Summer Light: A Novel (22 page)

Within a few weeks, once the shock of Martin Cartier’s sudden marriage had worn off, the press’s and town’s attention turned to the Boston Bruins’ prospects for another shot at the Stanley Cup. Martin came home every night with his ankles hurting, knowing he didn’t have more than a season or two left in him. May rubbed his back, saying one season was all he needed.

The papers started playing up the rivalry between Boston and Edmonton, between Martin Cartier and Nils Jorgensen. One afternoon, Martin caught a practice puck in the eye, and he had a shiner and six new stitches. The doctor examined him. He suggested Martin see an eye specialist, have some tests done.

But Martin ignored the suggestion. Hockey was rough; injuries were to be expected. His vision wasn’t 20–20 anymore, and he didn’t want to hear anything bad. If he could see well enough to skate, that was enough. Denial worked fine: It had gotten him through concussions, torn retinas, broken bones. Still, it hurt for him to read, so the next morning he asked May to read him the
Globe
’s article about the Cartier-Jorgensen rivalry.

“You don’t really hate him, do you?” May asked from across the breakfast table. “The writers are just being sensational, as usual.”

“Uh, no.” Martin sipped his orange juice. “They’ve got it right.”

“But why?”

“Let’s see. Let me try to nail it down to one reason. Because we’re both fierce competitors and both of us hate to lose?” Martin asked, his purple eye squinting like a pirate’s as he grinned. “Oops, another reason: because I once rearranged his face with a hockey stick?”

“Martin,” May said, shivering.

The fact was, she hadn’t yet experienced an actual hockey season with Martin, and she couldn’t imagine how she’d feel about him heading into the fray, the violence, game after game. She gazed from his hands to his face, counting all the scars, lingering on his swollen right eye.

“I’m a shark, and he’s steak,” Martin said, spreading apple butter on his toast.

“It’s that personal?”

“Mais oui.”

“With all the other players, or just Jorgensen?”

“Mainly Jorgensen.”

“You
really
hate him?” May asked.

Martin wiped his fingers on his napkin and took her hands in his. “May,” he said. “Hockey season is starting soon.”

“I know,” she said. “I’m afraid, and I don’t know why. Hate is such a strong word.”

“I really hate him. I can’t explain it, but I do. Almost as much as my father.”

May felt chilled by his words. She thought of her own father, how he had walked out without a final kiss or word from her. She wondered whether Martin could so easily say he hated Serge if his father weren’t still alive, if he didn’t still have the chance to make peace.

“I wish you didn’t.” May stared at his black eye. “And I can’t explain that, either. I want you to win—all your games, the Stanley Cup, everything. But I wish it all wasn’t so violent.”

“It’s what I do,” he said, holding her hands. “Play hockey.”

“The season hasn’t even started yet,” she said. “Would you think I was the biggest idiot alive if I asked you to promise to be careful?”

Pushing their toast and coffee aside, Martin pulled May onto his lap and started kissing her in the autumn sun. He often stopped whatever he was doing to kiss and hold her, but May sensed more intensity than usual. Smoothing her hair, running his hands down her back, whispering in her ear, Martin said, “No one’s ever asked me that before, May. Not once in my entire life.”

But when the season actually began, in the opener against Montreal, May was on her feet beside Genny, amazed by the thrill of it all. Cheering their lungs out, they watched from a special box right on the ice, so close to the players they could hear their breath as they skated by. Kylie had stayed home with Aunt Enid to watch the game on TV, and when the camera zoomed in on the wives’ reaction, Genny reminded May to wave.

When the Eastern Conference Championship banner was hoisted over the stadium, to celebrate last season’s amazing effort, May and Genny both felt so proud they had tears in their eyes. Trying to catch Martin’s eye, May saw him staring down at his feet.

“He’s refusing to acknowledge it. He’s still disappointed they didn’t win the Cup,” Genny explained, “and he won’t be happy until he sees a Stanley Cup banner hanging up there.”

“Ray looks happy,” May commented, watching Genny’s husband smile and cheer.

“Ray’s different from Martin,” Genny said.

May knew the basics: puck, shot, goal. And she’d learned a few terms during last season’s play-offs. But she still had a whole new language to learn, and Genny explained it to her: slap shot, penalty box, red line, in the slot, hat trick.

“Hat trick?” May asked.

“Three goals by the same player in the same game. What your husband’s on his way to getting if he keeps playing like this. Aahh!” Genny said, wincing as Martin slammed an opponent right into the boards in front of them, grinning at May as if he were a big cat laying a mouse at her feet.

When an opponent jammed his stick into Martin’s side, May gasped. “Hey, umpire!”

“They’re called officials in hockey. Or line judges or refs,” Genny told her, smiling. “Besides, don’t worry. Martin’ll give it right back to him.”

Which Martin did, pounding his body into the same guy just as he’d cocked his stick to shoot the puck. The Montreal Canadien went flying onto the ice, skidding backward on his bottom like a little kid on a pond. May raised her fists, shouting just as loud as any other Boston fan.

Martin Cartier put on an amazing show. He skated like a comet, fast as a fireball. Blocking shots, stealing the puck, making impossible passes, aiming straight, scoring goals that sent the entire crowd flying to its feet. May had known she was married to a professional athlete, but until tonight, she hadn’t really known what that meant. Her husband wasn’t a mere human: He was a wizard who could fly through the air on ice skates.

Martin scored once in the first minute, got penalized for fighting four minutes later, scored a penalty shot—all in the first period; in the second, he sustained a bloody nose and went to the penalty box for hooking; with Martin off the ice, Montreal scored two goals in quick succession. Coming back, Martin blocked his thirtieth shot of the game just as the clock ran down on the second period.

As the Bruins skated off the ice, May found herself thrilled and breathless; the palms of her hands were raw from digging her nails in, her voice raw from yelling.

The Zamboni came out and made the ice smooth. While music thumped from speakers overhead, May watched the big square machine slide over the rough ice, melting the grooves and freezing it into glass. Kids hooted and hollered, trying to get the players’ attention. They stood huddled around Coach Dafoe, planning how they’d break the 2–2 tie and win.

“He’s telling them to give the puck to Martin,” Genny told her, studying the scene. “He’s saying no matter what, regardless of what your man is doing, get the puck to Martin.”

“You know so much about hockey,” May said.

Genny broke out laughing. “No, that’s what he always says. Every game! Martin’s our star, but, wow, May—he’s outshining even himself tonight. ’Cause of you, you know. How’s it feel to have your husband showing off for you?”

“Not bad.” May said, so happy she couldn’t stop smiling.

“Okay, okay!” Genny called, stamping her feet. “We’re ready, guys! Come on out and win this game—put these babies to bed!”

“Come on!” May shouted just as loud. “Go Bruins! Let’s win!”

Just then, a crowd of young women came over to the box where May and Genny were sitting with several other wives and girlfriends. May felt her stomach tighten. Martin had warned her to expect comments and catcalls, to throw her shoulders back and ignore it all, and so far she had. But here were four gorgeous women—just like the blond-model type May had seen talking to Martin on the plane that first day—storming the box.

“Hang tough,” Genny muttered. “Incoming.”

“Excuse me,” the tallest blonde said, rapping on the Plexiglas.

“Yes?” Genny asked as she opened the door a crack, doing an admirable sentry imitation with a frostiness May hadn’t imagined her capable of.

“May Cartier?” the blonde asked.

“This box is private,” Genny said, standing between May and the intruders.

“I know, forgive us.” The blonde was smiling sheepishly now, holding out a card. “I just wanted to give her this. It’s…well, it’s just a message from me and my friends. We’re big Bruins’ fans, and we just thought—”

“I’ll give it to her.” Genny closed the door firmly behind her. Turning to May, she handed her the large white envelope. May held it for a moment, trying to decide what to do. Her heart was pounding, and she knew she was afraid of what the card said.

“Maybe I’ll wait till later,” May said. Play was about to resume; she didn’t want to ruin the rest of a great game by reading something that would upset her.

“Why not open it when I’m with you?” Genny asked. “We’ll just laugh it off together.”

May nodded. Tearing open the envelope, she pulled out a greeting card. It showed golden wedding bells in a white church steeple, and the message read:
Best wishes on your recent marriage. May your years together be long and filled with the blessings of love.
It was signed:
Mary Truscott, Doreen O’Malley, Amy Jenckes, and Carolina Grannato.
Then, in tiny perfect handwriting, the following P.S.:
Dear Mrs. Cartier, My fiancé and I got engaged in August. I read about you being a wedding planner, and I’d really like you to plan our wedding. We’re thinking about April. I’ll stop out at the Bridal Barn soon. My aunt had a Bridal Barn wedding fifteen years ago. It’s a small world! Congratulations on your marriage—Go Bruins!

“Wow,” Genny said, reading over May’s shoulder.

“Another lesson in ‘benefit of the doubt.’ ” May smiled.

“No, I was thinking, wow, May’s lucky to have…the Bridal Barn.”

“You mean my career?” May asked, when Genny didn’t go on.

“It’s sad, but I was going to say ‘a life.’ Maybe I meant ‘an identity.’ I don’t know…”

“You have those,” May said, surprised by Genny’s serious tone.

Genny stared at the ice. The players were starting to skate out, but her expression was soft and thoughtful, as if she were far away from the Fleet Center. “I’m mainly Ray Gardner’s wife,” she said. “Mrs. Right Wing on the Boston Bruins. I love my husband, I have a terrific life. I’m not complaining—it’s been great.”

“And now I’m Mrs. Gold Sledgehammer,” May said.

Genny shook her head. “You’re more than that. It’s obvious. No groupies ever stopped by the box to hand me a nice card….”

“Maybe if they tasted your apple butter they would. Or your strawberry jam. Or if they knew what a great person you are.”

Genny laughed. The players were milling around, and the crowd’s tension filled the air. As Genny started to focus on center ice, with both teams getting settled on either side of the red line, May stared at her.

It was great to have someone to share hockey with. It was so new and extreme, and Genny was happy to show May the ropes. At the same time, May felt a pang, deep down, because she felt herself edging away from Tobin. Her life was changing at the speed of light, and she didn’t know how everything fit together.

“Can you stop by this week?” May asked. “At the Barn? I’d like to show you around, tempt you to let us sell your wares. And my aunt and Tobin would love to see you again.”

“The Bridal Barn? I’d love to!” Genny flashed May a brilliant smile just as the teams began to face off.

“Good,” May said, turning toward the ice.

A horn sounded, the puck dropped, and the official’s whistle signaled the start of third-period play. Boston got the puck, Ray passed to Martin, and bang—Martin scored his hat trick. May screamed her lungs out as Martin skated by and planted a big kiss on the Plexiglas.

His lip marks were there all through the rest of the game. Martin shot again and again, scoring goals four and five. The crowd chanted and pounded the bleachers. The scoreboard flashed Martin’s name and stats, and then—to May’s amazement—it showed wedding bells. Right in the middle of the third period, with six minutes left to play, the scoreboard began flashing “
MAY
!
MAY
!”