Page 24 of Look on the Bright Side

“I really liked them.”

“Whatever. But it’s my grandmother who matters here.”

“Got it. Have a nice evening, Lorenzo.” She picked up Connery and her bag and went to the front door.

He did not walk her to the car. He didn’t say “take care” or “thanks.” In fact, he closed the door before she was even in her car.

“I can see why you had to rent me,” she called, waving to the house, though she was sure by now Lorenzo Santini had dismissed her from his mind entirely.

Once, with Justin, it had seemed so easy, the idea of a happy marriage. Love had been effortless. Even in high school, her siblings had called her and Justin Mom and Dad 2.0. She couldn’t remember her parents ever fighting. That was how she and Justin had planned on being. Had been, in fact. Happily ever after. A modern-day fairy tale.

It seemed so long ago.

FOUR

ELLIE

The day Elsbeth Smith’s life veered off the road was completely, charmingly normal right up to the moment of impact.

First order of the day: Kiss husband. Intentionally, not just a peck. Second, text the kids in birth order—Harlow, Addison, Lark, Winnie and Robbie—and tell them to have a wonderful and meaningful day. Sure, they made fun of her for this, but she didn’t care. She was used to it.

Third, get to work. Bills to pay and all that.

She’d driven down to Long Pond Arts, her gallery down by the marsh with its picturesque view of Uncle Tim’s Bridge and Hamblen Island, before eight. Turned on the lights, opened the back door, since it was a sparkling day and the smell of the salt water was irresistible. She spent an hour and a half working upstairs on her latest—the third in a series of autumn on the cranberry bog. Each painting showed the same view, but at different times of day—dawn, with a golden and lavender sunrise, mist clinging to the trees at the edge; full afternoon, with the berries glowing red, the sky’s vivid blue contrasting with the bright white clouds; and number three here, the bog in late evening, a sliver of a moon rising, reflecting in the water.

She’d changed the gallery’s hours to be from nine thirty to six last year, worried that waiting till ten meant losing foot traffic that could translate to more sales. No one was here yet, though, so she wrapped up a painting for a lovely young couple who’d ordered something via the website, jotted them a note of thanks and left it for Meeko, her beautiful and lazy Lithuanian assistant, to address and ship.

“Good morning, and you’re late, Meeko, honey,” she said as he slouched in.

“Traffic very bad today,” he lied.

“Leave earlier next time.” She smiled firmly until he nodded, then went into the office. Inventory, orders, banking, emails, sales, updating the website, while Meeko, seemingly exhausted, dragged a feather duster along the shelves, phone in one hand.

People came and went, and whenever possible, Ellie popped out to welcome them. “Hi! Thanks for stopping in! Where are you from? Beautiful day, isn’t it?” She rang up smaller purchases—handmade ceramic mugs, limited edition prints, charming cards, mobiles, coasters…the type of merchandise that filled in the gaps between sales of actual paintings and sculptures. Texted Gerald a note that said she couldn’t wait to sit on the deck this evening, and received a martini emoji and heart as a response.

She smiled at her phone. God, she was lucky. They both were. Thirty-eight years of marriage, and they still flirted. Still loved each other. Still had a more than healthy sex life. Just this past September, the last of the kids had finally flown the nest when Lark got that sweet little guesthouse—and she and Gerald had adjusted to the slower rhythm at home, eating later, talking more.

At first, sure, it had been an adjustment. A natural one, she read, but a little surprising nonetheless. Without the kids as a cushion, they’d bumped and scraped more than they ever had. Had it always taken Gerald so long to finish a project? Could he ever completely clean up the kitchen, or was he marking his territory by leaving crumbs on the counter? And how about the garage? It had been built for housing a car, not the myriad tools he still wasn’t quite sure how to use. Their house had always been in a state of charming disrepair, but things were getting a little more shabby these days. Since Gerald had retired fully, she had hoped the glacial pace of getting things done would have picked up a bit. It had not.

Ellie loved home projects, but just didn’t have the time. If their positions had been reversed, she would’ve done repairs systematically, finishing what she started before tackling something new, as was her way. Without Robbie there, kicking off his shoes and leaving them in the middle of the floor, without Lark coming home from the hospital needing to eat and talk about her day, every little flaw of home and husband seemed magnified. It had felt weird. Just the two of them. Not bad, but weird.

Gerald had felt it, too. He’d even snapped at her one day—“Do you ever hear something I said the first time I say it?” It was so unlike him—unlike them. Yes, she’d been tuning him out, because the truth was, she wasn’t actually fascinated by the story of his trip to Ace Hardware in Eastham. But point taken. She had apologized and feigned interest in his adventures in screen door repair, though a hummingbird could fit through the hole that was still there. A little less talk, a little more action, Gerald, please?

Another fight came in October after she asked if he could be more aware of leaving knives in the sink after he used them. The man loved his knives. God forbid they had the kind that could go in the dishwasher. And God forbid Gerald wash them within an hour of using them. Nope. Apparently, there was a man-rule that if you used a knife, you waited for your wife to come home to wash it and put it back, then inform her you were going to do that, so she didn’t have to.

But whatever little bumps and scrapes they’d encountered had smoothed out by winter, and she once again felt like they were the happiest couple on the Cape, which was what everyone considered them. Sure, more time off, more time away would’ve been nice, but it wasn’t in the cards at the moment. Her career—her paintings, the gallery—was as demanding as ever. More so, really. Gerald took care of the house and yard (more or less) and did errands for his dad and their kids. She earned. It wasn’t how she’d expected it to be, but it wasn’t so bad, either.

Just too busy.

Around lunchtime, Ellie took her salad into the little courtyard behind the gallery. A family of geese paddled past, placid and calm, reminding her of herself when the kids were little. Happy times. She missed that. These days, family dinners were always at Addison and Nicole’s, since they had such a big and splendid house and did things like iron napkins and make place cards. Lots of times, Ellie would stop by the bookstore to find two or three of her other children hanging around, chatting with Harlow or Robert, her father-in-law. All the kids revered Grandpop. Sometimes, they took him out en masse or went over to make him dinner. They didn’t do that with her and Gerald. It made Ellie feel a little left out.

Those days when her little goslings had followed her, confident that she would keep them safe and make their lives fun…she missed those days.

Through the window, she could see Meeko standing mournfully by the window, taking selfies as he practiced his hello, I am an Eastern European model poses in front of some of the larger canvases.

She put the lid back on her salad container and went inside. “Meeko? Did you update the website?” she asked.

“No. Tomorrow I do it.”

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