The Last September: A Novel

“Arooo!” she called, “aroo!” and ran down the beach, toward the man.

If it had been Charlie, how surprised he would have been—seeing her move so quickly and nimbly, just over a week since that very first step. Or maybe he wouldn’t have been surprised at all, believing, as he did, in biding his time, waiting until he could do a thing well before attempting it. As the man approached, he proved himself to be a gangly teenager, smiling perplexedly at Sarah, his curls not yellow but a gingery brown. Sarah halted in disappointment, her face scrunching into an angry expression that was both confusion and realization. The soaking rain fell. Passing us, the young man pulled the hood of his raincoat over his head. I caught up with Sarah and scooped her into my arms. The dog’s ears flattened back against her head. From up above, the top of the beach steps, another man appeared, holding a huge, polka-dotted umbrella.

“Brett,” Daniel called. “Come up, it’s pouring.”

I looked down at Lightfoot to see if she would cower or run the other way. But she didn’t, just trotted on ahead, up toward the steps, as if she had seen an umbrella before and knew it meant cover from all this rain.

INSIDE I MET DANIEL’S housekeeper, Mrs. Duffy. She was warm and round, with silver curls and a faint Irish accent. She told me that during the winter she lived in her own place in Boston and went to Daniel’s house to clean and make dinner. In the summer, she came with him to Saturday Cove and lived in one of the old Sears kit cottages overlooking the ocean. “It was ordered right from the catalog in the 1930s,” she said as she whipped together a toddler supper for Sarah, homemade chicken nuggets and cooked carrots. “The first year I lived there I found an old shipping label under the staircase.”

I leaned in the doorway, nodding. I imagined her cottage as rustic, disposable, nothing but tin silverware and old board games inside, because you never knew when a hurricane might sweep through and take everything away. Just what all seaside homes should be.

“Usually we’d be back in Boston by now,” Mrs. Duffy said. “It’s your good luck he decided to stay a bit longer.” She patted my cheek. “Why don’t you go into the living room and have a drink with Daniel before dinner? I’ll take care of this one.”

To my surprise, Sarah didn’t protest when Mrs. Duffy hoisted her from my side into a waiting high chair—another inexplicable piece of baby equipment. Maybe very wealthy people just owned everything anybody might ever need. Mrs. Duffy handed Sarah a spatula, which she immediately began pounding on the tray. Lightfoot sat stock still right beside it, knowing that food would soon begin tumbling to the ground. I headed into the living room at the same time Daniel emerged from the Butler’s pantry with a tumbler of scotch and a glass of white wine.

“Thanks,” I said. I sat down on the sofa and he took one of the matching wing-backed armchairs, wondering if Ladd would show up and what he would think about my coming here.

“How are you?” Daniel asked, crossing his long legs.

“I don’t know. It’s like I’m traveling from panicked to broken to numb and back again. You know? Did you feel this way when Sylvia died?” It didn’t feel insensitive asking this question. Maybe at another time it would have. But just then I felt a strong sense of kinship with Daniel, who couldn’t stand to come around corners and be taken surprise by his wife’s face.

“When Sylvia died,” he said, “I was broken and confused. But she had been sick. I knew it was coming. Prepared isn’t the word I’d use, because really you can never prepare for something like that. Still, if it had just come out of nowhere, and so violently. I can’t imagine what you must be feeling now.”

“I can’t imagine, either.”

“It’s too soon,” he said.

“Yes. Too soon.”