Trompe l'Oeil (12 page)

And as the day unfurled, there would be other moments: camaraderie with his secretary Maureen, camaraderie with Parker, the senior VP, a brief smooth plane of tasks, the pleasure at the deal completed, the pleasures of passing conversations with Janelle, a brainy, athletic girl in legal, and Margaret, the dark-eyed HR rep he'd sometimes take to lunch.

Only a few blocks to the athletic club: Mondays and Wednesdays at six he'd work out, avoiding rush hour. Occasionally he took late meetings, or a drink with Parker before
heading home. He did not hurry. As he left the city, he'd again listen to the radio, passing walls of city lights, which faded as he approached the shore towns, his discomfort gathering in dense nightfall.

He pulled up to the house and ascended the outdoor stairs to the deck. There was always the wind and the wash of the sea, and now infrequent stars. Opening the door was like opening a jack-in-the-box, all the energy of the house springing out in his direction. His thoughts seemed to scramble then, in the presence of his family—sparked by the near surprise that he
had
a family—his clear work mind now obscured. The little girls, if they were awake, called to him, running, and Katy, so quick to take offense, offered her skittish
Hi
, Theo—grounded for curfew infractions—barely nodded, Nora kissed James hello. It all seemed to happen at once, the wave of greetings, followed by baths and bedtime stories, and he'd promised Katy something—civics? Math? A report on district elections?

When had he begun to find himself aghast, stunned by the instant erasure of solitude? There had been a tipping point, now submerged. He knew only that while he was in Boston, his family seemed remote, as if they lived not an hour's drive from work but a day's; or as if they lived in the Blue Rock of another decade; as if in his evening commute he traversed both time and space.

A now-chronic disturbance: when he spoke with Nora, he could not name it, substituting
the commute
. And perhaps, yes. Perhaps if he were traveling home to Wellesley after all (his cousin Patrick lived in Wellesley; cousin Patrick seemed content), or simply to Brookline, the moment of arrival would
also transform. The family had lived in Blue Rock since Rome, since Molly; perhaps each day then was an extension of the return from Rome, no barrier to stop the aftermath from seeping forward. It seemed plausible. And yet, despite his complaints to Nora, he could no longer picture himself in Wellesley at all.

Was Rome sufficient explanation? Even now, after Sara and Delia? It had become difficult to remember the living Molly, reduced, at times, to a girl thrown across the hot street. That, and the confusion of Delia's resemblance to her, the way the raising of one girl blurred into raising another. But even when he searched, he struggled to find Molly behind the name,
Molly
now so thickly wrapped in event and repercussion it seemed her center had dissolved: in this way, too, the girl ceased to exist.

Whatever mood James was in when he arrived home rippled out, changing the air in the house room by room—lately, Nora thought, a daily upheaval. In anticipation of his arrival, the kids became anxious and sullen, the sounds of the house strained. When James began to spend occasional nights in the city, she expected more turmoil. The first time, yes: Delia teared up dramatically, Sara sulked, Katy retreated. But Theo's petulance abated; he offered to read to the girls. Nora coaxed Katy out of her room with popcorn and a TV movie. No one woke in the night, and the next morning, Nora slept until six thirty. She discovered she did not object.

Yet city nights did not alter his mood in Blue Rock. James took to arguing against the house, as if the place had failed him.
Its inadequacies multiplied. The windowed living room—a play zone for the little girls, admittedly scattered with toys—was a pit, he'd say. Nora had painted their bedroom white and delphinium blue, hung long drapes over the window quilts. Yet it was
unredeemable
, James said, because of the drafts (he'd put off window replacement). He was fed up with storm damage; in the laundry room, they'd found mice. And from Boston—how could she disagree?—Blue Rock was much too far.

A long drive, yes. The bedroom
was
drafty; each spring gnats floated in the morning coffee. Yet Nora had painted and furnished each room, hung the art on the walls. It was Nora who filled the fruit bowl on the table; every day, as the closets, shelves, and drawers emptied, it was Nora who pushed back, tidying, washing, returning hundreds of objects to their places. The house remained a haven.

Hadn't it also been a haven for James?

“Go ahead.” The woman waved at the French doors. “Open them—you'll love the garden patio. Not the season, of course, but look at all the brickwork.” It was as she said: the doors, the broad patio, the garden brickwork, and still the snow-filled yard beyond, and the old-growth trees. (You have to imagine
grass
, said the woman—Miranda, was it?—you have to imagine
plantings
.) The living room was double the square footage of Blue Rock's; the kitchen also; the dining room accommodated a table for twelve, though Miranda called it “modest,” stressing the house's versatility—perfect for entertaining
and
for kids.
A finished basement with a rec room, home office, and extra guest room. “Brand-new listing—it's a great find, Nora,” Miranda said. “It's going to go fast.”

Fresh tulips on the kitchen counter; roses on the mantel. It was not hard to imagine grass; it was not hard to imagine the children in the various bedrooms. She'd driven through Wellesley before, lovely, yes, in spring. Even now, the neighborhood seemed well accessorized with red-ribboned wreaths on doorways and garages. Perhaps Miranda's enthusiasm meant Nora had successfully played her role, in the soft gray suit she'd worn once to a luncheon with James, gold drop earrings, lipstick. Only twice had she drifted off during their conversation; once in the kitchen and once in the previous house, a four-bedroom Miranda called “very nice” though not, of course, as versatile.

She imagined grass, those cocktail parties with James. Certainly it was a beautiful house. She imagined the little girls running loops around the first floor. At that moment, they were likely running loops in Blue Rock with Joanie MacFarland, Joanie the lively, scrappy, still-pretty neighbor whose father had sold fish. Nora imagined plantings; she imagined a swing set. She thought it unlikely her neighbors would be children of fishmongers; unlikely that she'd meet local artists.
You never know
, James used to say. Though not for a while.

“Wonderful,” she told Miranda. “Let me bring James.” They would see other houses, “Just in case,” Nora said, “he has other ideas.”

Saturday then? Or Sunday? Or both? Miranda said. Nora would call.

She drove back to the South Shore through sleet, changed into her jeans before picking up Sara and Delia. In another hour Katy and Theo returned from school, as if on any other day. James arrived just after seven. They managed a family dinner, Delia on Nora's lap, Sara on Theo's. James had things to say tonight: he remembered to ask Katy about skating lessons; he remembered to ask Theo about the school play. Someone had offered him Bruins tickets; at this, Katy glanced up from her chicken but said nothing. James did not seem to notice. “A school night, Theo, but what do you think?”

A holiday reception at the Hyatt this Friday, he reminded Nora (whether to insist she join him or warn her of his late return, Nora could not tell). “It's that season.” Which meant he'd be off to other parties.

The household silence after dinner would be brief, Nora knew. For now, Katy took the girls to read stories in the living room and Theo disappeared upstairs. Nora handed James Miranda's file.

“I looked at some houses,” she said. “Closer in. We can see them this weekend.”

“
This
weekend?” James dropped the file on the table, pushed it toward her. “Nora, I've got deadlines.”

As if deadlines weren't perennial; as if he could not forgo the Hyatt, or, if need be, the Bruins. Nora nodded toward the wall calendar. “When else should we look?”

He paused. She could see him stretching for an answer. She waited: she could wait.

Though here was Katy again—not in the living room reading stories, but toting Delia into the kitchen.

“Look at what?” Katy said.

“Oh, Katy, another time,” Nora said. “Is Sara alone?”

“Delia's thirsty. Look at what?”

Delia reached for Nora, and Nora took her. “Dee, you want some water?”

James had the newspaper now; he seemed to be skimming Region.

“Milk,” Delia said.

Katy picked up Miranda's file, flipped it open to “Arboreal Dreamhouse” near the Weston line.

“We're moving?” she said.

“Delia, sweet pea, let's get water. You've already had milk.” Nora set Delia down beside the counter and took a pink cup from the cabinet. “Looking,” Nora said. “We're looking.”

“No,” Delia said. “Milk.”

“Theo!” Katy yelled.

Nora filled the cup halfway with water, and began to reach for a second cup. “Katy, where's Sara?” she said.

Theo appeared in the kitchen doorway.

“I gave her
Harold
,” Katy said. “I'm not moving.”

“We're moving?” Theo said.

James sipped his coffee and read, as if alone at a café.

Without further protest, Delia accepted the water.

“Theo, find Sara,” Nora said. “Your father has a long commute.”

“You can wait until I graduate, right?” Theo said. His face—was it the light?—a bit pale. “I guess I could stay with the MacFarlands.”

“If Theo gets to stay with the MacFarlands,” Katy said, “I'm staying at Amanda's.”

“Who is Amanda?” James said, dispensing with Region after all.

Katy glared at him.

“Amanda. Sweetheart—you remember,” Nora said. “Katy's good friend. The field hockey girl.”

“Oh.
That
Amanda,” James said.

“I have friends here,” Katy said. “Of course you do,” Nora said. “We both have friends,” Theo said. “Yes, you do,” Nora said. “Then why would we move?” Theo said. “It's just an idea,” Nora said. “Just an idea?” James said. “Where
is
Sara? Darling,” Nora said to James, “would you take Delia? Let's get the girls to bed.”

“So we're staying?” Katy said.

In the living room, behind the blue sofa, Nora found Sara patting storybook drawings of fish.