Elin Hilderbrand - The Love Season

He had sneaked out of dinner, just for a minute, pretending to use the bathroom, and he’d called Marguerite’s house, but he got no answer-the phone rang and rang. Then he called Renata’s cell phone. Voice mail. He hung up without leaving a message. He wanted to believe Renata’s disappearance had nothing to do with him per se. It was just a nineteen-year-old girl doing as she wished without thinking her actions through. She was upset with Cade for making her cancel dinner, and the whole thought of her father showing up freaked her out. So she bolted.

Cade pushed open the door to the guest room, thinking maybe she had left him a note. He turned on the light. He was looking for a piece of paper-and that was what drew his eyes to the list. He snapped it up, but seeing that it was just something in his mother’s handwriting, he balled it up and threw it on the floor. He looked out on the deck, the deck where only the night before he and Renata had made love while his parents entertained friends below them. But the deck was deserted. Ditto the bathroom. It wasn’t until Cade was ready to leave the guest room-and, quite possibly, make a surreptitious run over to Quince Street-that he noticed the ring. It was right on top of the dresser, as obvious as the nose on his face, so maybe he had seen it a minute ago and just not admitted it to himself.

He picked up the ring, squeezed it in his palm, and sat on the bed. Renata . He thought he might cry for the first time since who knew when. People had said he was crazy to propose to a nineteen-year-old girl. She’s too young- his own parents had warned him of that -she hasn’t had time to get started, much less be finished . And then there was Claire’s parting shot: She wasn’t good enough for you, anyway . Claire was jealous-either that or she suspected Renata had been indiscreet with Miles, which was, Cade had to admit to himself, entirely possible. Even so, Cade loved Renata fiercely. Yes, she was young, but she was going to grow into an amazing woman, and he wanted to be there for that.

He rocked back and forth on the bed. She didn’t want him. Cade had the urge to knock on his parents’ bedroom door and, like a three-year-old, crawl into their bed, have his mother smooth his hair, have his father chuck him under the chin. But his parents weren’t like that; they weren’t nurturing. They had given him every possible advantage and they expected him, now, to make his own way. He would have better luck seeking comfort from Daniel Knox. Yes, Cade thought, he would go down, pour himself a scotch, and confide in the man who might have been his father-in-law. Daniel knew Renata better than anyone. Maybe he could tell Cade something that would make him understand.

Cade walked down the hall, past the west guest room, in case Daniel had come upstairs. But the door to the west guest room was open; the room was dark and empty. Cade stumbled down the back stairs into the kitchen-it had been cleaned by somebody, Nicole probably-and into the living room. Empty. Cade walked out onto the deck. The table had been cleared, the tiki torches extinguished. The deck was deserted. Cade gazed out at the small front lawn, and down farther to the beach.

“Daniel?” Cade whispered into the darkness.

But he was gone.

11:00 P.M.

At eleven o’clock, with the old clock’s grand recital of the hour, its eleven ominous bongs, Marguerite brought out dessert. Two pots de crème , topped with freshly whipped cream and garnished with raspberries. Renata was fading; Marguerite could see it in the way her pretty shoulders were sagging now, her eyes staring blankly at her own reflection in the dark window. Marguerite set the ramekins down with a flourish. This was it. There was no more champagne to pour. Nothing left to do but tell her. Marguerite’s heart hammered away. For years she had imagined this moment, the great confession. Many times Marguerite had considered going to a priest. She would sit in the little booth, face-to-face with the padre, and confess her sins-then allow the priest to touch her head and grant her absolution. But it would have made no difference. Marguerite knew that God forgave her; his forgiveness didn’t matter. Forgiveness from the girl in front of her, Candace’s child, that did matter.

Marguerite had imagined this moment, yes, but she still couldn’t believe it was about to happen. Her chest felt tight, like someone was squeezing her windpipe. Heart, lungs-her body was trying to stop her.

“I’d like to talk to you about your mother’s death,” she said.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Renata said. “You don’t have to say anything else.”

“I’d like to anyway. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“A couple of years after you were born, your parents bought the house in Dobbs Ferry. They wanted a place to spend the winter. Your father thought maybe Colorado, but your mother wanted to be close to the city. She loved New York, and Porter was there. She wanted to put you in a good school; she wanted to be able to take you to the museums and the zoo. It made sense.”

Renata nodded.

“They bought the house when you were four.”

Renata swirled her whipped cream and chocolate together, like a child mixing paints. She had yet to take a bite.

Marguerite paused. Her task was impossible. She could speak the words, relay the facts-but she would never be able to convey the emotion. Candace had spent months preparing Marguerite for the news-saying that she and Dan were looking at houses off-island, saying they’d found a house in a town they liked, Dobbs Ferry, New York, less than four hours away. Marguerite never responded to these announcements; she pretended not to hear. She was being childish and unfair-they were all adults, Candace and Dan were free to do as they liked, they had Renata to think of, and Nantucket in the winter had few options for the parents of small children. The warning shots grew nearer. One day Candace had the gall to suggest that Marguerite join a book group or a church.

You need to get out more , she said. You need to make more friends .

What she was saying was that she couldn’t carry the load by herself. She was going to be leaving. But Marguerite, stubbornly, would hear none of it.

You can’t leave , Marguerite said. She picked Renata up, kissed her cheeks, and said, You are not leaving .

But leave they did, in the autumn, a scant three weeks after Porter returned to Manhattan. In the final days, Candace called Marguerite at the restaurant kitchen every few hours.

I’m worried about you .

Dobbs Ferry isn’t that far, you know .

We’ll be back for Columbus Day. And then at Thanksgiving, you’ll come to us. I can’t possibly do the dinner without you .

We’re leaving nearly everything at the club. Because we’ll be back the first of May. Maybe April fifteenth .

On the day that Candace left, Marguerite saw them off at the ferry. It was six thirty in the morning but as dark as midnight. Dan stayed in the car-Renata was sound asleep in the back-but Candace and Marguerite stood outside until the last minute, their breath escaping like plumes of smoke in the cold.

It’s not like we’ll never see each other again , Candace said.

Right. Marguerite should have been used to it, sixteen years Porter had been leaving her in much the same way, and yet at that moment she felt finally and completely forsaken.

“Your mother leaving was painful,” Marguerite said.

Candace had phoned every day during Renata’s nap and Marguerite-despite her claims that she would be fine, that she was very, very busy-came to rely on those phone calls. After she hung up with Candace, she poured her first glass of wine.