Page 66 of Seven Summer Weekends

And while Addison knew that all the girls probably received similar encouragement from Mrs.Glass, poor Gicky was likely already knee-deep in homemaking activities—parenting her kid brother and getting dinner on the table nightly. She had deserved more than she got from Addison’s father.

The next thing she pulled from the box really sealed the deal: a pile of cards and whatnots, neatly tied up with an old satin ribbon. She carefully pulled it loose, hoping to replicate the perfectbow when she put it back together, and was amazed to see that the pile was all Morty. She carefully unfolded a couple of letters home from sleepaway camp.

Dear Gicky,

My friend Bernie cries every night. I don’t do that, but I do miss you. Please bring me a salami on visiting day.

Love, your brother, Morty

Dear Gicky,

I passed my swimming test. I’m a minnow. Bernie is only a guppy. He cried. Please bring me Vanilla Charleston Chews and Cherry Sours on visiting day.

Love, your brother, Morty

His fifth-grade report card, filled with marks of Unsatisfactory and Needs Improvement versus his seventh-grade straight As, had her thinking about what Margot said regarding Gicky teaching Morty to read. Her disappointment in her father was really getting to her—breaking her heart. She decided to call him back. If anything was really to be learned by what happened between the two Irwin siblings, it should be not to let things come between family.

The minute Addison heard her father’s remorseful tone, it broke her resolve. What good would berating him really do? He was clearly doing that enough on his own.

“I’m sorry I was mean on our call, Daddy, I know this all must have been so hard for you, and with Gicky leaving me this house—well, I can’t even imagine what you’re feeling.”

The other end of the phone was quiet until Addison realized her father was crying. She gave him a minute to get it together. In the end, it was more like three.

“I—I—I,” he finally stammered, “I wish I could do it over again. All the emails I wrote and didn’t send. All the time, I was more concerned with who was right and who was wrong. It all feels so pointless now. What did it all matter? I never got to tell her I forgave her. I never got to ask her for forgiveness.”

“She forgave you, Daddy.”

“How do you know?”

“I know. She made a broken heart out of that soup terrine. She only made things for the people she loved.”

As she said it she thought about Shep’s claim that there was a painting for him too, somewhere. He didn’t seem to fit into the same category as the others. It gave her pause. And while she still put off having her parents visit and would always be disappointed in what had transpired between the older Irwin children, she forgave her father too.

Maybe she was on the path to enlightenment after all.

She forgot about the scones in the oven.

“Fuck me,” she cursed, while dumping a burnt batch in the garbage.

Maybe she had a ways to go on that path.

The day went by in the way it does when you get caught up in things and time passes quickly. Like one of those high-speed trains from London to Paris—whoosh—suddenly it was five o’clock.

Just as she realized the time, there was a knock on the back door. Her heart smiled, and she jumped him—all five foot nine of her leapt into Ben’s arms. His tall frame was planted so solidly in the ground, he didn’t even rock. It really turned her on.

They made love on the braided living room rug, and though, most of the time, Addison was feeling and moaning and pleasing and being pleased, the fact that she was having sex on the floor of her aunt Gicky’s living room interrupted her pleasure more than once. If she stayed, she thought, she would update the living room a bit, make it more her own. Maybe a new couch, and definitely a new rug.

“What are you thinking about?” Ben asked, staring up at the ceiling afterward.

“That I wish those people weren’t coming to see the house tomorrow.”

“It looks good.” He spun around, adding, “Even that pile of boxes looks neat.”

“Well, that’s Addie’s fault. There should be twice as many cartons. Addison would have hoovered through this place, leaving little in her wake, but Addie seems to be a sentimental fool.” She turned onto her side to face him and reintroduced herself in the vernacular of an AA meeting.

“Hi, I’m Addie, and I’m a hoarder.”

He laughed. “Hi, Addie.”

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