Authors: Nancy Thayer
Summer Beach Reads 5-Book Bundle: Beachcombers, Heat Wave, Moon Shell Beach, Summer House, Summer Breeze (129 page)
“Are you kidding? Over this din? I can scarcely hear myself. Besides, what if she does hear me. The little skank needs to know that we’re not buying her act.”
“Don’t call her a skank, Grace! Why are you being so uncharitable? I’m concerned, too, but Teddy said they’re married, and as Teddy’s wife she deserves our respect. And our assistance. The poor thing looks like she hasn’t had a decent meal in ages.”
“She’s a drug addict, Helen, of course she hasn’t eaten.”
“You don’t know she’s a drug addict! Give her a break, Grace. Teddy loves her.”
“And Teddy is such fine judge of character, being such a fine character himself.”
Helen turned to face Grace full on. “Are you drunk, Grace? Because that’s the only excuse for your speaking this way.”
“Maybe I am drunk. But I’ll be damned if I allow some little piece of trash your druggie son’s dragged in to lay claim to any part of the Wheelwright legacy.”
Helen sat perfectly still. She had never been close to Grace, but
they had gotten along all right. They’d shared so much over the many years, cooking for their large intertwined families, organizing beach picnics, sailboat races, tennis matches. She’d never imagined Grace felt anything like this. She’d never seen Grace quite so vitriolic. In fact, she’d never seen Grace so passionate about anything.
From the corner of her eye, she saw the black gleam of a tuxedo, and then her husband was standing in front of them. He leaned down to his sister. “Grace, may I have this dance?”
Grace rose without another word. Helen just sat there, staring out at the dance floor, watching all the smiling, happy, well-fed people dancing by. Did anyone else have a family like hers? Were any other women forcing gaiety when inside they burned with grief? Did any other women feel separate from their own families? Helen’s parents had gobs of money, and Helen had had a sterling education. She played a decent game of tennis and could sail a boat well enough. She’d chaired committees and supervised events, and back in Boston she’d given all the cocktail parties Worth had wanted.
But in her heart, she was not a Wheelwright. So then—who was she?
The wildest thing she’d ever done was to suggest—merely suggest—that she open an art gallery on the island. When the idea was vetoed by the rest of the Wheelwrights, she let the matter drop. Helen had never wanted a career. All her life had been about her family—
her
family, Worth and their three children. She just hadn’t cared about being a Wheelwright. She didn’t care now. She wanted her three children to be happy and healthy. If she wished for anything else, it would be to have more presence in her children’s lives. She liked her children so much, even roguish Teddy. No matter what Grace said, Helen’s children were wonderful, amazing people, good people, and perhaps Teddy was facing more challenges than most, but he was still a good person, and she would stand by him and his choice of a wife, and to hell with the Wheelwrights!
Grace returned to their table, obviously avoiding Helen and seating herself next to Nona. Helen saw Worth slow-dancing with Harriet Hingham, an old friend of Worth’s and a maniac sailor who crewed for him anytime he asked.
Suddenly, there was a commotion. Nona gave a little cry and slumped sideways. Grace shrieked. People jumped up from nearby tables and rushed over. Nona’s body was limp. Worth pushed through the crowd and knelt at his mother’s side, taking her weight in his arms. Roger Parsons, their island doctor and a friend, pressed his way through the crowd.
“Come on, folks, give her air.” He leaned down to feel for Nona’s pulse at the side of her neck. He looked up. “Call nine-one-one.”
Cuddled in dreams like a china doll among soft cotton puffs, Nona became aware of a man bending near. She could sense the rumble of his deep voice, the force of his male presence, a large masculine hand on her crooked old chicken claw, and then his voice. She tried to open her eyes, but her lids were too heavy. Still, she could glimpse through her lashes, just a bit.…
It was Bobby! Her heart quickened. Her darling beloved son—but no, it was Worth. Or was it Herb? It wasn’t Kellogg or one of her granddaughter’s husbands—this male was hers, belonged to her; she knew it in the way she knew a familiar scent.
“Nona?”
It was Oliver.
It was Oliver, and with that knowledge rushed a plethora of information: she was in her summer house, in her dear comfortable bed, and the cotton puffs were pillows, and it was day. She could somehow feel the light through the windows, and the windows were open; bless Glorious for keeping the windows open.
“Nona?” Oliver sat carefully on the side of her bed.
He smelled delicious. She had never approved of men using cologne, but Oliver did smell delicious, like a mixture of gin and pears.
She managed to open her eyes. “Oliver.” Her voice was a whisper.
“She’s awake!”
It was Grace shouting from the doorway, of course it was Grace, she had always wanted to be the first with any good news, as if she would somehow be given credit for it, a gold star somewhere on her cosmic lifetime behavior chart. Grace liked to be the first with bad news, too, for that matter.
The air of the room roiled as Grace rushed to the bed, elbowed Oliver out of the way, and bent over Nona.
“Nona! How are you?”
“I’m fine. Don’t fuss.”
“You fainted last night at your party.”
“Of course I did. I was overwhelmed and exhausted.”
“You gave us all such a fright!”
“I’m sorry, Grace. I didn’t mean to.”
“The doctor said you’d only fainted. We brought you home in an ambulance, and you’ve just slept eight hours straight!”
“Could I have some water, Grace? My throat is dry.”
“I’ll get it.” Grace flitted away.
Nona was still holding her grandson’s hand, and now she squeezed it. “Are you leaving?”
“Yes, Nona. We have to get back. Owen has a conference tomorrow morning that he has to attend. But we’ll be back in two weeks, for Family Meeting.”
“And for your wedding.”
“Yes. And for our wedding.” When Oliver smiled, he looked like an angel.
“Where’s Owen?”
“I asked him to wait downstairs. I didn’t think you’d want too many people crowding around you right now.”
“That’s thoughtful, Oliver, and you’re right. I’m tired, and not
feeling especially social at the moment. But kiss Owen goodbye for me, will you?”
“Of course.” Oliver bent down and kissed her cheek. “Goodbye, Nona.”
He was her first grandson. She could remember holding him when he was only a few hours old. She had trembled at the exquisite completeness of him, his little bald head, his squinting eyes, his birdlike rib cage. She could remember thinking how
smart
he was, and now she smiled at her memory. How could she have thought that a newborn was smart? And yet Oliver was, wise and intelligent and clever. She had known it when she first set eyes on him, and she knew it now.
“Goodbye, Oliver.” It was an effort to speak.
To her surprise, he grinned a wicked grin and shook his head. “Don’t even think it. You’re absolutely not going to die on me, Nona. We want you there for the ceremony. But you’re not going to die for years and years anyway, you know that.”
“What are you saying!” Grace swept up, water glass in hand. “Oliver! Don’t talk about death in front of Nona!”
“Right,” Oliver responded archly. “Because she’d never think of it on her own.”
The bed jiggled as Oliver stood up. “Goodbye, Aunt Grace.” He waved at Nona and left the room.
“He’s not as cute as he thinks he is.” Grace settled on the bed. “Can I help you sit up, Nona? So you can have a sip of water?”
“Thank you, Grace, I can do it alone.” But Nona was dismayed at how weak her arms were. It was only sheer pride and cussedness that fueled her as she struggled, managing to hoist herself just a few inches higher on her pillows. When Grace held out the water glass, Nona was horrified to discover that she didn’t have enough energy to say
Wait a moment.
She rested, just breathing. After a few moments, she was able to reach out for the glass, but her hand was shaking.
The water was cool, a slide of crystal elixir down her throat. She took another sip. And another. Oliver was an unusually handsome man, she thought. She had handsome children. But no one was as handsome as Herb.
“I’m going to sleep some more,” Nona whispered. Seeing the concern on her daughter’s face, she said, “Don’t worry, dear. It’s just sleep.”
The steamer
Nobska rounded Brant Point on its voyage across Nantucket Sound to Woods Hole. Anne slipped her high heels off and tucked her feet up under her for warmth and comfort. Herb hadn’t warned her about the cobblestone streets and brick sidewalks of Nantucket, and the walking tour he’d taken her on of the quaint village center this morning had been hard on her feet. They ached. Her heart ached even more.
“So,” Herb said. He settled across from her on a bench, looking handsome and relaxed in his civvies. “What do you think?”
Anne gazed out the window at the long sandy beaches and gray shingled houses, the moderate waves breaking gently against the easy shore. “I think Nantucket’s beautiful.”
“And? You’re looking mighty pensive.” He reached into his breast pocket for his cigarette case, held it out to her, and, when she shook her head, took out a cigarette for himself.
Anne forced herself to be brave. To face him straight on. “Herb, I can’t marry you. At least not yet.”
He recoiled in surprise. “Why, Anne, what’s gotten into you?” His face changed. “My parents are
that
bad?”
“I didn’t say they were bad. I didn’t say anything about them, Herb. I’m not calling anyone names. But you can’t deny that they didn’t take to me.”
“Look.” Herb leaned forward, elbows on his knees, earnest in his speech. “I know my father’s a cold fish and my mother’s—well, she’s
formal.
That’s just the way they are.”
“Herb, your parents didn’t like me. Not even a little bit.”
“My sister liked you!”
“Yes, and I like Holly. But your parents—”
“Damn it, Anne, we’re not going to live with my parents!”
“Well, perhaps not, but you’re going to work in the bank, aren’t you? And won’t you want to spend every summer on Nantucket, in that big old house, sailing and all?” She had to look away. Every fiber of her being yearned to kiss him, touch him, be with him—that was all that mattered. But she couldn’t
let
it be all that mattered. “Besides, Herb, maybe they’re right. Maybe we’re rushing things. Well, we
are
rushing things. We’ve only known each other three weeks.”
Herb said, “Anne, I knew I wanted to marry you the moment I saw you.”
She couldn’t hold back the tears. She buried her face in her hands.
“You said you felt that way, too,” Herb quietly reminded her.
She nodded. “I know. I did. But we shouldn’t be
hasty.
”
“Anne, I have never taken a woman home to my parents before. I have never asked a woman to marry me before. I have gone out with several women, and been a little bit serious about one or two, but when I saw you, it was like—like getting hit right in the gut.” He paused. “That doesn’t sound very romantic, does it?”
Anne couldn’t help but smile. “It sounds very romantic. I know exactly what you mean.” She unclasped her purse, took out her embroidered handkerchief, and wiped her eyes. She was determined to be dignified about this. “But that doesn’t mean we have to get married right away, does it?”
“I leave for special training in Arizona tomorrow,” he reminded her.
“And we can spend the night together,” she said. “And I’ll be true to you, Herb, and I’ll write you letters, and when you get home from the war we can get married.”
Herb’s mouth set and he drummed his fingers on his knees, thinking. Then he said, “What if we didn’t have a war on? What if I weren’t getting sent away? You know what? I’d still want to marry you right away, and not to sleep with you or to keep you from sleeping with other men, and not to start a family or be sure a baby’s legitimate if we accidentally did start a family. I’d want to
marry you because I want you to be my wife. Right now. Right away. I want to be officially connected to you. You are my person. I finally
found you.
Why do I have to wait any longer?”
Anne looked out the window, trying to compose her thoughts. The ferry steamed away from the calmer waters of the shoreline and hit rough water, the early October winds transforming the waves into troughs. The ferry reared and dropped, reared and dropped. Salt spray dashed against the windows and the horizon tilted alarmingly. Anne’s stomach turned.
She put her hands on her midriff. “I’m going to be ill.”
“Lie down,” Herb advised her. “Try to sleep.”
She slid down on the long bench, pulling her light cloth coat over her. Herb rose, folded his overcoat into a pillow, and gently placed it beneath her head. It did help to lie down. She shut her gaze against the way everything slanted.
She could feel Herb looking at her, and she remembered the first day they spent together just three weeks ago.
That morning, their first morning together, when Anne and Herb finally made it to Anne’s little kitchen for breakfast, they saw the sun blazing in the high blue perfection of the sky. It was late September. Anne had the windows open, and a fresh breeze occasionally stirred the curtains. As she moved around, fixing scrambled eggs and bacon and toast and coffee for Herb, she was well aware of the domesticity of the moment, she felt as if she were trying to form a mold or pattern for their future life so that this simple event would be stamped into time like a phonograph record, to be played over and over again. She wore her summer wrap, a lightweight silk peach kimono. Herb had tried to put on her white chenille bathrobe, but his shoulders were too large. How they had laughed! He pulled on trousers and an undershirt. She wanted to sit on his lap while he ate. She wanted to be the food that he ate.
Herb set his coffee cup back on the saucer and leaned back. “That was great. Thanks, Anne.” He looked out the window. “What shall we do with this fine day?”
“Well, we could stroll through the Public Gardens. The trees are just starting to turn, and I love the trees in the autumn.”
“You’d rather do that than go to a museum?”
“Oh, always!” She shot a quick glance his way to see how he took this. “I guess I’m just a Midwestern outdoor girl at heart. Anyway, Herb, I’ve been in Boston for four years. I’ve pretty much seen the museums.”
“Have you ever been out to Concord?”
“You know, I never have. I don’t have a car. Well, I do at home, of course. But when I was at Radcliffe I never needed a car, really. I just took a bus or a cab if necessary. I was so busy all the time with my courses, and every social event was with the boys at Harvard. Sometimes we went down to New York on the train, but otherwise I never even thought of leaving Boston and Cambridge. Do you think I should see Concord?”
“I do. Absolutely.” He stood up, suddenly awake and energetic. “Let’s get dressed. We’re going for a ride in the country.”
Anne wore a blue dress with a white belt, tied a red sweater over her shoulders in case they were out late, and knotted a silk scarf around her long brown curls. They walked up to Herb’s family home on Beacon Hill. While Herb changed into a fresh uniform, Anne waited in the living room, which was much like Hilyard Clayton’s parents’ stuffy old mausoleum. All she could think about was how glad she was that Herb’s parents were down at their summer home on Nantucket Island, because she wouldn’t have wanted to meet them this way, the morning she and Herb had become lovers. She was vaguely aware of the quality of the oil paintings on the walls, the porcelain on the tables, the high dignified ceilings, but it was really a small place compared to her parents’ home in Kansas City, so she wasn’t overwhelmed or even impressed. She was just thinking about Herb. She was just aching to be back in bed with him, to do all those things she’d learned to do this morning, while the sun rose.
Herb raced down the stairs, two at a time. “Okay! We’re off!” Behind the house, on a narrow cobblestone lane, sat his own automobile
,
a 1938 Terraplane convertible. It was aqua, with a shining curved chrome grille and white sidewall tires. The seats were natural leather, the dashboard a shining curve of wood—teak, Anne thought.
“What a beaut,” Anne said, and Herb grinned proudly.
The top was up, so for a few minutes they occupied themselves in folding it back, and then they settled onto the leather seats, and Herb turned the key and pulled out the choke and gunned the gas, and they were off.
Herb steered knowledgeably through the cramped and winding Boston streets. He glanced over at her. “Did you know that the streets of Boston were originally old cow paths? That’s why they’re so confusing.”
Anne said, “I must confess I don’t pay attention to streets. I think I navigate by buildings, landmarks. Like, my apartment is two blocks away from the little diner where Gail and I like to have breakfast.” She waved an arm through the air. “This is all new to me.”
When they reached Route 2, they picked up speed and their words were lost in the wind. The sun beat down on their shoulders and the wind blew at them, ruffling Anne’s scarf against her face. She lay back against the warm leather and allowed herself to soak in the soft magic of this day. Even without turning to look, she sensed Herb’s every move, downshifting the gears, smoothly passing a slow dump truck.
Concord lay about fifteen miles northwest of Boston, away from the growing city, nestled among forests and neat farms. A perfect little village, with handsome colonial mansions and tidy stores and banks in discreet brick buildings, it slumbered beneath the sun like a town dreaming of the past.
And it was a town in love with its past, a venerable past. Herb parked the car near the long grassy rectangle named Monument Square and ushered her around the village, pointing out historic spots. Emerson had lived in Concord, and Thoreau and Nathaniel Hawthorne as well. They strolled along Lexington Street, and stood in silent thought in front of Orchard House, where Louisa May Alcott had written
Little Women.
Walking a bit farther, they
came to another house, where the Alcotts had lived; then, Hawthorne; and, much later, Harriet Lothrop, writing her book
The Five Little Peppers and How They Grew.
“So much history in one place,” Anne mused.
“And you haven’t seen my favorite spot yet.” Taking her arm, he turned her back toward the center of town and his car.
“Walden Pond?” she guessed.
He only shook his head and smiled.
They got back in the car and drove out of town along a narrow wooded road, not much more than a lane; the houses fell away, and they were in the countryside. Trees lined the road, shading them from the sun, making the light seem to flicker as they rolled along. Twice a bright orange maple leaf drifted down into the convertible. One landed on Anne’s lap, the other on Herb’s head, and they laughed.
Herb steered the car into a small car park, and said, “We’re here.” They got out, crossed the road, and walked along a path between more august old trees. The lane was sprinkled with fallen leaves, like flags or trail marks.
Anne saw a modest wooden bridge. Before it stood a small obelisk, indicating that the stone wall was a memorial stone for the British solders killed and wounded here during the Revolutionary War.
“For the
British
soldiers,” Anne whispered, and she couldn’t help but think of them, those boys in their red coats, so far away from home, having survived crossing the Atlantic in order to march this far and then, on foreign soil, to die.
They crossed the bridge, their feet thumping solidly against the wood. On the other side rose a statue by Daniel Chester French of the Minuteman. Beneath the plinth, carved into a plaque, were words from Emerson’s memorial hymn:
