“My mother made this when Nick was born. I was afraid to use it in the crib when he was an infant because I loved it and didn’t want him to spit up on it. So I ended up just keeping it folded on his dresser. When he was about one he began sleeping with it. And he had it on his bed until he was, oh, I’d say, twelve? I want you to have it for your son.”
Marin’s cheeks flushed pink. “Oh, Amelia! I don’t know what to say. It’s so…thank you.” She reached out to touch it, then brought it to her lap.
Amelia reached into the center of the pile of clothes and blankets and pulled out a tarnished silver rattle.
“This was his too. It’s been in our family for many generations. From Portugal.”
Marin began to say something, then stopped. When she finally spoke, it was halting. “Amelia, I have to admit, thinking about Nick as my father has been really difficult for me because I have a dad. But now that I know you, I can think of him as your son, the person that links me to you. And that makes me so happy.”
“Life is so strange,” Amelia said, her eyes tearing. “It gives, it takes. I’ll never understand it.”
“Me neither,” said Marin. “But I guess I’m realizing that’s okay.”
Amelia nodded, missing Kelly with an ache that took her breath away. Marin leaned across the bed and pulled Amelia into a hug, and it felt like a deep inhale after being underwater. Amelia let herself cry—for Kelly. For Nick. For the passage of years and for the turning generations. It seemed she cried for a very long time, and all the while, Marin held her close.
Provincetown
Spring
They had reserved the rooms ahead of time, way back in February when Rachel called to say the inn was being booked up solid and she was turning down reservations.
“I know it’s hard to think of it now, but you have to pick a week and just commit.”
Marin—with a three-day-old baby in her arms, attached to her like a new limb, and half a foot of snow outside the window of their Sixty-Eighth Street town house—could not imagine a trip to the neighborhood grocery store, never mind a drive to Provincetown. In full nesting mode, she hated leaving the house.
Marin had never dreamed, when Julian gave her the key that night that seemed so long ago, that the house would one day be her home. Their home, a family of three.
“You really want to take this show on the road?” she asked Julian later.
“It will be the first chance for everyone to see him at the same time,” Julian said. “And besides, we promised we’d go back.”
Yes, they had. And if Julian, with his demanding hours at the office, could commit to the week away, certainly she could. After all, Marin made her own work schedule. Marin had surprised no one more than herself by inching, piece by piece, into becoming a mosaic artist. She’d made her first sale, a tile-and-smalti Portuguese good-luck rooster, the week before Jake was born.
And so, in early May, they loaded up the car and set off for Provincetown, Julian at the wheel.
Had it been only a year ago that she’d packed in fifteen minutes for a spontaneous weeklong trip? Driving in a straight shot, stopping once for a couple of quick lobster rolls (only to have them snatched away by seagulls). Now, packing took as much forethought and precision as a military operation. How to fit a stroller, a Pack ’n Play, Jake’s bouncy seat, and her breast pump all in the backseat? One entire suitcase was just diapers, bottles, bath toys, and burp cloths. She packed enough baby clothes so she wouldn’t have to completely hijack Amelia’s laundry machine.
Marin barely slept the night before the trip, and the drive itself, with all of their stops for feeding and changing, took close to nine hours.
And it was all instantly worth it the second Amelia set eyes on baby Jake.
“Oh my heavens. Pictures don’t do him justice. Oh, he’s just the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” She reached for him, and he hesitated for just a second before giving in to her embrace.
“Meet your great-grandma,” Marin said. “How do you say that in Portuguese?”
“Bisavó,” Amelia murmured, kissing the baby. “He looks just like you, Marin.”
Marin smiled, but she knew it wasn’t exactly true. He looked more like his father, with his long-lashed brown eyes and his perfect, tiny, chiseled little Clint Eastwood nose.
“Come along—everyone’s out back.”
It was strange to step into the yard. The communal table, the stretch of beach, and the water all looked exactly the same, while so much in her life had changed. The only hint of the passage of time was the robust vegetable garden.
“It survived the winter,” Marin said, hugging Rachel.
“I know—and so did I!” Her hair was shorter, her formerly bronzed skin a paler shade of honey. But her big brown eyes were just as bright and mischievous as they’d been the day Marin had first met her at the Starbucks in Times Square. She’d seen her only twice since last summer, one weekend in October on Rachel’s way back from visiting Fran’s parents in Philly, and the week Jake was born, when Rachel had weathered the freezing cold and an impending snowstorm to meet her new nephew. Amelia had planned to go with her but had come down with a bad cold and wasn’t able to make it. Rachel said Amelia had made her nervous a few times during the winter months, taking to her bed for long stretches, seeming frail in body and spirit. But now, in the spring thaw, she seemed more like her old self.
Luke pulled Marin in for a hug, with Kip and her mother right behind for their turn.
“Where’s the baby?” Blythe asked.
“Inside,” Julian said. “Marin already has Amelia on diaper duty.”
“In my defense, she volunteered!”
Julian and her father settled into a few minutes of shoptalk. Now that her father was retired, he liked nothing more than to strategize vicariously through Julian’s work. And he never stopped trying to talk him into going back to a big firm.
Marin put her hand on Julian’s arm. “Maybe my dad and Luke can help you with that stuff out front?”
“Good idea.”
Left alone with her mother, Marin sat at the table and wondered how long it would take her to notice the ring on her finger. Blythe was too busy eyeing the door.
“Mom, relax. I’m sure Amelia will be right out.”
“There he is!” At the sight of her grandson, Blythe jumped up like the bench was on fire, arms outstretched.
“He is such a good boy,” Amelia cooed.
He was a very good baby. But the trip had thrown him off his nap and feeding schedule, and Marin was afraid the clock was ticking on a major meltdown.
“I should feed him,” Marin said, reaching for him.
“You’re not still nursing, are you?”
“Yes, Mom. He’s only three months old.”
Her mother had given birth at the tail end of a time when formula was considered the right way to feed a baby, and she had made it clear that she didn’t understand Marin’s rejection of this modern convenience “that was good enough for you.”
Marin unbuttoned her blouse. She was now a pro at getting Jake to latch on while she discreetly covered herself. The kid was probably going to grow up with a fetish for eating in tents.
Blythe did a double take and grabbed Marin’s left hand.
“Marin, are you—”