Summer House (41 page)

“You look like a lady who could use a cool drink.”

Startled, Charlotte looked up to see Coop standing there, in shorts, T-shirt, baseball cap, and deck shoes.

“Hey, Coop.” She realized she was dripping with sweat.
Attractive.
“What time is it?”

“Time for me to kidnap you and carry you away.”

“Oh. Well, I still have—”

“It’s after six. Jorge’s gone home. There’s nothing left to sell on the farm stand. You need a break.”

“Coop—”

“Okay, you’re forcing me to do this.” With one swift lurch, Coop bent, grabbed Charlotte’s legs, and threw her over his shoulder.

“Coop!” Writhing, she dropped her hoe. “I need to put my tools away.”

“They’re fine out here. No one’s going to take them.”

It was hard to breathe with his shoulder wedged into her abdomen. “Coop, put me down!”

“Will you go with me nicely?” Staggering under her weight, he stomped down the long garden row, trying to keep in the furrow but occasionally stumbling sideways, his foot smashing down on a plant.

“Yes! Yes! Put me down!” She beat on his back with her fists, and when he’d trodden down a luscious Brandywine tomato plant, she went quiet, submitting. “Please, Coop. Put me down.”

He did, awkwardly unloading her onto more tomato plants. She felt the juice squirt and the stalks snap beneath the weight of her body. Coop grabbed her hands and pulled her to her feet.

“You need to relax,” he said, pulling her close. “And I know just how to relax you.”

“Coop,” she protested, “I need a shower. I’m all—”

He wrapped his arms around her. “Hey, I like my women hot and bothered.”

“Would you stop this caveman stuff!” She stomped her foot but it hit only the soft ground and made no noise. “Honestly, Coop, this is
not
turning me on!”

At once he dropped his arms and stepped back. “Sorry. Sor-
ry.
I was just playing.” He shrugged. “I was just—listen, if you’re not interested, all you have to do is say so.”

She took a deep breath. “Oh, Coop, I’m sorry, too. And I am—um, interested. I’ve just got so much to do.” She felt like hitting him. She felt like crying. She almost said,
My parents are fighting, Mom’s talking about divorce, and Suzette’s baby has black hair.
Instead, she surrendered. “I guess I do need a drink.”

Coop took her by the hand and led her out of the garden. It almost killed her to leave her damaged plants lying broken in the dirt. She only wanted to run back, tuck them back into the safe ground, do what she could to save them, but she allowed herself to be tugged along. She shut and latched the gate. They walked down the lane until they came to the road and the farm stand. Everything she’d put out had been bought. Charlotte emptied the basket of money. Coop helped her fold up the tablecloth and the card table and tuck them up next to the tree. He put a comradely arm around her shoulders as they walked over to his drive and down to his house.

“Why not take a quick shower?” he suggested. “When you get out, I’ll have a nice cool drink waiting.”

“That sounds wonderful. Thanks.”

She went into his bedroom, stripped off her clothing, and, stepping around various piles of discarded clothing and towels, made her way into the bathroom and the shower. She lathered her hair and body, then let the water pound down on her, and it was such a relief, such therapy. Afterward, she wrapped herself in a huge towel, tied it above her breasts, and padded barefoot out to the deck where Coop sat, a drink in his hand. His dogs curled at his feet. An iced glass was on the table for her, and a board of cheese and crackers.

“This is nice, Coop. The shower was lovely.”

“And look at the view. Peaceful, huh?” Coop lounged in his chair, lanky and calm.

Charlotte looked at the view. Blue water swept over to the far shore, green with beach grass and wild roses, and off to the western horizon, past the sandbars, to the town, which appeared, from this distance, in miniature, a toy village.

She did not want to talk about her family. “What did you do today?”

Coop stretched. “Played tennis. Sailed.” Glancing over at her, he grinned. “I know, it’s a hard life, but someone’s got to do it.” Seeing her smile, he asked, “Have you ever seen Harrison Clark play tennis? He talks through the entire game. And he’s killer competitive.” Coop assumed Harrison Clark’s clipped accent. “I should have gotten that. Why didn’t I get that? My backhand’s gone all to hell. I need more practice. Was that out? I think it was out. All right, I’ll let you have that point since you swear it was in, but I still think it was out. I think you need glasses. I think I need glasses. Damn, I stubbed my foot. My ankle hurts. Why does my ankle hurt? I’m too young to have my ankle hurt.”

His imitation of Harrison was so perfect, Charlotte lay back in her chair and laughed. Coop told her about Peggy Windruff’s new fifty-one-foot sloop, describing its teak decks and sleek lines, its electric stowaway mast and state-of-the-art electronics, the handsome staterooms. He told her about his trip in February, down to the Bahamas with his friend Jimmy Jackson—what a paradise it had been, sailing for a month in clear water, catching fish to grill for dinner, kicking back toward nightfall to watch the stars freckle the sky and the moon rise so full and close it seemed that, if they set sail, they’d reach it by morning.

His voice and the images he called up lulled Charlotte, reminded her of the beauties of the world and the luxury of sailing. After a while, Coop asked her if she wanted another drink, and she said yes, and he fixed her one, but when he returned to the deck, he didn’t hand it to her but held it just out of reach, teasingly, and so he coaxed her out of her chair and into the house and into the bedroom. Her towel fell away from her naked body as she lay back on the bed, and
he put her drink on the side table, and they both forgot about it completely.

Charlotte woke at sunrise.
Next to her, Coop sprawled naked and snoring. She’d slept through the night, and she felt easy in her body and eager to start the day. She rose and quietly slipped into her clothes. Once again she left Coop sleeping as she padded out of his house. At home, she took another quick shower, dressed in clean clothes, and hurried out to her garden. The morning was warm, the air misty. Birds sang and flitted from bush to tree, and everything seemed succulent and lush. She sang lighthearted songs from
South Pacific
and
The Sound of Music
as she roamed through her garden, gathering up lettuces, eggplants, beans, and onions for the farm stand.

Then she came to the row where she’d been working the night before, where Coop had swooped down to steal her away. Four or five hearty tomato plants, snapped off at the stalk, sprawled in the dirt, where ants and flies were feeding on some of the crushed tomatoes. The sight appalled her. She scolded herself for her overreaction; they were only tomatoes, she reminded herself. Still, as she bent in the furrow to lift off any tomatoes that were still intact, a sense of remorse settled on her.

Consequences.
Hadn’t she already learned that every act has consequences, and, while repentance exists, it can’t erase the damage set in motion?

She worked hard, rerooting the plants that could be saved, pulling up those that were past saving. She carried her baskets full of glossy vegetables to her shed to rinse and package. Jorge arrived, checked the schedule she usually kept up to date, and set off to work. She went into the house for breakfast.

Glorious was at the stove, putting a pot on to boil. “Good morning, Charlotte. I’m doing potato salad today. Got any extra scallions?”

“Absolutely. I’ll bring them in right after breakfast.” Charlotte
washed her hands, took down a box of granola and filled a bowl, and then rummaged in the refrigerator until she found a box of blueberries and added them. “How is everyone?”

Glorious shook her head. “I don’t know about
everyone
, but I’m worried about Nona. She’s fretting.”

“Really? That’s too bad.”

“She won’t eat breakfast, says she’s not hungry, and I can tell she didn’t sleep a wink.”

“Oh, Glorious,” Charlotte sighed. “You must think our family is a mess.”

“Honey, I think all families are a mess. But look at it this way. If the Good Lord hadn’t made us all so cantankerous and feeble, we wouldn’t have anything to do and He wouldn’t have anything to laugh at.”

Charlotte laughed appreciatively. Over the years, Glorious had somehow decided to keep her opinions light, and Charlotte was grateful.

Christian clattered into the room then, trying to walk with one foot stuck in a plastic dump truck. Mandy followed with baby Zoe in her arms.

“Are your hands clean? Great.” She plunked the baby in Charlotte’s arms. “Do something with her, would you? She’s grousing.”

Charlotte stared down at the pretty baby girl. For a moment, the baby stared back, then wrinkled up its face and wailed. “I don’t think she likes me,” Charlotte said.

“Nonsense. She’s just crabby. She’s teething. I’ve got drool all over my clothes. Christian, stop butting that truck into the wall. Do you want some blueberries? I need something s-w-e-e-t. Glorious, do we have anything s-w-e-e-t?”

“We’ve got some nice oatmeal raisin cookies,” Glorious replied.

“Cookies!”
Christian yelled.

“Where is everyone?” Charlotte asked.

“Mellie’s lying on her bed, wallowing like a pig. Mee’s down at the beach. Mom’s changing the sheets and gathering laundry. I don’t know where your mother is.”

“Mm.” Charlotte tried to appear nonchalant.

Mandy looked amused. “I hear the baby has black hair.”

Charlotte almost said,
You know what, Mandy? When I was a girl, I adored you. I wanted to be just like you when I grew up. Well, I sure don’t want to be like you anymore!
She bit her tongue. This house already had enough aggravated vibrations zinging through the air.

She satisfied herself by replying virtuously, “The little girl is a beauty and the important thing is, she has all her fingers and toes.” Focusing on baby Zoe, she cooed, “Just like you!” Carefully, she lifted a dimpled fist and kissed the baby’s fingers.

Charlotte worked hard
all day in her garden, realizing not for the first time how the space allowed her to be part of her family and yet separate. They all spent too much time together, she decided, that was the problem. Most of the time they rubbed along quite happily, but it was natural that they’d argue and compete and bicker. They were only human. Sometime soon she’d invite Coop over for dinner, not a social occasion with everyone on her best behavior, but a casual family meal with Christian sticking a French fry up his nose and Zoe filling her diaper and her parents sniping at each other and Aunt Grace preening herself self-righteously and Uncle Kellogg not saying a word. Coop was an only child. How would he like being around such a horde and, after all, what did Charlotte care?

She cared, she realized, because even though she and Coop were so brand new with each other, she was having sex with him and enjoying it, and she had never slept with any guy unless she thought she might be serious about him, might establish a long-term commitment with him, might—just say it, Charlotte!—might marry him. Right now she didn’t even know if she loved Coop, and she was pretty sure that if she said the word
love
to him he’d back up so fast he’d fall over.

Still …

Still, she reminded herself with a mental kick in the derriere, she should stop mooning about the future and remember that she’d agreed to go out with Coop tonight. He was arriving at seven. She
put her tools away, closed up the farm stand, and raced to the house to get showered and dressed.

Her feet felt light
in her clever little sandals after being encased in heavy work boots, and her dress swirled around her in a girly-girl way that pleased her as she skipped down the stairs and into the living room.

Coop was there, sitting on the sofa, and Mee was there, too, sitting next to him, her entire body turned toward him, her low-cut dress positioned for maximum exposure. They were both laughing. When Mee saw Charlotte enter the room, she jumped, pretending to be startled, as if she’d been caught doing something wrong.

Coop rose. “You look great, Charlotte.”

She twirled. “Better than the overalls?” She took Coop’s arm possessively and fluttered her fingers at her cousin. “’Bye, Mee. See you all later.”

“Have fun.” Mee waved back, but she looked terribly alone sitting there, and Charlotte flushed with guilt.

Outside the movie theater
was a small bistro where Coop had booked a table. Tonight the place was packed, as always in the summer, and Charlotte allowed herself a moment’s regret at the lack of intimacy and then a moment’s pleasure at being seen with such a handsome man. They ate fresh fish and—from Charlotte’s point of view—day-old veggies, and as she sipped her wine, she felt a glow of well-being. It was still summer, and right now she felt golden.

Coop regaled her in his humorous, slightly sardonic manner with an account of his day sailing with an old college friend. Charlotte laughed, delighted to be entertained, and she was smiling at him with great warmth, reminding him without words but with her gaze that they had slept together the night before and would sleep together tonight, when out of the corner of her eye she noticed a familiar
figure enter the bistro: Whit Lowry. Fiona O’Conner was with him, and her curly red hair tumbled down her back, which was bare almost to the waist. She slid into the banquette across from Whit, and Charlotte saw Fiona was smiling at Whit just the way she was smiling at Coop.

Well
, she thought.
Well!

Well, what do I care?
she reminded herself, and aimed her gaze back at Coop.

The theater had air-conditioning, but it was a small room packed with people, and now and then during the movie, the August heat, her hard day of work, and the two glasses of wine told on Charlotte and she found herself dozing off. Each time she glanced guiltily at Coop, but he was engrossed in the movie and didn’t notice. Afterward, they went down to the Club Car for a drink, and even though Charlotte would rather have gone to home to bed, she didn’t say so. It wasn’t, after all, that she was mad with lust for him. She was just tired. But the bar scene didn’t have the charm it had held when she was younger. It was steamy and noisy, people were crushed together, stepping on one another’s toes, and the music was so loud it hurt her ears. A quartet of men whom Charlotte knew vaguely from sailing joined them at the bar, boisterously recounting their adventure sailing a sloop up to Maine. They were funny, Charlotte allowed, but not as funny as they were drunk.
For heaven’s sake
, she scolded herself,
you’re still young. Stop being such an old lady!