Summer House (17 page)

“No, I don’t think I am. Or if I am, so are most of the men in the country. But don’t you see now, Anne, why it’s important to
me to marry you? I don’t know, maybe it’s old-fashioned of me, but I’d like to have a wedding ring on my finger and a wife to write letters to, and not just any old wife. I’d like to know
you
were my wife. Here, in my country while I’m off fighting.”

He was such a romantic man. Anne had never met such a romantic man. “You know I love you, Herb.”

He tilted her face up so he could look in her eyes. “Then marry me,” he said.

She had said said, “I will. Yes. I will …”

“Anne?” Herb leaned over and gently touched Anne’s shoulder. “We’re almost there.”

She sat up, smoothing her skirt down over her legs. She ran her fingers through her hair. “I’m not a very good sailor, I’m afraid.”

“It was a rougher crossing than usual.”

She stood, pulling her sweater up against her shoulders, and looked out the window at the long harbor with sandbars and long stretches of beach and gray shingled cottages among the low dunes. Fishing boats motored past, and a handsome orange and black Coast Guard vessel was pulling away from the dock. She saw cars on shore, and people standing in the sunshine waving at the approaching ferry. She liked seeing the bustle of normal life. It made her braver. Herb’s parents were only two people, after all, in all the wide world, and as Herb said, in all this wide world they had found each other.

Herb stood behind her. He didn’t touch her, but she could feel his breath on her hair. “How do you feel?”

“Better.” She looked up at him. “Much better. I was being silly before, and I’m sorry. I want to marry you, Herb. As soon as possible.”

Twelve

T
he very early mornings
had come to be Charlotte’s favorite time of day. She’d wake to her alarm, pull on her work clothes, and tiptoe through the sleeping house, down the stairs, and out to the mudroom, where she sat on an old wooden bench and laced up her boots. Then, careful not to slam the door, she stepped out into the fresh morning. As she hurried to her shed for her tools and then strode up the drive toward her garden, dawn slowly revealed itself like a secret shared with her alone. She had become so acquainted with the few magic moments when the sun, with stately royalty, rose, that she could sense it on her shoulders before her eyes saw the light. She felt a primitive response in her belly and across the back of her neck; it was if someone invisible leaned toward her, whispering. She felt a breath.

She knew, scientifically, this was only the routine turning of the planet, but personally she believed it was much more than that. Sometimes she felt as if it were a kind of message, or that a message was displayed in the rising of the sun in a language she could not yet
decipher but might be able to, someday. And if it was absolution, would she know?

She carried her supplies out to the table by the roadside. With an old rag, she wiped the dew from the surface of the table, shook out the checked tablecloth, and spread it over the table, smoothing the cloth down with her hand, standing back to ascertain that it hung evenly all around. She put the woven basket on the table and added five dollars’ worth of nickels, dimes, and quarters, in case her customers needed to make change. Double-checking the list she kept in her notebook, she wrote the items for sale and their prices on the whiteboard and propped the board and the wooden sign against a cookbook stand that had been collecting dust in Nona’s pantry. Then she went to her garden to collect the day’s wares.

During the past three years, she had trolled the Take It or Leave It shed at the local dump for vases, mason jars—anything that could hold a bouquet of flowers. In the winter, during days when it was too cold to go out, she put all the containers through the dishwasher, stacked them, clean and dry, in cardboard boxes, and lugged them to the shed. Now she walked across the sandy stretch of untended low moorland to her garden. She unlatched the gate, entered, and walked down her rows, eyeing her various plants, until she came to the flowers. Kneeling, she snipped away, carefully placing the blooms in her basket. She carried them to her shed, set out the containers, filled them with water from the tap, and occupied herself for a while, making pretty spring bouquets, mixing ranunculus and pansies, iris, peonies, and poppies, inserting long slender stems of beach grass and beach peas or wild chokecherries for height and whimsy. These arrangements went for seventy dollars, but they were fresh, unique, and worth it—she always sold as many as she put out.

Next, she cut several bunches of asparagus and lettuce. She filled her basket with arugula and loose lettuce leaves, rinsed them, and tucked the leaves into plastic bags. Later, at seven-thirty, when Jorge arrived, he would cut and rinse more lettuces. She picked tiny bright-green pea pods, radishes, herbs, and onions, tied the clusters up with green twine, and laid them on the table. She had only just finished stocking her little stand when the first customer arrived, a woman
named Muffy Nerwell, who was Charlotte’s mother’s age and drove a Hummer, on this island where the speed limit was never higher than 45 miles per hour. Muffy came every morning, early, wanting to have first choice. She told Charlotte she arranged her evening meal according to what Charlotte had fresh that day. She was frustrated because Charlotte didn’t have carrots, potatoes, and corn like the local Stop & Shop did, and when Charlotte was present to wait on her, she expected Charlotte to give her a five percent discount.

Charlotte was glad to finish with the transaction. She returned once again to her shed, where she went into a kind of Zen mode as she sowed more spinach and lettuce seeds into little plastic trays. For the first time in months, her concentration was divided, and this irritated her. A lot was going on in the house, and she wanted to know about it firsthand.

Most important, she knew Nona would be all right. The doctor had said so, and Nona had wakened briefly last night, murmured that she was fine, and then fallen back into sleep, which Charlotte was sure was exactly what the nonagenarian needed after such an unusual day of socializing.

Oliver and Owen were leaving this morning. She hadn’t had a chance to spend much time with them, but they would be back in two weeks and she’d catch up then. They were fine anyway; she could tell.

Charlotte’s father was flying back to Boston sometime today. Her mother had planned to return with him, to continue packing and organizing for the move to Nantucket for the summer, but then she had told Worth she’d fly home later; she needed to talk with Teddy and Suzette. Charlotte was glad her father would be absent for this conversation. Worth was hard on Teddy, he always had been. Well, Teddy had always been a rascal. As far as Charlotte knew, her father had not approached Teddy or Suzette since their arrival last night. Certainly, her father, who could be the most charming of men, had not been welcoming.

But really, Charlotte thought, there had hardly been time. After Nona went off in the ambulance, everything was in chaos and the party was pretty much over. It had been almost midnight when Nona
was returned to her own house and her own bed. Any sense of celebration had dissipated, replaced by simple relief that Nona was alive, and everyone drifted off, exhausted, to bed. Charlotte had heard Teddy and Suzette in the attic room next to hers. She hadn’t been able to make out the words, but she caught the mood, Teddy’s low rumbling, Suzette’s soprano counterpoint. Suzette had talked a lot. Good to know the strange young woman
could
talk a lot, Charlotte had decided, as she fell asleep.

Now her hands moved swiftly, in a sure rhythm, as she poked holes in the dark prepared soil, inserted the minuscule seeds, and smoothed the holes closed. Her mind was not so orderly. It was more like an oscillating sprinkler, flipping from image to image, from concern to concern. Why did her father look so worried? Were Teddy and Suzette really married? Was Teddy the father of Suzette’s baby? Her father cared about that sort of thing, and even though it didn’t matter much to Charlotte, she could understand her father’s point of view.

And there was Coop.

Would Coop ask her out? When?

For a moment she leaned against her worktable, remembering last night. Coop had danced with her almost all evening. He was a great dancer in a reckless, funny, high-spirited way, moving effortlessly from jitterbugging, with one hand on hers and the other in the air, to a jerky version of hip-hop, then into the twist, and suddenly, hands on hips, torso stiff, jigging out an Irish river dance that had Charlotte nearly in hysterics and the crowd around them applauding and cheering him on. With Coop, Charlotte tangoed, fox-trotted, and jived. They had laughed a lot, and then the music slowed and Coop had pulled Charlotte against him in a slow dance that was pure seduction, his long thighs moving against hers, his warm breath on her hair.

Did she deserve this? Could she allow herself to be happy, to fall in love? She needed a sign from the universe.

If he had asked, she would have gone home with him. To bed with him.

But he hadn’t asked, perhaps only because Nona had fainted,
changing the course of everyone’s evening. And that was probably a good thing, Charlotte told herself now in the clear light of a new morning.

She heard footsteps and a knock on the shed door, and then Jorge was there. “Good morning, Charlotte.” He lived on the island with a community of Hispanic friends who dropped him off at her farm on their way to work. He was hardworking, well-mannered, and diligent, and since Charlotte spoke little Spanish and he spoke little English, they didn’t waste a lot of time chatting. She got him started replanting from starter trays into the freshly hoed garden rows, then went into the house for a bite of breakfast and a much-needed cup of coffee.

Sitting on the bench in the mudroom, unlacing her boots, Charlotte couldn’t help but hear the conversation in the kitchen.

“It’s just not fair,” Mandy was saying. “I can’t do it.”

Mandy’s husband said, “I don’t understand the problem. You’ve done it ever since Christian was born.”

“Yes, well, when Christian was born, Mellie wasn’t a gigantic whining pregnant sow, so she helped me with him, and Mee wasn’t a theatrically depressed divorcée, so she helped me, and Charlotte wasn’t playing happy idiot farmer in her stupid little garden, so
she
helped me! And Teddy wasn’t around with that—
that person
sucking up all the air.”

“Suzette has hardly spoken a word.”

“Oh, Claus, don’t be so perverse. You know what I mean!”

“Mandy. I have to go back to the bank. I have responsibilities. I’ll be here next weekend.”

“And I’ll be here taking care of a four-year-old and a new baby!”

“Glorious will help you. Your mother will help you. Aunt Helen will help you.” Claus made a huffing noise. “Or, for goodness’ sake, hire a nanny!”

Their voices faded as they left the kitchen for the front hall. In her stocking feet, Charlotte padded into the kitchen, poured herself a cup of delicious hot coffee, and opened the refrigerator door.

Her father came into the kitchen, coffee cup in hand. He was already dressed in a suit, crisp striped shirt, silk rep tie. “Good morning,
princess.” He kissed the top of her head, and went to the coffeepot.

“How’s Nona?” Charlotte took out a couple of brown eggs, cracked them into a bowl, and set a skillet on the stove.

“Alive and kicking. Well, sleeping, actually, but she woke for a few moments and she’s lucid. She’s fine. Just tired.”

Charlotte dropped a pat of butter into the skillet. “Want me to scramble you a couple of eggs, Dad? I’m having some.”

“Thanks, no. Got to watch my cholesterol. Anyway, I’ve already eaten. But I’ll join you while you eat.” He settled in a chair. “You’ve already been outside?”

“Since four-thirty” She couldn’t help the pride in her voice. “I have to use every daylight hour I’ve got. We’re approaching prime season.”

“Ah, youth.” Worth shook his head ruefully. “Only someone young could dance until midnight and get up at four-thirty.”

Charlotte spilled the eggs into the skillet. She found grated Parmesan in the cheese bin and sprinkled it into the eggs. She popped some bread into the toaster. “Last night was really fun, wasn’t it?”

“You certainly seemed to enjoy yourself.” Worth toyed with his spoon, polishing it with a napkin. “Coop is quite the dancer.”

Charlotte grinned. “Wasn’t he funny? He was great.” She flipped the eggs onto a plate, buttered her toast, sliced it, and carried it to the table. She sprinkled her eggs with salt and paper and smoothed her own homemade strawberry jam on her toast.

“I thought he was engaged to Miranda Fellows.”

“Uh-uh,” Charlotte said, around a mouthful. She swallowed. “They were never engaged. Anyway, I guess they broke up. He didn’t bring her last night.”

“I like Coop.” Worth leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms behind his head. A relaxed pose, but Charlotte knew his mind was working. “I like his parents.”

“But.” Charlotte felt the drums of rebellion hammer in her chest.

“Oh, I don’t know, Charlotte. Coop just has always seemed kind of unreliable to me. A little reckless.”

Charlotte concentrated on her eggs, shoving them into her mouth
as if she were starving, which she kind of was, but now she couldn’t enjoy the creamy, cheesy taste. After a moment, she said, “Come on, Dad. I only
danced
with him.”

Worth nodded. He stirred his coffee with his highly polished spoon, then set the spoon on the table, neatly aligning it with the cup and saucer. “Two things matter in life, Charlotte: work and family. You must admit I’ve been completely supportive in your attempt to make an idyllic green life as a country gardener.”