What?
Marin turned, and sure enough, there he was, making his way through the crowd toward them. Her heart soared at the sight of him, but she squashed that with the thought that (a) she hadn’t invited him, and (b) she didn’t need him.
“What are you doing here?” she said.
He looked flustered. “Why didn’t you call to tell me about Kelly?”
“You haven’t called me.”
“Marin, I said I’d be back in nine days. And I’m here. I would have come sooner…”
Nine days.
She’d forgotten all about the test results. Results that were probably sitting in the pile of three days’ worth of unopened mail behind the front desk.
“Kipton Bishop,” her dad said, offering his hand to Julian.
“I’m sorry,” Marin said, flustered. “Julian, this is my father. Dad, this is Julian Rowe.”
“It’s an honor to meet you,” Julian said. “I studied a few of your cases in school.”
A lawyer love-fest ensued. It was surreal to be with the two of them in the same room. She had to admit it felt good—like the threads of her life knitting together. And she could tell they liked one another. Why wouldn’t they? Two ambitious lawyers, one at the start of his career, one at the end.
And they might have something else in common. They each might have loved a woman who carried another man’s child.
She couldn’t take it anymore, the not knowing. For weeks, she’d pushed the uncertainty out of her mind. But Julian was here, the results were probably here, and she couldn’t exist in her little cloud of denial any longer.
“Excuse me for a minute.” They barely heard her. She threaded her way toward the front of the house, to the small office behind the front desk. She closed the door, and against the buzzing backdrop conversation of all the friends and well-wishers, she rifled through the pile of mail. It wasn’t hard to spot the envelope, the bright red-and-green Genie logo in the corner. She tucked it under her arm, made her way back through the crowded living room, and pulled Julian from his conversation with her father. When he hesitated to disengage from Kip, she waved the envelope at him.
“We’re doing this now?” Julian said.
“We’re doing this now.”
She led him up the stairs to her room.
Blythe was happy to see Julian show up for Marin. She was happier still to see the two of them slipping upstairs together. Young love was so resilient.
Older love, apparently, not so much.
She pulled Kip aside. “Didn’t you hear a word I said to you outside of the church?”
“I did.”
“So why are you here?”
“You made an erroneous assumption.”
“Don’t lawyer me, Kip.”
“You said I was here for Marin. And I thought about it and it’s only partially true. I didn’t fly back here with that box of stuff for Marin.”
“I know. You came with that box so you could deliver your recriminations in person. Look, I get it. It was a lot to ask, and I’m sorry. But if you could have seen Amelia’s face when I gave her the letter…I don’t regret asking it of you.”
“It was a gutsy move on your part.”
“Maybe.”
He took her hands and looked her in the eyes. “You’re a good woman, Blythe.”
“But not good enough,” she whispered.
“No? So why can’t I bring myself to leave?”
Blythe looked at him, incredulous. With some difficulty, she managed to say, “You tell me.”
Kip’s eyes, so steely, always so certain, the eyes that had guided her through a lifetime, locked on her. “Standing in that church, hearing the minister talk about pieces fitting together in unexpected ways—about there not being one right way. Talking about family. You’re my family, Blythe. We’re going to be grandparents.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “Yes,” she murmured. “But that’s not necessarily a reason to stay together.”
“It’s a good place to start.”
Amelia was touched by the turnout for Kelly, her heart warmed by the sight of old friends, new friends, and even some strangers. They were all a comfort—with one exception.
Sandra Crowe was dressed like a widow in a long black dress with cap sleeves and a pillbox hat. It was as if she had been waiting all summer for an excuse to get out of her beach casual wear. Amelia couldn’t help but think she was also delighted for an excuse to be inside the house that she was negotiating to buy.
Blythe had told her about the drop-in when Amelia and Kelly were out of town. Thankfully, Kelly had been out of earshot for that little tidbit or she would have lost it.
Nadine spotted Sandra and made a beeline for her. Amelia’s irritation turned to rage. She marched over to the two of them, but they didn’t notice her. Their heads, bent together in conversation, left Amelia with no doubt about what they were discussing—and it sure as hell wasn’t fond recollections of Kelly. Oh, it was partially Amelia’s fault. She had entertained the idea of selling the house, even tossed a few numbers around with Sandra through Nadine. There had been a brief moment when the idea of a financial windfall for herself and Kelly was appealing. It would also be money she could share with her only surviving child. Guilt money.
But there was nothing left to feel guilty about. At least, not in the way Nadine had led her to believe. She knew that now, thanks to the letter Blythe had miraculously produced and shared with her. How lucky, how very lucky, that it had come before it was too late.
It took Sandra and Nadine a few seconds to even notice her standing there.
“Oh, Amelia. So sorry for your loss,” Sandra said.
“I’m not selling this house!” Amelia yelled, loudly enough that people stopped midconversation to turn and look at her. She didn’t care. The volume, as well as the sentiment she was expressing, was pure release. Maybe there was something left of her after all. She had not died along with Kelly, though the pain made her feel as if she might.
“Amelia, you’re in mourning. Of course this isn’t the time to discuss this,” Sandra said.
“And we’re not,” Nadine jumped in quickly. “We’re not talking about the house.”
Well, maybe her daughter had a shred of decency. But, as they say, too little, too late. Trembling, Amelia looked at Nadine. “You’ve outstayed your welcome. I want you to leave in the morning.”
In the kitchen, Rachel busied herself moving apples and pears from a fruit basket to a serving bowl. She glanced out the window and saw Thomas holding court at the table, reciting poetry.
The houseful of people gave her something to do—gave them all something to do. But what would happen tomorrow? And the day after that?
Fran walked into the room carrying a platter of whole steamed lobsters.
“Look what someone brought! This is the best shivah I’ve ever been to,” she said. “Shellfish and all!”