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I ARRIVED AT DONNIE’S right on time for dinner, bursting to share the news that Fontanne Masterman wanted to sell the Brewster House to me. Us. She wanted to sell it to us.
If I was going to get married, I really had to start thinking in terms of us, something that as an only child I had never had to do. My only experience that approached having siblings was sharing a dorm room in college.
I’d moved out into my own apartment as soon as I had a chance.
As I walked up to Donnie’s front door I cast a benevolent eye on the ugly stretch of chain link fence surrounding the backyard, much as one might look with tolerance upon an annoying student who will finally be graduating and moving to North Dakota. I won’t have to be looking at this much longer, I thought.
(A note to any former student who might be reading this after having taken up residence in North Dakota: I was not talking about you. I was simply using North Dakota for the purpose of illustration. In fact, after assessing the local employment situation, many of our best and brightest have decamped to the Upper Midwest upon graduation to work in the fossil-fuel industry.)
I knocked on Donnie’s front door and waited. Donnie had given me a key, but I never used it. I only kept it in case of emergency. I didn’t want to get used to coming and going, leaving a toothbrush here, a spare jacket there, and before I know it, there I’d be, living in Donnie’s house. That would kill any momentum we’d built up toward buying our own place, and I could kiss the Brewster House goodbye.
At this point you may have concluded that I have liquid nitrogen in my veins and a chunk of flint where my heart should be. (Indeed, you would find wide support for this hypothesis among my less-promising students.) In fact, I was in shock. Melanie’s death hadn’t registered yet.
Donnie opened the door and my heart fluttered a little, as it usually did in his presence. Donnie Gonsalves was quite easy on the eyes. He did a lot of physical work managing Donnie’s Drive-Inn, and it showed; the sleeves of his polo shirt strained over his biceps as he held the door open.
“How was the Garden Society?” He looked past me. “Where’s Melanie?”
I stepped out of my shoes and placed them next to the front door.
“Right. About Melanie. Let’s go inside and sit down.”
I seated myself on Donnie’s genuine Ettore Sottsass sofa and patted the cool leather. The couch was from the mid-eighties, built on minimal lines, upholstered in shades of black and charcoal. I pictured it in the Brewster House’s expansive living room. It would be perfect on the gleaming eucalyptus wood floor, I thought. An eclectic look.
Donnie brought over two glasses of red wine and sat next to me. I took a sip or two before I related the events of the afternoon. I would save the news of the house for later, I thought. It would be the tactful thing to do.
“Terrible you had to see it, Molly.” Donnie squeezed my hand. “It’s hard to get over witnessing something like that. I had a fry cook once, at the Drive-Inn, the old location, before I met you...I better not tell you the details. You’ll never go near the teriyaki beef again. I’m very sorry about Melanie.”
“At least I don’t think she suffered. It was so fast.” I felt my eyes stinging and blinked back tears. Donnie sat quietly beside me, holding my hand, for a long time.
“Thanks for being so understanding,” I said, finally. “By the way, did you ever hear back from the Maritime Club about the reservation?”
Donnie nodded, visibly relieved to shift to the mundane details of wedding planning.
“They just called. If we want our reception there, I have to put down the deposit now. They fill up fast with Christmas parties. Now, are you sure you want the Maritime Club?”
“I like the Maritime Club. The ocean view is amazing, and if it’s raining, the guests can stay inside the clubhouse.”
The Maritime Club wasn’t terribly fancy, but nothing in Mahina was fancy. Thanks to the salt spray and frequent rainstorms, the shabby little clubhouse always looked like it needed a new paint job. What the Maritime Club did have was a magnificent oceanfront location. At high tide, sparkling waves broke on the black lava rock, misting the diners on the outdoor lanai. At low tide you could walk down the grassy bank to view the tide pools. And when it wasn’t raining, you could see clear out to the curved blue horizon.
“And Molly, did you ever decide whether you wanted to have the ceremony there at the Maritime Club so everything’s all in one place, or at St. Damien’s?”
“Well, my parents would probably prefer a church wedding. But whenever I’m a guest I hate driving from one place to the next. You know what? You and I are the ones getting married. What do you think?”
“Whatever you like. Really. Doesn’t make any difference to me.”
“Let’s do the whole thing at the Maritime Club, then. I don’t think my parents will be too upset. Oh. And here’s something I wanted to mention. Donnie, you know what we’ve never really talked about?”
“What?”
“Children. Kids. I mean, we’ve talked about it a little, but we’ve never really settled on a definite plan.”
“Well, you’ll inherit at least one,” Donnie smiled. “Davison.”
I did not return Donnie’s smile. As it happened, I had some history with young Davison Gonsalves. Before he transferred to his fancy college on the mainland, Davison had been a student in my Intro to Business Management course, where he’d distinguished himself as a brazen cheater and a lying suckup. Of course Donnie thought his demon spawn was the bee’s knees.
“Do you want more?” Donnie asked. “More children? It should really be up to you. Because, I mean, you know...”
“I know what you’re saying. I think the important thing is that we agree how we’re going to set limits.”
Donnie and I had already had some conflict over young Davison. Donnie let him get away with murder, but whenever I pointed this out, all he had to say was, wouldn’t your parents do the same thing for you? And he would win the argument, because of course my parents always tried to protect me from the worst consequences of my actions. The difference was they had the decency to make me feel guilty about it.
“Do you want more children?” I asked.
“I would like to give Davison a little brother. Or sister. But really, Molly, it’s your choice. Of course, I’ll support you if you want to stay home. If you want to be a full-time mom.”
“Donnie, I went to school for over a quarter of a century to train for what I do. Why on earth would I quit my tenure-track job, just to—”
I stopped myself. Donnie was clearly proud of his ability to provide for me, and I didn’t want to make him feel dismissed. Donnie’s old-fashioned attitudes had shocked me at first. But his upbringing had been as chaotic as mine had been comfortable. He never spoke about his parents; I didn’t even know whether they were still alive.
Betty Jackson from psychology had told me I shouldn’t be surprised that Donnie found comfort in traditional gender roles. Also, Betty had explained, Mahina wasn’t exactly the most progressive place. As she put it, when it’s 9AM in Los Angeles, it’s 1952 in Mahina.
“I don’t have the temperament to be a stay-home parent, Donnie. I know some people do, and more power to them. Me, I could stand it for maybe a week before I went full Sylvia Plath.”
“But doesn’t your job stress you out?” Donnie asked. “You always seem to be complaining—I mean, you seem to be under a lot of pressure at work.”
“I should probably focus more on the positive. Oh, here’s something positive. Donnie, I think we might have a chance to buy the Brewster House. Fontanne Masterman—”
“Molly, after what happened today, are you sure you’re still interested in the Brewster House?”
“Yes. I am.”
“It might not bother you, but if we ever have to resell it, it might put buyers off.”
“Why would we want to resell? You’re not planning on us getting divorced right away or anything, are you?”
Donnie chuckled. “Of course not. But we should be careful about taking on a house of that age. It’s a big responsibility. Tell you what, Molly. There’s plenty of room here. Move in whenever you like. You like this place, don’t you?”
“Of course I like your house, Donnie. Who wouldn’t?”
Donnie had flown in the most famous interior designer in the state to transform his formerly unremarkable ranch house into an understated masterpiece. The spare and perfectly-staged rooms had recently graced the pages of a fashionable architectural magazine.
“And Davison already has his room all set up here, just the way he wants it,” Donnie added.
Young Davison’s room had not been not one of those featured in the magazine. Presumably, the editors didn’t think the red plush carpet and black light posters would resonate with their readers.
“But Donnie, the Brewster House! And you should see the kitchen. You could move everything over from your kitchen, and there’s room in the back to put in a propane tank for your gas stove.”
“What about your kitchen things?” he asked.
“I’m not really attached to any of that stuff.”
I couldn’t claim to be much of a chef. My refrigerator contained little more than vodka, mustard, and cream for my coffee, and my oven was currently used for overflow shoe storage. The only appliance that got any regular exercise was my microwave.
“Maybe we should include Davison in this conversation. Where we live is going to affect him too. And when it comes to kids, Davison might even want to babysit. You never know.”
“Isn’t he staying in California for the summer?” I asked.
“No. He decided to come home. He’s flying in tomorrow night, in fact. Molly? Molly. Are you okay? You’re crying!”