The Summer of Good Intentions (22 page)

Gloria still cared for him. He knew she did. Why else would she have snuck downstairs last night? Just to talk to him about the girls? She missed him. They were made for each other, just as they had been more than forty years ago. He wanted to ask her,
Why? Why did she leave?
Right there in the living room last night while the moonlight danced through the blinds. But he suspected he wouldn't get an answer any more satisfying than the one he had the first time.
She needed a change. People outgrew each other. She wanted time to think, to be on her own
.
Maine didn't suit her anymore,
which Arthur had interpreted as
Arthur
no longer suited her.

But a person couldn't cast all that history, that love aside. Arthur had lobbed these salient points at her when she first requested the divorce, but Gloria had dodged each one like an errant tennis ball.

He smiled and waved now, but the gesture came off halfhearted. Arthur turned and climbed out of the water onto the beach. His clothes felt as if they were made of armor, and suddenly he was overcome by a terrible tiredness. Steadying himself, he walked unevenly across the sand. His toe snagged on something in the dark, and he crouched to see what it was.
Gloria's bra strap
. He reached down to pull it off, a lavender frilly thing, and flung it back onto the sand before climbing the deck stairs and nearly losing his balance.

The sound of Gloria's and Gio's laughter followed him as he entered the house and slid the glass door closed behind him. Perhaps it was for the best, he reflected, that Gloria and Gio had managed to book a room at another hotel, thanks to a last-minute cancellation. Arthur didn't think he could trust himself to sleep under the same roof with his ex-wife for another night. Nor did he trust himself to refrain from inflicting bodily harm on Gio if the man continued to share a house with them. It wouldn't be a bone-breaking kind of harm, but Arthur had written enough mysteries to know a few ways to exert force without leaving behind any evidence.

It was Friday night, and Maggie's hair was pulled up with elegant Japanese hair sticks. Each July, Gretchen hosted a fund-raising party for a cause dear to her heart. Last year it had been Rosie's Place, a homeless shelter in Boston. The year before, Children's Hospital. This year it was the Boys & Girls Club. Anyone who wanted to be known as a dedicated philanthropist made a point of attending her annual summer gala, which had garnered accolades over the years.
The Boston Globe
called it “a slice of the Hamptons on the Cape.” Gretchen found it amusing that the paper ascribed such a lofty title to her “little event,” but Maggie didn't. She thought the
Globe
got it right. She, for one, anticipated it every summer.

She shifted in her white dress that had a thin black ribbon circling tightly under her breasts (a fact she was only unfortunately realizing now). Her feet were wedged into a pair of impossibly high heels. Maggie felt fashionable—and slightly uncomfortable—in a way she hadn't in months. The past two weeks had been crazy, but tonight she was going to enjoy herself. Gloria and Gio had found another hotel room, so she didn't have to worry about their sleeping under the same roof as Arthur. And they'd left Arthur in charge of the kids at home tonight.

She, Mac, Jess, Tim, and Virgie all climbed out of the car as Mac handed over the keys to the valet. Before them, Gretchen's house twinkled with hundreds of tiny white lights. Tiki torches lined the walkway, and elegant paper lanterns hung from the porch, fat, luminous globes suspended in the night. A familiar song
—
was it Hootie and the Blowfish?
—
floated out from the house. Maggie smiled; Gretchen was so old-school. At the front door, they were greeted by a swarm of people, women in sequined gowns, men in tuxedos, and a waitstaff parading around. Maggie suddenly felt underdressed, and her eyes flashed at Mac apprehensively. He took her hand and squeezed it.

“Maybe they'll think we're part of the help,” he whispered. She batted at him, saying, “You're terrible,” but it made her laugh. To hell with it if they weren't as wealthy as half of the people here. Gretchen was her friend. Maggie belonged here as much as, even more than, anyone else.

At that moment, the hostess ran up to greet them. “Maggie! Mac! You made it. I'm so glad. Hi, everyone,” Gretchen said, shaking all their hands. She was stunning, her hair done up in a loose twist, long diamond earrings dangling from her ears. Her face glowed with a healthy tan, and her blond hair seemed more natural in the evening light. Or perhaps it had faded to a subtler hue over the summer. Either way, Maggie's friend was a knockout in a long blue shimmering gown.

“You look fabulous,” Maggie said. “I'm afraid I didn't get the memo about it being a black-tie event this year. Sorry.”

“Pshht. Pleeease,” said Gretchen with a roll of eyes. “I'm only dressed this way because I'm hosting the thing.” She leaned in closer to Maggie and Mac. “You know this is just a chance for the millionaires to show off who's got the most money.”

Mac chuckled. “Don't mind us. We'll go hang with the kitchen help.”

Gretchen smiled and elbowed Maggie. “That's why I love your husband. A man who knows his place. Now scoot! Go eat some of this outrageously expensive food before it's gone. And don't forget to put your names in for the raffle.” And she was off, grabbing other guests' hands, telling them how fabulous it was to see them.

Maggie and Mac wound their way to the back of the house, through the living room that was layered with Oriental rugs and leather couches, to a deck with stunning views of the water. She and Mac found a small pocket of uninhabited space on the deck and planted themselves there. Maggie leaned against the railing and studied the handsome young waiters who darted in and out of the crowd, carrying trays of spinach and goat cheese crepes, pigs in a blanket, Chinese dumplings, and prosecco. Maggie grabbed two bubbly glasses off a tray and handed one to Mac. “Cheers,” she said and clinked glasses.

“Cheers, my love.”

“Here's to hoping the rest of the month is a bit calmer,” she said.

“Aw, it hasn't been that bad, has it?” Mac asked. “I was kind of enjoying having everyone around.”

“You're joking, right? All the drama? It's like
One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest at Pilgrim Lane.
” Mac laughed.

Virgie swept up beside them, a crepe in hand. “Have you guys tasted these?
Seriously
good,” she proclaimed. “Your friend knows how to throw a party. Oopsies! Excuse me,” she said and dashed off to chase a waiter carrying a tray of dumplings.

“Stop fretting,” Mac whispered into her ear. “Did I mention how beautiful you look tonight?”

Maggie tilted her head back and smiled. Her husband was right. Virgie seemed to be feeling better. Jess and Tim had been casting each other furtive looks all day and holding hands, as if they were young lovers again. Even Arthur had been his old irascible self today. And there were no kids handing her their wet towels or their trash. She reminded herself that this was her night to have fun. “You're absolutely right,” she said. “I need to let it all go. And thank you. You don't look half bad yourself.”

When a waiter passed, she nipped a dumpling off a tray, dipping it in the small bowl of sauce proffered, careful not to dribble any on her dress. She took a bite, a savory blend of pork, cabbage, and carrots.
Divine.
She reached for another before the server flitted off to another group. She struggled to remember the last time she'd been offered an appetizer and could only recall Gretchen's party last year. Of course, there had been the occasional “date night” with Mac, but those were more often places like Chili's or the 99. Restaurants that required a mere dash of lipstick or eyeliner, if that. Certainly not Japanese hair sticks.

It occurred to her that there were likely a lot more nights of frozen pizza and chicken fingers in her future if she and Mac went ahead with her foster care idea. Was she really willing to give up the newfound freedom they'd have once all the kids were in school? There was the possibility she'd be able to get back in shape, read again, have casual lunches with her girlfriends. Adding a new member to the family would, of course, change all of that. But, as she sipped her prosecco, she knew she wasn't ready to give up on the thought of raising another child. She wanted this. She would tell Mac. Soon.

She watched as guests gathered themselves into small circles, suggesting an intimacy that she suspected no one really felt. The downside to these events, Maggie considered, was that, despite the goodwill propelling them along, they always carried a whiff of being forced, the rich strutting about to better establish themselves in the pecking order. That she and Mac were so far removed from this world, as if in another galaxy altogether, made it all the more interesting. She felt like a voyeur, spying on how the other half lived.

Tim and Jess had disappeared somewhere, but Maggie glimpsed Virgie off in a corner talking to an older man and, presumably, his wife. The man, with a head of thick gray hair, bore a striking resemblance to Walter Cronkite. His wife had a snow-white bob that highlighted her ruby red lipstick. She was exaggeratedly thin, like so many women in these opulent circles. Maggie watched while her sister talked, admiring Virgie's ability to charm a crowd wherever she went.

Maggie was grateful that her dad had offered to babysit the kids tonight. They'd left him with a pile of G-rated movies and detailed instructions on how to make the microwave popcorn, though he'd waved them away. “For God's sakes, I'm not a small child, you know,” he said. This past week, she'd watched her dad come to life around Gloria and then just as quickly shut down when Gio appeared. Virgie had even caught Gloria and Gio skinny-dipping the other night.
Imagine!
Two people of their age whipping off their clothes on the beach.

Just then, the Stonehills swept up beside them to say how lovely it was to see them, hadn't the children grown, and how was their father doing? Local year-rounders, the Stonehills made it their business to know everyone else's business in their tightly knit community. Both were retired now, but they had amassed a small fortune in the restaurant business. Tonight, Susan Stonehill was dressed in an elegant burgundy sheath with a ballet neck and cap sleeves. A large ruby necklace rested on her freckled chest. George wore a tuxedo with a bow tie and pulled uncomfortably at his shirt collar, as if eager for the chance to escape. Maggie had always liked Mr. Stonehill, a Vietnam vet. He projected a judicious air, as if he'd seen everything he needed to in life and nothing could surprise him now. His shock of white hair and dark, horn-rimmed glasses suggested that he might have been a college professor, an intellectual in another lifetime.

“How is your dad doing, honey?” Susan leaned in toward Maggie, concern etched on her face.

“Oh, he's fine,” Maggie said. “He's hard at work on the next book.”

Susan took Maggie's hand in hers. “You let us know if you need us to do
anything
. I know you've got Jay looking in on the house, but if there's anything else we can do, don't hesitate to ask. We adore your dad.”

“You bet,” George said. “Happy to do anything for your old man. I love that guy. Speaking of which, where is he tonight? You didn't make him dress up in a penguin suit?”

Maggie snickered. “We left him at home with the grandkids. Figured he'd have more fun there than at a fund-raising event.”

George offered a knowing nod. “Smart move. The old man's bound to say something to embarrass you here. You know how he hates rich folks.”

And they all shared a laugh at her dad's expense before George clapped Mac on the back and the Stonehills plunged themselves into the next wave of benefactors.

“What was that all about?” Maggie asked.

Mac shrugged. “They're the friendly type. They consider themselves mayors of their little inlet. And they like Arthur.”

“I guess.” She suddenly felt in need of sustenance, something to clear her head. The prosecco was shooting straight to her brain. She grabbed Mac's hand to go in search of more dumplings. Eventually, they found their way to the main table and bar, an extravagant spread laid out in the dining room. Succulent pink shrimp hung by their tails from crystal bowls, a pool of tangy sauce in the center. There were trays of roasted vegetables, miniature crepes, and an assortment of chilled hors d'oeuvres. Maggie took a small plate and helped herself to the shrimp and vegetable skewers.

On an adjacent table sat posters highlighting stories from the Boys & Girls Club. There were pictures of kids of all ages from various Boston communities, including Roxbury and Dorchester. Above the photos was the heading
ENGAGED. INVOLVED. ENVELOPED BY LOVE. WHY NOT DO YOUR PART TODAY?
Maggie peered over Mac's shoulder at the shots of kids rock-climbing, hiking in the Blue Hills, cruising on a whale watch, painting a mural. Seeing so much goodwill on display made her bubbly. Here were people who cared deeply about mentoring children, about building a better world. Perhaps it was the prosecco, but Maggie felt herself among like-minded souls. The do-gooders, the givers, for whom helping formed the crux of their lives. She wanted to get involved, volunteer somehow. She'd have to ask Gretchen. And, of course, if she and Mac took in a foster child, they would be an extension of this world.