“Visiting?”
“Job interview,” he said.
Her stomach dropped.
“Wow. That’s…exciting,” she managed. If he moved to Chicago, that was the end of whatever hope she had for continuing the relationship. Long hours and long distance were an impossible combination.
“I’ll see if it works out,” he said. She could imagine the determined set of his jaw.
More silence. She wished she hadn’t called. This conversation was worse than the silence.
“Okay. Well, keep me posted. I’ll be back in the city on Saturday.”
“Marin,” he said. There was an unsettling sympathetic tone to the way he said her name. “I just need to focus on work right now.”
Oh.
“By ‘right now,’ you mean…”
“Take care of yourself, Marin.”
Dinner was called for six o’clock. Rachel was the first one out back, seated at the long table with a view of Cape Cod Bay. It was all so charming—the house, the yard. The way a foghorn sounded in the distance. The seagulls assembled on the wooden dividers, and thick twine roped off the yard from the shrub-filled sand stretching to the water.
The tabletop was four wide planks of faded wood, scarred from use. Eagerly waiting for everyone, Rachel dug her fingernail into one of the deep grooves.
“Hey, Rachel,” Kelly said, sliding onto the bench beside her. “You are getting the star treatment. Amelia actually made a vegetarian dish tonight. Never thought I’d see the day.” She winked at her.
“I heard that,” Amelia said, setting down a bowl of white bean salad and a breadbasket.
Blythe trailed behind her. She had changed into a pair of linen pants and a sweater. Marin’s mother was so great. She even looked like the perfect mom: still beautiful without seeming to try too hard; elegant. Unlike Fran, with her obsessively ropy yoga body wrapped in clothes that Rachel would deem too young even for herself, her perpetual tan, her tattoos. She shook the thought away.
“Oh, Amelia, this is just lovely,” Blythe said.
“Yeah, this table is really cool.”
“Our friend Paul made it for us. Years ago, we had several small tables out here. But then we thought it would be nice to have more of a communal dining experience for our guests—so people could get to know one another instead of just sitting in separate groups. And it was one of the best decisions we made here because over the years, many guests became friends, have gone to one another’s weddings and such.” She and Kelly shared a smile. “It worked out quite beautifully.”
“So you cook dinner for your guests?”
“No, just breakfast.”
“As I said, star treatment,” Kelly said, grinning.
“Well, hon, they’re family, not guests.” Amelia looked around the table. “Is your daughter not joining us?” she asked Blythe.
Blythe looked uneasily at Rachel.
“Let me go check. I’ll let her know we’re out here,” Rachel said.
“You can get to the second floor from the kitchen. There’s a back staircase,” Amelia told her.
Rachel walked quickly into the house, hoping Marin had simply lost track of time and was not pulling a full-on boycott.
The kitchen was so charming it made her want to cook. It felt both modern and retro, with pale wood floors, bone-colored cabinets, marble countertops, whisks and ladles hanging from copper piping running along one wall. Chunky wooden shelves supported by iron brackets were filled with an eclectic collection of plates and bowls. On the counter, a toaster oven, a wooden bowl holding a mortar and pestle. A pale blue tin that read BREAD on the front. A sugar bowl that looked like handmade pottery. A yellow teapot, a china creamer. On the windowsill, pieces of green sea glass. Rachel reached out to touch one, resisted the urge to slip it into the pocket of her jean shorts, and headed upstairs.
On the second floor, she hesitated a few seconds outside of Marin’s room, then knocked.
“Who is it?” Marin called out.
“It’s me—Rachel. We’re all out back for dinner. Everyone’s waiting for you.”
“I don’t want dinner.”
Rachel felt her first flash of annoyance toward her sister. Marin wasn’t the only one dealing with heavy shit. Rachel felt out of sorts too. She didn’t know what she’d expected—that she’d meet Amelia and all the pieces would magically fall into place? That she would have an innate sense of homecoming, that the shadow of loneliness that she’d carried her whole life would disappear? Well, it didn’t feel that way.
Yes, Amelia and Kelly were cool. And she was excited to be spending time with them. But she realized now she had been kidding herself that it didn’t matter that her father was gone, that meeting her grandmother would be enough. She felt an urgency to connect to him somehow. She just didn’t know what she could ask or what she could find in that house that would satisfy her.
“Come on, Marin,” she said. “The food looks great and…I mean, you don’t want to be rude, do you?”
“Go away, Rachel.”
The tone of her voice did not leave much room for negotiation. Reluctantly, Rachel retreated down the stairs.
Chapter Fourteen
Blythe knew as soon as she saw Rachel’s face that Marin would not be joining them. She tried not to feel despair. They were, after all, in Provincetown for a week, and she couldn’t expect things to be perfect the very first night.
“I feel bad about your daughter,” Amelia said to Blythe. “This was all an unwelcome surprise to her?”
“It’s complicated,” said Blythe. “She’ll come around.” God, please let her come around!
The food was delicious—grilled shrimp with garlic and cilantro, rice, stewed green beans. And the small talk over the meal was pleasant enough. It seemed no one wanted to get too serious, to burst the idyllic getting-to-know-you bubble. But when Amelia and Kelly retreated into the kitchen to get the dessert and coffee, Blythe couldn’t help but ask Rachel: “How does your mother feel about all of this? You contacting Amelia, coming out here?”
“Oh, my mother? She doesn’t care.”
“Doesn’t care?”
Rachel shrugged. “She’s always been very casual about the sperm-donor thing. She wanted to have a kid on her own and there was never any secret. I don’t mean to get too personal, but were you ever going to tell Marin the truth? I mean, didn’t you worry she’d find out someday?”
Blythe gulped her wine and looked away, toward the water. “As I said earlier—it’s complicated.”
“Are you upset with me for getting in touch with her?”
Blythe traced the rim of her glass with her fingertip. Was she upset with Rachel for opening this can of worms?
“No. No, of course not.”
“And her father? I mean, you know—the father who raised her?”
“Do you mind if we don’t talk about this?” Blythe glanced back at the house, regretting starting the conversation.
“I’m sorry! I just…you know, I’m so full of nervous energy.”