Summer House (16 page)

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:

By the rude bridge that arched the flood
,
Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled
,
Here once the embattled farmers stood
,
And fired the shot heard round the world.

“I’ve memorized that poem,” Herb told her. “We had to, in school.”

“I’d like to hear the rest,” Anne told him.

Herb cleared his throat.

“On this green bank, by this soft stream
,
We set today a votive stone;
That memory may their deed redeem
,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.
Spirit, that made those heroes dare
To die, and leave their children free
,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.”

“Oh, Herb.” Anne hugged herself, tightly.

“I know,” Herb’s voice was hoarse. “I’m always moved, every time I come out here. I think of those farmers, that raggedy band of men fighting against the British troops, but I think of the British troops as well, who were probably all yearning to return to their own homes and families and farms and green fields and lush meadows.” He cleared his throat. “And of course those words
—
that made those heroes dare to die, and leave their children free
—well, that’s what we’re going to be doing over in Europe, isn’t it?”

Anne looked straight ahead, at the gentle arch of the bridge. “Are you afraid, Herb?”

He chuckled, putting an arm around her shoulders and hugging her against him. “Of course I’m afraid, only a fool wouldn’t be. But I’m not superstitious, if that’s what you mean, I’m not—well
,
dreading
the battles. And I do believe what we’re doing is right, I believe in the cause, and I’ve always thought a man had to have a cause to believe in, a cause he would die for, if he was going to be a real man.”

Her throat was swollen with unshed tears. She managed to say, “You
are
sort of an old-fashioned guy, aren’t you, Herb?”