Being Mrs. Alcott

by Nancy Geary

  She tried to return his smile but felt dizzy.

  “Now, are you going to answer my question about Dr. Preston or leave me in the dark?”

  Grace looked down at her plate and poked at her pasta. “American Express canceled my card today.” She spoke slowly and softly, knowing she was using the only bit of information she had that could distract him from further pursuing health issues she couldn’t bring herself to discuss.

  Bain steepled his fingers and pressed his thumbs into his eyebrows. He said nothing.

  She regretted her tack. In an effort to distract him, she’d delivered a harrowing blow. Sharing Dr. Preston’s news wouldn’t have been any easier, but it wouldn’t have been so shameful to him.

  “Never mind,” she said, rising to clear the dishes. “A woman I met said I should have a MasterCard instead. I hear it’s much better.”

  Bain gave her a perplexed look.

  She pretended not to notice, poured the last of the Merlot into his glass, stacked their plates, and propped the bowl on her forearm. “Do you want dessert? There’s some of that lemon sherbet, or a Fig Newton?”

  “No. I’m not hungry.”

  As she turned to leave, she heard him add, “Thank you, Grace. You’re the only woman I can imagine who would be so kind about this disaster. I don’t know where I’d be without you.”

  Grace was changing out of her knit suit when she heard the knock on the door. They’d been home from church less than fifteen minutes. She didn’t want visitors; she wanted lunch.

  Bain opened the door, and she heard Kay’s voice pierce the late-morning silence. “I knew you’d be here, so I didn’t bother to call. That’s what I love best about dealing with churchgoers. You all are so regular.”

  “What is it?” she heard Bain ask.

  Still undressed, Grace walked to the threshold of her bedroom. She could hear clearly down the stairs.

  “I’ve got an offer. It’s a good one,” the broker squealed. “In fact, it’s their best offer. That’s how the Marxes phrased it.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means they don’t want to negotiate. Take it or leave it. One million three, cash. They’ll close in a month. They want to be in by August.”

  Grace held on to the top of the banister for balance. She strained to hear Bain’s response, but then realized he wasn’t speaking. The voice was still Kay’s.

  “The offer’s open until midnight tonight. I’ll tell you right now, in this economy, you’re not going to do better. High-end houses around here have been on the market for months, even houses that needed no work. Let’s be realistic. This is the only offer we’ve had, and the house has been listed since March.”

  Midnight. They had less than thirteen hours to make the momentous decision.

  Grace’s mind raced. After payment of the brokerage commission, the two mortgages, and the capital gains tax, there would be little left over. River Bay was looking more and more inevitable.

  Bain didn’t hesitate. “I’ll take it.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Located out on a peninsula of land, the clubhouse of Eastward Ho enjoyed a spectacular view of Pleasant Bay. Although technically part of East Orleans, its members preferred to consider it one of the loveliest spots in Chatham. The golf course had an impressive history and a challenging architectural design, but what drew Grace to the place was its majestic setting. She was perfectly content to walk the course beside Bain, taking in the feel of the salty air on her face and watching the wind-filled sails of boats gliding on the water.

  Tonight the sky had darkened to a foggy gray. The knobby pine trees along the edge of the rocky cliff and the pristine ocean beyond made for a picturesque backdrop to the evening’s festivities inside the clubhouse. No wonder so many members rented the space for their personal celebrations.

  Andy and Cindy Briggs’s youngest child, Amanda, had gotten engaged. Word had it that the pink diamond on her slender finger was more than two carats. And with Cindy’s usual flair, an engraved invitation announcing an engagement party had arrived just ten days after the fact.

  “Weren’t we at the club last year for her graduation?” Bain had remarked as they’d driven along Crowell Road. They’d been late, and Bain drove a little too quickly on the winding road in his effort to make up time. “Mount Holyoke, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Grace had replied, remembering the lavish celebration for what she’d understood had been the girl’s modest academic performance. That she’d gotten the diploma to frame and hang in four years was all that mattered. It had taken Hank five to get through the University of Colorado at Boulder.

  “I must say it did surprise me that none of the Briggs kids went to Dartmouth. Andy is head of the trustees, after all. He must give that institution millions. Just goes to show money can’t buy everything.”

  Not nearly everything, she’d thought.

  Because the party was well under way, they’d had to park at the far end of the lot. Beside the car, a seagull pecked at a broken clamshell.

  The noise of happy voices spilled outside as they climbed the steps and entered the foyer. Nearly the whole area was taken up with a long table piled high with gifts. Most were wrapped in silver and white, although a few obvious robin’s-egg-blue boxes remained bare. Grace added her contribution—a boxed set of cocktail napkins and matching coasters—to the pyramid. Somewhere en route from the car, she’d lost the card.

  “I’d hate for them to think we brought nothing,” she said to Bain in urging that they go back out and look for the small white envelope.

  “Just forget it. You can tell her what happened when you see her.”

  Amanda would never remember given all the excitement of the evening, but she acquiesced. By the time the girl worked her way through her thank-you notes, it might not matter whether one was sent to Grace or not.

  She and Bain moved toward the reception and paused at the entrance. The large square room was filled with people of all ages, the guests a sea of summer shades of yellow, green, and pink. It gave her no small amount of delight that Lilly Pulitzer was back in style, as though the world had come full circle just in the nick of time. She could wear the wrap skirts she’d bought in college and feel chic, or pretty chic so long as the lights were dim enough to mask the toll that age and wear had taken on the fabrics.

  She gazed about the room. Young waitresses in white oxford shirts and black knee-length skirts wove deftly in and out of the colorful crowd offering food, collecting glasses, and bringing refills. On the mantel were enormous bouquets of lilacs in white marble urns, and along one wall were photographs of the bride- and groom-to-be: Amanda as a seven-year-old with her front tooth missing; Barnaby Hodges in his Dartmouth varsity lacrosse uniform; a studio portrait of the two of them that had been submitted to The Chronicle along with their announcement. She’d noticed that the column held a place of prominence in the rows of newsprint.

  Cindy Briggs saw Grace and Bain and quickly made her way to greet them.

  “Andy’s lost,” she said, smiling. “But please get a drink, have a bite to eat, and relax. We’re so glad you’re here. The music will start in a little while.”

  “How festive!” Grace exclaimed, meaning it. She and Bain hadn’t danced together in years. Maybe she could get him to spin her at least once around the floor.

  “That’s Amanda’s doing, not mine,” Cindy replied, tilting her head in her daughter’s direction and rolling her eyes. Amanda stood beside the mantel surrounded by a group of girlfriends. “It’s not a party without rock and roll.”

  Her Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers fantasy quickly faded.

  “Has Amanda known her fiancé long?” Grace asked. She remembered that at the graduation party, Amanda was with Chad, one of the yacht club sailing instructors. Andy had failed in his efforts to hide his displeasure.

  “Four months. In this day and age it seems like a second, but it was love at first sight, truly. And I have to remind myself that And
y and I were engaged after only a few months, too. We got to know each other as we went along. And here we are thirty-three years later marrying off our baby. Maybe all the waiting and living together that kids do nowadays takes away too much of the mystery. Where’s the fun?”

  Grace thought of her own romance. She and Bain had met less than a year before the day they walked down the aisle.

  “I look around at all these young couples getting divorced and I wonder if it’s because they can’t adapt. They live together, they try to iron out every wrinkle in the relationship ahead of time—who gets the blue toothbrush, who keeps their clothes on the right side of the closet, and who gets the first crack at the Sunday crossword. So much advance planning and then they can’t adjust to the inevitable changes in a marriage. I don’t know about you two, but Andy and I were so relieved to share a bedroom and not have to lock the door that we didn’t complain about the little problems. We were able to get through the tougher times. I think it made our marriages more resilient, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Resilience. It sounded like an admirable quality in a mattress.

  Cindy didn’t wait for a response. “So that’s my way of saying I have absolute confidence in Amanda and Barnaby. They are adorable together. She’s old-fashioned—dying to be a wife and set up a home, but not about to do it without the vows—and the ring, which by the way is a beauty. Barnaby has very good taste. And believe you me when I tell you that he is the man of that family. But again, that’s just fine. Andy still wears the pants in our marriage.” She smiled and leaned toward them, adding in a conspiratorial tone, “Except when it comes to this wedding. I’ll make those decisions. I told him the day they announced their engagement, ‘This is a mother’s dream so you stay quiet and get ready to write the checks.’” She laughed.

  “When is the big day?”

  Cindy’s eyes lit up. “June seventeenth. You’d better save the date. We’ll have it at the house here, and we want to make sure all our old Chatham friends are with us. It will be a true Cape reception, a shell motif on the invitations, a lobster bake for the rehearsal dinner, bridesmaids in cranberry.”

  What Sarah might have had and what Grace would have wanted. She suddenly felt sick to her stomach.

  “So put it on your calendars now. I won’t take no for an answer.”

  Next summer. Grace couldn’t think that far ahead. Then again, she wouldn’t have to.

  “I may even impose on you to put up some of the groom’s family. Apparently he’s got all these British cousins who are planning to attend. How would you like a houseful of strapping young Henley types?” Cindy poked Grace’s side. “You see, Barnaby’s mother is English. She couldn’t be sweeter, and her accent is to die for. She met Barnaby Senior when he was over there as a Rhodes scholar. What can I say? The whole family is attractive, brilliant, and successful. We are so lucky.” She paused, perhaps to take a breath, and rested her hand on Bain’s shoulder. “Now I’m stopping you from getting to the bar. Please, go celebrate. Help us celebrate. After you get a drink—and I highly recommend the margaritas—introduce yourself to Barnaby. He’s over there.” She pointed to a tall boy in Nantucket red khaki pants, a pale blue oxford, and a navy belt with green anchors appliquéd on it. He had wavy blond hair and a young face. But for his extraordinary height, he could pass for twelve.

  “He’s terrific,” she said, flapping her hands to gesticulate. “Andy’s so crazy about him, I fear our own boys may get jealous. He thinks his future son-in-law is a substantial improvement on his own flesh and blood.” Cindy laughed. “He’s joking, of course, but you can imagine.”

  “I see Barnaby is a Dartmouth grad,” Bain remarked, pointing toward the photograph of the lacrosse player. “That must help.”

  “You hit that face on the nose,” Cindy said, laughing again. “Nothing beats the green!” With that, she glanced over Bain’s shoulder, spotted the arrival of another couple, and cooed, “Damon, Sally, how super of you to come all this way. You are too dear!”

  The band had been playing for more than an hour. Although some of the tunes were familiar, most made Grace realize how long it had been since she’d turned on the radio. Contemporary rock and roll to her was the Pointer Sisters. The music of this generation baffled her, and she remembered a brief conversation she’d had with Hank years before about a group called Smashing Pumpkins. The name had conjured an image of pulp and seeds and devilish-looking carvings adorning a stage, but Hank had only laughed at her response and told her they were awesome. What did she know about music anyway? She and Bain still listened to Frank Sinatra.

  When the lead singer suddenly announced a “golden oldie” and started his rendition of “You Belong to Me,” Cindy and Andy and most of their other guests took the floor. Grace turned to Bain, hopeful. Even if she couldn’t gyrate as fluidly as the others, she still yearned for Bain to take her hand, escort her to the dance floor, and lead her effortlessly around the perimeter.

  He took her by the elbow. “Let’s see if we can find a quiet spot,” he said, leading them away to the farthest corner of the vast room. But it wasn’t to dance alone. He cupped his hand to his mouth and whispered in her ear, “How soon do you think we can leave without seeming rude?”

  She didn’t have a chance to answer before Bob Lockerby approached. In his late seventies, he had a ruddy complexion and a shock of white hair. Holding himself steady with a mahogany cane, he nodded a greeting.

  “Evening, Bob,” Bain said.

  Although he’d lived only a few houses away since before they’d even visited Chatham for the first time, they’d never known Bob well. He neither entertained nor accepted many of the invitations that came to him. Rumor had it that he might be homosexual. That he was single, impeccably dressed, and had a red dining room contributed to the suspicions.

  “It’s a lovely party,” Grace added.

  “So what made you decide to sell?” he asked abruptly.

  What Travels Faster—Gossip or a Racehorse? That had been the topic of an eighth-grade essay she’d written at the Windsor School. If she remembered correctly, the assignment had been designed to deal with symbolism. Now the issue was real.

  Grace glanced at Bain. She expected him to startle, to express some sort of dismay at the fact that their accepted offer was part of the public domain only hours after the fact. Instead he seemed to have resigned himself to the inevitable.

  “We got an offer we couldn’t refuse,” he replied. “And it’s really too much house for Grace and me anyway.”

  Bob raised his eyebrows but said nothing. Did he know the price, too? Was that it? Anyone who’d lived in Chatham for a week, let alone three-quarters of a century, would know the value of real estate, would know that the Alcotts had one of the best parcels of land around, and would know that the house had been given away.

  “The boys come less and less. It’s really a waste,” Bain added in further justification.

  “You of all people. I thought you would be around here forever,” Bob mumbled. “The Alcotts on Sears Point seemed about as permanent as the lighthouse on Shore Road.”

  “Times change,” Bain said. His voice sounded beleaguered.

  “That’s for sure.”

  Everyone stood in silence. The moment was awkward. “Well, on behalf of those who remain, I’ve got to thank you for selling it as is. It’s still hard for me to believe the Elliotts are subdividing. Now, that’s a crime if there ever was one.”

  Bain nodded in agreement. The Elliotts had twelve acres on Stage Neck. Much to the dismay of the neighborhood and over considerable objection, they’d received approval for a six-lot subdivision and had already cleared to put in the road. There was no explanation except pure greed. As far as anyone knew, they were as rich as they’d ever been. Martha Elliott was driving a brand-new Mercedes convertible and Herb boasted that he was traveling all the way to Finland to discuss the commission of a Swan 65.

  Then again, Grace knew from her own experience that appearance
s could be deceiving. In fact, she might conclude that appearances were designed to be that way. Bain had installed a swimming pool rather than acknowledge their financial downturn.

  Thinking of the Elliotts, Grace wondered what she would have done if the possibility of selling off land could have allowed her to stay. Would she have agreed to the building of a house that would block her view of, or her access to, the water in order to earn enough from the sale of the land to be able to stay in her home? Could she have tolerated such a jarring change and remained? It was an option so many people seemed to take, but for better or for worse she was glad that their lack of acreage had precluded it.

  “So where are you headed?” Bob asked.

  “We haven’t decided,” Grace said.

  Simultaneously Bain replied, “Palm Beach.”

  Palm Beach. They’d never discussed leaving Chatham, let alone moving to another state. They’d visited Florida several times on business for Bain—Palm Beach and Naples and Boca Raton—and even though they’d stayed in the most elegant hotels, they’d both hated it, the ugly highways and strip malls, the flat topography and oppressive heat, the smell of taco stands and suntan oil. There had been one happy moment that she could recall. She’d been lying by the pool at the Ritz-Carlton reading a book and Bain had surprised her by placing a chameleon on her brightly patterned bathing suit. They both watched in amazement as the poor creature’s coloring began to change. But a makeshift science experiment hardly justified establishing a residency.

  “Tax laws are certainly better,” Bain added.

  Grace looked at the floor. She closed her eyes and listened to the music, the sounds of footsteps on the dance floor, the background rumble of conversation. She knew what Bain was doing, publicly at least. He couldn’t stay in a place where everyone would realize that he’d lost what they’d had, that he wasn’t an adequate provider, that he couldn’t be the financial equal of his peers, that at this point he’d be lucky to get a job as Andy Briggs’s butler. That truth would be impossible to hide when they moved from their enviable home on Sears Point to a Cape in West Chatham or a new subdivision on the Harwich line, or when the new owners began to talk about the terrible condition of the house and all they had to do to make it habitable.