At The Breakers: A Novel

Part Six: Late January

Late January part six 263 ONE Soon enough, she was walking in the late-afternoon drizzle seaward along the empty sidewalk. The smell of the ocean was in the air, and there it was, or at least the white blankness above it, at the end of Atlantic Boulevard. And now, here was the solid old clapboard hotel, like a hundred others in seaside villages along this straight strip of northern coastline. The three steps up onto the long porch, the carved double doors with arched, beveled windows set in, lamplight shining through. A dozen people—all strangers to her—milled about in the lobby, rained-out and restless, waiting for happy hour. Distant, purposeful clinks issued from the dining room—the tables being set up for dinner. A cell phone rang, to the tune of “Beat It.” As she looked through the windowed door, Erica rose behind the counter, turning to retrieve something from the printer. She wore a crisp white shirt. She looked French, her exquisite collarbone catching the light, her precise, fine-skinned face framed by a cloud of curly light brown hair. Jo had the sense of a whole world in there, of life going on, the details both familiar and strange, as if she’d returned after many years to see Erica clicking computer keys, then lifting her chin in a gesture that showed her exact, sharp jawline, to greet the middleaged woman in a red parka who now opened the door and entered the lobby, pulling her suitcase behind her. The quick, inquiring glance turned into a smile, all white teeth—Erica’s incisor had a chip in it. It was her only imperfection. 264 “Mom!” she shouted. Jo felt a slippage, a slight disjunction between what she’d left and what she’d come back to. The two realities didn’t quite join together. Erica rushed out from behind the desk. A silver necklace with a few green glass beads here and there glimmered just at the base of her slender neck. A pastel girl, lips rosy and smooth, high natural color in her cheeks. Jo took note of her figure, delicate/strong from working out, and of the white fitted blouse, her cleavage discreetly displayed in its V, the flared black skirt Jo had bought her at the after-Christmas sale, the long, sexy legs in pale hose, the ankle-strap high heels. Who wouldn’t want this girl? asked her bedazzled mother. Everything about her said, Look, I’m almost perfect, I’m twenty-six. But there was a tenseness in her bearing, and in the little lines on either side of her mouth, that meant, I’m twenty-six and alone. He never loved me at all. She hoped that someday Erica could have a life that didn’t forget about men but didn’t shape itself around them, either. She wondered if such freedom might be possible for a daughter of hers. Erica gave her a hug and then stepped back, worried and grave. “She just told me last night.” “Where is she?” She looked around, as if Wendy might be skulking behind the Arica palms, having a smoke. “She hasn’t gotten back yet, I don’t think—her day off.” “I forgot.” “She’s probably somewhere with Madge. They’re designing her wedding, she told me—God knows what that means. I’m supposed to be the maid of honor. She’s making my dress—putting together my costume, is what she said. It’s like Halloween. Or the junior class play or something.” “Where’s Nick?” “With Matt and Donny down at the boathouse. Him and Charlie. He’s supposed to be back here at six sharp. Listen, I’m going to give you the little blue room. Everything else is booked, can you believe it?” She climbed the steps, unlocked the door and entered the small 265 room she’d painted on spec that day in late September. She closed the door and heard the familiar clinks and clanks of the hotel radiators up and down the corridor, the distant voices on the stairs. She wondered where everyone was—Iris, Mrs. Caspari, Al, Gerta—her darling ones, her little cast of characters, in her hotel of temporary blessings. It felt so strange here that it wouldn’t surprise her to find they’d all disappeared, or never existed at all, except in her imagination...