“Thanks, but we prefer local eggs. I’ll stop at the farm stand on the way home from taking you to school in the morning. There will still be plenty of time for me to make a quiche before our meeting.”
“You don’t have to take me—” Gabi began.
At the same moment, Ivy protested, “I can’t let you make breakfast when I’m the one who suggested it.”
Simultaneously, Mark spoke over both of them, saying, “There’s no need for you to attend the meeting, Zoey.”
“Wait—just listen to me!” she barked, startling everyone, including Moby who hopped off Ivy’s lap and trotted out of the room. Feeling like a shrew, she lowered her voice. “Yes, Idoneed to go to school with you, Gabi. There’s some paperwork they want me to sign and I have a few questions I’d like answered… And Aunt Ivy, please let me make the quiche. It takes you a while to wake up in the morning. If you get up early or have to rush around, you’ll be too distracted to tell Mark and the carpenter what you want—and don’t want—done to your kitchen.”
Then, her voice disingenuously syrupy, she added, “I’m happy to sit in on the meeting, Mark. I’ll take notes so we can all remember what was discussed and agreed upon.”
Zoey relished the look of dismay that melted his features. He recovered quickly though. “Suit yourself. But as long as you’re going to the trouble of making breakfast, I’d prefer an omelet instead of quiche.”
“Sure. Whatever you want.” Under her breath she muttered, “A special meal in celebration ofyour last day here.”
Later that evening, Zoey relaxed in the living room with her aunt and Gabi, both of them sipping chamomile tea, the way Ivy and Sylvia routinely used to do together at bedtime. Moby was settled peacefully on Gabi’s lap and Zoey, who was too hot for tea, was drinking ice water.
“Are you planning to audition for the school symphony?” she asked her niece.
Gabi shrugged. “They might not have a symphony at this school.”
“They must have a band, at least.” Zoey remarked to Ivy, “Gabi is an excellent flutist. She made second chair in the youth symphony this year, even though she’s only in ninth grade.”
“I know. Her father gave me… I think it’s called alink? To her Christmas concert. The boy who plows the driveway played it for Sylvia and me on his phone. It brought tears to our eyes, we were so proud.”
That was news to Zoey. “I wonder why Scott didn’t send me the link.”
Gabi blew her bangs out of her eyes with a puff from the corner of her mouth. “Probably didn’t think you were interested.”
Her aloof manner told Zoey what must have happened; Scott had forgotten to send it to her because he’d been drinking. Trying not to show her disappointment, she said, “Oh, well. You could give us a private performance now, couldn’t you?”
“I’m too tired. And I haven’t had any practice.”
“You can practice here any time,” Ivy said. “Don’t feel like you have to be quiet on my account, even if I’m napping. I don’t hear anything unless we’re in the same room.”
“Yeah, but my flute might bother Moby. Cats have very sensitive ears.”
Zoey was perplexed by Gabi’s response. Why had she brought her flute if she didn’t intend to play it? Maybe she’d change her mind. It was possible she was more nervous about starting school the next day than she’d let on and she couldn’t focus on playing her instrument right now.
Switching the subject, Zoey hinted, “Aunt Ivy, I don’t think Gabi knows the story about how you met Captain Denny.”
Because Zoey’s great-uncle had died so long before she was born, she never thought of him as Uncle Dennis. To her, he was alwaysDennyorCaptain Denny.Or sometimesAunt Ivy’s husband.She glanced at her aunt, hoping his name wouldn’t trigger tears. But the elderly woman smiled as she set her teacup and saucer on the coffee table.
“Oh, that’s right. The last time you visited, Gabi, you would have been too young for me to tell you about my clandestine courtship.” There was a sparkle in her eye as she beamed at the portrait above the mantel, obviously pleased for the opportunity to tell the story again. Zoey had heard it so often she could have recited it verbatim. But this time, Ivy began by repeating the genealogy Zoey had previously mentioned, since Gabi didn’t have a good grasp of her family’s background.
“Growing up, I lived in Brookline, a suburb just outside Boston. My father was a criminal court judge and my mother was a homemaker. They had three children; me, Charles—your great-grandfather—and Marcus.”
Ivy recounted how when she was a girl, her family rented a house on Dune Island for the entire summer. Although her father’s work kept him in Boston, he’d visit on the weekends or whenever court wasn’t in session. They all loved Benjamin’s Manor so much that her parents bought the Captain Chadwell house the year Ivy was twelve, with the intention of relocating there permanently when her father retired.
“Unfortunately, my mother died when she was forty-one of an aneurysm. Two years after that, my father, a pipe smoker, was diagnosed with esophageal cancer. He lost his voice from a surgery and had to resign from judicial office. I was in my second year of college, so I dropped out in order to care for him.”
“You had to drop out of college when your father got sick?” Gabi asked. “What about your brothers? Didn’t they help you?”
“Well, Charles had his sights set on law school. And Marcus wasn’t in the best health himself. He’d go through bouts of fatigue and respiratory illness. Problems with his muscles, too, especially in his ankles. My mother thought it was because he’d contracted polio as a child, even though he recovered. My father said he was just born with a weak constitution. It left him exhausted and it was assumed I’d take care of him, too. Men weren’t expected to assist with things like that—nursing an ill person back to health was considered women’s work. Regardless, I wanted to do it because I loved my father and my brother dearly.”
Noticing Ivy’s eyes brim with tears, Zoey said, “Maybe we should wait until another time to continue this story.”
“No, no. I haven’t gotten to the best part yet,” Ivy insisted. She took another sip of tea before telling Gabi that since her father needed to stay close to his doctors and the hospital in Boston, they couldn’t relocate to Dune Island year round, as he had planned. But they continued to go there in the summers, when his health permitted. Sometimes his condition improved; more often, it worsened. Toward the end, he decided he wanted to live out his last days on the island, against his physicians’ advice.
