Loss of Innocence (9 page)

Five

In moments, Whitney heard the hiss of electricity. “What was that?”

“The first sign of a thunderstorm,” Ben answered. “When the air is hot and humid like this, it combines with the cooler water to roil the weather. That’s what’s coming at us.”

In the distance, a flash of lightning shot from darkening clouds. “Can we sail around it?”

“No chance. You can’t sail in this at all.” Reaching behind him, Ben switched on the auxiliary motor. “We’re heading for Vineyard Haven. Do the things we need to, and we should be okay.”

A second bolt of lightning struck closer, its reflection shimmering orange on gray waters. Suddenly the skies grew even darker, and the wind vanished. “Help me get the mainsail,” Ben ordered. “We’ll stuff it through the hatch.”

Taking down the sail, Ben began folding it tightly. In the lull, Whitney scrambled to help him. Hurriedly opening the hatch, they pushed the canvas through. When she glanced up again, the black clouds coming toward them looked like mushrooms spitting jagged light.

“It’ll be here soon,” Ben said tautly. “These storms are pretty scary—the winds can get up to forty knots, and it’ll rain like hell. You should go down below until it’s over. There’s nothing you can do now, and I won’t think any worse of you.”

Whitney wanted to comply: framed against the vastness of the water, the skeleton of this boat without sails seemed fragile, sealing her sense of aloneness. But pride—or foolishness—forced her to say, “I’m sticking with you.”

“Then sit down and stay put. We’ll ride it out together.”

Whitney sat. Seconds later a stinging wind lashed her face, and the first wave of rain struck the water like bullets, dulling the thud of their engine. Grasping the tiller, Ben called out, “Don’t grab onto anything that’s sticking up.”

“Why?”

As if in answer, a lightning bolt thicker than a tree trunk cast a yellow streak near the bow. The boat began rocking sickeningly in storm-maddened waters. A hit of lightning struck beside her. Fearful, Whitney cried out. Tensed at the knees, Ben braced himself, eyes narrowing with strain.

“We’ll make it through,” he called out to her, and then they were enveloped in punishing winds, sheets of rain, lightning, the smell and hiss of electricity, the boat tossing crazily, lifting Whitney from her seat or jarring her from side to side. Sheets of rain flooded her eyes, near-blinded slits that barely saw the savage waves battering them from every direction. Gritting her teeth, she fought back nausea, beseeching God and Ben not to let them capsize.

He was grinning into the chaos all around them.
You don’t care,
she thought in anger and despair. And then, through a crack in the darkness, she saw a sliver of blue-gray sky.

“Almost done,” Ben told her over the noise and tumult.

The wind died suddenly. The darkness parted, and the wave of rain softened to a trickle. Ahead a burst of sun lit Vineyard Haven harbor, sparkling in brightness.

Whitney hunched over, arms folded, feeling her heart race. Then she saw Ben regarding her with a serious expression, as though
discerning something new. “Glad you’re still here,” he informed her. “Losing you would have spoiled my day.”

The harbormaster sent a dinghy to retrieve them. Taking her purse from the cabin below, Whitney let Ben pull her into the boat.

When they reached the dock, he said, “You look like you showered with your clothes on. Not to mention the raccoon eyes.”

“It’s hard being a girl. Or haven’t you heard?”

“Once or twice. Why don’t we sit on the dock and dry out a little?”

They found a place, legs dangling above the bright lapping water. Reaching into her purse for a Kleenex, Whitney wiped off her mascara while Ben regarded the harbor with something like contentment. “It’s days like this,” he said wryly, “that make life still seem worthwhile.”

Whitney turned to him, curious. “How old were you the first time you sailed through this kind of storm?”

“Twenty-two. It was today, actually. I didn’t want to shatter your confidence.”

Whitney felt surprise become outrage. “You should have told me.”

Ben laughed. “For the sake of honesty? That may have been the whitest lie I’ve ever told a woman. But maybe you’d have felt better drowning with Sir Lancelot.”

Whitney gave him a tight smile. “I wouldn’t have minded Lancelot drowning. But going down with him would’ve spoiled my day.”

“But we didn’t, did we? If you need further consolation for surviving, I’ve talked to some experienced sailors who know firsthand how to ride out this kind of storm. Now I’m one of them.”

In this, Whitney detected a kernel of philosophy—that challenges were to be faced, not avoided. She remembered a quote attributed to Robert Kennedy: “Man was not made for safe havens.” Perhaps that, as much as principle, had had impelled Ben to follow him.

Impulsively, Whitney asked, “Can you teach me how to sail?”

He looked at her with the same surprise, Whitney realized, as she felt at her own question. “On the Cal 48? No way. Too big, too complicated.”

His dismissive tone made Whitney more than a little piqued. “Fine. I’ll learn from someone else.”

He studied her for awhile, as though to ascertain her seriousness. Then he asked, “You’re friends with Clarice Barkley, right?”

Surprised yet again, Whitney asked, “How do you know Clarice?”

“Oh, we’re very close. I used to wait tables at fancy Vineyard parties. I’ll never forget the night she said sweetly over her shoulder, ‘More champagne, please.’” His voice lost its sardonic edge. “I
do
know her father—I crewed for him one summer when he raced his Herreshoff on Menemsha Pond. It’s a twelve and a half-footer, perfect to learn on, and the pond is a better place to start. If Clarice says you can borrow Daddy’s boat, maybe we could give it a try.”

His tone was so neutral, and his remark about Clarice so double-edged, that Whitney felt she was imposing. “I’d pay you, of course.”

His face closed at once. “Don’t worry about it. We can work something out.” He glanced at his watch. “You’d better get going. By now your parents will have called out the Coast Guard.”

His pride and resentment felt tangible now. “How did you know Clarice and I were friends? Did you see me at the parties, too?”

“The ones at your parents’ place,” Ben said succinctly. “Every Fourth of July.”

Thoroughly discomfited, Whitney stood. “Thank you for the sail, Ben. It’s one I won’t forget.”

He smiled a little. “That’s what we strive for, Miss Dane.”

Finding nothing more to say. Whitney left.

Her mother waited on the porch with a glass of wine. “I was worried,” Anne advised her with a trace of asperity. “It seems I was right to. You look like a drowned rat.”

“More like a raccoon, I’m told. We were caught in a storm.”

Anne gave her a querying look. “Caught? It came through here like an angry message from the Old Testament God. This young man seems more than a little reckless. You’d think he’d check the
weather forecast before taking you out on the water. If your father were here, he’d be furious.”

This thought had occurred to Whitney, as well. Defensively, she said, “Ben knows what he’s doing.”

“Fine for him,” her mother answered crisply. “But he could have lost you both. Next time he plays aquatic roulette, he should do it alone.”

Whitney felt herself bridle at the implicit command. “Next time, we’ll be on Menemsha Pond, where it’s safer. Ben’s teaching me to sail.”

“Really,” Anne said, the single word etched with puzzlement and annoyance. “With all you have to do?”

“I’ve got time, Mom. And I’ve always wanted to learn.”

Her mother appraised her closely. “I never knew that, Whitney.”

Neither, Whitney realized, had she.

Six

The next morning, restless, Whitney decided to visit Peter and her sister in New York. Among her stated reasons—which deeply pleased her mother—was to accompany Janine to the fitting of her bridesmaid’s dress. But beneath this was Whitney’s unease about her sister’s state of mind.

The fitting, Whitney’s first stop after flying into LaGuardia, deepened her disquiet. Janine was fidgety and distracted; she had lost sufficient weight that the dress had to be taken in—not much, as such things went, but unsettling in a woman whom Whitney already thought too thin. At the end, however, Janine brightly suggested they use the credit card their father had just given her, and treat themselves to lunch at La Grenouille.

The gift of a credit card was no surprise to Whitney, nor was Janine’s revelation, delivered with the pride of a family favorite, that Charles had begun subsidizing her new apartment. Whitney wondered if her somewhat sour reaction to this, quickly suppressed, was mere competitiveness, or the deepening sense that a twenty-five-year-old woman should have something more substantial to take
pride in. But on the score of parental indulgence, Whitney could hardly claim to be different.

More unsettling was her sister’s demeanor at lunch. Fidgeting, she barely tasted the side salad, which was all she ordered, and her desultory remarks roamed from subject to subject. Finally, Whitney steered the conversation to Janine’s life in Manhattan. “So who do you see for fun?”

Absently, Janine stabbed a radish with her fork. “It’s hit or miss. What with working and dating, I get pretty strung out. Every so often I’ll go out with girls I know from modeling, or friends from Vassar.”

Whitney made her voice bright with interest. “Anyone I know? I really liked your suitemates senior year.”

The seemingly innocuous question caused Janine to draw in her shoulders, as though Whitney had cornered her. “There’s Laura Hamilton. You remember Laura.”

“Of course. What’s she doing now?”

“She’s got this great job at
Vogue
, editorial assistant to someone important. But she’s so busy that it’s hard to get together.”

To Whitney, this last had the sound of evasion; for whatever reason, her sister was guarding the details of her days and nights like a miser hoarding gold. “Would you like to share a dessert?” Whitney asked. “You haven’t had that much to eat.”

Janine gave her sister a quick once-over. “Not for me, thanks. I have to watch my figure.”

Whitney glanced around the elegant room—the soft colors, the crisp white tablecloths, the expensively turned out men and women in twosomes and foursomes defined by gender—affording herself time to ignore Janine’s jibe. “You look great,” she assured Janine. “You don’t need to lose a single ounce.”

“Still, I have two photo shoots coming up. You know how it is—a model can’t be too careful, or she’ll be out of a job. Besides,” she finished with sisterly warmth, “I have to look good for your wedding. Have you and Mom sorted out the details?”

“She’s certainly sorted
me
out,” Whitney said dryly. “I’ve begun to feel like a project instead of a bride.”

Janine flicked back her hair. “You know who she is, Whitney. You just have to roll with it. Has she at least told you where the ceremony will be?”

“The back lawn, with a view of the water. Exactly where I always imagined it.”

A brief shadow crossed her sister’s face. “So did I, actually—on my wedding day. But what if it rains?”

“It won’t,” Whitney said firmly. “Did
you
ever imagine it raining?”

Janine smiled a little. “For my wedding, it’s always sunny. I’m just worried about yours. It would be absolutely miserable if a storm blew in off the water.”

Did Janine secretly hope for this, Whitney wondered, preserving her hopes of being the first sister with a pristine outdoor wedding? “Mom’s ordered a tent,” Whitney said equably, “and space heaters. It’s her way of ensuring perfect weather. But if it’s miserable, at least the bridesmaids won’t freeze.”

Janine toyed with her fork again, then laid it atop the limp remains of lettuce. “So who are the groomsmen? Anyone who’d catch my interest?”

For an instant, recalling the startling image of Janine being taken over the hood of a pickup truck, Whitney was tempted to say,
I hope not.
But the image lent her sister’s inquiry a tinge of desperation. “They’re all from Dartmouth—athletes mostly, and pretty cute, though none as handsome as Peter. There is one guy, Carter, who looks a little like Warren Beatty when he smiles . . .”

“Not bad.”

“No kidding. But they’re all Peter’s age, so they may look like tadpoles to you.”

“I can always winnow them out,” Janine said with the exaggerated carelessness of a queen, “and take who strikes me as amusing.”

Smiling, Whitney asked with seeming innocence. “So I guess you’re not seeing anyone special?”

The guarded look resurfaced in her sister’s eyes. “Maybe,” she said, then hastily added, “I really don’t know. So don’t say anything to Mom.”

“Why would I? Besides, don’t you talk to her pretty much very day?”

Janine touched her glass of tomato juice, fingers circling the rim. “She needs that, Whitney. I mean, Dad’s great, but sometimes she gets lonely. I understand her.”

The tenor of this answer, protective and proprietary, reminded Whitney of her mother’s defensiveness about Janine. Perhaps this was their mutual conceit: that as women gifted with poise and beauty, as well as mother and daughter, Anne and Janine shared a special bond. “Consider me a sphinx,” Whitney assured Janine. “No point in overstimulating Mom’s febrile imagination. But if there’s a guy on your horizon, I wouldn’t mind a preview.”

Janine looked down, briefly shaking her head. “Too soon. I don’t want to jinx it.”

Something about whatever this situation was, Whitney felt sure, made her sister anxious. “The wedding is almost three months away,” she said in an encouraging tone. “Maybe by then you’ll have no room for groomsmen who look like Warren Beatty.”

Janine’s smile seemed to question, rather than reflect, a belief in her own happiness. “I hope so,” she said, and reached for her fork again.

Perhaps Whitney only imagined that her hand trembled briefly before she put it down. Then it occurred to her that, contrary to her usual custom, Janine had not ordered a glass of wine—perhaps from worry about her weight, or a concern about what Whitney might say to their mother. “Why don’t we go out tonight,” Whitney proposed. “Peter and Dad have a dinner, so maybe we can catch Bobby Short at the Carlyle. You always liked him, I remember.”

Janine bit her lip. “Thanks. But I may have plans. So I’d better leave it open.”

Who was it?
Whitney wondered. “Call if you change your mind,” she suggested, knowing as she said this that Janine would not.

Arriving at their building, Whitney used her key to the outside door, introduced herself to the doorman, and took the elevator to the fourth-floor apartment she would soon be sharing with Peter.

Though her parents had lived there with the toddler Janine, Whitney had never seen it. Now she stood in the atrium, imagining it as her own. Though not unduly spacious, it was bright and clean, with a remodeled kitchen and a freshly lacquered parquet floor. The sparse furnishings were gifts from her parents—a couch and coffee table in the living room, a double bed with end tables, a small table in the kitchen where Peter could eat. As to the rest, Whitney had insisted the newlyweds would furnish it gradually, defining the space for themselves. Opening the refrigerator, she was amused to see one space Peter had already defined—not enough food, too much milk, and a leftover sandwich that might, in few days’ time, resemble a science experiment.

She returned to the living room. Sunlight from the window above Madison Avenue cast a square on the parquet floor, reminding Whitney of her mother’s memory that Janine had liked to play there, feeling the warmth of the sun on her round, pretty face. Whitney resolved to cover it with an armchair.

Proceeding to the bedroom, she made the bed Peter had left in collegiate disarray, then lay down to riffle a copy of
House & Garden
. Gradually, her thoughts drifted from décor to her sister. By six o’clock, having heard nothing from Janine, Whitney picked up the phone on the nightstand and asked for the number of
Vogue magazine
.

When Whitney arrived at the King Cole Bar, Laura Hamilton was already at a table. She was dark and pretty, as Whitney had remembered, and though Laura greeted her pleasantly, she seemed a little harried. After ordering cocktails—an Old Fashioned for Laura; a Manhattan for Whitney—the older girl offered some chit-chat about Manhattan. But beneath this, Laura seemed puzzled and a little wary.

Finally, Laura said briskly, “On the phone, you told me there was something you wanted to ask. If it’s about a job, I wish I knew of one. But I can put you in touch with some girl who might.”

Feeling intrusive and a little embarrassed, Whitney hesitated. “I may need that sometime. But this is about Janine.”

Eyebrows slightly raised, Laura looked at her steadily, saying nothing. “I’m not trying to spy on her,” Whitney added hurriedly. “But at lunch today, she seemed jumpy and preoccupied. I mean, she’s always been kinetic . . .” She cut herself off. “I just wondered if you’ve seen her lately.”

“Not really,” Laura answered matter-of-factly. “I’ve tried a couple of times, but it’s been difficult to connect. You know how she is, always changing plans.” Pausing, she gave Whitney a cautious, curious look. “At lunch today, did she say anything about the agency?”

“Just that she had a couple of shoots.”

“Nothing else?”

“No.”

For a moment, Laura stared at her in silence, then rested her chin on folded hands. “Maybe I shouldn’t tell you this, Whitney—Janine clearly didn’t want to. But I’ve been calling her because another girl heard she’d had been fired.”

Whitney felt a twitch in her stomach. “For what?”

“She missed a couple of jobs, apparently. I’ve been wondering what that means.”

“What do
you
think it means?”

Sipping her Manhattan, Laura did not answer. Finally, she said, “We were roommates for a year, so I have a fairly good sense of her. In many ways, Janine’s pretty transparent, and very sweet. All that surface energy can create a sense of fun. But your sister has a secretive side—she keeps secrets from friends, and even from herself. Sometimes she’ll flat out lie to preserve appearances.

“If there is a problem, she won’t want you to know it, the better to tell herself and others that there
is
no problem.” Frowning, Laura put down her drink. “Even if I see her, I’m not sure I’ll learn a lot. But you’re her sister. Maybe in time you’ll figure out if there’s really something wrong.”

“I hope so, Laura. I worry about her.”

“So do I,” Laura affirmed. “In the meanwhile, you didn’t hear any of this from me, okay? But if you find out she’s in trouble, and I can help, please let me know.”

Whitney promised that she would.

Returning to the apartment, Whitney called a pizza place recommended by the doorman. When the pizza arrived still hot, its crust appropriately thin, she wrote down the number for evenings when she and Peter felt lazy. Then she picked up the phone to call Janine. But this and several other calls, the last at ten o’clock, went unanswered.

At length, Whitney fished the diary from her suitcase. After a moment, her thoughts—confused as they were—flowed easily.

For a moment, she stopped writing. Her last words came much more slowly.