Chapter 33

July 2023

Fred and I don't speak when we wake with the dawn the next morning on the beach at James's winery. We simply get up, return to the house, and act like nothing happened. Because nothing did. Ditto for the drive back to Southampton in the car that Fred arranges.

Lucy doesn't come with us. She's still woozy, and the doctor told her to take it easy, so James says she can stay with him for a while, until she's ready to go home, and it feels like we all breathe a sigh of relief when this decision is made, but maybe that's wishful thinking.

Fred drops me off at the top of the driveway and leaves without saying anything more than goodbye. It's weird—we felt so connected last night, almost like we were friends—and now we're back to being nothing. Maybe less than nothing, because if we were nothing, we could make small talk. But we've never done that. Everything between us has always been outsized. We don't know how to be normal together, so I don't look back when the car drives away, I just go into the house.

After a shower and a change of clothes, I go in search of something, I'm not sure what. While there's still a lot of cataloging to do, the only real clear-out left is of my mother's room. That feels like too much for today, and part of me wants to leave it for the estate sale, and let it be someone else's problem.

But that's what I do. I push problems off until they accumulate. A month from now, I won't have a place to live unless I decide to get back together with Wes. I'll have more money than I've ever had, but less sense of what I want to do. Go back on the tennis circuit? Leave teaching and become a coach? Leave it all behind and move to some warm-weather location where I can read books by a pool and play pickleball in the afternoons?

But no. That's never been me, and the part of me that's been slumbering since I retired five years ago is awake now. I'm not ready to check out of life, I just don't know what life I want to lead.

With these thoughts swirling, I end up in my father's study.

He's sitting behind his desk, reading a book. For all my father's oddness and vanity, he's always been a well-read man. Today's entry is a biography of John Lennon, the Beatles being a band I'm sure my dad ignored when they came out but are now far enough in the past to be intriguing to him.

"Learning anything interesting?"

"What? Oh, Olivia, hello." He puts the book down. John Lennon's small, round spectacles look up at me. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"I just felt like … we haven't talked since I've been home."

"Haven't we?"

"Not really." I sit in the chair in front of his desk. When I was little, I used to sit here, with my legs swinging, if I was in trouble. My father preferred lectures about comportment over real punishments, so I knew I simply had to listen, and when he was done, I'd be free.

"What would you like to talk about?"

"Are you sure you want to move out of Southampton?"

"Yes, I think so."

"It will be different."

William's hand rests on the book's cover. "I think that might be a good thing."

"Oh?"

"I wouldn't want to be reminded … Well, let's just say I have some regrets, my dear. Of a financial nature."

"It's funny to think this whole time we were sitting on this enormous asset."

"I knew that."

"You did?"

"I wanted to preserve it for you. For all of you. And I thought, maybe one day, one of you would live here."

"Charlotte did live here. She does."

"Yes, but to be honest, Olivia, I always thought it would be you. When you finished your world traveling. You always loved the house as much as me." His eyes mist over, and there's a lump in my throat. "But instead, you stayed away."

"I'm sorry."

"Why, though? I know I wasn't always the best father …"

"No, it wasn't your fault."

"No?"

"No, I … I don't know how to express it … I do love it here, but it makes me sad."

"Because of your mother?"

"Yes, that's part of it. I always felt … lost here, I guess?"

"I'm sorry."

I smile at him. "There's nothing to apologize for. But things would've been different if Mom hadn't died."

"Yes," he sighs. "The great tragedy of my life."

"Were you never lonely? You didn't want to marry again?"

"No one could live up to her."

"You were happy? She was happy?"

He wipes his thumb underneath his eye. I've never seen my father cry. Not one time after my mother died, at least not in front of us.

"I think so."

"Why did you get married so young?"

"Not so young."

"Mom was only eighteen."

"She was the one who wanted to get married."

"She did?"

He rubs his chin. "Did she ever tell you about her father?"

"Grandpa Simon?"

"Terrible man. She never even told me all the details, but he wasn't a good father. Drove your grandmother into an early grave with his rages. Your mother wanted to escape him. Getting married was a way to do that. But that didn't mean it's not what she wanted. What we both did. Sometimes you can make the right decision, even under duress."

"How come no one ever told me that?"

William laces his fingers together. "Not really the sort of thing you discuss with your children, is it?"

"No, I guess not … Only …"

"You think your mother regretted it?"

"No, I …"

"She was happy, Olivia. Maybe in the end, she wasn't, but she was so sick, sicker than you knew. It took a lot out of her. There's this whole thing now about how one has to be brave when one is dying, as if you've failed yourself if you aren't. But not everyone has it in them to be that when they're dying young. I accepted that. She was scared. She didn't want to leave us. But there wasn't anything she or I, or the doctors, could do about it."

"Thank you for saying that."

"You're welcome."

"I love you … Dad."

He smiles. "I love you too."

I spend much of the day wandering around the house, trying to see my past through this new lens. I've been blaming William for the way things are in our family—calling him William instead of Dad, putting distance between us. But he's been here the whole time. He didn't abandon us to nannies. He didn't bring in a new mother and pretend that our real one never existed.

He did the best he could. He was the one who was brave in the face of the terrible thing that had happened to our family. Not that I blame my mother for being afraid. But maybe that's what it was—the advice she gave me in that twenty-first birthday card. Fear.

Did I screw up my whole life because my mother was afraid of dying? Did she think that if I did what she did, I'd end like she did too?

But if I'm being honest with myself, it wasn't only because of my mother that I'd turned Fred down. William and Aunt Tracy were against me marrying him too. More importantly, I was against it. I was too young, and everything that's happened between us since is proof of that.

But I also know that the answers to my life right now aren't in this house, hidden in the walls, or in the locked-up memories of old men.

The answer to my future is at the club.

Wes.

A man who wants to be with me. A man who made a mistake, yes, a bad one, but who wasn't trying to hurt me. Who's never looked at me with the cold stare that Fred gave me this morning. And if I've given this many chances to Fred, doesn't Wes deserve another chance too? We've both hurt each other, and I'm not innocent in this.

So I go to the club to find him.

And when I do, he's sitting on the veranda, having a drink with Ann. It's not the combination I expected, but it's innocent despite my hammering heart. They don't jump away from each other or look guilty. There isn't an air of complicity about them. If anything, I'd say they were arguing, but that doesn't make any sense either.

"Olivia," Wes says when he notices me standing there. "Join us."

I walk up to them slowly. "What are you two doing together?"

They exchange a glance. "Well, now the surprise is ruined," Wes says.

"Surprise?"

"We were planning a going-away party."

I frown. "Who's going away?"

"For the family. You know, at the house."

"Oh."

Ann tilts her head to the side. "I thought it would be good for Charlotte. Saying a formal goodbye, having everyone over. Maybe for you and Sophie too."

"Doesn't that sound good?" Wes says.

"It sounds sad."

"We don't have to do it."

"No, no … I'm sure everyone will like it, including William." I sit down at the table. "What day were you thinking?"

Wes covers my hand with his. "The day of the transfer. Ann asked Fred, and he doesn't mind, even though the house will be his then, technically."

"Four weeks from now?"

Ann smiles. "The estate sale is that day too, yes?"

"That's right." I fiddle with the spoon in my place setting. "A big day."

"It is. You've got the documents for the sale?"

"I … I haven't checked yet."

"Plenty of time." Ann stands. "I'm going to go. I'll be in touch, Olivia. Wes." She nods and leaves.

I watch her walk away, feeling off and jealous. I pull my hand away from Wes.

"What's wrong?" he says.

"Nothing."

"Doesn't feel like nothing."

I turn back to him. "I'm just tired."

He raises an eyebrow. "Bad night's sleep?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Was the rest of the winery not up to standard?"

"What?"

"The beds not comfortable?"

I fold my hands on the table. "Is there something you want to ask me?"

"Is there something to ask?"

"Nothing happened."

He arches his eyebrow slowly. "No?"

"No," I say firmly, and then sink in my chair as I see Fred coming out of the club. He's wearing shorts and a polo, and when he sees us, I can tell he wants to walk the other way, but politeness drives him toward us.

"Olivia. Wes."

"Hi, Fred," Wes says, standing to shake his hand. "We were just speaking about you."

"That right?"

"Wes, stop it."

"Stop what? I want to know what Fred has to say about what you were doing last night."

"Dinner, I believe," Fred says.

"You had dinner with my wife?"

"Wes!"

"I thought you were taking care of Lucy?"

"We were. But we had to eat. Fred made an omelet when we got home from the hospital. We talked and then we went to bed."

"Separately?"

"Of course separately."

"Listen, mate," Fred says. "I think if you—"

But Wes isn't having it. Instead, he stands, cocks his fist, and says, "I'm not your mate," as it connects with Fred's jaw, knocking him back.

Fred stumbles, then rights himself and projects himself forward, his own fist connecting with Wes's face. Then, Wes is on the ground, Fred on top of him.

"Fred! Wes! Stop it! Both of you."

I grab Fred's arm and pull him back. We're joined by one of the club's security men, and they pull Fred off Wes before another blow lands.

I stay on the ground, next to Wes, as he clutches his face. There's going to be a bad bruise, maybe a black eye.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

"He hit me."

"You did hit him first."

"My prerogative, I think."

I help him sit up. Fred is twenty feet away, a security guard on each arm, but he's not struggling. He's just standing there, watching us.

"Leave, please, Fred."

Our eyes connect and I try to press the message home. That he's not helping, being here, that he needs to go so I can try to fix this.

A look of disgust crosses his face, then he turns and goes.

"You don't want to go with him?" Wes asks.

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. And despite what you might think, nothing happened between us. Nothing."

"Not this time."

I sit back on my heels. "What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know."

"How did this become about me? My past?"

"It's always been about you. About him."

"That's not fair."

He rubs his face. "Maybe not, but it's true."

"So, what? We just give up?"

"No, I don't … Can't we leave? Go back to New York?"

"I have to finish the house."

"Your sisters can do that."

"They won't, though."

Wes takes my hand. "But you could let them. Let go of all of this. It's just things you were happy not to see for the last twenty years. It can't be more important than us. But if it is, then there's your answer."

"So, what—we leave today? What about the transfer? The party? The estate sale?"

Wes sighs. "That's weeks away. We could come back for it."

"We can't run away from our problems. If we're going to make it, we need to figure out a way to do that where it's hard, not where it's easy."

"So we stay, and then?"

"We go home."

"Together?"

I let out my breath slowly. "Yes."

He breaks into a smile. "Really?"

"I think so … I'm willing to try anyway." I stand and reach out my hand. "Do I need to take you to the hospital?"

"No." He takes my hand and I pull him up, then he gathers me close to him. "This will be good. This is going to be good for us."

I let him fold me against him, and it does feel good. Wes and I have always felt good together, regardless of everything that's pushed us apart.

"I love you, Olivia," Wes says.

"I love you too."