Family Reunion Read online

  “Gram, are you still there? I mean, I’d understand of course if you didn’t want me—”

  “Ari, I would love to have you live here with me in the summer. You can have the downstairs bedroom so you can sneak out or sneak someone in when I’m upstairs sleeping.”

  “Gram! What a scandalous thought!”

  “Don’t tell your mother I said that.”

  Ari laughed. “I’m so excited! This is awesome. I wish I could come tomorrow but I’ll come with everyone else for your birthday in a few days. Gram, you are the best!”

  They said their goodbyes. Eleanor sat with her phone, looking out at the water. The sun had ascended while she’d been talking, and now it lit up the whole world.

  * * *

  —

  Eleanor sighed deeply and went into the kitchen to make coffee and a bowl of cereal with blueberries. Blueberries were supposed to help keep your mind sharp and your heart healthy. She ate them at the kitchen table, scrolling through the news on her iPhone. It was useful, this instrument. She could flip past whatever bored her, unlike watching the news on television where the newscasters chatted and laughed as if they were at a party instead of discussing important events. Still, Eleanor thought, those newscasters probably understood that part of their job was to present cheerful faces to the audience sitting at home with their hair standing on end as they learned of another day in the world news.

  She rinsed out her cup and bowl, tucked her phone in her pocket, and went upstairs to dress. She would shower later. She planned to work in the attic today, so she would need a shower later. She had a pair of ancient corduroy jeans that no longer fit around her waist, but who would see her today? She looped one of her husband’s old ties around to use as a belt—the zipper was broken. She buttoned an overlarge blue shirt over it. Put on her socks and sneakers. Took a last gulp of coffee and went up the stairs.

  Eleanor had always enjoyed the attic. It was a high-ceilinged, open barn of a space, with two windows at each end, looking out at the houses on either side, with no glimpse of the water. She liked that it didn’t have a view of the ocean. It made the attic feel like its own private world.

  Large furniture loomed everywhere, perfect for hide-and-seek. Her grandparents’ steamer trunks, empty now but still with buckled leather straps and funny old labels: CUNARD WHITE STAR, EIFFEL TOWER, ROMA. Three hope chests sat around with their lids up, mostly emptied by someone needing blankets or sheets or dress-up clothes. One chest held a pile of gorgeous, delicate linen tablecloths trimmed with lace and embroidery. No one wanted those anymore, just as no one wanted silver, china, or crystal. Too much work. But the world moved in cycles. Someone would want these someday.

  A matching sofa and chair, both covered in hideous, scratchy gray wool, sat near the window, heaped with chintz material. For curtains? Clothes and hats for the local theater company? A dress Eleanor had worn in a party in sixth grade curled over the back of the chair. It was made of white polished cotton covered with pink roses. It had a pink satin sash that tied in a big bow in the back. Her mother had made her a matching headband with a bow at the side of her head. Black patent shoes, white socks. Oh, Eleanor had thought she was beautiful, the most beautiful girl on earth. These days, no one would wear the dress; no one would even use the fabric for curtains.

  Turning away, she found the antique dresser with two brass handles missing. She opened the drawers and discovered the quilts her grandmother had made. She lifted them out in her arms, hugging the plump, colorful bedding to her chest. She thought she remembered a time when quilts were out of favor. People used electric blankets, which Eleanor had abhorred; you could feel the wires running the length of your body. Then, duvets, also not Eleanor’s favorites, with the duvet covers that after washing had to be stuffed with the duvet, which never went in agreeably but bunched up down at the bottom. You had to struggle with it for hours to get it in properly. When her husband was alive, he was always cold in the house when they came down for Christmas or Easter, so they slept together beneath a down comforter, which made Eleanor so overheated she had to sleep nude, with both bare feet sticking out.

  Mortimer. Eleanor had been married to him for forty-six years. He was five years older than Eleanor. She’d met him when she was twenty-one, a student at Wellesley, spending the summer on the island with her family. Eleanor had been troubled about her future. Her one love, what her parents called her hobby, had been sewing. The New York fashion world emphasized hippie clothes and glamour dresses made of synthetic materials that Eleanor disliked. Her parents were appalled when Eleanor told them she wanted to be a seamstress of some kind, and really, Eleanor didn’t quite know what she meant. Her mother had a seamstress named Minnie who came to the house to alter her clothes to fit her perfectly.

  That August in Nantucket, Marsha Richard had called to ask Eleanor to make up the fourth for a game of doubles tennis. Her tennis partner was Rocky Colby, a regular summer visitor and Marsha’s beau. Rocky’s friend, Eleanor’s partner, was Mortimer Sunderland, a tall, slender, dark-haired man. He was extremely handsome, and Eleanor expected him to flirt with her, but Mortimer concentrated on tennis as if it were a game of chess, taking his time to consider the arc of the ball before reaching out to slam it back just over the net. He was older than Eleanor, and quiet, cautious, giving little away. After the game, the four sat on the patio drinking Anchorages, half iced tea and half lemonade, and while Eleanor couldn’t keep her eyes off him, she assumed he didn’t like her because he spoke so little.

  To her surprise, later that day Mortimer phoned to ask her to dinner. Now, here in the attic, she could still recall how her heart had thumped at the sound of his voice. She drove herself crazy trying to decide whether to wear a dress with a plunging neckline—sexy—or a more conservative dress—elegant. Should she wear her hair down—sexy—or up—elegant? Mortimer seemed to be a closed door, and she was determined to open that door. At least a little.

  At the same time, Eleanor was deeply disappointed in herself. How could she be so physically attracted to this man who was absolutely and exactly who her parents would have chosen? She wanted to be a rebel, or at least rebellious. She wanted to fall in love with the wrong person, someone dangerous, maybe with a motorcycle. And here she was, trembling with excitement to see a man as conservative and sophisticated as her father.

  The evening turned out to be almost dull. They ate at the yacht club, where so many of their parents’ friends stopped at their table to say hello that their conversation was superficial, almost forced. Mortimer looked dashing in a white shirt with yacht club cuff links and a navy blazer, and he seemed as drawn to Eleanor as she was to him. It didn’t make sense. She’d heard about Mortimer. He was a catch. She was certain this would be their only date.

  At one point, Mortimer leaned across the table and touched her cheek lightly. She was so surprised and pleased she couldn’t remember what she’d just said that made him react affectionately. She gazed into his eyes, completely smitten. Then he said, “Sauce. It’s gone now.” She put her hand to her cheek, blushing with embarrassment.

  But he must have liked her. When he drove her home, he asked her for a date the next night. He waited until the third date before he kissed her—back then it was some kind of unwritten law.

  During that summer, Mortimer snowed her—that was what her friends called it in her day. He asked her out almost every night, he sent her flowers, he brought her home to dinner with his parents. Eleanor discovered that Mortimer had been brought up to believe that the guiding principle in life was duty. He was a very serious man, but in those early years, he was also a very sexy man, knowing how to focus and pay attention. Mortimer was an accountant in an established insurance company, a man good with statistics and percentages, so Eleanor knew that he wasn’t fooling around when he told her he liked her a lot, and after dating three months told her he loved her, and after dating six months, he asked her to marry him. She said yes.

  They had had the extravagant wedding both their parents wanted. She was a virgin and Mortimer was patient, gentle, and sometimes funny in bed, so that as she turned their small rented Boston apartment into a home, she discovered she was eager for the evening and the night. She had fallen in love with the man she married.

  * * *

  —

  Mortimer continued working as an insurance investment manager. They bought a large house in the right neighborhood, using loans from their parents for the down payment. Eleanor gave Mortimer a daughter and, seven years later, a son, and sadly, as the years went by, the passion of the early months of marriage flickered and died. Eleanor was overwhelmed with her babies. She had help from her nanny, but she had responsibilities to help her husband, too—dinner parties, cocktail parties, joining the proper clubs. Mortimer worked even more assiduously at the insurance company, and he left for work each morning with an eagerness he didn’t have when he was alone with Eleanor.

  Still, Mortimer had been a diligent father, blocking out time to be with his family as if referring to an invisible chart. Every June he took them on a vacation for two weeks. To London. Paris. Florence. Alaska. Brazil. He arranged special tours and went along with Eleanor and their two children, his presence serious and watchful, making it obvious that he wanted his children to learn more about the civilized world and not giggle with each other about penises on statues. When the family returned home, Mortimer went back to work in Boston, and Eleanor brought their children to the island, where they were wild with joy at being liberated. They rode bikes, raced around with friends, bought candy, swam and swam and swam beneath the hot summer sun. They stayed up too late, they went days without eating broccoli or Brussels sprouts, th
ey camped out in a tent in the backyard, they played outdoors after nine o’clock when the sky was dark and they could run free.

  As the children grew older, Eleanor talked with other summer mothers who were concerned about problems their adolescents could cause. They worried about alcohol and pot, but not the harder drugs, which weren’t as prevalent then. They worried about unwanted pregnancies, and car accidents, especially car accidents. Every summer at least one group of kids drinking beer would end up in a car crumpled on the Milestone Road where the long, straight ten miles tempted the driver to get up to a hundred miles per hour, even though the speed limit was thirty-five. No one was killed in the accidents, but there were some spectacular injuries.

  Alicia and Cliff always whined that it was a drag on the weekends when Mortimer came to the island. He insisted on playing tennis with them on Saturday, and sailing with them on Sunday, and both nights eating at the yacht club, where he always commented on their manners. Mortimer told Cliff that his hair was too long. He told Alicia that she was getting fat—he told her that at the dinner table in the club dining room, and Alicia had politely excused herself and gone to the ladies’ room, returning with eyes red from weeping.

  Other men and women liked Mortimer, and sought him out. The men mostly wanted insurance advice, and the women wanted to flirt, because Mortimer really was unusually handsome. Alicia and Cliff seemed perplexed at their father’s popularity, when he was so unlikable to them.

  During that period of their marriage, Eleanor found it stressful having her husband around, especially on the island, in her family’s house. She tried to enforce her husband’s rules while at the same time allowing her children to have fun. She’d let them drink Cokes even though they had sugar. She told them that if they ever got drunk to call her and she’d come get them and not lecture them. She didn’t want them to drive drunk, and as far as she knew, they never had. It was an enormous responsibility, raising children, and taking care of teenagers was a roller-coaster ride.

  Gradually, Eleanor fell out of love with Mortimer. She cared for him. She was grateful for him. Mortimer seemed to find his excitement in the numbers at work. Eleanor, who’d always loved books, read every night of the week.

  Those days could never be called difficult. No, Eleanor was spoiled, and she knew it. Furthermore, she had no burning desire to do something exceptional with her life like many of her friends wished. She didn’t have artistic cravings, she couldn’t sing, didn’t want to teach (what could she teach?), had no strong political leanings. She had a really lovely life, with darling children and wonderful friends and a handsome, kind, trustworthy husband.

  Did she miss him now? Maybe not a lot. He’d never been in the house often in the summer. He’d never enjoyed walking on the beach during a wailing wave-crashing storm and he’d been hopeless at cooking outside on the grill.

  One thing she knew for sure: Mortimer would absolutely approve of Eleanor selling the house.

  The thought saddened her. She went down to the kitchen, brewed a cup of utterly boring chamomile tea, took it with her to the dining room, where her jigsaw puzzle was laid out, three-fourths done, and settled in. The colors and shapes calmed her, as always. She pretended that she forgot the chamomile tea.

  Four

  The slow boat docked early, at four forty-five. One by one, the trucks and cars from Hyannis rumbled over the noisy metal ramp onto the island. Ari’s parents were in their black BMW. Ari followed behind in her Forester, her car packed with duffel bags, suitcases, and boxes of books she needed for the summer. They drove to South Water Street, past the town buildings and shops, past the Dreamland movie theater and the library’s garden, over the bumpy cobblestones of Main Street, and onto Washington Street and the road to ’Sconset.

  It was early June, yet some late daffodils lingered along the long straight stretch to the small village on the eastern side of the island. The sun sifted through the budding trees, casting a lime glow in the air. Milestone Road was busy with plumbers, contractors, electricians, carpenters, all going to and from ’Sconset in their trucks. Bicyclists lazily pedaled along the bike path, occasionally passed by someone in bright blue spandex and a pointed helmet. Nearer to the village, several people were walking their dogs, and there was the picture-perfect little town, its main street canopied with the lush green leaves of stately trees. They slowed to twenty-five miles per hour, went around the small rotary and past the post office and the Sconset Market, along the idyllic antique Front Street, and finally around and onto Baxter Road, where grand hedge-hidden mansions looked out over the Atlantic.

  Ari’s dashboard lit up as her phone buzzed.

  “Hi, Mom, I’m right behind you,” she said.

  “Of course you are,” her mother replied. “Now remember. First we celebrate Gram’s birthday, and tomorrow we mention the offer for the house.”

  “I know, I know,” Ari grumbled, adding, “but I’m not sure Uncle Cliff will obey your instructions.”

  Her mother’s exasperated sigh came through loud and clear. “Cliff never did play by the rules. Oh, here we are, and unless Gram has taken to driving a convertible, Cliff got here before us.”

  “He said he was flying in and renting a car,” Ari reminded her.

  “I don’t blame him.” Her father’s voice rumbled in the background. “No one likes to be dependent on someone else for a ride.”

  Her parents parked in the driveway, behind the convertible. Ari could imagine her mother’s smirk at blocking her brother in. Ari pulled over to the side of the road, half of her car resting on the verge. The roads were narrow here, narrow all over the island.

  Ari got out of her car and stretched, breathing in the fresh sea air.

  “Come on, come on,” her mother called. “We should go in together.”

  Before Ari could reach the front door, it was opened, and her grandmother stood there, smiling and already tanned.

  “You’re here!” she called.

  “Mother,” Alicia said, “you haven’t been using the sunblock I gave you. Look at that brown spot on your face! It’s bigger than ever.”

  “It’s lovely to see you, too,” Gram responded, ignoring her daughter’s remark and hugging her.

  Ari stood back, watching them.

  Ari’s mother was slender and attractive, with her brown hair frosted monthly to keep streaks of blond brightening her face. Her mother worried a great deal about her looks. She went to an exercise class three times a week. She ran three times a week, and had convinced her husband to build a home gym in the basement with a treadmill and weights and a television on the wall just like the one Gram had installed in her Nantucket basement.

  Ari’s mother wore one of her Nantucket-appropriate dresses of small green and pink checks complete with a pink silk scarf and a handsome and expensive Nantucket lightship basket hanging over her arm, Queen Elizabeth–style. Gram wore white slacks—a sure sign of summer—and a long denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The top two buttons were undone so everyone could see the colorful beaded necklace Ari had made for her in fourth grade. Gram’s style was looser, freer, and even though she weighed more than Alicia, she was more attractive. Alicia’s goal seemed to be flat, front and back.

  Ari’s father wore khakis and a navy blue crew neck sweater. Ari wore white jeans and a black cashmere sweater. The first week of June in Nantucket could be cold.

  Ari had to admit it. All in all, they were an attractive family. Her mother deserved some gratitude for making all those home-cooked meals with lots of carefully sourced veggies and lean meat and never very much sugar. Ari reminded herself to thank her, if she ever found a moment in her life when she wasn’t mad at her.

  They filed into the house, through the large hall, and into the long living room with the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean.