Guests of August

by Gloria Goldreich

  She takes his hand.

  ‘I know, Michael,’ she says. ‘Of course I know. But I was worried. So worried.’

  ‘But we’re fine now. Everything is fine.’ There is no uncertainty in his voice.

  Back at the inn’s dock, they tie the rowboat up and follow the path up to the inn. Because Michael is barefoot, he and Liane walk slowly, hand in hand, but Wendy strides ahead, leaving them behind.

  She is alone then when she reaches the car park where Charlotte is getting into the bright-red sports car. Daniel stands beside the open passenger door and hands the seat belt to the slender woman whose honey-gold hair brushes her narrow shoulders. Wendy cannot see the woman’s face but she knows that it is Laura, his wife, who engages his attention, his solicitude. She waits, unwilling to move forward, unwilling to have Laura’s face planted firmly in her memory. It will be easier to resent a ghostly figure, a woman who places her fingers on her lips and presses them against the car window in mute farewell.

  The red car skids down the road and Daniel watches until it can no longer be seen. He returns to the lawn and sits beside Simon who has turned his chair toward the sun, perhaps to avoid Charlotte’s departure, perhaps to capture the last rays of that afternoon’s brilliant light.

  Wendy looks for Donny and sees that the scavenger hunt is still in progress. The participants, young and old alike, are scurrying across the lawn and in and out of the inn. They clutch Nessa’s lists, intent on locating the odd array of objects she has specified. Donny, racing by with Cary, sees her and waves.

  ‘We have to find a flag,’ he shouts. ‘We need a flag.’

  ‘My mom has a scarf with an American flag on it,’ Cary calls. ‘Come on. I’ll get it from her drawer.’

  But he pauses briefly when he sees Wendy.

  ‘Did my mom find my dad?’ he asks. There is no concern, no anxiety in his voice.

  ‘Yes. Yes, she did,’ Wendy assures him. ‘Of course she did.’

  She watches as the two boys dash past her, envying them their careless optimism, their ability to lose themselves in this wild game of discovery, immune from the fear of disappointment and failure, having not yet experienced either.

  She goes up to her room and sheds her waterlogged clothing. She takes a quick shower and slips on a cream-colored linen dress that she knows becomes her. She slips the blueberry muffin, still wrapped in a napkin, into her pocket. For the first time since her arrival at the inn, she takes pains with her make-up, using a coral lipstick, applying the slightest touch of blush. She acknowledges, as she brushes her long lashes with the very expensive mascara that was one of Andrea’s last gifts, that she is doing all this in preparation for her conversation with Daniel. She knows herself to be competing with Laura, whose face she did not see but whom she imagines to be quite beautiful, a woman who dresses carefully and paints her face with a thespian’s skill.

  Wendy brushes her dark hair and twists it into a loose knot that rests gracefully at the nape of her neck. Only then does she go downstairs and wander out to the lawn.

  She is intent on finding Daniel, sooner rather than later.

  She does not have long to wait. He sees her, waves, murmurs something to Simon who smiles gravely, and then walks toward her.

  ‘It’s terrific that you and Liane found Michael,’ he says. ‘We were all getting a little freaked out.’

  ‘You heard about it then.’

  ‘News travels fast at Mount Haven Inn. No secrets here. All arrivals and departures known. Wendy, can we talk?’

  Her heart sinks. She does not want to talk. She has already anticipated all that he might say. But she nods and smiles.

  ‘That is what we were supposed to do today. We agreed on that, didn’t we?’ she says calmly.

  ‘Yes. Yes, we did.’

  He takes her hand, which lies limply in his own, and leads her to a secluded spot on the veranda. They sit side by side on the shabby canopied porch swing, its striped upholstery mended several times over. It was here, in its gentle sway, that as a small boy, Daniel had retreated for solitude and comfort, and it was on that swing that Wendy sat so often with Donny soothing him after a temper tantrum. She soothes herself now, pressing her foot so that it moves back and forth, back and forth, in the rocking rhythm of comfort.

  Daniel does not look at her as he speaks. She suspects that he has rehearsed his words. She too stares straight ahead.

  ‘You met Charlotte, Simon’s ex-wife. Richie and Tracy’s mother.’

  It is not a question; it is a statement, an introductory sentence. But of course, he is a writer, skilled at introducing difficult dialogue.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know that Laura drove up here with her?’

  ‘I supposed as much.’

  ‘Laura came because she’s working on a shoot with Charlotte. But mainly, because she wanted to speak to me. She said it was important. We went out for lunch.’

  ‘You don’t have to give me any explanations,’ Wendy says softly.

  ‘But I think I do. You have a right to know.’

  ‘All right then. What did she want to speak to you about? Not that it’s any of my business.’

  ‘Actually, I think it is your business. Because I made it your business. We told each other a great deal, you and I. And they were not casual confidences. At least not for me.’

  ‘Nor for me,’ she admits, and wonders why her hands have suddenly grown cold despite the warmth of the late afternoon. ‘All right then. Tell me.’

  ‘She wanted to talk about giving our marriage another chance. She’s been unhappy. Lonely. She misses me. She misses us.’

  ‘Did she cry?’ Wendy asks dryly.

  ‘She cried. Apparently she’s been crying a lot. She said she was willing to change. That, in fact, she already had changed.’

  ‘I see. She’s given up casual lovers? She’s willing to forego open marriage, weekend trysts?’

  The cruelty of her questions surprises her but she grants herself the right to ask them. This much she has learned. Certain questions must be posed. Truth must be confronted.

  ‘So she said. So she promised.’

  ‘And you believed her. And you’re going back to her?’

  He shifts his weight, sets the swing in motion; he clenches and unclenches his fists. She looks up at him, sees the misery that masks his face. He answers her at last, his voice muffled with regret.

  ‘Wendy, I really thought something important was happening between us. You’re a wonderful woman. Brave and honest and talented. And beautiful. I thought you were beautiful the very first time I saw you, before we had said a single word to each other, before I realized that your beauty emanated from deep within you. I thought that we could leave the inn and then see each other through the fall and the winter, build something together. A loving friendship. A friendly love. I wanted that. I wasn’t playing games. I saw a new beginning for you, for me, and I wanted that. But then I sat across the table from Laura this afternoon and I thought of all our years together. A lot of years. A lot of months and days and weekends and all those months and days and weekends crammed with memories. Not all of them good, but all of them part of my life. A trove of memories. I remembered all the things I knew about her, all the things she knew about me. She reminded me of some of them. She reminded me of all we had shared. And I listened. She said she truly believed that there was still hope for us and I thought that she could be right. You don’t take all those years, all those memories, and toss them away. She wants to try, really try. I believed her. More than that, I realized that I wouldn’t forgive myself if I didn’t at least give our marriage a second chance. Can you understand that?’

  His voice breaks and she fears that he may weep. She turns away. She does not want to see his tears.

  ‘I can understand that,’ she says and it is true. Wouldn’t she have given Adam a second chance if he had lived, if his promise of change had come true? She cannot blame Daniel for taking a path she herself would have c
hosen.

  ‘I won’t lie to you,’ she adds. ‘I’m disappointed. I too thought that we could have a future. But there’s no finger of blame to be pointed. We each have our own pasts, our own emotional baggage. And we were honest. With ourselves. With each other.’

  ‘But we can be friends, can’t we?’ he asks.

  ‘No, Daniel. It doesn’t work like that. You know that. I know that.’

  The swing glides slowly back and forth. They sit on in silence. He takes her hand and presses it to his lips, then walks away. She remains seated, her eyes closed until slowly, slowly, the swing at last comes to a rest.

  Her tears begin to fall then and she reaches into her pocket for a handkerchief. Instead her fingers close around the blueberry muffin which she had thought to place in the pocket of her dress. She takes it out and sees that it has crumbled into tiny pieces. She tosses it to the ground and watches as a small flock of chirping birds descends and plucks up the pale yellow crumbs.

  SIXTEEN

  There is no cocktail party on the lawn that afternoon. Exhausted by the scavenger hunt, the adults are content to relax and watch the youngsters play with Nessa’s whimsically chosen prizes. Plastic wands filled with magical fluid are waved aloft and rainbow prismed soap bubbles float through the soft summer air. The smaller boys delight in chasing after the colorful globules. The older group demonstrates its expertise by creating effervescent formations, bubble balanced upon bubble, until at last they are wafted away. There is much laughter as the airborne rhomboids evaporate, their rainbow-streaked beauty as ephemeral as the wistful dreams of these last blue and gold days of summer. There is also the swinging of yoyos and, finally, a game of wiffle ball with plastic bats slamming lightly against plastic balls.

  Nessa controls the prizes in her usual languid manner. She is not surprised when Simon approaches Michael and the two men walk off together.

  Liane watches them, certain that Simon is reporting on the conversation he surely had with Mark Templeton, perhaps sweetening the financier’s betrayal. She hopes that Michael will thank Simon for all his efforts, for the time stolen from his own vacation, but she knows that Michael will not forget to do that. He is, in all things, appreciative. The smallest gestures invoke his gratitude. She remembers, with shame, how often he had thanked her for the slightest demonstration of affection, for any intimation of closeness. She sighs and turns to Wendy who has pulled up a chair beside her. She sees at once that all gaiety has faded from Wendy’s face, although she forces herself to smile as Donny scores a hit and circles the improvised bases.

  ‘Is everything all right, Wendy?’ Liane asks.

  ‘Actually no,’ Wendy admits. ‘But I’ll cope. This will pass.’

  She knows, from grim experience, that sadness does not last forever, that cruel disappointment eventually drifts into the shadowy recesses of painful memory.

  ‘And how are you? How is Michael? How are the both of you?’ Wendy asks in turn.

  ‘Things are better between us than they have been. Despite your father-in-law.’

  ‘The bastard,’ Wendy says calmly. It is liberating to speak honestly about Adam’s father. The years of dissimulation are done with. They have skidded into an era of honesty.

  The two women look at Simon and Michael who have paused at a far corner of the lawn and are now engaged in a conversation that entails much nodding. Almost in synchronized motion, each man pulls out a calculator and punches in numbers. They study each other’s screens and shake hands vigorously. Simon walks briskly up to Nessa who is dispensing the last of her frivolous prizes, an assortment of hula hoops which are seized by the visiting sorority women who whirl about to much applause. Louise smiles, certain now that they will book the inn for their reunion.

  Surprisingly, Wendy also springs up and lays claim to a yellow hoop. She is faster than the others, and there is much laughter as Donny snatches up a blue hoop and matches her speed, mother and son in tandem, playful dervishes laying determined claim to joy.

  Michael strides toward his wife and sinks into the chair beside her.

  ‘So,’ he says, taking Liane’s hand. ‘It seems that miracles do happen, even in this lousy economy. Especially when you have a miracle-worker like Simon Epstein in your corner.’

  ‘What happened?’ she asks.

  ‘Well, just as we thought, Templeton backed out. Nothing to do with the project, he assured Simon. Nothing to do with my software, which he agreed would be a great investment. He just didn’t want any further involvement with anything to do with Mount Haven Inn. He claimed that he’d had a difficult time here and he wanted to put any memory of these weeks behind him. No matter the cost. No matter the investment of time. His time, my time, Simon’s time. It’s Simon’s guess that something happened between him and Wendy. So he opts out. End of story.’

  ‘But that’s crazy. It doesn’t make any sense,’ Liane protests.

  ‘People like Mark Templeton don’t have to make sense. They think that they have enough power and money to do as they please – sensible, senseless, reasonable, unreasonable. They’re exempt from excuses and explanations. In his case even from common courtesy. It’s enough for him to say that he’s out for whatever crazy reason that fits his scenario. The food at the inn, global warming, his reaction to Wendy. He doesn’t even have to bother to tell us that he’s out. He left it to Simon to chase after him.’

  There is no bitterness in Michael’s voice. He is a man who has always kept his expectations low. But a smile plays at his lips.

  ‘Then what’s the miracle?’ Liane asks.

  ‘Simon sits on the board of a major technology company. A giant in the field. They’re in a position to fund start-ups and subsidiaries. He has a good relationship with the director of their research and development department and he knew they were looking for software similar to mine. So he took everything we worked on, emailed it to them and told them we needed an immediate response. Liane, it took them three hours to make an offer, to suggest a dollar package and schedule a conference where we’ll sign on the dotted line. Simon and I crunched the numbers. Their offer is absolutely solid and it beats the venture capital amount that Templeton talked about. We’re OK. We’re more than OK.’

  He springs to his feet, his face aglow with excitement. He pulls her up and, as the slowly setting sun pours its last radiance across the lawn, he holds her in a tight embrace.

  Susan Edwards is awake before dawn the next morning. She moves soundlessly through the room where Jeff still sleeps, gathering her clothing. She washes and dresses in the dim light of the bathroom, then carries her laptop and the manuscript down to the rec room. She settles herself at a small table and scans her completed translation. She makes one correction and then another. This is her final draft. Daringly she changes the title. LeBec called her novel Pierre and Jacqueline: Portrait of a Marriage, but Susan revises the title page. Pierre and Jacqueline: A Marriage Revealed. Revelation is exactly what LeBec accomplished. The French novelist stripped her fictional marriage bare, revealing both its weaknesses and strengths, sparing neither husband nor wife. In the end the weaknesses proved irrelevant. Its enduring strength was their love for each other, Jacqueline’s for Pierre and Pierre’s for Jacqueline. Susan supposes that the same holds true for Jeff and herself. She does not doubt her love for him and she hopes against hope that his love for her has emerged intact from the shadows of their discontents.

  She sighs, writes a message to her agent, reviews the translation yet again before adding it as an attachment and presses the ‘send’ button. It is done and she sits back, relieved and relaxed.

  She looks down at her watch and sees that more than two hours have passed since she began to work. The room is flooded with sunlight; the scent of coffee and freshly baked bread emanates from the kitchen. Their last full day at Mount Haven Inn has begun.

  ‘Let’s take one last walk this morning, Susan,’ Helene suggests to her sister at breakfast.

  Susan glances at Jeff. It has
long been their custom to hike a mountain trail on their last vacation morning, but he pours himself another cup of coffee and says nothing.

  ‘I’d love a walk,’ she says hesitantly.

  ‘You don’t mind, do you, Greg?’ Helene asks.

  ‘No. I want to put my music together for the bonfire sing-along tonight.’

  ‘Paul said he wanted to rehearse with you,’ Annette volunteers.

  Susan smiles at how the color rises in her daughter’s cheeks and the softness of her voice when she mentions Paul’s name. She is reminded of her younger self, of the days when she seized every opportunity to introduce Jeff’s name into the most casual conversation, so overwhelmed was she by the miracle of their togetherness. My boyfriend, Jeff thinks … My fiancé, Jeff says … My husband Jeff wishes …

  Those were the days when he called her ‘Suse’. Never Susan. Never Susie. Always Suse. My Suse, whispered into her ear at night. Sweet Suse, murmured into the phone during their daily calls (because in those days they spoke every day, each invigorated by the sound of the other’s voice). Bravo, Suse – his words of joy when the twins were born, when he held newborn Matt in his arms. She tries to remember now when he last called her Suse. She refills her coffee cup and turns to him.

  ‘I’ll go off with Helene then,’ she says.

  ‘Fine. I’ll begin packing. We’ll want to get an early start tomorrow.’

  ‘Will we? Why?’ she asks dryly, but he has already pushed his chair back and does not hear her.

  The two sisters take the familiar path and walk slowly across the meadow where the tall grass is already dry, the green tendrils gilded in surrender to the dying season. The wildflowers, so abundant at the onset of their vacation, are now sparse and wilted, emitting a necrotic sweetness.

  ‘Can you believe that we’re leaving tomorrow?’ Helene asks.