The Summer We Lost Her Page 15

  Only it would be the worst timing imaginable.

  When her stomach quieted, she moved away from the toilet to dig through the cupboard below the sink. She had a vague memory of a pregnancy test she’d bought a couple of years ago when her period was late. It had been a two-pack. One was still there, she was nearly sure.

  It could be she was in for a heavy period. Married adults don’t wind up pregnant from somnolent half-sex. That happened only to teenagers. And she was thirty-eight. Thirty-eight! The odds of an accidental pregnancy were low, weren’t they? Low-ish.

  There, beneath a mound of toilet paper rolls, hairbrushes, and near-empty bags of sports’ bath salts, lay a long pink box with one foil-wrapped test stick. She ripped it open and sat on the toilet, positioning the stick beneath her. The plastic stick bobbed in the urine stream, and Elise pulled it out and bound it in toilet tissue. Took it to the sink and waited.

  The stick started out with one pink control line. The second pink line was the one she was desperate not to see. Somewhere far away, someone’s dock most likely, The Clash’s “Lost in the Supermarket” was playing, the distance giving it an eerie echo. She held her breath and counted backward from twenty to calm herself.

  It seemed like an hour. It was likely a minute. A hairline appeared, so faint at first she might have imagined it.

  “Elise, I gotta get going!”

  Or the stick was faulty, because the thread wasn’t even pink.

  Until it was. The line grew more and more definite, its color morphing from pale blush to deep fuchsia, not content to stop until it completely changed the course of Elise’s life.

  She dropped the stick in the sink. It couldn’t be real. All the years, all the sacrifice. Indie’s training at its peak. Everything lined up just right for the first time. This was the closest she’d ever gotten.

  “Elise!”

  She wrapped the test in toilet paper and buried it deep beneath the empty shampoo bottles and Band-Aid wrappers and threads of dental floss in the wastebasket.

  Matt couldn’t know. Not until she knew what to think of it herself.

  * * *

  MATT WAS OUT on the road, chatting to a frail woman well into her seventies, dyed black hair in a wispy bun, feet swaddled in wool socks and slippers. The look on her face was equal parts pleased and quizzical as Matt waved Elise over and introduced her to Cass’s mother, Ruth Urquhart. “We never thought we’d see you back again, Matthew. And now with your lovely family.”

  Elise tried to smile. She did a quick calculation of where nine months would take her. Sometime in mid-February? She could ride through the second trimester—most professional riders did. But to take, what? Four months off, the year she was on track for the Olympic Games? Fully stagnant while other riders were rocketing forward? A huge disadvantage.

  Bang, bang, bang.

  Ruth shielded her eyes and looked up at the activity on the roof. Her fingers were heavy with clunky rings, one made of wood. “My, but you’ve got a whole lot of work happening over here.”

  Andy stopped hammering and stood, one foot wedged against the chimney stack for stability. He pulled off his cap, wiped his brow with a meaty forearm, then noticed Ruth watching him and held up a hand.

  “Morning, Mrs. U!”

  She waved back, looked at Matt. “Andrew Kostick. He was such a diligent boy. Worked at the theater and lectured the moviegoers about not spilling their popcorn or drinks. And if they did, he refused to sell them a new one. Told them to take better care. I always liked that about him.” She turned to Gracie, still in the shelter. “That bus stop was where your father waited to be picked up for camp when he was a boy.”

  Gracie looked up the road for the bus.

  “And some days your father would come over for a gingerbread cookie after,” Ruth said. “Maybe you’ll do the same. Would you like that?”

  Gracie nodded.

  Elise stopped her hand from going to her belly. Maybe she was overthinking the whole thing. She could just carry on. Confirm with her ob-gyn that she was healthy and strong, and get his okay to compete. It was what everyone at her level did—they carried on.

  Matt was staring at her. “What’s wrong?”

  But everyone didn’t have Gracie.

  “Earth to Elise?” Then there was Matt. He’d been talking about giving their daughter a sister or brother ever since Elise failed to qualify for the London Games and doubt started to erode his faith in her ability to make it internationally.

  “Hon?”

  “I’m good. Great.”

  “You don’t look great.”

  He would be over the moon if he knew. “Just a little tired, is all.”

  Matt accepted her reason and leaned over to give their daughter a big hug. “You have a great day at camp, Lil’ G. And if you’re nervous, if you don’t like it, whatever, you have them call us.” He climbed into his car and lowered the window. “Don’t come home with a boyfriend. Or, worse, married.” To Elise, he said, “I have to drop by the bank as well. And grab some trash bags.”

  Elise waved goodbye.

  Ruth watched Matt’s car drive away, then started back to her place. “I’d better go dig up my recipe. It’s been a long time since I’ve made gingerbread.” She turned. “My husband, Edward, will love to meet you, Gracie. You come over as soon as you’re back.”

  Gracie nodded. “I will.”

  Elise whispered to Gracie, “I will. Thank you.”

  “I will. Thank you.”

  After giving her daughter the thumbs-up, Elise returned to her vine-choked roses. In the shadow of the tree, she could think. To tell Matt right now would be the gift of a lifetime. The man’s dreams were so attainable it was painful: happy marriage, a few kids, a solid legal career. With anyone else but Elise, wouldn’t he have that by now?

  The cicadas launched their amorous buzz and a lawn mower droned from someone’s backyard. Arching over it all, the constant banging on the roof. A headache started to take root behind her eyebrows.

  “Mom, what’s taking the bus so long?”

  She checked her watch. At least eight minutes until it showed. “You’ve got a bit of time yet.” Elise tugged hard on a tangled rope of vine and exclaimed when a rose thorn punctured her thumb. She watched the tiny white perforation fill with blood. Matt had been right. She stood.

  “Honey, I have to grab a pair of gloves. I’ll be two seconds. Don’t move.”

  “Don’t hurry back!” Gracie called out.

  Elise jogged along the side of the cabin and back porch to yank open the shed door. In the span of a second, she took in decades of dirt and gasoline, the shelves lined with old wine crates full of mud-caked garden tools, tangled wire and balls of twine, leaf bags, fertilizers, and weed killer. She snatched up a pair of dirty leather gloves and spun around. As she rushed back out, she caught a flash of Gracie’s old wooden high chair.

  Passing Lyman on the back roof, Elise trotted out front again, her head spinning with the memory of coming downstairs one morning between Christmas and New Year’s to find Gracie in the high chair as a long-limbed and slender-cheeked five-year-old. She was far too big for it, but had convinced her father they should re-create a photo from when she was a baby—one where she proudly held up hands covered in yogurt and Cheerios. The baby picture was framed, with the more recent photo tucked into the frame’s edges. It was somewhere in the cabin. Nate’s office, most likely—his grinning face was beside hers in the newer picture.

  Elise would look for it while Gracie was at camp. Might even be funny to re-create it again now.

  As she hurried toward the canoe, Elise was certain of this: for her, a baby interfering with her own aspirations would never justify ending a pregnancy. The choice lay between competing as planned or calling Ronnie to tell him she was out. And she had to decide fast.

  Matt wouldn’t want her to ride, she was nearly certain. But he would agree to it if the doctor said she was healthy. Of course, if Elise hadn’t done the pregnancy t
est, she might not even have known. Her cycle had never been all that regular. It wasn’t unusual to miss a month or two. Still—was she going to lie to her husband?

  No.

  “Gracie, you’re not going to believe what I saw in the shed. . . .”

  But Gracie was gone. The shelter was empty. Dust on the road swirled as if a big vehicle had just passed. Elise broke into a jog to the roadside to see the flower-and-happy-face-covered tail of the bus vanish around the corner. It had come early.

  “She climbed inside all by herself,” Ruth called from her garden hedge across the road. She was wearing a straw hat now and holding a set of pruning shears.

  “Gracie got on the bus?”

  “I watched her. Such a wonderful and brave girl. You should be very proud.”

  Of course, then there was Gracie. When Elise was home in April, she’d taken her daughter to Walmart over in Garfield one Saturday morning to find an inexpensive blackout blind for Gracie’s window. She’d been waking too early and Elise was certain the morning light was interfering with her circadian rhythm.

  As Elise had pushed the cart—Gracie riding inside it—past the girls’ clothing section, Gracie had begged Elise to stop. Pointed at a rack of printed T-shirts and asked her mother to buy her one.

  It said BIG SISTER on the chest.

  – CHAPTER 15 –

  Matt slowed the car as he passed Pinehurst Golf and Tennis, with the same brown clapboard clubhouse, weedy brick path to the pool, paint peeling off the tennis court fencing. Some of his greatest childhood memories were the summer mornings Nate would get him up early to golf at the modest club the Sorensons had belonged to for generations. Nate might have amassed wealth, but he wasn’t fancy. He had no interest in being paired up with the high-rolling “corporate yahoos,” as he called them, who populated the more exclusive clubs. What Nate wanted from a morning on the links was simple: lungs full of clean air and the camaraderie of his grandson as they hauled their own clubs over the hilly terrain.

  Nate had been careful never to praise Matt’s swing—which the pro at Pinehurst had called loose and natural. It had been Nate’s firm belief that flattery led to overthinking. And overthinking ruined your game. So the two fell into a comfortable rhythm of silence on the green and idle chatter between holes.

  Northwoods Hardware wasn’t far beyond Pinehurst. After inquiring at the cash register, Matt was directed to the sharpening station at the back and handed his ax over to the teenage girl behind the counter. He eyeballed her lower lip stud, a tiny ruby that could be a drop of blood from afar, as she informed him it would be a ten-minute wait, but he was free to help himself to coffee and doughnuts at the complimentary refreshments table next to Lighting.

  He found the table, poured himself what smelled like burned coffee, dumped in two milk pods, and helped himself to a doughnut hole from the Dunkin’ Donuts box. He then settled on a vinyl chair and stretched his neck side to side, hoping to ward off a growing stiffness from his early morning swim.

  “Andy Kostick tells me you’re selling your grandfather’s land.”

  Matt looked up to see Clive Promislow, who owned the only market in town that made deliveries, and who had taken part in Nate’s poker games as far back as Matt could remember. Matt recalled Clive as a man with an almost deliberately rigid posture. Now, his back was so stooped, he was nearly facing the ground. What little hair he combed over his liver-spotted scalp was wispy and yellow-white. In one frail hand, a jar of fish food.

  “News travels fast.” Matt stood to shake Clive’s free hand.

  “We’ll be sorry to see you go. Your grandfather was as much a part of this place as the mountains.”

  Matt started to say yes. He felt the same way—sorry to go. But Clive spoke first.

  “My wife, Phyllis, is with Sotheby’s. Has been for forty years. You know, your grandfather always said if he ever sold, he’d give the sale to Phyllis. She’d be more than happy to come talk with you.”

  Recognition slowly flooded Matt’s consciousness. Yes. It was why he’d been thinking Sotheby’s before they even got here. Nate had spoken about Phyllis. “Oh Jesus, yeah. No, I’d just met an agent, Garth, at my neighbor’s place last night, and we’re in a bit of a hurry. . . .”

  “Garth Zima?” Clive paused, rolled his tongue around his mouth as if savoring a candy. “The Ukrainian fellow?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “I see him around town in his convertible.” Brown irises clouded over with a filmy blue-gray fixed on Matt. “Your grandfather wouldn’t have trusted him to sell the shed in the backyard.”

  Matt didn’t even like Garth. The guy was self-important. Gave Cass the runaround about moving in together in front of people he barely knew. “I’m sorry. I’ve already signed with him.”

  With a dismissive wave, Clive was already shuffling to the register. The Promislows were good people. Church on Sunday, volunteering at library fund-raisers kind of folks. They’d had a son years back, a little boy who had died, around eleven or twelve years old, from a heart defect. They likely needed the money more than Garth Zima. Matt drained his bad coffee, crumpled the cup, and threw it in the trash.

  He’d messed up big-time.

  * * *

  BY THE TIME Matt returned, some two hours later, a dark green Mountain View Realty sign swung in the breeze at the edge of the driveway. Garth works fast, he thought. He’d left the contract in Nate’s office; he’d go inside and give it a thorough read. Maybe there’d be a cool-off clause. Twenty-four hours during which he could change his mind and unsign. Switch to Phyllis Promislow.

  But then he realized: Cass. Even if it was legal, he couldn’t very well fire her boyfriend.

  Andy stood on the rear bumper of his van, securing ladders to the roof, while Lyman loaded unused shingles in through the side door. Andy waved and hopped to the ground when he saw Matt. Nodded to the FOR SALE sign as he passed it. “Not wasting a minute here, eh?”

  “You know agents. Sign goes up quick as a hare, comes down slower than a tortoise.”

  “Shirt looks good.”

  Matt looked down at his chest. Puffed out Andy’s logo.

  “We were able to finish ahead of time. Took the wood right down to the rafters where it had rotted or animals had chewed through.” Andy paused, then handed Matt an invoice with tarred fingers. “Replaced the plywood. Laid down the shingles and sealed things up.”

  “Eleven hundred dollars?” Matt said, scanning the bill. “It was only about a tenth of the roof.”

  “You’re looking at overtime, seeing as we worked through the weekend. Getting you back into your house as soon as possible was our goal. I think we achieved that.”

  Overtime. Of course that was coming. “Seriously, Andy. This is pricing for city people.”

  “My pricing is my pricing. It’s the same for everybody. You cut me down, Lyman doesn’t pay his rent.” He narrowed his eyes, as if Matt himself were Lyman’s enterprising landlord. “Up to you.”

  The check should clear, Matt told himself as he wrote it out. Insurance came out of the account at the end of the month. Mortgage payment had already gone through. He handed over the check with a forced smile.

  “You shouldn’t have any trouble, but if you do, give Lyman a call. He does general handyman work as well.” Andy glanced over to watch his successor stack the last of the unused shingles in the van and slide the door shut. “Like I said, his family had a rough go. An eye for an eye is what happens eventually, though. It’s how life works.”

  Matt wasn’t sure about that. “I’ll definitely keep him in mind if we need anything.” He shook Andy’s hand, then Lyman’s. “You guys did a great job. Much appreciated. I’m sure I’ll see you around town.”

  “Not likely to happen.” Lyman swung himself into the passenger seat. Unrolled his sleeves and buttoned the cuffs. “I think we both know that.”

  Jesus. Upstate folks were direct.

  * * *

  ALL SPOTTING SEEMED to hav
e stopped—again, exactly like with Gracie. It wasn’t until she had finished cleaning out the kitchen and bathrooms, peeled off filthy clothes, and turned on the shower to wait for the spray to clear of rust that she made a decision. She would do what so many Olympians before her had done. If her doctor confirmed it was safe to ride, she would continue to train through the second trimester. Indie was fourteen now. There was no impulsiveness in his character. He hadn’t bucked, reared, shied, or bolted with anyone on his back in almost nine years.

  The last time—the only time—was the day of the accident.

  Ronnie would train Indie while Elise was off, and the moment she felt able to ride again, postpartum, she would. Other women had had babies with similar timing during an Olympic year. Dutch Olympic gold medalist Anky van Grunsven competed in Athens four months pregnant. And if Elise made it onto the short list in the spring, the baby would travel with her. It wouldn’t be hard to convince one of Ronnie’s female working students to cuddle an infant during the times Elise had to be on a horse.

  She’d tell Matt and Gracie at dinner. It was Father’s Day, after all.

  Just as she wrapped herself in a towel, Matt came into the bathroom, still in his Kostick & Sons T-shirt, and started. “Oh, god. You scared me. Thought you were outside.”

  “Babe.” She pulled him to her. “Hold me.”

  He wrapped his arms around her and breathed into her hair. “You smell perfect.”

  Her fingertips slid along the swell of his bicep and inside his shirt sleeve to cup his shoulder. “You feel perfect.”

  He took her face in his hands and kissed her deeply. “I say we take a break from making piles.”

  “If you insist . . .” It hadn’t been her intention to fool around, but she found herself as eager as he was and slid her fingers inside his jean pocket. She pulled him toward the open window behind them so she could lean against the thick sill, unbutton his jeans, and work her hand down the front of his boxers, feeling him grow hard. He groaned, pulled away the towel she’d wrapped herself in and dropped it to the floor.