Guests of August

by Gloria Goldreich

  ‘It will not always be too soon,’ he says, and she nods.

  NINE

  The group are all energized by the berry-picking excursion. They return to the inn waving their bounty, the clear plastic bags filled with the plump blue fruit. Richie and Jeremy whirl them about and race across the lawn in hot pursuit of Tracy and Annette who laugh tantalizingly and hug their own bulging sacks. They fall to the grass at last, all four of them, their lithe young bodies forming a pyramid of golden limbs and shining hair, the berries amazingly intact. Paul Epstein, who has trailed behind them, helps Annette disentangle herself and brushes stray blades of grass from her bare arms. He trembles at the smooth touch of her flesh.

  The adults smile at their gaiety, Susan placing her hand on Jeff’s arm, Simon holding Nessa close, recalling the wild exuberance of their own youth. The day has been a good one. They are all filled with a zest for new adventures, an urge to explore the New Hampshire world beyond the precincts of Mount Haven Inn. Fresh horizons beckon.

  Colorful tourism brochures litter the lawn where Simon Epstein once again hosts his pre-dinner cocktail party. Greg and Helene study a map of Route Nine, the antique highway, circling shops that sound interesting. Liane tentatively suggests going to the outlets in Concord, but a glance from Michael silences her. She looks at him worriedly. Did the conference call go well? He has not told her and she dares not ask him. She wonders if it is a good sign that Mark Templeton has selected a chair close to Michael. She smiles brightly at the older man, offers him a cracker thinly coated with cheese and refills his glass of sparkling water. It does not disturb her that he barely acknowledges her solicitude. She has not forgotten how to be the invisible but accommodating secretary. She was good at her job, very good.

  The smaller boys clamor for an excursion to a water park. Susan herself has no wish to go to the water park. The next chapter of the LeBec novel is especially difficult and she longs for the silence and solitude that will allow her to transfuse the lyrical French into an English that will retain the author’s rhythmic cadence. If Jeff agrees to chaperone the trip to the water park she will be free to work for much of the day.

  It is agreed that he will take all three boys, that their mothers will go to a craft fair nearby and that they will all meet for a picnic lunch at the state park where a white-water stream rushes over outcroppings of white rocks.

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ Susan says, choosing her words carefully, ‘I’ll stay here. I kind of just want a lazy day.’

  Liane and Wendy shrug indifferently but Jeff stares hard at her.

  ‘Sure,’ he says, an unfamiliar harshness in his tone.

  Richie promotes the idea of a sea-plane ride over Lake Winnipesaukee. Enough room on the plane for five.

  ‘Paul, Jeremy, Tracy, me and Annette. It’s pricey but we can split the costs and then meet you guys at the state park.’

  Richie drapes his arm over Annette’s shoulder in a proprietary gesture and Paul winces.

  Nessa turns away. The mothers of the younger boys may protect their sons from white-water danger, but she cannot protect Paul, her vulnerable adolescent son, from the pain of rejection.

  She herself, she announces, looks forward to spending a few hours at the used bookstore a few miles down the road. She has, in the past, found long-out-of-print children’s books for the library of her nursery school and she enjoys studying the work of illustrators of generations past. She has, she acknowledges, incorporated some of their muted colors and classical formats into her own whimsical work. To her surprise, Andrea Templeton asks if she might accompany her.

  ‘I know that shop well,’ she says. ‘When we lived up here I went there often, sometimes with Adam, sometimes alone. Have you ever gone there with Donny, Wendy?’

  ‘No,’ Wendy replies, her voice flat although she flushed at the mention of Adam’s name. ‘It is a bit out of the way for us. As it must have been for you. All those years ago.’

  ‘All those years ago,’ Andrea repeats and the two women, the bereft wife and the bereft mother, look hard at each other, exchanging the calculating stare of adversaries competing in the difficult and uncertain game of mourning and memory.

  ‘You’ll be all right on your own, Mark?’ Andrea asks.

  ‘Well, I won’t be entirely on my own. I’ll be working with these young men. Michael has an interesting project underway but there are some glitches we have to iron out. Good of you to take the time to work on it, Epstein.’

  He mispronounces Simon’s name, elongating the last syllable but no one corrects him. Simon shrugs his shoulders. It is a casual slur that is familiar to him. It did not disturb him in his younger years and he is too secure now in his professional achievement to take issue with it. He is Jewish. So what?

  Liane touches Michael’s hand, almost faint with relief. They are all right then. The project is not dead.

  ‘What about you, Daniel?’ Simon asks.

  He is, as always, concerned about his childhood friend who is weathering the transitional loneliness that had haunted Simon all those years ago, during that bleak period after his divorce from Charlotte and before Nessa came into his life. He smiles at Nessa, her face so bright in the pink radiance of sunset, a diaphanous robe of daring floral design flowing over the softness of her body, her long toes, their nails preposterously painted with stars and peace symbols, scissoring cool blades of grass. His own luck at finding her, at claiming her, amazes him. He hopes that Daniel, talented gentle Daniel, will find a woman like his Nessa, so comfortable in her own skin, so sensitive to the needs of others.

  ‘I need a day to work on my page proofs,’ Daniel says stiffly. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  He does not look at Wendy, who betrays no disappointment. She is not surprised that Daniel has chosen not to join their outing. They moved too swiftly, presumed too much. She rises from her seat and glides across the lawn to a clearing where she watches the slowly setting sun turn the wine-dark lake the color of molten gold.

  This is what vacations are for, Wendy thinks, moments like this, frozen in time, a precious suspension of all obligations, a surrender to the solitary magic of watching shimmering diamonds of fading light dance across darkening waters. Days remain for the soothing of small hurts, for gentle exchanges over fragrant cups of coffee. She smiles at Daniel as she returns to her seat and he, relieved, smiles back at her.

  At dinner that evening Nessa tells Louise that they will need a large picnic lunch.

  ‘No problem,’ she assures them. ‘Evan will drive it out to the state park. We do it for our guests all the time.’

  It occurs to Nessa that Evan is absent from the dinner table and that he had not appeared at breakfast, but she asks no questions. Louise Abbot has made her own bargain with life and requires neither advisors nor intermediaries.

  The sky is overcast the next morning but Louise, who as always has been up since dawn, assures them that the weather forecasters predict a clearing before midday. She offers them this news as she places the large bowls of scrambled eggs on the table, as though it is her role as innkeeper to dispense good weather just as she supervises their meals and the cleanliness of their rooms. She does not take her place at the table. Another waitress has disappointed and Louise is once again filling in. It is Daniel Goldner, as always, who expresses his concern.

  ‘Don’t work too hard, Louise,’ he cautions, and she smiles gratefully at him and disappears into the kitchen.

  Polly carries in the carafes of coffee and places a plate of toast next to Jeff Edwards.

  ‘Whole wheat,’ she says. ‘I think that’s what you like.’

  ‘Actually Dr Edwards prefers not to eat bread in the morning,’ Susan says crisply as she pushes the plate away.

  Polly blushes and hurries to another table.

  ‘That was rude and unnecessary, Susan.’ Jeff’s voice is cold and monitory, the tone he uses in the operating room when a scrub nurse hands him the wrong instrument. ‘She was only trying to be helpful.’


  ‘She presumes,’ Susan replies tightly.

  ‘Susan, really. She’s a kid, a waitress,’ Helene interjects.

  Susan frowns and turns her attention to Matt who has been watching his parents, glassy-eyed with fear. He hates it when their voices are edged with irritation. He wonders why it is that his mother and father no longer laugh together, why his mother is not coming to the water park, why she is so often annoyed with Polly who tries so hard to be nice to them. He wishes that he could ask Jeremy and Annette these questions, but his older brother and sister barely notice him. It seems to him that they have drifted out of the world they once shared with him – the child world of games and giggling and of swift teasing quarrels easily resolved. They have aged into a mysterious realm whose borders are closed to him. Annette stands in front of the mirror, endlessly brushing her hair, applying lipstick, practicing her smile and, suddenly, without warning, breaking into tears. Jeremy slams doors, scowls as he listens to music on his iPad, and texts his friends ignoring their replies.

  Matt eats the toast that his mother lathers with jam and wishes that his aunt Helene would mind her own business.

  They rush from the breakfast tables to their cars, eager for their adventure to get underway. The boys’ backpacks, overflowing with towels, changes of clothing and goggles, are stowed into Jeff’s station wagon. Susan supervises the buckling of seat belts and decides that if Jeff asks her, just once more, to join them, she will agree. But he says nothing, nor does he kiss her, as he climbs into the car. Her heart sinks. She remembers the early days of their marriage when he never left the apartment without holding her close, the later years when his lips brushed her cheek as they parted, even more recently when he briefly cupped her chin in his hands before going off.

  There is a change, even a fissure, she acknowledges, but it is not irreparable. Most of the translation is done; this last difficult chapter will be completed today and she will be free. The last sun-bright days of August at Mount Haven Inn will work their magic as always. She and Jeff will relax on the lawn, stroll down to the lake in the cool of the evening, come together in velvet darkness with passion and tenderness as their children sleep in the adjoining room.

  Helene is right. She is foolish to worry about Polly. She’s just a kid and Jeff is just being kind. Stupid of her to read anything more into it. She walks hurriedly back to her room, eager to begin her work, French and English phrases already whirring through her mind. She does not turn back and so she does not see Jeff lift his arm in a brief and tentative wave.

  The young people dash to Richie’s car, Tracy perched on Jeremy’s lap in the back seat, Paul balancing his camera beside them, Annette seated beside Richie, bare armed and bright eyed. Paul’s eyes are glued to the nape of her neck, bewitched by the tendrils of hair that dance across her rose-gold skin. She laughs at something Richie says and moves closer to him. Richie switches on the radio and Beyoncé’s voice fills that little car. Annette’s shoulders sway to the music.

  Richie drums the steering wheel and sways toward her. Tracy shifts position slightly, her leg sliding over to rest on Paul’s.

  ‘My brother’s a jerk,’ she whispers, and Paul looks at her in surprise. He does not think Richie is a jerk. He just wishes that he’d never come to stay at Mount Haven Inn, that he was not teaching Annette how to drive, sitting too close to her, and making her laugh at his stupid jokes.

  He has never been at ease with Richie and Tracy. His half-siblings, who move easily through their mother’s glamorous world, are only a few years older than him but they are cool collegians while he still drudges his way through high school, juggling his book bag and guitar. They discuss their courses, invoking writers he has never heard of and disparaging others whom he thinks are terrific. They treat Paul with casual indifference, although Tracy adds an iota of kindness to their odd emotional mix. He smiles gratefully at her now as Jeremy allows his arm to rest loosely around her waist.

  ‘And my sister’s a pain,’ Jeremy whispers. ‘Don’t let her fool you. She can be a real tease.’

  Paul shrugs and, as though on cue, they all begin to sing, their mournful mocking chorus oddly in tune.

  Wendy and Liane drive up the mountain road in companionable silence. Wendy’s sketchpad and her drawing pencils are on the back seat and now and again she parks at the side of the road and swiftly sketches a regal tree, a copse of conifers, a slender birch bent by the wind.

  ‘I want to do a series of sketches of New Hampshire trees,’ she explains to Liane. ‘I’ll draw the same trees through all the seasons, branches heavy with snow in the winter, just budding in the spring, full leafed in summer, their leaves turning at the onset of autumn.’

  ‘Like now,’ Liane says, looking up at a brace of maples, their foliage already scarlet-edged and brittle.

  Her eyes drop to Wendy’s sketchpad and she marvels at how Wendy has captured the intricacy of the branches, the strength and steadiness of the trunk. She wonders why it was that she had always so resented Wendy Templeton. She is actually very nice, not at all snobby.

  ‘Will you sell them when you’re done?’ she asks.

  ‘I think I’d like to try to put them together in a book,’ Wendy replies. ‘Maybe find some text to go with each drawing. People are always looking for nice gift books and a publisher made me what seems like a pretty good offer.’

  Liane looks at her in surprise and Wendy smiles.

  ‘I know. I’m not supposed to be thinking about money. After all, as everyone surely knows, Donny’s grandparents are very generous, actually too generous. Writing checks to us makes them feel good, I suppose. But I’ve had enough. I want to stop being their charity case. My watercolors are selling well and I’ve started teaching workshops. I can support myself and Donny and that is what I want to do.’

  This outpouring of confidences embarrasses Liane. Wendy calmly replaces her pencils in their case, sprays fixative over her drawing. It is odd, she knows, to have imposed such intimacy on Liane whom she hardly knows, but she is pleased to have spoken her thoughts aloud. It vests them with reality. It is a rehearsal for the conversation she wants to have with Adam’s parents.

  ‘Mr Templeton is being very helpful to my husband,’ Liane says awkwardly.

  ‘Yes. Being helpful to your husband and working with Simon Epstein gives him something to do. He’s bored. He doesn’t really want to be at Mount Haven Inn, you know. No golf course, no cocktail lounge, no gourmet food. He’d much rather be at a five-star hotel on Hilton Head Island. And, of course, so would Andrea.’

  ‘Then why do they come here?’ Liane asks. ‘Year after year.’ She does not add that she herself would prefer to spend August at a five-star hotel.

  ‘A pilgrimage of a kind. A way to get rid of guilt that they never acknowledged. Andrea claims that it is their way to reconnect with Adam, their son, my late husband, although they hardly connected with him when he was alive. And they claim that they want to spend quality time with Donny, although they hardly know him. They’ve never thought to invite him to California, to travel with him. They didn’t know how to be parents and they don’t know how to be grandparents.’

  There is no bitterness in Wendy’s tone. She decides with some satisfaction that her therapist would be proud of her. She had spoken openly to Liane as she had spoken openly to Daniel Goldner. Perhaps, at her next therapy session it will be mutually concluded that she has assimilated her anger and safely reached the relatively safe shore of honesty. She brakes suddenly as a fawn darts across the road and a doe chases after it, bleating with maternal ire.

  Liane is silent, reluctant to venture into hazardous emotional terrain, fearful that any response she makes will be both naïve and inadequate. Why, she wonders, should Andrea and Mark Templeton feel guilty about their son’s death? But it is not a question she can safely ask.

  They drive the rest of the way in a companionable silence, broken only by brief discussions of their sons.

  ‘Does Cary enjoy sports?’
Wendy asks. It worries her that Donny is indifferent to the team activities offered at his school.

  ‘Not so much, but I don’t really care,’ Liane admits. ‘I’m just glad that he does well at school and that he has a couple of good friends. He’s super at computer stuff. Like his father.’

  She feels a swell of pride. It is Michael’s acumen and tenacity that Cary has inherited. She has always known that Michael was smart, very smart. He is too good at what he does and too hardworking to lose even at this treacherous high-tech business gamble. Mark Templeton and Simon Epstein would not be investing time and perhaps money if they didn’t think Michael’s project had merit. And even if this software design fails, he has other ideas. He is always thinking, always working. And, she acknowledges, she has been of little help. No help.

  Michael’s angry words resonate in her memory. Think about me for once and not just yourself. He had spoken a truth she cannot deny. She can help him and she will. She can get a job. Like Wendy, she can earn money, she can assert her independence.

  She opens the car window wider, breathes in the sweetness of the late-summer air and feels a new lightness. She has slipped free of the heavy cloak of envy and disappointment that has weighed her down for so many years. She does not deny that she married Michael for the life she thought he would offer her. And yes, she had been disappointed but always aware of his devotion, of his determination to please her, of the tenacious love he lavishes on their son. And on her. That awareness has shocked her into an amazing revelation. She has come to love her husband. Really love him. She will take up his challenge and think not only about herself but about him and about Cary. They will manage. They will more than manage.

  She smiles happily as Wendy pulls into a sprawling meadow dotted with brightly colored tents and long display tables of the itinerant artisans. They wander from display to display. Wendy buys a tie-dyed T-shirt for Donny, a silver pin for Andrea. Liane pauses to watch a leather worker fashion a wallet of the softest deer skin. She buys it, not blanching at the price. It has been years since she has given Michael a gift and she thinks of how his face will light up with pleasure when she gives it to him.