CHAPTER TWO

At some point, all responsible adults have to tackle the morbid challenge of writing their last will and testament. It was a practice that Margo Bailey was an old pro at by her early adult years, having written her first will at the tender age of eight and having revised it yearly ever since.

She had inherited her mother's congenital heart disease, the same condition that caused her mother to die during childbirth at the age of twenty-seven. Margo knew from a young age that she had suffered the same genetic defect, one that would almost certainly cut her life short. There was no guarantee as to when, but in the back of her mind, it felt reasonable to assume that she would die around the same age that her mother had.

As a young child, there was something about the age of twenty-seven that had struck Margo as so comfortingly far away. It was older than sixteen. It was older than twenty! It was an abstract day of reckoning that she convinced herself was so far away, it might never arrive. Her twelfth year took away those comforting assumptions.

There are things that just slip one’s mind. Who knew her weak heart could ever be one of them? And yet, Margo was racing alongside her sister, Bette, for the bus - the one that would take them up the coast to a carnival where there was a guarantee of a Ferris wheel, mouth-watering kettle corn, pre-historic turkey legs, and a loud, intoxicating arcade. But it was a long race for the bus, and they were determined to catch it, or they’d be waiting another hour for the next one.

But Margo fell behind, and the painful pounding of her heart brought the memory of its weakness back with full force. She sank to the ground, and noted with dread panic, that it showed no sign of slowing down. Not when Bette came back to retrieve her; nor as the two waited for the ambulance together.

How could it be happening so soon? She was only twelve, and she was about to die. She would never learn how to drive. Never have a job like a real adult. Never travel out of the state. Never be kissed. (that one made her cry.) Not to mention, she had just purchased some lovely bead earrings that had yet to be assigned to a formal bequest. Bette was in such hysterics that Margo had to ask for pen and paper at the hospital to make the impromptu adjustment to her will, since Bette was hardly in a state where she would remember this final directive.

As luck would have it, Margo’s time had not come. She got a few unpleasant injections, underwent a battery of tests, and spent one night at the hospital before being given the okay to go home. But not before the doctor sat down and gave her a long, stern lecture on the stupidity of taking such foolish chances with her heart. Their examinations revealed problems that qualified her for a heart transplant! But her condition wasn’t as urgent as about five hundred other people on the transplant list. In other words, don’t hold your breath. And stop engaging in risky behaviors.

She did remember thinking at the time, if running is too risky, then what else was too dangerous for her to do. It was a question that hung over all the future days ahead, right to the present moment.

And so the last fifteen years had passed, and never wanting to stare death so abruptly in the face again, Margo became a paragon of cautious living. Excessively so, most people would say. But the reality she lived with was hard for others to comprehend. Easy for them to be cavalier with  her fragile existence. Well, Margo knew better. And she was determined to shield her heart from any dangers, shocks, anxieties, demands that could send her hurtling toward an early grave.

That meant no driving. No junk food. No tall ladders. No running. No venturing into the ocean higher than her knees. No bare feet on the beach – jellyfish were too much of a risk. No roller coasters. No scary movies. In short, nothing that would send her heart racing. Fear and caution were the twin foundations of her continued existence. Her protectors. Her bodyguards.

The most unfortunate of her self-imposed restrictions was not allowing herself to become too excited during—well, what for most people would be the throes of passion. But it’s not all that passionate if one is simultaneously performing relaxation techniques in order to avoid an excessively fast heartbeat. In fact, it’s a cold bucket of water in that moment of passion. At least, Margo’s only two boyfriends thought so.

“Are you doing breathing exercises?” she was asked incredulously.

“I just felt my heart beating a little too fast. But I think I can keep it calm. No, no. It’s not a problem. I got this.”

In all fairness, she couldn’t blame either of them for breaking up with her. Now, at the age of twenty-six, she was relieved that she’d never formed any lasting romantic attachment. How sad it would have been for him to suffer through her recent decline.

For the past year, there was an undeniable feeling that her heart was getting weaker. The tiredness that she just couldn’t shake off. A checkup with Dr. Svenson six months ago had confirmed her worst fears.

“Your heart valves are deteriorating at an accelerated pace,” Dr. Svenson had informed Margo reluctantly. “Which will qualify you for the very top of the transplant list. That’s the good news.”

“And the bad news?”

“We’re going to be needing that transplant soon. Very, very soon.”

There was no need for him to elaborate on the consequences. Margo’s mother had died at the age of twenty-seven. And likely, so would she.

*****

Consequently, every new purchase and acquisition had to be weighed against the probability that Margo’s days were numbered and that her sister, Bette, her perennial beneficiary, would spend far more years with these items than she would. As they stood before a window display with an exquisite rose quartz pendant, Margo knew she could only think about buying it if it was something that Bette would love for herself.

“I bet it would look great on you,” she told her sister.

“Don’t you dare buy that unless you think that it’s going to look great on you,” Bette scolded. “And of course it’s going to look great on you. You should absolutely get it.”

Margo looked longingly back at the necklace. Then at her sister and herself reflected in the store’s window. Even though they had different fathers, there was a strong family resemblance. As a die-hard movie buff, Margo was forever describing people’s looks by way of their celebrity doppelgangers. Her own wavy dark hair and heart-shaped face had prompted comparisons to Maggie Gyllenhaal—admittedly, a much paler, less vibrant version, particularly these past few months. Bette was a bit more reminiscent of Marisa Tomei.

Bette was much more fashionably attired—with a bit more savoir faire, as she would have put it. Bette studied French wardrobe websites and had taught herself to speak a dozen different languages, maybe only twenty phrases in each, but one day, she intended to travel and wanted to be prepared.

The proprietor, Delphine Sykes, appeared at the entrance. Delphine was an auburn-haired Olympia Dukakis, circa Moonstruck. In her late fifties, she was wonderfully sociable and unnervingly observant.

“Are you girls gonna stand out here forever?” Delphine scolded “Come on in. I don’t bite.”

“Hi. Oh, we were just . . .” Margo fumbled.

With Delphine’s watchful eyes upon her, Margo remembered that Delphine had a certain reputation around town. Like a multitude of women over the age of fifty in Oyster Cove, she was thought by some to be a witch. Not that Margo bought into such nonsense. And she certainly didn’t want Delphine to think that she did.

“Sure. I’m Margo, by the way.”

“Margo’s Movie House,” Delphine responded.

“That’s me. And this is my sister Bette. It’s with an E, and it’s pronounced like Bette Davis. We were just about to come in to take a look.”

Delphine raised an eyebrow. She wasn’t so sure that they had been about to come in, but she’d take it. She loved company. The three of them retreated into her shop. It was a kaleidoscope of color with murals, paintings, sculptures, and fabric art, all an alluring backdrop for the jewelry, which still managed to shine in a mesmerizing fashion.

 “Bellissima,” Bette gushed.

“It really is,” Margo agreed. “Just from the window outside, I could tell there was going to be a wonderful collection here. I just never came in because . . . because I just knew it was pretty upscale and a little out of my budget.”

“Don’t you worry about buying anything. I get plenty of online commissions and sales. I can hardly keep up.”

Margo smiled. She was glad to hear it. Fifteen years ago, you could have described most of the artists in Oyster Cove as struggling, if not outright starving. Like most others living in a New England tourist town, they had to pull in enough income during the summer months to last through a long, cold winter.

But then Hollywood it girl Susan Sidwell had driven through, and she had been enchanted with some of the local boutiques. Not only did she leave with as much jewelry as she could carry, but every red carpet appearance in the following year had featured an Oyster Cove creation.

“Susan, who are you wearing?” reporters shouted.

“Oh, this is one of those fabulous treasures from that amazing town, Oyster Cove. You wouldn’t believe the talent there,” Susan raved.

And from that moment on, Oyster Cove artists had entered a new age of prosperity. Everyone opened a website, and while formerly, they had been stigmatized by only being Cape Cod adjacent, they now became a destination and an in-demand brand. Summer crowds had increased tenfold, a benefit for all in the tourist industry.

 “But I still like folks to stop by. Guess I just like to show off my stuff. ’Course, if you were interested in that pendant in the window, I can cut you a little discount. Just for the residents. Nothing the tourists need to know about.”

There wasn’t actually a resident discount, but even though they were strangers, Delphine could tell that Margo was doing poorly, and her heart went out to the poor girl.

“Fifty percent off. Now, it doesn’t get any better than that.”

“Oh, wow! That’s . . . well, I guess I really can’t pass it up.”

Delphine put the pendant around Margo’s neck. “That is exactly where it wanted to be. A match made in heaven.”

“Absolument,” Bette agreed.

“Oh, my dear. Your accent is quite good. Have you been to France?” Delphine asked.

“Not yet. But one day. Just making sure I’m ready.”

That one day was unlikely to take place while Margo was still alive. Neither sister could bear the thought of Margo meeting her final end without Bette to hold her hand. Normally, that was the grim thought that went through Margo’s head at least once a day. But holding this lovely pendant in her hand and letting its comforting weight fall against her skin left her inexplicably cheered. She thanked Delphine profusely and excused herself and Bette to leave and make their way to work.

Bette’s job was evening manager at a hotel right on the boardwalk. Margo’s “job” was a dream come true. Her great aunt had died over four years ago and had left everything to Margo—this particular relation being on Margo’s father’s side. Margo had sometimes felt guilty that Bette didn’t receive a share and indeed had tried to give her one, which Bette wouldn’t hear of . . . perhaps because she felt guilty that she got the good heart.

Margo had used her inheritance after her great aunt died to buy an art house movie theater. It was located about six blocks away from the beach and luckily situated right between Clarissa Butler’s wildly popular eatery, The Clam Shack and a large coffeehouse on the other side. The three businesses boosted one another’s bottom line considerably with customers meandering from one place to the next. Clarissa and Margo had even come up with a joint promotion for slow winter weekdays—Tuesdays through Thursdays—the daily fish special at Clarissa’s and your choice of movie for fifteen dollars.

As Margo walked through the scenic streets of Oyster Bay, one colorful storefront after another caught her eye. The upside about a town that had evolved around impoverished artists was that they had left their creative mark at every turn . . . painting, sculpting, mosaic art, 3D figures jutting out from the building. . .

Her own theater was no exception. As she approached it on this particular day, she admired its Art Deco exterior for the umpteenth time. A lot of those vintage pieces had taken months to track down. And the twin pastel green, pink, and black mosaics of the Chrysler building that stood at either side of the entrance were the work of a local artist whom Margo wanted to hug every time she saw her.

There was more artwork inside. Margo so admired and wanted to support the local artists that she had dedicated a large portion of the interior wall space to effectively function as an art gallery, changing monthly to showcase as much of the local talent as possible and usually attracting a small handful of commissions for every exhibit.

It was a small theater, but Margo wanted it to be a homey, sociable place. She had three separate sitting areas with inviting sofas and plump chairs in the waiting area. It was nice to see people meet for their film half an hour early, just hanging out in those cozy waiting areas.

It made for great people watching—particularly, the families. Margo knew that a husband and children were not in the cards for her. Nor traveling, adventurous activities, or the sheer joy of planning for the future. But she contented herself with every ounce of vicarious enjoyment that was to be had from watching others live out their energetic, sprawling, lucky, lucky lives.

And it wasn’t as if her life hadn’t come with some satisfactions. The theater itself was her proudest achievement. It consisted of three viewing rooms, one dedicated to foreign language films, one to indie films—and both of these with renovated booths and tables and a BYOB policy—and the largest room was dedicated to golden oldies. Although, customers were constantly debating whether a film that came out in 1980 could be called an ‘oldie’. Well, that was before Margo was born, so it certainly felt old. Classics was probably a less problematic term.

It was the true oldies that had been her mother’s favorites. The mother she had never known. But her great aunt had told her as much as she could remember about Nora Bailey. Nora’s all-time favorite film was All About Eve. Hence, she named her first child after Bette Davis and planned to name her second after the great and fictitious Margo Channing, the middle-aged, sharp-tongued whirlwind whose unimaginable self-possession and confidence never failed to leave Margo feeling a tad inadequate for failing to live up to her namesake.

Margo and Bette had watched the film over and over, trying to reach out for any possible connection to their late mother. Which naturally led to all Bette Davis films, weeping buckets during Dark Victory, and the belief that their mother’s personality was something akin to Charlotte Vale from Now, Voyager—after she grew a spine, of course. It was that film that convinced Bette that she needed to see Rio de Janeiro and then the whole world.

Davis was followed by Katherine Hepburn and then Cary Grant—Holiday!—and by then, they were hooked. When it came to choosing what kind of business for Margo to start, it was a no-brainer. She called it Margo’s Movie House. Not self-named for the normal gratifications of ego, but to create something that would outlive her short life. Something that would say, Margo Bailey was here.

*****

“We’ve got five bucks riding on this, and if anyone knows this, it’s going to be you,” a flirtatious college boy told Margo.

His smug buddy waited expectantly. Margo shook her head. She was expected to know everything about movie trivia. Hadn’t these fellas heard of Google?

“Okay, before Gwyneth Paltrow and that guy were in Shakespeare in Love—who was supposed to play those parts?

Margo sighed with relief—an easy one. “Julia Roberts and Daniel Day Lewis.”

The smug guy’s mouth dropped open. “You gotta be kiddin’.”

“Popcorn’s on you, buddy,” the first guy crowed. “I know my movies.”

“You certainly do,” Margo said, trying not to ogle this fellow’s broad shoulders. He was way too young for her. And she certainly wasn’t available for a romantic development.

“Excuse me! Excuse me!” Ruby Townsend practically shoved those young men out of the way. She was breathing so hard from a record-breaking sprint from her car that she could barely get her next words out.

She was a very familiar face to Margo—Doctor Svenson’s young assistant. She had dropped by to catch a movie on a number of earlier occasions. But why was she in such a lather today? Ruby locked eyes with Margo, who let out a gasp as she realized the only possible reason for such a dramatic entrance.

“We have a heart for you, Margo. Surgery’s at ten p.m. You need to leave. You need to leave right now.”

In a daze, Margo asked Ted, the projectionist, to take over the ticket booth, and she let Ruby drag her out to the car. For the first time, Margo Bailey felt as if her life story had the potential to rival the best of movies. Was it too early, too foolish to start dreaming about happy endings?