The Last September: A Novel

“Hey,” she said, her voice full of sympathy, the way you greet someone who has an illness in the family.

I walked past her and lay Sarah down on the daybed by a wide, sunny window. She emitted the tiniest hiccup of a waking breath, eyelids fluttering, then sighed back to sleep. I went outside to shut the car door, then came back. The expensive hush of Maxine’s remodeled saltbox felt like a bubble of unexpected calm. Maxine had won the house in a settlement from her second husband; it had vaulted ceilings and spectacular water views of Alden Lake. In a couple weeks, Maxine would head back to her winter house in Newton. I’d never been there but suspected it was at least as lovely as this place and wondered for a moment what it would be like—to live balanced between two such well-appointed homes.

“Can I get you a cup of coffee?” Maxine asked.

“What I’d really love is a shower,” I said. “I didn’t get a chance to take one this morning.”

“Of course!” She gestured expansively toward the upstairs; then her eyes fluttered toward the daybed as she realized I wasn’t asking for the guest bathroom so much as babysitting services. “Not to worry,” Maxine said, trying not to sound dubious. “I’ll watch her. There are clean towels under the sink.”

STANDING BENEATH THE RUSH of hot water in the lilac-scented guest bathroom, I thought of the postcard from Ladd and wondered which books he meant. When I’d packed to come to Maxine’s, I’d made a conscious decision to leave my work behind, but if I had new books—important books—I could at least start looking through them. I turned off the water, half expecting to hear Sarah crying downstairs but happily hearing only the settling of water.

Ten minutes later I came down the stairs in a tank top and long, crinkly skirt, toweling off my hair. Maxine sat in an armchair nearby, leafing through a magazine. Sarah still snoozed safely in the middle of the bed. “Hi,” I said. Maxine looked up, clearly proud that Sarah still slept.

“Look at you,” she said. “All clean.”

I rolled my eyes. “That should not be a compliment for a thirty-three-year-old woman.”

“Thirty-two,” Maxine corrected. “You’ve still got another two weeks.”

“Barely.” I ran my hand over the nubby back of her couch and said, “Listen. I need to pick up some books at a friend’s. Do you mind watching Sarah for a little bit longer while I run out and do that?”

Maxine looked over at my daughter. The small, napping stretch of time had given her a false sense of confidence. “Absolutely,” she said. “You take as much time as you need.” Sarah made a small, gurgling sound in her throat and Maxine amended. “Thirty minutes should be no problem at all.”

NOW WHEN I EXAMINE that day—going over it again and again in my mind—I don’t collect the books from Ladd’s cottage. Instead I realize that if Sarah and I need protecting, then so does Charlie. So I drive back home.

“Look,” I remind Charlie. “I love Eli, too.”

I never say this in the past tense, because I do love Eli, even now, after all that’s happened. That day, in my reenvisioning, I invite my husband back to Maxine’s.

“Eli can stay at the house for a few days,” I tell Charlie. “He doesn’t even have to know where we are.”