“There was something incredibly sweet and vulnerable in the way he talked about you. It was the reason I went out with him a third time. I’d planned to end it at two dates, but . . .” Melissa looked down at her husband sitting in the boat as it pulled at its painter, adrift but tethered.
“Lucky for us you saw something,” said Libby, leaning her head back on the chair and closing her eyes against the sun. “I hate to think of the kind of person he could’ve ended up with.” There had been a few casual girlfriends before Melissa, the kind who either oozed all over their mother, trying to make a good impression, or the kind who would attempt to become Libby’s best friend. Both were equally depressing to watch. Melissa always seemed just interested in Tom. She was kind and thoughtful and polite, but clearly felt no pressure for anyone to like her. And so, they all loved her.
“So when did you know that he was the right one for you?”
Libby figured that with someone like Tom there must have been a sign, a large manila tag hanging from the back of one of his shirts, like a forgotten dry cleaner tag, that read, “Your Soul Mate.” How else could she have known? She wished it worked like that, that everyone came with a tag. Life would be so much simpler with labels like “Friend,” “One-night Stand,” “Work Acquaintance.” She could avoid so much confusion, so much trouble, trying to turn one thing into something it wasn’t.
“You mean besides the first time he brought me here?” They laughed.
“I think this place is Patricia’s favorite thing about me too.”
“Shut up. That girl would walk over hot coals for you, Lib. She’s probably already done it.”
Two years ago at the Omega Center.
“Pretty crazy talk on the Fourth, about the house,” said Melissa.
Libby could practically feel Rafe Phillips’s hot breath on her neck.
“We just keep the ship afloat. As always. Fix the roof.” Libby jabbed a thumb behind her toward the windows and the great room and the Ping-Pong table now covered with a drop cloth to catch the constant dust that sifted down as the wind changed. “At least it’s early enough in the season we should be able to get it done this summer. So my inheritance goes back into the house. Where else would it go? Tom might be ready to cash out, but that’s not happening.” Libby switched the cross of her feet on the rail, the backs of her bare heels clunking the wood emphatically.
“You know Tom and I aren’t always of one mind, right?”
Libby wanted to kiss her, not in a romantic way, in a thank-God-I-have-an-ally-on-the-inside way. She reached over and squeezed Melissa’s forearm.
“This place is beyond money. It’s a natural wonder. There is no market value for that,” said Melissa.
“Just three million.” Libby said it quietly.
Melissa took off her hat and smacked Libby in the chest with it. “Don’t even say that shit out loud. Denial is a very real strategy with Tom. You’ve got to be careful or he’ll have you all packed up and on the next ferry.”
“And then you’d have to divorce him.” Libby said this with a chuckle. Melissa put her hat back on and sank back into her chair.
“Actually, our trips up here always made me feel closer to you guys than to Tom. He retreats when he’s here. Like the way he is when he looks at sailing charts. Like he’s already out on the water thinking about channels and harbors, even when he’s sitting there with you on the porch.”
“I know,” said Libby. “Most of the time he’s out on the water. Dad got the Whaler when Tom turned fourteen, and they went out in it all the time. Then, I guess, Tom hit puberty and it wasn’t cool to tool around with your dad anymore. By the time he was sixteen he practically lived on that thing. But once he went to college he came up a lot less, and the boat”—she said this rubbing her hands together nefariously—“went to me.”
“I won’t tell him you said that.”
“Sometimes it’s better to keep him in the dark,” said Libby. “Ignorance is bliss, right?”
He was better off not officially knowing about Patricia, for instance, better off not having his fears confirmed. And she was better off not being plagued by his fraudulent statistics about unmarried women dying young, about raising babies to be gay, about STDs, as if it weren’t the mighty cock that was the fountain of burning, itching, and all things rashy.
Melissa closed her eyes and leaned her head back on her chair. The shadow from her hat fell dark over her eyes and nose, but the red of her lips seemed to be bleeding into her skin, blotchy like she was about to cry.
“You okay?” Libby asked.
“It didn’t happen here, realizing he was the guy.” She opened her eyes and looked down at Tom still sitting in the boat, working knots through a stray line. “It was one night, after your Aunt Kathy’s fiftieth birthday, the night of that insane snowstorm with everybody housebound. We were walking home through the snow, down Mass Ave. He didn’t say anything in particular. We’d had a great time at the party. It was late, no one was around. The snow was up to the tops of our boots, and it was falling slow and straight, not that sideways crap that stings your eyes. We were gossiping about your cousins and which of the new girlfriends were going to last.”
Libby could tell Melissa wasn’t looking at Tom anymore, but out over the water, through seasons and years to streetlights glowing orange in the snow.
“He held my hand inside his coat pocket because I had forgotten my gloves. And I thought, life doesn’t get better than this. That was it.” Melissa shrugged.
Libby couldn’t help wondering if life could be better—better for her, better for Melissa—though she was pretty sure that, for Tom, this was as good as it would get. Libby went inside now, the chill of the wood floor and the shadowy interior making her shiver. She got them each a glass of iced tea and carried them back out to the porch.
“Have you thought about talking to Tom about Patricia?” Melissa asked. She downed half her tea in two long swallows.
“I know which side he’s on; I’m just not ready for a political debate. He’ll want to talk me out of it, tell me it’s a phase.”
“He’s not the most progressive guy in the world, I’ll give you that,” said Melissa carefully. “But he might surprise you.”
“Yeah, I don’t think surprises are his strong suit.”
“He just wants you to be safe and happy. When we were deciding about having kids, he told me the story about you almost drowning at Bar Island. He said that was the day he realized he wanted to be a father. His paternal instincts just kicked in. He worries about you. At the end of the day, he’s your big brother. Worrying’s in his contract.”
“Or his genetics,” said Libby. “This is one of those rare times when he’s way too much like Scarlet.”
“She was definitely one opinionated lady.”
“Is that a nice way of saying bigoted?” Libby snorted. “Patricia wasn’t exactly her favorite person.”
“Really? I always thought they got along well,” said Melissa. “Two fiery ladies laughing and scratching. At Gwen’s birthday they spent the whole time in the kitchen talking about remodeling bathrooms and costume jewelry.”