When Rob had taken a few sips of his drink, and when he had squeezed the lime with vigor and fear, he cleared his throat and said, “Listen, Mrs. Cabot. About Thanksgiving.”
She didn’t answer, but she cocked her head in a way that said she was listening.
Closing his eyes he whispered, “I don’t think the outside is going to be ready by Thanksgiving.” Pause, then onward. “I don’t think the lower-level walkout is going to be accessible from the outside either.”
Rob had prepared himself for all sorts of reactions: quiet rage, barely controlled rage, louder rage, the ragiest rage. But he had not prepared himself for what actually happened; he hadn’t prepared himself for Mrs. Cabot’s level gaze, and for the four words issuing from her glossy lips: “That settles it, then.” She signaled the hovering waiter—his name tag read MILTON—for the check. He must have been close to Christine Cabot’s vintage; he probably came of age working in the Oak Room, but he moved with surprising agility toward the bar and returned with the black check holder before Rob had a chance to gather his thoughts and answer.
“That settles what?”
“Mark and I met about this earlier in the week.”
“Mark?”
“Mark Ruggman.”
“Ruggman?” Thinking about Ruggman with a first name was like thinking about Jesus with a last name. “You met with Ruggman without me?” There was air-conditioning blasting from the creaky vents, but Rob felt hot all over, as though he’d been dipped in a lobster pot.
“I did. I met with Mark, and he walked me through the problem with the patio, and he told me about the permit. And we decided, together, that we could finish the project. On time. Without the permit.”
“We meaning—”
“We meaning Mark Ruggman. And myself.”
“Without me.”
“Without you.”
“But Ruggman told me he wasn’t willing to go ahead without the—”
Mrs. Cabot placed a platinum card on top of the check, and Milton tottered off with it.
“We discussed it, and he came around to my view. He was really quite reasonable about it. I’m going to rent a little place up there, an adorable little cabin, and stay there through the fall, so I can visit the site, make sure things are on track.”
Without Mrs. Cabot, Rob was sunk. Finished. Not only did Rob need the rest of the money from this job, he needed Mrs. Cabot to recommend him to her friends.
“I can visit the site, Mrs. Cabot! We’re so close. The primer coat is on. The towel racks are in the bathrooms. The carpets are in upstairs. I can rent a cabin!” There was a pain in his chest he’d never felt before. Cardiac arrest?
“Oh, Rob.” Christine Cabot shook her head. “You can’t rent a cabin.”
“Of course I can.” He reached for his cell phone. “I’ll rent a cabin right now. I’ll rent two cabins!”
“Surely you see that that isn’t the answer. You’ve been—how shall I say this—distracted since the building really got under way. You’ve been pulled in many different directions. I’m sure you understand that your work has suffered as a result. But that isn’t the biggest problem here.”
To his horror and dismay, Rob hiccuped. Milton, who could probably hear about as well as an elderly spaniel, turned from another table and regarded the two of them. “It’s not?”
“No. The bigger problem is—well, I’m not sure you were ever the right man for the job in the first place. Mark and I have been talking about it, that maybe it was simply a lack of experience that led to some of these problems.”
Ruggman had thrown him under the bus. Ruggman had seen the bus coming, and he’d picked Rob up and thrown him right under it. Goddammit.
“Rob,” Christine Cabot went on, and her voice took on a plaintive twinge. “This has been my dream for two years now. My project. My focus. I was just about to get to the fun stuff. Picking towels, choosing sheets, getting ready for the best Thanksgiving my family has ever seen. I was just about to start all of that, and then I was told that I might not be able to. I’ve dreamed about my grandkids frolicking on the lawn. And then I was told that there might not be any lawn!” There were real tears in her eyes. “It was a grandmother’s wish, a perfect holiday with the family. I’m sure you can see how disappointing it was to me, to hear that it might not happen.”
Rob said, “Mrs. Cabot—” but his voice broke.
Mrs. Cabot signed the check and handed it to Milton. “I’m sorry,” she said. “But it’s been decided.”
“What will you tell people? Who ask about me?”
“I’ll tell them the truth,” she said.
“Which is?”
“Which is that we loved the design and had trouble with the execution.”
She paused and removed her cardigan, revealing sun-spotted shoulders that were surprisingly toned for a woman of her age. “Thank you for the drink, Robbie,” she said.
“I didn’t buy you the drink,” said Rob.
“Nevertheless. Thank you.”
Rob wanted to remain in his chair. He wanted to throw the snack mix across the bar, and stamp his feet like the little boy he’d once been. He remembered a long-ago tantrum in this very room, appeased by his mother, held at the shoulder by her firm hand. He remembered the scent of his mother’s perfume. He wanted to cry on Milton’s shoulder. He wanted to belly up to the bar and drink six more cocktails.
But good manners prevailed, as they had since Rob was a tot in a swim diaper, and a gentleman stood when a lady stood, so he got to his feet and accepted the dry kiss Mrs. Cabot planted on his cheek, and he tried not to let on that he was shaking like a dog in a thunderstorm, and he tried not to sound bitter and regretful and desperate—though he was all three—when he said, “If you change your mind, Mrs. Cabot, you know where to find me.”
40
LITTLE HARBOR, MAINE
Eliza
“Evie found us a Plott hound named Jelly Roll,” said Eliza. She and Val were walking Sternman near the harbor, past the wharf, near the outskirts of town. The boats were still out. Every now and then Sternman lifted his face to the wind like he could read a message on it.
“What’s a Plott hound?” asked Val.
“That’s what I asked.” Eliza read the text aloud: A LARGE SCENT HOUND BRED FOR HUNTING BOAR.
“Good heavens,” said Val. “Those kids of yours are something else, Eliza.”
“I’m pretty sure the wild boar population in Barton is under control, though. So I’m going to tell her no.”
They turned back when they got to where Main Street veered off, and headed around toward Val’s house. Sternman looked tired but determined, his tongue out, his tail wagging occasionally.
“Can I ask you something, Eliza?”
“Of course. Anything.”
“Did you get everything all sorted out? With Russell?”
Eliza blushed, and ducked her head so Val couldn’t see her blushing, and then she said, “Yeah.”