Big Summer(81)

“I’m sorry,” Nick said, staring down at the woman. “Have we met?”

She smiled. “A long time ago. You wouldn’t remember. But you…” The woman swallowed and pressed her hand to her heart. “I don’t even know how to say it.” She breathed in deeply, then, looking Nick in the eye, said, “You’re my Emma’s half brother.”

“What?”

“Robert Cavanaugh is my daughter’s father. And he’s your father, too.”



* * *




Mrs. Vincent—“Call me Barb,” she said—led us into a small, sunny living room, where a satin-covered couch and love seat were arranged in front of a fireplace on top of the freshly vacuumed floor. Darshi and I had taken the couch. Nick sat alone on the love seat. His hands dangled, his mouth hung slightly open, and his eyes were wide in his pallid face. He looked, as my nana might have said, like he’d been hit by a bus.

“Have you heard from your daughter?” Darshi asked.

Barbara Vincent nodded. “Emma’s still at the police station, but I’m sure she’ll be home soon.” At Darshi’s look, she said, “There’s no way Emma could have killed Drue last night. Emma came home at about two in the morning and spent the night in her bedroom down the hall. She got up to go at just past six this morning. She stays here when she’s catering in Truro or P-town. Saves her about half an hour of driving time.”

“Do you think just your word will be enough?” asked Darshi.

“It’s not just me. She filled up her car on her way home last night, so the fellow at the Cumberland Farms saw her, and then she got a cruller at the Hole in One on her way in, so Maisie saw her there.”

I looked around at the sunny little room. Birch logs sat in the pristine fireplace. Above them stood a mantel lined with pictures of Barbara and her daughter. In the shot closest to me, I could see that Emma had an oval face, light-brown hair, and dark-brown brows that formed peaks in the center, just like Nick’s did. Just like Drue’s had.

“How about Mr. Cavanaugh? Have you heard from him?” I asked.

Barbara nodded. “He came here from the hospital, and he’s gone to the airport.” Straightening in her seat, she said, “He flew in some big-shot lawyer from New York to help Emma.”

“How kind of him,” Darshini said, her voice a little arch. If Barbara noticed her tone, she didn’t react. She only had eyes for Nick. Meanwhile, the subject of her attention was staring off into the distance, looking blank; a GPS system set on “rerouting” after its driver had suddenly veered off course. I wanted to sit next to him, to take his hand. I couldn’t imagine how it would feel, to have never known who your father had been, and to learn his identity after the death of one half sister you never knew and the arrest of another.

“Nick?” I said. “Do you want some water? Or some tea or something?”

“Tea!” said Mrs. Vincent, and sprang to her feet. I followed her into her kitchen, a narrow galley with dark wood cabinets and white Formica countertops that smelled of rosemary and dish soap. Copper pots and pans hung in neat rows from hooks on the wall. A large wooden cutting board rested next to the stove, with a bowl of oranges and lemons beside it. Kitchen needs updating, a real estate agent would probably have said, but even if it lacked fashionable granite counters or stainless-steel appliances, the kitchen was a pleasant room; sunny, thanks to the big window over the sink, and cozy, with a table for two at one end. Wooden letters spelling EAT hung over the pantry, and a painted plaque reading “Bless us with good food, the gift of gab, and hearty laughter. May the love and joy we share be with us ever after” hung on the wall beside the table.

“Emma made that for me, in art class in sixth grade.” Mrs. Vincent filled a teakettle, put it on the stove, and gathered mugs, teabags, a sugar dish, and a cow-shaped pitcher from the cupboards. Her movements were quick and assured as she dropped tea bags into four mugs and poured milk from a plastic quart container into a hole on the ceramic cow’s back. “She made these, too.” She showed me a pair of mugs with rainbows painted on them in a child’s unsteady hand, and one that read I LOVE YOU, MOM, with “love” rendered as a giant heart.

“They’re very nice.”

This earned me a smile. “Em’s a good girl. She’s at CCCS—Cape Cod Community College—now. Still figuring out what she wants to be when she grows up.” When the kettle whistled, Barbara poured boiling water into the mugs and arranged them on a blue and white tray. “I just can’t believe it,” she murmured as she carried the tray into the living room. “Christina’s boy. After all these years.” She took a seat and handed the mugs out, saving Nick’s for last.

“You knew my mom?” Nick asked.

Barbara Vincent nodded. “I’ll tell you the whole thing. Or at least, the parts that I know.” She sat down, smiling faintly, and said, “This was almost twenty-seven years ago. I was working at the Red Inn, in P-town. Robert came in for dinner one night. He’d been set to fly to Boston, then back to New York, but there was a storm. All the planes were grounded, and the chop was so bad the ferries weren’t going out, either. So instead of going back home, he came in and sat at the bar, so he’d be close to the airport in case the fog cleared and the planes started flying again.” Her face softened as she remembered. “I brought him oysters and beer. We got to talking. And that was that.” She lifted her mug to her mouth, wiped her fingertips along one dry, freckled cheek, and shifted in her armchair. I tried to picture her gray hair longer, dark blond or light brown, pulled back in a ponytail. I erased the wrinkles and put some color in her cheeks, and painted her lips pink. Instead of the blocky body underneath the sweatshirt and the high-waisted jeans, I imagined a petite, curvy figure, shown off to advantage in a white cotton blouse with a black apron pulled tight around her waist, tied in a bow in the back. I imagined her laughing, blue eyes sparkling, her head tipped back and her throat flushed.