The Secret of Joy (20 page)

Pia, on the other hand, had that intimidating quality that most New Yorkers had.

Of course, since Rebecca was staring, Pia Jayhawk glanced up and smiled. In that moment, Rebecca saw Pia in her Madonna tatters and bangles, seaweed twisted around her ankles as she searched for the perfect rock to paint.

Rebecca dashed away. Yet as she headed down the short hallway to the living room, another painting stopped her cold.

Her father.

She was sure it was him. It was a small painting, on an unframed eight-by-ten canvas. A young Daniel Strand sat on a stretch of beach, his arms wrapped around his legs, looking neither happy nor at peace. He seemed to be searching for answers in the blue water ahead of him. There was something in his hand, and when Rebecca leaned closer she could see it was a rock, likely the one Pia had given him to throw when they’d met. Rebecca stared at her father’s face. There was the slightest hint of heartbreak in his expression, as though he were trying to hide it. Pia had captured the essence of her father in the painting; it was so visceral Rebecca almost wanted to reach out and touch the paint.

Pia had loved Daniel Strand, of this Rebecca was sure.

And though Rebecca recalled from one of her father’s letters that this house had been Pia’s, it was now Joy’s home, and the painting was still there, on the wall. Did Joy know that the man on the beach holding the rock was her father? Perhaps she did and liked having the painting in her house, albeit along a short stretch of hallway that didn’t beckon one to linger and look at the art. Perhaps it was enough for Joy to know it was there. Every now and then, she likely stood where Rebecca was now and studied it, looking, wondering.

“Who’s that?”

A child’s voice.

Rebecca jumped, until she realized that Rex Jayhawk-Jones was talking about
her
. He stood a few feet down the hall in front of the French doors and stared at her with those huge hazel eyes, glancing from her to Pia.

“I’m sure that’s a friend of Mommy’s,” Pia said. She glanced at the painting that Rebecca stood in front of, then looked at Rebecca, her gaze so sharp that Rebecca bit her lip.

She knew. She knew. She knew.

“That’s right!” Rebecca said to Rex in that overly cheery voice people used with kids, then hurried back into the living room. She stood at the table of cheese and crackers and focused on the painting above the upright piano, this one of Pia and a man jumping off a cliff.

“We weren’t too sure,” a voice said from behind her. “Boy, we were wrong.” Rebecca turned around. Pia stood there, her gaze on the painting. “My husband and I married seventeen years ago. We’re renewing our vows in November.”

She could hardly believe she was standing here talking to Pia Jayhawk. In front of this painting, no less. “Is seventeen significant for you?”

“Not particularly. But Jack had a cancer scare last year, and so it’s something we’ve been wanting to do.”

“My father just died of cancer,” Rebecca said, then shut her mouth fast.

There was no reason Pia Jayhawk would know of Daniel Strand’s death. Or necessarily care. Though Rebecca imagined you’d always care.

Pia held her gaze for a moment. “I’m so sorry. Are you here for Joy’s tour?”

Rebecca was speechless for a moment.
You had an affair with my father. You slept with him on a beach. You had his child
.

Did you love him? Do you think about him? Did you keep tabs? Do you know that he’s gone?

Pia was staring at her, so Rebecca finally nodded.

“Good luck, then.”

“I—” But it’s not as if she could explain she wasn’t a participant on the Rocky Relationships Tour. And besides, she did need luck.

She glanced down the hall. There was Harry, with Rex on his shoulders. And Joy was going over something on a piece of paper with a man she presumed to be Jack, her stepfather. Rex’s schedule perhaps.

Joy’s gaze locked with Rebecca’s. There was the slightest narrowing of her eyes. “Mom, could you come take Rex. We’re going to be leaving in five minutes.”

Pia smiled and headed back down the hall. Pia and Joy hugged, then Joy took Rex from Harry and hugged him tight and covered him with kisses before handing him over to Pia. Joy didn’t introduce Rebecca to Harry, presumably because she couldn’t very well say in front of her mother,
“Oh, and, Harry, this is the half sister I was telling you about, the one whose father had an affair with my mother and then pretended it and the resulting pregnancy never happened.”

Rebecca’s heart squeezed. She was in Joy’s house, among Joy’s family.
She
was the odd one out here, the one who didn’t belong. When Rebecca’s father told her about the baby he’d turned his back on,
Joy
was the one not connected to the
Strands
. But here, Joy had her whole world, her whole life, family, friends, a husband, and a child. Rebecca was the outsider.

• • •

During the thirty-minute drive from Wiscasset to South Freeport, Rebecca learned from Aimee Cutlass that she and Charles had been trying to have a baby since their honeymoon five years ago. Aimee was ready to adopt. Charles was ready to adopt a dog. Maybe even two. Aimee believed she couldn’t get pregnant because Charles really didn’t want a child; she’d heard on
Oprah
about a book called
The Secret
, and apparently the secret was that you had to think positively. Apparently, Charles was thinking that babies cost money, that babies were life-changing, wailing, helpless, dependent, demanding little creatures, and therefore sperm was not making its way to egg.

Aimee told Rebecca, Ellie, and Joy this from her seat next to Ellie in the first row. If Charles was listening, it wasn’t obvious. He sat in the middle row, but was facing sideways, talking to Harry and Tim in the back row. Joy had suggested this seating arrangement so that the trip started out easier for Tim, with him talking guy talk instead of sitting next to his complaining wife and listening to a list of his infractions as a husband.

“Rebecca, maybe you could lead a discussion about what we all want in a marriage,” Ellie whispered.

“Actually, I think we should let things be,” Rebecca whispered back. “Look, Tim’s having a great time back there, talking about the Red Sox and whether they’re gonna make the playoffs. That good mood will carry over to dinner.”

“I agree,” Joy said as the orange minibus turned onto a dirt road with a sign for Harborview Lodge.

A half mile down, the beautiful old stone house came into view. It looked more like a small castle than the ski lodge
Rebecca was expecting—not that Freeport was skiing country. The house was surrounded by evergreens and paths meandering up through the woods in every direction. Inside, Rebecca was surprised to see the lodge was actually charming and cozy but rustic. In the huge living room were overstuffed sofas and floor pillows, soft, faded rugs, and a massive stone fireplace that Harry lit in less than a minute. Well-cared-for plants were everywhere, and each doorway was lit by twinkling white Christmas lights. There was a large kitchen, two full bathrooms, and a screened room that led out to a back deck with its view of the ocean. Upstairs were five large bedrooms and three bathrooms.

Rebecca’s room had a tiny balcony facing the woods. She unpacked, then stood out there, taking in the red and orange leaves of the trees, until she saw Aimee and Charles come out onto their little balcony. They still wore their matching white turtlenecks and khaki pants. They embraced, and from the way they looked at each other, the way they hugged, Rebecca knew immediately that they loved each other in a way that would transcend their problems. They were here to talk something through, but their marriage was safe.

She didn’t get that sense with Ellie and Tim.

Or with Joy and Harry. Mostly because Joy was so unreadable.

Joy had announced that everyone was due in the kitchen to help with dinner, her famous four-cheese ravioli, salad, and fresh garlic bread. Rebecca headed downstairs and into the large country kitchen. The Jayhawk-Joneses were on pasta. The Rasmussens, salad. The Cutlasses were all about the
garlic bread. Rebecca was in charge of choosing a wine and setting the dining-room table.

So far, so good. Until Tim asked Harry and Charles if they wanted to find a dart bar after dinner.

“Tim …” Ellie said with an embarrassed smile. “I’m sure Joy has something planned for all of us after dinner.”

He popped a cheese cube into his mouth and glanced at Joy. “Do you?”

Joy dropped the ravioli into the large pot of boiling water on the stove. “Well, I know it’s not Thanksgiving yet, and it might sound a little hokey, but I thought we’d all sit around the fireplace with a glass of wine and talk about what we’re grateful for. Something to start us off on a positive note—what we’re thankful for, what we’re happy about.”

Tim stared at her as though she’d grown another head. “Uh, that’s not really my thing. When Ellie asked me to come, she said it would be like a few couples going away together for a weekend. You know, a good time. Not a bunch of sad sacks sitting around.”

Ellie’s cheeks flushed. “We’re here to try to save our marriage, Tim.”

“
I’m
here to get away.” At her expression, which Rebecca would describe between close to tears and embarrassment, he added, “God, nothing’s ever enough with you. I’m here, aren’t I?”

Actually, you’re not. Tim
. Rebecca glanced at Ellie, who clearly knew it, too. Had known it long before now, but had held on. Ellie threw up her hands and walked over to the sink with a head of lettuce. She turned on the water full blast, which Rebecca figured meant she was crying.

Shoot.

Before they’d boarded the Love Bus, Rebecca had asked Ellie if she wanted Rebecca to really probe Tim, to ask him some hard questions. Ellie had said yes, that it was time to take her head out of the sand. Rebecca wasn’t sure if now was the time or not, if she’d send Tim running for the hills within thirty minutes of arriving or if she’d say something that would get
in there
, in where Tim loved Ellie, where he’d proposed, where he’d said, “I do.”

Rebecca poured seven glasses of a white wine she really had no idea about (she chose by prettiest label) and handed one to Tim. Tim was so tall—and so much taller than Rebecca’s five feet two—that she had to crane her neck to look up at him. “Tim, do you want to be married to Ellie?”

He downed the wine in two gulps. “What do you mean? I am married to her.”

“Do you
want
to be married to her?”

He glanced at Ellie, who’d frozen at the sink, then handed the glass back to Rebecca for a refill. “Yeah.” Pause. Then: “I just—”

Ellie turned around, her green eyes intense. “Just what?”

He shrugged. “I just find it hard not to … try to score.”

Ellie let out a breath, set the wet head of lettuce on a cutting board on the table, and dropped down in one of the kitchen chairs. She’d clearly had this discussion before. And it was a discussion that seemed to make the other two men nervous. Harry and Charles were deeply focused on their jobs, Harry stirring the steaming large pot of ravioli at the stove, Charles laying garlic remarkably evenly across the long loaves of Italian bread. Every now and then, they’d glance up from
what they were doing, looking curious or embarrassed or like they wished they could bolt.

“Why do you want to score with other women?” Rebecca asked.

Tim laughed and butchered the cucumber he was slicing. “
Why?
I mean, come on.”

Harry stopped stirring. “Well, you do have a beautiful wife. So it’s a reasonable question.”

Everyone turned to Harry with “good point” expressions, relieved for the reprieve.

Tim glanced at Ellie, who was ripping apart the lettuce in slow motion. “Yeah, I know.”

Keep going
, Rebecca told herself.
But carefully
. Tim’s expression had softened somewhat. Tied for first place with a hundred other rules in divorce mediation was to never make either party feel attacked.

“So … scoring isn’t about just sex, then?” Rebecca asked.

Foot in mouth, Rebecca
. Why had she asked that? That wasn’t the right question. She didn’t want to lead him to
yes
, that he was looking for more than a casual romp.

She rushed to add, “I mean, because you do have this beautiful wife at home, this woman who loves you, this woman you did marry, what makes you want to hook up with other women?”

She wasn’t sure that was better. But at least it wasn’t such a yes-or-no question.

“Jesus, this is all a little
personal
,” Tim muttered. “Why does any guy want to screw other women? Why do you?” he said to Harry. “Why do you?” he added to Charles.

Rebecca glanced at Joy, who was now working on the sauce at the center island. Joy’s shoulders stiffened for just a moment. It was clear she was waiting—holding her breath, perhaps—for the answer.

“I don’t,” Harry said.

Tim rolled his eyes. “Right.”

Harry gave the ravioli a stir. “It’s the truth. Whatever problems Joy and I are having, it’s not about me straying. Would never and have never.”

Tim raised his eyebrow. “Please. You’ve been married, what? Like, four years. Talk to me when you’re married ten.”

“Tim, we’ve been married for
two
years,” Ellie said. “So what’s your point?”

Tim gulped his wine. “I’m just sayin’.”

“And they have a three-year-old child,” Charles put in. “If a child doesn’t add stress to a marriage, I don’t know what will.”

Aimee’s shoulders slumped.

“Well, that’s an entirely different area of discussion,” Rebecca quickly added. “Tim and Ellie don’t have children. So then, what’s your deal, Tim? Why are you acting like you’re still single?”

Tim hacked another cucumber. “I’m not acting like I’m single. I just like to party. What, I can’t go out and have fun because I’m married?”

Ellie shook her head. “It’s the kind of fun you’re having that’s the problem.”

“The scoring part, I presume?” Rebecca asked. “You never really did answer the question. Why do you mess around with other women when you have Ellie at home?”