Summer House (21 page)

In May, Charity and Norman Wheelwright went down to Nantucket to open their summer house. They left on a weekday, so Anne couldn’t go with them, and they took Mrs. O’Hara, their housekeeper, and for a few blissful nights Anne had the large old mansion on Beacon Hill all to herself. At first it seemed eerie, being alone in the empty mausoleum, but Anne revved up her courage with a glass of wine and decided to snoop. Perhaps she might learn something about her in-laws that would help her be more comfortable around them. She had seen Holly’s bedroom, and the bedroom Herb slept in as a boy, and Anne was using the guest bedroom, which happily had a private bathroom. But she’d never seen Herb’s parents’ room, so she bravely set off up the stairs and down the long wide hallway to the room at the front of the
house. She paused outside the closed bedroom door, asking herself what she was looking for, what she wanted to find. Well, she answered herself, she hoped she’d find signs of the small secret passions that make life rich. A stack of romance novels or mysteries. A bedside drawer stuffed with expensive chocolates. Even satin sheets, or a drawer of silk underwear. Perhaps—these were wealthy people, after all—perhaps a charming little Impressionist original oil over the fireplace.

“Ta-da!” she yelled, giving herself courage, and threw open the door.

The room could have been anyone’s. It was a handsome, comfortable room, with lots of heavy Empire furniture and brocade draperies and a thick Persian rug, but the signs of an individual personality were not in evidence. On the bedside table: a clock, a crystal water tumbler, a small china box holding nail clippers and an emery board. On the walls: framed photographs of Holly and Herb as children, framed photographs of distinguished, straight-backed, prune-mouthed citizens who had to be Charity and Norman’s parents. On Charity Wheelwright’s vanity table, a silver-backed brush and hand mirror, a small jar of cold cream, and a small wooden jewelry box holding Charity’s best pearls. Everything was set at right angles and aligned as if by a ruler. Anne pulled open the closet door. Charity’s dresses hung at attention, straight and proper, as if Charity never once had pulled something out, put it on, groaned at herself in the mirror, and tossed it back in the closet. She opened a drawer in one of the bureaus and saw not a rainbow of silk nighties, or a shocking quantity of satin underpants, but a large quantity of rubbery girdles. She decided not to open the other drawers. She could keep her fantasies that Charity Wheelwright had secret luxuries. She closed the drawer, looked around the room to be sure she hadn’t disturbed anything, and left.

She went downstairs, through the house, and into the kitchen, where she ate a cold dinner of cheese, crackers, and sliced ham and had another glass of wine. Where did Holly and Herb get their sense of humor? she mused as she ate. Perhaps Herb’s parents
came alive on Nantucket Island. Perhaps they relaxed there, and Anne could get to know their real selves.

July 22, 1944

Darling Anne
,

Arrived safe and sound after a very boresome and uneventful trip. My location is a military secret as far as you are concerned so please do not attempt to locate me. If my mail ceases in the not-too-distant future you will know that I am on an extended fishing trip. I’ve never tried ocean fishing but expect to enjoy it.

I hope you and my parents are knocking around all right together. They will warm up, I promise you. I miss you constantly and dream of the days when we can start our married life together in a safe and free world.

With all my love
,
Herb

Anne carried Herb’s latest letter in the pocket of her trousers. She liked being able to reach in whenever she wanted to and feel the crisp folded paper. It was as if she were touching a bit of Herb, as if he were safe and alive in her keeping. Gwendolyn Forsythe, her immediate superior at Stangarone’s, had insisted that Anne take two weeks off that July. “You need a break, kid,” Gwen told Anne. “Don’t worry, the war won’t end without you.”

So Anne rode down to Woods Hole with her in-laws and took the ferry to Nantucket Island, where a friend of the Wheelwrights met them, loaded his car with their luggage, and drove them out to their summer home on Polpis Harbor.

It was a luxury to be here; Anne realized that at once. Back in Boston, the July air was punishingly muggy, and in spite of fans set on top of filing cabinets, the humidity made papers stick together, made hair frizz or hang lank, made tempers short. On the island, the air was also humid, but the temperature was almost ten
degrees cooler, and a light sea breeze stirred freshness into the atmosphere.

Anne was given the guest bedroom at the opposite end of the house from Herb’s parents. She set her suitcase on the needlepoint luggage rack, opened it, and started to put away her clothing. Then she shuffled through her things, dug out her black bathing suit, and stripped off her clothing. She pulled on her bathing suit, grabbed a towel from the bathroom, and ran down the stairs.

The housekeeper, Mrs. O’Hara, came into the hall, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Hello, Mrs. O’Hara! I’m going for a swim!” Anne announced.

“Yes, I can see that. Use the mudroom door when you return, so you don’t track sand in any farther than necessary.”

“Right.”
You old Puritan
,
Anne thought as she hurried into the living room, down to the French doors leading to the harbor side. She went through them, her bare feet touched on soft green grass, and she sighed with pleasure. The lawn was man-made and needed a lot of tending, for wild shrubs of bayberry and barberry and
Rosa rugosa
crowded in luxuriant untamed abundance down to the shore. A narrow boardwalk extended between these bushes—the boards were hot to the soles of Anne’s feet—and then she was at the water’s edge, her feet sinking into the warm sand, the sun blazing down on her, light shimmering everywhere. Across the harbor, several sailboats were anchored, and in the distance a motorboat grumbled along. She waded into the water and plunged off away from shore until the water was deep enough for swimming.

She stroked through the water, swimming until she was breathless; then she flipped over and floated, gazing up at the blue sky. Oh, how she’d missed this—the sense of open space and the solitude. And the sensual pleasure. She missed Herb. She didn’t think she’d been wrong to marry him—she loved him like crazy—but she thought perhaps she’d been wrong to marry him just before he went off to war. It was as if she were a wild horse who had found a mate with whom to gallop full speed, mane flying, over an endless
pasture, only to find herself suddenly inside a fenced corral, ruled by strangers cracking whips to make her obey.

Oh, come on, Anne told herself. You have it so tough, living in luxury while Herb is overseas with bullets flying over his head. Stop whining. Grow up.

But how she missed him! Their few times together had wakened her senses in ways she’d never expected. Plus she had so much to tell him. And she wanted to hear everything he had to tell her. Missing him was a kind of pain, almost a grief. She remembered his long legs, his wide shoulders, his deep laugh, the sweet breath of his kiss. She needed that. She needed that again, and
now.
And he was so far away. She didn’t know where he was. She didn’t know when he would be coming home. She didn’t even know whether he would be coming home, and her heart ached with worry.

This, she told herself, is why you shouldn’t be alone in wide open spaces, because then you start worrying and remembering and you get maudlin and imaginative. Be a big girl, for heaven’s sake!

She swam back to shore, dried off, and walked back to the house.

“Would you like to see my garden?” Charity Wheelwright asked.

Anne smiled, pleased. “Yes, of course.” She had showered and dressed in a neat blue checked seersucker shirtwaist, slipped her feet into sandals, and pulled her hair into a chignon, to keep her neck cool. When she entered the living room, she found Charity Wheelwright seated by open French doors, working on a needlepoint sampler. The invitation surprised Anne and pleased her. Could there be an invitation more charming, more full of hope, than one to “my garden”? Now, perhaps, she’d discover her mother-in-law’s soft side. And Anne, who had never paid attention to flowers before, would learn all about gardening from her mother-in-law. She would carry on Charity’s gardening traditions! They would have a common pursuit to discuss!

Charity walked out onto the raked gravel. Anne followed. They
stood for a moment, blinking in the early evening sun. When Herb had introduced Anne to his parents, it had been winter, and they had not come out this way. As Anne looked about her, she saw high walls of crisply clipped privet hedge cut at natty, sharp right angles.

“The high hedges for privacy, you see,” Charity said.

Yes, Anne thought, you really need privacy out here on an island a thousand miles from anywhere, on an isolated chunk of land populated by deer, birds, and rabbits.

“Also,” Charity continued, “the hedges provide a sense of civilization and order in the midst of all this”—she waved her hand vaguely—“wilderness.”

Anne knew she had to say something appropriately complimentary. “Yes, I see,” was the best she could do.

Charity walked along the gravel path, and Anne dutifully followed. The hedged garden was essentially one long rectangle. Inside was another, shorter rectangle of privet, and inside that was yet another, even shorter privet box. At the center of all the boxes was a stone plinth and a small sundial.

Charity Wheelwright stood before it, smiling. “What do you think?”

Anne said, “It’s charming. Really charming.” Actually, she thought, it’s absurd, these rigid lines closing space in and in and in. She could see how it would be considered horticulturally interesting, and certainly it was unusual, but it made her feel claustrophobic. But if this was what made Charity Wheelwright happy, Anne would learn to love it, or at least admire it. She would do whatever would help bring peace between them. More than anything, Anne wanted peace.

Fifteen

O
n the morning
of Family Meeting, Charlotte woke to a steady downpour. The air held a chill, so she yanked an old sweatshirt on over her work clothes and headed downstairs. The house was quiet, everyone else, even the children, still asleep. She was careful to ease the mudroom door shut without a sound as she stepped into the rain.

It must have rained all night. The ground was sodden, and that made her feel a bit better about missing an afternoon in the garden because of Family Meeting. She entered the shed, grateful for its warmth and light, peeled off her yellow rain slicker, picked up the clipboard she had hanging on a hook, and reviewed her scribbled daily notes and reminders. One thing for certain, she couldn’t set up her farm stand when the rain was so heavy. It would wash the bags of lettuce right off the table, tear the flower petals, and turn the money box into a miniature bathtub. She needed to think of a way to protect that table, so she set the thought in the back of her mind and
concentrated on seeding more lettuce and filling ornamental pots with vibrant mixtures of flowers.

As she worked, she allowed her thoughts to wander out of the shed, across Nona’s land onto Coop’s, and into the house where Coop no doubt lay sleeping. Three days after Nona’s birthday party, Coop had again dropped by the garden to invite Charlotte out for a sail and again she had had to refuse. Coop had understood. He’d even joked about booking her for the first of November. Two days ago he’d phoned to ask her out to dinner tonight, and once again she’d had to decline. Today, she told him, was Family Meeting, and it was the family’s custom to go out to dinner afterward. This is the third time I’ve refused, she thought, a bit desperately, so she quickly added, “How about tomorrow night?” She would ask her mother, or even Teddy, to deliver the fresh produce to the three restaurants she supplied. Coop had agreed. He’d suggested sailing across to Coatue. He’d bring a picnic dinner. Wear a bathing suit, he’d said, and now Charlotte experienced a little frisson of excitement at the thought of the two of them together, on a solitary beach, in the warm evening air….

Jorge stomped into the shed, stripped off his rain poncho, and said, “It’s raining cats and mice out there.”