“And Sid dropped in maybe six months ago, and he knew about it,” Annie added.
“Sid Banton?
Sid, Fran’s son, was Gina and Cassie’s only cousin, eight years Gina’s senior.
“He’s thinking of moving back to Whit’s Point. I would imagine he was interested in checking in on the house where he grew up.”
Gina detected sarcasm in Lester’s remark, and no wonder. She and Cassie must have seemed more than a little drunk—off the wall. In the awkward silence that followed, the angry voices of Gina’s mother, Sid, and Fran pushed into Gina’s head; she nearly turned to see if they’d come into the room.
“Fran and Sid must’ve taken everything in that hiding place,” Cassie said, as if she, too, had heard ghosts. “Including the Washington letters.”
Lester smiled. “Well, now that’s funny, because Sid thinks you two must have those letters,” he said.
“What?” Cassie’s face looked ready to pop. “He’s so full of it! The Bantons were all liars and loose cannons!”
Gina touched Cassie’s arm to stop her from unleashing more. She felt the constriction of memories, of night pressing in, of wishing and wanting for things that couldn’t be had.
“Will you stay and have some leftover chicken?” Annie asked.
Gina raced Cassie to answer. “Thank you, Annie, but we’ve got a lot to do at the house before the funeral and should get going.”
As the four of them walked to the front door, Cassie’s eyes swept over the room and she sighed. “Mom always wanted to live here,” she said.
“Oh no,” Annie said. “I don’t think that’s true. Not always.”
Lester opened the door, and Cassie and Gina stepped out. “Listen, you two,” Annie said, “I want you to come back, anytime. Don’t be strangers.”
In the driveway, Gina took the car keys from Cassie and had the thought that this was another last: the last time she’d be at Lily House. Like all the other lasts this week, she put it in a box that would sit until she dared to open it.
When they got back to the house, Gina put some water on to boil for pasta, and they went back to work, numbly sorting through the things from the attic.
“Did you see Sid’s stuff?” Cassie pointed at a box, and Gina reached over and pulled out a model airplane labeled “WW2 P 51.” Underneath it were more boy toys—a book about military uniforms, a filthy baseball, and a photograph of their mother beaming at a young Sid, holding the tiller of their O Boat. In his smiling boyish face, she saw the flash of hurt she remembered about him, the long dark eyebrows so arched they could suspend a bridge. She held up the picture for Cassie to see.
“Mom was obsessed with him,” Cassie sneered.
Gina knew that after a couple of drinks, Cassie wouldn’t be able to let the subject of Sid drop; she couldn’t stand him. Their mother had adored Sid as a little boy. He was two when she became pregnant with Cassie, and she was so sure she was carrying a boy that she’d never picked out a girl’s name. She let this bit of information slip in front of Cassie when she was thirteen, establishing a life-long resentment.
“Sid lived with us for a while, you know,” Cassie said. “But Mom never told us why. She taught him to sail, not me, because he was a boy.”
“Cass, he looks like he was about nine. She taught him and not you because you were, like, six.”
“Right. Do you suppose he’ll show up at the funeral?”
Gina shrugged. “Probably. They were his only aunt and uncle.”
Cassie groaned, and Gina filled with dread too; she had her own awful memory of Sid. She was ten when she last saw him at Fran’s funeral, where he was cloaked in black and Banton enmity. “You must speak to Sid,” her mother had coached her, squeezing her hand. But after everything that had happened, Gina couldn’t bear to even look at him.
“I can’t believe he had the gall to tell Annie and Lester he thinks we have the Washington letters,” Cassie said. “It can’t be a coincidence that he got into the antiques business in New York—he probably funded it by selling family stuff from Lily House.”
The thought that family fighting over things like the Washington letters could go on for another generation made Gina’s stomach hurt. “You never know,” she said. “Maybe Mom’s the one who was lying about who had what.”
“Well we know she wasn’t above lying,” Cassie said.
Gina felt suddenly that her time with Cassie at the house, taxed enough by grim circumstances, was churning into a downward spiral. She resolved not to entertain any more negative commentary about their mother or any other family member.
Reaching into a bag full of Christmas tree ornaments, she pulled out a box containing an angel made of glass with a delicate halo and lacy wire wings. Every year, the girls had taken turns climbing up to place her at the top of the tree. Gina was about to remark on its loveliness when Cassie crowed, “Look! It’s the angel with nine lives! Veteran of Christmas wars! God! Mom found a way to ruin every Christmas! She just had to have a fight with somebody. Fran. Or Dad. Or me. Whoever.” She began to laugh. A soft, gurgling laugh that slowly swelled to a whoop.
Her laughter seemed impetuous and was so forceful, Gina felt an almost physical sensation of being pushed away. “Cassie, you’re drunk!”
Cassie slapped Gina’s knee. “Imagine just canceling Christmas on your kids! It’s so awful it’s hilarious!” She laughed harder, rocking back and forth on the rug, tears streaking her cheeks. “Was that the last time you were at Lily House? The year of the Christmas-that-never-was? Or did you forget—remember your wall-of-forgetting?
Gina felt the strength drain out of her. Cassie was right—that was the last time Gina had been at Lily House. But it was Cassie who seemed to have forgotten—maybe because she’d been away, happily skiing with a friend—that the canceled Christmas had come on the heels of Fran’s suicide.
Cassie was still tittering. “Stop!” Gina yelled. “Please stop!” She flushed with heat as if she were wrapped in plastic. “We need some fresh air in here!” She lurched to the window and flung up the sash. “Shit!”
“The storm windows are still on,” Cassie said. She slumped onto the couch. “I’m sorry. It’s because of all the work fixing the shed roof. I was up here fifteen weekends this year, and we only got the ones upstairs off. I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing!” Gina snapped. “It doesn’t matter—it’s not our house!”
“Oh,” Cassie said, “It’s just that . . . you’re hardly ever here and now there’ll be no reason for you to come east.” To Gina, Cassie looked a lot like their mother right now, her body sunken into the couch cushions, tears that turned her big eyes into glittery martyr jewels.
“Don’t be silly! I’ll come to see you in Providence.”
“It’s just not the same. Here . . . now . . . without the house.”
“Cass, stop! What’re you saying? You’ve always griped about coming to Maine. And anyway, we were miserable here. Admit it. You’re as finished with the house as I am.” Her eyes stung with the uncertainty of this stern pronouncement.
The ship’s clock chimed, followed by the groan of a lighthouse and for the first time, Cassie didn’t announce which one. She stood and slinked into the kitchen.
With a shaking hand, Gina carefully laid the glass angel in its wooden box. When she heard Cassie draining the pasta, she joined her, and they sat down