Chapter 4 - Sunlight in Lisbon, Storms at Home
Lisbon in late spring is a city of pale limestone, golden light, and laundry that flutters from wrought-iron balconies like maritime signal flags.
I woke up at 7:30 AM in a room with twelve-foot ceilings and tall, shuttered French windows that opened onto the Rua da Prata. The morning air was cool, carrying the faint, bitter scent of roasted coffee beans and salt water from the river.
Joyce was already awake, sitting at the small round mahogany table in her bathrobe, spreading pale butter onto a crusty roll.
“You slept for nine hours straight,” Joyce observed without looking up from her guidebook. “You didn't even snore. I checked twice to see if you were still breathing.”
I sat up, pushing the heavy white duvet aside. My neck felt remarkably good. For the first time in five years, I hadn't spent the night listening for the sound of someone coughing down the hall, or waking up at 4:00 AM wondering if I had remembered to buy the low-sodium chicken broth for Charles’s soup.
“I feel strange,” I said, resting my bare feet on the cool hardwood floor.
“That’s called rest, Myrna. You’ve been deprived of it for so long you think it’s a medical symptom. Get dressed. The walking tour leaves the Praça do Comércio at nine, and I intend to eat three of those custard tarts before we climb the first hill.”
I walked over to the nightstand where my purse lay. Inside, buried beneath my sunglasses and my passport wallet, was my phone.
I hadn't turned it on since we took off from Newark.
“Don't do it,” Joyce said mildly, turning a page. “Whatever is on that little glass screen will still be there at five o’clock this afternoon when we’re having a glass of vinho verde by the water.”
“I have to know if the children are all right, Joyce,” I said. “Patrice is seventy-one. She’s strong, but Maggie can climb over a baby gate in four seconds flat if she sees a stray marker.”
I picked up the phone and pressed the power button.
The screen lit up with the Apple logo, followed by the desktop wallpaper—a picture of Finn and Chloe at the beach two summers ago, their noses covered in zinc oxide.
Then the notifications hit.
There were six missed calls from Caleb, twelve from Tori, and forty-three text messages in the family group chat.
I opened Tori’s first message, sent eighteen hours ago:
*‘Myrna, how could you do this? How could you put my mother in this position? You knew we were on a fourteen-hour flight. You abandoned your grandchildren.’*
The second message, sent three minutes later:
*‘Call me immediately. We are looking into changing our flights back right now. If our trip is ruined because of your selfishness, Caleb and I will not forget this.’*
The third message, sent at 3:00 AM Lisbon time:
*‘My mother is refusing to answer my calls. What did you say to her? What lies did you tell her before you left?’*
And then, nestled among the barrage of anger, was a single text from Caleb, sent at 4:12 AM:
*‘Mom. I’m sorry. I found the text from April. You did tell me. I’m so sorry. Please be safe in Portugal.’*
I stared at Caleb’s text for a long time. The anger in Tori’s messages didn't hurt me; it was the noise of a spoiled child who had reached for the candy jar and found the lid screwed tight. But Caleb’s short, broken apology settled heavily into the base of my throat.
*He knew,* I thought. *He knew the entire time, and he let her do it anyway because it was easier to break his mother’s heart than to cross his wife.*
My finger hovered over the keyboard. I could call him. I could explain that Patrice was fine, that the kids were safe, that they didn't have to ruin their anniversary. I could apologize for the drama. I could smooth the waters, just as I had smoothed them every Thanksgiving, every Christmas, every family vacation where Tori threw a fit because the beach rental didn't have a Sub-Zero refrigerator.
“Myrna,” Joyce said.
I looked up. Joyce had put down her guidebook. She was watching me with narrow, intelligent eyes.
“Put the phone down,” she said gently.
“He apologized, Joyce.”
“Of course he apologized,” Joyce said, standing up and taking the phone directly out of my hand. She laid it face-down on the mahogany table. “Caleb is a Higgins. He has your husband’s manners and your husband’s fear of unpleasantness. But if you fix this for him from three thousand miles away, he will never learn how to stand up on his own two feet. Let him sit in Tokyo and think about what kind of man he wants to be.”
She walked to the wardrobe, pulled out my walking shoes, and tossed them onto the bed.
“Now put your socks on. We have an eleven-hundred-year-old castle to look at, and you are not spending your morning acting as a remote-control therapist for two thirty-five-year-old toddlers.”
I looked at the shoes, then at the French doors where the sunlight was turning the balcony rail into solid gold.
I took a deep breath, walked into the bathroom, and splashed cold water on my face.
***
Meanwhile, four thousand miles away in New Jersey, Patrice Miller was standing in her kitchen wearing an apron that read *‘I am not bossy, I just have better ideas.’*
The kitchen was spotless, despite the fact that four children were seated at the farm table.
Eli was peeling potatoes with an old-fashioned swivel peeler, his movements methodical and quiet. Chloe was setting the table with everyday stoneware, counting the forks under her breath to make sure each place had two. Finn was sitting on the floor with a coloring book, completely engrossed in turning an elephant bright orange, while Maggie sat in a high-backed dining chair, happily threading large wooden beads onto a shoelace.
The red folder lay on the sideboard, unopened.
The front doorbell rang.
Patrice dried her hands on a linen towel, walked through the hallway, and opened the door.
Standing on her porch was Linda Vance, Patrice’s bridge partner and neighborhood confidante, holding a clipboard and a plate of blueberry scones.
“Patrice,” Linda said, peering into the foyer with avid curiosity. “Your car wasn't at the club this morning. Marge said you called and canceled the entire weekend tournament. Is everything all right? We heard... well, someone saw four car seats in your garage.”
Patrice looked at Linda with the mild, terrifying serenity of a woman who had nothing to hide and everything to protect.
“My grandchildren are visiting,” Patrice said smoothly.
“For two weeks?” Linda pressed, craning her neck to see Eli through the hallway arch. “Without Caleb and Tori? I thought Tori was going to Tokyo for that marketing seminar.”
“Tori is in Tokyo,” Patrice replied. “And Myrna is in Lisbon. And I am here, teaching my grandchildren how to peel a potato and speak to their elders without checking an iPhone every four seconds. Would you like a scone, Linda, or did you come to conduct a census?”
Linda’s mouth twitched. “Well, I just wondered if you needed any help. Four children at your age—”
“At my age,” Patrice interrupted, her voice dropping into that chilling, quiet register, “I have the distinct advantage of not caring what anyone thinks of my schedule. The children are well. Eli is helping with the pot roast, and Chloe is learning how to set a table without using paper napkins. Tell Marge I will be back at the bridge table next month, and tell the committee that if anyone touches my parking spot by the pool, I will have their car towed.”
She took the plate of scones from Linda’s hands with a pleasant smile. “Thank you for these. Have a lovely morning, Linda.”
She closed the door before Linda could answer, locked the deadbolt with a satisfying click, and walked back into the kitchen.
“Eli,” Patrice said, setting the scones on the island.
The fourteen-year-old looked up, his face cautious. “Yes, Grandma?”
“Why did your mother have a red folder with thirty-six pages of instructions for your grandmother Myrna, but didn't leave a single note for me?”
Eli put the potato peeler down on the cutting board. He looked at his sisters, then down at the potato skin curled on the counter.
“Because,” Eli said in a low voice, “Mom knows Grandma Myrna does what she’s told. And she knows you don't.”
Patrice stood very still for three seconds. Then she walked over to the boy, rested her hand on the back of his neck, and gave it a brief, warm squeeze.
May you like
“Your mother,” Patrice said softly, “is about to learn that both of her grandmothers have retired from the customer service industry. Now finish those potatoes. We have pot roast to make.”
***
