Good Harbor

The trooper shook Joyce’s hand, then asked Kathleen, “How are you, uh, feeling these days?”

“I’m going to be fine,” Kathleen said firmly.

“Good. Well, that’s what I heard. Good. Well, I’ve got to go, but say hi to Mr. Levine and tell Hal he better call the next time he’s up.”

“Tell Cynthia I said hello, too.

“I remember him in kindergarten,” Kathleen said. “Such a shy little guy. He fell sound asleep once during story time. He graduated a year after Hal. Now look at him. And a father.”

Their food came, and Kathleen relaxed a little. She told Joyce her neighbor had brought over three more marijuana cigarettes. “For my appetite,” Kathleen said. “I guess Louisa thinks I need fattening up.”

“I’d have to agree with her there,” said Joyce. “But who is this Louisa person? A drug dealer?”

Kathleen laughed. “You should see Louisa; the epitome of the genteel New England lady. She must be nearly eighty. But when her husband had stomach cancer a few years ago, the marijuana helped him get through the chemo.” Louisa Moore Bendix’s life was a great story, from her grandmother the prohibitionist to her great-grandchildren who lived in Kuwait. Joyce listened gratefully, realizing how little she had to talk about.

Nina loved camp, but her notes were unremarkable. And what can you say about painting? Frank was still missing in action, and this wasn’t the best time to begin a conversation about her marriage. Most of all, Joyce didn’t want to talk about the only thing on her mind. I’ve been so obsessed with Patrick, I didn’t even notice that Kathleen was in trouble.

Kathleen started to fold her napkin.

“Oh, no,” said Joyce, “we’re having dessert.”

“Tell me again how blue tastes of chocolate,” Kathleen teased, as Joyce coaxed her into finishing the brownie sundae, taking every bite as a personal victory. Kathleen’s watch was loose on her wrist.

As they got into the car, Joyce said, “Let’s go for a walk. Doctor’s orders.”

Kathleen tucked her hands under her thighs to avoid gripping the handle again and said with a heavy sigh, “I don’t know.”

Joyce pretended not to hear and turned toward her house. “We can stop and pick up a couple of hats. And I want to show you inside.”

“Maybe I’ll just wait in the car.”

“Please come in for a minute? No one’s seen it yet.”

“What do you mean? Surely Frank’s seen it.”

Joyce shook her head.

“He hasn’t been up at all?”

“No.”

“But it’s been weeks, hasn’t it?”

“A few, I guess. He’s busy at work.”

Kathleen wondered whether she should ask about Frank again. “Mind your business” had been the motto of her childhood. But now that seemed like a failing in a friend.

Joyce’s face betrayed nothing as she swung the car into her driveway and got out. “Ta-da,” she sang out as they walked into the house.

The living room, empty except for a beanbag chair and an off-white rug, was honey-colored — almost golden — in the full light.

“Wonderful,” Kathleen said.

“Come see.” Joyce gestured for her to follow down the hall. Her office, a translucent pink, was bare except for a calendar over an uncluttered desk.

“How pretty,” Kathleen said in the bathroom.

“Don’t look at this,” said Joyce, closing the door on the paint cans and ladder in the master bedroom.