Being Mrs. Alcott

by Nancy Geary

A Bank of Boston employee, a financial analyst. No writer’s block, no romantic lunches, no book tour, and no cardigan sweater.

  She fingered the diamond studs in her thin lobes. She knew he meant well. She knew it was at least in part for her, for the children they would have. That’s what he’d said. She might tolerate the uncertainty of a writer’s life, of a decision to follow his dream, but he was putting his family’s interests first. That was what a good husband was supposed to do.

  Perhaps it was the prudent course to take. But it was the first of many decisions he would make alone that would change the course of her life.

  Chapter Three

  They hadn’t been home a week when Eleanor Montgomery passed away at the age of forty-five wearing a fur-trimmed satin bed jacket over her faded hospital gown.

  Breast cancer.

  Although she’d complained of fatigue in the months leading up to her daughter’s wedding, Grace had had little sympathy at the time. She, too, had been anxious and overtired. The planning and preparation was exhausting for everyone.

  Now Grace felt stupid and selfish. She had yet to say the diagnosis—the ultimate cause of death—aloud.

  “It had metastasized. She’d known in May, but didn’t want to tell you, didn’t want anything to spoil your big day or interfere with your plans with Bain,” William explained to Grace. “She knew if you realized the severity of her illness, you wouldn’t take a honeymoon. She wanted you to experience Europe.” He dabbed at the corner of his eye with a handkerchief. “There was nothing anyone could do to help her.”

  They sat together in the library on Chestnut Street with a fire going even though it was early September. Grace had selected the damask wing chair, Eleanor’s favorite seat. She wanted to feel her mother’s presence, to breathe in the faint smell of her perfume on the upholstery. William slouched on the settee with his elbows resting on his knees. Every few minutes, he ran his fingers through his thinning hair. “She was a courageous woman. Damn courageous,” he mumbled.

  Grace stared into the flame. The log popped.

  The past few days had been a blur. William had met them at Logan Airport and informed them on the drive into town that Eleanor was already hospitalized at Dana Farber, and would not be released. It could be hours, could be a week, but her life was coming to a rapid end.

  They hadn’t gone out to see her that first night. They were both jet-lagged. Grace had needed a good night’s rest to calm down.

  All she could remember after that was the Green Line from Park Street out to Brookline, watching streets lined with brick apartment buildings and the shops of Coolidge Corner through the window. Out in the morning and back in the evening for six straight days. The hospital was huge and anonymous. Nurses and doctors came and went from her mother’s bedside, checking blood pressure and monitors and intravenous drips. Occasionally, William excused himself and went into the hallway to converse with one or the other of them, but she wasn’t privy to the conversations and found she had nothing to ask.

  She’d wanted the first weeks of her married life with Bain to be different. She’d looked forward to collecting his shirts from the laundry, and checking off the list he’d made of items to purchase at the hardware store. And yet she hadn’t cooked a meal or even unpacked. Instead she stared at her mother, nearly lifeless from the heavy doses of pain medication that William insisted she receive.

  Once during the week, Bain had visited. He stood at the rail of Eleanor’s bed and graciously kissed her hand. But for the most part, he was consumed by his new job.

  Otherwise, one day at Dana Farber was much like the next. Ferris paced the halls and smoked in the visitor lounge. He seemed to welcome the opportunity to get doughnuts and replaced the uneaten stock on the windowsill with a fresh box every few hours. Together, they watched them grow stale.

  When six o’clock came, William removed a silver flask from the breast pocket of his blazer, held it toward his wife as if to toast her longevity, and took a swig. Then he lay back on the makeshift cot set up in her room, adjusted the pillow behind his head, and read aloud from Dr. Zhivago. Shortly thereafter, Grace gathered her sweater and purse and said good night, leaving her parents behind in the fluorescent glow of hospital lighting.

  Then Eleanor died, leaving her family with little to do besides sit, grieve, and wonder what life would be like without her. She and William had worked out the arrangements for the memorial service weeks before. Eleanor herself even called the caterer and the florist—the same ones she’d used for Grace’s wedding.

  Ferris now prodded the fire with an iron poker, releasing a few sparks. He dropped his tool to the floor, leaned against the mantel, and sipped what Grace surmised was his fourth or fifth vodka for the evening. It wasn’t yet seven o’clock. She considered speaking up—Eleanor certainly would have—but decided against it. A stiff drink might help her, too, if she were to allow herself the indulgence. Anything to numb the dull ache she felt in the pit of her stomach. Her mother was gone.

  “I thank God she got through your wedding,” William said. “It kept her alive. She didn’t want to try the chemotherapy that had been suggested because she feared she’d lose her hair. ‘You don’t expect me to be bald at my own daughter’s wedding, now, do you?’ she asked me.” He shook his head. “Not that it mattered. At best she might have bought herself a couple of weeks, and a couple of weeks of hell at that. But it was typical of her. She was a very stubborn woman.”

  Ferris mumbled something in agreement.

  “I must say that she was very pleased with your choice in Bain. I am, too. He’s a good man. He’ll be a good husband over the long haul. She wanted the best for you—for you and for Ferris.”

  Her father’s words were comforting. Eleanor had thrown her last energies into the rite of passage that had transformed Grace from being a daughter to being a wife. No one could find fault in anything about the ceremony or reception. It had gone like clockwork. She closed her eyes, remembering her mother’s stoic posture, her elegant outfit, as she sat in the pew. She’d even danced with Bain, or rather they’d performed a series of awkward gyrations while the band covered a Jimi Hendrix song with an irregular beat. Who would ever have known she was so sick?

  She couldn’t be angry with her parents for not telling her the truth. They’d wanted to protect her from a horrible reality, and their plan had worked. She could never have gotten married if she’d known her mother was dying. She could never have had such a celebration. It would have amounted to a dire portent.

  Instead, Eleanor had selflessly and successfully launched Grace into a new sea. Bain would guide her course and bring her safely into harbor. Her life was transformed; she had different priorities, different frames of reference, and different responsibilities.

  Ferris had no one. William was alone now, too, and she needed to do whatever she could to help them. She wouldn’t forget that they needed a woman to tend to them, and she vowed to check on them both at least once a week. Her father might welcome a Sunday-night dinner invitation. Perhaps Bain could take them both to a Red Sox game. He had a way of making everyone feel better.

  But she had Bain. He was on his way back from work and would be arriving at 37 Chestnut Street at any moment. When she’d called that afternoon to tell him that Eleanor had passed, he’d promised to come as soon as he could. He knew she needed him. “It’ll be all right,” he’d said. His voice had been soothing. “I know you’ll be brave.”

  She rested her hands in her lap and leaned back in the chair. The room reflected her mother’s good taste—a Chippendale sofa, an Oriental rug, a game table with turned legs and four matching chairs, silver candlesticks on the mantel and an oil seascape framed in gold above it, family photographs in silver frames mixed in with the leather-bound volumes that filled the bookshelves. This library felt as established and permanent as a well-tended perennial garden, something that could withstand life’s worst storms. It was what every proper family needed—a comfortable, tasteful home i
n which to make memories—and she vowed to create such an environment for Bain and for their family, if they were fortunate enough to have one.

  The creation of a home. A man’s castle. By being Mrs. Alcott, she would survive this pain.

  1972

  Chapter Four

  The sprawling Cape with its doghouse dormers and weathered-shingle roof faced out to sea. From the master bedroom where Grace now stood, she could see out across the Oyster River to the peninsula of Hardings Beach. Amid the beach plum and marsh grass, a lighthouse and camp at the easternmost tip of the beach marked the channel, the entrance to Stage Harbor and the exit to the Atlantic Ocean. Next stop, Portugal.

  “That lighthouse is privately owned by a family that’s been in Chatham for years. And they don’t like trespassers,” the Realtor had warned. “But I think it’s available for private parties if you ever want a change of scenery.”

  The thought was absurd. She would never grow tired of entertaining in this house with its paneled living room, open stone fireplace, and a dining room that could easily hold twenty for sit-down. There was a flagstone terrace with the water as a panoramic mural. And there was room enough for two to sit on the widow’s walk and admire the sunset. She and Bain could grow old together on that perch.

  Grace tried to open the mullioned windows, but they were swollen stuck. The paint on the sills peeled. The air contained a hint of mildew. She turned around to face the empty room with its wide-pine floors. The walls, too, were bare but for a few picture hangers. She imagined it repainted with curtains and a matching spread on a queen-size bed. To the right was a dressing area and closets large enough to live in. The bathroom had his-and-hers sinks, a separate tub and shower, and a bidet. That the leaking toilet had stained the carpet was incidental. It could be replaced in time. Eventually, it could be as grand a room as the ones they’d stayed in on their honeymoon.

  Home. The first home she’d ever owned. And it had good bones, as her father would say. Everything else was window dressing.

  Bain’s career at Bank of Boston had been a whirlwind. Promotion after promotion had landed him as the youngest vice president in the history of the company. His success thrilled him despite the long hours and frequent business dinners. And Grace managed to keep herself busy with a pottery class, charitable work, and visits with her father, who’d accepted an appointment as a professor emeritus at the Harvard Business School.

  Although she’d hoped for a baby by the time of her second anniversary, the third year had come and gone without a pregnancy. Still, the passage of time wasn’t alarming. She was only twenty-five. And Bain seemed convinced that success would be theirs. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he’d admonished her the few times she’d mentioned their bad luck. “There’s nothing wrong with either of us. We just have to be patient.” With that, he had rubbed her stomach and kissed her on the forehead.

  As the months passed, though, he must have seen the disappointment on her face. That was when he made his announcement.

  It was a Friday evening, unusually hot for the end of April, and their apartment felt stuffy. She’d spent the day polishing all seventy-two pieces of their Hamilton silver pattern, plus serving spoons, meat forks, and ladle, and the smell of Wright’s Silver Cream lingered.

  Bain read the Globe with his feet elevated on a hassock. She perched beside him and handed him two scoops of lemon sherbet in an etched-glass bowl. The set of six had been a wedding gift from her aunt Ida, her father’s sister, and didn’t match any of their other china.

  “We need a country home. A retreat,” Bain announced, as he took the bowl from her. “I want a house on the ocean.”

  Grace was startled. Their apartment was small and, more importantly, rented. Shouldn’t they buy a primary residence first?

  “Why buy here? Who knows if we’ll stay? With my work, we could well end up in New York or Philadelphia. This is hardly the hub of the financial world. But we can always come back to a summer home.”

  “You think we’ll leave Boston?” Grace asked.

  “Gracie . . . relax. You know I’m never going to do anything you don’t want, or make you live somewhere you don’t want to be. But right now, I’m talking about a great place on the water. You can have a garden. We can swim. We can take sun. It means we can get out of the city on weekends and during the heat of the summer. It’ll be a place for the two of us to really be together without the hectic pace of the city. Think long walks, canoe rides, picnics, seashells, and rum drinks.” He took a spoonful of sherbet and smacked his lips. “Virtually everyone in my position at the bank gets away. It’s a lot healthier for the mind and body. No one can keep up the pace that I do without a physical and emotional break, a change of scenery.”

  “Where are you thinking of going?”

  “The Cape. There’s still good values. We could get a lot for our money.”

  At least he’d said we.

  “Cape Cod?” Grace knew nothing about the area. “Wouldn’t Nantucket or Martha’s Vineyard be better?” She’d prefer a more established resort destination. Plus she liked the idea of an island. A ferry ride, windswept dunes—it all seemed romantic.

  “Doesn’t make sense. Maine doesn’t, either. You know, Edgartown, Bar Harbor, these places are already discovered. But for fifty thousand dollars in Orleans or Osterville or Chatham, we could have a dream home. Wouldn’t you like lots of land and plenty of rooms with great views?”

  Fifty thousand dollars. “That’s an awful lot of money.”

  “Leave the finances to me. Let’s just find you a house you love.”

  And they had. After several weekends of looking at real estate, they’d chosen Chatham, a quaint village at the elbow of the Cape. It had several half-decent restaurants if they wanted to dine out, an exclusive tennis and beach club where they had connections and could be well on the way to membership by the following season, and an established Episcopal church. The house had two acres, a split-rail fence covered in rambling Cape Cod roses, and a mooring if they ever decided to invest in a Boston Whaler. The beachfront actually came with the house.

  “Massachusetts is one of the few states in the nation that allow for private ownership of the sand in front of a house!” the Realtor had exclaimed.

  Grace shared her delight. Her own beach, seaweed, sea glass, bottles, and whatever else washed up on her shore.

  Bain did all the paperwork for their mortgage and attended the closing. Afterward, he’d presented her with a key to the front door.

  The drive down the Southeast Expressway and out to Exit 11 of the Mid-Cape Highway took less than two hours.

  As Grace now studied the upstairs, the long hallway, the study, the three bedrooms—two with an adjoining bath and one with its own—she thought about colors and fabrics and furniture. She wished Eleanor were here for advice. Decorating was a challenge, and she didn’t completely trust her own taste, but the prospect excited her. No doubt Bain would offer his opinion if she needed help.

  Her father would give them the twin cast-iron beds from her room on Chestnut Street and the pair of quilts. They had an extra chest of drawers in an alcove in their apartment that could be put to use. That would fill one room. But there was still a lot to buy. Fortunately, there was no rush. She and Bain needed little but each other to manage.

  She skipped down the back stairs and walked through the house in search of her husband. Moments later, she came upon him in the living room. He stared out the bay window toward the ocean. Standing behind him, she wrapped her arms around his waist and kissed the back of his neck. “This is magic. I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy,” she said.

  “Those bushes are going to block our view in a year or two,” he remarked. She stepped to his side and followed his gaze out to where a mound of beach plum danced in the middle of the lawn, the purplish pink blossoms moving in the salty breeze.

  “I can prune them easily if you’d like.”

  He glanced at her with an odd expression. “That’s a
temporary solution at best. These things grow like weeds. I’ll get someone out here to rip them up.”

  Weeds. Hardly that. In the short time she’d spent on the Cape, the beach plums had come to seem quintessential to life here, such a part of the landscape that they staked a stronger claim than that of any new homeowner.

  “Get a notepad and we’ll go through each room to figure out what has to be done. This place is more of a mess than I remember. The furniture that was here apparently hid a lot of blemishes. I see evidence of water leakage in several spots, and I have the horrible feeling we are going to need a new roof sooner than I calculated.”

  She stared at the warm wood paneling, the wide floorboards, and the dozens of windows. The room had beautiful proportions and a fundamental elegance. It could be perfect with no more than a couch and a coffee table. Or they could keep it bare and use it as a ballroom, dancing alone to the music in their heads like Daisy Buchanan and Jay Gatsby. If a drop of rain came through here and there, it would only add to the romance.

  She reached for him, wanting to embrace.

  “Come on,” Bain said, impatiently. “We’re going to have to prioritize.”

  She smiled coyly. “How about we forget that?” She’d be happy to make love on the floor for the rest of the afternoon as a way to christen their home. “This is our first home together. Let’s celebrate.”

  “We can see if there’s any money to celebrate with after everything is fixed,” Bain snapped.

  She shrugged. The last thing she wanted on this special day was for them to have any kind of disagreement. “My bag is in the kitchen. I know I have a pad in there.” As she walked away, she chastised herself. She needed to be more sensitive to his concerns. For all its charm, this house was a financial burden, and one that he shouldered alone. It was easy for her to be the dreamy optimist.

  They walked slowly through every nook and cranny of the spacious home. He observed, frowned, kneeled to examine, and remarked about leaks and stains, cracks and chips, outlets that didn’t work and evidence of carpenter ants, mildew and mold, windows that didn’t open and doors that creaked. She took notes, trying not to be distracted by the beautiful views and the sun reflected on the ocean.