Not All Houses Are Homes
I plan to walk home.
I head down Ocean Avenue, circling onto the side streets. But as soon as my house is in view, I see all the
lights off, Jack not waiting for me inside. And I ke ep going.
Maybe it’s knowing that Jack is still at the restaurant. Maybe it’s not knowing if he is coming home at all
tonight. That is like him, after all. After he did the hard part of letting me know the plan, he may decide not to
come back when I’m there too. He’s not going to do anything to make it harder on both of us.
So I head over to Tilden and hail a cab. We take the tunnel and head up to Perry Street. And I hop out at
my father’s apartment.
The doorman has me on a list of approved visitors and takes me upstairs, unlocks the door.
The apartment is all windows and water with expansive views of the Hudson River. But the apartment
itself feels empty. There are no mementos lining the countertops, no family photographs. The art on the wall is
neutral, the furniture untouched. Had it felt like this when he lived here?
The front door clicks open, and I turn to see my father’s third wife, Inez, walking in with a roller bag. She
always looks beautiful, but especially tonight, dressed in a pantsuit, her makeup done, her long dark hair
pulled into a low ponytail.
“Nora!” she says. “They didn’t tell me you were up here.” She puts her bag against the wall and starts
walking toward me, her arms outstretched for a hug. Inez hasn’t lived here since she and my father s eparated.
So I’m somewhat surprised to see her here now. And yet I’m not entirely surprised. Inez and my father were
still the closest of friends. Why wouldn’t he want her here whenever she wanted to be?
She gives me a hug, then pulls back, takes me in. I wasn’t particularly close to Inez when she and my
father were together. Part of it was the aftershock of Sylvia. But something shifted when she and my father
decided to s eparate—and then when I got to know her now wife, Elizabeth. I’ve spent more time with them as
a couple than I ever did with Inez and my father.
“I had a dinner uptown,” she says. “I’m just staying for the night.” “Of course, I can get out of your way.”
She waves me off. “There’s no rush. I’ll make us a drink.” She heads over to the bar cart and starts to pour two
small whiskeys. “Luna has a stomach bug, so Elizabeth stayed home with her,” she says. “But I don’t love
being here on my own, to be honest.”
She hands me one of the tumblers, and I take a long sip. “I was feeling the same before you walked in,” I
say. “It looks different in here than I remember.”
“Different how?” “Did someone move my father’s things out of the apartment? It just feels so...”
“D epressing?” I laugh. “I was going to say bare.” “Well, I know he wasn’t spending a lot of time here
recently.” “Mostly Windbreak?” She nods. “Mostly Windbreak. At least as far as I know.” “Inez, may I ask
you something?” I say. “Did my father ever discuss Cece Salinger with you?”
“Only a bit. She was quite interested in the company a while back if I’m remembering correctly.”
“But he wasn’t interested in her romantically?” “Cece? I don’t know. I don’t think so. From what your
father told me, that was all ancient history. Like when they were twenty years old. Unless there is something
we don’t know. Which, I suppose, with your father is always possible.” She takes a sip of her drink. “Why are
you asking?”
“I’m just trying to figure out why he was spending so much time at Windbreak. She lives out there. It feels
like maybe that had something to do with
it...”
“Well, I seriously doubt that had anything to do with Cece,” she says. “As far as I know, he just preferred
being there. I mean, didn’t he always prefer being there? That was his home.”
His home with whom? I want to ask. And what am I supposed to learn from the fact that it’s now mine?
She takes me in, her eyes filling with concern. “You okay?” “Sure.” “ ’Cause you don’t seem it.” “Was he
seeing someone toward the end? Someone that I didn’t know about?”
“Your father?” I nod. If he were in volved with someone new, Inez and Elizabeth would certainly know
before my father would have shared it with me. But, as she starts to answer me, she shakes her head instead,
stopping herself.
“What?” I say. “Please say it.” She puts her drink down and walks over to me, gently squeezes my hand.
“I’m going to tell you what your father would say if he were here. Your father loved you. He loved all of us,
the best he could. I think it’s better to leave it at that.”
“Better for who?” She shrugs. “That’s always the question.”