Maine - J. Courtney Sullivan [185]
“No thanks,” he said.
She held up the book. “This is a good one.”
“I thought so too,” Ann Marie said.
“Listen,” Pat said. “We wanted to talk about this whole issue of your giving the property away.”
Alice rolled her eyes. “Not this again.”
“We think it was a wonderful gesture on your part, Mom,” Ann Marie said. “We know how much the church means to you. But the house means so much to us.”
“I know,” Alice said. “It’s not like I’m giving it to them this second. If the women in my family are any indication, I’ll probably live another ten years.”
You’ll probably live another thirty the way my luck is going, Ann Marie thought.
Alice went on, “Ten years! You’ll both be sick of this old place by then.”
Pat piped up. “Think of the position that puts us in, Mom. None of us want to think about the number of years you have left in relation to a house. We want you here forever.”
He seemed genuinely choked up. Mothers were the oddest creatures, Ann Marie thought. Their children tended to love them even when it made no earthly sense to do so.
“The decision was made six months ago,” Alice said. “I can’t go back on it because of some sentimental attachment. Believe me, this is hard for me too.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?” Pat asked. “And what if that priest hadn’t—”
“He has a name,” Alice said.
“What if Father Donnelly hadn’t accidentally told Ann Marie? Were you ever going to tell us this had happened?”
“Of course I would have,” Alice said.
“When?”
“When the time was right.” She sighed. “I didn’t just rush into this. I hope you know that. I gave it plenty of thought. But the fact is that this place isn’t what it used to be. You and your sisters can’t even stand to be here at the same time as one another.”
“That’s not true,” Patrick said. “Mom, we love this place. Our kids love it. Our grandkids love it. Please don’t take it away.” He was begging now, but Alice was unmoved.
“I refuse to be bullied,” she said. “And anyway, there is absolutely no way I could go to Father Donnelly and tell him I’m backing out. The church is depending on this.”
“What if we just gave St. Michael’s an acre?” Pat said.
“Let’s stop,” Ann Marie said. “She’s not going to change her mind.”
“That’s right,” Alice said triumphantly, as if they were talking politics and she had just won the debate. “Now let’s change the subject. What time will Patty and Josh be here tomorrow?”
That night Ann Marie and her husband drove to the big public beach in Ogunquit to get away from her. They sat in the massive parking lot near the building that housed the showers, not even bothering to get out of the car. Ann Marie thought of how spoiled they had always been to have their own beach, a few steps from the front door.
She thought of those depressing rented houses her sisters went to on Cape Cod, where you had to bring your own ketchup and mustard and napkins at the beginning of the week, and clear out some stranger’s tea bags and crackers from the cupboards before you could start your vacation. Those places were always cluttered with someone else’s knickknacks. They smelled stale, and were right on top of one another. Through the open windows, you could hear the voices of the renters next door.
No one but their family and dear friends had ever put their heads down to sleep in the cottage on Briarwood Road, or even so much as taken a shower there. And soon it would belong to someone else. It seemed impossible. She felt as if a close friend had died.
Pat said that down the line they could get a place of their own. But she knew they could never afford anything as nice as the spread at Briarwood Road. Certainly not waterfront property. Pat had had it appraised for 2.3 million. And anyway, that wasn’t the point. The point was, it was their family’s home. Ann Marie and her husband had done as much as anyone—more—to keep it thriving. And now this.
Ann Marie cried, sitting there in the passenger seat. Pat rubbed her shoulder.
“I’m sorry she’s like this,” he said. “I wish there was something I could