Authors: Barbara Delinsky
Julia was touched. Inside her, a raw little spot scabbed over. Wrapping her arms around Molly, she held her—until Molly drew back, wanting an answer. “Doesn’t he? What is he
looking
for?”
“Adulation? Adventure? Novelty?
Risk
? I don’t know, Molly. All I know is that I’m really angry at him right now.” It had been one thing when Julia was the only one hurt by his affairs. But Molly had been hurt now, too. That changed things.
“I called him this morning,” Molly said. “It’s the first time we’ve talked since that night, but I wanted him to know how upset you are. He says there’s nothing going on with that woman.”
Molly might believe that, but Julia couldn’t.
“He says she was an old friend whose husband had locked her out of the house. She may be. I didn’t see them
doing
anything. I told him you were staying alone here, so if he wanted to come, you’d have privacy.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did, and he said he might.”
Julia was appalled. “But I don’t want him here. This is my time, my place, and it’s my business. You had no right suggesting he come.”
“He’s my father—”
“You’re grown, Molly. You may spend a few more vacations at home, but then you’re out in your own place with your own friends. I’m the one who’ll be with your father. I’m the one who has to decide what I want.”
“He swore nothing happened,” Molly insisted.
“This time?” Julia asked. “Or the one before that, or the one before that?”
“Can’t you forgive him?”
“The issue isn’t so much forgiveness as trust. But there’s so much more going on here, Molly. This isn’t only about my marriage. What I said last night, about filling everyone else’s needs? I meant that. And I’m not blaming your father or your grandparents or you. I could have refused. But you all needed me, and I wanted to be needed. There’s a pleasure in that, too.”
“But not anymore. Is that what you’re saying?”
“I’m saying that I’ve been defining myself in terms of other people— Monte’s wife, Molly’s mother, Janet’s daughter. I don’t have an identity of my own.”
“Do you need one?”
“I think so.”
“Suddenly? Now? Because of the accident?”
Julia settled against the rail, turning her back on the view. “Most of the people who died were younger than me. They had so much ahead of them. So here I am, spared. For what? Why? There has to be a purpose, something that goes beyond what I’ve done so far in my life. And it’s not an activist thing—like I’m supposed to try to change the world. It has to do with me. With making me a whole person.”
“I think you’re a whole person,” Molly said.
“Well, I don’t. So maybe that’s what’s missing in my life. Maybe I don’t
value
myself enough.” The words were familiar. It took her a minute to realize that she had heard them in therapy years before. At the time, she hadn’t paid them much heed. Change was painful. The devil she knew was better than the one she did not.
And now?
“Come back to Zoe’s?” Molly asked pleadingly.
Julia looked around. “This is a good place for me right now. You can visit whenever you want.”
“Can I stay here?”
Hel-lo,
Julia nearly cried. After all her talk about needing space?
Slipping an elbow through her daughter’s, she guided her up the stairs. “I want you at Zoe’s.”
“I want you there, too,” Molly said, and launched in with, “What is going on between Grandpa and Gram? And what’s with Grandpa and Zoe? They had zero to say to each other. I mean, really impolite. I wanted to make them blueberry-stuffed French toast, but Zoe insisted on cooking, and she wouldn’t even sit and eat with us, just kept busy at the stove. Grandpa went back and forth between me and the
Wall Street Journal
. I think I’ll call Gram.”
“Margaret Marie, do not do that. Let your grandparents work out their own problems. Do you hear?”
It was good advice, if only Julia could have followed it.
Not your business,
Julia told herself.
Can’t carry everyone else’s baggage when you’re trying to carry your own,
she argued.
But her mother was her mother, a woman whose husband of forty-odd years had not only walked out on her, but had taken refuge in the home of the
other
woman, the one with whom he’d once had an affair. Julia would have had to be made of stone not to feel for her.
Moreover, she was haunted by what Zoe had said about mother and daughter being alike. Julia didn’t want to think of herself as opting out when the going got rough.
She called Janet at work. To her credit, Janet came on right away, but that was the extent of her concession.
“Yes, Julia,” she said in a businesslike tone.
Julia felt the familiar stomach-jumping. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You know Dad’s here with me.”
“Well, if that’s where he’s gone, that’s where he’s gone.”
“Are you okay with that?”
“He’s a big boy, Julia. He can go where he wants.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“No, but apparently what I’m
okay
with doesn’t matter anymore. I was not okay with your going up there. You went anyway, and now your father has followed. If you really want to know, I think he’s being as irresponsible with regard to me as you are being with regard to your husband. Neither of you has any business being there.”
“To the contrary,” Julia said, because they were avoiding the issue. “We’re here because Zoe’s here.”
There was the briefest pause, then a dry, “So she is. I have a meeting now, Julia. Have a good day.”
Ian’s plane was late, which meant that Noah had an hour to sit at the airport with nothing to do but think of having his son for a whole three weeks and wonder what they would do, whether they would get along, what they would talk about, whether they could connect. Sandi was right: Noah had been an absentee father. He was going to have to deal with Ian’s resentment, along with a mutual unfamiliarity. In ten years, they hadn’t spent any significant amount of time together. For all practical purposes, they were strangers.
Noah wanted to change that. He had three weeks in which to do it— three weeks, and precious little understanding of how to go about it. Lobstering he could do. When it came to fathering, though, he was in a thick ’o fog without a horn. Times had changed since he was seventeen. His father’s method of fathering wouldn’t work with Ian. The problem was, Noah didn’t know what method would.
Feeling decidedly adrift, he rose and stood at the window until the jet finally landed and taxied toward the terminal. He moved back then, hit by a wave of apprehension. He had failed as a husband, had failed as a father. No matter that he had greater reason to succeed with Ian now. Who was to say he wouldn’t fail again?
Beyond the window, the plane loomed at the jetport. By the time the jetway door opened, Noah’s heart was beating faster. Forget how Ian would act; he wasn’t even sure how Ian would
appear
. The last time they had been together was for an overnight in New York during the Easter weekend, little more than two months before. Ian had been presentable enough, wearing slacks, a shirt, and trendy shoes that would carry him through dinner at a decent restaurant, an evening of theater, and a stay at the Ritz on Central Park. Granted, his shirt had refused to stay tucked, the slacks were too long over the shoes, and his hair was
way
too long. He was good-looking enough to get away with it all, particularly when he smiled, which he did for waiters, cabbies, and hotel clerks, though never for Noah.
While in Manhattan, Noah had planned a visit to the Museum of Natural History, thinking to share his love of nature with his son. Ian had been bored.
The first few passengers emerged. Tall enough for a clear view, Noah kept his eyes on the door. More and more passengers came through, until he guessed that the majority of those who had been aboard had deplaned. The crowd thinned. Two more passengers came out, then a trio of teenaged girls. He began to worry, actually began to get
angry,
because if Ian had missed the flight and Sandi hadn’t called—Noah could have made
far
better use of his morning, most notably hauling traps.
Then Ian appeared. He wore the latest in faded jeans and a logo T-shirt, and his hair was shorter, had blond streaks, and stood straight up on top, but those good looks remained. He added a cocky saunter when the trio of girls slowed and called back to him before moving on. Friends from Baltimore? It didn’t matter. Noah, who hadn’t thought Ian was old enough to grin the way he grinned at those girls, actually felt a moment of sheer male pride. His son was a man, or at least was getting there fast.
When Ian spotted him, the grin died—and still Noah’s pride remained. Ian was a young man with a savvy way about him. When Noah had been seventeen, he hadn’t had that way about him. Kids nowadays grew up faster. Or maybe it was that kids on the mainland grew up faster.
“Hey,” Noah called as he strode forward. He put out a hand to shake, but when Ian’s met it, Noah impulsively drew him into a hug. It wasn’t a smooth thing, and Ian’s stiffness didn’t help. He actually looked annoyed when Noah set him back.
But Noah wasn’t sorry for the hug, not for a minute. He hadn’t planned it, didn’t even know he’d needed it. In lieu of words, though, it said something. Ian was his son, flesh of his flesh. That fact demanded acknowledgment. No, he wasn’t apologizing for the hug.
“You look great, Ian,” he said.
Ian shrugged.
“How was the flight?”
“Okay,” Ian said in the deep voice that still surprised Noah.
“Did they feed you?”
“Peanuts,” came that deep voice laced with disdain.
Noah had hoped they could have lunch in Rockland, but he figured Ian might need something sooner. “Did you check a bag?”
“No,” the boy said with a slight, almost insolent rise at the end, and dipped an ear toward the duffle on his shoulder. “This is it. Like, your island isn’t New York.”
As put-downs went, it was a potent one. Noah had always been sensitive to the fact that he hadn’t grown up with mainland sophistication. Sure, his time in New York was worth something, but there was still the matter of modest roots. Sandi had often used it to explain things she didn’t like.
Noah knew he would be feeling defensive in a minute. Not wanting that, he tossed a thumb toward the exit. “Let’s go.”
Driving north on the Maine Turnpike, Noah did his best to engage Ian in conversation. “So, how’s baseball?”
“Done,” came the reply.
“For the summer?”
“Yes.”
“Was it a good league?”
Ian shrugged.
“Is that a yes or a no?” Noah asked.
“A yes.”
“Are you still playing shortstop?”
“Yes.”
“But running cross-country in the fall. Do you like that?”
There was another shrug, then a grudging, “It keeps me in shape.”
“How are the Orioles doing?”
“Lousy. Nothing’s been the same since Cal Ripkin retired.”
“I thought there were some other good players.”
“They sold them all off.”
Noah sighed. “For what it’s worth, the Red Sox are still breaking our hearts.”
Tracking the coast, Noah left the turnpike at Brunswick and took Route 1 into Wiscasset, where they stopped for lunch at Red’s Eats.
“Here?” Ian asked with a dubious glance at the small red building, its take-out window, plastic tables and chairs.
“See that line at the window? Red’s has the best lobster rolls in the state.”
“I don’t eat lobster.”
“Maybe that’s because you haven’t had a good lobster roll.”
“I gag on lobster.”
Noah sighed. “Do you eat fried clams?”
“Yes.”
“Order fried clams,” he said and got out of the truck.
Ian ordered fried clams and ate them all. When Noah told him to pass a napkin, he passed it. When Noah told him to use the rest room before they hit the road again, he used the rest room. When Noah told him to buckle his seat belt, he buckled his seat belt.
He could follow orders. That was something. Not fun or interesting or promising for an interactive relationship. But something.
Noah waited until they were back on Route 1, halfway between Wiscasset and Damariscotta, before trying again. “How’s your mom?”
“Fine.”
“Giving you a hard time?”
“No.”
“She’s proud of you, entering your senior year. How does that feel?”
“How does what feel?”
“Being a senior.”
“It sucks,” Ian said. “Everyone’s on your back about college. I’m not going.”