At Last (The Idle Point, Maine Stories)(66)

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"Take a seat, Gracie," Ben said after she took off her coat and let a suspicious Pyewacket out of his carrier. "I'll fix you a cup of coffee."

"You don't have to do that," she said. "I can—"

"Sit." He pointed toward the beautiful pale cream and yellow sofa near the front window. "You're the one who just spent eight hours on the road."

She was reasonably certain she had stumbled into some kind of alternate universe. Few other explanations seemed to fit. If the cottage didn't still boast the same slanted hallway floor and staggered ceilings, she would think her father had razed the old house and built a new one from the ground up. This house was quiet and serene. Soft white walls, white curtains, white sofa with the faintest touches of yellow and green. Tables of bleached oak. The hardwood floor had been sanded then stained the palest maple and polished to a comfortable glow. The house breathed happiness and exhaled contentment, much as her father himself. Her father's reading glasses rested on the coffee table, next to an empty cup. A copy of the latest Tom Clancy lay open on the end table nearest Ben's chair. She couldn't remember ever seeing her father read for pleasure. Gracie had always been the one with her nose in a book, letting the magical words inside transport her to Singapore and Tibet, the African coast and the North Pole. Her father had found his escape in a bottle of booze.

If she had ever wondered whether the change in Ben was real or an illusion he managed to maintain for a weekend visit every now and again, she had her answer. This oasis of calm and control told her everything she needed to know. She looked about for signs of Laquita and found a nursing textbook on the bookshelf near the television, a copy of the newest Danielle Steel, a small lipstick in a silver-toned case, and three back issues of U. S. News and World Report. She had no doubt Laquita was responsible for most of the changes in Ben's life and she wondered what changes Ben had brought about in Laquita's life as well.

He seemed so happy, so filled with plans for the future. If Laquita only loved him half as much, they would be guaranteed a wonderful life. But then when did life ever come with guarantees?

"Laquita had a pot of chowdah on the stove," Ben said as he came back into the room with a tray piled high with goodies. "I put some in a bowl for you, a few crackers. You look like you could use a good meal."

"I've always looked like I could use a good meal," she said, laughing.

"You take after your grandmother," he said and there was a fondness in his tone she couldn't remember ever hearing before. "She ate and ate and stayed skinny as a broomstick."

Do I really take after Gramma Del, Dad? Can you tell me if her blood and yours really flows through my veins? She pushed the thought from her mind. What did it matter? All that mattered was the fact that they were there together in that strange yet familiar living room, on this cold November evening, with a bowl of good chowder for each of them and the sounds of the ocean winds beating against the house.

Asking for more might be tempting the gods.

"I hate to eat alone," she said. "You look like you could use a good meal yourself."

He glanced at the clock on the mantel. "It's after six," he said. "Wouldn't hurt to have some supper with you."

She followed him into the kitchen where he fixed himself a bowl of chowder too. She found a can of cat food in her bag and emptied it onto a paper plate for a grateful Pyewacket. There was so much history between Gracie and her father, so much that was dark and hurtful, that this simple act of breaking bread together in the house where she had grown up was nothing less than a small miracle. They sat down opposite each other at the old wooden table where Gramma Del had made a thousand meals and she saw her life moving past her eyes. The last time she had seen this room, this table, was the day she lost Noah forever. She had left the letter for him right here, not six inches away from her right hand, tucked between the salt shaker and the sugar bowl. How many letters were here when you finally came home, Dad? Did Noah read his? Did you ever wonder why I never came home again?

How many nights had she spent wondering if she should have stayed and confronted Simon and Ben and forced all of the secrets out into the light but she had been a product of her upbringing, raised on a diet of keeping family secrets hidden away in the shadows.

She told herself not to ask for the moon, to be satisfied with this tiny piece of it, but she couldn't help wishing for answers to the questions she could never ask.