mouth. I blush and look
through the archway.
“Can we go in?” I ask.
“Into the vegetable garden?”
I nod. “I bet it’s totally calming.” I think we could both use that at this point.
“Okay,” he says. I go first, ducking under the tomato archway, and emerge into a circular garden. Eggplant, peppers, zucchini, and string beans. Red leaf lettuce and kale. There’s a separate raised bed for herbs, and I lean down to pick a bit of the rosemary. Stewart sits on the edge of the bed, so I do too.
“Do you mind?” I ask, and hold up the rosemary. “This smells so good, and now I want to make an olive oil cake.”
“That sounds delicious.”
“So do you want to talk about it?” I ask. “What just
happened?”
He shakes his head.
“Give me your hand,” I say, and take it on my lap, palm side up. I run a finger along his lifeline. I trace his thumb and each of his fingers over and over again. I am hypnotizing myself with the rough feel of his skin and the smell of the rosemary and basil.
“This is really relaxing,” he says. “Should come in pill form.”
I look up at him and smile. I place a hand on his heart again and feel how he’s calmed down a bit. “Saved your life, no extra charge,” I say. He smiles at me and it’s different, softer. His guard is down, and I feel like it might be possible to climb right inside him.
After a while, he says, “I hate mansion tours. My dad knows that. Just the idea of ogling someone else’s failure.
Looking at people’s bathtubs beyond red ropes. Those were real people whose families no longer live there. They built something that a later generation let slip away.” He takes a
full breath and lets it out.
“That’s not going to happen to you.”
“History says otherwise, Dolly.” He holds his hand out to me again, and I start tracing it, running my finger up and over and down the outside of each of his, like my kindergarteners do with a crayon to draw a turkey.
“What does history say?” I ask.
“We were a big shipping company originally, but all that business moved out of Boston to New York in the 1800s.”
“Everyone knows this, Stewart.” I roll my eyes dramatically. I’m joking around but fail to lighten the mood.
“And then you evolved into a real estate company.”
“But before that we were on a major downward financial spiral for two generations. My grandfather had the foresight to save us by redeveloping all our waterfront property and pivoting into real estate. My dad took it from there, and I don’t know what I’d do if it was on me and things started going south again. The idea that strangers might walk through our home someday, listening through their AirPods to the story of how Stewart Whitfield screwed it all up. As you saw tonight, it’s the thing panic attacks are made of.”
He looks up and I see it on his face, the truth of what he’s just said.
“I’m terrified of letting my family down,” he says. He waits for me to say something, but I just keep running my fingers between his. “I want to be CEO, especially if the alternative is Grant. But I don’t know if I have the vision or the instincts or whatever it is that my dad’s always talking about. If the bad thing comes, I don’t know if I’ll know how to pivot.”
I unbutton his cuff and trail my fingers up his forearm.
We’re both watching my hands, and I hear his breathing slow.
“Why doesn’t Oscar work with you?” I ask.
“I think he feels left behind. And he probably looks at my life and wants no part of it. And Busy. I think she feels she’s supposed to show up as an executive somewhere, you know?
I wish she had an entry-level job like I did, right out of school.”
“Busy will find her thing,” I say, brushing his palm with my fingers.
“She will. She’s a big thinker under all the”—he waves his free hand in the air in a chaotic way, and I laugh.
“Ah, you’re feeling better,” I say.
He takes a breath. “Yeah, I am. Thank you for this.” He folds his hand over mine. “Second time I’m being rescued by the same tiny little woman.” He’s giving me his softest smile.
“Do we have any more engagements this week?” I ask.
“I don’t think so,” he says. “I have a lot of work on my plate.”
I nod, an unwelcome disappointment bubbling up. “I might take a few extra shifts at the fish house, and they’re dropping off shingles for the new roof at some point.”
“Still not starting till August?”
“Yes, and it’s all on budget. Just under fifty thousand, as
expected.”
“You only needed fifty?”
I smile. “A deal’s a deal. And a girl should have a little cushion.”
He laughs and it lights up his face. When his eyes land on mine, there’s something happy there, like he’s just gotten great news. “Is there anything else that needs fixing?”
“Just a bit of the sleeping porch, from the fire. But I’ve started that on my own.” I don’t mention the way I’ve reattached the screen with duct tape from the outside. “I sleep out there. With the frogs and the cool night air.”
“Sounds like heaven,” he says. We sit and look at each other for a bit. I hold up my rosemary bouquet, and he closes his eyes and smells it. I’ve never seen him with closed eyes, and even though it’s for just a few seconds, I have a flash of us in bed, his hair splayed out on a crisp white pillow. His mouth soft and unworried. Maybe an arm thrown across my hip, one leg out from under the covers. He’d smile when he opened his eyes, just like he’s doing now, and I’d kiss him.
It’s my imagination, I’m sure, but he leans in a bit toward me. Lips slightly parted.
“I should really get home,” I say, because I have clearly been drugged in this garden.
“Yes,” he says, pulling away. “You can really lose track of things out here.”
