Beth left, too, and I cleaned up the paltry mess. The quiet of the house pressed down on me. I could count on one hand how many times I’d been alone in this house before Brad left. He’d always hated visiting his parents without me, and taking Dylan camping or the like? Nah. Brad wasn’t the outdoorsy type. That was more me.
I went upstairs to Dylan’s room, Zeus following me. In a rare hour of domesticity, Dylan had cleaned his room the day before he left, so it was neat and tidy . . . and strange. But it still smelled like him. I lay on his bed, and the dog jumped up next to me and put his head on my stomach.
“You’re a good boy, Zeus,” I said, wiping a tear from my eyes. Christmas couldn’t come soon enough. Dylan wasn’t coming home for Thanksgiving—too far, too expensive, too short a break, too crazy to travel that weekend. A “cute girl” had invited him to come to her parents’ home in Helena for that holiday, only two hours away. I was glad. I’d get her address and send them some bola de carne, which Dyllie loved. Meat-stuffed bread.
A rather large nose nudged my hand. This dog was already worth his weight in diamonds. “Who’s a good boy?” I asked, and his tail wagged. “Yes. You are correct. It’s you, Zeus.”
I got up and wandered through the house some more. Should I paint it and change it up a bit? Should I get a roommate? Because this being alone, even with a giant doggy, was tough. Especially picturing them, across town, gazing out at the stars and bay, cooing psycho-yoga-babble at each other.
The debt on this house was terrifying. I made about $80,000 a year, and Brad made about the same. We—I—had the mortgage and the home equity line of credit, which had paid for our renovations throughout the years and covered a portion of Dylan’s tuition. I still had student loans. My car had 130,000 miles on it and was going strong, but soon, that would change.
I could sell this place for well over two million dollars. I didn’t want to, but I could.
“We’re not going anywhere, buddy,” I told my dog. “We are staying right here.” He pushed his nose against me and flopped down at my feet.
It was going to be a long night.
* * *
I had Friday off, so after I took Zeus for a lengthy walk all the way to the ocean and back, cleaned the house and made some fish stock, then drove to Provincetown. The harbormaster waved to me as I drove to where the fishermen parked. Sure enough, the Goody Chapman was out, but it was afternoon, and I could wait.
The working end of MacMillan’s Wharf was one of my favorite places. Unlike my sister, I loved the smell of raw fish, diesel fuel and salt water. I loved knowing every boat in the fleet by its silhouette, loved the rough wood and taciturn fishermen and women. I loved the creak and groan of the boats when they moored, the clank of the ropes against masts, the noise and music of Provincetown coming in little gusts on the wind.
Today was that perfect Cape Cod day of the deepest blue sky you could imagine. Seagulls hovered and cried, gliding, waiting for someone to unload their catch or throw unused bait into the water. Tourists came to take pictures of the fleet, charmed to see how their expensive meals got from the ocean to their plates.
“Those people pay for the roof over your head,” Dad used to tell Hannah and me. “Be respectful.”
And so, when someone asked a question, I’d answer, an informal, unpaid tour guide, talking about the different kinds of boats, the fish they brought in, the Portuguese heritage in the fleet. Yes, I was the daughter of a captain. No, I wasn’t a fisherman myself. Yes, I was Portuguese, and yes, I could recommend some great places to eat.
I sat on the rough edge of the wharf, my feet dangling over the side. When I was a kid, I’d jump in for a swim at high tide. Sometimes the tourists would throw us quarters, and we’d swim down and catch them—me, Maria, Dante, some of the other kids of the fleet. We’d gather without hesitation, play for a day, not see each other for a month, and pick right up where we’d left off, comfortable in the familiarity of a shared place, of being from here.
I missed those days.
Sunsets on the Cape lasted for hours, the sky becoming increasingly beautiful. The air turned almost liquid with golden light, and a person couldn’t help feeling that . . . I don’t know. That God loved them, because there were sunsets like this. Skies like this, with clouds and changing colors and the sounds of piping plovers, cormorants and gulls. How Dylan loved coming here, watching his grandfather bring the Goody Chapman home. How proud he was to be the grandson of a fisherman.
I heard the Goody Chapman before I saw her. She came around the breakwater, and there was Dad, standing at the wheel, just like old times, Ben Hallowell next to him, leaning on the gunwale. Ben was like a son to my father, I supposed. Even after the accident.
I stood at their slip. Ben tossed me a heavy rope, and I automatically looped it over the piling.
“Hey, Squash,” my father said. Nothing like a childhood nickname to keep you humble. Dad had told me a thousand times that my head had been shaped like a squash when I was born, thanks to Mom’s long and torturous labor. Molding was the medical term, but I kind of liked squash-head, personally.
“Hi, Daddy.”
“Lillie,” said Ben, jerking his chin at me.
“Hey, Ben.”
He got off first, secured another line, then looked at me. This, I can assure you, was a rare event. His blue eyes slanted down at the outer corners, and his face was lined from twenty-five years at sea. He wore a T-shirt and the coveralls that all fishermen wore, and the effect was working-class hottie. Always had been. “Heard your husband left you,” he said.
“Thanks for bringing it up.” I tucked some hair behind my ear.
“He’s an idiot,” Ben said.
“Yes.”
And that was that.
“Wanna grab dinnah?” Dad asked. “We’re stahvin’.” Yes, I had a Cape accent, too, but it was tempered with Mom’s prep school / Vassar accent. Sometimes I played it up to annoy her.
“Sure,” I said. They’d talk about scallops and weather, and it would kill time before I had to go home. I’d fed Zeus early. “Hey, Dad, I got a dog. Think you can put in a dog door this weekend?”
“Sure thing, hon.”
Dad. He was the best. He hadn’t seen Brad since the weasel had moved in with Melissa, but I had no doubt that my father would do a great job defending my honor and making Brad pee himself in terror. Dad had a gift that way. Since he hardly ever spoke, his yelling was quite . . . impactful.
I helped the guys off-load the catch and tidy up the boat. Then we walked down the wharf to the intersection, where a cop directed traffic with some dance moves. We went into the Governor Bradford, a sticky, grubby place with pool tables and cheap beer and damn good food, one of the last townie strongholds.
“Do you have a reservation, sir?” asked a large, tattooed man at the door.
“Go fuck yourself,” my dad said fondly. “How you doin’, Danny?”
“Not bad, can’t complain. Ben. Three of you tonight?”
“You remember my daughter,” Dad said.
“Hey, pretty lady,” Danny said.
“Hi, Danny,” I said. It had been a while since I’d been here. Most of the time I ate in Provincetown with the Moms, and we usually went out to somewhere with six-page wine lists and tiny appetizers, or ate in. Always a tense affair, and always worse if Hannah was there, speaking French with Beatrice.
We ordered beers and sat in silence for a few minutes, sipping, watching the pool game in progress. Dad and Ben nodded hello to a few people.
“Having a bad day?” Dad asked finally.
“Every day is pretty bad this summer,” I said.
“Ben, we can make a guy disappear, can’t we?” Dad asked.
Ben, sitting across from me, grinned slightly, one side of his mouth moving, his eyes crinkling. “Sure can.”
“Don’t tempt me, guys,” I said. “Though yes, I’d be a lot better off as a widow.” It was definitely not the first time I’d had that thought, and it wouldn’t be the last. Dead Brad would at least have left me some money through life insurance. Dead Brad could have remained untainted.
“So what happened?” Ben asked, surprising me. The four sentences he’d said to me so far were more than he’d said to me in the past twenty-five years.
“I’m sure my father has told you.”