Dolly All the Time(83)

“How have you been?” I ask.

“Fine, quiet. Winters out here take a bit of getting used to, but come summer they’ll all be back.”

I look at my hands. I know something has come across my face, and I know she’s seen it. I live here now, and I don’t want Stewart coming back. I don’t want him wandering into the fish house for halibut. I’m even sick of seeing the big yacht he’s so scared of on display in the center of town. I let out a breath and look up.

“Mrs. Whitfield is expecting you. Come,” she says.

Tea is served in a little library off the big living room. It’s mahogany-paneled, with the same coffered ceiling, but cozy, with two overstuffed armchairs in front of a fire. There’s an oil painting of white peonies on a black background over the fireplace, and I can almost smell them. Leather-bound books line two walls. I could spend the rest of my life in this room.

Victoria stands when we walk in. “Dolly, hello.” She gestures to the other chair in front of the fire.

I sit. “This is the most beautiful room I’ve ever been in.”

“It’s my favorite in the winter. My office looks out at the water, and it’s a bit grim in January.”

“Everything is,” I say. She pours me a cup of tea in the china pattern my mother loved so much. It takes my breath away to see so many pieces of it—kelly-green ivy with a thick gold band around the rim. There’s a small pitcher of milk and a little silver bowl of honey. “How long will you be here? Wouldn’t you normally be back in Boston by now?” I ask.

“We’re trying it out, being here year-round. Henry retired, so.” That hangs in the air for a second, heavy. “How have you been?” she asks. Numb. Empty. Angry.

“Fine. I’m subbing a bit at the elementary school, and Gus is playing hockey, which is great.” I smile at the thought—Gus playing a sport and doing it well, Gus having real friends. I remind myself that this was the fantasy all along, and I like that Victoria knows him. “Gus is happy. It’s everything.” It’s such a cozy thought that I sink in my chair and look at the fire.

“It is everything. When there’s a crisis with one of my kids, nothing else matters. And I hate to tell you, it’s never over.”

“I was starting to suspect that,” I say. “How’s Busy?”

“She’s in Boston, working for Stewart.”

My eyes fall to my teacup. I want to skirt around his name, and I don’t want to picture his face. “What’s she doing for him?” I ask my tea.

“He has her in a management training program. His idea.”

“I saw Grant is CEO,” I say.

“Yes,” she says. “It’s a yearlong appointment, to see how it goes. With fraud accusations they couldn’t hire Stewart, but I think the board wants to give him another chance.”

“It wasn’t fraud,” I say.

“Because you went to the Kramer dinner, it crossed a line. So Stewart’s back to working around the clock to prove himself.”

We’re quiet for a bit while I decide whether I want to keep talking about him. I’m surprised to find that I do.

“I was never convinced he really wanted that job,” I say. “More that it was his responsibility to keep things going. He wanted to preserve what his great-grandfather had created and take care of you all.” I’m talking about him like he’s dead.

“I don’t know why he feels like that’s all on him,” she says. “He’s terrible at asking for help.”

“Dr. Meyers calls him Atlas.”

“Who’s Dr. Meyers?” she asks, refilling her cup.

“His therapist.”

“I didn’t know he was in therapy.”

I laugh again, that humorless ick of a laugh. I reach for a raspberry cookie. “Sorry if I violated some kind of HIPAA law for fake relationships.”

“I’m sorry about whatever happened between you two.”

“So am I,” I say. She doesn’t say anything. I keep talking to the fire. “I believed it was real between us by the end, with my whole being. I’m so angry at him, and it’s eating away at me. I don’t need Dr. Meyers to tell me I need to stop.” I turn to her and she’s watching me. “You were clearly disapproving from the beginning, which I get.”

She smiles. “It wasn’t that I didn’t approve of you. I knew the second I saw that photo in the Post that it was fake. Stewart doesn’t know how to change a tire.”

“He really doesn’t,” I say, shaking my head.

“But then I saw you two together and there was something between you. I was worried you were being taken advantage of.”

“Maybe I was. Who knows.” All that anger bubbles up again. Hot in my chest and rising to my face.

“I’m not sure. I’d never seen Stewart like that. Not even with Audrey. I think he was in love with you. I thought he’d have called you by now.”

I don’t say anything.

“Were you in love with him?” she asks.

I shrug. “Of course. Yes. I mean, I was all in. And he acted like he was too, like the whole thing was stretching out into forever. And then he just disappeared.”

“A very weak move,” she says.