The Summer of Good Intentions (9 page)

On this Wednesday before the Fourth, the library was particularly quiet. Arthur felt as if he was working in a velvet-lined jewelry box, the very kind that housed the diamond ring he'd presented to Gloria on bended knee forty-six years ago. It was three-carat, and he'd saved diligently until he could afford it. It was exactly what Gloria wanted. They'd gone window-shopping in the diamond district in Boston, a street of stores now called Downtown Crossing that had once housed places where a person had to ring a buzzer to gain entrance to a vaulted store at the top of the stairs. There, a helpful but aloof salesman waited, as if the purchase of a diamond that day made little difference to him.

Arthur remembered the day like it was yesterday. It was a December afternoon, and a light snow fell on the Boston Common while he and Gloria idled along, admiring the Christmas lights that were draped like colorful scarves across the trees. They held hands, Gloria's snug in her mittens, hand-knitted blue things with little strings attached at the ends. He'd teased her that they were like a schoolgirl's, until she told him that her mother had given them to her last Christmas and that he'd better be quiet if he knew what was good for him. He'd always liked that about her. She could give him a hard time and he'd just love her more. Their futures were ripe with possibility then. Arthur planned to finish grad school and then teach American literature. Gloria couldn't wait to have children. They debated how many children were enough. How many were too many? They agreed that three seemed the perfect number.

When they turned down Washington Street, the dancing Christmas Bears in the Jordan Marsh window greeted them. They pointed out sweaters and hats that might make good gifts for friends. When they crossed the street to the jewelers' side, Arthur suggested they climb the stairs to the diamond shop to look at rings “just for the hell of it.” He was trying to act glib, but he was as nervous as a kid suited up for his first football game. Arthur knew his soon-to-be fiancée well enough to understand that the only ring that would suit her finger would be one that she'd have a say in.

In truth, he was itching to propose. There was no other girl for him. They giggled when the buzzer let them in and a pale salesman welcomed them at the top of the stairs only to point them through another locked door. Arthur joked it was like entering a jail cell, but Gloria shushed him. “Oh, come on,” she said. “Marriage isn't that bad, Arthur, is it?” And she squeezed his hand before they crossed into a room that quite literally sparkled with diamonds.

As soon as she saw it, Gloria knew the exact ring she wanted: a bright, twinkling diamond, nearly translucent with dazzling blue sapphires on either side, sitting in a gold band. Arthur had to hand it to her. The ring was exquisite.

“That's the best of the bunch, no question,” he agreed. “Here, try it on for fun, why don't you?” he said, ignoring the annoyed look of the salesclerk behind the counter, who had to unlock the case to reach the ring. But he did so, if a bit grudgingly. Did the man really think he was bluffing here? Arthur wondered.

When she slipped the ring on, small
Oh!
s escaped from them both. Not only because it dazzled so elegantly on her slim finger but also, Arthur suspected, because of all that it suggested. A life for two people, for
them,
forever. Arthur grew light-headed and went to grab a seat. The jeweler, suddenly kind, fetched him a glass of water and joked that it happened all the time. Grooms got sticker shock while the women started planning the wedding in their heads.

When they left the store, Gloria teased him that if they ever did get married, Arthur would need a stiff drink before heading into the chapel. But she didn't understand. For Arthur, it was exactly the opposite. It wasn't that he was getting cold feet or felt sick about paying such a princely sum for a ring. Rather, a vision of him with Gloria, her long blond hair tied up in a loose bun, holding hands in a row with their children—and this he had envisioned quite clearly, though Gloria would never believe it—three girls, twins and a younger daughter, swept across his field of vision.

And he was floored. Floored by the sheer gorgeousness of that image, as if it were a premonition of all the good that his life ahead held. It had momentarily blinded him, struck him off his feet.

Of course, they'd had a good laugh about it. Gloria joked he didn't need to get her that
exact
ring if it was too expensive. Something similar would be fine, so long as it meant she was tied to him. It was, perhaps, the kindest thing she ever said to him.

When he opened the velvet box at Anthony's Pier 4 over raspberry cheesecake and coffees, it housed the very ring she'd slipped on. “Yes!” she exclaimed, throwing her arms around him, and Arthur was filled with a certainty that his life was proceeding precisely as it should.

Gloria,
he thought now, with a pang.

He checked the books on the to-be-shelved cart and saw only a handful. Circulation always fell during the first weeks of summer, when the entire town was either hosting company or traveling. Arthur picked up a few titles, mostly gardening books and a weight-loss book promising results in one week. He hadn't seen Gloria since Christmas, when the whole family had gathered at Maggie's house. His ex-wife had burst through the front door, stomping snow from her boots, and an image of her on the day that they'd gone ring shopping, the snow drifting down, had flashed before him unexpectedly. He'd actually bent over and clutched the back of a chair.

Her hair was different now, cut into a bob that swept just above the shoulder, and she'd gone lighter, a blond color that still managed to look natural. She wore a sharp lavender suit. Arthur had always admired that Gloria never stooped to wearing holiday sweaters or pins like so many older women did. That frigid Christmas Day, she carried bags stuffed with presents that she let fall to the floor when the grandchildren ran to hug her. She smiled at Arthur and he smiled back while Mac helped remove her coat. The scent of gardenias, Gloria's signature perfume, floated through the room. Arthur hoped that perhaps the smile meant something, perhaps she wanted him back. But as the evening unfolded and he and Gloria made small talk, he came to understand that it was nothing more than a friendly smile.

Gloria wished him well. That was all.

His memory was interrupted. “Excuse me, Arthur, but I can't seem to find the new Danielle Steel novel. Could you help?”

Standing before him was Florence Arbitrage. Florence, as she would tell anyone who would listen, was from Charleston, South Carolina. Every sentence that came out of the woman's mouth got stretched to its utmost length.

Arthur didn't particularly like Florence, but when it came right down to it, he didn't like many people outside his immediate family. It had been this way for as long as he could remember. Maggie and Jess teased that he was a modern-day misanthrope, but Arthur knew better. He liked people in general, just not in particular. There was a difference. A subtle distinction, but a distinction nonetheless.

“Sure, Eleanor. Do you know the title?”

She regarded him strangely for a minute.
Did he just call her Eleanor?
“Oh, I don't know,” she said, her voice twanging on
know.
“Something about friends, I think?” People's inability to remember titles always amazed him, which was why he spent countless hours coming up with memorable ones for his own books.

They headed back over to the circulation desk, where Arthur typed “Danielle Steel” into the library's search engine.
Friends Forever
was the first title to pop up.

“
Friends Forever
sound right?” he asked.

“That's it!” She slapped her hand on the desk, delighted that Arthur had been able to seemingly conjure it out of thin air. “Now where can I find it?”

Arthur eyed the inventory list on the computer. Two copies supposedly sat on the New Fiction shelf out front, making him wonder if Florence had even bothered to check in the first place. He headed for New Fiction, Florence following behind him like a porch dog.

“How are your girls?” she asked. The other thing about small towns, Arthur thought with a modicum of chagrin, was that everyone knew everyone else's business.

“They're great,” he said. “Ah, here it is!” He pulled out the novel, displayed on the front shelf plain as day. “I'm going down to the Cape house on Saturday, in fact.”

“Oh, isn't that wonderful,” Flo said with a purr and took the book from his hands, brushing them lightly with her fingertips. “Family is the most important thing, isn't it?”

She said the words with a hint of wistfulness, enough so that Arthur was nearly prompted to ask her what she was doing for the Fourth, but he stopped himself. He didn't want to be put in the awkward position of inviting her over if she didn't have any plans.

“Will that be all?” he asked as they headed back to circulation.

She hesitated. “Yes. Thank you. Unless you have a recommendation for me? You know how I love to read. Widowhood can be so lonely.” She drew out the
o'
s.

“I'm afraid I haven't been reading much lately. I've a got a deadline for the new book.” He quickly scanned the novel into the computer and slipped the due-back receipt between the pages.

She laid her hand on the book. “You do? That's wonderful. I can't wait to read it. You're so very talented, Arthur.” He felt a shiver pass through him, as if he should be doing a better job of hurrying Florence along.

“Well, back to work!” He excused himself and headed for the small room where they housed shipments of new titles. He pretended to do a quick inventory until he heard Florence shout “Ta-ta!” After a few minutes, he returned to the desk, relieved that there was no Florence in sight. A small line had formed, and he scanned each book so that it prompted the machine to print out a crisp receipt. How he missed the days of stamping a yellow card at the back of each book! It made such a triumphant sound, that stamp. Funny, how much a person could miss the tactile sensation of sliding a card back into its little pocket. It had taken several years for their sleepy town to catch up with new technology, but once it had, there was no turning back.

Arthur was wistful not just for the old checkout system but for the days when newfangled computers didn't encroach upon every aspect of life. Technology was forever messing up his writing. He would type sentences such as, “Rita Wigglesworth turned the car window handle, and the summer breeze streamed in,” only to have his editor write in big red letters in the margins: “Arthur, people have
automatic
windows now!” Once he wrote about Inspector Larson helping himself to a few ice cubes from the tray in the freezer, and his editor picked up the phone to call. “Arthur, you realize that the majority of Americans have refrigerators that
make
ice now, right? Do they even make ice cube trays anymore? You're dating yourself.”

Arthur disagreed with her about that one. He felt it to be more a matter of class. To his mind, rich people had automatic ice dispensers. The rest of America still used ice cube trays. One day, he was at Target on an errand, and there, in aisle seventeen, was the most magnificent assortment of ice cube trays he'd ever seen. Red and blue, trays shaped like stars, fish, the alphabet. He'd been so thrilled to be proven right that he stuffed his cart full with them. When he got home, he realized he'd bought more than he could fit in his freezer, so he sent six to his editor, trays with smiley faces, hearts, and pineapples. He wrapped them up as a gift and mailed them to her with a note, saying:
Some of us still like our rocks the old-fashioned way!
He thought it was clever, but his editor had never acknowledged it. Hadn't even sent an e-mail ribbing him for his gag gift. Perhaps, he thought now, she hadn't seen the humor in it.

That was another reason he liked going to the summer house: everything remained more or less the same, even as his family changed, grew up. While Maggie had replaced the refrigerator and stove a few years back, they were nothing fancy, just run-of-the-mill appliances that fit the rest of the house's unassuming décor. No fancy ice machines. Only recently had his eldest daughter insisted on tossing out their ancient black rotary phone. If ever they needed to dial 911, it would take them half an hour to twirl the numbers around the plastic dial, she argued. They had their cell phones. Arthur agreed she had a point.

He combed through the various newsletters and announcements pinned to the library's bulletin board. He'd come to think of the board as the town crier, the place everyone gathered for breaking news in their little haven. He pulled down the flyers that had expired—ads for rummage sales two Saturdays ago, a puppy for sale, a lost cat, piano lessons, sign-up for swim lessons, Irish step dance classes. Some flyers he tossed, but a few he stuck in his briefcase to take home. Even if the event had passed, he liked having the information at his fingertips if anyone were to ask him,
Say, whatever happened to that ad for cleaning services or dance lessons?

Eventually, the sun began to tilt in the late-afternoon sky, and only a few patrons remained, including a man who'd been perusing magazines for more than an hour. Arthur didn't mind. He was accustomed to vacationers who came to the library to escape their noisy families, in search of an hour of peace and quiet. A handful of women from the Wednesday knitting club were still gathered in the conference room. As far as Arthur could tell, they only read trashy romances, but it was better, he supposed, than not reading at all. He switched on the front desk microphone to make the “Fifteen minutes till closing” announcement and felt the small rush that traveled over him each time he heard his voice magnified in the hallowed halls, as if he were the Wizard of Oz standing behind deep red curtains.