The Love Season Part 20

You're upset, Daisy. You don't know what you're saying.

You don't feel the same way, Marguerite said. I'm an idiot to think you would. You have Dan. Dan and Renata. You belong to them.

Yes, Candace said. That's right. But you're my best friend and you have been for a long time. Things don't have to change between us just because Porter's gone. Don't make them change, Daisy. Please. Do not.

Marguerite didn't know what to say. Things had already changed. Marguerite had crossed a boundary; she'd handed herself over, a gift to someone who didn't know what to do with it. No, not a gift, a burden. A woman n.o.body wanted. The girl in the mirror with the k.n.o.bby knees.

"It was a big mess," Marguerite said now, to Renata. "The messiest mess. I said things to your mother I should never have said. I loved her so immensely-and I wanted her to love me. She tried her best, but things were different for her. So she found herself stuck in this house with her best friend and this huge, unwieldy confession. Your mother would have done anything for me-she'd proved that just by showing up-but there was no way I could make her feel as I felt. There was no way. She tried to pretend everything was okay, that everything could go back as it was before, but we both knew it was impossible."

Yes, Candace tried. She wiped Marguerite's face gently with a dish towel, like Marguerite was the five-year-old. Then she gave Marguerite a long and beautiful hug. Looking back, Marguerite could see there was a good-bye in the hug, but she didn't understand it then. She didn't understand. Renata had started crying upstairs, and Candace went to her.

She needs me, Candace said.

Fourteen years spent thinking about it and yet there was no way to convey to Renata what had happened that morning. Marguerite said, "Here is the thing you need to know about your mother. Everyone loved her, everyone was drawn to her, but no one more than me. I loved Candace with my whole being. Do you have someone like that? The fiance, maybe?"

"I thought I loved Cade," Renata said. "I do love Cade. But it's not like you described. Not with my whole being. I don't even know who my whole being is."

"You're so young," Marguerite said.

"I love my roommate, Action," Renata said. "My best friend. I know it's not the same. We've only known each other a year. But still, I feel like I would die without her."

Marguerite could see the girl trying to process what she'd just heard, trying to relate. Marguerite wasn't sure, however, if Renata was intuiting what Marguerite was telling her. I loved your mother too much, and the love destroyed her.

Marguerite looked down at her dessert. It was beautiful enough for a magazine shoot, and yet she couldn't bring herself to eat a single bite. "Your mother brought you downstairs and she made the three of us breakfast. Tea and toast. Cinnamon toast, cut into squares. She did all this but she didn't speak, except to soothe you. She didn't speak to me; we didn't speak to each other. What to say? Then, once we were finished eating and the dishes were washed, dried, and put away, she started talking about a run."

You can't run, Marguerite said. Look outside. The weather.

Candace had stared, said nothing, disappeared upstairs. She came down bundled in workout clothes.

Is it okay if I take the Jeep? she said.

Where are you going?

I need air, she said. I need to clear my head. I feel like you, like I...

What?

I need to get out of the house for a while. Is it okay if I take the Jeep?

Candace...

Please, Daisy? You'll watch Renata? If not, I'll take her with me....

You can't take her with you. It's too cold. You shouldn't be going at all. I'll bet the roads are a sheet of ice.

I have to get out, Candace said. I need to get out of this house! She was yelling now. Renata was scared, hugging her around the knees. What else could Marguerite have said?

Okay, yes, the Jeep. Take it. The keys are on the hook by the door. Renata will be fine. I'll take care of her. We'll have fun. And you'll...be careful? It's not the car I'm worried about, it's you....

"But Candace didn't answer; she was halfway out the door. She couldn't wait to leave. She wanted to escape me."

Renata nodded.

"I helped you crayon in a coloring book, I got down on my hands and knees and played with blocks, and when Candace still didn't return I put you down in front of Sesame Street, where you fell asleep. I made myself a cup of tea. I swept up the hair tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs; I started a stew."

"Were you worried about her?" Renata asked.

"I tried to tell myself I was being silly. Your mother used to run for hours."

"I remember being here," Renata said. "That must be what I remember. I drank tea with honey and burned my tongue. You sang to me in French, or we read in French. I remember the pattern of flowers on the sofa."

"Yes," Marguerite said.

When Renata woke from her nap, she was crying. Her hair was tangled. She was thirsty. Marguerite fixed her a small cup of tea and added honey. Together they sat on the sofa and read from Babar. When the phone rang the first time, Marguerite ignored it.

Renata set her spoon down in her empty ramekin. Ching! Marguerite flinched.

"The roads were covered with ice. Walter Arcain was drunk; he was out on the very same road you were on today, joyriding, doing doughnuts, going way too fast. He claimed he didn't see Candace at all; he claimed he felt a thump, he thought he'd hit a deer. He stopped the truck and found Candace underneath."

Renata's breath caught. Her mother. "It was his fault," Renata said. "He went to jail."

"For ten years," Marguerite said. "And yes, technically, it was his fault. But it was my fault that Candace was here in the first place. I guilted her into coming. And then the things I said that last morning...undid her. She was not herself when she left here. I had scared her; I had created a rift, a horrible awkwardness. I had pushed our friends.h.i.+p beyond its limit. Your mother would have been thinking that it was all Porter's fault; he had hurt me, made me needy; he had left me for her to sweep up; she would have been screaming at him in her mind. She would have wondered if the Valium was a mistake; she would have chastised herself for bringing it. I guarantee you she was thinking of these things, some, if not all, of them. She didn't hear Walter Arcain's truck; she didn't sense the rumble on the road. She was preoccupied, muddled, distracted. By me." Marguerite put her hand to her forehead. It was hot and damp, like she had a fever. "I should never have let her leave the house. But she wanted to get away from me. She said she needed air. She wanted to go." Marguerite searched for words that would soften the blow, but if the girl had been listening, she would see the truth, plain as day. "I have always felt responsible for your mother's death, Renata."

Renata blinked. Marguerite hadn't been driving the electric company truck, she wasn't the one who was drunk at ten in the morning, and yet Renata could see why Marguerite blamed herself. She was here because I guilted her into coming. I abused our friends.h.i.+p. I upset her. She left the house upset.... G.o.d, Renata thought. Yes. Marguerite had admitted to Candace what few people would ever be honest enough to say, even to themselves. I love you more. I need you more. Was it wrong to love someone too much, to love them in a way you knew they could never return? Was it possible to kill someone by loving them? Clearly, Renata's father thought so, and that was why she'd been forbidden to see Marguerite, banned from this house, from hearing this story. Was Renata supposed to feel angry at Marguerite? Was she supposed to hate her, to shun her, to judge her the way Daniel had? Maybe she was; maybe she should. But strangely, Renata didn't feel angry. She felt relieved that there was someone else in the world as confused, as guilty, as flawed, as Renata herself was. That very day she had taken her eyes off of Sallie; she had cheated on Cade, then deserted him. Was it possible to kill someone by not loving them? Renata's head swam.

"I don't know what to say," she admitted.

"I'm sure not."

"What if she wasn't thinking about you?" Renata said. "What if it was just an accident? What if Walter Arcain ran her down on purpose? Or what if it's all part of some predestined plan that we can't control? It might not have had anything to do with you. Have you considered that?"

"No," Marguerite said.

"In which case, all you'd be guilty of is telling her you loved her before you left. I wish I had told her I loved her before she left."

Marguerite twirled the stem of her empty champagne flute. If anyone could have kept Candace from going running that morning, it was the little girl in pink overalls. Renata had wrapped her arms around her mother's legs and refused to let go until Candace bent down, kissed her, and gently pried her arms away. You stay with Aunt Daisy, she said. I'll be back in a little while.

At that moment, Marguerite understood why Renata had skipped out on Hulbert Avenue, why she ran all that way with a heavy bag, in her sandals. She had come not to hear Marguerite's confessions but for another reason altogether. I feel so peculiarly at home. Home: The last place she felt her mother's touch.

"You did," Marguerite said. "You did."

She could have stopped there, maybe. It was late, nearly the start of a new day, but Marguerite was determined to finish.

"You've heard people say I'm crazy," Marguerite said. "Your father, and other people?"

Renata wanted to deny it, but the words were too fresh in her mind. Not stable, her father had said. Rather like Vincent van Gogh, Mrs. Robinson had said. And then there were all the things Renata had picked up in the past: She lost it, complete mental breakdown, miracle she didn't kill herself, no one in her right mind would have...

Renata shrugged.

What words did Marguerite have left at her disposal to describe the days after Candace died?

Daniel flew in from Colorado. Marguerite picked him up at the airport, and during the twenty-minute ride in the dark car, she tried to explain what had happened.

This whole thing with Porter, she said, took me by surprise....

You made her feel like she had to come here, Daniel said. With my daughter. In the middle of a G.o.dd.a.m.ned blizzard. Who does that?

Marguerite didn't answer. They were in the Jeep, with the wind whining through the zippered windows like an angry mosquito. Even with the heat turned up full blast, it was freezing. Marguerite's face was frozen, her fingers were frozen to the steering wheel. Her heart was frozen.

Daniel repeated himself in a louder voice. Who does that, Margo? Who asks her best friend and her G.o.dchild, age five, to travel in a blizzard?

I'm sorry, Marguerite said.

You're sorry? Daniel said. He spat out a mouthful of air, incredulous. You spent all these years making her feel like she owed you something, but what you got in the end was her pity. She pitied you, Margo.

The words were awful to hear. But how could Marguerite deny them? You're right, she said. She pitied me. And I frightened her. Here, she swallowed. If he were going to condemn her, he should condemn her for all of it. Someone should know what Marguerite had done, and a part of her held out hope that Daniel would understand. And so she told him about how she'd confessed her love, how confused Candace was by the confession, how addled. She was desperate to get out of the house, Marguerite said. There was no stopping her.

That's twisted, Daniel said. It's sick. You made her sick. You make me sick.

There was nothing sick about it, Marguerite said. It was a revelation to me-how I felt, how important she was to me. I wanted her to know.

Revelation? Daniel said. Revelation? She's dead, Margo. My wife. Renata's mother. Candace is dead. Because of you.

Yes, Marguerite said. It was almost a relief, hearing it spoken out loud. Marguerite blamed herself, others who learned the whole story or part of the story would blame her silently, but Daniel was angry enough to blame her openly. It was like a slap in the face-it hurt, but she deserved it.

When they reached the house on Quince Street, Dan s.n.a.t.c.hed Renata away from the babysitter and marched upstairs, returning with Candace's suitcase.

Every last thing that belonged to her, he said. Put it in here. You will keep nothing for yourself. He bundled up Renata and hurried her out the door. Marguerite believed she would never see the girl again.

She had lost everyone who mattered, making it that much easier to give up. After the funeral, she saw no one, spoke to no one-not Porter, not Dusty, not Ethan.... She decided immediately that she would close the restaurant, but that didn't seem like enough of a sacrifice.

"After your mother died," Marguerite said, "I considered suicide. I did more than consider it. I tried it on like it was a dress, imagining how I would do it, and when. Eating the Valium was too much like falling asleep. I wanted to drive my Jeep into the ocean, or throw myself off the ferry with a weighted suitcase chained to my leg. I wanted to set myself on fire, like the women in India. I felt so guilty, so monstrous, so bereft, so empty. And then at some point it came to me that dying would be too easy. So I set out to destroy the part of myself that I valued the most."

"Which was?" Renata was almost afraid to ask.

"My sense of taste." Marguerite brought a spoonful of creamy chocolate to her mouth. "I can taste nothing. This could be pureed peas for all I know."

"So how...?"

"I branded my tongue." She had been very scientific about maiming herself; she had been meticulous. She made a fire of hickory, which burns hotter than other woods, and she set one of her prized French utensils among the embers until it glowed pinkish white. "I burned my taste buds so profoundly that I knew I would never taste a thing again."

"Didn't it hurt?" Renata asked.

Hurt? Marguerite hadn't been concerned about the pain; nothing could hurt more than... But there had been nights in the past fourteen years when she'd awoken, terrified of glowing metal, of the hiss, the stink.

"When it happened, my tongue swelled up. I can remember it filling my mouth, suffocating me. I nearly lost consciousness, and if I had, I probably would have died. But I got to a phone, dialed the police. I couldn't speak, but they found me anyway, took me to the hospital." Insidious pain, yes, she remembered it now, but also a kind of numbness, the numbness of something newly dead. "A day later, stories were everywhere. Some people said I'd cut my tongue out with a knife; others said I went into convulsions and swallowed my tongue. Everyone said I had lost my mind. Some believed Candace and I were lovers; others thought I'd done it because of Porter. Self-mortification, they called it at the hospital. They weren't willing to release me. They said I was a danger to myself. I spent three months in a psychiatric hospital in Boston. Posttraumatic stress disorder-that's what they would call it now. Eventually, the doctors realized I was sane. My lawyer helped a lot; he fought to get me released. But even once I returned home, I couldn't go back out into the world. I sold the restaurant and made a fortune, but I knew I was destined to spend my days alone and dreadfully misunderstood. And I was right. My life"-here Marguerite lifted a hand-"is very small. And very quiet. But that is my choice. I am not insane. Some days, believe me, I wish I were."

Renata didn't know how to respond, but like everything with Marguerite, this seemed to be okay. Silence seemed preferable; it seemed correct. And so, they sat-for a few minutes, fifteen minutes, twenty; Renata wasn't sure. Renata was tired, but her mind wouldn't rest. She had heard the whole story for the first time and yet what she found was that she knew it already. Inside, she'd known it all along.

The clock struck midnight. Marguerite snapped to attention; Renata realized that for a second or two she'd drifted off to sleep.

"We should go to bed," Renata said. She stood up and collected the dessert dishes.

"Leave them in the sink," Marguerite said. "I'll do them in the morning." Marguerite blew the candles out and inhaled the smell of them, extinguished. Dinner over, she thought. But before Marguerite could feel anything resembling relief or sadness or peace, there was a knock at the door. This time there was no mistaking it for something else; there was no wondering if it was a figment of her imagination. The knock was strong, authoritative. Renata heard it, too. Her eyes grew round; the dishes wobbled in her hands.

"We should hardly be surprised," Marguerite whispered, ushering Renata into the kitchen. "We knew someone would come looking for you."

Right, Renata thought. Still, she felt hunted down. "What should we do?" she said.

"What would you like to do?" Marguerite asked. "We can answer, or we can pretend to be asleep and hope whoever it is gives up and comes back in the morning."

"Pretend to be asleep," Renata said.

"All right." Marguerite flipped off the kitchen light. There was no way anyone could see in the kitchen windows unless he scaled a solid eight-foot fence onto the garden patio. Marguerite reached out for Renata's hand. "Let's wait for a minute. Then we'll sneak you upstairs."

Renata could barely nod. She squeezed Marguerite's bony fingers. There was a second barrage of knocks.

"Is there any way we could check...?" Renata said.

"And see who it is?" Marguerite said. "Certainly. I'll go." Marguerite crept into the dark hallway, telling herself she was not afraid. This was her house; Renata was her guest. She tiptoed down the hall and into the sitting room. She peered out the window, terrified that when she did so another face would be staring back at hers. But what she saw was Daniel Knox, sitting on the top step, his head in his hands. He had a small travel suitcase on the step next to him.

Marguerite hurried back to the kitchen. "It's your father."

"He's alone?"

"He's alone. He's brought a suitcase. Perhaps you should come take a look."

Renata followed Marguerite to the window. They pulled the curtain back, and both gazed upon Daniel sitting there. Marguerite's heart lurched. She tried to forget that the last time he stood on the step it was to take his daughter away; it was to pa.s.s his terrible judgment. She pitied you, Margo. The words she would never forget. He had meant them-and worse still, they were true. But Marguerite found it hard to conjure the old pain. So much time had pa.s.sed. So much time.

Renata bit her bottom lip. She tried to erase the sight of her father on a different front step, crying because someone in the world had been cruel or thoughtless enough to steal his little girl's bicycle. All he'd ever wanted to do was protect her. He'd come to Nantucket tonight because of her phone call. He had heard it as a cry for help-and now Renata could see that's exactly what it was.

"Shall we let him in?" Renata said. "Would it be okay with you?"

"Of course," Marguerite said.

Together, they opened the door.

August 20, 2006 * 12:22 A.M.

Cade Driscoll pulled up in front of the house on Quince Street in his family's Range Rover. Once he was parked and settled, however, he just sat in his car like a spy, Renata's engagement ring clenched in his hand. On the first floor, the shutters had been pulled, though Cade could see thin strips of light around the edges of the windows. A light went on upstairs. Through the curtains, Cade discerned shadowy figures. Renata? Daniel? The G.o.dmother? He waited, watching, hoping that Renata would peer out and see him. Come down, he thought. Come down and talk to me. But eventually the light upstairs went off. A light came on downstairs, on the right side of the house, and Cade watched with renewed interest, but then that light went out and Cade sensed that was it for the night. They were all going to sleep. He would be well advised to do the same.

Cade opened his palm and studied the engagement ring. He hadn't told Renata this, but he had bought the ring at an estate sale at Christie's; the ring, initially, had belonged to someone else. What kind of woman, Cade had no idea; what kind of marriage it represented, he couldn't begin to guess. He placed the ring in the car's ashtray. Monday, when he was back in Manhattan, he would sell it on consignment.

He resumed his stakeout of the dark house. Like the ring, Number Five Quince Street contained a story, a secret history. The same could be said, no doubt, for every house on Quince Street and for every bright apartment window in Manhattan, for every igloo, Quonset hut, cottage, split-level, bungalow, and gra.s.s shack across the world. They all held stories and secrets, just as the Driscoll house on Hulbert Avenue held the story of today. Or part of the story.

The rest, Cade feared, he would never know.

1:05 A.M.