The Summer of Good Intentions (27 page)

But Arthur was worried. He'd always promised himself that if ever he felt his mind going, he would end it, take his leave of this world before anyone was forced to help him or, worse, pity him. And he'd gotten confused about the teakettle yesterday, thinking he'd left it on again, until Virgie (poor Virginia!) had reassured him that it wasn't possible. He'd done it the day before. How could he have mixed that up?

Maybe he really was losing it. He couldn't stand the thought of one day looking into a daughter's face and not remembering her name. Couldn't bear the thought of forgetting that he had grandchildren or that he had shared forty-six wonderful years with his wife. Losing his mind, his faculties, was akin to a life sentence behind bars. Perhaps he would schedule an appointment when he got back to Maine. Check in with the doc to make sure all the pistons were firing.

He removed his shoes and stepped onto the sand. He hated to admit it, but the vacation that he'd been anticipating for so long was not shaping up as he'd hoped. Seeing his daughters and grandchildren was supposed to reinvigorate him; the slower, expansive time on the Cape would allow him to write without interruption. Secretly, he'd dreamed, too, that Gloria would see the error of her ways and return to him. Of course, nothing had gone according to plan. His grandchildren didn't trust him, might even be scared of him now. His novel was in shambles. And Gloria, who at first had been invitingly flirtatious, had basically betrothed herself to Gio. What the hell was he doing here anyway? Arthur wondered. He had another week left, but he'd just as soon head back to Maine now. It would be best for everyone.

His eye landed on a piece of metal, glinting in the sun, and he retrieved it with the gator. A chewing gum wrapper. He tossed it in the bag anyway. It was shiny; Roger might be tempted by it. He thought back to a wonderful interview he'd watched on television the other day. Who was it again? Oh, yes, Delia Ephron, the writer. The sister of Nora. Arthur had always liked Nora Ephron's comedies, even if they had a romantic bent to them. Perhaps
because
they had a romantic twist. Over the years, he and Gloria had watched
When Harry Met Sally
about twenty times. The montages of the old couples who recounted how they met and fell in love made him tear up each time. But Delia had said something that struck him as fabulously, ineffably true in that interview. She spoke about how close she and Nora were and then went on to characterize their relationship as “a collaboration on life.” Arthur thought it one of the most beautiful sentiments he'd ever heard.
A collaboration on life.
And as soon as she said it, his mind fastened on Gloria. That's what they'd had.

That was exactly it.

Since she'd left, he'd been without his collaborator. No wonder he was getting nowhere on his novel, in his life. Gloria had given him some of his best material. Helping him on plot twists, inventing red herrings, pointing out where his logic was flawed or where Inspector Larson was being dense. She'd been his best reader. Without her, he was lost. Perhaps these were the words she needed to hear to come back to him.
I'm lost without you.
It occurred to him that he'd never told her these exact words. How dense could he be! He couldn't expect her to read his mind, to know how he still rolled over in bed to lay an arm across her and was jolted to discover only empty space where her warm body used to lay.

As the sky began to brighten, Arthur resolved to tell Gloria this very thing. Today. Gio wasn't her collaborator in life. Arthur was. Perhaps, he thought, shaking his head, she'd only been waiting for him to say these very words before returning to him. Could it be that simple? He started to laugh out loud at how preposterous the whole thing sounded. He was lost without Gloria and she was lost without him. But, true to form, she'd been waiting for him to admit it first. Once he did, her face would reveal her relief and she'd say something like, “I was wondering how long it would take you to realize it. Now, come on, let's go home.”

Sometimes life was so simple, and here he'd been making it unnecessarily complicated. The whole kitchen incident had derailed him, but now he saw it was the very thing to shake him awake. To reunite him with Gloria. And he wanted that so very, very much. He wanted back their walks together along the Maine coast, dinners sitting across from each other discussing the latest book they'd read, a wife who would replace the cap on the toothpaste tube for him, who would lovingly turn the glasses in the cupboard rim down, instead of leaving them haphazardly up as he always did. Someone who would switch the radio to a favorite song and offer her upturned hand, waiting to be led across the living room floor, the fire flickering in the background and music playing, perhaps “Let It Be Me” by the Everly Brothers. He could hear it, even taste it, the sweet flavor of Gloria's companionship folded back into his life.

A yawning stretch of dark blue, the ocean beckoned to him. Arthur set down his shoes, gator, and bag and pulled off his shirt, suddenly feeling like a younger man. He rubbed his hands together briskly, thinking of Gloria.
Always of Gloria
. Yes, a dip would be just the thing to mark a fresh start, his resolve to embrace life anew. After a few recent scares, it was dawning on him that his life as he knew it might be flying by faster than he'd bargained for. He was going to make the most of his time left. With Gloria back in his days, the rest would fall into place. His girls would visit more often with the grandkids, his writing would flow, his bed would no longer be empty.

He wouldn't take no for an answer.

He walked to the water's edge, letting the icy waves lap at his toes. He braced himself for the cold, walking in knee-deep, then waist-deep. When he glanced down, he realized he'd forgotten to remove his belt. Too bad. He would swim until his arms started to tire, then return revitalized. His heart was hammering with excitement, and at last his impatience for it all to begin—the rest of his life—shot through him. He dove into the water, ducking his head underneath, and began to swim.

The cold, bracing at first, eventually enveloped him in its soothing embrace. Then, the water lifted him up, buoying his body along, a silver streak in the wide-open sea.

When the police car pulled into the driveway, Maggie already knew. Three days had passed, too long for a seventy-two-year-old man to survive on the open beach against the elements. It was unlikely there was any good news behind the stiff wrap of knuckles on the door, which came on Wednesday morning at 11:20. Maggie was fixing herself a glass of iced tea when Luke yelled out, “Mommy, policeman's here!”

On Sunday morning, when Arthur had been gone for a few hours, she grew curious. “Has anyone seen Dad?” she asked a silent house. She went out on the deck with binoculars and searched the beach, but only a few families were scattered about so early in the day. Maybe Arthur had set off for a morning walk into town, she theorized, and decided to grab breakfast at the Blueberry Bagel. She sent Mac off to check and, after that, to the library, to Sal's, anyplace that might be open on a Sunday.

But Mac returned shaking his head. Sophie was the first to notice that Grandpa's trash gator was missing from its usual spot behind the couch. “Then he must have gone for a walk along the beach!” Maggie felt herself flooding with relief: Arthur had gotten preoccupied with his search for rubbish and was taking a longer-than-normal stroll along the ocean.

They all rushed down to the beach, including Gloria and Gio, who'd arrived shortly after Maggie called to see if they'd heard from Arthur that morning. About a half mile from the house, Luke, who had run ahead, called out that he'd found Grandpa's shirt, his boat shoes, and the trash gator and bag. They gathered around the small heap of items, then circled the area, expecting to find Arthur bent over investigating a crab or a crane's nest in the sea grasses. Mac snatched the binoculars and cast his eyes out over the ocean, while Jess wondered aloud if Arthur might have fallen along the rocks closer to land. They separated into smaller groups and searched the shoreline. But when, after a few hours, there was still no sign of him, Maggie began to worry in earnest. She could read the look on Mac's face; he was beginning to think something wasn't right, too.

He pulled out his cell and dialed the local precinct. “Hi, it's Officer McNeil here from the house at Forty-two Pilgrim Lane.” He paused. “That's right. The one with the fire. Listen, I realize it's early to file a missing person report, but my father-in-law has been missing since early this morning. It's not like him and we're starting to worry.” There was a pause. “We just found his shirt and shoes about a half mile from our house down on the beach.” Another question. “He's seventy-two. Uh-huh, good swimmer.” He paused. “Well, I guess you could say he's been having some memory issues.” He leveled his eyes at Jess, who nodded, and Maggie felt her stomach pull into knots.
This is serious
was all she could think. “Thank you, I'd appreciate it,” Mac said. “We'll do that in the meantime.”

“They're on their way,” Mac confirmed. “They want someone to stay at the house in case Arthur comes home. Everyone keep your cell phones on. Why don't Maggie and I head back to the house? You guys want to keep looking out here?” Jess and Tim nodded and pulled the kids closer.

“I'll stay here, too,” Virgie confirmed.

“Us, too,” announced Gloria, taking Gio's hand.

But by the time evening fell, there was still no word of Arthur. They'd gone knocking door to door along the beach with a picture, but no one had seen him. Any plans anyone in the family might have had to head back to Boston were scratched. They turned in for the day and left the porch and deck lights burning into the night.

“It's like he disappeared into thin air,” Maggie whispered as she crawled into bed.

“Don't worry, we'll find him,” Mac said softly, and they fell into a restless sleep.

The next day, Monday, was gray and stormy, and the officers returned to the house with more questions. “Is there any chance he might have gone into the water?” one asked.

Maggie shook her head. They'd already been through this yesterday. “Sure, there's a chance, but my dad's a good swimmer. He wouldn't do anything stupid.”

The officer clicked his pen and studied her. “He's familiar with the undertows? They can be pretty powerful down here.”

“Of course,” she said, angered by the question.

“Sorry, I have to ask,” he replied, as if reading her mind. By nightfall on Monday, there was still no word of Arthur. Maggie understood after years of being married to a cop that the first forty-eight hours were critical in a missing person case.

“What about his shoes?” Jess pressed. Maggie nodded. The shoes bothered her, too. She had a difficult time imagining her dad wandering off without his shoes, unless of course he was headed into the water. But Maggie struggled just as much to imagine her dad, a lifetime lover of the ocean, meeting harm in the water. How many times had he gone for morning walks and morning swims in the Atlantic, both here and back home in Maine? The water was like his second home. For him to simply wander in, ignoring high tide and a strong current—all things he'd warned them about constantly when they were children—struck her as implausible. Had he wanted his life to end? The thought snuck up on Maggie as she sorted through the various scenarios, but she tamped it down just as quickly. They just needed to keep looking.

The next morning, Tuesday, the house struggled awake, reinvigorated by fresh coffee and a call from the station that someone had seen an older man ambling around town, looking confused and lost. Maggie felt her hopes surge. The kitchen buzzed with activity, with second-guessing and stories about what they'd say to Arthur once he arrived home safely. Maggie and Mac would insist he move in with them; he'd have no choice. Within the hour, though, the police had located the local man, an Alzheimer's patient who'd wandered from his senior housing facility. Maggie collapsed in a dining room chair and burst into tears. Gloria came over and laid a hand on her shoulder. “Don't worry, honey,” she said. “Daddy's out there, I can feel it.”

The rest of the day was even more excruciating. Where else could her dad be? Maggie wracked her brain, but the only scenarios she came up with were bad ones. She went for a run on the beach, cooked pasta and meatballs, and set a place for Arthur at the dinner table, as if calling him home. Later, she stood on the deck and gazed out at the ocean, as if she could coax her father's whereabouts from its rhythms. “Please, please find him,” she whispered into the night, even as she felt her hope dwindling.

So, when the police cruiser pulled up on Wednesday, there was a piece of her that already suspected the truth.

“Mac,” she called softly. “They're here.” She waited for him to join her before opening the door. She took in the young officer, no more than twenty-five, who stood with his hat in his hands. “Maggie McNeil?” he inquired. She nodded and squeezed Mac's hand. “I'm so sorry, ma'am,” he said. Maggie fell back against Mac while the officer continued to speak. The rest of the family filed in around them. “A family found your dad washed up on the beach this morning, just a few miles down. He was wearing tan shorts and a belt. Officer McCarthy, who knows Mr. Herington, identified the body.”