Redemption

by Nancy Geary

  Hope glanced at the grandfather clock against the wall. The midday sun shone on its mahogany case. She liked the metronome regularity of its tick and the hourly chime, a surprisingly sweet, delicate sound. Twelve fifty-five. In five minutes, its tone would fill the dining room.

  “Well, I can call him if you don’t want to.”

  Through the open window, Hope heard the sound of a motorboat in the distance, the steady purr of its engine as it made its way out of the harbor. Living by the water meant constant noise: foghorns, masts clanging as sailboats rocked on their moorings, bells on the buoys that marked the entrance to the harbor ringing with the ebb and flow of the tide, the caw of seagulls as they fought over mussels, bumpers squeaking as the Lawrences’ dinghy grinded against the side of their pier. Although activity on the sea increased dramatically in the summer, fishermen and an occasional brave yachtsman kept the Manchester harbor alive year-round.

  “Come to think of it,” Adelaide continued, “I think we should get his opinion. It’s his church after all.”

  Hope nodded. She needed to speak to Reverend Whitney, in fact had made plans to meet with him in his office later that afternoon, but it was not to discuss flowers. She needed advice. Desperately. More often than not, especially in recent months, she felt that only Reverend Whitney could provide answers to the myriad questions that spun in her mind. He was the one person with whom she felt safe to talk, the only person she could trust. He’d heard her confessions and tried to help her come to terms with her past. He’d promised that through faith she could be protected. With few options that could begin to offer as much, she was more than willing to make the church the center of her life. As long as she had that, she felt safe.

  She rubbed her thumb in circles against her protruding hipbone and felt calmer.

  “Teddy wants to give you a bridal lunch on the eighteenth. At the beach club, I’d assume. You should let her know if you want anyone in addition to bridesmaids and family.”

  “It’s really—” Hope began.

  “Teddy just wants to feel a part of the celebration. Let her do it. We have to have lunch somewhere.”

  Hope didn’t reply. The last thing she wanted moments before her wedding was to sit under a faded umbrella at the Singing Beach Club, the bastion of octogenarians on the North Shore, eating petit fours with her grandmother. She loved Teddy and would forever be indebted to her. She’d maintained secrets that no one else in her world would have, but now Hope couldn’t take the risk that, given an audience, Teddy might be less than discreet. Not with the wedding so close.

  “Oh, we have to get to Boston on Friday. Priscilla’s called. Your dress is ready for a second fitting. What time is good?”

  “You decide.”

  Adelaide leaned forward and removed her glasses. “Your affect has not gone unnoticed.” Then her voice softened. “Please, Hope, tell me what’s wrong. I’m your mother after all.”

  A mother, she thought. What did that even mean to Adelaide? Hope didn’t know how to respond and fought to avoid tears. She had wanted her wedding preparations, the plans, to bring them closer together, to give mother and daughter a chance to bond over the right registry selections, bridesmaids’ dresses, and corsages. In fact, the promise of such an opportunity was the primary reason she had agreed to a large celebration at home. Instead, she couldn’t generate interest in what was supposed to be the most important day of her life, and her mother’s obsession with details that meant nothing to her only made her feel more estranged, isolated from the process. She envisioned herself as a plastic bride atop a seven-tiered white cake with ribbons of pink frosting and flowers: perfect to look at, but devoid of emotion.

  She wished she could confront her mother, but each time she thought to start a conversation, the words disappeared. There was nothing to say after so many years and all that had happened. If her mother couldn’t already understand, nothing she said would make a difference. She hated herself. “It’s nothing. I just meant that whatever suits you is fine by me.”

  Adelaide made a note to herself. “Let’s say ten o’clock.” She rested a palm over her daughter’s hand. “I’ve got bridge at Bonnie’s house today, but if you need me, I’ll cancel. I want you to know I’m here for you.”

  Right. Why would you want that now, when you’ve never been there before? she thought, but instead she said, “I’m fine. Really. You don’t need to worry.” Hope excused herself with the flash of a reassuring smile. She felt consumed by an overwhelming urge to vomit the two crackers and carrot stick she had eaten in a moment of weakness. Whether she could get them to come out after fifteen minutes in her system, or whether the crackers were already digested, she didn’t know. But she would try.

  3

  Jim Cabot stepped back from the rope barrier as the eight horses thundered down the polo field, kicking up grass and mud in their wake. The sound of hooves was deafening. A chestnut collided with a dappled gray, and he watched its rider in a green-and-red jersey tilt precariously in his saddle in an effort to remain mounted. The horses foamed at their bits. Sweat glistened on their immaculate coats.

  He scanned the crowd, recognizing the usual suspects: Robert Harrington Sr. wearing a Field and Hunt Club visor and a yellow cashmere V-neck sweater stood beside his lovely blond wife, number four she was, although in Robert’s defense, his third wife had left him for their landscape architect. That she had ended up with the house seemed a travesty, but the probate courts were tough on men. Next to the Harringtons stood Bunny and Cliff Taylor, she in oversize dark glasses. Their continued involvement with the polo circuit surprised him, given that their eldest son had been killed playing the sport less than three years earlier by a mallet to the head. An Argentine defenseman had been responsible. No surprise. The South Americans were known for their aggressive game. And there was Ray Burgess. He had to be ninety. Rain or shine, he showed up to watch the excitement with his frayed green-and-white-striped folding chair and his shaker of martinis.

  Jim returned his gaze to the action in front of him. He heard the crack of a mallet against the wooden ball, followed almost instantly by a similar sound. The ball was intercepted, the direction abruptly reversed, and the players galloped toward the opposite goalposts nearly three hundred yards away. For a moment, the noise subsided. But Jim had seen enough polo matches to know that any silence was fleeting. Within seconds, the enormous beasts and their athletic riders would reappear before him.

  He wiped at the dirt that speckled his Nantucket-red pants.

  Jack, his only child, had been playing amateur polo since high school, then played competitively at USC. The University of Southern California had one of the best college teams in the country and plenty of practice time, given the near perfect weather. Jack thrived. He had a natural gift for the game, loved the animals, and lived for the excitement. By the time he graduated, he’d earned a handicap of six, placing him in an elite group of top-ranked players in the United States and making his career preordained. Negotiations were under way with a reclusive Texan to make Jack field captain of his team. Jack was twenty-nine; it was time he made the transition from amateur to professional.

  Although the cost of polo was enormous, Jim took no small pride in the fact that for his son it was not prohibitive. Jack had trained eight Thoroughbreds into some of the best horses in the sport, and Jim paid upward of a hundred thousand a year to cover their feed, veterinary bills, and transportation, plus the salary of a full-time groomer and additional trainer. Winnings would start to defray some of the costs, but that didn’t matter. There was enough money in various trusts to insure that he could play polo until he was too old to mount. Unless, of course, Jack and Hope’s marriage ended in divorce.

  Jim reached into his pocket and removed his key ring, a silver horse hoof. He twirled the keys in his hand, thinking for a moment. He was proud of the money he’d earned for his family. In the last thirty years, he’d converted a small inheritance into a net worth of more than $20 million by invest
ing in alternative energy sources. Now he had several plants in Nevada and Colorado, as well as the largest fossil fuel production center in the Northeast.

  His financial statement looked good, great by most standards. And it was no small accomplishment for a man who could have lived comfortably with no effort at all. His drive, ambition, and discipline, plus his desire to see future generations of his family secure, had been the reason he’d worked fifteen-hour days, often six days a week. Yet he’d achieved what he’d set out to do. He’d become a power. He’d made the cover of the Boston Globe’s business section several times, was continuously in Boston magazine’s list of most powerful people, and served on the board of several prominent philanthropies. His reward to himself was a fifty-nine-foot Hinckley, the Lucky Day, big enough to be impressive in the harbor but small enough for him to maneuver himself without a crew.

  He’d made only one mistake, but its ramifications seemed increasingly severe as August 18 approached. In providing for future generations of Cabots, he’d established a series of irrevocable trusts. The income went to Jack and the principal to “the issue of his body,” his children. It was a complex legal framework, one that had cost nearly $40,000 in legal fees to implement, but it had seemed like a good idea at the time to minimize future estate taxes. The problem that nobody had anticipated when the documents had been created more than a decade earlier was that if Jack’s marriage didn’t survive, some bottom-feeding attorney could extract half the income for Hope.

  These legal creations couldn’t be modified. Jim’s rage at Lloyd Barrett, his lawyer and adviser, who’d represented him in all his personal and corporate legal work for his entire career, his demands for a solution, his hours of angry telephone calls over the last few weeks, reminding Lloyd that he was the firm’s best client, couldn’t change the law. The whole point of an irrevocable trust was that it was irrevocable. The only possible protection was a prenuptial agreement, a contract signed by Hope relinquishing any claims to those assets. It seemed reasonable. Why was she entitled to his hard-earned money if she wasn’t a Cabot? But Jim knew about greed. When money lust was involved, anything could happen.

  Jim saw the blue-and-gold number three jersey worn by his son heading back down the field. The sun shone off the black coat of Deliver Me, Jack’s greenest horse, whose agility and strength gave her every sign of becoming a champion polo pony. Jack raised his mallet and whacked again at the ball, driving it in front of him. With his left hand he held the reins, managing to steer his horse by the pressure of his strong thighs on its hide. A defenseman charged but failed to hook Jack’s mallet because of Deliver Me’s quick dart left. The crowed cheered as Jack and his mare flew past toward the goalposts. Jim thought he could see panic on the goal player’s face, although from this distance, it had to be his imagination. A final hit, and the ball crossed the line.

  The horn blew to announce the end of the chukkar. The game was over. Jack’s team had another triumph, a boost to their confidence as they headed into the Hurling Ham season. Moments like this made Jim love even more the mountains of money he’d made.

  Jack had dismounted and handed Deliver Me’s reins to Ben, his trusty groomer and faithful employee. Ben would lead her back to the trailer, remove her tackle, wash her down, and get her settled for the short trip home. Jack took off his helmet, tossed his head back, stuck his crop in the side of his leather boots, and headed toward his father. Jim smiled as he watched Jack’s easy gait, arms swinging from his broad shoulders and leg muscles showing through his tight jodhpurs. His son was a near perfect specimen.

  So why had he picked so poorly? Hope wasn’t the sort to marry. She couldn’t be controlled. Jim was not about to risk losing his empire because of that girl.

  “Great game,” Jim remarked as his son approached. “Deliver Me looks awfully strong.”

  “She’s responding well. Seems to have a sixth sense,” Jack replied. His breathing was heavy, and he wiped a handkerchief across his brow. “Hotter than I thought it would be out there.”

  Jim rested his hand on his son’s shoulder. “We’ve got to talk. And it’s not a conversation I wanted to have at home.” He paused. “Your mother is not part of this discussion.”

  “Shoot.”

  Jim started walking slowly away from the crowd, and Jack fell into stride. Whenever there was anything of import to discuss, father and son tended to walk and talk. They were both athletic, and words flowed easier when accompanied by physical movement.

  “I’m happy for you that you’ve fallen in love,” Jim began. “The Lawrences are an old North Shore family. Bill’s a decent guy. But—”

  “Dad, don’t—”

  “Let me finish,” Jim interrupted. “You need to understand that a life with Hope won’t be easy. She’s not the simplest of women.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I think you do, son. Her troubles didn’t start yesterday.”

  “Whatever problems Hope may have had, they’re over. She’s better.”

  “I’m not here to judge. My point is only that if you go through with this marriage, which I realize you are going to do, you need to open your eyes to potential pitfalls, or should I say land mines. You don’t need me to tell you that marriage can be tough, even under the best of circumstances. Your mother and I have had our share of ups and downs, though she’s one of the most pragmatic and organized women I know. Don’t misunderstand me. I’ve never contemplated leaving her. She is a good wife and puts her family first. She keeps herself attractive and takes care of our home. Her values and mine are completely in line. I couldn’t ask for anything more, yet we still go through bad patches from time to time.”

  “Hope and I are very close. I love her, Dad.”

  “I know you do. And I’m not trying to convince you not to.” He was a father after all and not a stupid man. Guiding his son’s emotional arrow was doomed to failure. But he could remind Jack of practicalities. “Lloyd says he hasn’t heard from you about the prenuptial.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I thought you’d agreed to speak to him.”

  “Well, I did, but I changed my mind.”

  “We had an agreement.”

  “You had something that you wanted me to agree with. But I don’t. I’m not going to enter into my marriage anticipating problems in the event of divorce. I trust Hope. I want things to work, forever, and I’m not going to ask her to sign anything.”

  “Too much money’s at stake.” Jim felt sweat start to form at the back of his neck, his body’s typical response to stress. He resisted the urge to wipe it away.

  “But it’s my money.”

  “It’s yours only because I gave it to you.”

  “But it’s irrevocable. You know the terms better than I do.”

  “Don’t you dare throw that in my face, young man. Anything can be changed,” he lied. “You’ll end up with nothing, so I suggest you listen and listen well. You have to think about preserving Cabot assets for future generations. Your lineage.”

  Jack stopped abruptly and turned on his heels to face his father. Jim could see his face redden. When he spoke, his words were flat, a tone he’d never heard before from his son. “Dad, nothing you can do or say is going to make me change my mind. Asking Hope to sign some stupid piece of paper is repulsive. I won’t enter my marriage distrusting her so much. I won’t hurt her by asking for a prenuptial. You may be pessimistic about our future, but I’m not.”

  “I’m trying to impart to you that you have an obligation to this family. She doesn’t have the kind of money you do. The Lawrences put up a good front, but you know as well as I do that their situation isn’t what it appears. Look at the condition of that house. They’re thrilled their daughter’s about to become a Cabot, as anyone in this whole town would be.”

  “They’re thrilled because Hope’s happy.”

  “Don’t be naive. That you’re there to pay for a new shingled roof doesn’t hurt.”

  �
�Adelaide and Bill are good people.”

  “Everyone has ulterior motives.”

  “Hope and I are going to be happy. Just stay out of it.”

  “How can I? Her conduct has… is…,” he stammered. Even he couldn’t find the right words to describe how loathsome he found her reputation, at least her sexual one. “And what about Carl?”

  “That’s over between them.”

  “So you think. But Hope threw that man in your face. You may be willing to forgive her, but it was reprehensible. And that relationship didn’t end when you thought it had, so you can’t know for certain it’s over now.”

  “Hope wants to be my wife.”

  “As long as she stays that way, she’ll be protected and included as one of our own. But if things change, you, son, have to remember that you’re a Cabot first and foremost.”

  “I’m not having this conversation. I’ve made up my mind.”

  “Don’t do this.”

  “No, Dad. Don’t you do this!” With that, Jack pulled the riding crop from the side of his boot and whacked his heel.

  Jim felt rage explode with the sudden snapping sound. Instinctively, he reached for his son’s wrist and held it firm, feeling the pulse. He squeezed tighter, indifferent to the pain his grip caused. It was no small source of pride that even at the age of fifty-six, he was stronger than his son. That’s what fifty one-armed push-ups, a hundred sit-ups, and a three-mile jog every morning did for him. Discipline, that’s what mattered.

  “You’ve forced me to interfere. Hope is going to sign a prenuptial if it’s the last thing she does. I won’t have this wedding without it. If you can’t learn to be a man, if you can’t get your woman to do what you demand, you have no business being entrusted with Cabot wealth. She has to respect us. All of us.”