The Inn at Lake Devine (16 page)

I said, “That was a different time.”

“And you think people change?”

I said, “Whatever Ingrid Berry thinks of me, she hasn’t passed it down to her children.” To her sons, at least, I thought.

“They’d be fools if they didn’t appreciate you, with all the help you’ve been. They got a free cook and bottle washer, and a very nice, soothing, helpful girl, who the Fifes happen to love, so it’s all very convenient. Just because you dislike someone doesn’t mean you won’t take advantage of her. And now, your mother.”

“Mom? I thought you said that was fine.”

“It’s fine because there was no one else, apparently. But what kind of system is this? Your mother’s practically a stranger! Where are Sissy’s sisters? Her best friends?” He shook his head with deep disapproval. “The Berrys are takers, Nat. That’s all I’m saying.”

I said, “Dad. They invited me here as a special friend of Robin’s—before anything went wrong. I couldn’t leave them in the lurch.”

“Who?” he asked. “Who couldn’t you leave in the lurch?”

“Everyone: Mr. Fife, Sissy, Nelson, his brother.”

At just that juncture, Kris, from the backseat of the van, turned around to check on us. I waved discreetly, and he waved back.

“Which one’s that?” my father asked.

“Kris,” I said. “Kristofer.”

My father said nothing. His badly aligned tires thumped the country road. “Are you packed?” he asked me finally.

I said, “I hardly brought anything.”

He said quietly, “Natty, we’ll go back there to get your mother and to pay our respects after the service. Then I want you to come home with us.”

C
ars with Rhode Island and Connecticut license plates lined Union Street outside the church. Undaunted, my father pulled his truck into a driveway between a luncheonette and a card store several blocks south.

I hissed that he couldn’t block someone’s driveway, but he was already out of the cab, opening the restaurant’s front door and announcing loud enough for me to hear from the sidewalk, “I’m up for the funeral. Can I park in your alley for maybe a half-hour? I’m up from Massachusetts. Marx Fruit. I’ll leave my keys.”

It was the way he conducted himself, asking only what he would have readily agreed to if it were his town, his driveway, and a brother truck in need of a favor. Of course the counterman agreed.

“You and Pamela,” he clucked as we walked back up Union.
“You’re so afraid you’re going to offend someone. You know why? ’Cause you never had to finagle anything. Never had to fight your way to the front of the line.” He smiled. “You and your sister. You go into a bakery, and if some shmuck cuts in front of you, you say, ‘Excuse me, sir, but you’re not supposed to cut in front of people who were here first.’ You don’t get that from me, and you sure don’t get it from your grandfathers.”

I said, “You think you can bend every rule. You think you can ask the chef to cook you up some liver and onions even if they’re not on the menu—”

“You’re never gonna let me forget that—”

“I wouldn’t accommodate you. I’d refuse. Because I know you: You have to try. That’s the fun of it. I’d refuse because if the waitress went back and said, ‘Sorry, sir, no deal,’ you would’ve ordered the meat-loaf plate and have been perfectly happy.”

“You!” he said proudly, squeezing my shoulders, missing my point entirely. “As if you’d work in a joint that had a meat-loaf plate.”

A
n usher directed us to a guest book on a pedestal, where a dozen schoolboys in crested blue blazers—Mr. Fife’s boys’ choir, I would soon learn—were carefully inscribing their names. After signing “The Edward Marx family,” I caught up with my eternally unselfconscious father, now barreling toward the front of the church as if snagging good seats at the North Shore Music Tent. It put us where no one else, apparently, wanted to be—directly behind the families, and therefore only yards from Robin. The sight of a small nosegay on her immense, gleaming cherry coffin instantly made my eyes sting and my throat ache. I knew, and the assembly would soon learn, that the violets, sweetheart roses, and stephanotis were to have been her understated bridal bouquet.

Before anyone said an official word, Mr. Fife’s boys’ choir rose to sing. I was astonished to see Donald himself stand, touch the cheeks of the saddest, well-scrubbed faces, and conduct them in
the singing of “You’ll Never Walk Alone.” With the first note I could see his spine straighten, his shoulders lift, his elbows square; when his face turned, I could see his eyebrows flexed and his lips moving, and I knew that these verses and this refrain were four minutes of relief. When the song ended, the dozen boys dropped to the ground, cross-legged, instantly motionless, like ball boys at a tennis tournament. Donald returned to his seat, his body sagging again.

The minister from Gilbert was joined by a robed man he introduced as Robin’s beloved and lifelong clergyman from home, the Reverend Hatch, who was square of jaw and wild of eyebrow. He turned toward the coffin and began, as if a lifetime of ministerial composure were required to keep his voice from breaking, “Dear Robin …”

But then, facing the congregation, he said what men of God say about senseless, accidental deaths of persons who have never spoken an unkind word or entertained an uncharitable thought in their twenty-three years on earth: that the Lord had His plan and His reasons, as much as we didn’t understand them. As much as we might question Him. As much as we might turn away from Him at a time like this. The Reverend Hatch read the Twenty-third Psalm as if it would help, as if we had needed him to travel from Connecticut for this contribution, as if these weren’t the most rote, all-purpose public school stanzas in the entire Bible.

It wasn’t enough for me. I wanted someone to state the obvious: that this was not bearable. That Robin had been horribly cheated. That old ladies shouldn’t drive. That shmucks and criminals still walked the earth, while Robin lay here bruised and dead. I wasn’t going to start it, but I hoped if it had been me, there would be keening and wailing reminiscent of mothers at the graves of sons killed in the Six-Day War.

Gretel sang a hymn beautifully between eulogies, the first by the Reverend Hatch (young Robin), followed by the host minister (bride and adult).

It ended with the saddest sight of all, the pallbearers carrying her away, Nelson and friends on one side and what must have been doting uncles on the other.

Donald Fife and his sons followed, but barely.

I held my father back so that we didn’t merge into the recessional directly behind the Berrys, but minutes later, after the coffin had left the church.

I said, Yes, I
would
go home with him as soon as we picked Mom up at the Inn; that I had paid my respects already and had more or less said my good-byes.

I
 returned home from Robin’s funeral grateful for my parents’ rescue and believing that my family life, measured in love, democracy, and the intimacy of a modest ranch, was far superior to anything I’d seen up north. I slept rent-free in my old room, cleaned a little, cooked, and shopped—but only when I felt like it. Across the street, paralleling my own career trajectory, Shelley Loftus was clipping ads for job fairs and go-getter seminars that we might attend together.

My parents suggested I work for one of them while I job-hunted—either do the things in a real estate office that didn’t require a license or uncrate Florida citrus at sunup. I chose the desk job at Audrey Marx Properties, under the wing of Pamela Marx O’Connor, Associate.

I developed an itch on my hands and wrists that neither of the dermatologists I consulted could relieve with hydrocortisone cream or environmental adjustments. The longer I lived at home and played receptionist for Audrey Marx Properties, the worse it got. A third doctor asked questions that verged on the psychiatric: My age? Marital status? Medications? Occupation? Had I always lived at home? How was that working out? Any new stresses concurrent with the onset of symptoms?

I answered each question briefly but honestly: I was twenty-four years old and single, with no prescriptions to my name. I was an unemployed chef, looking for work in a recession, in a certain caliber of restaurant. Living at home was trying, not that I could put my finger on why, but I was beginning to feel myself shrinking.

Recent stresses? Those would include working for my frighteningly similar mother and sister in a field I had only contempt for, waiting for my phone to ring on any number of counts, and the death in a car crash of a friend en route to her wedding.

My last answer startled the doctor, who reached over and squeezed one of my itchy hands. “How awful for you,” she said.

I wanted to tell this sympathetic and relatively young dermatologist the whole story, but sensed I had already exceeded the space allotted on my medical history. I hesitated, then asked if this was the kind of thing she had time for.

“I’ll make time.”

“Briefly, then: I was up at this inn, where the wedding was supposed to be. Then we got the awful news. I found myself in the middle of everything, taking care of people I hardly knew. My parents had to come up and drag me home.”

“Against your will?”

I said, Not really. The funeral was over. I had no clothes and no concrete reason to stay. No spoken invitation.

“But you have unfinished business there?”

I said, “I guess I do.”

“When was this?”

“Christmas.”

“Have you been in touch with these people?”

I said no.

“Are these people men?”

I said yes. None of whom I had heard from.

“Have you called them?”

I said I hadn’t.

She said I should. Waiting was stressful. Stress caused all sorts of
systemic misfires. “I’m writing you a prescription for some lotion, but it’s not going to do anything more for you than the steroid cream you’ve been using.” She tore a page from her prescription pad and handed it to me. “I have parents, too,” she said. “In Newton. Maybe you need a place of your own.”

I
n late February, Hilda Simone, a plump little game bird of a woman in a short, shiny black suit, walked into Audrey Marx Properties and asked me if this office handled commercial space. I swiveled around in my chair to consult Pammy, who glided to the reception desk, hand outstretched, eyes round with pleasure and fixed on Mrs. Simone. “Of course we do, Natalie,” she chided.

Hilda Simone then said, “You see, my husband and I are looking for a site for our restaurant.”

Pamela had the instincts to hold back until she had interviewed Mrs. Simone and effectively counted her money. “Tell me more,” she said.

Just then my mother walked in with a couple she introduced as the Schenkmans, Dr. and Dr., relocating from Manhattan to work at Mass Eye and Ear, referred by such-and-such, also at the Infirmary. Would either of them like coffee, tea, Cup-a-Soup? Natalie, would you mind?

Pammy said, almost shrilly, “You know what, Audrey? Mrs. Simone wanted to talk to us about space for a
new restaurant
. Maybe I could get the doctors coffee and talk to them, since you’re so much better with commercial space, and Natalie could act as consultant.”

I said blandly, “I can get the coffee.”

My mother reconfigured the message for the doctors: “You know what? Because Mrs. O’Connor is our residential specialist, I’m going to ask her if she’d speak with you.” She then announced gaily to the office at large, “Natalie gets our coffee because she’s the food and beverage specialist de la maison.”

I asked, “Who wants what?”

Nothing for me, they all said. My mother pointed to the empty chair next to her new client. “Sit down. You’ve met Mrs. Simone?”

I said, “More or less.”

“Natalie is helping us out temporarily while she secures work in her own field.”

Mrs. Simone did not take the bait. My mother tried again: “She’s a very talented chef.”

Mrs. Simone perked up slightly. “Where?”

“I’m between jobs,” I said.

“She worked at Ten Tables,” my mother supplied. “I thought she’d be the perfect person to consult about properties. Considering her expertise.”

“Are you a broker, too?” Mrs. Simone asked me.

I said no. I wasn’t licensed. Or inclined, I wanted to say.

I saw nothing auspicious in Hilda Simone. I sensed the soul of a franchise owner or a server of bottled dressing.

“What kind of restaurant?” my mother asked.

Mrs. Simone said, “Not … inexpensive.”

“French?” my mother chirped.

“In certain ways.”

“Such as?” I asked.

“Well, French bread. Butter not margarine. Desserts from scratch. Wine.”

I said, “I see.”

Mrs. Simone said, “I’ve always thought it would be fun to own a restaurant and to greet people at the door. So we’ve been eating at a lot of different places and taking notes. My husband has his ideas and I have mine.”

“It’s a huge job,” I said, “and the hours are brutal.”

“You’re looking for what kind of square footage?” asked my mother.

“We thought enough for twenty tables. No more than that.”