Tiffany Reisz - The Lucky Ones

“I can believe that,” Roland said. “We’d have to take your book out of your hand to get you to eat. You loved them more than anything.”

“You don’t become an English major because you love books. You do it because you need books. It’s a codependent relationship.”

He grinned. “Very poetic. Spoken like an English major.”

“Why did you become a monk?”

“Guess for a similar reason you were an English major. I didn’t love God, but I needed God.”

“I didn’t even know you were religious.”

“In my own way,” he said. “The monastery hosts concerts all summer. Dad would take us to them sometimes if he liked the composer they were showcasing. We met a few of the monks and... I don’t know, I liked them. I liked being there. I felt safe there. When I made the mistake of joking with Brother Ambrose about how much I liked it there, he invited me to a discernment weekend. They recruit hard.”

“Looking for a few good monks, huh?”

Roland smiled. “They gave me some books to read, too. One of them was by a Cistercian monk, Thomas Merton.”

“He’s the Kentucky monk, right? I know that guy. I mean, not personally. I think he’s dead.”

“For a few decades,” Roland said. “Anyway, in his book he said the true self was the spiritual self. I didn’t know who my true self was. I thought maybe if I figured out who my spiritual self was, I’d know.”

“Did you find your true self?” Allison asked.

“I found out who I’m not,” Roland said. “And I found a little peace, which was more than I had before I went in.” He turned his face to her and smiled. “So that’s why I must politely ask you not to jump me. Now it’s your turn.”

Allison quietly panicked. How on earth could she tell Roland she’d been a billionaire’s mistress for six years now that she knew he was a monk?

“Nothing nearly that interesting,” she said, brushing the question off as nonchalantly as she could manage. “I haven’t been a nun, that’s for sure.”

Roland let it go and sat up again, and Allison almost reached out to brush the sand off his back. But she didn’t touch him, didn’t even want to. Everything was different now. He might have her old big brother’s face and eyes and smile, but this man sitting next to her was a complete stranger. A few minutes ago, she’d tried to punch him and he’d caught her hand—like when they were kids. And he’d swooped her up and pretended to throw her in the water—like when they were kids. But he was playing the part of the Old Roland for her and she was playing the part of the Old Allison for him. That might have worked except neither of them were very good actors. She’d made a mistake coming back here. She’d made a terrible mistake. She realized she’d come home to find her old family and her old family didn’t live here anymore.

She was as alone here as she’d been in her apartment right after McQueen had left her.

She’d come all this way for nothing.

“Well,” Allison said, standing up and dramatically brushing the sand off her clothes. “I should run along.”

“Allison?”

“It’s late. I didn’t mean to stay this long.”

“You’re really not staying here?” he asked. “Not even for a night?”

“Tourist season’s over. I can find a hotel easy.” Allison stood up and wiped the sand off her pants. “I’ll stay the night in Astoria and run by the hospital tomorrow morning.”

“Do you want to at least see the house again before you go?” he asked.

For his sake, for the sake of the hurt he was trying to hide, she decided to humor him.

“All right,” she said. “It would be nice to see the house one more time.”

In silence, they walked back to the deck, and at the side door took their sandy shoes and socks off and left them on the rack in the mudroom. She hung up her jacket, as well, and saw windbreakers and flip-flops, umbrellas and heavy winter coats. Something for every season on the coast. Roland stripped off his sand-covered checkered flannel and hung it up on a hook. Underneath he wore a plain white T-shirt that hugged his strong shoulders. She grinned to herself at the sight.

“What?” Roland asked.

“What’s a monk doing with big shoulders like yours?”

Roland laughed, almost blushed, modest as a monk.

“We carry the cares of the world on our shoulders,” he said. “It’s our version of resistance training.”

Roland opened the mudroom door to the house and said, “After you.”

She paused before passing through, a small pause, but Roland noticed.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “No one else is home.”

“Sorry. It’s a little weird coming back here,” she said. “Been a long time.”

She wasn’t scared of Roland, though he was a stranger now. And she wasn’t scared of anyone who might be lurking in the shadows waiting to jump out and throw her down the stairs. What scared her was the ache in her chest, the ache of longing for this house, this family, even though she knew better.

Allison stepped gingerly through the door into the foyer. Glancing around, she saw that little had changed since she’d left. There was the sunroom with the floor-to-ceiling windows. And she saw the same long ebony table with the wooden benches in the dining room—the perfect table for a family of eight. Roland led her down the hall and she saw the kitchen, which was much like she recalled except in her day the walls had been yellow and now they were painted red. Big kitchen. A family kitchen. Not fancy. Not formal. There were even drawings still hanging on the fridge. Allison walked over to inspect them. One drawing was of a series of brightly colored fish, all of them with human hairstyles. The Roland fish had long blond hair, the father fish had brown wavy hair and a gray beard, the Deacon fish had black hair sticking in all directions and the Thora fish had wavy hair the color of the setting sun. At the bottom of the page in a child’s hand was written The Fishpellos.

“I did that,” Allison said, staring at the Allison fish with the curly brown hair. “I was...nine? Eight?”

“Something like that,” Roland said. “My hair was never that long, though. You made me look like Bon Jovi. I mean, if he were a fish.”

“There’s nothing wrong with looking like Bon Jovi,” she said. She had added on to the drawing as the years passed and kids had come to the house and stayed. Oliver had a blond bowl cut so Allison had drawn him with a fish bowl over his head, while she’d drawn Kendra’s beaded braids as rainbow stripes. Even the cat, Potatoes O’Brien, got the Fishpello treatment. He was, of course, a catfish.

“Yours looks like you,” Roland said. “Got the nice pouty fish lips.” He made a fish face, mocking her rather thick bottom lip. McQueen had been a fan of her little lip bow, too.

Allison half laughed, half groaned. “I cannot believe this thing is still on the fridge. It’s so stupid.”

“Dad thought it was the cutest thing ever. He missed you, you know,” Roland said. “We all missed you.”

“Missed you, too,” she said quietly. “Didn’t realize how much until I got your letter.”

“I should have written you a long time ago,” he said. “I talked to Dad about you sometimes. I asked him once if he thought it would be okay to look for you. He said if you wanted us, you’d come back on your own. But you didn’t. I told myself you forgot about us. Better than thinking you hated me.”

“Don’t move,” she said.

“What?”

“Just...stay here.” Allison walked back to the mudroom, grabbed her bag off the hook and pulled out the photograph that she’d kept with her for thirteen years and four moves. She took it back to the kitchen where Roland stood waiting, back against the fridge.