Guests of August

by Gloria Goldreich

  Daniel walks Wendy to her room. Once again they linger at her door. He cups her chin in his hands and looks down at her.

  ‘We’ll talk tomorrow,’ he says.

  ‘Yes. Tomorrow.’

  A promise is hidden in the word which Donny, scampering past her into the room, overhears.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ he says mischievously. ‘Tomorrow we won’t be bored.’

  ‘Right,’ they reply in unison and, for the first time that day, the ache in Wendy’s heart is eased.

  They waken the next morning to a sky canopied with clouds, but slowly the sun works its way through and by mid-morning the lawn is sheathed in light. Determinedly, the guests of August take advantage of the new brightness, intent on scavenging the last scraps of pleasure from the waning days of their vacation weeks.

  At breakfast Daniel announces his intention of riding his motorbike up a mountain trail. ‘I want to see how she takes the ascent,’ he says. ‘Want to risk it, Wendy?’

  ‘I’ll pass.’

  She smiles. ‘But be careful,’ she adds.

  ‘Oh, Ma, chill out.’ Donny grins at them, pleased to use the new expression the teenagers toss about.

  Annette and Paul, Tracy and Jeremy play tennis, an energetic game of doubles. Bare armed, they hold their rackets high, and their sun-bronzed legs flash as they sprint from one corner of the court to another. Tracy’s many silver bracelets jingle as she lifts her arm to lob a ball. The young people are energized, geared to the promise of the hours ahead, content with all that has passed between them during their brief time together. They have, however tentatively, made their way across secret boundaries. It is with ease that Jeremy hugs Tracy when she makes a point. With equal ease Paul kneels to tie the lace of Annette’s sneaker when it comes undone.

  Liane leans listlessly against a post and watches them. She wonders where Michael is. She has not seen him since they finished breakfast, since he went outside clutching his cell phone. He had asked Wendy for Mark Templeton’s California number and Liane knows that he was intent on calling that pompous bastard, ignoring her suggestion that he leave that difficult call to Simon.

  ‘It’s my project, my future. Try – try really hard – to have some faith in me.’ She had flinched from the sarcasm in his tone, from the hurt in his eyes and turned away. And now she cannot find him. He is not in their room, not on the lawn, not in the rec room. Cary and his friends run past her on their way to the swings.

  ‘Cary, have you seen your dad?’ she calls.

  ‘He was walking toward the lake,’ Cary replies.

  ‘Hey, Liane, do you want to come into the village with us?’

  Nessa and Wendy approach her. Their smiles are warm and welcoming. They offer her comfort, they offer her friendship, something she could not have anticipated at the onset of the vacation.

  ‘We’ll go to the flower shop and order an arrangement for Polly. The funeral isn’t for a couple of days and we’ll be gone by then,’ Wendy says. ‘And we want to get some treats for the kids. We’ll have a little farewell party for them, lift their spirits.’

  Liane does not say that it is their own spirits that are in need of lifting. Surely they share her regret that summer is ending and the obligations of a new season, with all its tensions, will soon be upon them.

  ‘I was kind of looking for Michael,’ she says.

  ‘Oh, he’s probably off somewhere with Simon,’ Nessa assures her.

  ‘I suppose,’ she agrees and gets into Wendy’s car.

  But as they drive off she sees Simon leaving the inn. He is alone. So where is Michael? She should not have let him walk off without reassuring him that she did not care about his damn project, that she was prepared to help him through whatever difficulties might await them. But then, he had not waited for her reassurance. She supposes that she cannot blame him for having so little faith in her but she will make it up to him. The mental pledge relieves her and she joins Nessa and Wendy in a discussion of the most appropriate flowers to order and whether or not they should send a fruit basket as well.

  It is Wendy, so familiar with floral death offerings, who instructs the florist to send a wreath of orange and gold chrysanthemums to be delivered to the church on the day of the funeral, the card to be signed ‘From your friends at Mount Haven Inn’.

  ‘Mrs Syms’ funeral,’ Nessa adds unnecessarily.

  ‘Yes, of course. I know,’ the florist says.

  He is a sad-eyed man, his skin unnaturally sallow as though all pigmentation has been leached by the bright and fragrant blossoms he offers for sale.

  Of course he would know. There are no secrets, no privacy in this small New Hampshire village. Wendy wonders, not for the first time, how many residents of the town where Adam grew up, where she and Donny now live, knew that Andrea was a secret drunk. The bottles of vodka and wine had to be ordered from the neighborhood liquor store and carted away by village workers. She brushes the thought away. Such conjectures no longer matter.

  Their grim errand accomplished, they go to the small market and buy sweets and treats for the boys, deciding with carefree abandon on chocolate-covered pretzels, marshmallows to be roasted at a campfire on the last night of the holiday, and soft, rainbow-colored gum drops. Nessa stocks up on cheese and crackers, tries to remember how much wine they have left, and decides to add a bottle of Chablis, a bottle of Burgundy and a fifth of gin.

  ‘Why not?’ she asks her friends and they shrug happily.

  ‘Why not?’

  Their answer is light-hearted. They will themselves to happiness.

  Carrying their shopping bags, they head for the Windermere Café and, as they pull into the small parking area, a low-slung red sports car speeds out without decelerating. The woman at the wheel waves apologetically, turns to the passenger who sits beside her holding a map close to her face, and drives toward the inn.

  Nessa sighs. The driver, so indifferent to the rules of the road, is, of course, Charlotte, Simon’s first wife. She should not be surprised. Richie did tell them, with that sly mischievous smile of his, that his mother would be coming to New Hampshire. Something about a photo shoot in the White Mountains which would give her a chance to see her son and daughter. Nessa marvels at how skillfully Charlotte manages to interweave career and motherhood. Never a wasted minute, never a wasted mile. But she does not pass judgment. It is not her way.

  She hopes that Simon will not be disconcerted. It would have been nice for Charlotte to have given them some warning although, actually, what difference would that have made? And she wonders idly who was sitting beside Charlotte. Another editor or a model, she supposes. She says nothing to Wendy and Liane. She is unwilling to surrender the light-hearted mood they have managed to assume, unwilling to discuss Charlotte who always excites the curiosity of other women.

  They manage to laugh a great deal over their cappuccinos and they consume an entire platter of freshly baked croissants, reveling in their truancy from their families and the ambience of the inn which, they silently acknowledge, is growing just slightly claustrophobic. Wendy orders two blueberry muffins, Daniel’s favorites. She imagines his pleasure when she offers them to him, her own pleasure at the swiftness of his gratitude for the smallest of gestures. Carefully she places the wrapped muffins in the large pockets of her denim skirt.

  Louise, having enlisted the aid of two high-school girls from the village to substitute for Polly, is busy with arrangements for lunch. There will be extra guests for whom she must prepare. Two new families, responding to the lower late-summer rates, have checked in. A committee, searching out a convention site for a sorority reunion, is arriving to evaluate the appropriateness of Mount Haven Inn.

  Louise will see to the food and Evan will see to the charm. That is something at which he excels and which he enjoys. Already, like an eager schoolboy, he has changed into a crisp blue Oxford shirt and neatly pressed khakis. She is grateful for his presence, grateful too that the phone calls from the Danish graduate student have c
eased as she had known they would. She and Evan will go on as they always have, sustaining the inn and sustained by it.

  Methodically, she moves through the dining room, setting out vases of fresh flowers, placing the most generous arrangement on the table assigned to the convention planners. She glances out the window and sees that Simon Epstein, seated at one of the redwood tables, is still on his cell phone, his laptop still open. He has spent almost the entire morning making calls, checking and sending emails. But as she watches him, he looks up, frowns, sets his phone down, slams his laptop closed. He crosses the lawn and, because she can no longer see him from the window, Louise goes to the French doors and sees two women approach.

  They move toward Simon with languid grace, their huge purses of soft pastel leather, one peach colored, the other lemon yellow, swinging at their sides. They are confident women, born to beauty, ever accustomed to the lightness of silk against their skin, at once aware of and indifferent to the admiration of others.

  Their bright smiles radiate assurance, perhaps amusement. They, after all, have the advantage of surprise. Simon Epstein, when he becomes aware of them, lifts his arm in a feeble wave of welcome.

  Louise, who has not seen either of the women for years, still recognizes them at once. The woman wearing a silk pant suit of the palest pink, her dark hair amber streaked and pulled loosely back into a seemingly careless knot, is Charlotte – once Charlotte Epstein, now Charlotte Evanier – whose name heads the masthead of the glossy magazine which Louise reads every other month when she goes to the beauty salon in Portsmouth. Charlotte’s face is thinner than Louise remembers and singularly unlined. Botox, Louise thinks unkindly. The other woman, taller than Charlotte, her honey-blonde hair floating about her shoulders, wears a long yellow narrow-waisted skirt that flares about her ankles, and a white leotard that hugs her breasts and clings to her firm muscular arms. Laura, Daniel’s ex-wife – or perhaps they are still married. Louise realizes that although Daniel invaded the parameters of her marriage, she never asked him about the status of his own. There is, and always has been, a basic inequity in their odd relationship. Innkeeper and paying guest – their roles limit their intimacy.

  She watches as Simon kisses his ex-wife on the cheek, as he shakes Laura’s hand. It is significant, Louise knows, that he does not kiss Laura. The three of them speak briefly and then Simon points to the tennis court where Richie and Tracy are now playing singles. Charlotte goes off to greet her son and daughter who rush toward her. She lifts her arms to embrace them, the wide sleeves of her pink jacket fluttering like the wings of an enormous butterfly, even as Simon and Laura stand in awkward silence on the lawn. Charlotte’s bright-red sports car is taking up two spaces in the car park. Louise decides that she will ask her to park it properly. No, she will not phrase it as a request but as a demand. Charlotte has no rights here.

  Wearily, she goes into the kitchen and tells the young waitress to set two more places at the Epsteins’ table. Apologetically, she tells the chef that there will be extra guests for lunch. Apprehensively, she studies her room chart. If Charlotte and Laura ask to stay the night, where will she put them? She sets that task aside. She will deal with the situation if and when it arises.

  Louise hears the roar of Daniel’s motorbike but she does not go to the window. She does not want to witness Daniel’s astonishment, or perhaps his dismay, at the unexpected arrival of his ex-wife.

  She has no time to ponder it further. The sorority committee arrives, five florid-faced women, their expertly dyed hair lacquered into metallic helmets. Their outfits, L.L. Bean denim skirts and pastel shirts, are nostalgically collegiate. They are clearly reluctant to surrender the uniforms of their distant undergraduate lives. Their sorority pins and the pins of the fraternity men who, with trembling hands and rueful smiles defined their futures, surely nestle in corners of their jewelry boxes.

  Louise welcomes them and introduces Evan whom they instantly recognize as one of their own. They dated boys and ultimately married men who look like him. They regret that their own husbands have not aged as well as this boy-man so oddly married to the dowdy innkeeper. Happily then, they follow him on the requisite tour. Louise watches as they linger on the lawn and admire the landscaping, the placement of the chairs so conducive to intimacy, so easily moved to accommodate a larger group. They wander down to the lake where he assures them that he will help them with a campfire around which they will sing their college songs.

  ‘All the alumni groups we host love the campfires,’ he will tell them, following the script Louise suggested when, in point of fact, the inn has hosted only one such reunion group. It is Louise’s newest effort to increase reservations, suggested, of course, by Simon Epstein who has, with his business acumen, shrewdly assessed the financial situation of the inn and proffered suggestions.

  Louise notes that a saltshaker on one of the tables is empty and she goes into the kitchen to refill it. When she stares out at the lawn once again, she sees that Simon and Charlotte, Tracy and Richie have settled into chairs at the picnic table, a broken family briefly soldered together. Laura and Daniel have disappeared although his motorbike is parked in its usual place. The red sports car is gone. Of course they have driven off in it. Louise wonders if she should remove the extra place settings but decides against it. Instead she loads a tray with a pitcher of iced tea and tall glasses which she carries out to the lawn.

  Cary, Donny and Matt dash up to her.

  ‘I’ll ring the bell,’ Cary shouts. ‘It’s my turn. Is it time to ring the bell?’

  Louise nods. Simon glances at his watch.

  ‘Actually it’s not time yet. Another couple of minutes.’

  The boys scoot away and he turns to his children.

  ‘Do you remember how you two used to fight over whose turn it was to ring the bell?’ he asks.

  ‘No. I don’t remember,’ Richie says harshly.

  Tracy shrugs. ‘I think I do. Sort of.’

  ‘But you must,’ Charlotte says. ‘You had such fun here.’

  She smiles her brilliant smile, willing them to memories of happier times, but both Richie and Tracy shrug indifferently.

  Simon lights his pipe and turns away. They have, these children of his broken marriage, managed to banish all pleasant recollections of a childhood betrayed by divorce. But then, had he and Charlotte stayed together (which they could not have done, which they should not have done) there would have been other emotional wounds, other repressed memories.

  ‘We left our rackets on the court,’ Richie says, and they return to the court where, by tacit agreement, they lazily lob a few more balls to each other.

  Simon blows a smoke ring and Charlotte passes her finger through it, a half-remembered trick of their courtship.

  ‘How does it happen that Laura came with you?’ he asks.

  ‘Well, Laura and I have stayed in touch over the years and my next issue is focusing on dance. The impact of contemporary choreography on contemporary fashion. That sort of thing. So I asked her to join the team as a consultant and of course that meant her coming along with me for the shoot. We’ll catch up with the models and the photographers further north but it seemed like a good idea to stop here first. Simon, I really didn’t know that Daniel would be here.’

  ‘Didn’t you? He did tell Laura that he’d be here,’ he says, and she flushes, her automatic reaction when caught in a lie, he recalls.

  But, as always, she manages a swift recovery and spins into self-justification.

  ‘Still, it’s a good thing that they have this chance to meet up, to talk, to maybe sort out their issues. Daniel didn’t object when I suggested he take my car.’

  She has, within milliseconds, established herself as a friendly enabler, perhaps even a rescuer of an endangered marriage. He imagines her planning a feature advising friends how to intervene when relationships are in danger.

  Simon, so protective of Daniel, experiences a surge of anger. Charlotte had no right to make herself co
mplicit, no right to organize this far from casual meeting.

  ‘When did you become a marriage counselor?’ he asks harshly.

  ‘I have had some experience with a lousy marriage,’ she replies, but the smile does not leave her face.

  He is relieved when this dangerous interchange is interrupted by the screech of Nessa’s impossible brakes just as Tracy and Richie wander back.

  Nessa’s battered station wagon pulls up and the three women tumble out and surge across the lawn, eager to display their frivolous purchases, to speak happily of the school of ducklings that had so cunningly crossed the road, delaying their ride back to the inn. They are, except for Nessa, taken aback by Charlotte’s presence, although their recovery is swift. They, after all, have no emotional stake in her arrival.

  ‘Charlotte,’ Nessa says with her usual warmth. ‘What a nice surprise, although Richie did mention that you might be in this area.’

  She and Charlotte exchange air kisses. Tracy reaches for the lemonade and pours herself a glass without adding sugar. The bitterness of the drink reflects the bitterness of her feelings. She hates these displays of superficial affection between her mother and Nessa. She is impatient with the self-conscious cordiality so expertly practiced by her mother, her father and her stepmother who are forever ensnared in the trap of their shared parenthood.

  ‘Divorce sucks,’ she had told Jeremy Edwards as they lay side by side in their exhausted nakedness, after the second and last session of their pleasant sexual tutorials. She had not minded sleeping with him even though he was such a needy novice. It meant little to her, a lot to him and it was, in her mind, a vacation ritual, a rite of passage. She herself had made love for the first time in one of the inn’s outbuildings, her partner a Dartmouth junior waiting tables that August whose name she has difficulty recalling.

  ‘I don’t know. My parents just don’t seem happy together any more. At least not for the past couple of months. Sometimes I think it might be better if they split. Except that it would be hard on Matt. Really hard,’ Jeremy had responded. ‘You know what he asked us last night – what he asked me and Annette? He asked if they were going to get a divorce and if they did could we all still live together in the same house because that’s how it is for one of his friends, a kid named Eddie. This Eddie told Matt that his mom lives upstairs and his father lives in the basement and he goes back and forth. So Matt wanted to know if that’s how it could happen for us.’