“Daddy!” Alicia said, horrified.

  “Mortimer,” Eleanor said angrily.

  Mortimer sat down again, but his fists were clenched on the table. “You’re no son of mine,” he growled.

  Cliff shoved back his chair and left the table.

  Eleanor wanted to go to her son, but she knew that would divide Cliff from his father even more. She was surprised, and relieved, when Alicia ran from the table to be with her brother.

  Eleanor knew that in his heart Mortimer loved his son. Mortimer had been raised in a strict, unaffectionate family, and he’d been taught to value strength and tradition. In his family, men were tough and in charge and women were always in the home behind the kitchen sink or the vacuum cleaner. Eleanor’s heart was divided between sympathy for her son and anger at her husband.

  The next year, Cliff was sent away to an elite boys’ boarding school. When he graduated and went on to college, he no longer had any interest in working for the Peace Corps. He was interested only in making money. He became a real estate agent in Boston, and did well. Was Cliff happy? He seemed to be. But Eleanor was afraid that Cliff’s life was devoted to showing his father he could make a lot of money, too.

  When Cliff was twelve years old, he’d broken his arm playing baseball. All that summer at the Nantucket house, Cliff had lounged on the wicker sofa on the deck, listening to Eleanor read aloud various tales of Sherlock Holmes by Arthur Conan Doyle. She read to him because he couldn’t properly hold a book. She could have rigged up a cassette player so he could listen to a professional reader, but somehow she’d started, and it had been such a perfect way to be with her son. He’d loved the stories, and they had been together, sharing a time they’d always remember.

  How Eleanor had loved Cliff when he was a little boy. He’d been so sweet, so earnest. But of course he’d changed. When he was a senior in his boarding school, he’d been tall and handsome, like Mortimer, with a kind of easy superiority in the way he carried himself. In the fall of that year, the head of the school asked Eleanor and Mortimer to come in for a talk. It seemed that Cliff had been driving—only seniors were allowed to drive—into Boston, where he bought bottles of expensive vodka and bottles of cheap rotgut liquor. He was so tall, so broad-shouldered, so blasé, that no one asked for his ID. They assumed he was over twenty-one, and he always had cash. Back at the school, Cliff would empty the bottles of Absolut vodka into flasks and jars. He would then pour the cheap vodka into the Absolut bottles and sell shots to underclassmen at vastly inflated prices.

  Eleanor was heartbroken about this. Cliff was suspended for a month, but was allowed to finish the semester and graduate with his class. Mortimer had appeared angry and disappointed with his son, but when Eleanor and Mortimer were alone, he told her he actually was quite proud of Cliff’s enterprising adventure and by the summer, Mortimer had turned the episode into a witty tale about his son’s genius in moneymaking. That summer on the island, Cliff took a job on a boat launch and spent his free time with friends and girls. He grew taller than Mortimer and handsomer, too. He condescended to Eleanor, but clearly he had grown away from the sweet little boy and the ethically inspired boy he had once been.

  Now Cliff was thirty-nine. He’d been a great comfort when Mortimer died, walking down the aisle after the memorial service with his arm around Eleanor’s waist, supporting her. He had stayed in the bluff house for a week, doing business on his phone and computer, but also coaxing Eleanor out for walks on the beach and dinner at good restaurants. He hadn’t talked about his personal life, and Eleanor was very curious about that, because he was then thirty-six and not married or in a serious relationship. But the week he was with her after her husband’s death, Eleanor was overwhelmed with grief and couldn’t think straight. That week their relationship changed, so that he was taking care of her more than she would ever take care of him again.

  He’d been a truly dutiful son after Mortimer’s death. He’d brought her up to Boston to see plays and eat at expensive restaurants at least once a month, but he’d never had a companion with him. And that worried her.

  Once, during a phone call several months ago, knowing it was sometimes easier to discuss intimate things at a distance, she’d said, “Cliff, you know I’ll love you no matter what. Just a thought: Are you gay? Because that would be cool.”

  She could almost hear him rolling his eyes over the phone. “No, Mom, I’m not gay. I would have told you. I date women, but I’m extremely busy.”

  “I worry that you’re lonely,” Eleanor had said, and she knew she was intruding a step too far into his adult life.

  “You can be lonely when you’re married,” Cliff had responded, not unkindly.

  How odd it was, Eleanor thought, to have grown children who’ve become people you don’t really know. Or maybe it was this way only in her family.

  Even so, Eleanor put on a fresh dress and brushed her thick hair into a loose bun. She made curried egg salad sandwiches with fresh strawberries and ice cream for dessert. By noon the summer heat was rising, but the deck was in shadows and the air was fresh and cool, so she put out placemats and cloth napkins in navy blue with white piping, not that Cliff would notice. His beer was cooling in the refrigerator. Eleanor no longer drank wine at lunch because it made her need a nap.

  Cliff arrived wearing a pink rugby shirt—Mortimer would hate the color but it emphasized Cliff’s tan.

  “Hi, Mom,” he said, coming into the house and giving her a big hug.

  She did like the big hug, even if Cliff had ulterior motives.

  “Let’s get that air conditioner in before we have lunch,” he suggested.

  They went down to the basement. Cliff lifted the appliance as if it weighed nothing. He carried it up to Eleanor’s bedroom, raised the window and storm window, and easily slid the air conditioner into place.

  “Thank you,” Eleanor said. “I think I’m beyond carrying air conditioners upstairs.”

  She expected him to say, That’s why you should move, but Cliff only said, “I’ll just wash my hands and we can have lunch.”

  When they sat at the table, Cliff did what Mortimer often did—focused on his food while maintaining a pretense of conversation that made Eleanor do most of the talking. She told him about Ari’s job, and he said he was impressed, but he didn’t pause to remember that once, years ago, he might have done the same thing. They agreed the new minister at St. Paul’s was quite a find for their small island congregation. They reminisced about yacht club members who had passed away, and who among the current members had married, or had children, or grandchildren.

  “Grandchildren are nice,” Eleanor said pointedly. “Especially babies and young ones. I love Ari, but I miss being around little children.”

  Cliff didn’t bother to respond. Instead, he pushed his empty plate away, wiped his mouth on a napkin, and settled back in his chair.

  “I want to talk to you about something,” he said.

  “Oh, no, Cliff, please—” Eleanor objected.

  “It’s not about selling this house.”

  She took a deep breath. “All right, then. What is this something?”

  “Do you think Dad enjoyed being a father?”

  She was not expecting this. Her son’s gaze was intense. She didn’t want to lie. “Your father was very proud of you. He loved you very much.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  Eleanor sighed. “Cliff, I know Mortimer was not a…a fun father. His own father had been serious and rather aloof. He was Mortimer’s role model. Your father wanted to protect you financially, and provide a good life for you. Don’t forget all the countries he took us to every summer. Few children have that experience.”

  Cliff finished his beer and spent a moment looking into the glass. Not meeting his mother’s gaze, Cliff said, “You think he was glad he had children?”

  “Cliff, yes! Don’t ever doubt that. Mortimer was very glad he had children. You were the world to him. He just wasn’t a very demonstrative man. But he loved you and Alicia with all his heart.”

  Cliff nodded. “Thanks, Mom.” He stood up suddenly and walked to the end of the deck, where he stood staring out at the ocean for a few moments.

  Eleanor sat quietly. These private conversations with her son were rare.

  Cliff came back to the table and sat down. He looked lighthearted now, and Eleanor was pleased that he’d been able to ask her about Mortimer.

  “Mom, there’s something else I’d like to talk to you about.”

  “Of course, darling. What is it?” She smiled at him, her handsome, precious son.

  “I’d like you to spend some time with me going over your legal and financial affairs.”

  Eleanor was too shocked to respond. Had his question about his father been nothing more than a way to soften her up for more talk about money?

  Cliff continued. “For example, do you have a healthcare proxy? Someone who can make a decision about medical matters if you can’t.”

  “Someone to sign the Do Not Resuscitate order,” Eleanor said coldly.

  Cliff didn’t even wince. “Do you want to be an organ donor? Do you have a will? Have you provided someone with a durable power of attorney? Do you—”

  “Enough, Cliff! That’s enough.” Her own son had played her. She felt betrayed.

  “Mom, be sensible. For all I know, you have this all taken care of. If so, tell me. But you’re like Dad, so secretive about financial matters. I don’t even know if you have enough savings to live on for the next ten years. For the next five years.”

  “You said we weren’t going to talk about selling my house.” Eleanor’s voice shook from anger.

  “We’re not talking about that. We’re talking about the fact that you are a seventy-year-old widow living alone on a bluff facing the Atlantic. Come on, Mom. You must have friends who have made these sorts of decisions. What’s going to happen if you get Alzheimer’s? Parkinson’s?”

  “Has Alicia put you up to this?”

  “No, Mom, but if she did, she’d be doing the right thing. You need to make some decisions while you can.”

  “Before I go gaga, you mean.”

  “Before you trip over the cat and fall down the stairs and can’t reach the phone.”

  The image was so hideous and actually so possible that Eleanor scraped back her chair and stood up, trembling all over. “I’d like you to leave now.”

  “Mom, I’m sorry I upset you. I only mean the best.”

  She tried to keep her dignity. “Please leave.”

  Cliff stood up. He carefully picked up his dessert plate and coffee cup and carried them into the kitchen. Eleanor followed him, not carrying her plate for fear of dropping and breaking it.

  “Mom,” Cliff said. “At least do this. Talk to your friends. I’ll bet they’re discussing the same sorts of things.”

  Eleanor was on the point of tears, but she was damned if she’d cry in front of him, so without another word she left the kitchen, crossed the hall, and went up the stairs, praying she didn’t trip over the cat.

  She strode into her bedroom, slammed the door shut, and paced, muttering to herself. She wasn’t senile. She didn’t live in a fantasy world. Occasionally, she and her friends had talked about all those morbid but necessary subjects: wills, DNRs, power of attorney. After Mortimer died, Eleanor had decided to take care of all that unattractive paperwork for herself, but somehow she’d never found the time. She was too busy in the summer, and in the dead of winter, with the sky as dark as a coffin lid, she couldn’t bring herself to organize herself for death.

  She would do it. Tomorrow, this week. She would.

  The fact that she had a will didn’t mean she was going to die. It just kind of felt that way.

  She heard Cliff’s car leaving her driveway. She didn’t want to spend this beautiful day thinking about the end of her life. She wanted to do something positive!

  In a flash, she came up with a plan. She would make tees for the children at Beach Camp. Her tears vanished. She almost ran out of her room.

  First, Eleanor made a mock-up from one of Cliff’s old childhood tees she’d found wrapped around crystal in a box in the attic. She was excited about her idea, so she forced herself to be orderly as she searched all the drawers and cupboards in her mother’s sewing room. Well, her sewing room now. First, she used the basic embroidery backstitch on her brilliant sewing machine for the letters. Each letter was about two inches wide. After sewing, she flattened the letters with a warm iron. She held up her first creation and studied it.

  BEACH

  CAMP

  Not quite right. The embroidered letters were heavier than the cotton shirt. That wouldn’t do.

  Undeterred and seized with excitement for her project, she went into town, bought fifteen plain white tees in three different sizes, a pack of large-letter stencils, and three non-toxic, non-fading, non-bleeding fabric markers.

  Back in the sewing room, she moved the sewing machine aside in order to spread the tee out on the wide table. She selected the letters she needed, laying them out so they touched a ruler, and picked up a broad-tipped red pen.

  Or should it be blue? Blue was the color of the ocean.

  No, red. It was more joyful.

  She took her time filling in the letters. She didn’t want these to look sloppy. After each letter, she sat back and took a breath.

  It was nice, being in this small, quiet, warm room at the back of the hall. Unlike the chaos of the attic, the sewing room was extremely neat and organized. The closet held bolts of fabric that had been used for dresses or curtains. One side of the room was shelves with baskets devoted to knitting, crocheting, and needlepointing. The long table where Eleanor sat held the sewing machine and a wicker basket lined with rose-printed muslin that contained dressmaker’s scissors, pinking shears, a tape measure, and a pair of tiny gold embroidery scissors shaped like a bird with a long thin bill for snipping threads. On the shelf nearest her were a red cloth tomato stuck with straight pins with fat heads and a fabric tomato stuck with safety pins. In the far corner of the room was a dressmaker’s dummy. Years ago, Eleanor had taken pity on the headless, naked dummy and wrapped one of her grandmother’s shawls around it.

  Eleanor’s mother’s mother had turned up her nose at store-bought clothes. Winifred had had a dressmaker who helped her create dresses, slips, and nightgowns that fit her measurements precisely. In the black-and-white photographs, Winifred always looked neat, even regal, with her long hair in braids fastened tidily to the back of her head. Eleanor had no idea what her grandmother looked like with her hair down.

  Now here Eleanor was in the same room where her grandmother had been painstakingly pinned into a figure-fitting one-of-a-kind dress. Eleanor was making matching tees for her granddaughter’s charges at Beach Camp.

  It made Eleanor smile. She lifted the stencil sheet off the first tee. “Hooray!” she cried, for the words looked professionally done, all the letters equally dark, not even the smallest slip of red marring the letters.

  Carried away with her success, she carefully made a few more. She wanted to do them all, but her hands got cramped and her neck hurt from bending. She stood up, put her hands on her back, and leaned backward, relishing the pull on her muscles. Time for tea? She glanced at her watch. Yes, she would finish the lot and then it would be time for a drink!

  Eleven

  Ari pulled into an empty space in the yacht club parking lot. As always, she checked her reflection in the visor mirror—fine. She looked fine. She dotted and swirled sunblock/moisturizer all over her face, especially on her nose. Her only makeup was a light touch of pink Burt’s Bees balm. She’d pulled her hair back into a high ponytail. She wore deck shoes, navy shorts, and a white yacht club tee over her bathing suit, plus a red fleece tied around her shoulders in case she got cold. It was not yet the depth of summer, and the water was cool.

  She walked through the parking lot and into the club, greeting old friends and acquaintances. She saw Beck waiting for her at the end of the dock. Board shorts, navy tee, deck shoes, and a red scalloper’s cap with the long bill for sun protection and to keep the sun out of his eyes.

  “Hey,” she called, walking toward him. “Nice day for a sail.”

  “Hi, Ari.” Beck leaned forward and kissed her cheek as any friend would. “The wind is fickle today. We’ll see what happens.”

  They took the club launch out to Beck’s sailboat.

  “Here,” Beck said as they got settled. “Wear this.” He handed her a lightweight buoyancy vest. “Hen made me promise to make you wear it,” Beck said.

  Ari laughed in surprise. “Hen?”

  “She likes you. And she’s surprisingly good at getting her own way.”

  “She’s a smart girl,” Ari said, putting on the vest, and she was thinking, with a kind of envy, how close Beck’s family seemed to be. That Hen even knew Ari was sailing with Beck—that Hen even remembered Ari—was surprising.

  They cast off from the buoy and sailed across the harbor toward the end of the Jetties and around to the deeper waters of the sound running along the north shore of the island. Beck was an aggressive, playful sailor, letting the sails fill, tacking back and forth, completely concentrating on his boat and the wind. Now and then the boat rose and slapped down hard onto the rocking waves. Ari was glad she didn’t have her grandmother’s problem with motion sickness.

  She leaned back on her elbows, lifting her face to the sun. The wind flipped her ponytail, and the boat splashed and the water sprayed, making fans of rainbows. She relaxed against the boat, listening to these sounds so familiar from her childhood as a boat cradled her in the ocean. She stopped thinking as the sun warmed her face and shoulders. She almost dreamed.