A Hamptons Christmas by James Brady Page B

language, in tone of voice, even as his young opponent was pulling off a rather sophisticated rook to king’s pawn.
    â€œDamn!” he said, annoyed to be caught by the move even as he admired it.
    â€œThank you,” she said, flattered by the admiration and not at all nettled by his annoyance.
    â€œQuite.” He continued to watch her without seeming to do so. Then she spoke, very quietly, articulating the words carefully. Because they were important.
    â€œMy godfather’s name, the one I wouldn’t tell you; it was Jacob Marley. I suppose that’s he, Mean Jake, I mean. Whose old bones keep getting stolen.”
    My father inhaled, his eyes on her face.
    â€œI’m sorry, child. I had no …”
    What can you say? The Admiral threw me a glance as if to say, “help me out, Beecher, for God’s sake.” He had murdered the Cold War enemies of his country and had fought several hot wars in addition. But he’d never had a daughter and was terrified by the idea of a child’s sobs.
    I got up and went to her, touching her shoulder, half-pat, half-stroke of, I dunno, support? Understanding? She nodded and reached up to pat my hand in response, then said quietly, no tears, no sobs, to both of us or neither of us, “I suppose I knew he was dead. The cards for my birthday stopped coming two years ago. I continued to get statements from Mr. Rousselot at the bank. But nothing from Mr. Marley. No corny card or little note. No more stock certificates.” She paused. “I miss those silly cards, those little notes. Especially a scribbled line that always came at the end, ‘You shall have great expectations.’ The first few times I didn’t know what that meant and then a girl at the convent told me that was what the convict told Pip, when they met in the graveyard in Great Expectations, which inspired me to read the book and learn about Estella and Miss Havisham.”
    So she missed Marley’s corny birthday cards, his scribbled notes,
his Dickensian assurance of “great expecations.” No regrets over the stock certificates that stopped coming.
    â€œAnd no one told you?” I said. “Not even your parents?”
    She looked up at me.
    â€œThey’d be the last ones to keep me up-to-date on Jacob Marley. My father is Dick Driver, who took Mr. Marley’s company away from him.”
    She pushed back then from the chess table and went to the window, with her back to the room and to us, looking out at what was left of the rain and at the morning sun struggling to get through. Finally, having pulled together conflicting memories—Marley’s generosity to her, his antagonism toward her father, the sudden shock of learning he really was dead—she faced us and said: “They didn’t speak. My father and Mr. Marley. Business differences of some sort. Terrible things happened. A big fight. Like breaking up Ma Bell as the government did years ago.”
    â€œThey teach that in convent school? To ten-year-olds?” the Admiral asked, rather beside himself.
    â€œNot really teach. More like every so often during primes Mother Superior regrets aloud various investments made or not made by the convent. She bet wrong on the Baby Bells versus AT&T.”
    â€œOh, I see.”
    She went on about the Marley-Driver feud. “They didn’t speak of him in my house. It was about the same time my mother and father were starting to divorce. So the two of them didn’t speak at all. I was at the convent by then and was shy about asking there about Mr. Marley. After a year without having been told, I just assumed he was dead. I knew he loved me in his own way and wouldn’t just stop writing. Not unless something terrible had happened.”
    â€œPoor kid,” I said, thinking about being shunted off to the convent and her parents getting divorced and her godfather’s dying all lumped together, and now without warning to