Mrs. Greene was respectfully silent at this, and Belinda harkened back to a time when the girls were little—Mary a toddler and Laura an infant. It had been nap time, which was when Belinda practiced her lines, and she had wandered into the kitchen to get some of Mrs. Greene’s banana pudding, script in hand. Mrs. Greene had been watching TV, and it took only a second for Belinda to recognize Deacon’s voice. Mrs. Greene was rapt with attention, watching Pitchfork. Deacon had been making the clams casino dip; it was the classic episode.
As Belinda opened the fridge, she said, “Have you invited my ex-husband into our kitchen, Mrs. Greene?”
Mrs. Greene had turned to Belinda, and in a softer, more sincere voice than usual, she said, “What is he like?”
“Who, Deacon?” Belinda said.
Mrs. Greene gave a schoolmarm nod.
Belinda could have issued any number of answers. Deacon is sweet, he’s charming, he’s a wonderful father, he’s great in bed. But Mrs. Greene could probably have deduced those things on her own.
“He’s broken,” Belinda said. “He was broken when I met him, but I didn’t help.”
Now, Mrs. Greene said, “I’m sure that will be very difficult for you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Greene,” Belinda said. “For everything.”
“Indeed,” Mrs. Greene said, and she hung up.
Oh, how Belinda wanted to believe that Bob had gone on the trail ride because he wanted to spend quality time with the girls. But Belinda knew better. It was Stella, with the tits and the ass and the accent.
Belinda trudged back to the house; then she slipped upstairs to Clara’s room, where she popped an Ativan. She wasn’t that much better in the controlled-substance department than Hayes.
Would she have to divorce Bob? The notion was sad and exhausting.
The Ativan put Belinda to sleep. There was something nearly hedonistic about napping on a summer afternoon with the windows open, the sea breeze blowing the filmy white curtains, the sound of people coming and going downstairs, Angie’s voice floating up, Buck’s, Laurel’s. Today was their last day. Belinda would miss Angie desperately. And Buck and Laurel, too, she realized, and Hayes and Ellery.
And Deacon, of course.
Belinda awoke at four o’clock, when she heard footsteps on the stairs and a general busy-bee atmosphere pervading the house like an impending storm. Was something happening? Then Belinda heard the word “boat,” and she realized it was time to go out on the harbor and spread Deacon’s ashes.
Boat. Harbor.
Belinda shook two more Ativan from the bottle into her palm and threw them back. She had known from the get-go that the plan was to spread Deacon’s ashes in Nantucket Sound, but somehow she had ignored the fact that she, Belinda Rowe, would have to get in a boat.
Terror seized her. It was like asking someone afraid of heights to stand on a diving board at the top of the Burj Khalifa and bounce. She wouldn’t make it. She couldn’t go. She would go downstairs and break the news: she was staying home. She would offer to watch Ellery. Should a nine-year-old child really be asked to spread her father’s ashes?
Belinda sat on the edge of the bed, practicing her yoga breathing.
“Mom!” Angie yelled from the bottom of the stairs. “Let’s go! We’re leaving!”
She had meant to renege, offer her regrets, to say, I’m sorry, but there’s just no way I’m getting in a boat. But for some reason, maybe the quieting effect of the Ativan, she allowed herself to be herded forward like a sheep. The ranger, JP, had arrived in his silver Jeep; he would drive half of them to the harbor, and Buck would drive the rest. Laurel climbed in with Buck, of course, and then Scarlett and Ellery climbed in the back.
Joel Tersigni said, “Move over. I’ll go with you guys.” He climbed in next to Scarlett.
Belinda caught the poisonous look that Angie gave Joel.
“We’ll go with you!” Belinda said brightly to the ranger.
The ranger, too, was watching Angie. “You okay?” he asked her.
She shrugged and started to climb in the back of JP’s Jeep, but Belinda said, “No, no, darling. Hayes and I will sit in the back. You get up front.”
Hayes touched his face, as if making sure it was still there. He gallantly helped Belinda into the back of the Jeep, then smiled at her and said, “And how are you?”
She studied him. High or straight? It was impossible to tell. High pretending to be straight, most likely, but Belinda was grateful for his normalcy and that he didn’t seem to be holding her midnight visit against her. But he did remember that she knew his secret, right?
“Never better,” she said.
She had expected a garden-variety powerboat, white and utilitarian, but the boat JP steered toward the dock was an antique wooden launch with a hull the color of burnt honey. It was sleek and breathtaking and reminiscent of one of Bob’s Arabian horses. Even Belinda, who could write what she knew about boats on her thumbnail and still have room for the Lord’s Prayer, could tell this one was special.
Buck whistled.
“Her name is the Lena Marie,” JP said. “She’s a lapstrake mahogany harbor launch and was custom built in Denmark in 1950. She belonged to my grandfather.”
“What a beaut,” Buck said.
The boat was elegant. If Belinda was going to get into a boat—and she still hadn’t made a final decision—it would be this boat. An American flag waved off the back.
“JP, this is more than I ever could have hoped for,” Laurel said. “Thank you.”
Thank you, Laurel, our spokesperson, Belinda thought. She stole a quick glance at Scarlett to see what Scarlett thought about Laurel taking the number-one pole position or about Laurel clenching the urn of Deacon’s ashes as if it contained her own beating heart. Scarlett was holding on to Ellery with one hand and on to Joel Tersigni’s impressive forearm with her other hand.
“Yes, thank you,” Scarlett echoed. She let go of Joel and offered JP her hand. “I’m Scarlett Oliver, Deacon’s widow.”
JP nodded. “Nice to meet you. I’m sorry for your loss. Deacon was a good friend of mine.”
“And this is our daughter, Ellery,” Scarlett said, ushering Ellery forward.
“What do you say, Ellery?” JP said. “Want to help me drive the boat?”
“Yes!” Ellery said. She was in another party dress, this one a navy scoop-neck number with a handkerchief hem.
“Excellent!” JP said. “The person who assists the captain is called the first mate.”
Belinda smiled. She should have known the ranger would be good with children.
“I’m Joel Tersigni,” Joel said, stepping forward to shake JP’s hand. “I manage Deacon’s restaurant in Manhattan.”
“The dining room,” Angie said. “You manage the dining room, not the restaurant.”
Joel ignored Angie’s comment and stepped off the dock, into the boat, which Belinda thought was presumptuous. There should be some sort of hierarchy for who boarded first, and it certainly shouldn’t be Joel. However, he stood at the side and reached for Scarlett’s hand, then he lifted Ellery up and in. The boat had a horseshoe of seating around the front and two bench seats, one midboat and one in the back by the motor, which was where JP sat. Joel settled with Scarlett and Ellery on the middle seat, as though they were a family unit.
What is going on here? Belinda wondered. She was appalled at how this Joel person was ignoring Angie. Had they had a fight? Or was Joel simply abandoning Angie for Scarlett the way he had abandoned his wife for Angie? Once a cheater, always a cheater—look at Bob Percil. Belinda said, “Joel, I would really like to sit next to Scarlett, if you don’t mind.”
“Mother,” Angie said.
“Scarlett and I haven’t had a chance to catch up,” Belinda said. She took the ranger’s hand and stepped gingerly down into the boat. It rocked under her, and she wondered if she was going to do the predictable thing and faint, or vomit. But she felt spurred on by indignation. Joel Tersigni might be a heartbreaker, but he wasn’t going to humiliate Angie in full view of her family. Belinda simply would not have it. She lorded her five-foot-two frame over Joel until he got up and with obvious reluctance gave Belinda his seat.