“It’s fine with me,” Hannah said. “I haven’t seen him in ages.”
“Fine,” I said. “And then we kick him out so we can really talk.” I pulled out my phone and dictated a text. “?‘Hi comma Ben comma Hannah and Beth are here and there’s food period. Want to stop in question mark.’ How’s that?”
A minute later, there was a knock on the door, and there he was, all jeans and flannel and rugged face and disheveled hair. “Hey.”
“You hungry?” I asked.
“I ate.”
“Okay.” Such rapier-sharp dialogue with the two of us. “Come on in anyway.”
“Ben!” Beth cried, launching herself up for a hug, which, to my surprise, he returned. Then he turned to my sister. “Hannah. Gorgeous as always.”
She laughed, got up and hugged him. “Nice to see you, Ben. Have a seat. Red wine, or white?” Nice of her to play hostess. I supposed it was an occupational hazard.
“Red is good, thanks. Hey, Zeus, old buddy.”
“So you’re my sister’s bodyguard now?” Hannah asked.
“More like the dog sitter for when she’s stuck at the hospital.” That had happened once so far. But yes, it was convenient.
“How’s life in the shed?” asked Beth, who remembered the little building from when it housed my father’s tools. “Lillie, you need to call it something cooler than the studio. Rename it, and you can rent it for five hundred dollars more per week in the summer. The Studio at Herring Pond. Pitch Pine Cottage. Make that seven hundred.”
“I hate houses with names on principle,” I said. “Stella Maris, for example.”
“Star of the Sea?” Ben asked, and I was a little surprised he knew Latin. “Should be a boat’s name.”
“That’s where my ex-husband and his child bride now live, Benjamin,” I said.
“Very pretentious.”
“See? I knew we liked you,” Beth said. “Ben, did you see the video of them at my restaurant the other day?”
“I’m not on social media.”
“Saving your soul?” Hannah asked.
“I’m trying to stay pure,” he returned, winking at her. Were they flirting? My sister? And Ben? It was kind of cute.
Beth grabbed my laptop from a side table. “I want you to get the full effect, Ben,” she said, tapping away. “I’ve watched it a thousand times. Oh, Lillie, we’re up to seventy-five million views! So glad my sweet Tanner hashtagged us. The restaurant’s booked through the middle of January. I think everyone wants to see another . . . um . . . event, shall we say?”
She turned up the volume.
“Bradley. Sweetheart. I have something very exciting to tell you.” Then the sound of my husband’s voice. Melissa again, and then . . . then the beautiful and unmistakable sound of puking.
“Oh, God,” Ben said, smiling against his will.
The yelling. The clattering of silverware. Another puke. Brad puking (my favorite part). And then, Beth and I said it in unison . . . “I’m pregnant, you idiot! You and your stupid oysters made me barf!” We dissolved into near hysterical laughter.
“Sweet baby Jesus,” Hannah said. “It gets better with every viewing.”
Ben looked at me. “How do you feel about that?”
Shit. A serious question. “Captain Hallowell, I’m not prepared to talk about feelings with you, sir.”
“Fair enough.”
“Okay,” I said. “It’s time for Cards Against Humanity, and then we’re kicking you out, Ben, so we can talk about periods, boobs and menopause.”
“My three favorite subjects,” he said. “But message received.”
My sister was right. Ben Hallowell was a good guy.
* * *
An hour later, Ben left as promised after Hannah creamed us all in the bawdy game. Beth left, too, moments later when she got a text from her husband saying both their boys seemed to have fevers, courtesy of a virus that was making the rounds.
The rain was steadier now, a comforting thrum against the roof. I cleared up our snack and wine detritus, returned from the kitchen with a tray of oatmeal raisin cookies, which were perfect for the rainy night. I put another log on the fire, and sparks flew up the chimney, the pleasant smell of wood smoke mingling with the scent of rain and cookies. Love for my home wrapped me like a warm blanket.
For a few minutes, Hannah and I just sat. Before this year, I’d never included Hannah in a girls’ night. Carol and Wanda; Jessica and Ashley, my high school friends who’d also stayed on the Cape, sure. Beth was automatically included in everything social I did, plus the nights when it was just the two of us. I’d had Jenn from the bakery over for a dessert-a-thon last winter when Brad was in “Boston.” Three of the Smith sisters, Beth and I had a loosely scheduled book club that met here every once in a while.
But not my sister. She only came over for family events, and I was only invited to her place for the same. We’d never gone out just us two. We were pleasant, we loved each other more or less and we gave each other presents on birthdays and Christmas.
It would be nice to be—and have—a different kind of sister.
“So,” I said, “how are you doing about Beatrice and Mom?”
Hannah looked at the fire. “I’m doing badly,” she said. “I feel like an eight-year-old.” She glanced at me sharply, then grimaced. Eight had been my age when she and my mom had left. I let it go.
“What does doing badly look like?” I was good at asking these questions, given my career (and my ex-husband’s, I supposed).
She sighed. “I’ve cried more in the last few weeks than I have in the last two decades. I keep asking Beatrice why she can’t stay, or move to Boston or New York. Total guilt trip. It’s not working.” She paused and looked at me. “I guess you know how that feels. This is karma, biting me on the ass.”
“Oh, Han,” I said. “I . . . It’s not that. You did what you had to do back then.”
“And now Beatrice is doing what she has to do and I’m out the best friend I ever had, the best parent. My role model and mentor. All those things. I put all my eggs in the Beatrice basket, and I’m paying the price.” She glanced at me, her eyes wet. “I understand if this is extremely satisfying for you to hear.”
She took a napkin and wiped her eyes. I went over to sit with her. Put my arm around her shoulders, but since she was ten inches taller than I was, it was awkward. Like most things between us. No. I didn’t want that to be the case anymore. I slid my arm down and linked it with hers. “It’s not satisfying, Hannah. I’m sad for you.”
“I’m forty-six years old,” she said. “I did this to you when you were eight. Eight! I’m so sorry, Lillie. I never let myself think about how bad it would be because I . . . I didn’t want to know.”
That was true. Then again, she’d been horribly bullied, and I hadn’t even known. What if she’d decided to kill herself, like too many teenagers had? What then, huh? I was abruptly glad she’d had Beatrice. “You know what? Let’s blame Mom. She ruined my life by taking you, and now she’s ruining yours by driving Beatrice away. Honestly, I can’t believe Beatrice lasted as long as she did. She’s a saint.”
“Amen.”
Maybe it was the wine, or the coziness of the night, but I felt some talking coming on. “I was so jealous of the three of you,” I said. “I didn’t want to live there, and I couldn’t do that to Dad, but every time I went over, you were this merry little band of women, making all this great food and speaking in French. Like it was this constant party that I was missing. And then you learned how to dress and had your signature shade of lipstick and got all glamorous.”
Hannah snorted. “Listen. That was all smoke and mirrors, Lils. I mean, it was better for me because of Beatrice, and because I was in a different school district. Suddenly, I was a lot cooler, living with an interracial lesbian couple in an amazing house on Commercial Street. But Mom and Beatrice fought all the time.”