The Family Fortune

I looked at Max to see what his reaction would be. Shoes were more personal than scarves. He looked at me and smiled.

“You didn’t have to do it,” he said.

“I know,” I said.

“They’re beautiful shoes,” he said.

“I’m glad you like them.”

He reached over, took my hand, and squeezed it. When he received Heather’s gift—gloves—and Lindsay’s—a Tiffany money clip—he kissed them both, Heather on the cheek, and Lindsay softly on the lips.

“I don’t understand the shoes,” Lindsay said. She seemed disgruntled.

“It is a bit of an odd choice,” Marion said, “though they are very nice shoes.”

“Very nice,” Winnie said.

There comes a time in the course of longing when being with the person becomes more painful than being without them. I didn’t have a plan, didn’t know where I was going, but I knew I had to go somewhere. I didn’t love the idea of packing up my things and heading into the unknown, so I made a plan: I’d go look for Jack Reilly. I was on a quest, and you always have a direction when you are on a quest.

Up in my room I tried to pack, but Winnie kept taking things from my suitcase and hanging them back up in the closet.

“Jane, you have to come with us. Everyone’s counting on you.” I hardly thought that everyone was counting on me. In fact, I was pretty sure that at least one person—Lindsay—would be thrilled to get rid of me. I wasn’t obtuse enough not to notice her eyeing me when she thought I wasn’t looking. She seemed to think me some kind of rival, though she was so obviously wrong.

I might still want Max, based on some fantasy of first love, but I had to be realistic. The best thing I could do was go away. I was a bit worried about leaving Winnie, but she had managed her marriage without me all these years.

“Stop that, will you,” I said, and grabbed a blouse Winnie had just unfolded. I tried to pull it away from her. “Even if I do come, I still have to pack.”

“I suppose,” she said, and let go of the shirt. She sat on the bed. “So you might come?”

“Absolutely not.”

“You are so stubborn sometimes,” Winnie said. I hardly thought so. Too often I was willing to sway to the will of anyone who came within a square mile of me. “But you love to ski.”

I looked out the window onto the field and the woods beyond. A light snow covered everything. Winnie was right. I loved to ski. People were so friendly on a mountain. And on a mountain there was nothing wrong with being a “single.” It usually meant you could cut the lift lines. So a mountain was one place where you benefited from being alone.

“What will you do?” Winnie asked.

“I’ll think of something.” I didn’t tell her about Jack Reilly—it would have been too much to explain—nor did I tell her I’d already made a reservation at the Inn at Long Last in Vermont, not far from Jack Reilly’s last known address.

Winnie stood up.

“I’m sending Max up to ask you himself.” If she thought that I wasn’t going with them just because I hadn’t received an express invitation, she was—half right.

“Don’t,” I said. “Please, I’m not dressed.” I was wearing a flannel granny gown. I had put it on when I came back from a long and chilling walk.

“He’ll be right up.” She moved toward the door. “Put on a robe.”

“No, Winnie,” I almost shouted. I had the helpless feeling of a child unable to avoid punishment. Winnie called to Max from the upstairs landing.

My robe was worse than my nightgown. It was pink terry cloth with the nap worn at the elbows. I looked around, panicked. How would it look if I slipped into the closet and shut the door behind me? The indignity of being found cowering behind Winnie’s out-of-season coats just about outweighed the potential benefit of hiding. Did I have time to change?

“Jane?” Max was already in the hall.

“Yes?” I yelped like an adolescent boy. I tried to sound as put together as I could, to gather my dignity, to act as if it were perfectly all right for him to see me dressed like a pink polar bear.

Max poked his head into the room as if he were wary about what he might find inside my lair. I wanted to growl at him, but I managed to contain myself.

“Can I come in?” Max asked.

If you must, I thought.

“Of course,” I said.

He slipped in and stood by the door. I remained near my suitcase and pushed a pair of frayed underpants to the bottom.

“Everyone wants you to come to Vermont with us,” he said.

“Does that everyone include you?” I asked. He stepped farther into the room and sat on an armchair in the corner. He picked up a book from the ottoman, examined it, then put it back down. He leaned his arms on his knees and stared down at the carpet.

“People move on,” he said. He didn’t look up.

“Of course they do.” I kept my voice light and continued to poke at the things in my suitcase.

“Have you?” he asked, and raised his head. I looked at him for just a moment. There was a thud against my ribs, so loud and heavy it felt like a small animal had collapsed inside my chest.

“Of course I have. It’s been fifteen years. What did you think?” I lied.

“Then we can be friends.” He stood up and came over to where I was standing. He stuck out his hand. My hand, when I extended it toward his, was dry and chapped. I was embarrassed by my own hand.

Friends. How could it possibly hurt so much after so many years? Why had I never gone after him? Why was I so afraid? Why hadn’t he come after me?

“I’ll meet you up there,” I said, and turned back to my packing.

“Fine,” he said. “But just know there’s plenty of room at the ski house.” He seemed disoriented now. He’d done his duty, played the gracious host, and now he was ready to move on.

I watched him leave the room, then walked over to the door, closed it, and went back to sit on the bed.

“Letting go is very difficult for me.” I said this out loud, but in a soft voice. Who would hear me? Who would come, sit beside me, and say, “Yes, but, Jane, it’s time.”

Chapter 20 The Inn at Long Last

The address I had for Jack Reilly was in southern Vermont, not too far from the house Max had rented in Londonderry. Maybe by the time I showed up I’d have Jack Reilly in tow.

I left Winnie’s early the next morning and arrived in Vermont before noon. I checked into the Inn at Long Last on Main Street in Chester. The inn was a large white Colonial, complete with burgundy runners on the stairs, Oriental carpets, Windsor chairs in the lobby, highboys, lowboys, overstuffed sofas, and two working fireplaces. It had the flavor of our house, only nothing in it was authentic; everything was a replica.

As I headed up the stairs behind the bellboy, we passed a man who looked familiar. He was soap-opera-star handsome with blue black hair, a chiseled jaw, and a cleft chin. He smiled and nodded. I smiled back. The look he gave me was one of admiration. I was not the type of woman who was always thinking that men were looking at her that way, but this look was unmistakable. Even I could recognize it.

I left my things in my room and went back outside. I grabbed a cup of coffee at a diner next door and examined my map. By my calculations, Jack Reilly was about twenty minutes away. I wore my green suit. Unfortunately, my camel overcoat had seen better days, but I could always take it off before I got out of the