The Shortest Way Home (18 page)

“Sean, look at me.”

“What?”

“Jesus, Sean. Either you’re being dense or you’re faking.”

He was startled by this. Becky was generally so nonconfrontational. But he remembered that she could pack a punch when she felt pressed.

“My
face
, Sean,” she said, an index finger twitching up toward the side of her head that swelled out like an unexpected hill on an otherwise smooth landscape. “Kids teased me constantly. I was shy. I cried a lot. And I was their
only child
—there was no one else to take a share of their worry off my plate. Of
course
they hovered.”

“All right. But that was a long time ago. You’re a grown-up now. They don’t still need to control your every move.” It was obvious by the look she gave him that he still didn’t get it. “Beck, do you feel like you owe them something for taking care of you all those years?”

“Uhh!”
she groaned, her hands flying up in frustration. If there was anything to this “energy” theory, Sean could feel it then. Definitely very unstable. Rebecca took a deep breath and let it out. “Look, here’s the difference between you and me.”

She told him a story. One day back in high school, she had stayed late to work on a science lab and missed the bus. She was walking home in a heavy rain when a car pulled up. “It was your aunt, offering me a ride.” Rebecca had been feeling particularly sorry for herself that day. Someone had said something mean. When Aunt Vivian questioned why she hadn’t taken the bus, Rebecca had admitted somewhat bitterly that honors chemistry was just too hard.

“You know what she said? She said, ‘You’re an intelligent young woman. I’m sure you’ll find a solution.’ Not one ounce of sympathy for the poor, sad deformed girl! In fact, when she dropped me off and I thanked her for the ride, her answer was, ‘Consider investing in a raincoat.’ It was a total kick in the pants!”

“Vintage Aunt Viv.” He nodded. “She never put up with whining of any kind.”

“She expected you to manage your own needs, and she didn’t ask you to manage hers. You see the difference, right? With my parents we manage each other constantly. Trust me, when your whole relationship is built on it, that’s a tough habit to break.”

* * *

I
t was late, and though he could have sat there and talked all night like they used to, he knew it was time to leave. He pulled five twenties out of his wallet, glad he’d remembered to cash his paycheck from the Confectionary before he left for the Mount Frissell trip.

“I only charge fifty when it’s at my house,” she said.

“Why? Are you any less effective here?”

She rolled her eyes at the obviousness of the point he was making. “No. But even at fifty I end up with way more than I’d get at Tree of Life.”

“Speaking as your average self-centered client, I really don’t care what you end up with. I care that I got a kickass massage, as good as or better than what I’d get at that nuthouse you call a spa.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. He took her hand and closed her fingers around the bills. “Tip’s included,” he said. “And since I plan to have all my massages here from now on, I should warn you that every time I come, I’m taking something out of that room.”

* * *

O
n the ride home through the lamplit streets of Belham, he ruminated on what she’d said about the difference between her parents and his aunt. Opposite ends of the spectrum, from “We’re involved in every move you make” to “You’re on your own.” And although as a kid he’d always wished for someone who’d look out for him a bit more, Becky had a point. At least he didn’t feel he owed Aunt Vivvy the way Becky seemed to feel she owed her parents. He’d earned the right to go his own way. It was something to be thankful for.

CHAPTER 19

T
he next afternoon the lights went out. Sean had beat an incoming squall on his way home from the Confectionary, the sky growing heavy and dark as he walked, pelting buttons of rain just as he reached the front porch. He had walked through the house turning on lights and gone up to change his clothes. Ten minutes later, the house was dark again.

“Hey, what’s the deal?” Kevin hollered from the den where he’d been watching TV.

George started to bark, and Aunt Vivvy emerged from the kitchen. “I didn’t hear any thunder,” she said to Sean as he descended the stairs.

“Maybe a limb came down.” Sean went out on the front porch to see if the neighbors were also in the dark, but their curtains glowed with lamplight.

“Looks like it’s just us,” he said. “I’ll call NSTAR.” He asked his aunt for a recent bill so he could find their emergency number, and she went into the den and pulled open the file drawer of her burled maple desk. She handed him an envelope marked NSTAR.

Sean did not immediately locate the number. He was too distracted by the message in bold capital letters across the top of the bill.

THIS IS YOUR THIRD AND FINAL NOTICE.

Wordlessly, he held the bill out to Aunt Vivian. She squinted at it for a moment, then her gaze locked on Sean’s. “I paid that bill,” she said.

And though it was the same light-saber glare that had so often reduced him to a stammering child, this time he was able to say, “They don’t seem to think you did.”

Aunt Vivian stalked out of the room, followed by George.

“Auntie Vivvy didn’t send the money?” Kevin said, as if he’d just witnessed something as incongruous as his elderly aunt break dancing.

Sean called NSTAR. They hadn’t received payment in three months. “We make mistakes,” said the friendly customer service representative, “but not very often. We’ll put the power back on as a temporary measure. I’d advise you to check her bank account to confirm whether the checks were written and cashed.”

Sean looked though the file folder and found three payment envelopes, all containing checks written in her tight, precise handwriting.

* * *

H
e found her sitting on the edge of her bed. He’d only been in her room a couple of times when he was young and didn’t remember many details. It smelled of talcum powder. It had lacy curtains and a cameo brooch sitting on a doily on the mahogany dresser. It seemed like the quarters of a woman whose life had been halted somewhere in the 1940s.

George barked dementedly until Aunt Vivian shushed her. And though she looked as angry as a wronged lover, Sean sat down on the bed next to her.

“I didn’t realize,” she growled. “I had no idea.”

“Of course you didn’t. You wouldn’t knowingly leave your bills unpaid.”

She cut her eyes at him, then quickly looked away. “Well, what do you suggest?” she said. “You didn’t come up here without a plan in mind.”

“Actually, my plan was to ask you the same thing.”

She softened a little at this. He’d shown respect for what was left of her mental faculties, and he could sense her appreciation. “You’ll take over the bills,” she conceded.

“Or I could sign you up for one of those bill-paying services.”

She smiled coldly. “Maintaining a viable escape route, I see.”

He didn’t answer. They both knew it was true.

* * *

T
he next morning Chrissy Stillman showed up unexpectedly. Her blindingly beautiful smile made Sean blink like a startled baby when he opened the door. “Chrissy! Hi!” he said, sounding weirdly breathless to himself.

The width of her smile narrowed slightly. “You got my message, right?”

There was a rapid click behind him, like the ticking of an overwound metronome, the attending growl growing deeper and more aggravated. Chrissy glanced over Sean’s shoulder to the staircase behind him, and a strange look came over her. Like she was about to do battle and could hardly wait to start swinging her sword.

George stood at the bottom of the stairs staring back. She barked once.

A noise came out of Chrissy.
Chtch!

George barked again. She looked at Sean and back to Chrissy, and though Sean had never before considered that George might have actual thoughts, he felt he could practically hear the dog thinking,
And who in the hell is
this
?

Chrissy turned to Sean and put her hands on her hips. “Put the dog in another room, please,” she instructed.

Put the dog . . . ?
Sean had never even
patted
George before, much less directed her movements. “Let me get my aunt,” he said, knowing he had probably just emasculated himself in Chrissy’s eyes. He went up and knocked gently on Aunt Vivvy’s door, and explained the situation to her. “I thought it would be helpful . . .” he murmured, and “I didn’t expect her to come so soon . . .” He sounded like he was trying to avoid being punished.

When Aunt Vivvy came down the stairs with him she eyed Chrissy. “Mrs. Cavicchio,” she said. “A pleasure to see you again.”

“Vivian Preston!” She turned to Sean. “This is your aunt?
Vivian Preston?
”

“Uh, yeah . . .” he stammered.

But Chrissy didn’t wait for his answer, stepping forward to take Aunt Vivian’s small weathered hand in her own smooth lotioned one. “Vivian, I still can’t thank you enough for the magic you and the Garden Club worked on the median near our house a couple of years ago.”

There was a second or two when Aunt Vivian’s gaze seemed vague, and Sean guessed that she had no memory of the magically transformed median. But she smiled politely and said, “I’m pleased to accept your compliment on the club’s behalf,” and slid her hand from Chrissy’s.

George had sidled up to Aunt Vivvy and begun to growl again. “Shush now,” she told the dog. George leaned her head toward Chrissy and sniffed tentatively.

“Thatsa girl,” Chrissy purred. “Figure me out. You’ll get the picture soon enough.”

She asked a series of questions about the dog: where did it come from, what were its likely breeds, any information about prior masters, and the like.

“She was left at Man’s Best Friend Animal Shelter and was about to be euthanized,” said Aunt Vivian. “There was no other information.”

“A rescue dog.” Chrissy gave an approving nod. “German shepherd and Labrador mix, I’m fairly certain,” she told them. “Such a wonderful combination of protectiveness and loyalty. Now that she’s calm, is there somewhere we can all sit and discuss George’s needs?”

They moved into the living room, and Kevin wandered out of the den to join them. The first thing Chrissy wanted to know was who regularly walked the dog. Sean and Kevin glanced furtively at each other.

“No one walks the dog,” Aunt Vivian said matter-of-factly. “The dog prefers to be with me, and I am not entirely mobile.”

“Ah,” said Chrissy, nodding sagely. “You are the queen.”

“Pardon me?” A slight edge of irritation rose in Aunt Vivvy’s voice.

“Every domesticated dog needs a master, one person she’s ultimately devoted to. But George is not a small, inside kind of dog. She’s a large dog with muscles that require a thorough daily workout. If her master can’t provide that, then we need to involve an additional person who can. I call this the English Monarchy Scenario.”

“You are suggesting that George needs a prime minister.” Aunt Vivvy’s gaze swung almost imperceptibly toward Sean.

A prime minister,
he thought.
That’s pretty much what the whole freakin’ family needs.

“Exactly,” said Chrissy. “Now. My understanding from you, Sean, is that your plans are . . . ?”

“In flux,” he said.

“I’m sorry, but that’s just not going to work for George.” Chrissy said it as if to apologize for disappointing news. Sean mentally high-fived himself. “She needs someone who’ll be in her life for the duration,” Chrissy went on. “Isn’t that what we all need? At least one person we can rely on to be there for us no matter what?” Her voice went just a little quavery, as if referring to something raw and unhealed in her own life. Sean wondered how a woman like Chrissy had ever hitched her wagon to a jackass like Ricky Cavicchio.

Chrissy sighed. Then she glanced over to Kevin, who’d been watching this scene play out like a reality TV show—entertaining but with an outcome on which he had absolutely no impact. “Kevin,” she said, a certain amount of pomp creeping into her tone, “would you be willing to be George’s prime minister?”

“Uh . . . sure.” He looked confused. “Wait, what?”

“It’s just like England,” Chrissy explained. “The queen—your aunt—is the beneficent figurehead, the emotional leader of her people.
You
are the man of action, the one who calls the shots and gets things done!”

Vivian Preston’s laser gaze turned toward her youngest nephew and she said, “I’m quite certain you’re up to the task.”

* * *

T
here was a search for the dog’s leash, which was suspected to be in the garden shed out back. Kevin grumbled to himself as he and Sean dug around empty planters and bags of potting soil. Finally he said, “I don’t want to be the prime minister! I just want to be a kid!”

Sean put down the bottles of Roundup and turned to Kevin. “I know,” he said. “But I kinda need you on this one. I don’t know how long I’m going to be around, so I’m really not the right guy for the job.”

“Yeah, I know,” Kevin muttered.
“Flux.”

It stung. Just as it was meant to.

“Hey,” said Sean defensively, “this might actually work out for you. If you’re George’s prime minister, she has to obey you. That’ll be a whole lot better than having her threatening to take a chunk out of you every time you walk in the door.”

Kevin tugged the leash out from behind a bag of Holly-tone, rolled his eyes, and left Sean standing in the shed.

Sean was not invited to any further involvement in George’s training—or as Chrissy said,
Kevin’s
training—which surprised and disappointed him. The dog thing was all well and good, but his original intention was to have more time with Chrissy. This, like so many other things these days, wasn’t working out as planned. He watched from the porch as she helped Aunt Vivvy down the steps to the yard.

“Now, Vivian,” Chrissy went on. “We are about to conduct a peaceful transfer of power. George will worry that a coup is taking place, so it’s
your
job to assure her that you approve of Kevin’s authority.” Sean had to stifle a laugh. He’d never seen anyone try to inform his aunt of her duties, and she looked none too thrilled about it.