The Dearly Departed Read Online Free

not to ignore her short game. She wrote back and said she was trying to spend an hour a day on the putting green. Was that, in his opinion, enough? “If you’re sinking those three-foot white-knucklers with some consistency, it is,” he answered. He never asked about Margaret, and Sunny didn’t ask about his wife. He didn’t call or send gifts or ask for custodial visits. “I never really knew him,” she’d explain to friends who asked about a father. Or, to close the subject: “He died before I was born.”

    From Pennsylvania, Miles Finn continued to pay taxes on his New Hampshire property, an unheated Depression-era cottage with three dark rooms and outdoor plumbing. It was on a minor lake so ordinary and unscenic that one would wonder what inspired him to travel six hours to swim in black water and pee into a fetid hole. The crawl space housed an ancient canoe and an antique archery set; inside, there were moldy jigsaw puzzles, scratchy wool blankets, rusted cooking utensils, mildewed canvas chairs, mouse droppings, the occasional bat, and the empty gin and beer bottles frequently found in near-forsaken cabins.
    Margaret aired out the place every spring, defrosted the shoebox-sized freezer as needed, kept clean linens on the bigger bed. If it was a quick trip to close a window before rain or to leave a welcome casserole, Sunny would wait in the car. The cottage, Margaret explained, belonged to friends from Philadelphia—“Finn,” according to slapdash strokes of white paint on a slat—who’d been coming to King George forever.
    â€œDo they have any kids?” Sunny asked hopefully.
    â€œIt’s just one person,” Margaret said. “An attorney. I worked for him before you were born.”
    It sounded right to Sunny that her mother would bring casseroles to an old, childless man who could afford nothing better than vacations at Boot Lake. Over the years, as Margaret headed off alone with her pail and sponges and a flush particular to this mission, Sunny adjusted her view of Mr. Finn. She sensed that the former boss had become a boyfriend—so typically charitable of her mother. Not that sex was involved, Sunny thought. Sex didn’t fit Margaret. It had to be a crush, durable yes, but no more fertile or reciprocated than the ones Sunny herself had on teachers at King George Regional or on golfers on TV.

    Miles called it his retreat, and if any woman—first his wife, then subsequent girlfriends—voiced suspicions about his treks to Boot Lake, he would say, “If only you could see the camp. I don’t even bathe when I’m there. No woman would set foot in this dump. Of course
I
love it, but that’s a childhood thing. No one else will go near the place.”
    He made the romantic terms clear to Margaret, semi-annually. He was married, with everything to lose personally and professionally. He wasn’t inviting love affairs or headlines.
    He didn’t volunteer personal details unless she inquired: Yes, there’d been a separation. Yes, in fact, a divorce. Yes, he was dating in Philadelphia, but only when necessary; only when he needed presentable companions for black-tie events. They had sex quickly on her fabric softener–scented sheets during her lunch hour, and didn’t speak again until he called six months later with a jangle of quarters from a phone booth. “Guess who?” he’d say each time, and always she’d have a clever answer ready: An old boss? A charming dinner companion from Philly? Tomorrow’s lunch date?
    For a long time, she thought she had no right to mind. Twice-yearly dates didn’t make her his girlfriend or his confidante. She wasn’t above this flimsy attention—she who’d broken her marriage vows and several Commandments. But eventually she joined the Players, and was lauded in print for her understated ardor. Now when he called from the road, Margaret was