Chapter 5

June 2023

Waking up in my bedroom on the third floor feels both familiar and awful.

I had too many gin and tonics last night, followed by too much wine at dinner after Charlotte pulled me aside and finally asked what happened with Wes. I didn't give her the gory details, but she figured out the basics. I was here, wasn't I, when I'd said I couldn't be. She knew something was broken in my marriage.

How broken was too much to think about. So instead, I escaped to my stuffy room, threw both windows open to let in the night breeze, and turned on an old fan that rattled as it turned on its axis. Then I stripped down to my underwear and a tank top and tried to fall asleep, which, after a long night of sweating and a carousel of regrets, I finally did.

This morning, my heart hurts and I miss the large king bed I picked out with care, enjoying the expensive Egyptian cotton sheets Wes had insisted we splurge on in our perfectly temperature-controlled apartment. Even though this room is exactly as I left it, it's not mine anymore. I am essentially homeless. And that's hitting home like some terrible metaphor.

And then there's Fred.

I'm going to see him tonight. Just the thought of it sets my body quivering in anticipation and dread. Fred. Fred. Fred. His name echoes through my thoughts like it always has. And it feels like it always will.

I turn on my side and squeeze my eyes shut against the intrusion. I don't have to see Fred. I can skip out on the garden party. If I do, he might frown in that way he has when he's disappointed, but I won't be there to see it. My father will tut-tut about how I never think of anyone but myself, and Charlotte will get sick of having to answer for my whereabouts because she hates when the attention isn't entirely on her.

I can live with all of that except for the fact that it would make me a coward. I still have a competitive edge in me somewhere. The fire I used to use to stare down my opponents on the tennis court and make them think they were going to lose before I even hit the first shot—that's still buried in me.

So, I'm going. I'm going.

I just have to get out of bed first.

"Where do you want to start?" Aunt Tracy asks as we stand at the end of the second-floor hallway later that morning.

There are four paneled doors in front of us, like a choose-your-own-adventure of memories. My parents' room, where William still sleeps; Sophie's room, unused and as frozen in time as mine; Charlotte's bedroom; and my mother's day room.

The day room was her private sanctum, where she could retreat to read all night if she was having one of her bouts of insomnia, or to nap in the afternoon when she wasn't feeling well. It was the first place we looked for her when we were kids and the last place I saw her before she died. I haven't been inside in twenty years.

"I'm not ready for Mom's room."

Tracy hugs me from the side. "I don't blame you. I don't know if I could face it either."

"Charlotte can clean out her own room. And Sophie."

"Agreed." She looks around as if they might materialize. "Where are they?"

"Charlotte said something last night about being tied up with organizing the garden party."

"The soiree,"Charlotte had called it, confirming numbers over breakfast while William nodded in approval.

"And Sophie?"

"You know Sophie."

"I do." She sighs. "So that leaves—"

"Their room. Mom's side of it anyway." I swallow hard. It won't be the same as going through the day room, but it's where all her clothes and jewelry still are. My father never bothered to take the time to clear away her things. "Maybe I can face that with your help."

"I always knew you were the brave one."

"We'll see."

We step to the door at the end of the hall, and I grip the wrought-iron door handle and twist. It catches, not wanting to give, like it senses my reluctance. I put my shoulder to it and push. The door opens with a pop, and I almost tumble into the room.

"The clumsy one too," I say as I right myself and take in my surroundings. The walls are butter yellow, with matching curtains with small flowers running over them. There's a heavy oak bed that's made up with a light cream coverlet, and two dressers, William's—that's still full of his knickknacks and daily use items, and my mother's—covered in silver-framed family photographs. There's a portrait of her as a young woman on the wall, and the far wall stares at the ocean.

I walk to the Juliet window. There's a small balcony off it. "I forgot how good the view is from here."

"The best view in the house."

I open the door and walk out. The balcony is high enough that the dunes aren't an obstruction to the view. The tide is out, and the beach is dotted with colorful umbrellas and children freed from the shackle of school. The salty tang of the ocean fills my senses, mixing with the faint hint of my mother's gardenia-scented perfume, which lingers like a ghost.

I shove my rising sadness and turn. "Where should we start?"

Tracy's kind eyes cloud with sadness. "Her closets? She's got some vintage pieces that we can sell if you're not interested in them."

"I don't think they'll fit me. Maybe Charlotte." My mother was petite like Charlotte and Sophie.

"You're smaller than you used to be," Tracy says. "You might be surprised."

"Am I?" I look down at myself, trying to see a difference. It's true that the linen slacks I'm wearing are loose. "I haven't been trying to lose weight."

"I hate you." Tracy's always been plump, but it suits her.

"Probably Wes's fault."

Things had been rocky for us all year, which I'd confessed to Tracy when we had lunch in the city in March. I thought we could work things out, then.

"Him too."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No." I grimace, then walk to my mother's closet. There's enough sadness in this task that I don't need to bring Wes into it.

When I checked my phone this morning, I realize that he texted me last night, asking if I'd arrived okay. I'd answered with a terse yes. We hadn't discussed whether we were keeping the channels of communication open. Neither of us has ended a marriage before, if that's what we were doing.

"I wouldn't recommend the wine and Sprite diet, but I guess it's effective for weight loss." I open the double closet doors. A moth flies out, even though the smell of mothballs is overpowering. "I have a bad feeling about this."

"No one's touched that closet in twenty years."

"Things fall apart."

"They do."

Tracy stands at one end, and I take the other. I've got the casual clothes, pedal pushers and light linen shirts, her summer wardrobe. Her winter and more formal clothes are at Tracy's end.

"Do you think it's weird that William never cleaned out any of this?" I ask.

"Maybe he liked having her things around."

"But what about …"

My father's never said, but I assume he's been with someone in the time since my mother died. Did he ever bring the women here? Or was Charlotte's presence a deterrent? I haven't asked, which Charlotte would say is more evidence of the fact that I've left her to "deal with everything." And maybe I have.

"If you're asking if he's had women, as far as I know, no. He did love your mother, you know. Very much."

"That doesn't mean he has to be alone forever."

Tracy smiles, the laugh lines around her eyes spreading out like spiderwebs. "You probably don't remember this, but the divorcées did circle after the funeral, bringing casseroles and offering to help look after you girls. Your father shooed them all away, and eventually they gave up."

"Maybe they were scared of you."

Tracy had lived with us for a full year after Mom died. Sometimes I'd fantasize that she and my dad would get married, but when I mentioned it to her once, she laughed and kissed me and said that there were many kinds of love. I knew that meant I wasn't getting her as a stepmom.

"That's possible. What about this?" Tracy says, holding up a white shift dress. It has blue and green flowers embroidered around the collar.

"That was one of Mom's favorites."

"You should try it on." She holds it out to me, and I hesitate. I have so many memories of my mother in this dress. She wore it often when she and William had garden parties like the one scheduled for tonight. "Don't worry," Tracy says. "It's not haunted."

"This whole house is haunted."

"I've never felt that."

"I always have."

I take the dress from her and walk to the old-fashioned changing screen my mom had installed in the corner of the room. I used to hide back there with Sophie and watch her get ready for a night out. She had this beautiful strawberry-blond hair that she'd brush and brush until it fell like a shimmery curtain down her back.

I step out of my clothes and into the dress. It's narrow in the hips, but broader in the shoulders. On my mother, it fell beneath her knees, but for me, it stops above them, a more modern length.

"Will you help me zip up?" I leave the screened area and turn my back to Tracy. She tugs on the zipper and raises it slowly up my back. It feels like a miracle when it goes all the way.

"How does it feel?"

"I can breathe."

"Turn around." I do and Tracy's eyes well up. "Oh, honey. Look at you." She takes my shoulders and turns me toward the full-length mirror on the wall. The dress fits perfectly, like it was made for me. "You look so much like her."

I lean forward, trying to see what she sees. I'm pale, and the strawberry strands I had when I was young have mostly leached out of my hair, but our blue eyes are the same, and the weight loss has given angles to my face I've never seen before. "I miss her."

"I know, honey—me too." Tracy hugs me from the side again, and we look at each other in the mirror. Tracy smiles, and I smile back. It's easier than crying. "You should wear this tonight. Fred won't be able to take his eyes off you."

My smile slips, and I dip away from her. I walk back behind the screen and reach for the zipper. It's hard to undo on my own, but I manage it after a few false starts.

"I'm sorry. Did you not know he was coming?"

"No, I did. I just …" I poke my head around the screen. "Why do you care what he thinks about me? You never liked him."

"That's not true."

"Come on, Aunt Tracy."

Her hands flutter. She's wearing several chunky rings, and they click against one another at the movement. "Okay, yes, I did have my reservations. You kids were so young. I … I stand by what I said then, but …"

"Now that he's rich and he bought this house, and my marriage is probably over, you think I should give him another chance?"

"I wouldn't put it that bluntly."

I pull my head back behind the screen and step out of the dress. It's lovely and I'm going to keep it, but tonight has enough memories in it. I don't need to be wearing one. "Why do you assume that there's another chance left to give?"

"You don't think so?"

I stare at the wall. There's a large crack running up it, like a crooked mouth. "We didn't leave things … I doubt he'll even want to talk to me."

"Why buy this house, then?"

I put my own clothes back on and step out, the dress folded over my arm. "I don't know."

"We don't have to talk about it."

"Good. Though, on a related topic, Charlotte mentioned something yesterday about us all getting a share of the sale. Do you know what she's talking about?"

"Fred paid twenty-five for this place and the property around it. That's more than enough to pay off what your father owes and set him up with an annuity that will pay for a house and his living expenses until he passes on. The rest will be divided equally between the three of you."

My mouth is dry. "Twenty-five million?"

"That's right."

"I never thought it was worth that much."

"The market's been crazy these last few years. And old places like this, right on the beach with so much land—they almost never change hands. Your father agreed to settle five on each of you."

I feel like the wind has been kicked out of me. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, of course. After Charlotte mentioned it as a possibility, I saw to the details myself. You know how your father is, and frankly, I didn't trust Charlotte not to make some sweetheart deal for herself and leave you and Sophie out of it."

"But … why?"

"Half of this place belonged to your mother by rights, once they got married, and your father most certainly does not need that much money. I made it clear it was what your mother would've wanted, and he agreed."

I sit on the edge of the day bed, feeling weak. "I don't know what to say."

"You can thank your father. He's the one who agreed to it."

"Only because you told him to."

"No," Tracy says. "Your mother did."