The Summer of Good Intentions (19 page)

“Whoa,” said Sal, catching her. “A little edgy, huh?”

She laughed and settled herself back down before hoisting her drink in the air. “To old friends,” she said.

“To
good
friends,” he added.
Well, okay,
she thought. She could drink to that.

Virgie swiveled on her stool to survey the bar. The place was better in the off-season, she thought. Less crowded, fewer sketchballs waiting in the wings. Since she could remember, Grouchy Ted's had been the local watering hole, and on more than a few Thanksgiving weekends, she and her sisters had gotten blasted here. She couldn't recall much about those nights, though she was pretty sure Sal factored into a few. A couple of the waitresses Virgie had known when they were teenagers, back when they'd all gone skinny-dipping near the lighthouse. Except now they were wives with husbands, a few kids.

Still, she considered Grouchy Ted's their place (as in the
Herington girls'
place) as much as anyone else's. Usually, after a few drinks, everyone was friends again (and Ted was infamous for turning a blind eye whenever the bartender slid an occasional shot across the bar to a waitress). The wide-planked pine floors that sloped toward the back, the weathered bar counter studded with multiple glass ringlets, the dingy mirrors lining the top half of the walls, the tables with their red-and-white check tablecloths, even the occasional stray peanut shell—all of it said
home
to her.

“Virginia!” her mom shouted, waving from a corner table. Virgie nearly fell off her stool again. There were her mom and Gio, apparently hamming it up at trivia night. She knew that Arthur, Mac, and Tim would be in as soon as they parked the car. Maggie and Jess had volunteered to stay home with the kids tonight (though frankly Virgie thought Maggie was staging her own little protest over Virgie's going out; and, as far as she could tell, Jess and Tim were barely speaking to each other). From the glossy look on her mother's face, Virgie guessed that Gloria had already tied on a few. She was in a flouncy pink skirt and an orange, ruffled top with a plunging neckline. There was a hint of the Caribbean to her outfit, and Virgie found herself wondering again if her mother was consulting a new stylist or if she just didn't give a damn about the way she looked anymore. Her wardrobe was beginning to seem positively cruise-worthy.

“Hi, Mom,” she said, after she'd wound through the crowd to her table. Gloria stood up to hug her, then patted the empty space next to her on the bench to sit.

“How're you feeling, honey?”

“Okay,” Virgie said, scooting in beside her. She couldn't entirely lie to her mom, who had returned to her B&B only yesterday after playing nurse. Virgie's head still hurt, though nothing like a few days ago. “Hey, Gio.”

“Glad you're feeling better,” Gio shouted over the din.

Virgie nodded. When her cell vibrated in her jeans pocket, she assumed it was Sal, texting her from across the room and telling her to hurry back. But it was Jackson.
Whatcha doing?
Goose bumps popped up on her skin.
Nothing. Hanging out at Grouchy Ted's,
she texted back.
Sounds like a fun place!
he wrote. She grinned.
Not as much fun as if you were here
. Jackson wrote back:
Aww. I miss you
. Her fingers tapped.
Me, too. Not much longer till I get to see you
.
Xoxo.
She waited for his sign-off:
Can't wait. Have a good night. And take it easy!—J

When she glanced up, Arthur and the rest of the gang had materialized at the front door. Her dad stared in their direction. How was it that he could still pick her mother out of a crowd? Perhaps that's what happened after forty-six years of marriage: it was as if your spouse carried around a little black box that emitted sound waves that only you could detect, particularly in areas of danger.

Mac appeared to be taking drink orders and set off for the bar while the rest of their group, Virgie realized with a pinch of dread, was now headed directly for their table. She couldn't abide more small talk, pretending they were all just one big happy family. The whole thing was getting too weird. She'd left the house to
escape
the family drama tonight. She certainly wasn't going to sit here and listen to Arthur and Gio struggle to be civil to each other.

During the past few days, Jess had paid frequent visits to Virgie's bedside, updating her on the various dramas playing out downstairs—Gio being her mother's toady, Arthur taking subtle jabs at Gio, and their mom reveling in all the attention. It was, after all, what Gloria did best. Virgie shuddered to imagine it. Maggie had probably been caught between runs to the fridge for Gio, to the liquor cabinet for Arthur's scotch, and to the medicine cabinet for Virgie's ibuprofen. Add a few kids to the mix, and her überorganized big sister was likely on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

Virgie didn't necessarily want to see Maggie fail, but
the idea of it,
of her sister falling apart as her perfect little world at the summer house spun out of control, was just a little bit amusing. It would be nice for once to see that even her big sister couldn't sew everything neatly back together.

Yes, Virgie had come out tonight to
get away
from the madhouse that Pilgrim Lane was turning into. One more plaintive look from Arthur to Gloria and Virgie was going to lose it. One more terse exchange between Jess and Tim (
and what the hell
was
going on between those two, anyway?
) and the whole house might erupt. And frankly, Maggie's Florence Nightingale routine was starting to wear on Virgie's patience, too. What she needed was a good ol' night of fun. Drinking, dancing, and kicking up her heels. Sal would provide that. She wasn't going to feel guilty about having fun with an old friend.

She pulled herself away from the group and breezed past Arthur and Tim. “Hi, guys.” She gave a little wave and pointed in Sal's direction. “Gotta get back to Sal,” as if that explained why she would not be joining them tonight. She grabbed Sal's hand and pulled him onto the dance floor. “C'mon!” she yelled over the music. It was Depeche Mode. How could they
not
dance to Depeche Mode? The band had had as big a hand in defining her teenage years as big hair, acne, and lip gloss.

“Are you sure you're okay to dance?” Sal leaned in to ask.

Virgie rolled her eyes. “I am,” she said, shouting into his ear, “so sick of everyone asking me if I'm okay. Just please stop for the next few hours,” she pleaded.

Sal pulled his head back and watched her. She noticed that his hands had shifted to her waist and his fingertips softly tapped to the beat of the music. “Okay, Virginia. I think I can manage that.”

“God bless you,” she said. Sal smiled his earnest, good-guy smile, right before he dipped her to the sticky, salty floor. It felt like heaven.

Maggie was distraught. Her entire world was on spin cycle, like when she threw a bathroom rug in the washer and the whole thing went off-kilter, thumping and bumping until the machine had traveled a foot across the floor. When that happened, she would ask Mac to shimmy the washing machine back into place. No harm done. But life was so much more complicated.

What a fool she'd been to think that this summer would be like summers past! She should have switched the
QUE SERA, SERA
sign to one that read
ENTER AT YOUR OWN PERIL.

She was embarrassed by her mother's overtures toward Gio and her seeming inability to sense when she was making Arthur uncomfortable. Or perhaps Gloria knew full well the strength of her powers and didn't care. Maggie wouldn't put it past her. Gio was
awkward—
there was no other word for it. He didn't belong at the summer house. He acted more like her mother's porter.

Then there was Virgie, who couldn't seem to care less about her medical condition (for that's how the doctor had referred to it:
a possible medical condition
). Was it denial? Or was Maggie overreacting? When she asked Mac, he told her it was Virgie's business. But, honestly, what could her sister be thinking? Going out drinking only a few days after her fall? And then there was Jess, who clearly needed to get the burden of cheating off her chest and whose marriage was evidently in trouble. When Maggie broke the news to Mac, he hadn't been nearly as surprised—or judgmental—as Maggie. “Tim's a better guy than you give him credit for,” Mac said. “He'll get over it. I'm sure his pride is just a little wounded, that's all.” All these worries, and that was without even
touching
upon Arthur, who appeared to grow more absentminded by the minute.

“Haven't you noticed?” she asked Mac in the privacy of their bedroom. “Something's off with Dad.”

“Oh, honey.” Mac sighed. She was wearing him out with her constant fretting, she could tell. “I love that you want to help everyone in your family, to make things right, but sometimes you just have to let people live their lives. Arthur's not getting any younger. I'm sure some of what you're seeing is plain old age.”

“No, that's not it,” Maggie insisted. “There's something wrong. Like he's forgetting things. And I don't just mean the window. The other day he left his glasses in the refrigerator!” She was propped up on her elbow, staring at the tiny red hairs sprouting from Mac's chin.

“Old age. People lose their glasses all the time.”

“But in the refrigerator? Next it will be the microwave.”

“Well, that would be an interesting science experiment, wouldn't it? Bet the kids would enjoy that one.”

“Mac, this isn't funny. I don't think you're taking me seriously.”

“Oh, I'm taking you seriously, all right,” he said and pulled a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Just not as seriously as you'd like me to, maybe.”

“C'mon. You're a cop.” She was growing annoyed. “You spend your life looking for clues. Don't you think there's something suspicious about Dad's behavior?”

He held up a finger. “First of all, my job is not nearly as interesting as you make it out to be. Second of all, Dad's getting a little dotty in his old age. So what? He's still writing books, isn't he? He's still building raccoon traps.”

Maggie clicked her tongue. “Yeah. Like
that
's going to catch anything. And then the other day . . .” She paused. She wasn't quite sure how to describe it. “I was putting folded laundry on top of his suitcase, and I found this old trash bag sitting by the couch. I thought someone had forgotten to take it out from the night before, but when I went to throw it out, Dad nearly took my head off. Said it was stuff he was collecting. He had his birthday candles in there and some other junk—mostly rocks and shells and, well, trash to be perfectly honest.” She traced little circles on the sheets with her index finger.

“And that upsets you?” Mac asked. “That's just further evidence that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.” Maggie sighed. Maybe her husband was right. She
had
been on everyone's case about recycling their plastics and glassware this summer. Who was she to point a finger?

“So, aren't you going to tell me about Lexie?” Maggie had been dying to hear. Mac and Tim had spent all day with the kids out on the boat, and when they got back, Mac told her he knew a secret about their daughter. Her mind raced with the possibilities: an eating disorder? As far as she could tell, Lexie was still eating all her favorite foods, but maybe she was bulimic. Maggie had read somewhere that bingeing and purging could start as early as ten. Nothing was beyond her worry zone.

“Lexie has a boyfriend.”

“What? You're joking.” Maggie shook her head. It wasn't possible. Lexie wasn't even
interested
in boys. Every time Maggie brought it up, her daughter made a retching sound. “How do you know?”

“Lexie was texting on the boat and I took her phone away from her,” Mac said. “When I read her texts, I saw they were from some guy named Matt.”

Maggie's mouth dropped open. If she had done such a thing, Lexie would have refused to talk to her for weeks, maybe months. Such an invasion of privacy was unthinkable. “What did she do? Mutiny?”

“Not quite. There was lot of yelling, but eventually she recovered. Thank goodness we were in the middle of the ocean.” Mac was grinning now. This was classified information worth millions, and he knew it.

“No wonder she's been moping around here,” Maggie exclaimed. “She's heartsick. All for a little eleven-year-old boy named Matt. That's so sweet.”

She leaned back on her pillow. “Wow. And to think I never saw it coming.”

“I know.” Mac grinned and wrapped his arms around her. “With all the worrying you do, you'd think you would have picked up a bleep on the radar.”