‘This is classic,’ she murmurs to Wendy. ‘The gals rely on each other but each guy insists on demonstrating his own mojo. What macho idiots.’ But her laughter is forgiving and affectionate.
The game proceeds. The players rotate positions. The score is almost tied and the momentum builds. The serves are powerful, strategically aimed and the returns are hard-fought and swift. Richie scrambles from left to right, from rear court to net, intercepting the ball again and again, sending it in soaring flight over the net.
‘Hey, Richie, I was right there,’ Paul protests as Richie sprints in front of him.
Richie does not answer but lurches forward to launch the ball to the furthest corner of the opposing team and gain a point.
‘Dig that, Annette,’ he shouts as she struggles unsuccessfully to keep the ball in play.
Simon looks at him warningly. He knows that his older son is reminding the girl who rejected him, who so improbably chose Paul instead, of his strength and power. Richie is, in this as in so many other ways, Charlotte’s son.
Annette ignores him. She prepares to serve and Paul notes that her sweat-stained pink T-shirt clings to her body, clearly defining the rise of her breasts. Drops of perspiration bead her lips and he wonders if they would taste of salt if he licked them away. The thought both excites and embarrasses him, and he turns his concentration back to the game.
Her serve is directed at the third line of players and once again Richie darts forward. His response carries the ball only as far as the net and it is Jeff who leaps forward and spikes it over in a forceful thrust. Susan dashes forward, her arms raised high, prepared to make the save, to prevent the ball from plummeting to the ground. She is unprepared for the fierce velocity of Jeff’s spike and the ball hits her in the face with powerful impact. Viscous scarlet blood rushes from her nose and mouth, streaking her snow-white shirt. She falls to her knees, gasping and crying.
‘Susan!’ Helene screams.
‘Mom!’ Her children, their voices a chorus of concern, kneel beside her. Matt grips Helene’s hand.
And then Jeff is at her side, gently nudging his children away. He rips off his shirt and uses it to wipe the blood away. His knowing surgeon fingers probe the bones of her face, resting briefly on her nose from which the blood still streams. He slides them across her cheeks, her chin, and trembles with relief. Nothing is broken. He lifts her slightly, tilts her head back and presses his fingers firmly against her nostrils, cauterizing and staunching the flow.
‘You’re all right, Suse. Nothing is broken, darling. You’re fine, just fine, my love. I’m sorry. I never should have hit the ball so hard, but I didn’t see you coming. Suse, my Suse, can you hear me?’
Her eyes remain closed and he fears that she may have suffered a concussion. Or perhaps something worse. He is a physician, familiar with the worst. Head injuries that result in comas, that trigger dormant aneurysms. Nausea overwhelms him. He fears that if he were to vomit, noxious globules of fear and regret would emanate from his mouth. He struggles for control.
‘Suse. My Suse.’ The loving nickname he has not used for years springs again from his lips.
‘Mommy! Mommy! Wake up! You’re scaring us.’ Matt’s voice is shrill with fear, insistent.
‘Suse. Suse, darling. Can you hear me? Please, please answer me.’
Her face is contorted as she struggles to concentrate on his question, to obey his command. Her eyelids flicker open, close, then open again. She emerges from the darkness, feels Jeff’s hand on her own, grasps it tightly.
‘Yes. I hear you. I’m all right. Matt, I’m fine. Mommy’s OK.’
The bleeding has stopped. Jeff helps her to sit up.
‘Easy now. Don’t try to stand.’
He presses her head against his bare chest, inhales her scent, his heart pounding. His mouth still sour with residual fear.
She smiles weakly, relieved because the pain is receding, relieved because she heard his voice, his breathless and tender plea. ‘Darling,’ he had called her. ‘My love,’ he had said. ‘Suse.’ She is, once again, his Suse. They are all right; in spite of everything they are all right and they will be all right. She is at one with LeBec. Like Pierre and Jacqueline, her ghostly fictional companions, she and Jeff will bear testimony to the fact that not all fragile marriages eventually shatter into irreparable shards. Some survive. No, she corrects herself. Many survive.
She turns to Jeff, remembering the game. ‘Did you make the point?’ she asks. ‘Who won? The guys or the gals?’ The players, who now surround her, are restored to merriment. They burst into laughter.
‘We’re calling it a tie,’ Greg says.
They are still laughing, both teams and their boosters, as they move across the lawn to the redwood picnic table where Nessa is setting up the last pre-dinner cocktail party of the summer.
SEVENTEEN
Dinner on that final evening of their vacation is, as always, a festive occasion and, as always, the guests dress with considerable care. The women glide through the room in pastel-colored dresses of gossamer fabrics, shawls and cardigans of the lightest of wools draped over their shoulders. Tracy and Annette wear loose snow-white cotton dresses that offset their sun-burnished skin. Tracy’s silver bracelets jangle musically as she waves to Jeremy across the room. The men are oddly self-conscious in their soft collared shirts, chinos and blazers. They are, however reluctantly, easing their way back into their urban uniforms. Cary, Donny and Matt have been coaxed into freshly ironed shirts and long pants. There is much amusement when it is noticed that the trousers of all three boys have grown too short during their stay.
Louise follows the tradition of Evan’s parents, and puts forth a special effort for this valedictory meal. There is a rich creamy mushroom soup, roast beef, a rice pilaf, and a chocolate mousse for dessert. She is dressed as she was on the morning of their arrival. Her black linen dress is newly pressed and its white collar and cuffs are freshly washed and ironed. She and Evan circle the room, the proud host and hostess, stopping at each table to speak to their long-time guests, their long-time friends.
Louise now knows that she will welcome them again next year; their reservations have been duly made and recorded, and that new certainty has brought color to her face, a spring to her step. The new families have also committed for the season to come and the sorority women have confirmed their reunion booking. The survival of the inn is less tenuous than it was. The waitresses circle the room filling the wine glasses with a very good Burgundy, Nessa’s annual contribution.
Simon Epstein rises and proposes a toast. ‘To our August hosts, Louise and Evan Abbot, who make their home ours for these happy weeks we spend together each year.’
There is applause, a lifting of glasses, pleasant smiles.
Evan, not to be outdone, offers a toast in turn. ‘To the guests of August, our dear and welcome friends.’
They stand and raise their glasses to the Abbots and then to each other.
After dinner, they change into jeans and sweaters for the bonfire. Glowing flashlights in hand, they walk through the smoky darkness of autumn’s onset, down to the lake where the bonfire is already ablaze. Tongues of flame leap skyward, sparks dance across the moonlit water. The adults settle into the white Adirondack chairs, ranged in a circle around the fire, while the young people sprawl across the blankets spread on the ground. Cary, Matt and Donny chase after each other, darting across the narrow beach, perching atop canoes and row boats.
Greg and Paul, guitars in hand, sit side by side on a boulder and begin the sing-along. It is a repertoire barely altered year after year. ‘On Top of Old Smokey,’ ‘Foggy Foggy Dew’, ‘Barbara Allen’, ‘If I Had a Hammer’. Theirs is a muted chorus and they smile as they sing. Annette lightly strums her mandolin.
Louise passes the basket of marshmallows and Evan the long, sharpened sticks for spearing. They plunge the sweet white circlets into the fire, watch them blaze and blacken, greedily eating them before they are sufficiently c
ool. They grimace and happily do it again.
And finally, Evan begins the fireworks display. The sky becomes a riot of color; sprays of red, white and blue, shooting arrows of green and orange, beams of gold light up their faces. They lean forward, their eyes following each luminous arc, surrendering to enchantment. Michael puts his arm about Liane’s shoulder and a flashing red rocket bathes her face in a rosy glow. Susan leans against Jeff and looks across the dancing flames of the slowly dying fire at Helene who rests her hand so very lightly on her abdomen. Daniel stands alone and then he is not alone because Wendy is beside him, her hand resting on his.
‘I was wrong,’ she says softly. ‘We can be friends.’
They stand side by side as the last of the lights shoot their way across the darkness in a rapid blaze of glittering silver and sparkling golden stars. There are gasps of delight and Tracy and Jeremy, Paul, Annette and Richie spring to their feet and form a single unit, their arms about each other’s waists, all rivalries abandoned, all tensions forgotten in the magic of the moment.
Bathed in this final and glorious light, the guests of August, each separately, and all together, acknowledge the joys and sorrows of the weeks they shared, the hopes realized, the disappointments accepted. They have, during these shared weeks, been brushed by death and gifted with friendship and love. This season has ended but there will be new beginnings.
Simon and Nessa lift their voices in song and Greg and Paul add their gentle accompaniment.
‘Should auld acquaintance be forgot,’ they sing in unison, ‘and never brought to mind. Should auld acquaintance be forgot in days of auld lang syne.’
One by one, humming and singing, they turn on their flashlights and make their way up the incline and across the lawn to the shelter of Mount Haven Inn.
Guests of August Page 29