Chapter 25

July 2023

When I get back from tennis the morning after the dinner at the club, Wes is at the house for breakfast.

I couldn't help looking for him this morning out on the court. I thought he might do what Fred has done and watch me, though Fred was absent today as well. When I didn't see Wes on the sidelines, I wondered what part of the club he'd been placed in. Had they put him in a room near Fred, or on the other side of the building?

I both didn't want anyone to know about my personal drama and expected them to rearrange their guests to please me. I was ridiculous.

And then here he is, in the kitchen with Aunt Tracy, teasing her, asking for his special egg-white omelet, which she usually refuses to make, but seems to be fluffing in the pan in front of her. Is this a signal? Does she think I should save my marriage?

"Hi," I say, hanging back in the doorway, unsure if I want to disturb them.

Wes's face breaks into a wide grin. It's one of the things that made me fall in love with him—how his mood is infectious. He's one of those people who walk into a room and change the weather, bringing sun where there's been clouds.

"You look great," he says.

"I need a shower."

He takes a couple of steps toward me and lowers his voice. "You know I like it when you're messy."

I put a hand up. I might not know what I want from Wes right now, but this intimate tone is not it. "Too soon."

"Sorry."

I step away. "Can I have some of that, Aunt Tracy?"

"You want real eggs, yes?"

"Yes, please."

"Egg whites are better for your heart," Wes says lightly.

Lots of things would've been better for my heart. Him not cheating on me, for one. "I'll take the cholesterol in small doses, thank you."

We take a seat at the island. There's a pitcher of fresh-squeezed orange juice, something I haven't seen since I've been here, and there are newly cut flowers in the vase in the center of the island. Fresh flowers in the entrance way too, come to think of it. We haven't even received the money from the sale yet, and it's already changing things.

"How is the cleanout going?" Wes asks as he pours me a glass of juice.

"Slowly."

"Are you finding anything fun? Like old newspapers or secret letters?"

"Mostly a lot of dust and outdated clothing and furniture."

"Don't forget to check all the hiding places. Didn't you tell me there was some secret cupboard or room in the library, or something?"

"I'd forgotten about that."

"Maybe it's full of buried treasure."

"I highly doubt it."

"What are you going to do with all the furniture?" Wes asks.

"We're going to do an estate sale with Lucy." I explain to him how I'm cataloging everything in the app Lucy sent me. How it's going to take the rest of the summer, probably, to get it done in time for the auction.

"And what's Ann's role in all of this? Where did she come from?"

"Her father is a lawyer in town. She brokered the sale."

He raises an eyebrow. "That all?"

"Pretty sure she and Charlotte are an item."

"Go, Charlotte."

I return his smile. "She seems happy."

"That's great. And Fred is dating Lucy?"

I take a sip of the juice. Bottled sunshine, bright and tart in my mouth. "Apparently."

"How do you feel about that?"

"I like Lucy."

"But all this is weird, you have to admit. Him buying this place …"

"Yes."

"He's going to knock it down, I assume? Build something new? Or cut it up for resale?"

Aunt Tracy brings our omelets to us, giving Wes's a distasteful look, even though she made it.

"This smells great, thank you," Wes says. "If you don't want to move on with William, please consider moving in with us."

"Aunt Tracy's going into retirement," I say.

"Of course, well deserved."

Aunt Tracy pauses, like she's considering something. "He's going to move in here."

"Who?" I ask.

"Fred. I heard him on his last walk-through before the sale. He had a woman with him, a designer I think, and he was talking about what he wanted to do with each room. I got the impression he was designing it for someone in particular."

I want to push the omelet away, but I don't. Instead, I force myself to take a large bite. "How come you didn't tell me that before?"

"Didn't I?"

"Don't think so." I take another bite. "Well, it's his house, and he can do whatever he wants with it."

I can feel Wes watching me, but I'm not going to play that game. Besides, what I'm feeling isn't just about Fred. It's about anyone else living here.

"Did he ever say why he bought this house in particular?" Wes asks.

"He did not." I turn to him. "It's not like we've been hanging out. We've barely spoken."

Wes pauses, deciding whether to believe this. "Well, whatever the reason, at least something good has come of it."

"What's that?"

"The money, of course. That's great that William is dividing it between all of you."

I put my fork down slowly. "How do you know about that?"

"Charlotte was telling me last night. I was surprised you hadn't …"

Aunt Tracy drifts away. If this is a fight, she doesn't want to be a part of it.

"I didn't know till I got here."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. You know how Charlotte is with information."

"But it's true? You're all getting a split?"

"Yes. Why?"

He smiles at me again, but this time it doesn't feel warm. "You know why, Olivia. It means we can start over."

"Right."

"And it's great for everyone, isn't it? Sophie said Colin was finally going to leave his job."

"Yes," I say, trying to figure out why my breakfast suddenly tastes bitter.

Money didn't used to be a sore spot with us. Wes had it when we met, and I was comfortable from my years on the tour. Or so I thought; once I retired and sat down with my accountant, I had a lot less money than I expected, and not enough to retire on. I had to do something, and the thought of becoming a tennis coach didn't appeal to me—too many hours, a nomadic life.…

After some deliberation, I decided to dust off my degree and get a job teaching, a move Wes supported because he knew I didn't want to be financially dependent on him. Then, Wes's business failed during the pandemic, and my teacher's salary wasn't going to keep us in Manhattan. Money became a point of contention and conflict.

"Is that what you came here to talk about?"

"No. I wanted to see you."

I push my plate away. I've finished half of it, and that's enough camouflage. "Well, you have."

"Hey, don't be like that."

"Like what?" I stand up. "I need a shower."

"Of course."

"I can't just snap back to the way things were, Wes. Not that they were so great before that either."

He reaches for my hand. "Hey, now, that's not fair. We were having a tough time—everything with my business … But we've had a lot of good too, haven't we?"

"There was good."

He smiles encouragingly. "Of course there was. And there will be again. I was thinking, when all this is taken care of, why don't we go somewhere for a long weekend? Before school starts up again. Maybe back to the Bahamas. Didn't we love it there?"

It's where we went on our honeymoon, and we did love it there. We were good there. Happy.

"It's a beautiful place."

"It will be our fresh start. And until then, I'm here for whatever you need. I'm going to stay for the rest of the summer and work from here. I've got a position at that V-Cap I was telling you about. Something more secure. They're okay with me being mostly remote, and I'll go into the city when I need to. So, if you need help in the house, just ask. I know it must be hard for you going through all this stuff. It's getting you down, I'm sure."

"It's a lot."

"Charlotte and Sophie should be helping."

"They should." I sigh. "They are, a bit."

"I can talk to them."

"No, it's fine." I pull away. "I'm going to go take a shower. Aunt Tracy, thank you for breakfast."

She smiles at me. She's stayed silent during out exchange, but I'm sure she has an opinion.

"Will you have dinner with me?" Wes asks.

"Not tonight, okay, Wes? Just give me time."

"When, then?"

I sigh. Taking no for an answer has never been Wes's strong suit. "How about Saturday?"

"Perfect, I'll make a reservation." He kisses me on the cheek, and I let him.

Then he goes to Aunt Tracy and does the same. She shoos him away, but I can tell she likes it despite her protests.

He leaves and I'm still standing there, watching him walk across the lawn, where William is taking his morning walk.

Aunt Tracy puts her arms around me. "He's a smoothie, that one."

"He is."

"You don't have to be with any man, you know."

"I know."

She squeezes, then releases me. I watch Wes talk to William for a minute, wondering what they're discussing, then let it go.

It's not something I do well, but if I want my marriage to have a chance, I'm going to have to get used to the sensation.

I take my shower and change into an old pair of shorts and a ratty T-shirt. Today is the day I tackle the library with a renewed interest now that Wes has reminded me about the secret compartment behind one of the shelves.

The library itself is large, dark, and daunting, with dark bookshelves up to the ceiling circling the room. There must be thousands of books in here, and I'm not going to be boxing them all up. I'll leave that to Lucy's company. But I do need to go through the shelves and make sure there are no important documents or keepsakes buried within.

I pull open the heavy red velvet drapes, and a cloud of dust flies up. We used to love playing in here as kids, building forts with the furniture and towers of old hardcover books. I run my hand along the spines. All the classics are here: the Bront?s, Dickens, Austen.

I pull down the Austen compilation—all six novels in a green hardcover that's almost too big to hold. I remember discovering it when I was thirteen, and sitting in the window reading, reading, reading until I made it to Persuasion. I loved all the books, but this one especially. It was my mother's favorite too, and I search the bookshelves for her special copy, the one she'd had since she was a teenager. I don't find it, so I put the large volume aside to keep, and move on down the shelves.

Some of these books are probably valuable, but I'll let Lucy decide that. I text her to ask whether each one of them needs to be cataloged. She answers that no, she'll send her appraiser next week to check if there's anything worth keeping. I sigh with relief and continue browsing.

I pull out the family Bible, with each generation added in a different handwriting on the inside cover. There I am with my sisters, written in by my mother. And beneath Sophie, at some point, my father took the trouble to write in the names of her children, which I find surprising and touching.

I put it in the "keep" pile, then clear off some of the knickknacks into a box—a collection of glass birds, an old vase that isn't worth anything but sentiment, a few drawings Charlotte did that my mother framed.

I'm circling the room, avoiding the place I really want to look. Await, avoid, attack, I think, an old admonishment a silly uncle used to give before we went to a banquet in Chinatown when we visited him in the city.

Memory is so funny, what it tosses up, what it discards.

But enough.

I walk to the shelf that hides the secret compartment. It's a large recess behind a block of shelves that was probably meant for a safe. I can't think of the last time I looked in here.

No, no, I can. My mother caught me. I was twelve or thirteen, and she was already sick. I remember because she was in her nightgown, even though it was the middle of the day. I'd slipped away from my piano lesson when my teacher had fallen asleep in her rocking chair, a common occurrence. Charlotte had been keeping something from me—I can't remember what, now—and I was determined to find it. I pulled half the books off the shelves, and then I opened the cabinet.

"What are you doing, darling?" my mom said, moving into the room like a ghost.

"Charlotte hid something from me."

"What, dear?"

"She won't tell me—only I know it's mine."

She walked toward me, her dressing gown billowing around her. Her skin was pale, and the color seemed to have been bleached out of her hair. She wore it long and loose, and it tickled my neck as she gathered me close.

"You shouldn't let Charlotte get to you so much, darling."

"I know."

"Maybe she didn't even hide anything."

I cocked my head to the side. "That sounds like Charlotte."

"Aren't you supposed to be playing piano?"

"Mrs. Carson fell asleep again."

My mom laughed, a melodious tinkle that sound like the piano she loved but didn't play much anymore. She took my hand and led me to the couch. "Sit here and tell me all about it."

I leaned my body against hers. I didn't get to do that very often with her anymore. She was so tired all the time, and sometimes even her skin hurt, she said. "Did you find anything in the secret compartment?"

"No, just some old books."

"That's the past, my love. And sometimes it should be hidden away."

"What do you mean?"

She kissed me. "Nothing. Sometimes I say silly things."

"Sophie is always saying silly things."

"She makes me laugh."

"She's such a baby still."

"You're all my babies." She kissed me again. "Now, go back to your piano lesson, and be nice when you wake Mrs. Carson. You'll see when you get old, sometimes you get tired in the middle of the day."

"Okay." I got up from the couch, and she rose slowly.

"Go on, now—shoo."

I walked to the threshold, then looked back. She was staring into the secret compartment. Then she took out a book from inside, like it was a treasure, but it didn't look like anything valuable to me.

"Olivia."

"I'm going!"

I press the mechanism to open the compartment. It's at eye level with me now, though the last time I looked inside, I'd had to pull a chair up to get to it. As it was then, it's mostly empty except for a thick leather-bound book that says "Journal" on the outside. I take it out and open it slowly, my mother's handwriting greeting me.

The early entries are sporadic and benign, starting a few years before she got sick. I flip to the end, past several ripped-out pages, the leftover edges ragged. The entry I find was written a few weeks before she died. But how did it get in here? Did she put it here? Why?

The details don't matter, it's the words that will haunt me forever.

It's soon, I can tell. A few days, a few weeks.

I can measure my life in hours now instead of the years I should have.

And it feels like it used to when I couldn't sleep. When I'd watch the clock and with each half hour that passed, I knew it was a deduction. That soon I'd cross the threshold of what was acceptable, that if I didn't fall asleep immediately, the next day would be ruined. Each hour is like that now, only I can barely stay awake. I want to take it all in—I don't want to miss a minute, but I'm missing most of it.

I'm missing my girls. I'm missing my life.

And oh God, I'm afraid.