The Last September: A Novel

“Do you know that girl?” Maxine asked.

“That’s Deirdre,” I said. Maxine sat down, and I added, “I wonder if she’ll go to the reception.” Bob had hired a private room at a local restaurant. Obviously he couldn’t have it at the house.

“If she does,” Maxine said, “I can tell her to leave.”

“Or I could just not go. Do you think I have to go?”

“No,” she said. “I think people will understand. But you know. If you want to go. You should.”

“The only thing in the world,” I said, “that would make me strong enough to go to that reception would be if Charlie were there, too.”

“Because of her?”

“Because of Charlie,” I said.

Sitting next to me, equipped with hat and handkerchief, Maxine did what I couldn’t. She cried. I put my hand on her knee, my eyes still facing forward. All the noise had shifted to the back, a receiving line, where I was expected to be, shaking hands, accepting condolences. A pair of soft soled footsteps approached, polite steps.

“Brett,” Daniel Williams said, stepping into and blocking out that intrusive shaft of light, placing us in his shade. “I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am.”

“Thank you,” I said.

For some reason, it was easier to meet his eyes. He kept his hands in his coat pockets, his straight shoulders at ease. Unlike everyone else—even Maxine—he didn’t seem to be braced for my hysteria. I wondered if he was still staying on the Cape, his summer spilling into the fall, or if he’d come down from Boston especially for the funeral.

“If there’s anything I can do,” Daniel said. He removed one hand from his pocket and gestured outward, a graceful and elbow-driven movement, indicating the church, the neighborhood, the wide world. “Anything at all.”

“Thank you.” I hoped I sounded sincere enough to convey that I knew: while other people said this, Daniel meant it.

He nodded, and then turned to walk back down the aisle. With his having paved the way, other people moved from the back to offer their hands and their sympathies. Until finally the church emptied out, and Maxine and I sat there, alone, the only mourners left.

THE NEXT MORNING SARAH stirred, as always, with first light. She sat up, delighted to find Lightfoot lying between us once again, and set immediately to examining the dog’s ears, prodding her fingers into the exposed cartilage. Lightfoot woke and must have remembered everything she’d seen, because she set immediately to trembling.

“Gentle,” I told Sarah as she pitched forward to press her face against Lightfoot’s, one hand still clutching a pointy ear. Sarah scrunched up her brow and looked at me reproachfully. Then she slid off the bed and marched to the window. Maybe if I’d remembered to close the blinds, she would have slept later. Sun poured in with increasing speed. Outside, it reflected off the lake in small explosions, gathering itself for the day. It would be hot, another stretch of Indian summer.

“Pool,” Sarah said. “Pool.”