The Adored (40 page)

A tall ship plies these waters pressing the environmental movement through short seaborne classes. The ship sat now exactly on the sharp line of the horizon; were it not known to be round, the earth seemed to be calling this four-master over the edge.

There were no flat spots on the American sea this day; a steady breeze from the northeast rippled the water. As the gentle waves made their break on the shore, not twenty feet from where Edward Wheelwright sat, he suddenly turned, startled by the now pounding waves. For thirty seconds, no more, wave after wave rolled over loudly as the sea began to retreat. The tide was turning.

This second weekend in June found the temperature unusually warm, in the high eighties. The breeze cut the heat that loomed inland.

The “Mayor of Tod’s Point,” Sol Katz, wandered along the beach greeting his fellow beachgoers as if running for political office. He was shrouded in a white safari hat. On the front of the hat, cut into the center, was a small battery powered fan.

Older couples all knew Sol; the newcomers, young men who worked in the banks in the city found him odd, school girls shied away from him, and toddlers like his fan. Katz had been head lifeguard here for thirty years and still trained and qualified all lifeguards. His season started on Memorial Day and didn’t end till Labor Day.

As he neared the farther, quiet end of the beach, he spotted Edward Wheelwright.

Wheelwright came to the beach at Tod’s Point this day for two reasons: to think through what happened with Santa Alba and to meet with Valerie Samson.

Santa had not come back from Puerto Rico with Edward, and he had not called her. He assumed she was at their apartment in the City. He assumed she was packing to move out.

On the flight back from San Juan, Gideon Bridge told him what happened at the El San Juan. The outfit, the dancing, and Santa leaving with Sebastian Ball. Wheelwright began replaying the conversation with Bridge.

“Rat bastard,” Wheelwright said.

“Edward, don’t be too hard on him. It took every ounce of strength for me not to break training and pursue her,” Gideon said. “Training” was how he referred to his queer self. He was in training when he was on the prowl for handsome young men.

“Rat bastard,” Wheelwright repeated.

“You know, Eddie, you’ve got no one to blame but yourself,” Bridge went on, “You have a gorgeous girl who adores you, and you ignore her all the time.”

“Gideon, that’s bullshit!” Wheelwright shot back.

“Not hardly, my man,” the dapper lawyer, dressed, even on the plane, in a tan gabardine suit, blue shirt, and a bronze and aqua bow tie, said to his friend. “You live at work. You’re never satisfied. That’s not to say the rest of us are anything but overjoyed with your performance on the Fund. But you don’t let down. If it’s not the market, its things like the gaming tables in San Juan. You have to have a life, Edward.”

There was silence between them and then Gideon spoke. “If Santa didn’t know you were straight, she might think you and Kish were going at it. You’re inseparable. And Kish, you’ve made him a slave. He couldn’t come to Puerto Rico for Winny’s party?”

“That wasn’t me,” Wheelwright protested, “That was Kish. He’s as driven as me.” “That was you,” Bridge insisted, “Kish had a life once. No one has seen him socially for months.”

“And you mentioned you like the returns of the fund,” Wheelwright offered, tensing. “What is it, Gideon, returns or social life?”

“Eddie, this is not about us. It’s about you. You forget the reason for the creation of the Brunswick Fund. What was your great question in Mr. Conetta’s class—‘How can we stay friends for life?’”

“I remember.”

“And the answer?”

“Create the fund.”

“And working backward,” Bridge persisted, “why, once again?”

“How can we stay friends for life?”

“Exactly! Not money. Friendship.”

“What are you saying, Gideon?” Wheelwright pawed at Bridge seeking what he did not want to hear.

“Eddie, it’s not about the money. I appreciate all I can get, but frankly, there isn’t a prayer in the world I’ll ever be able to figure out what the hell to do with what I already have.”

Wheelwright paused. For him, it had become about money; it was his way up. While there was wealth in all of the Brunswick Fund families, there was wealth and there was wealth. Admiral Johnson’s million or two was not Sebastian Ball Sr’s billions. The Moira’s few small businesses worth several million were not the Barnes Construction’s billion. The Wheelwrights dwindled, few million coming on the back of the Edward’s father’s financial career were not the Bridge Law Firm’s hundreds of millions or the Trout’s newly minted IPO hundred million. In the back of his mind, way back deep, Gideon’s argument was creating a stir. What was it? Wheelwright had a hold of it. Don’t let it go. And it was slipping away.

And now, again, here on the beach.

Damn it, almost had it, he said to himself. Money, friendship. Something about glue. He couldn’t hold the thought. It was too far recessed, an echo.

Then his mind flipped back to the plane, and he heard Gideon’s counsel, “Step back, Eddie, hire a couple of professional managers to run this thing, but give yourself some room, and pay attention to your girl.”

“Yeah, I hired a professional manager based on Parker’s recommendation. Had to can him. Crane was a liar and a crook. Santa. Screw her. Tart. And Sebastian. The rat bastard.

And that was about the way the conversation went on their flight back from Winston Trout’s bachelor party in San Juan. Wheelwright was so upset he convinced Gideon Bridge to take a separate flight back with him, different from the one Ball and the others were on.

Now, Wheelwright stretched out on the beach blanket, let out a sigh and waited for Valerie Samson on the beach of their youth.

On his return he had been surprised by her phone call. It seemed almost fateful. He was intrigued by her anxiety over this opportunity she wanted to share with him. He was more intrigued by the tone he detected when he asked, “How’s your family.” She sounded as flat and uninspired as he had ever heard this spirited young woman whom he had known forever.

Wheelwright sat up and applied sun screen to further the early summer tan he had started in San Juan. He was at that end of the beach that was more Cape Cod like, with small dunes, sea grass and a big sand apron stretching into the Sound.

This beach, a refuge, a 147 acre peninsula, the former estate of a nineteenth century Scottish tycoon, was where the seven friends had grown up. This was their space, their time away from parents, unsupervised by teachers and coaches, out from under the wings of nannies, chauffeurs and housekeepers—no adults allowed. The Point’s woods was their laboratory. This is where they experimented with smoking, first sexual contacts, alcohol, and, for a few, drugs.

When they were seventeen, Edward, Parker, Valerie, and Tray worked as lifeguards for the man now approaching Edward.

“Wheelwright,” Sol Katz, “the mayor of Tod’s Point” boomed out. “Where the hell’s the rest of your bunch?”

Wheelwright looked up and saw his old mentor and, not ten feet behind him, Valerie Samson.

Edward got up and gave the older man, who now seemed so much smaller, a hug. “One of them is right behind you,” Wheelwright said to Katz.

Katz turned, his white Safari hat, sitting back on his head. “Umm, Vvv, Valerie!”

“Can I get one of those hugs?” she asked as she neared the old head lifeguard, arms outstretched.

“You sure can, sweetheart,” and he embraced another of his younger charges.

“You two look fit enough to get up on those chairs right now,” Katz said pointing down the beach to the lifeguard chairs.

“And you remember me?” Valerie asked. “How? It’s been so long.”

“I never forgot the name of one of you kids. Know the year you were guards, know your names, and how old you were then, which means I can easily figure out how old you are now if you’re not careful,” Katz said, before a second thought. “In fact you two were guards the same summers. And you were a thing for a while.”

Valerie and Edward glanced at each other quickly.

“Great memory, Sol,” Edward said. “You’re looking great.”

“There are three stages of life, Wheelwright,” Katz said with a smile, “youth, maturity, and you’re looking great.” The three of them looked at each other and broke up in laughter.

After more memory exchanges and catching, up the “Mayor” went on his way.

Val called after him, “Does that fan in the helmet still work?”

Sol raised his hand and made an OK sign with his fingers.

“Eddie, that’s so amazing running into Sol at the exact moment we see each other. For a second, it’s like time stood still.”

“I agree. And look at you. It is like time stood still. You’re more beautiful than ever,” Wheelwright said looking at the taut, tanned body in shorts and a knit top. Valerie not only looked fit, she was strong. At five-foot-nine-inches tall, an hour glass figure with the square shoulders of a swimmer and the legs of a college soccer player, she was an impressive woman.

“And you’ve taken good care of the Wheelwright legacy,” she said admiring the obvious strength in his shoulders and arms. “Still a gym rat?”

“Only reason I’m alive,” he replied.

And they hugged. And they stood there awkwardly in each other’s arms. They moved apart and smiled. Valerie turned and picked up the beach chair she had dropped. She opened it and placed it next to Edward’s. She placed a Gucci beach bag next to his sneakers at the foot of the blanket. She pulled her top over her head and slipped off the shorts, revealing a neon green bikini. Wheelwright flinched when he saw and remembered the stunning body beneath the bikini. He reached down, opened the cooler and offered Val a beer. “Yes, yes,” she said thirstily.

They both sat.

“A lot to talk about, Val. It’s been a long time.”

“Two years goes by pretty quick. A lot has happened,” she said twisting the top off of the ice cold Anchor Steam beer.

“You first,” he said

“This idea I called you about. It’s an opportunity we cannot pass up.”

“No, not that. We’ll get to that,” Wheelwright said. “Tell me about you. On the phone you didn’t sound like Val McGuire.

“No, I’m not that girl anymore, Eddie. I’m Val Samson: mother, housewife, suburbanite extraordinaire.”

“And you’re not happy?” What’s going on here, he thought to himself. What am I doing asking that question, pressing her like that. Are you taking glee in whatever burden she’s carrying?

Simultaneously, she thought: what’s going on here. Is he trying to put me in my place? Am I so obvious a mental mess that he can come on like that? Careful.

She looked away. “I’m OK. It’s just a new life. It’ll take a while to keep it all in perspective. Isn’t that what you always told me Eddie? Keep it all in perspective. I wish the hell I kept it in perspective,” and on an impulse she decided to get it out. “But I was so upset you dumped me I dashed into this and it sucks.” She was looking into Wheelwright’s eyes now. Fire in her eyes. Tears. She was smiling. That horrid smile of a beautiful woman, hurt by a man, and nothing could be done about it. It was done.

“Your husband?”

“David’s a good guy. He’s a nerd. I let him rush me,” she stopped. Two minutes. Two minutes talking and I’ve humiliated myself. She thought when he agreed to meet with her that nothing would matter, that they would stay on a higher plane, only talk about the deal. The deal was nowhere in the discussion, and she was on the floor. Pick yourself up, get it all out. “And now I’m stuck. The only thing I have is my work,” she stopped again. “The gym keeps you alive. My work keeps me alive.”

“What about your baby?”

“He’s wonderful. If I could, I’d snatch him up, move back into the city, get a nanny and live happily ever after. You have to see him, Eddie, he’s beautiful. I do love him; it’s everything that surrounds us that I hate.”

“That’s what you get for marrying a Jew.”

“Edward Wheelwright, that’s bullshit.”

“Bullshit it is. A McGuire marrying a Jew. I didn’t believe it when I heard it.”

“You’re the fucking reason,” a fiery Samson said with a bittersweet smile.

“That’s it. It’s my fault you’re miserable?” he questioned.

“If you married me like you fucking promised, I wouldn’t be in this shit,” she laughed hilariously. It was a real laugh. A roar. Old tears streamed down her cheeks, the sad sentiment having passed.

Wheelwright laughed with her, “That’s the McGuire I know. Indomitable. Able to spit in the eye of the devil.”

“You are the fucking devil, you know,” and the laughter continued. The anger out, unbottled after these two years. “You fuck, you promised to marry me.”

“If you hadn’t been so damn pushy, I would have,” he said.

“Pushy! Pushy? I gave you half my fucking life. How long am I supposed to wait?”

“Till I’m ready,” Wheelwright said.

“Are you ready now?” she asked impetuously. In fact, stunned by her own question, but she decided to wait for an answer. And it wasn’t long in coming.