Big Summer(82)

“I knew he was married,” Barbara said. She was looking down, with one thumb tracing the rim of her mug. “I didn’t have any excuses. He didn’t wear a ring, but that first night, he drove me home, and I saw a booster seat in the back of his car. So I knew. But I was only nineteen, and the farthest I’d ever been off the Cape was a school trip to Washington.” She sipped, and set her cup carefully down. “When you’re nineteen and an older man, a handsome, powerful, rich man, tells you that you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen, and that his wife doesn’t understand him and that they’re getting a divorce, you want to believe it.” She sighed. “You want to believe that you’re special enough to catch the attention of a man like that.” Her mouth quirked. “When I got pregnant, he told me it was my choice, and that if I wanted to keep the baby, I could. He swore he’d be divorced by the time she was born, and that we’d be together.” She turned to address Nick. “It wasn’t until I saw you and your mom in the Stop & Shop that I finally figured out how he was playing with me.”

At the words “you and your mom,” Nick gulped. Barbara reached across the coffee table, took his hand, and squeezed it.

“People on the Outer Cape knew Christina. Knew her family, I should say. When your mother, God rest her soul, showed up in Truro pregnant, with no husband, no boyfriend, people talked. But I didn’t realize that Robert had been…” She paused for another sip of tea. “…had been her boyfriend, too, until one day, when Emma was a baby, I went to do my marketing. You must’ve been two or three, and Em was only six months old, but I could see.” She stretched toward Nick, extending her arm, and, with one thumb, gently touched his eyebrow again. “Just like Emma’s. Your hands are even the same shape!” Barbara’s face was soft and sorrowful, lost in memory. “By then, I had a pretty good idea that there wasn’t ever going to be a divorce. And then, when I saw you, I knew for sure. I was just another one of his girls.”

Nick was looking pale and holding himself very still. “And you’re sure Mr. Cavanaugh—you’re sure he’s my father?”

Barbara nodded. “After I saw Christina in the supermarket, I got her number from a friend of a friend. I called her up, and I said who I was. Turns out, she already knew about me. ‘You’re the new girl,’ she said. Not like she was angry, or even sad. More just… resigned. And maybe a little glad to have someone she could talk about it with. Someone who’d understand.” Barbara closed her eyes and shook her head. “I was very young when it all happened, but, being a single mom, you grow up fast. I told Robert it was over. He acted brokenhearted, but I’m sure he was relieved, with two babies already on the Cape and a new one at home. He said he’d help me as much as he could, and that he’d always be there for Emma. The next week, I had coffee with Christina. We met in Wellfleet, at the Flying Fish, and we talked for a long time. After that, we’d get together every once in a while.” She smiled at Nick, her face brightening. “We’d take you kiddos to Corn Hill Beach, and let you splash around. Christina would bring a cooler, with juice and cut-up fruit and wine.” She touched her hair. “I felt so unsophisticated next to your mother. Like a little gray wren next to a peacock.” She smiled a little, looking off in the distance. “Christina was so glamorous. She’d lived in New York City—that was where she’d met Robert—and she’d been all over the world. Her hair was almost down to her waist,” she said, gesturing with her hands to indicate where Christina’s hair had fallen, “and she wore these long, colorful skirts, with fringes, or with bits of mirrors sewn on the hems.” Barbara’s hands fluttered to the earlobes beneath her own neatly cut gray hair, then down to her neck. “Big, dangling earrings, bracelets and beads, amber and opal and turquoise, all the way from her wrists to her elbows. She looked like that gal from Fleetwood Mac.”

“Stevie Nicks,” said Nick. His voice was hoarse. “How did she meet…” He stumbled over what to say next and finally landed on “Robert Cavanaugh.”

“At a coffee shop in New York City. She was waiting in line to pick up her latte. He asked if he could buy her a coffee, and she said she’d already paid, and that she was on her way to an interview. Robert asked for her card, and the next day he had some fancy cappuccino maker sent to her apartment, with a note that said ‘So you’ll never have to wait in line again.’?” She smiled. “He knew how to sweep a girl off her feet, that’s for sure.”

“I remember that machine. Big brass thing. It took up half the counter space in the kitchen.” Nick still looked dazed, but at least he was talking.

Barbara gave him a smile. “Your mother told me that after she turned thirty-five, she stopped looking for Mister Right and started trying to find a sperm donor, more or less. A man with good genes and some money in the bank.” Looking at her lap, she murmured, “I guess Robert fit the bill. He was handsome and successful. He couldn’t marry her, but he could at least help support her while she was home with you. And to his credit, he tried to be a father. He’d see the babies when he could.” She gave a wry smile and nodded at Nick. “Tuesdays were Emma’s night. Wednesdays were yours.”

“So he would see me? He spent time with me?” Nick shook his head, sounding almost angry when he said, “I don’t remember any of this.”