Always the Last to Know(64)

Caro put her arm around me, and we sat there for a long, long time, and a thought came to me. I didn’t have a great husband, and maybe I never had.

But I sure had a wonderful friend.





CHAPTER TWENTY





Sadie


I got a dog. I needed a dog, for several reasons: company, of course; and snuggles; protection from murderers, since I didn’t live close enough to anyone and my screams would go unnoticed during said murder; and to run for help if my house fell in on top of me, as it seemed intent on doing.

Stoningham’s animal shelter had only three doggies—a wee little purse dog, who, though tempting, would not protect me (not very well, anyway) should a serial killer come knocking. Then there was a wheezing, balding sheepdog who was blind and deaf but also spoken for (God bless that person). And finally, Pepper.

Pepper was a mutt of House Mutt, proud descendant of mutts. Shepherd-bloodhound-rottweiler-something-something else, we’d never know. She was reddish-brown with some black markings, about thirty pounds and growing, and when I came to her little kennel, she wagged her tail so hard she fell down. Her ears were silky soft, and the top of her snout was velvety and plush. If she wasn’t going to defend me, at least I’d have a sweet, wagging pup as the last thing I saw as I slipped this mortal coil.

Her talents seemed to be licking people and pouncing on leaves. And cuddling. She was great at cuddling. Also, barking at such threats as wind, rain, the coffeepot and my cowboy boots.

I’d had her a week and now couldn’t imagine life without her. I talked to her a lot—“Do you think this bucket is big enough to catch the leaks?” I’d ask, or “Should I have fish for dinner, or popcorn?”

The truth was, I was lonelier than I’d anticipated. The temporary loss of my dad made me realize how much and how often we talked and texted. Sometimes, it was just silly things—a photo of that grimy Elmo in Times Square, or a pigeon sitting on the shoulder of a sleeping man in Central Park. Sometimes it was an article . . . I’d send him links to writing workshops, hoping he’d still give it a shot, or events that he might want to come down for. He’d send me cartoons or make Dad jokes, teasing me for not drinking more, saying I was sullying his legacy.

Sometimes he’d just call me to say he loved me and was thinking of me and wondering what I was looking at.

Juliet was a good-enough sister, though we didn’t have much in common. I loved her daughters and always had fun with them, but less was more in that respect. You couldn’t be the cool auntie if you were around all the time. My mother was very . . . competent. But I had never met my Minnesotan relatives; Mom didn’t get on with anyone except Aunt Nancy, and Dad was an only child. So as family went, Dad was kind of it for me. Dad, and Alexander, and I missed them both so much. Missed my life in New York fiercely.

But Alexander was coming to visit this weekend, thank God, and Carter had broken his vow never to leave the five boroughs and was coming up tonight for Mom’s dinner party, though he’d booked an Airbnb after I FaceTimed him from my house.

It was so quiet here. Quieter in this little house than my parents’, where there was always some kind of noise—cars, neighbors, the distant thump of music from the restaurants on Water Street, just two blocks away. Stoningham always had some event on the weekends—the library fund-raiser, a Presidents’ Day trivia contest at the library, storytelling night and open mic night at the local bar. To its credit, Stoningham tried very hard not to be a summertime-only seaside town.

I hadn’t realized how much my mother did. When she had run for first selectman, I thought it was cute, and pictured her sitting on a panel, fielding questions from disgruntled residents. Now I knew she worked with the state government, figured out how any federal and state budget cuts would affect Stoningham, built partnerships with the business community, tried to woo the kind of industry to town that would be green, clean and employ locals . . . and yes, handled complaints from disgruntled residents.

I felt a little bad that Dad and I had made some jokes about her being the queen of Stoningham.

And now she was having a dinner party, to which I was invited. The first time I’d be my mother’s guest at something other than a family event. It felt kind of strange. Alexander was due in this afternoon . . . March was a busy time for him—all those rich folks getting itchy for summers on the Vineyard or Penobscot Bay or in San Diego. Many yachts to sell. We’d only seen each other three times since I moved back here—two quick runs back to the city for me, and once, dinner in New Haven. But he was coming tonight, staying all weekend, and I couldn’t wait.

To show how strange life had become, I found myself looking forward to going to Mom’s. It was the highlight of my social life since coming home.

Stoningham hadn’t exactly welcomed me back with open arms. I was a local who’d let it be known I couldn’t wait to leave my posh and pretty hometown behind, eager to be a New Yorker. Some of my classmates had never left, and I understood. It was a beautiful area. Others left to go to URI or UConn, came back and settled in, happy as clams. Mickey, Noah’s baby mama, had done that—she was the music teacher at the elementary school and taught piano and violin on the side. Some kids, like Juliet, left and came back wreathed in glory, the local success stories, living in the best neighborhoods.

And then there were the blue-collar folks of any place like this . . . those who worked for the submarine plant in Groton or for the wealthier residents through skilled or unskilled labor. The townies who had struggled to make their peace with a fishing village turned summer retreat for the wealthy. Noah was one of those; his dad remembered when most of Stoningham was dairy farms with a few gracious houses on the water.