The Family Fortune

when I was on the island and I suppose you could say that next to Priscilla, Isabelle was my closest friend. I often wished I’d asked Isabelle, instead of Priscilla, what I should have done that summer with Max. Isabelle wouldn’t have wanted me to move to California, but she never would have tried to keep me here. In the end, I never told her anything about it. It was silly to be so closemouthed. Maybe if I had talked to a friend about it, I would have gotten it out of my system—or maybe I would have had the courage to track Max down and tell him I had changed my mind.

I kept Priscilla and the rest of the family separate from Isabelle. She was the type of person who would be of no consequence to the Fortunes, and they would end up treating her that way even if they weren’t aware of it. I didn’t want Isabelle to have to deal with that. They knew about her, but they never asked me to invite her over, and I thought that was reason enough not to.

“I don’t know why you’d want to go down and shiver in the cold when you could stay here. We can go to museums, lectures, concerts. We can have a wonderful winter,” Priscilla said.

Of course Boston would be cold, too, but in Priscilla’s world the winter was one warm fire after another in many different venues. Whether she was visiting a friend, drinking at the Ritz, or rolling with Jason under a down comforter, her winters were sedentary and comfortable. Besides, winter is a wonderful season for a knitter. Wool feels so much better between your fingers when it’s cold outside.

All the things Pris offered, the things I had enjoyed all my life, no longer appealed to me. I wanted a windswept shore and my own company. Besides, I needed to get out of town before Guy tracked me down. I didn’t want to get into another weird situation. A woman my age should know her own mind, and until I did, I thought it best to stay away from him.

Chapter 27 Jane makes her escape to the island

Seeing Max again had opened up old wounds, and like a sick dog who hides under the porch, I wanted to go someplace I could nurse my injuries.

I drove off the ferry into a blustering island wind. My friend Isabelle had faxed me directions to the cottage. It all happened quickly, because the owners of the house were as desperate for the rent as I was to disappear.

Even on a cold gray day, the gingerbread cottages in Oak Bluffs make you think of fairy tales. If your life were a toy, this is where you’d live. The small houses are multicolored—lavender, white, green, orange, yellow, and purple. I drove past one with heart-shaped cutouts around the trim and another with intricate scrollwork. My house was blue with cathedral windows—a sanctuary. I parked the car, went to the door, and, as instructed, pulled the key out from under a ceramic garden gnome. The house was miniature but complete. I walked through the front room, decorated in wicker and white denim, and into the kitchen at the back. Someone had turned on the heat and filled the refrigerator with groceries. Isabelle.

I spent the afternoon unpacking. Instead of acting with my usual efficiency, I took it slow. I put my clothes into closets and drawers with a dreamy disregard for time. I listened to the radio for company. A commentator was reviewing Max’s new book. It wasn’t the first review I’d heard, but it was the nastiest. He called the book a “puerile puddle of palaver.” Obviously the critic was in love with the sound of words in his own mouth.

Max had been widely reproached for Post because, though Max was known for his humor and social satire, this time he had attacked a serious subject. They said he was obviously trying to write his “important” novel. Thirty-nine is a good age to try to write your “important” novel. This one was about a family on Long Island in the aftermath of 9/11. I could have told him this was a subject that should be avoided, if only because of the slew of stories I received that tried to say something about it and failed. Only time would make that subject somewhat manageable, and there hadn’t been enough of it. Maybe there never would be.

The book was selling well, based on Max’s reputation alone. There was also some talk of awards, so not everyone agreed that he’d reached over his head.

I took my copy of Post from the pile of books I’d brought to the island and put it on my night table.

That evening I met Isabelle and her son Jimmy at the Black Dog for dinner. Isabelle’s thick curly hair was tied back with a silver clasp. She didn’t look much older than she had on the day she left Wellesley. She had an innocence and an energy about her. Though her life had not been easy, she always put a positive spin on it. Being bright and resourceful, she had known just what to do with the bakery to attract the wealthy islanders and tourists. Isabelle had been serving cappuccino and espresso long before expensive coffee chains became a blight on the landscape.

“I can’t believe you filled the refrigerator,” I said before even saying hello.

“Why not?”

I gave Jimmy a peck on the cheek. Last year when I saw him, he was a boy, but now he had the look of a man. He even held out my chair. I smiled at Isabelle. She gave me a proud-parent smile in return.

“No one in my own family would ever think to do anything like that for me.”

“No offense, Jane, but your family brings new levels of meaning to the term self- centered.”

I laughed. Jimmy looked at me like he didn’t know how having your family insulted could be so funny.

“How are they anyway?” Isabelle asked.

“Teddy and Miranda are in Palm Beach for the winter. Or, as they put it—they are wintering in Palm Beach. The truth is, they spent so much money we had to rent out our house to rebuild our capital.”

“The only reason I’m surprised,” Isabelle said, “is that I was under the impression that there was so much money to begin with, to go through it all would take a real effort.”

“That may be the only real effort they ever made,” I said. “Let’s just say that they had few frugal habits.”

We ordered hamburgers and clam chowder.

“We should keep that between ourselves,” I said. “They think they’re putting one over on everyone.” I felt foolish even as I said it, but Isabelle knew everything about everyone on the island, and although she never had bad intentions, she could sometimes be indiscreet.

“Who do they think cares?” Isabelle asked.

“Society at large,” I said in an overblown voice.

She laughed. “A family that believes they are living in a Henry James novel. How picturesque. So, Jane, what brings you here in the dead of winter? Not that we aren’t delighted to have you.”

Both Isabelle and Jimmy looked at me with the same expression. Jimmy was a handsome kid, dark hair, olive skin, dark eyes. He had Isabelle’s coloring, but otherwise he didn’t look much like her. I had wondered, at times, who his father was, but it wasn’t the kind of question I’d ever ask, even of a close friend like Isabelle.

“Could you picture me in Palm Beach?” I asked. “Lime green is not exactly my color. I don’t play golf. Besides, I’m sure they rented a nice apartment, but still, we’d be on top of each other.”

There was one more important reason, a reason I hadn’t even admitted to myself—and that was that they hadn’t asked me. Miranda had replaced me with Dolores as easily as she might have replaced a Gucci loafer with a Jack Purcell sneaker.

I had built what little self-concept I had on certain bricks, and one of them was that I was essential to my father and sister. Essential? I wasn’t even necessary.

In my little gingerbread house I had time to think—too much time. I had never lived alone. I spent time alone, but Miranda and Teddy were always coming and going and just having them in the house changed the quality of the solitude.

Every morning I went to Isabelle’s bakery for coffee and muffins. Once a week I received a package from Tad. Even though we had chosen the winner of the fellowship, we still had to fill the Review. Mornings, I sat at my desk on the second floor of my little house looking out onto the other cottages, most of which were empty in winter, and read the stories, made the choices, and sent them back. I also took care of other foundation business—wrote checks and personal rejection letters for the stories we