Life Happens (8 page)

Regardless of what she liked, disliked or otherwise, she had options to consider, difficult decisions to make. She didn’t know why she slid her hands into her back pockets, but the moment she felt the baseball cap, it hit her.

With shaking fingers, she touched the bill of the cap.
Dean had said Lakers were Red Sox fans. Was that what she was? A Laker?

It was time she found out.

Holding Dean’s gaze, she said, “You mentioned that the rest of the Lakers want to meet Kaylie and me.”

He nodded.

“When?” she repeated.

The pupils of his eyes dilated in the fading twilight, but he looked pleased as he said, “Sunday. One o’clock?”

So soon?

But she’d made her decision, and there was no turning back. “Where?”

“At my brother Reed’s place.”

“Does he live on the island, too?”

Dean nodded. “Mya knows the way.” He looked directly at Mya. “Reed, Sylvia and the boys live in the old McCaffrey place near the cove. The family extended the invitation to you, too.”

Elle and Mya stared after him as he climbed behind the wheel of a dusty four-by-four and drove away. “He’s not exactly a conversationalist, is he?”

Mya shook her head, for it was true. Dean was a man of few words. But what he said, he meant. Still, she’d received more enthusiastic invitations from the dentist.

A gust of wind dragged at the lapels of her jacket. Drawing the edges together, she thought about Dean’s visit tonight, and then she thought about his invitation.

All the Lakers, all at once, all under one roof. Why not just get out the whip and the horsehair shirt?

Until today, she could count on one hand the times she’d been to Keepers Island these past nineteen years. Just as Elle’s conception had changed the course of Mya’s life nearly twenty years ago, her recent arrival in Maine was changing it again. It was forcing her to face serious issues she’d buried a long time ago.

Seeing Dean again reminded Mya of how intense he could be, how dark and brooding, and how dangerous that combination had been to the rebellious girl she’d been. The hold he’d had on her all those years ago was strong. She happened to know the hold she’d had on him was equally so.

That was then.

Sunday was two days away. And Mya knew darn well that wild horses couldn’t keep her away any longer.

T
he first thing Mya noticed when Dean opened his brother’s door on Sunday was the aroma of fresh-baked bread and steaming seafood. The second was noise. It exploded upon them. High-pitched voices of boys engaged in raucous roughhousing blended with laughter and what sounded suspiciously like space lasers and explosions and someone yelling for the boys to stop. Dogs growled and barked playfully. Someone yelled for them to stop, too.

The ferry from Portland had left right on schedule. Casco Bay had been calm, and even though Mya, Elle and Kaylie had arrived on the island a little early, Dean had been waiting for them at the harbor. Dean had installed a car seat for Kaylie in the backseat, and Elle sat beside her. That left the front passenger seat for Mya. Dean pointed out landmarks to Elle. Mya had watched out the window as the familiar sights went by. Nerves had clamored in the pit of her stomach all the way.

Elle seemed more quiet than nervous. Stepping over a pair of small, muddy tennis shoes and a partially chewed
rawhide dog bone, she said, “It sounds like all hell’s breaking loose in there.”

Dean held the door. “Around here all hell breaks loose on a regular basis.”

The four of them entered a big country kitchen and mayhem. A little boy was playing tug-of-war with a large brown dog. The dog was winning. Two other boys were facing a computer screen. Joysticks in their hands, they rooted for their spaceships and shouted at each other with all the rowdy vehemence of true competitors.

Up to her elbows in sudsy water, a red-haired woman called, “Dougie, let Buster have his blanket. Michael and Brad, turn off that computer game. Brad, where’s your mom? Who’s on guard duty at the front door? Reed, would you hurry up with those table leaves?”

The game of tug-of-war continued as if she hadn’t spoken. So did the computer game. Another woman came bustling into the room, a heavy-looking table leaf in her hands. “Grady and Greg are keeping an eye out for them in the living room.”

“It takes two?”

“You know Grady and—” The brown-haired woman stopped abruptly at the sight of Mya, Elle, Kaylie and Dean.

Coming to a stop a hairbreadth behind her, Reed Laker said, “Dean! Well, hell’s bells. Come on in, everybody!”

A hush fell.

The boys at the computer looked over their shoulders. The smaller child and the dog both dropped the tattered blanket. The poor redhead turned, suds dripping from her hands. Looking pained, she rushed toward them, drying her hands on a kitchen towel as she came. She smiled at Elle, Kaylie and Mya, and spoke sternly to her brother-in-law. “Dean Laker, I gave you strict instructions to use the front door.”

Dean had the grace to look sheepish. “The front door’s for company.”

And then holy hell broke loose all over again.

“Hey, Uncle Dean. I’m whipping the pants off Brad.”

“Are not.”

“Am so.”

“You wish.”

“Wishes are for wusses.”

The dark-haired woman handed the table leaf to her husband. “What a lovely first impression.” But she managed to smile.

Mya relaxed a little at that smile.

The computer game was turned off, the dogs let outside, quick introductions made. The kids were presented en masse: Cole, Greg, Dougie, Michael and Brad. Mya already knew Reed and Grady, of course, and through the years her mother had kept her apprised of the additions to the Laker family. Grady’s wife’s name was Gretchen, Reed’s, Sylvia. When it came to the kids, it was hard to tell who was who.

“The food’s hot and the boys are hungry,” Sylvia said. “None of us will have a moment’s peace until we feed them. Boys, wash up. Use the soap. On your hands, not on the towel. Don’t think I won’t check.” It was her house, and she was in charge. She handed Mya a heaping platter and directed Elle to put Kaylie in a well-used old wooden high chair.

As Mya took her assigned chair in the dining room next to Elle, she stole her first glance at the gray-haired woman sitting at the far corner of the table. Dean’s mother smiled serenely. When everyone was seated, she bowed her head. “Welcome Mya, Elle and Kaylie. Now, let’s all say grace.”

One of the kids whispered, “Grace.”

And two others giggled.

Reed led a short prayer. And then the eating commenced.

Two minutes into the meal, Mya realized that her unease had evaporated. Who had time to be uneasy? There were serving bowls to be passed and names to try to get straight and conversations to keep up with.

Elle sat next to her quietly, as if taking it all in. Mya wondered what the girl was thinking. The Laker boys ranged in age from about four to sixteen. All but the middle one had dark hair. There was no question that one was Sylvia’s child. Kaylie barely moved in the unfamiliar high chair, a spoon clutched in one chubby fist, a crust of bread
in the other. Eyes round, she seemed mesmerized by the sheer commotion.

“How do you like Maine so far?” Reed asked Elle, buttering his roll.

Before she could answer, Grady said, “If I were you, I’d reserve judgment until July when the weather turns truly glorious.”

And one of the boys said, “Maine weather is famously harsh. What’s the matter? Don’t you like lobster?”

Suddenly, all eyes were trained on Elle, who dubiously eyed the heaping platter of steaming lobster in front of her. “I’ve never had it.”

“Never?”

An older brother nudged him.

“There isn’t a lot of fresh seafood in northwestern Pennsylvania,” Elle explained.

“Oh, yeah.”

With a wink, Reed said, “You’re in for a treat. Isn’t that right, guys?”

The second oldest of the boys—Mya was pretty sure his name was Greg—said, “Dad says the task of eating lobster isn’t clean or easy. If you don’t end up with butter all over your face and shirt—”

“You’re not doing it right,” two others said in unison.

Not about to be coerced into anything, Elle said, “I heard the poor creatures scream when they’re dropped into a boiling pot.”

There was a momentary hush. And then the red-haired boy said, “That’s a myth.”

“They don’t have vocal cords.”

“The sound is air leaving the body cavity in a rush.”

“No sh—kidding?” Elle asked.

Everyone grinned, the kids especially.

“Dig in. You hafta use your hands.” The oldest demonstrated, pulling the claws off and cracking one open.

All five kids got in on the instructions. The hard-shelled body and tail were snapped apart, and the pale flesh dug out. The boys used their fingers. At their urging, Elle did the same. There was more laughter, and second helpings of everything, and a glass of milk spilled. Gretchen wiped it up as if it was an everyday occurrence, engaging the others at the table in conversation about the island’s wild and windswept cliffs and sheltered inlets she’d photographed the previous day.

The Lakers had never been a quiet bunch, the next generation chips off the old block. The youngest boy slurped noisily as he sucked the very last succulent white meat from inside a claw. Elle picked hers up and did the same.

The child beamed his approval.

“Not bad for a first try,” another agreed.

While Kaylie banged her spoon on the tray of her high chair, Elle said, “It’s harder than it looks.”

“You’ve got real promise,” yet another declared.

“You’re not so bad yourselves.”

The boys blushed to the tips of their ears.

May sunshine slanted through the old-fashioned picture window. Just beyond that window, forsythias bloomed bright yellow, competing with the sun. A corner of the ocean was visible between the graceful branches of birch trees and wind-battered firs. Inside, cutlery clanged and conversations danced and skipped from one topic to another. All the cooking had made it warm in there, and Mya knew a moment of utter contentment.

She happened to glance across the table, and found Dean looking at her. His eyes were deep blue, his face made up of interesting planes and hard angles. The clatter and clank of dishes and the rise and fall of conversation receded. The years melted away, and it almost felt like old times, as if she and Dean were simply two people sharing something pleasant and ordinary. She smiled, and she swore he wanted to, but he shrugged instead, a marvelous shifting of his shoulders that spoke volumes.

Someone called for the rolls. And everyone and everything else came back into focus. Mya looked away quickly, catching Gretchen and Sylvia in that millisecond before they could avert their gazes.

The meal progressed. When everyone was so full they couldn’t possibly eat another bite, dessert was brought out and systematically devoured. Cole was the first to ask to be excused. One by one, the rest of the kids dutifully followed his lead.

Without the children as diversions, nobody seemed to know where to look. Through the sudden awkward silence, Dean’s mother said, “You boys better go outside and watch my grandsons. Grady, please try to keep Michael out of the mud. I swear that boy gets more like you every day.”

The men stood, carrying a stack of dirty dishes into the kitchen on their way through. When only the women remained, Ruth Laker said, “Pardon me for overstepping my place as guest in your home, Sylvia, but if someone didn’t get them out of here, Grady was going to say something profound, such as ‘How about those Red Sox?’ If you girls would get everything as far as the kitchen, I’ll do the dishes.”

“You know I’m not going to let you do that, Mother,” Sylvia said.

Keeping her face averted, Dean’s mother said, “It’s good to share a meal with you again, Mya. Would you mind warming Kaylie’s bottle for me? I would love to hold her while she drinks it, if that’s all right with you, Elle.”

Ruth Laker was systematically clearing the room.

Mya’s reluctance to leave Elle must have been obvious. In a quiet voice, Gretchen said, “I’ll get you a pan. Sylvia’s old stove is a little tricky.”

In the kitchen, Gretchen took a shallow pan from a low shelf. Adding water, Mya placed the baby bottle in the pan.

“Did you warn Elle?” Gretchen whispered.

Mya shrugged. In truth, Elle hadn’t been receptive, saying she preferred to form her own opinions. “Warn her about what? That her grandmother is impossible to love, or impossible not to?”

Sylvia and Gretchen stared at each other. It was obvious the sisters-in-law shared a great deal. It was that way for island women. A photographer whose work was gaining national attention, Gretchen had straight, chin-length brown hair and chic black glasses. Sylvia was a nurse-practitioner. Somebody had teased her about being forty, but she looked years younger, compliments of a pert nose and the freckles across it. The plastic clip at her nape was fighting a losing battle at restraining her curly red tresses. These two women had come from other places to live here. Mya had grown up here, and had left. She wondered what they’d been told about her.

For some reason, she joined the other two, who were staring out the window over the kitchen sink. Reed and Sylvia’s backyard was a long sloping expanse of lawn stretching to the enormous gray rocks that made up the shoreline. The grass was green in places, brown in others, thanks to so many dogs, two of which were running in circles around the Laker males. Reed tossed a football and Dean carried four-year-old Dougie on his shoulder the way a lobsterman carried a barrel. Wearing his favorite Red Sox cap, Grady threw a Frisbee to his oldest nephew, the most sullen-looking boy of the bunch.

“How is Cole handling his punishment?” Gretchen asked her sister-in-law.

“As if taking away the car keys has ruined his life and we’re prison guards whose sole purpose is to make his existence miserable. How else?”

Mya’s gaze went to the oldest boy, almost as tall as the men. He wore a Red Sox cap, too, but his was on backward. She wondered what he’d done.

“Do you know why teenagers are so reckless?” Sylvia asked.

“Because they’re stupid?” Gretchen answered.

“I prefer to think of it as a medical condition.” Sylvia started the water running in the sink. “Their prefrontal cortex is still immature.”

“Their prefrontal what?” Gretchen quipped.

Mya wasn’t the only one who smiled.

“Their prefrontal cortex,” Sylvia repeated. “It’s the part of the brain that controls emotional moderation, organization, planning and judgment. Unfortunately it isn’t fully developed at Cole’s age.”

“So in essence, teenagers are brain damaged.”

“That’s not the clinical interpretation.”

“But it explains a lot, doesn’t it?”

Mya thought it would be interesting to know these two.

“The good news is,” Sylvia said, “they outgrow it.”

“If they live long enough,” Gretchen added.

Suddenly, all three were quiet, their ears tuned to what
was happening in the dining room. Looking in that direction, Gretchen whispered, “Elle doesn’t look sick.”

“I know. Surely, that means the chemo is working, right?” Mya thought about how quiet Elle had been these past few days.

“God, Mya,” Gretchen said quietly. “I can’t imagine what you must be going through.”

Mya had assumed they would take Dean’s side, blaming her for her decision all those years ago. But as suds filled the sink, they were all mothers.

“Think I should go in there and rescue her?” Mya asked.

“I’d wait until the bottle’s warm,” Sylvia said.

Gretchen nodded. “She’ll be okay until then. Remember, Ruth’s bark is worse than her bite.”

Kaylie banged the spoon on the wooden high chair. Alone with the woman who was technically her grandmother, Elle didn’t know where to look or what to say.

“Bring the baby down here so I can meet you both properly.”

Elle wasn’t accustomed to being bossed around.

“Don’t be bashful,” Ruth said, patting the chair adjacent to her.

Lifting Kaylie from the high chair, Elle said, “I’ve been called a lot of things, but I don’t think I’ve ever been called bashful.”

“Are you saying you aren’t?”

At Elle’s silence, the old woman laughed, the sound loosening the fist that had wrapped around Elle’s voice box.

“There hasn’t been a child of Laker descent born without a dash of bashfulness and varying degrees of stubbornness. I’m sure you’ve already discovered those traits in that beautiful baby girl.”