East Hope (3 page)

Marjorie thanked her, reached for the bottle of wine at her end of the table, and began talking about the garden club's daffodil show. “Melissa didn't set up enough tables for horticulture.” She glanced at her own centerpiece, a bouquet of lush peonies, their heavy blooms bowing toward the mahogany table. “Did you see Barbara's arrangement?” Marjorie asked Julia, pouring them both more wine. “The worst container you ever saw.” Caroline was supposed to have chaired the daffodil show, but was excused after Harry's death.

“How's Rob doing?” Arthur asked Caroline.

“Better, thanks.” She made an effort to focus. The wine was going to her head. “It's hard having him away this year, even though he doesn't say much when he's at home.”

“You don't look old enough to have a boy in college,” Arthur said.

The skin of Arthur's neck was slack and overflowed onto his starched collar. Harry had not lived long enough for his facial muscles to soften. His death at fifty-three had shocked everyone. He had been a lifelong runner, a fit man, not a candidate for a heart attack.

“Boys never talk about their feelings,” Marjorie said.

“With girls,” Julia said, “you hear more than you ever want to know.” She had three grown daughters.

Caroline looked at her watch under the table. She didn't want to share her concerns about Rob with either of these women.

Julia turned to Marjorie. “Are you and Pete taking the same house in Nantucket this summer?”

Marjorie dabbed her lips with a napkin. “Just the last two weeks in August. It's appalling how the rents have gone up.” Her voice sounded thick. She seemed to be drinking more than usual. Caroline took a sip of water.

Julia nodded consolingly. “We've taken the same house as last year. Lucy and her boys will join us for one week.”

Caroline pushed the potatoes around her plate. It seemed too great an effort to join in the conversation. Eventually Marjorie brought in dessert, a strawberry tart glistening with a currant jelly glaze. Pete put his hand on Caroline's shoulder. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“Sorry,” she said. “I'm fine.” The dining room had grown warmer. Wind rattled the windows, but the air inside was still.

“Bet we're going to have a huge thunderstorm,” Arthur said.

“Did you hear what the Petersons paid for that house out in Potomac?” Julia said.

“Just where does he get his money, anyway?” Marjorie asked. She filled her wineglass once again. “People are saying his company has hit hard times.”

The evening continued to play out like a drawing room drama in which Caroline had a small role. She was the odd guest, the one who didn't fit in. Arthur and Julia balanced each other, their repartee easy and expected, finishing each other's sentences and offering affectionate smiles at appropriate moments. They were the couple dancing cheek-to-cheek, a two-step. Pete and Marjorie artfully avoided each other, performing a formal minuet. Caroline thought back to earlier exchanges that evening, trying to remember any shared glances between them, even a brief touch. She could recall none. Had she and Harry become like that? Her memories of Harry had clouded.

After dinner they moved to the living room for coffee. The storm finally broke. Quick flashes of lightning yielded to deep, rolling booms of thunder. Beyond the heavy folds of the curtains rain beat against the windows.

“Pete, go check the thermostat,” Marjorie said. “The air-conditioning hasn't clicked on in a while.” Her face was flushed. The beautifully orchestrated dinner was taking its toll. Pete looked annoyed and disappeared into the hallway.

Arthur shook his head. “I can't believe it got hot this early in the season.”

“It won't last,” Julia said. She turned to Marjorie. “This is decaf, isn't it?”

“Of course, Julia.” The central air-conditioning clicked on with a hum, and Marjorie looked relieved. She continued to drink her wine, which she'd brought in from the dining room. Her job as hostess was almost over.

Pete came back into the room. “I reset the circuit breaker,” he said. “Should be okay now.” He carried a tray from the bar with a bottle of brandy and some balloon glasses that clinked together as he set it down next to the coffee service.

“Anyone care for a nightcap?” Pete lifted the bottle. “I know Arthur will join me. How about you, Julia?” He didn't offer a glass to his wife.

“It's Sunday night,” Julia said, “and we need to think about heading home. Okay with you, Arthur?” It was a statement, not a question, and Arthur was adept at reading his wife's signals.

“Thanks, buddy. Julia's right. It's late.” Arthur stood, and he and Julia said their good-byes along with giving the kisses and idle promises of familiar friends to get together soon. Marjorie walked into the hall with them.

Pete poured the amber-colored drink into a glass. “What about you, Red?”

“My hair is more silver than red these days.”

“Hardly,” Pete said. He held the glass toward her. She remembered the warmth of his hand on her back.

“No, thanks. I'll just finish my coffee.” She was tired. The evening had grown late.

“I wish you'd let me help you.” He spoke softly. “You're going to need money to live on.”

Caroline shook her head. Marjorie returned. Her lipstick had worn off and her linen dress held deep creases across the middle. She began gathering the empty coffee cups. “Tell us about this health cookbook you're doing,” she said.

Caroline put her cup down. “Thanks for asking, but it's time for me to go, too.” She spoke carefully, feeling the effects of the wine. “Marjorie, it was a wonderful dinner.”

“I'll drive you home,” Pete said.

“Thanks, but I'm happy to walk.”

Marjorie offered a tired smile. “Promise you'll come back again soon.” She gave Caroline a quick hug.

“I hate leaving you with all the dishes,” Caroline said.

“Francine is coming in the morning. She'll take care of everything.”

Caroline had forgotten about the housekeeper.

“Come on, Red,” Pete said. “I insist on giving you a ride home.”

“Really, I love to walk, and the rain's let up.”

“Nonsense. It may pour again any minute.”

“Pete doesn't mind,” Marjorie added, swaying slightly with the tray in her hands. She turned and went to the kitchen.

The air had cooled after the rain. Caroline breathed in deeply, hoping to clear her head. She got into the car. The door on her side of the BMW sat heavily on its hinges. At first it didn't shut, so she opened it again and gave it another slam while Pete started the engine. The red leather seats were cracked with age. The car had an old-car smell, a mixture of oil, mold, and wax. He backed out of the narrow drive and started slowly up the wet street. The neighborhood was quiet. SUVs were parked in driveways of the well-kept homes. The doors and windows opened to the warm air earlier in the evening had been closed. The families were settled inside for the night.

Within minutes the rain began again. The windows fogged. Pete reached for the defrost switch. His hand brushed Caroline's knee. She leaned against the door. He stopped at a light. “You okay?” His hair looked damp.

Caroline nodded. “I'm sorry you have to go out in this.”

“I'm not,” he said. The light at Wisconsin Avenue changed to green and he drove the final blocks. The rain was coming down harder when he pulled into her driveway. The house was dark.

“Wait, I'll get the umbrella and come around,” he said. His steps crunched on the gravel. Seconds later he opened her door holding a large black umbrella. Caroline reached for his arm and they walked to the front door. The rain blew sideways, making the umbrella practically useless. Pete held it over her as she put the key in the lock and pushed the door open. He followed her inside.

“I thought I'd left some lights on,” she said, reaching for the switch. “Damn,” she whispered, “the power's out.” She peeled off her raincoat, and water pooled onto the flagstone floor.

“I think I'll wait a few minutes for it to let up,” Pete said. “Do you mind?”

“Of course not.” He'd been kind enough to bring her home. He was her husband's best friend.

He draped his coat over the bench in the hall. She could barely see his face in the darkness. “I can't believe I've brought you out in this awful weather,” she said.

“Don't keep saying that.”

She stepped into the living room. “You and Marjorie were great to have me. I know I'm not much fun these days.” She knew she should go and look for candles, do something practical, but his presence alone with her in the dark was making it impossible for her to think. The effects of all the wine made her feel dreamy and loose, not at all herself.

“Come on,” he said, following her into the room. “You were charming. I hate to think of you home by yourself.”

“I don't mind it. It was really Harry who liked going out.” A part of her wished Pete would go. She didn't want to talk about Harry, and she didn't want Pete to start discussing her financial problems again.

“You haven't called me,” he said.

“I'm okay now. Really, I can manage.”

“I'm not talking about that.”

Caroline was aware of the bond that had grown between them. Pete knew everything about her financial worries. He had seen her vulnerable side. Now, far from the formal setting of his office, away from the presence of their friends, his wife, that connection seemed electric, different altogether. “I think I've got a flashlight in the kitchen,” she said. “There's no need for you to stay. Marjorie will worry.”

“She'll have taken a pill by now. Out cold. The usual routine.” He lowered his voice. “She never knows when or if I ever come to bed.”

Caroline folded her arms across her chest and walked to the front window. The rain pelted against the panes. Pete followed and stood behind her, so close that she could feel the heat of his body and smell his wet clothes.

“Come on, Red.” His breath hit her neck. “I'm glad you asked me for help.”

“Pete, no.” It had been a long evening after a long winter, an unsettling spring. Maybe she shouldn't have gone to see him so often. She stepped away from him.

“Do you mean that?”

“You've been wonderful to me. Truly, I couldn't have managed without you. But—”

“Shhh.” He put his hands around her waist. “I know you miss him.” Pete was taller than Caroline, taller than Harry had been. For a moment she relaxed and felt the loveliness of just being held, the warmth of arms encircling her. If only she could forget about Harry for just a while, forget her worries and the struggle of getting through an evening. Why not allow herself to be comforted?

Pete bent down and kissed her neck. His hands tightened around her.

“No. We mustn't.”

He didn't release his arms.

She turned to him and looked into his eyes. What was she doing? Was she going to let this happen? Harry's friend, their friend? He eased his hands under her shirt onto her bare skin. Her breath stalled, and Pete kissed her hard on the mouth. Caroline closed her eyes.

Later, the house buzzed and the lights came back on, though the bedroom remained dark. After making love, Caroline had fallen asleep in Pete's arms. The bedside clock blinked the relentless digits of twelve o'clock; it needed to be reset. She shifted slightly, still savoring the warmth of his skin against hers. The bedroom windows were open and the curtains swayed gently.

Caroline felt clearheaded in a way that she hadn't in a long time. With Pete, she had experienced the free fall of pleasure. He had given her a gift she hadn't even known she'd wanted. Pete had helped her to escape her troubles for a while, but at the same time, their lovemaking brought back her memories of Harry, and the passion they had once shared. She longed for the past, and yet, she was overcome with a distinct yearning to be once again desired, cared for, loved. In the darkness of this spring night she was all the more aware of what she had lost.

She fumbled for her watch on the bedside table. Turning on the lamp, she nearly knocked over the photograph of Rob that Harry had taken on their last fishing trip in Wyoming. It was after two. Pete stirred in the pool of light.

“It's late,” she said, moving away from him and leaning back into the pillows.

Pete reached for her. “You're so lovely, Red.” His arm remained draped across her. “Are you all right? I mean . . .” He stroked her face.

“I'm fine.” Caroline held his hand. She looked around the bedroom. The letter from Maine was still propped on the maple dresser that was her grandmother's, the chair and ottoman still next to the window, the blanket chest still at the foot of the bed. All was the same. She stroked his arm and kissed the back of his hand lightly. His skin was surprisingly soft. Yet Pete wasn't hers. He had his own world, his own life. “You should go.”