“Why are you so worried about Marcus?” Garrett asked.
“Because he’s our guest,” Beth said.
“He’s not my guest,” Garrett said.
“He’s your father’s guest,” Beth said. “And we have to respect that.” The subject of Marcus made Beth anxious. As if, she thought, as if we didn’t have enough to deal with. Now there was Marcus, a casualty of a complicated and excruciating murder case. But Arch adored the kid, and Beth suspected that he used Marcus’s merits to justify taking Connie Tyler’s case at all. Certainly a woman with such a fine son was worth spending months of unpaid time saving. Arch bragged about the kid-how he won second place in the All-Queens Invitational in the two hundred meter butterfly, how his grades hadn’t faltered since the murders and he hadn’t missed a day of school except to attend Connie’s important court dates. This was all leading up to the big announcement-only a week before the plane crash-that Arch had invited Marcus to Nantucket for the summer. Arch was glowing when he told Beth, so happy was he to be able to give yet more to this poor family. Beth, however, was not happy. First of all, Arch hadn’t asked her. Not only had they agreed long ago to confer about all important family decisions, but the house on Nantucket was her house. Furthermore, she was the one who spent the summer there while Arch worked; she wasn’t exactly thrilled at the idea of a third teenager to keep track of-fine young man or not. But Beth bit her tongue and said nothing, which was how she’d handled the Constance Tyler matter since the beginning. She let Arch fight Connie’s fight since it inspired him the way his regular work did not. Then, after Arch died, Beth felt obligated to re-extend the invitation to Marcus for the summer since it definitely fell under the category of “What Arch Would Have Wanted.”
The twins knew this as well as she did. Marcus is here out ofrespect to your father. She hoped she didn’t have to repeat this phrase too many more times.
“Now, are you okay with lunch?” Beth asked Garrett. “The bagels and stuff?”
“Yes.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’m off to the store.”
At the Stop & Shop, Beth was so caught up in her thoughts- Arch, the twins, Marcus, would this summer be okay?-that she didn’t even see David until he touched her shoulder.
“Beth?”
Her nipples hardened. Because it was chilly; they were standing in the produce section in front of the hydroponic lettuce.
“Oh, God. David.” Beth put her hands to her face in such a way that her elbows shielded her chest. She felt like she was going to cry, but no, she was just overwhelmed. Why him? Why now? She’d been in the store, what? thirty seconds, only long enough to chastise herself for not making a list, and here was David Ronan, her first love. Her first love and more. David fucking Ronan.
She peeked through her fingers. Yes, he was still standing there. Staring at her like she was from outer space. Of course- who acted this way upon bumping into an old friend at the store? Who hid like this? Well, he was still as handsome as ever-dark blond hair, a great tan. Wearing a red button-down shirt turned back at the cuffs, khaki shorts, and black flip-flops. Holding a head of lettuce. David Ronan, owner of Island Painting, year-round resident of Nantucket, father of two daughters, husband of Rosie Ronan who was a gourmet cook and threw notorious cocktail parties (Beth and Arch went to one, years ago). He had every right to be here at the Stop & Shop, and yet Beth felt taken by surprise. Affronted, even. Like he planned this somehow, to fuck her up.
“I heard about Arch,” David said softly. “I read about it in the New York Times. I wanted to call, or write, or something to let you know how incredibly sorry I am for your loss.”
“I can’t talk about it,” Beth said. She still hadn’t moved her hands. David reached out, circled her wrist and gently pulled it away from her face.
“It’s okay,” he said.
She blinked away her tears, was it the second time she’d cried today, or the third?-and then, because it was David Ronan standing before her, she began to worry what she looked like. Her hair, her wrinkled blouse. The bags under her eyes.
“I’m fine,” she said finally. “I am fine. Thank you for your condolences. How are you?”
“Surviving,” he said.
“That’s all we can hope for,” Beth said. “I want to ask about Rosie and the girls, but I can’t right now, David. I’m too… I’m too frazzled. We just got on-island an hour ago. Will you forgive me if I just shop?”
“I forgive you,” he said. “We can catch up later. I’ll stop by the house sometime.”
“Good idea,” Beth said. He was being polite, just like every time she happened into him. He wouldn’t come by the house; he never did. He was busy in the summer. If she bumped into him again in a few weeks, or a month, he would explain how busy he’d been.
David made haste in dumping his lettuce into a plastic bag and headed for the deli. Then around the corner, out of sight. Beth took a head of lettuce herself and breathed out a long stream of anxious air. David Ronan. Of all people.
Beth lingered in the produce section trying to transfer her angst into concentration on the mundane task at hand: Did she want strawberries? Yes. Grapes and bananas? Yes. What else? What kind of fruit would Marcus eat? The same as everybody else, she assumed. He was, after all, just a person. No different because he was black, because he was poor, because he was sad. David Ronan, too, was just a person. Why then did he seem like so much more? Beth was afraid to leave the produce section. She bought red and yellow peppers and some button mushrooms. It was too early in the season yet for really good zucchini or corn. She was afraid that David Ronan would be standing at the cheese case or in front of the cereal. She couldn’t bear to see him again. She would have to stay by the produce until she was certain he’d left the store.
The produce section, however, was freezing. Beth had to move on. Besides, she was an adult. That was one of Dr. Schau’s favorite refrains: You’re an adult, Beth. You have years of experience in how to cope. Use that experience. Okay, Beth thought. She saw David every summer, sometimes several times a summer, and that one year they’d even socialized at the cocktail party. (Arch was the one who’d wanted to go. Beth pleaded to stay home until Arch insinuated that her reluctance meant that she still felt something for David. So they went to the party and Beth drank too much.)
She’d never been this alarmed to see David Ronan before, so why now? Because Arch was gone? Yes, that was it. She was no longer happily married. Her fairy tale had come to an end, and so she felt vulnerable, somehow, to David Ronan and the memories of pain and love that came with him.
As she moved carefully into the next aisle, her insides filled with an awful, heavy guilt. She remembered Arch, years earlier, in the hour before they left for the Ronan cocktail party. Arch teased her because she stood in the closet in her bra and panties with a glass of white wine debating what to wear. She put on a sundress, then declared it too matronly and went with silk pants and a skimpy halter. Arch whistled in such a way that let her know the outfit was too sexy. She poured herself another glass of wine and changed her top.
You’re making a big deal out of this, Beth, Arch said.
No, I’m not.
The guy’s crazy about you. He always has been. He’ll think you look beautiful whatever you wear.
Shut up, she said. Why aren’t you jealous?
Why should I be jealous? I got you in the end, didn’t I? I’m happy to go. I want to gloat.