What I Thought Was True (23 page)

“‘Her body was like that undiscovered country that he had

long yearned for and never found. And so he took her, plant-

ing his flag in her uncharted regions, as only a man can take a

woman he yearns for, pines for, throbs to possess,’” I read to

my rapt audience.

Mrs. E. is not alone in her taste for romance novels.

The reading circle has expanded to include tiny Mrs. Cole

and Phelps, Big Mrs. McCloud, and Avis King. I can hardly be

accused of corrupting minors, since Mrs. Cole is the youngest

at seventy-something, but I feel uncomfortable anyway. Maybe

because my mom loaned me the book. Or because during one

of the pirate’s more exotic seductions of the pregnant princess,

Avis King made me reread a paragraph three times while she

and the others tried to decide if the pirate’s feats were physi-

cally possible. And really,
his flag?

Jump-starting this discussion, Avis King, growling in her

pack-a-day voice: “He’d have to be extremely physically fit.”

Mrs. Cole, high-pitched and defensive: “I’m sure pirates

were. All that sacking and pillaging.”

Avis King: “Clarissa, you’re all in a muddle, as usual.

Vikings
sacked and pillaged. Pirates spent a lot of time on the 267

BOM2_9780803739093_WhatIThougtWasTrue_TX.indd 267

9/4/13 8:02 AM

high seas on cramped boats without room to exercise.”

“
This
pirate certainly gets a lot of exercise,” Mrs. Ellington says approvingly. “I do like these modern romances. None of

that foolish cutting away to the next scene just when things are

getting good.”

Big Mrs. McCloud, imperious as a queen: “Pirates all had

bad teeth too. Scurvy.”

Avis King: “Let’s just move along, girls?”

But we can only continue a short way before there’s more

speculation. “The princess must be having a boy if she’s inter-

ested in getting up to all that with the pirate in her condition.

“Oh Clarissa, that’s a myth,” says Avis King. “There was

no difference at all in how I felt about Malcolm when I was

expecting Susanna or William.”

“I don’t know . . .” Mrs. Cole muses. “I barely wanted to eat

at the same table as Richard when I was with child with Linda,

but with Douglas and Peter . . .” She stops, smiling reminis-

cently.

Mercifully, the ladies all ask for iced tea at this point. Mrs.

Cole follows me into the kitchen. “This is hard,” she says softly, in her whispery little-girl voice. I assume she means the pirate

and the princess and concur.

“Well, it is kind of explicit, and that can be unnerving.”

“Oh heavens”—she flaps her hand at me—“not that! Do

you think I was born yesterday?”

Well
no,
which is part of what makes it awkward.

“No, it’s that dear Rose has headed up all our summer tra-

ditions. Now she spends so much time sitting about. Doing

nothing. Planning less. That’s what I hate the most. The not

268

BOM2_9780803739093_WhatIThougtWasTrue_TX.indd 268

9/4/13 8:02 AM

planning. Like there’s no future there,” she confides, softly.

“She’s the oldest of us, but never seemed that way. I don’t

know what Henry Ellington’s thinking, leaving her on her own

so much. When my Richard broke his hip, our children and

grandchildren were there all summer, waiting on him hand

and foot. Drove him crazy, if you must know. But far better that

than this . . . absence.”

Just then the phone rings. As if summoned, it’s Henry

Ellington. “Gwen? How’s my mother doing?”

The problem is, having discussed his mother with him a

grand total of once, I don’t know how much truth he wants. I

say something about her appetite being good, and how she’s

gotten to the beach, and he cuts in with, “What about resting?

Has she been getting her naps on schedule? Same time every

day?”

Does it really matter about the time? She naps, but yes,

we’ve occasionally come back later from the beach or gone

for a drive to some farm stand in Maplecrest where they have

these elusive white peaches Mrs. Ellington craves. I stammer

that I try.

“I’m sure,” he says, his voice softening. “I know Mother’s

will of iron. But do your best. I’ll be coming down to see her

today, as a matter of fact. But I’ll probably get there while she’s napping. Then I’d like to make dinner. Would you be offended

if I sent you out to the market for us? It’s my father’s birthday

and she’s always sad. I thought I’d make her his favorite meal—

that was their tradition.”

Indeed, Mrs. E. is fretful and out of sorts by early afternoon.

She agrees to go up to bed slightly early, then keeps calling me

269

BOM2_9780803739093_WhatIThougtWasTrue_TX.indd 269

9/4/13 8:02 AM

back to open a window, close a shade, bring her a cup of warm

milk with nutmeg. She fusses that I put in too much honey,

not enough nutmeg, the milk is too hot, there’s a scalded skin

on top. Finally, she lets me leave. I sit outside her door sliding my back down the wall, checking my texts from Viv and Nic,

waiting for another summons, but all is quiet, so I inch slowly

down the stairs, stepping over the fourth one that creaks like

the crack of a rifle if you hit it the wrong way.

I’m lying in the front yard, shoulder straps pulled down for

tan line elimination, reading the antics of the pirate and the

princess, when I see Mom and her current cohorts coming out

of the Tucker house across the street. Buckets and mops in hands

signals that they’re done. Which means that the Robinsons’ stay

on the island is done.
So long, Alex.
I get up to walk over. Spotting me, Mom gives a cheery wave, and then fans her hands over her

face in a gesture of exasperation meant to convey that her exist-

ing cleaning team hasn’t gotten any better. Angela Castle, who

is Dad’s cousin’s daughter, is hauling the vacuum cleaner down

the stairs, wearing a sour expression and a shirt cut down to her

navel. According to Mom, Angela only consented to this job in

hopes of winning the hand of some Seashell summer guy. “As

if,” Mom said, “we haven’t all outgrown Cinderella. Yuh, that’ll

happen. Because nothing says sexy like mopping your floor.”

Angela drags the equipment to the back of the Bronco,

while Mom reaches into the Igloo cooler stationed there and

extracts a Diet Coke.

Then, to me, under her breath, Mom says, “I hope we did

okay. Those Robinsons are so particular. They always give it the

white glove treatment after I leave and there’s always some-

270

BOM2_9780803739093_WhatIThougtWasTrue_TX.indd 270

9/4/13 8:02 AM

thing we left undone, so ‘in all good conscience we couldn’t

pay you the full rate.’ Good riddance, I say.”

I think I hear Mrs. E. calling me, but all is still when I creep

up the stairs and press my ear to her door. Just as I get back

down, Henry Ellington comes in, wearing a beige cashmere

cable-knit sweater tied around his neck, carrying a briefcase,

and accompanied by a scholarly-looking man with thinning

red hair, whom he introduces as Gavin Gage, “a business part-

ner.” Mr. Gage is one of those people who don’t look at you

when they shake your hand, glancing everywhere around the

room instead.

Henry fishes a list of out of his pocket, written on the back

of a bank deposit envelope, directs me to go to Fillerman’s

Fish Market after the grocery store because they have the

“freshest salmon.” Grandpa is always ragging on Fillerman’s,

saying they soak their fish in milk to get rid of the fishy smell

from being sold too old. For a second, treacherously, as if

Dad’s words on Sandy Claw let loose a snake in my mind, I

look at the one-hundred-dollar bill Henry has handed me

and wonder how much of it I could keep if I hit up Grandpa

or one of his cohorts for salmon instead. It’d be a service—

the salmon would definitely be better.

“I’ll bring you all the receipts,” I say hastily, cutting off
that
train of thought.

“Of course.” Henry loosens the sweater, draping it over the

kitchen chair. “A shot of bourbon, Gavin? Gwen, take Mother’s

car.” He slides me the keys, anchored by a carved wooden seagull.

I should not be intimidated by Mrs. Ellington’s car, but even

after our market drives and sightseeing tours, I still am.

271

BOM2_9780803739093_WhatIThougtWasTrue_TX.indd 271

9/4/13 8:02 AM

The interior is cream-colored leather, the outside shiny

ivory paint. It’s like it’s just left the showroom. I start to edge uneasily out of the driveway, tires crunching on clamshells. I

feel as though I’m driving a gigantic marshmallow on wheels.

Just then the dark green Seashell Services truck wheels up,

parking with a squeal. Tony gets out the front and Cass hops out

the back, which is already heaped with hedge clippings. Tony

shouts some words I can’t hear, jerking his chin to the passen-

ger seat of the truck, and Cass ducks in and emerges with a

weed-whacker. Tony leans over, cupping his hand around Cass’s

ear to say something, jerking his head toward the Robinson/

Tucker house. Probably he’s passing on the same information

that Mom did. That they are demanding and high-maintenance.

It strikes me how funny it is that Cass is no doubt as rich as the Robinsons, if not more so. But, in just about a month, Tony and

Marco have accepted him as an island guy. They didn’t see him

last night, though, piling into the Porsche, careless, laughing,

comfortable, every inch the aristocrat.

Cass waves the whacker, pumps it in the air, and Tony claps

him on the back. Then they both burrow into the boxwood

bushes, no doubt looking for electrical outlets. As I start to

drive away, I allow my glance to stray to the rearview mir-

ror, linger on Cass’s backside. Tony’s plumber butt is much less

appealing.

He wasn’t wearing gloves. Cass!

I hurry through the shopping list, frustrated because Henry

has specified on the list that all these things need to be bought

in particular places all over town. For God’s sake. In addition to the fish at Fillerman’s, there are rolls that can only be bought

272

BOM2_9780803739093_WhatIThougtWasTrue_TX.indd 272

9/4/13 8:02 AM

at a bakery in White Bay, then all this other stuff from Stop & Shop. Then Garrett’s Hardware for some kind of cedar plank for

grilling the salmon. Which takes forever, because I can’t find it, the store is a bit of a mess, and the cute redheaded guy behind

the counter gets totally distracted when some chick walks in

wearing cut-off shorts. Plus I find myself lingering in front of

the work-glove display. Should I? No, that would be weird. Very

weird. Then sorbet and meringues at Homelyke, and then the

liquor store, where Henry wants Prosecco. I don’t even know

what that is, except that I’m not old enough to buy it, and

Dom D’Ofrio, who works there, knows that all too well. I tell

him it’s for my boss and he just rolls his eyes. “Never heard
that
one before.”

An hour and a half later, sweating, I loop the Cadillac back

into the driveway, where Henry’s Subaru is still blocking the

circular drive. I’m hauling the various bags into the kitchen

when I hear his distinctive voice from the front hall. “This,

obviously, is an Audubon. Great-Grandfather Howard, my

mother’s side, invested heavily in art. We have several more at

the Park Avenue house.”

“A print,” Gage’s voice says firmly. “Have you had the others

authenticated?”

“No, naturally I came to you with this first. How can this

not be an original?”

There’s a scraping sound, as though Mr. Gage is taking it off

the wall. “Here. See. Henry, I assure you, you aren’t the first

generation in any family to find your finances in arrears. Just

yesterday I was sent to White Bay to take a look at a Tiffany

necklace that had supposedly been handed down in the family

273

BOM2_9780803739093_WhatIThougtWasTrue_TX.indd 273

9/4/13 8:02 AM

since the 1840s. All the stones were paste. Useless. It happens

more often than you’d think. By nature, my business is very

discreet, so you don’t hear a thing. I have a client in Westwood

who had copies painted of all the fine art in the house. His

parents had been famous collectors. Told his wife he was ner-

vous about theft and was putting the paintings in storage and

displaying the copies. Sold the originals to me.”

“Sounds like a great marriage,” Henry Ellington says drily.

“The point is, what do we have here of any value?”

I got paper bags, not plastic, and am setting them down

really gently, hoping they won’t rustle and alert Henry to my

presence, which I’m pretty sure is not wanted. I’ve had a life-

time of hearing “Other people’s stories, Gwen. All we owe

them is a clean house and a closed mouth.” But it’s hard to

close your brain. What’s going on?

“Henry, you know I’ll do all I can for you. Some of the

furniture is of worth. The Eldred Wheeler Nantucket tea table