Maine - J. Courtney Sullivan [106]
“Do you remember if there was a green sweater of Grandpa’s?” Maggie asked.
“I don’t remember what I had for breakfast, darling,” Alice said, her voice a false saccharine sound. “Honestly, I only cleared out a few things from the cottage and my house too.”
“Okay,” Maggie said. “Well, if you see that green sweater—”
“Let’s eat,” Alice said. “Out on the porch, maybe?”
She had already set the table there, and so they carried the serving dishes out past the screen door and sat down. Besides the meatloaf and potato salad, there was a dish of bright red tomato slices from Alice’s garden, sprinkled with salt and freshly ground pepper. She had also cut up a banana and placed the slices in a teacup along with ten or fifteen blueberries, showing her old-lady colors in a way that, to Maggie’s surprise, made her feel a bit sad.
Rhiannon placed her napkin in her lap and sat up extra straight. So Alice had intimidated her after all.
“Eat! Eat!” Alice said. “Come on, serve yourselves, we’re all friends here.”
Rhiannon took a spoonful of the potatoes, a few blueberries and tomato slices, and a big hunk of meatloaf—at least a quarter of what Alice had prepared. It was a normal-size portion by normal-person standards, but Maggie knew Alice was probably appalled. In solidarity, she cut herself an equally big piece of meat and took a bite, avoiding her grandmother’s gaze.
Alice sipped her wine, then put the glass down and cut herself a sliver of meatloaf.
“I thought we might get a second meal out of this later in the week, but c’est la vie,” she said. “Haven’t you girls been eating?”
“We’ve done nothing but eat since we got on the road this morning,” Rhiannon said.
Alice nodded vigorously.
“Gosh, Shannon, you must have a hollow leg.”
“It’s Rhiannon,” Maggie said. Alice ignored her.
“How on earth did you two meet anyway?” she asked, with the same fake smile she’d had out by the car earlier.
“We live next door to each other,” Rhiannon said.
“Oh, I see. Where are you from, dear? You have the prettiest accent. Almost Irish sounding, isn’t it?”
“I’m from Scotland,” Rhiannon said.
“Marvelous! My husband was there on business once—he brought me back a scarf. Itchy as hell, but it was gorgeous. Now, sweetheart”—She looked at Maggie and paused for dramatic effect—“I’m dying to know—what happened with Gabe?”
(Apparently, that’s all there was to say, as far as Scotland was concerned. Thousands of years of history and culture boiled down to one itchy scarf.)
No matter what else existed between them, there would always be that generational divide that stopped her from telling the full truth: you weren’t going to tell your grandmother that your boyfriend was a possible cokehead, that you’d skipped your pill and gotten pregnant, and so you spoke in a kind of shorthand. Perhaps Alice did the same, for reasons of her own.
“I caught him in a pretty major lie,” Maggie said.
“That doesn’t sound like Gabe,” Alice said.
“Actually it does,” Maggie said.
“Oh,” Alice said, smiling. “He always seemed so charming. I guess it’s the charming ones you have to look out for, though. Well, that’s—Maggie, I’m sorry. Have you spoken to your mother lately?”
“Yes, we talked yesterday,” Maggie said. “Why?”
“I just wondered if she knew about you and Gabe. She hadn’t told me.”
Suddenly Alice switched gears. “I told Patrick that I want to get the gutters on the cottage all cleared out sometime this week,” she said. “The one Mexican in all of Maine is coming to take care of it. Mort recommended him, and he’s cheap, of course, so—”
“Grandma, don’t talk that way,” Maggie said.
“What? He’s illegal. He’s happy for the work,” Alice said. “All they eat is rice and beans anyhow; how much money do they need?”
Maggie clenched with embarrassment, though Rhiannon chuckled.
“Okay,” Maggie said. “Whatever, that’s fine.”
“This place is incredible,” Rhiannon said. “Such a beautiful spot.”
The house was gorgeous, but it never seemed to fit Maggie’s grandparents. It looked like something