It had been Rob’s idea to have everyone out on A Family Affair for the fireworks, but now that they were here she saw that the muscles around his jaw were flexing and releasing, which meant that he was stressed. She could see why: it was stressful, owning something so expensive and then inviting people on it to eat and drink and be merry. Then again, what was the point in owning something like this if you weren’t able to enjoy it because you had to be so careful with it? Judith, who had actually paid for the boat, didn’t seem to be having any problem enjoying it. There she was, sucking on a gin and tonic, talking animatedly to Deirdre about the top five fund-raising disasters she’d encountered; Deirdre was listening avidly and smiling uneasily. Eliza crossed the deck to where Rob was standing and slipped her hand in his. He smiled.
For sixteen months, while this boat was being built, Rob had slaved over all of the hundreds of decisions that went into the customization. He’d made several trips to Trenton, Maine, where the hull was manufactured, and then to Southwest Harbor, where the whole thing was put together. Who knew there was so much to choose? The navigational electronics. The wood down below. The sail-handling systems, the fabrics for the cushioning. The generator, the hull color, the bottom paint. So very many things, things Eliza didn’t even know about.
Fourth of July before her senior year of high school, Eliza and Russell had watched the fireworks while lying down on the deck of his boat, moored in the harbor, passing between them one Bud bottle, then another and another. The Bud bottles were warm but they didn’t care; it tasted like nectar. There were very few clothes on either of them by the time the finale came around.
By the same time the next year, Russell wasn’t talking to her. She had her bags packed for Brown, one foot in her dorm room.
Rob was chatting with Brock. He squeezed her hand, and Eliza stood for a moment and watched without really taking in the conversation—something about infrared cameras. Rob had a way of listening to people that made them feel like whatever the person was saying was the most important thing Rob had ever heard. He could have run for office with that little-boy sincerity, that gorgeous blond hair. Boy, she’d be a terrible political wife, though. She hated to dress up, she never got her nails done, and her own hair was unruly. The political handlers would probably make her wear it in a bun. Evie and Zoe would look great on camera, though; Zoe would look classy and Evie would have the right amount of mischievous adorableness.
Brock was saying, “I remember sailing with my dad, it would take three people to change those sails by hand back in the day…” and Eliza let her mind drift. It was a godsend of a sunset, wide swaths of mauves and oranges mirrored in the harbor’s water, a real stunner. This was the sort of sunset people photographed and published in coffee-table books about charming New England towns. The girls had gone below to play a board game—because of Eliza’s insistence on a low-tech outing, she had brought along Clue and Life and Sorry!—and she thought about calling them up to see it. Once the sun had vanished altogether the fireworks would start.
But just like that—pop!—the most elaborate of the colors began to fade and dip, and little bits of gray snuck in behind the oranges and mauves, and it was almost too late to get the girls up for it. Sunsets, like childhood, were gone in a blink.
“What’s the plan for storing her over the winter?” Brock was asking. About the boat, of course. It was always about the boat.
“Going to get her back up to Southwest Harbor,” said Rob. “Might sail her up myself, we’ll see.”
“Hey, well, if you need a hand with that—” Brock cleared his throat, and when Rob didn’t answer immediately Brock looked a little embarrassed, like he’d started to take his clothes off in front of someone who might not be interested in sex after all.
“Definitely,” said Rob, and Brock looked relieved. “You’ll be my first call.”
Rob’s mention of storing the boat over the winter led Eliza to unseasonable thoughts of Christmas, which made her think about scheduling the Barton family Christmas card photo. They usually took it in August or early September, on the beach. She used to put the girls in matching outfits, but of course she couldn’t get away with that now. Eliza loved sending out Christmas cards—she refused to call them holiday cards—and she loved getting them back, too. She still got cards from college friends, med school friends.
Wait a second. Med school friends. The little thread of a thought she’d first had when she learned about her father’s disease, but that she hadn’t had time to study carefully, and then she’d forgotten about altogether, was still there. She pulled at it.
“Holy shit,” she said. “Christmas cards, Christmas cards. Zachary Curry.” Brock and Rob looked at her, both startled. “Sorry.” She slipped her hand out of Rob’s grip. “I have to go look something up really quick. I’ll just be a minute.” The longing for her iPhone was almost a physical desire.
Was Evie, the electronics policewoman, still bent over the Clue board?
“Send the girls up,” called Judith. “Can’t be long now.” And Eliza refrained from suggesting that Judith go and get them herself.
“I’ll get them,” called Deirdre. She disappeared belowdecks and returned followed by Zoe, Evie, and Sofia. Eliza passed them on the way down.
“Where are you going, Mom?” asked Evie suspiciously.
“Bathroom.”
“The head!” called Rob.
“The head.” Of course Eliza knew that, but there weren’t bathrooms on lobster boats, so she didn’t use the term too often. If you were a man on a lobster boat you just took care of things over the side of the boat; if you were a woman or a girl you just goddamn held it. Or, if things got really dire, you called on a used bait bucket. Ugh. Those were not the days. She remembered practically dehydrating herself as a teenager so as not to suffer the indignity of the bait bucket.
On A Family Affair, of course, the head was practically gilded.
Zachary Curry, Zachary Curry. Her friend from medical school. The year before last she’d tracked him down after reading a mention of him in The Boston Globe. She’d put him right on the Christmas card list, where she put everyone, whether they wanted to be there or not.
She found her phone and sat for a moment on one of the plush salon berths surrounding the table, waiting for it to power up. The girls had left the Clue envelope opened in the middle of the table: it had been Colonel Mustard, that sneaky bastard. Library, candlestick. (Gruesome, when you took the time to think about it.) Evie had won. That must have made Zoe irate; no wonder she’d been snarling when the girls came up.
The first thing Eliza noticed when she powered up her phone was a missed call from a Maine area code. No voice mail. Not Russell’s, she’d put his in as a contact. Not her dad, not Val. She tried to call the number back, but there was no answer.