Take It to the Grave Part 3 of 6
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Zoe Carter
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Maisey
I stared out at the ocean, squinting behind my sunglasses. Sunlight gave the sea a sparkle, and made the sand look brighter, the white stone fence surrounding the terrace even whiter. It was beautiful, so much color, so much vibrancy...so damn scorching. I pulled my red cotton tank top away from my chest, trying to get some breeze between the fabric and my skin, only there wasn’t any breeze. I’d been told by Patrick, the butler, to take a seat and enjoy the terrace before the rest came and joined me. That’s how I’d come to think of these people in my sister’s home. Patrick-the-butler and Bridget-the-maid. I sighed, my shoulders sagging. I was so tired. Darling Elliot had cried on and off all night. Anytime I got my brain to switch off from my sister and her husband and her glorious life and I got somewhere close to dozing, my nephew would start up like a chain saw ripping through the serenity.
I shook my head in awe. I didn’t know how Sarah did it. She seemed so calm, so serene, if just a little tired. I was a nurse, and I’d pulled my fair share of night shifts, but, oh, my God. After two hours of hearing that baby cry I wanted to scream. After four hours, I wanted to cry with him. How Sarah managed to get through a day with that going on all night, I’ll never know.
“That was a great match, Warwick. You’ve been practicing.”
I turned around at the sound of the warm, feminine voice, and footsteps against the white stone pavers. My jaw dropped slightly. You’ve got to be kidding me.
My sister, accompanied by her husband and his parents, was pushing a stroller up the path, and they all trooped toward the terrace, cheeks flushed, and carrying tennis rackets. Eleanor was smiling at her son, her figure looking slim and deceptively young in the short white skirt and chic, short-sleeved top. The woman was trim and fit, and spent a lot of time working out, if those legs were anything to go by. Edward was wearing a pair of white shorts and a red polo shirt with a little blue horse and rider embroidered over his right breast. His shoulders were broad, and there was only the slightest paunch over the waistband of his shorts. The man was in fantastic shape for his age.
Warwick was wearing a similar outfit, only his shirt was pale blue, and the color made his eyes even more startling against his tan.
My sister wore a figure-hugging short-skirted dress with thick shoulder straps that revealed the muscle tone of her arms. I couldn’t help noticing her bust, and hoped she was wearing a good sports bra. She had to be breastfeeding. My nephew was still so young, and I wondered how my sister was going with it. I’d had to counsel a number of women on breastfeeding during the course of my work...breastfeeding, post-birth sex, appetite versus diet versus sleeping. All this would be normal conversation for sisters post-baby, and yet I couldn’t quite see us sharing that kind of intimate chatter. I shook my head again at the significant distance between us, the lack of sisterly intimacy. The foursome approached, chatting about their match.
My God. They’d played tennis. I glanced surreptitiously at my watch. It wasn’t quite eight-thirty yet. How did my sister do it? Stay up all night with a crying baby and then rise at sunup for a casual tennis match before breakfast. I could barely keep my eyes open. I noticed, though, that my nephew’s eyes were closed, and he had that still, relaxed look that only an exhausted baby with a full tummy in deep, deep slumber could achieve. Good one, tiger. Keep everyone up all night, then sleep the day away. I hoped he’d wake up so that I could tire him out before tonight—and then maybe he’d sleep. And if he slept, so would my sister...so would I. I really didn’t want a repeat of last night’s countdown of the Top 40 of baby cries.
“That’ll shift the pounds, eh, Sarah?” Edward joked, batting her on the bottom with his racket.
My eyes widened behind my sunglasses, and I noticed my sister’s cheeks reddened as she parked the stroller next to the table.
“Well, it was definitely a good workout. Morning, Maisey,” Warwick said as he took a chair at the head of the table. “Maybe you’d like to join us next time?”
I smiled. Hell, no. “Maybe,” I said in what I hoped was a noncommittal way. No. I did not do tennis, and most definitely not before breakfast. I liked to get physical, but that was generally jogging, or surfing, or swimming...all activities one could do on one’s own. Sarah took a chair on one side of me, and Eleanor and Edward took their seats opposite. Bridget walked out, accompanied by Emily, another maid, and each bore a tray. The food was placed gently on the table in front of Warwick, and I relaxed against my chair. Croissants, muffins, toast—oh, bless them, bacon—jam, and sweet pastries, scrambled eggs, boiled eggs—already shelled—and those cute little sausages I only saw in hotels. The staff returned moments later with a carafe of orange juice and a thermos of what I seriously hoped was coffee. The spread was magnificent. God, I loved the Hamptons. I loved my sister and her family. I loved my bawling little nephew. If they fed me like this every week, I’d never move away.
“So, Maisey, Sarah tells me you’ve traveled the globe,” Edward said, leaning forward to snag a strip of bacon with a pair of tongs. “Where have you been?”
I smiled as I accepted the croissants from Warwick, placed one on my plate and then passed the platter on to Sarah. “Oh, loads of places. I was in Belize early last year, and I’ve just come from Thailand.”
“Watch your cholesterol, Edward,” Eleanor warned, eyeing the bacon that was now being accompanied by a savory muffin and mound of scrambled eggs.
“I’ll watch it,” Edward muttered, cutting a piece of the meat and bringing it to his mouth, his eyes nearly crossing as he tried to keep it in focus for as long as possible before he popped it into his mouth. He chewed for little bit, swallowed, then winked at Sarah. “What about you, Sarah? I know how you like your food...” He passed the platter of bacon across to Sarah.
“Edward, stop. You know she’s got to lose that weight,” Eleanor snapped. “Lord knows she has no willpower, so stop tempting her.”
“Maybe we should just have fruit and yogurt for her. That could trim her down.”
Eleanor’s smile was brittle. “One can only hope.”
Thank God I was wearing my sunglasses. I managed to compose the rest of my features, but I knew they would have seen my shock without my shades. I glanced briefly at Warwick, but he was happily spreading some jam onto his croissant, as though his parents’ criticisms of his wife were normal, natural. Accepted. I looked at Sarah. She had one of those polite smiles on her face, as though she actually found the rude comments humorous, but I saw the crease in her makeup under her eyes. She’d caked it on—to hide those big exhausted bags I suspected were there? If she was so tired, why get up so early to play tennis? Why not sleep in? If last night was anything to go by, my sister had to be bone-dead tired. Why not tell Edward and Eleanor where they could stick their bits of bacon? Or their tennis rackets?
“I imagine you both have traveled a bit,” I said to the older couple in an effort to draw their attention away from my sister. “I’d love to hear about it.”
Over the next half hour we exchanged travel stories. Funnily enough, the Taylor-Coxes and I didn’t share much in common with regard to our various destinations. They didn’t have much experience in the developing world, and I didn’t have much experience in the developed world. Still, the conversation was lively.
“You really must visit that little café next time you’re in Paris,” Eleanor instructed me.
I nodded. “I will, if you visit that little bar in Spain,” I challenged her. She stared at me for a moment, as though surprised at the cheeky dare, but then she laughed, and her humor sounded genuine.
“Deal.”
I passed another plate from Warwick to Sarah—this one full of sweet pastries, and Sarah murmured her thanks, and shuffled it on. I noticed she did that a lot. Her husband and in-laws handed a constant supply chain of food down to her, despite their wishes she lose weight, and my sister played this clever little shell game with the platters. I couldn’t be certain, but I think the only thing she actually put in her mouth was the white of a boiled egg and a sliver of rye bread. I glanced down at my plate that bore the crumbed and flaky remains of a croissant, sweet pastries, muffins and streaks of grease from the scrambled eggs and bacon I’d consumed.
I had basically shoveled food down my throat as though it were my last meal. My cheeks warmed. Good thing I didn’t have my knapsack with me or it would’ve taken a lot of effort not to stash some food in there for later, as I usually did at a clinic site, before I went off and did some work—or went surfing. I had to remind myself this wasn’t some sea-shanty village in Thailand, where the food was scarce. Nor was my stepfather around to remove my plate and banish me to my bedroom without any supper.
I remembered my shock the first time he did that. Peter’s temper had snapped one evening when he’d arrived home from a “hard day at the office,” to find Mom didn’t quite have his dinner ready.
“What do you mean, soon? What have you been doing all day?” he roared at her, and I looked up from the fork I was setting on the table. My mother stood, shoulders hunched, as she wiped her hands with a tea towel.
“I’m sorry, darling, I just got so busy—”
“Busy, huh? With what? Watching the daytime soaps? You wouldn’t know what busy was if it came up and bit you,” he’d grated. I darted a look at my sister. Sarah had her arm in the cupboard reaching for the glasses, but she, too, had frozen.
“Would you care for some coffee?” Bridget-the-maid appeared at my elbow, and I startled.
“Oh, uh, yes, please.” She poured some of the dark brew into my porcelain cup—no ceramic mugs here—and then turned to Sarah and Warwick.
“Would you like a top-up?”
My sister opened her mouth, but Eleanor spoke first.
“Sarah’s not drinking coffee—it’s not good for breastfeeding. No wonder Elliot fusses at night.”
My sister’s eyelids flickered, before she smiled at Bridget. “I’ll have herbal tea, please, Bridget.”
Bridget smiled sympathetically. “Of course. Sorry, I won’t be long.”
Memories sucked at me.
“I’m sorry, it won’t be long—”
“Screw it.” Peter picked up the plastic board Mom had used to chop some veggies and threw it viciously into the sink. “I work all damn day at the office, stooped over a sketch pad and fulfilling the craziest demands from stupid clients, and you can’t even do a decent job as my wife and have dinner ready,” he roared, leaning down to her ear, and I could see my mother’s shoulders hiking up with every succinctly worded yell. “You stupid bitch. Why the hell did I marry you if you can’t even get the basics right?”
He picked up the pots from the stove, stalked over to the garbage can and stomped his foot down on the pedestal lever, then dumped pots and contents into the garbage.
“I’m going out to a restaurant. Maybe you can have a think about how to take better care of your husband.” He stormed out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him.
I was standing there, stunned, and I almost giggled. I couldn’t believe the melodrama—it had to be a joke, right? But then I looked over at my sister to share a laugh, and saw her shocked, fearful expression. I noticed my mother’s rasping breath wasn’t her having a breathless chuckle at his antics, but a silent weep as she fetched the pots, now empty, out of the bins, and I’d realized maybe this wasn’t so funny, after all. None of us ate that night, except for Peter out at the restaurant.
It had been the first incident, but it hadn’t been the last. My stepfather had a temper, and regularly lost it—usually at what he called a “lack of respect”—for him, his house and his property. It was surprising what constituted a lack of respect... If I left my schoolbooks on the coffee table, I was disrespecting his house. If I left my bike out, I was disrespecting his property. Any mess in or around the home usually resulted in him sending me and Sarah to bed without supper.
Warwick leaned back in his seat. “What shall we do today, do you think?”
“Well, it’s going to be quite hot, and Maisey probably needs some quiet time after her long flight...” Sarah suggested.
“Nonsense. She seems fully rested,” Eleanor said. “Why don’t we have a picnic on the beach? We’ve got so many friends who are staying close by for the christening, we may as well make the most of them being here and get together.”
“Great idea, Mom,” Warwick said.
“I’m sure your Bridget can rustle up something adequate if she starts immediately. I’ll tell my staff to also prepare some food and deliver it,” Eleanor stated as Bridget arrived with a teapot. Bridget smiled.
“Of course, Mrs. Taylor-Cox. That won’t be any trouble.”
My sister’s expression flickered, and she glanced down at her son, sleeping in the stroller. I got the impression she didn’t want to hold the picnic, yet she didn’t say anything.
I remembered the time Sarah had questioned why we had to clean up after dinner while he got to sit in the living room and watch TV. He’d dragged us over to the kitchen sink and washed our mouths out with the dishwashing liquid as punishment for talking back to him. A few times he’d found food in the fridge that was past its use-by date, and he’d force-fed it to us as punishment for letting the food go to waste. Even now, the smell of rotten eggs could make me retch.
I wondered if Eleanor was as demanding, as exacting, as Peter was when we were growing up. I suspected the older woman could be, but in a far different manner. We were constantly on the alert for the slightest infraction. Peter would invite clients over for dinner, and give Alice the menu for what to serve, along with the accompanying recipes. Julia Child, eat your heart out. I eyed Bridget as she placed some cut fruit on the table. Somehow I didn’t think Eleanor would have the same effect on Bridget with regard to this picnic as Peter had with us for his special events.
We would spend almost the entire day—Alice, Sarah and I—in the kitchen, chopping, juli-friggin’-enning, boiling, cooling, etc. Alice would be tearing her hair out over the ultra-complicated recipes, Sarah and I would assist (with the recipes, not the tearing out of her hair), and all the while we’d be so worried that the dish wouldn’t turn out as it should, and Peter would lose it.
But no, we always, miraculously, managed to dish up exactly what Peter was expecting. Peter’s clients would be amazed and appreciative, and Peter would always smile at the picture-perfect home and family he’d presented. Whenever he smiled that proud, smug little smile, my mother would smile back, so pleased, so relieved she’d gotten something right, and she’d dismiss any of our complaints. She’d made Peter happy; that’s all that counted.
I nibbled thoughtfully on a Danish as the Taylor-Coxes talked about some elegant soiree they were planning—it took a moment for me to realize they were discussing Elliot’s christening. I suppose a barbecue and a beer in the backyard was not to the Taylor-Coxes’ exacting standards. I made appropriate noises when they looked at me expectantly, but really, what did I know about ice sculptures and petit fours?
The sound of a car’s engine in the drive broke my reverie, and I turned, along with everyone else, at the sound of a visitor.
“Are you expecting anyone this early?” Eleanor inquired, her perfectly arched eyebrow arching a little higher.
Sarah frowned, shaking her head. “Not that I know of...?” She glanced over at Warwick, who shrugged. I left the table and walked along the deck to peer around the side of the house. A silver sedan was parked in the drive, and the front passenger door opened. A woman climbed out.
My jaw dropped. Oh. Dear. Lord.
Alice took a few steps away from the car and paused, gazing about with uncertainty as she smoothed down the floral dress she wore.
A half-chewed morsel of Danish fell from my mouth, and I closed it with a snap.
My mother was here. I stared at the woman, stunned. My. Mother. Was. Here. I tried to swallow, but I think my whole body had decided to stop functioning. I leaned against the deck balustrade to stop from collapsing.
Suck it up, princess. Lucy was right there, cautioning me. Bolstering me.
Alice was here. Here.
We were expecting her, remember? Lucy pointed out.
But I’m not ready.
If we left it up to you, you’d never be ready. We can handle this.
The driver’s door opened, and a tall man climbed out, and this time I sagged against the balustrade.
Caleb.
Well, well, well.
What the hell is he doing here?
Play it cool.
I blinked, trying to figure out why Peter’s son was here. Then I realized I didn’t care why my stepbrother was here, and my lips curled. Caleb. He stepped out from the shadow of the house, toward my mother, and the sun warmed his brown hair, burnished highlights glinting in the light, like an angelic ray of hope and calm from the chaotic storm of my childhood, stepping back into my life like a beacon illuminating the path to serenity and sanity.
He took my mother’s arm, enfolding it in his in a tender, caring gesture that surprised me. He was being attentive, the perfect gentleman. I sighed.
Peter had been married to Stephanie before he’d married my mother. I never met Stephanie. Apparently they’d both vowed to never be in the same room as each other. I’d wondered how the woman had managed to escape Peter, but clearly a very public affair was a good incentive for Peter to discard his first wife.
Still, his resentment to his ex never extended to his son, Caleb, and it was always such a pleasure, such a relief, when Caleb visited during every other school break. Peter relaxed when Caleb was home. My stepfather was damn near mellow when his son was around. Of course, that probably had something to do with the fact that Caleb worshipped Peter as though he was some sort of godlike hero. Caleb was never around when Peter beat up Alice, or dragged us through the house by our hair, or viciously rubbed dishwashing detergent over our lips and teeth, or shoved rotten food down our throats. No, to Caleb, Peter was the perfect father. Mostly.
My smile broadened as I remembered my stepbrother chastising Peter on his chauvinistic views when Peter had grunted that we had to earn our keep by washing up and doing the laundry. God, I’d loved Caleb for that. I knew Sarah did, too. Caleb always had our back, and Peter was always on his best behavior. We loved it when Caleb was home, and we mourned his absence, and Peter’s mellow yellow would darken to cranky crap.
There was a distinct resemblance between him and the man who’d sired him, but there was enough of the woman I hadn’t met in his features that I’d never confuse the two, never blanch at the sight of him. He’d been so cool, such a hero to me growing up, the buffer I desperately needed against his father... I’ll admit, I’d had a crush on him. He was so tall, so fit and muscular. I used to love swimming in our pool with him, when he’d wear board shorts and nothing else, revealing his lean physique. He was so smart, so funny—he used to make me laugh so hard I’d cry. He was fun, and I adored him for the lightness he brought to our home. He was the first guy to show me there could be a caring and tender side to the male psyche. He protected me. No wonder I’d hero-worshipped him.
I couldn’t wait any longer. I ran to meet him, so happy to see him again.
But while I adored Caleb, I wasn’t blind—I’d known he was totally besotted with my sister. I remembered those admiring, reverent looks he’d share with Sarah, and Sarah’s blushes as she tried to ignore them...at first. I huffed with silent laughter. They’d been so young, so sweet and innocent, the two of them... I turned back to catch Sarah’s eye with my smile. Good times. My eyebrows drew together.
Sarah looked like she was seeing ghosts.
