“No,” said Ada. “No, they were friends.”
“You didn’t see what we saw,” said Gregory. “Before he got sick. She mooned over him. She confessed it to Joanie when Joanie got older. If he’d liked women I think they could have had a great love story. They made sense together.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” she said, vaguely. “I don’t think she was.”
She searched the room for an escape. David had been gone for twenty years now, and still his name now produced in her something akin to pain. She loved her father, still loved him, but it elicited a deep, dull ache in her to think of him, to speak of him—there were too many unresolved questions about him. Over the years, Ada’s vision of David had become something delicate and tense, a raveled knot of emotion that twisted tighter at any mention of him.
“I do,” said Gregory. “My brothers and sister and I talked about it all the time. We teased her about it.”
She smiled ruefully. “Well,” she said. She could think of nothing more to say.
But Gregory was not finished.
“You were both like that,” he said. “You Sibeliuses.” His voice had taken on an edge, and Ada could not identify its source. She searched his face. He looked away. Like what? she wanted to ask, but she felt it was a door that should not be opened.
“I’d better get going,” she said. She lifted her purse onto her shoulder.
Awkwardly, she had hugged Gregory, Matty, Kathryn, the rest of them—even William.
She had said goodbye to Shawmut Way, to the houses on it. First Liston’s house—into which Gregory and his new wife Kathryn would move that same year—and then David’s, which had recently been acquired by its third set of owners since she and Liston had sold it, at last, in 1987. Liston had kept her apprised of its state from across the country whenever they spoke. “The Burkes have it planted nicely,” she told Ada; or, “This new family needs to get someone to mow the lawn.” Ada would miss those reports.
Finally, she had gone back to her hotel. She hadn’t slept. She had lain awake until the sun rose, and then boarded the plane that took her back to San Francisco.
That was five years ago. Since then, she had exchanged sporadic, halfhearted e-mails with Matty, now Matt (a serial dater, a perennial youngest child, who hopped between jobs and girlfriends with equal enthusiasm); had exchanged Facebook likes and messages with Joanie, who texted her photographs of her children (Kenny, the oldest, would be a father himself soon) and complaints about what terrible things Kathryn was doing to Liston’s house. You’d hate it, Joanie had written confidentially. It looks like a beach house or something. White wicker everywhere. Though she had settled into an amicable relationship with William, she still kept her distance from him; they had nothing in common, Ada realized, and they never had. Every so often she sent a line to Gregory, to whom she had been closest as a child; but his replies to her were typically brief, and so after a while she ceased to.
There was nothing keeping her at the office now: Meredith, after all, was leading the meeting. She put on her jacket, stood up, and walked across the main floor—strange looks from her colleagues, from Tom Tsien—and then out the door and into her car. She had suggested, to Gregory, a restaurant called Larkspur, avoiding Palo Alto’s most popular spots. It was a sort of tearoom, someplace that served breakfast and lunch, someplace she hadn’t tried before; someplace, she thought, where she wouldn’t be seen by anyone she knew. She didn’t want to have to introduce Gregory to anyone, or explain what they were doing.
As she drove, she contemplated David.
He existed in a deep recess of her mind as a strange and painful chapter of her own history that she only thought about when she was prepared for sadness. She tried to convince herself that she had come to terms with him; that she was comfortable, at last, with never knowing the truth about him. But she was not certain she had been successful in this endeavor. He was troubled: this was how she had categorized him. The word she used to describe him, always, to friends.
She still had dreams about him, though—regularly, once a week or more—and in them he appeared to her as the face of all the benevolence in the universe. A kind and somehow holy presence that blessed and pacified her, that eased her worry, that calmed her. She woke up from these dreams consoled; but any warm feelings she had were quickly replaced with suspicion, with the unsettling sensation of being lied to again and again—even by her own recollections.
The restaurant was on a side street, in a Craftsman-style house.
When she walked in, she realized that she had gotten there first. She had not wanted to. She was more nervous than she could have anticipated: to see Gregory, yes; but also to hear what he had to say. It had been so long since she had spoken directly to anyone about David.
The place was decorated inside to represent the period of the house’s construction. Light wood and rich colors. She ordered tea. She asked for bread. It came with delicate small pots of jam and marmalade. She waited five minutes, and then ten.
Moments later she received a text from him: looking for parking. be there soon.
And then there he was, Gregory, finally, rushing toward her in an overcoat, a look of apology on his face. He was benevolently inept: he elbowed another patron in his rush to the table, and then stooped down to excuse himself for longer than was necessary, bowing in apology.
There was a moment when Ada half rose from the table, uncertain whether he would expect a hug, but he sat down abruptly across from her and, relieved, she sank back into her chair.
“Cold out!” said Gregory, before he said anything else. He took a piece of bread from the basket, ripped off a piece, chewed quickly. “I thought San Francisco was supposed to be warmer this time of year.”
Ada nodded. It was January. Typically, it was. She watched his jaw as he chewed. It was a day or two past being shaved: his face was thin now, thinner than it had been the last time she had seen him. He had lost the elfin look he had had as a child; but his eyes were still large and inquisitive, his mouth fine and interesting. Now, newly, there were flecks of gray in his hair.
“How have you been? Good to see you,” said Gregory. He seemed nervous.
“I’m good,” said Ada. And she racked her brain for questions she could ask him, so she would not have to answer any about herself. “How’s the house?”
“Oh,” Gregory said vaguely. “Old. You know.”
“And the job?”
“Great,” said Gregory. “Good as it can be, I mean. Too much sometimes, but you know how it is.”
“I do,” said Ada.
“How about yours?” Gregory asked. “How’s Tri-Tech?”