I try to keep up with Melody’s prattling while considering my surroundings. The main street is run down and quiet. The farther east we go, the stronger the smell of seawater and fish. The few people we pass eye us warily — not unfriendly, but they are far from welcoming.

“Montauk’s mainly a fishing village. Fisher-people, you know. Kids without shoes. That sort of thing. Anyone summering here is only here to hide. You don’t get people like us here in Montauk,” she says matter-of-factly.

She stops suddenly and looks up. The clouds that had been threatening since I stepped off the train begin to drip lightly, then break in a sudden torrent. There is a brief moment when the lily group seems utterly confounded, as if this is their very first encounter with spontaneous weather. I hide a smile, continue walking, then notice they’re all hanging back. I turn around and spot three Rolls-Royces making their way somberly down the street like someone died.

Melody’s face crumples in on itself. She watches the cars approach, her lips clamped together, her brows knit. “Watching us the whole time,” I hear her mumble under her breath. Howard looks just as crestfallen.

Their freedom was all a ruse.

I bite my lip to stop myself from laughing, though it’s not that funny. There’s something very sad about being rescued from the rain at the age of 15. The other kids begin to get into the cars. Melody pulls me toward the last car. She kicks up a bit of mud before stepping inside.

“Come on, Bronx. Charlie will drive you to the association houses. We’re nearly there, anyway.” Her voice is chock full of surrender.

I try not to stare at the mud she’s tracked through the pristine interior.

We turn down a bumpy road, lined with trees on either side.

“Is it… does she live in the woods?”

“Oh, yes, the seven sisters are very isolated.”

“The seven sisters?”

“The seven association houses.” Melody frowns. “She hasn’t told you about her house? You must not see much of her, then.”

I shrug, unsure of how to explain.

“Well, the seven sister houses are notoriously remote. They were built a million years ago by seven families from the city. Apparently they were sick of the Newport scene and wanted to create a new summer vacation spot. They brought in big Manhattan architects and had the grounds designed by the guy who planned Central Park. Legend has it the whole thing blew up in their faces when one of their children got sick and the closest doctor was a day away. Kid died.”

“Golly.”

“But they put Montauk on the map, I suppose,” Melody says with a shrug.

Maybe the sudden proximity triggers something, but a memory comes barreling through my brain. The last time I saw Vi. It was a few weeks before her wedding. Debbie and I had taken Norman to the park to find rocks for his collection. I was bored out of my mind, when Robert and Vi suddenly came strolling through, and it was as if the whole world let out an admiring sigh. Everyone turned to stare at the striking couple. Robert was tall and broad with a shock of black hair parted on the side. He was wearing light slacks and caramel loafers with little tassels on the top. I remember the tassels  — they bobbed up and down with each step. She wore a shimmery scarf over her blonde hair and large sunglasses that hid her green eyes, but even so, she looked beautiful. I nearly called out to her, I almost did, but Debbie pinched my arm hard before I had a chance.

“Don’t,” she’d said in a voice dripping with anger.

That was the last time I saw Vi. Two weeks later we heard she’d gotten married in France, with only Robert’s family present.

We turn down a rocky, narrow path and a moment later the house comes into view.

“Here we are,” says Melody.

My stomach flip-flops. For one brief moment I consider asking her to take me to the train station. I’ll get on a train to Levittown, twiddle my thumbs for a few days with Aunt Esther, then go home. But Charlie parks the car, and in one swift moment, he’s popped open an umbrella and has the door open for me like I’m the queen of England. I mumble a quick thank-you and wave goodbye to Melody. She rolls down the window and sticks her head out.

“Come to the fair tomorrow, Bronx! In East Hampton. It’ll be fun!”

I give her a distracted nod, and turn toward the house to find Vi staring at me from the porch stairs, her eyes wide as saucers.

She looks different. Faded, like she’s been through the laundry too many times. She must have heard the car crunching over the gravel path, because she’s already hurrying down the stairs.

“Beth?

“Hi,” I say, smiling wide like a fool. I’m too excited to see her to keep my cool.

“What on earth are you doing here?” Her eyes dart back and forth between me and the Rolls-Royce. “Who was that?”

“Melody Carlson. And her driver.” I feel a tiny pulse of satisfaction watching the shock jump across her face.

Vi doesn’t speak, only stares at me for a long moment, her brain playing catch-up. I want to hug her, but I stop myself. She pinches the bridge of her nose.

“Is everyone okay?” she asks.

“Everyone’s fine.” Well, look at that. She cares.

“Does Idy… Does your mother—”

“Ma doesn’t know I’m here. No one does.” Saying it aloud is like a rush to the head.

Vi’s face morphs from wan with shock to crimson. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. I realize she’s crushed. Maybe she thought I was a peace offering, sent here by someone with superiority, but my presence is not an invitation or a white flag, it’s just… me. And evidently, I’m not enough.

“Are you insane?” The anger in her voice is like a smack across the cheek.

I turn away instinctively, hoist my bag further up my shoulder while blinking away the sudden pain in my chest. I wanted her to be happy to see me, but I don’t need her. I don’t need anyone, in fact. I start to walk back toward the main road, now hidden behind a smattering of huge oaks. An image of my grandfather rises up before me, creating a salty burn that builds up in the corners of my eyes. Seeing her here in the flesh, I wonder if he was right. Maybe Vi is dead. Maybe there’s nothing left of her after all. Maybe bones were better left untouched.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Beth,” I hear her say from behind me.

I keep walking.

“Beth!”

“I’m sure the Carlsons have room for guests,” I call back, not bothering to turn around.

“The Carlsons!” Vi says, walking fast to catch up to me. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

I stop then, turn to meet her eyes. “You don’t think they’d have me? Why ever not?” I raise my voice until it becomes patronizing and obnoxious, but I’m not one for pretending when the truth feels so much better. “Because I’m a Jewish girl from the Bronx? Gee, Vi, times have changed. You’d think you’d know that better than anyone.” I’m not being very nice, but she left. She. Left. The fact rises up like rusted metal between us.

Her eyes shift to mine, meeting them head on, and she hardens around my explosiveness, creates a shell, smooths away any emotion so completely that her face is quite suddenly serene.

“I’m sorry. You caught me off guard. I want you to come inside.” She speaks softly. “Come in.”

I hesitate, then nod. We walk slowly back to the house. It’s a large, shingle-style cottage — big red-brick chimneys sticking out of the roof, a few second-floor verandas, and a massive wraparound porch on the ground floor. It’s cloaked in a musty sort of grandeur that makes me think it had probably been beautiful once.

“It’s very… charming.”

“Built in 1884 by Stanford White,” she says, like I’m supposed to be impressed.

“Aren’t there seven of them? These houses? Where are the others?” I ask as we walk up the steps.

Vi looks surprised by how well informed I am. “Yes, there are. But the grounds are spread over acres of land, connected by interlocking paths. You can’t see them all from here.”

The main room is smaller than I expected. The walls are painted brown with wood trim. There is a large brick fireplace and a bearskin rug splashed over the shiny wood floor. A huge overstuffed couch sits opposite the fireplace. Homey and peculiar at the same time. I search for a bit of Vi, cut flowers drying upside down from the ceiling or a watercolor, paintings sitting on an easel, or a record player. But there is none of that, as if she is simply a guest here.

“Why’d the rich people build here, you think?” I ask, running my fingers down a large bookcase filled with boring-looking books.

“Oh, well, I suppose they wanted to get away. I guess that’s why anyone comes to Montauk.” Vi raises an eyebrow and throws me a knowing look, which I ignore. She takes a large towel out of a cabinet.

“Melody told me that one summer, when the families were here vacationing, one of the children fell ill. It took so long for the doctor to come, the child died. I guess that’s the downside of living at the end of the world.”

Vi bristles. “Lots of children died before the turn of the century.” She hands me the towel.

“So you like it, then, way out here.” It comes out flat, almost an accusation.

Her eyes flicker away from mine. “It’s peaceful,” she says, too quickly.

I’m quiet while Vi seems to search for something to busy herself with. She rubs a bit of dust off the mantel of the fireplace.

“Your mother must have the entire New York Police Department on your tail by now, Beth. You need to call home. And change. You’re all wet.”

I don’t like responsible Vi very much. Considering she’s only four years older than Rosie, she was always more of a sister than an aunt, but not a bossy sister. A fun one. Spontaneous and light and hopelessly impulsive.

I nod, though, because she’s right about calling home. The wooden staircase protests loudly as we climb it, revealing its age. At the top hangs a large oval mirror on the wall.

“They say I look just like you.” I don’t even plan to say it, the words come flying out all on their own. Vi’s halfway down the hall already, but she turns and walks back to stand next to me, studies our reflections in the mirror. I catch a brief flicker of fear in her eyes, but it’s gone before I can blink.

“Do they really?” She cocks her head to the side. “I don’t see it.”

Her face is bare, not a trace of her signature makeup. Oddly, she looks younger than I remember. And I look older than 15, everyone says so. You would never know there are eight years between us. Vi walks away, pushes open the door at the end of the hall. It opens to what looks to be a guestroom. “Phone.” She points to the phone on the night stand next to the bed, hands me the towel, then closes the door behind her.

The clock on the wall says 4:45 p.m. My father might still be at work. If there is any hope of staying — here — he’s the key. He answers after the third ring.

“Beth,” he says quickly when he hears my voice. “Esther called me with some convoluted story. Where on earth are you?” he demands.

“I’m at Vi’s. I’m sorry. I’m safe, though.” The words go tumbling through the phone line, land in silence. “Daddy?”

“How is she?”

“Fine. Good. Same as always,” I lie.

“You realize we won’t take this infraction sitting down, young lady.” He is angry, of course, but there is a hint of something else in his voice. I think that he’s a little impressed.

I slip off my shoe, rub my damp foot on the carpet. It has that strong new carpet smell, the sort that sits on the top of the nose, pressing on the sinuses. Vi must have put it in recently.

“Beth? Did you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll be on the first train tomorrow morning. I’ve half a mind to come and get you right now—”

“Can I have two days here? Please?”

I want to stay. I’ve found Vi, and she’s not the Vi who dipped the edges of autumn leaves in gold paint and danced in the snow, not the Vi who would lie in the moss and string dandelions into wreathes and crown me princess of summer. But she’s something. And that’s enough for now.

There is a bit more cajoling. He asks me more questions and at last acquiesces, though he’s far from pleased. “Let me speak to your aunt. And Beth… let’s not tell your mother about this quite yet. “

I call down the stairs to Vi and she picks up the phone in the kitchen. Then I go return to my room and lie back on the bed, satisfied. A lightness settles over me.

Vi is alive. Not dead. Well, not very dead anyway.

I can’t remember the last time I felt so at ease. Those scorching sleepless nights in the city seem very far away from here. The rain is making a soothing patter on the roof and I close my eyes until I hear Vi’s knock and the creak of the door. I peek through slatted eyes and see she has a mug of tea, which she sets on the nightstand before turning to leave.

“Tell me a story,” I mumble. Vi used to spin the most colorful stories, intoxicating flowery tales about exotic people and places. Rosie would call them gibberish but I loved them. I open one eye, watch as she hesitates by the door.

“I don’t have any stories, Beth.” She shuts the light on her way out. I think that’s gotta be the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. Vi is bursting with stories, she’s got them pouring out every which way.

I watched her fight with my grandfather once — before she was engaged to Robert, before everything fell apart. I’d gone to bring my grandmother some dry goods and lingered for some sponge cake. Vi blew into their small apartment like a lightning storm, my grandfather following a moment later. They stood by the door, face-to-face while Bubby and I watched openmouthed from the kitchen. I cannot remember all the things they said, only that they both spoke of choices.

“If you choose this, it’s forever!” my grandfather had bellowed.

“Forever is your choice!” Vi had yelled back. Her face flushed pink, she spoke of love.

Bubby clamped her hands over my ears, but of course I could still hear everything, and as I watched, I thought there wasn’t anyone as alive as she was, the whole world was pasty next to her, especially Zeidy with his gray pants, gray pilled sweater, gray ideas. Goodness, he couldn’t compete for one moment with the raw beauty of the storm sparking in front of him. Vi’s voice was fire as she explained her position, how Robert had promised her the world, the security she felt. That was more important to her than ancient philosophies and traditions.

“More important than your family?” Zeidy had countered.

“I can have both,” she’d said firmly.

“You cannot.”

“Yes, I—”

“You cannot!” he’d roared. Maybe he wasn’t gray then, maybe he was steel. Her jade eyes had filled with tears, and I’d wondered how he could be so cruel to hurt someone so very lovely.

No stories. Ha. If anyone has stories, it’s Vi.

to be continued…

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 629)