The Beach Club (34 page)

So she’d overheard them. “We’re having a bit of a family situation,” Therese said. “Things might be rather hectic. I apologize.”

“I understand,” Mrs. Hassiter said. She looked at her hands. “I understand because I have a child of my own.”

Therese got a funny twitching in her stomach. “Did you see my daughter this morning, Mrs. Hassiter? Did you see her last night?”

Mrs. Hassiter’s pale blue eyes sought Therese’s, then Bill’s, helplessly.
Oh, dear God
, Therese thought.
She has some part in this
. But before Mrs. Hassiter could answer, Bill pointed his finger; his voice was tight and sharp.

“Do you know where our daughter is?” he asked. “Do you?”

Mrs. Hassiter nodded slowly. “I wasn’t thinking as a parent last night. But these kids seem so grown-up. Much older than my own son at that age.”

“What did you do?” Bill asked. Therese dug her fingernails into the buttery leather of the couch. “What did you do to Cecily?”

Mrs. Hassiter took a deep breath. “I gave her the money to go.”

Therese felt all her previous calm fly from her, like her soul leaving her body. Gave Cecily the money! They let the woman into their home and she interfered with the delicate balance they had worked so hard to achieve. She tipped the scales in favor of Cecily and off Cecily went—with a stranger’s money in her pocket—to Brazil.

Bill spoke first. “The nerve of you,” he said. “You had no place doing that.”

“I know,” Mrs. Hassiter said. “I realized that this morning. I should have just let things be. But I was possessed by pride.”

“By pride, Mrs. Hassiter?” Bill said. “What is
that
supposed to mean?”

Mrs. Hassiter looked at both of them, then her eyes took in the rest of the room: the leather couch, the Turkish rug. “I’m a janitor at your daughter’s private school,” she said. “At Middlesex. I clean the rooms. I’ve been doing it for twenty-one years.”

“You know Cecily from Middlesex?” Therese asked.

“We didn’t know each other well,” Mrs. Hassiter said. “And I didn’t know you folks owned this hotel. But when I saw your daughter here, I couldn’t help myself. Those kids never thought much of me. They were always polite, but they thought of me as the cleaning woman. And they were all so young and beautiful and well-to-do. I wanted to prove I was good for something other than changing your daughter’s linen and cleaning the toilets. So I gave her four hundred and eighty-six dollars. It was money I earned.”

“Well, I hope you’re
happy
!” Bill shouted. “Because here we sit without our daughter. We’ve been stripped of all our options, Mrs. Hassiter, thanks to you.”

“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Hassiter said.

“That doesn’t fix a goddamned thing!” Bill said.

“Bill,” Therese said. She squeezed this hand; she had never seen him this angry before. Therese looked at Mrs. Hassiter—her shoulders slumping, her feet bright and unlikely in a pair of fancy sneakers. The thought that a woman this age felt she had to prove something to Cecily broke Therese’s heart. She tried not to let herself soften toward Mrs. Hassiter, but she couldn’t help it. The woman gave Cecily the money; in the end, she only expedited the inevitable. “There’s nothing wrong with being a cleaning woman,” Therese said. “I’m one myself. It’s a job I respect.”

Mrs. Hassiter looked at her hands again, as though she were ashamed of them. “It’s not the same. You own this beautiful place.”

“It is the same,” Therese said. “In fact, you can do me a favor.”

“What is it?” Mrs. Hassiter asked.

“I need you to supervise my chambermaids this morning while I take my husband out. Then you’ll see how much our jobs are alike. And just so you know, I would only trust my job to a professional.”

Mrs. Hassiter pushed up her sleeves. “I’d be glad to,” she said. “I’ll go right now.”

Therese said nothing to Bill until they were both in the car and Mrs. Hassiter had safely reached the lobby. Therese turned the key in the ignition, set the air-conditioning, and adjusted the vents so that they blew directly onto herself and Bill. “I know you’re mad at me,” she said, backing out of the parking lot. “But I won’t let myself blame that poor woman.”

“I don’t blame the woman,” Bill said. “I blame myself for double-booking the room. There’s a reason why we don’t let strangers sleep in our home, Therese. They don’t belong.”

“Don’t be angry with Mrs. Hassiter.”

“She tells a sob story and that’s all you need to hear. She’s a saint now and a martyr.”

“I feel for people, Bill,” she said.

“If you’re going to feel for people,” Bill said, “how about starting with Cecily and me?”

“I have always put you first,” Therese said. “Every day for thirty years I’ve put you first, and you know that.” She turned onto Main Street, which was bustling with activity, and she was grateful for the distraction. “I can’t remember the last time you and I were on Main Street on a summer day,” she said. She pointed out the Bartlett Farm truck, its sectioned bed bursting with red and yellow tomatoes, zucchini and squash, string beans, lettuce, and a colorful array of flowers, which bloomed despite the heat. “Look over there. Bountiful summer.”

“My summer hasn’t been bountiful,” Bill said. “First I lose Mack, then my only child.”

Therese gripped the wheel with both hands as they rumbled over the cobblestones. “She’s coming back.”

“Where are we going?” Bill asked. “I see you’re not driving to the airport.”

“No,” she said. “I’m not.”

They reached the Somerset Road Cemetery and Therese wound her way through the sandy paths until they came to W.T.’s grave. Bill gave a little groan and smacked his head back against the seat. “You’re trying to torture me.”

“No,” she said. “I just want to remind you what real loss feels like.”

They stood together on the patch of dry grass in front of the headstone. Therese read the inscription aloud. “W.T. Elliott, beloved son, April seventh, 1970.’” Then, as if she had given them permission, they both started to cry. Bill pulled out his handkerchief and held it to his nose as his body wracked with sobs. Therese cried into the crook of Bill’s arm. At one point, she gained a moment of clarity, enough to wonder what they must look like: two middle-aged people standing in the hottest Nantucket sun on record, crying for someone who died such a long time ago, someone they had never even known.

After a while, Therese let Bill go. She plucked her blouse away from her sweat-soaked body and flapped her arms as if she were a bird, as if she could fly. Then she took a tentative step toward the car. Sweat rolled down her back, and the edges of her mind were blurry with the tears, the grief, and from standing still for too long in the heat. Blurry from wondering—
would
Cecily be back? Or would they be left to cry in graveyards. Nobody’s parents.

“You know what I want more than anything else?” Therese said.

“What?” Bill said.

“Rain,” she said.

It was so hot in Love’s Hooper Farm Road house that she had to try the early pregnancy test three times. At dawn, she peed into a plastic cup, and then got ready to dunk the test strip to see if it changed color. The first strip stuck to her sweaty fingers like flypaper, and when she tried to unstick it, it ripped in half.

“Good thing they give you more than one chance,” Love said. She’d been talking to herself since she woke up that morning. She treated her second test strip more delicately. It was supposed to turn pink (positive) or blue (negative) when she dipped it in the urine. But the second strip turned green as soon as she picked it up. Green! She dipped it gingerly into the urine, hoping the green would magically change, a frog turning into a prince. But no—it stayed a disappointing, sickly green.

Love hopped on her Cannondale and rode back to the Stop & Shop—the only place carrying early pregnancy tests that was open at six thirty in the morning—and she plucked another test off the shelf. Unfortunately, the sole cashier was the same young man Love went to an hour before, when she bought her first test.

“That’s right,” she said. “I need another one.”

The cashier might have looked at her with understanding, or he might have made a gagging face, as if to say,
Too much information, ma’am
; Love couldn’t meet his eyes to find out.
I could be pregnant!
she almost said. But, of course, he would realize that. Love managed to keep her mouth shut until she paid another eighteen dollars and hurried from the store.

Before she dipped the third strip, Love washed her hands and dried them thoroughly. Then she pinched the strip between her fingernails and dunked it like a doughnut. She laid it on the little resting pad provided. Now she had to wait—five minutes, the instructions said.

She had to wait.

Love walked out into the hallway, through the kitchen, to the small living room that faced the road. She sat on the dingy sofa and stared at the blank wall in front of her. Her roommates, Randy and Alison, were still asleep.

“I’ve never actually sat in this room before,” Love whispered. “Probably a good thing.” The room was perfect for waiting because of the innocuous rentedness of it—an ugly sofa with two rock-hard cushions, a braided rug, a TV with nonfunctional, rabbit-ear antenna. It was as sterile as a doctor’s waiting room—nothing to excite or agitate, perfect for thinking.

Love had missed her last period. At first she thought she was just late, normal for her because she exercised so much. After a week, late became a miss. But Love wouldn’t let herself get excited until she knew for sure. Her other symptoms could easily have been caused by the heat. She went to the bathroom more frequently—but she also drank water all day to keep from dehydrating. She felt dizzy and tired, but who wouldn’t after skating in ninety-five-degree heat, 100 percent humidity? She vomited once—but that was after eating sushi, and in this heat the fish was probably spoiled. Love couldn’t tell if she was pregnant, or just hot, like everyone else.

She checked her watch. Four minutes, twenty-six seconds. She made herself stand up.

“Good-bye living room,” she said.

Then something caught her eye. On the wall behind the sofa was a picture the size of a baseball card. Love stepped closer to take a look, then recoiled. It was a photograph of an Indian swami, a brown-skinned man wearing a white turban, his hands in front of him in prayer, a mean-looking snake around his neck. Underneath the picture it said, “
Pray with Swami Jeff
.”

Swami Jeff? Maybe Alison or Randy tacked the card to the wall as some sort of joke. The man’s dark eyes penetrated Love and she shivered. He frightened her. She took the picture off the wall and held it in her hands. She wanted to throw it away. But instead Love raised the picture in front of her face and kissed Swami Jeff right on the lips.
You want me to pray with you, I will. I want a baby, Swami Jeff. Please, I want a baby!
She put the picture of Swami Jeff facedown in a kitchen drawer with the can opener and measuring spoons, and then bravely she walked into her room.

The strip was pink.
P
for pink,
P
for positive.

Love snatched up the resting pad. The strip was bright pink, lively pink, the pink of a healthy internal organ. There was no doubt about it. Love was
P
for pregnant.

She wanted to scream and shout and dance. She wanted to wake up Randy and Alison and tell them the good news. And what,
what
could be better news than this: another person coming into the world! A goal accomplished. A dream come true. She was pregnant!

Then, for just a second, Love experienced sheer terror. What made her think she was remotely qualified to be a mother? Or ready? So she was forty years old, so what? A person would have to be fifty or sixty to have the knowledge to raise another human being. It was an irrevocable thing she had just done. There was no going back.

She sat on her bed, and thought of Vance, who often slept with her there. Last night he’d declined because of the heat. What was she going to do about Vance? Love went back into the kitchen. She opened the drawer where she’d put the picture of Swami Jeff. Her knees buckled and she sucked in her breath. Through the holes of the cheese grater, Love saw Swami Jeff’s intense black eyes; the picture was
face up
in the drawer. She nudged the cheese grater aside. Swami Jeff stared at her. Love shut the drawer. She was
positive
she’d put the picture in facedown.
(Positive, she thought, I’m positive.)
Love opened the drawer again and picked up the picture. She took Swami Jeff into the bedroom.

Okay, Swami, what am I going to do about Vance? Shall I tell him or not?
She stared at Swami Jeff’s face and tried to ignore the snake curled around his neck, baring fangs. She closed her eyes and pressed the picture to her forehead.

What was she expecting to see? A vision, maybe—a scene from the future, like a film clip—Love walking down Durant Street in Aspen pushing a stroller. Was Vance in the picture? That was what she wanted to know. But there was no scene, no vision at all. Love held the picture of Swami Jeff in front of her and neatly ripped the card down the middle, slicing him between the eyes.

Vance met Love in the parking lot of the Beach Club as she was locking up her bike.

“How was your night last night?” he asked. “I was thinking of you.”

“Uneventful,” Love said. “An absolute bore. A hot bore.”

“I have some news,” Vance said. “Big news.”

“Big news?” Love asked. She hoped he wasn’t about to propose coming to Colorado again. She hoped he wasn’t about to propose anything. She shut her eyes, but saw nothing. “What is it?”

“Cecily’s gone,” Vance said. “She got on a plane and flew to Brazil without telling a soul. Bill said he and Therese woke up yesterday—and boom, Cecily was gone. She left them a note. The guy is really bumming.”

“Poor Bill,” Love said.

Vance shrugged. “I think it’s only natural,” he said. “You have kids and then at some point they leave the nest. What can you do?”