All the Beautiful Lies(2)
Harry rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands, shut off the engine, and stepped out into the sea-salt air, much cooler than it had been in Connecticut. He spotted Alice in a second-floor window—his father’s and her bedroom window—and when she saw that Harry had noticed her she waved briefly. She was in a white robe, her skin and hair pale as gold, and she looked almost ghostly in the arched Victorian window. After waving she disappeared from view. He breathed deeply, preparing himself to see Alice, and preparing himself to walk into the house he’d only ever known as his father’s house, full of his father’s things.
In the doorway, Harry hugged Alice. Her hair smelled of expensive shampoo, something with lavender in it.
“Thank you for coming back early,” she said, her voice huskier than usual, strained from crying.
“Of course,” Harry said.
“I made up your old room for you. Can I help you bring things in?”
“No, no,” Harry said. “It’s not much.”
It took just three trips from the car to the second-floor bedroom. Harry’s old room had never really been his room; at least he had never thought of it that way. His mother had died of lung cancer when he was fifteen years old. Back then they’d lived in a two-bedroom apartment above his father’s first shop—Ackerson’s Rare Books—in the West Village in New York City. Because Harry had just begun high school when his mother died, his father had decided that it would be best for them both to stay in Manhattan until Harry had graduated. Living with his father in the dark, narrow apartment, made somehow smaller by his mother’s absence, was both terrible and comforting. As long as they continued to live there, they could feel Emily Ackerson’s presence, and the cold fact that she was gone forever.
In summertime, Harry and his father tended to spend more time in Sanford, Maine, than they did in New York. It was Bill’s hometown; his sister and her family, plus a cousin he was close to, still lived there. On those trips, Bill began to scout locations for a second rare-books store, one along the coast. They rented a cottage on Kennewick Beach so that Bill could spend more time looking at properties. That was how he’d met Alice Moss, who was working as an agent at Coast Home Realty. They became engaged during Harry’s senior year of high school, and when Harry went off to college, his father had made the permanent move to Maine, marrying Alice and buying the Victorian fixer-upper that he’d named Grey Lady. His business partner, Ron Krakowski, kept the New York store running, and Bill and Alice opened a second store in Kennewick Village, walking distance to the house.
The summer after freshman year was the only full summer that Harry spent in Maine with his father and his new wife. Alice, who had never married and was childless, had been ecstatic, transforming one of the guest bedrooms into what must have been her notion of a young man’s room. She’d painted the walls a dark maroon—“hunting-coat red,” she called it—and bought furniture from L.L.Bean that looked like it belonged in a fishing lodge. She’d even framed an original poster of The Great Escape, because Harry had once told her that it was his favorite film. He’d been grateful for the room, but slightly uncomfortable in it. His father, as he’d always done, traveled the country scouting books at estate sales and flea markets. Harry was left alone with Alice, who worked hard at being a replacement for his mother, constantly making him food, cleaning his room, meticulously folding his clothes. She was thirteen years younger than his father, which made her exactly thirteen years older than Harry, although she looked young for her age. Despite living on the coast of Maine her entire life, she avoided the sun because of her pale complexion, and her skin was unlined, almost lucid. Her only exercise was swimming, either at the community pool or in the ocean when it was warm enough. She ate ravenously, drank glasses of whole milk like she was a teenager, and was neither thin nor overweight, just curvaceous, with wide hips, and a narrow waist, and long legs that tapered to childlike ankles.
It had been hot and humid that summer, and there was no central air-conditioning in the house. Alice had spent all of July and August in cutoff jeans and a pale green bikini top, unaware of the effect she was having on her teenage stepson. She was a strange kind of beautiful, her eyes set too far apart, her skin so pale that you could always make out the blue veins right near the surface. She reminded Harry of one of those hot alien races from Star Trek, a beautiful female who just happened to have green skin, say, or ridges on her forehead. She was otherworldly. Harry found himself in a state of constant, confused sexual turmoil, guiltily obsessing over Alice. And the way she mothered him—making sure he had enough to eat, making sure that he was comfortable—made the attraction all the more distressing.
After that first and only summer in Kennewick, Harry had arranged to spend his college breaks either staying with friends or remaining in New Chester, doing research for one of his professors. He saw his father fairly often, because of how much time he still spent in New York, meeting with Ron Krakowski, negotiating purchases and sales. New Chester was less than two hours away from the city by train.
“You should come to Maine more often,” his father had told him recently. They’d been browsing through some of the recent arrivals at the Housing Works Bookstore in Soho. “Alice would like it.”
Bill rarely mentioned her name, as though doing so somehow tainted the memory of Harry’s deceased mother.
“I’ll come this summer,” Harry said. “How is she?”