Heat Wave

by Nancy Thayer

  “Sell your SUV and get an older, cheaper one,” Vanessa suggested.

  “That’s not a bad idea!” Carley clapped her hands. “At the least, I can sell Gus’s BMW. I know it’s paid off, and we don’t need two cars anymore. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “I’ve got it!” Maud held her arms out wide, enclosing the entire cluttered kitchen. “Hold a tag sale.”

  Carley brightened. “Maud! What a good idea!” She sagged. “But it’s almost January. Will anyone come?”

  “Are you kidding? What else is there to do on the island in winter? Anyway, people always love tag sales. Hold it on a Saturday, in your garage.”

  Vanessa chimed in. “You’ll make a fortune. I’ll bet you haven’t seen half the stuff lurking in the corners of this big old pile.”

  “True.” Carley grabbed up a pad and pen and scribbled notes as she talked. “Things Gus and I brought home from vacation then wondered what in the world we were thinking. I’ll have to be careful not to sell anything that has sentimental value to the Winsteds. Oh, I can sell the baby things, the crib, the high chair.”

  “Oh, no!” Vanessa cried. “Carley, don’t get rid of the baby things!”

  “Vanny, I’m a widow. I’m hardly going to have another baby anytime soon, if ever.”

  “Well, that’s just sad.”

  Carley put her arm around Vanessa. “When you get pregnant, you’ll want to buy all new baby things, wait and see.” She took a deep breath. “I’m going to sell some of Gus’s things, too. His clothes.”

  Maud groaned. “His parents will flip.”

  “They’ll have to flip. I was going to give them to the thrift shop anyway. But why shouldn’t I sell them? I need the money, and they’re all such good quality. Shoes, overcoats, suits, shirts, and his CD collection, or most of it. I never did like most of his jazz.”

  “You should do that on eBay,” Vanessa suggested.

  “Maybe. A tag sale would be quicker.”

  “What will the girls think?” Maud asked.

  “They both have piles of toys in the attic they’ve outgrown. I know—I’ll tell them they can have their own table and keep any money they make.”

  “Selling their toys? It seems sad somehow,” Vanessa said.

  “No,” Carley stated firmly. “It will help them learn a bit about the financial realities of the world.”

  “When are you going to hold it?” Maud asked. “I’ll come over and help.”

  “Me, too,” Vanessa said. “And Carley, I think you should have a table of baked goods. Everyone goes crazy for your scones and tarts. I bet they’d fly.”

  Carley stood in front of her kitchen calendar. “I’ll have to put an ad in the paper. That comes out next Thursday, but I can make the deadline. I’ll have to organize the girls to get ready. Oh.” Doing an about-face, she scrunched up her face at her friends. “I’ll have to tell Annabel and Russell.”

  Her friends groaned sympathetically.

  Cisco appeared in the kitchen, dressed in leotard and track pants. “Mom, I’m going to Delphine’s.”

  Maud stood up. “I’ve got to run. I’ll come back for the boys later, Carley, before lunch, okay?”

  “Sure, or they can have lunch here.”

  “Oh, bless you. I can do a few errands.” She hugged Carley and pecked a kiss on the top of Vanessa’s head. “Cisco, want a ride?”

  “Cool.”

  “Come on, then, sweetie.”

  Cisco tossed her mother a kiss. Cisco looked thin, Carley thought, too thin, but for the moment she was simply grateful that her increasingly temperamental daughter was happy.

  When Maud and Cisco left, the three children thumped around in the attic and Carley and Vanessa started back on the cookie project. They worked in peace for a few moments.

  “I worry about Maud,” Vanessa confided. “She’s not seeing any man or even interested. She’s been alone a long time.”

  Carley paused, a carton of eggs in her hand. “I worry, too. How can she meet anyone? She doesn’t get out of the house at all. She’s always with her boys or writing. She has started taking that intensive yoga class twice a week, and she needs it, really, because her writing and drawing are messing up her back and shoulders.”

  “But she’s not going to meet a man at a yoga class.”

  “Probably not.” Carley carefully cracked eggs into the mixing bowl. “Maybe she doesn’t need a man.”

  Vanessa snorted. “If anyone needs a man, Maud does. She’s so fragile I doubt she can open a peanut butter jar by herself.” She slid a cookie sheet into the oven and set the timer. “What about Wyatt Anderson?”

  “What about Wyatt?”

  “He could date Maud. They’d be cute together.”

  “Wyatt would be cute with Cruella de Vil,” Carley quipped. “He must know she’s divorced. He’s been at some of the parties and I haven’t seen him chat her up.”

  “Maybe he just likes younger women.”

  “Oh, moan. Vanny, I’m sure Maud will meet Mr. Right sometime.”

  “I hope so.” The room filled with the warm buttery aroma of cookie batter, eggs, sugar, and chocolate.

  Vanessa dropped dough by the spoonfuls onto the cookie sheet. “At least Maud has two children.”

  “Oh, honey.” Carley turned and embraced Vanessa, taking care not to get egg white on her clothes. “It’s so unfair.” Releasing her, she tried to be optimistic as she returned to her bowl. “Have you and Toby talked about adopting?”

  “Not yet.” Vanessa’s voice was low, her face averted. “I want the experience, Carley. I want to feel a baby grow in my belly. I want to give birth.”

  Carley laughed. “Believe me, it’s no walk in the park.”

  “I know that. Well, actually, I don’t know that, but I want to.” Vanessa turned away. “Sometimes I think I’m too intense about everything. You’re just so easy with all of it, Carley. All the kids.”

  “I like kids, Vanessa. I like people. I like—” She held out her arms, indicating it all, the mess of the kitchen with the mixing bowls and bags of flour and coffee cups and glasses scattered everywhere. “My mother’s run a day care all her life, and it has her entire heart and soul. Dad’s a dentist, and he does a lot of free work, too. You’ve met my sister and her partner. Sarah’s an emergency room nurse and Sue is a social worker. It takes a trauma or at least a head wound to get attention from my own family.”

  Vanessa laughed, then turned serious. “Do you miss Gus terribly?”

  Carley said, “I do miss him. Every day.” Briskly, she turned toward the sink and rinsed her hands. “I’m going to gain weight if I don’t stop eating the batter. Come on, let’s get these done.”

  It was early afternoon when the dozens of cookies were decorated and carefully covered with cling wrap, ready for the bake sale at four. Vanessa offered to drop Maud’s boys back at their house, and she rounded them up and drove away. Margaret, exhausted by boy play, went down the street to her friend Molly’s house to play with dolls, and Cisco phoned, just checking in, telling Carley that Delphine’s mother had given them lunch and then they were going to walk around town.

  Carley was alone in the house. It felt like being on an abandoned ocean liner in a calm sea just after a gale-force storm. She loved the chaos and clutter of people, but she loved the quiet, too. She walked through the house, returning the umbrellas the boys had used as swords to the umbrella stand in the hall, gathering up the toys and clothing—a headless doll, a striped sock, one of Gus’s father’s ancient hats—that had somehow been used in the children’s games.

  Margaret’s bedroom had been ransacked by the children. The boys had crammed Margaret’s shoes upside down on her stuffed animals’ heads—they did look funny. Her pink duvet was balled up against the wall and the construction paper from her child’s desk had been scattered around the room. Carley would have Margaret help her tidy it.

  Cisco’s room was perfection. The boys knew better than to enter Cisco’s room—
she was twelve. Sometimes, on special days, Cisco allowed Margaret in her room, but Margaret thought the sun shone out of Cisco’s belly button, she treated Cisco’s possessions like religious icons. She could spend hours trying on Cisco’s shoes and sweaters and walking solemnly around the house in them, and she always put them away carefully, because the items were precious.

  The master bedroom was tidy, too. Without Gus there to drop his clothes on the floor, his change on the dresser, his books and magazines on the tables, everything was easier to keep neat. At Christmas at her parents’, in a burst of “I’m getting on with my life!” optimism, Carley had treated herself to a new bedspread and matching curtains in a floral pattern that Gus would have hated. Now the room looked luscious, but so feminine. So solitary.

  There were three other rooms on the second floor of this spacious old ark. Two of the rooms were kept as guest rooms. One was a playroom, a lifesaver on snowy or rainy days. The children had left it in what Carley liked to consider a creative disorder. Doll carriages and cradles and toy stoves and refrigerators had been upended and piled together to make some kind of ersatz vehicle, no doubt a space ship.

  There was also the attic. From its half-moon windows, views of Nantucket Sound glistened and sparkled into the far horizon, compelling the imagination out to foreign fantasies. Antique settees, fabulous old opera cloaks, boxes of china, oil paintings of some rather ugly ancestors, and other souvenirs the Winsteds hadn’t yet decided to have valued, filled the large room, giving it a sense of otherworldliness. The kids loved playing up here. It was a Shangri-La for the imagination.

  And it was chock full of all sorts of good stuff for a tag sale.

  8

  • • • • •

  Sunday morning, Carley brushed Margaret’s hair till it shone like black silk. She allowed her to choose one of her favorite, frilliest dresses. Cisco’s outfit, for once, did not involve either tights or leotard, but rather a plain skirt and top. The older Winsteds always dressed for church and Sunday dinner, and Carley followed their lead. She wore a loose brown cashmere dress, high heels, and family heirloom gold jewelry Annabel had entrusted to her over the years. Out of her regular jeans and tee, she felt like an imposter or a changeling.

  After church, Carley and her daughters stood with Annabel and Russell on the sidewalk, chatting with the rector and other members of the congregation. Carley knew her in-laws liked this, liked showing off their pretty, polite little granddaughters. Then, in the weak winter sunshine, they all walked over to the older Winsteds’ house for Sunday dinner. Russell immediately went to the den to watch a news program. The females gathered in the kitchen. Annabel had put a small turkey in to roast early that morning, and the room was warm with delicious odors.

  “How can I help?” Carley asked Annabel.

  “Just heat up the veggies,” Annabel told her. “I’ll make the gravy.”

  “I’ll set the dining room table,” Cisco said cheerfully, tilting her head to be sure Carley noticed how helpful she was. Carley smiled, and she was proud of her daughter, but she would never understand why it was Cisco loved doing chores at her grandparents’ and complained miserably about doing them at home.

  Margaret was babbling, as usual. “Robin’s dad built her a tree-house! Really, it’s for Robin’s older brother, and we have to wait till Robin’s mother comes out to stand by the ladder when we climb up, but that’s silly, because we are very careful climbing—”

  “Margaret,” Cisco said bossily, “you need to fold the napkins while I put the silverware around.”

  “Okay.” Cheerfully, Margaret skipped into the dining room. She loved folding napkins.

  “Russell,” Annabel called melodically. “Could you open the wine?” She marshaled her troops. “Everything’s ready. I’ll have Russell help me carry in the turkey. The platter is heavy. You can each take a bowl of vegetables.”

  “This is like Thanksgiving, Nana!” Margaret cried as they gathered around the table laden with Brussels sprouts, sweet potatoes, and mashed potatoes and gravy, the girls’ favorite food.

  “Well, every day is Thanksgiving, I think, when our family is all here together,” Annabel said quietly, and a shadow fell over the table as they all looked at the empty chair where Gus once had sat.

  Russell broke the spell. “Tell me, everyone! Who wants white meat?”

  Conversations at Annabel and Russell’s house were always lively. They invited the children to talk about the news of their school—what was the school play this year? Peter Pan? Fabulous! Had they heard about the foghorn? Cormorants had pooped all over the fog sensor, so the foghorn thought it was perpetually foggy and the horn sounded constantly, even on sunny days. Cisco and Margaret almost fell off their chairs laughing.

  Carley ate and chatted and felt calmed. It was as if she could actually feel the spin of her molecules slow. She loved the way Annabel’s face glowed whenever she looked at Cisco or Margaret. Annabel adored her granddaughters. She doted on them. The house, old and weathered, showed signs of Annabel’s love and attention: she had painted the dining room trim and woodwork herself, just last year. On the old mahogany sideboard, among the heirloom silver, Annabel had set a vase of green holly. The cranberry sauce they ate with their turkey had been made by Annabel last fall. And on the far wall, among valuable if dreary oil portraits of Winsted ancestors, Annabel had hung a large photograph of her granddaughters swimming at Jetties Beach, laughing, gleaming in the sunshine like the treasures they were to Annabel.

  The girls. They were what mattered. She needed to keep them safe.

  She cleared her throat. “The girls and I are going to hold a tag sale.”

  Annabel’s fork halted halfway to her mouth. “Really.”

  “In your yard?” Russell asked.

  “And inside the garage. On the drive.”

  “Carley, I’m not so sure—” Annabel began.

  In her excitement, Margaret interrupted her. “I’m going to sell my old Legos, I never play with them anymore, and the little toy barn with the animals, the silly little pig and cow and the horse and the—”

  Carley put her hand gently on Margaret’s leg. “No wiggling at the table, please.”

  “Are you selling …” Russell began, frowning. “How can I put this? Are you selling family items?” His voice was raspy, a sign of his emotional state.

  “None of the real heirlooms, Russell,” Carley hastened to assure him. “I wouldn’t do that. Most of it will be the sort of thing Gus and I acquired during our marriage. All the baby stuff, for example, car seats and clothing, which is always needed. And,” she continued bravely, her heart thumping in her chest, “I’m going to sell some of Gus’s stuff.”

  Both her in-laws were silent.

  Perkily, Carley continued, “Honestly, Gus collected so many gadgets. I think there’s some kind of electronic weather monitoring device in every room of the house. He’s even got—he even had—a mirror in the shower that electronically reported the weather. And the electronic putting machine and his electronic language translator—for thirty different languages!” For a moment, a terrible sadness overwhelmed her to think that Gus might once have dreamed of traveling to thirty different countries. But this was not the time for sorrow.

  “And my things, too!” Carley chirped on. “My maternity clothing. Sweaters and other unfortunate gifts from years ago that I’ve put away and never used. And perhaps one of the tea sets, when Gus and I were married, we got at least four different tea sets, which is ridiculous, no one gives teas anymore—” She was chattering like a monkey. She forced herself to stop and take a breath.

  Annabel touched her napkin to her lips. She laid her napkin in her lap and folded her hands over it. “Carley. I understand how grief can derail your logical thought processes, but really, my dear, this idea of a tag sale is just all wrong. It is not appropriate for a Winsted to hold a tag sale.”

  Carley struggled to keep her voice level and mild. “Annabel, I’m afraid it is terribly appr
opriate for this Winsted to hold a tag sale. I won’t sell anything of importance to the family. But we do have so much stuff. And we can use the money. I apologize for discussing financial matters at the dinner table. I know you like to talk about more pleasant things.” She looked steadily at Annabel, smiling.

  Annabel looked steadily back, not smiling.

  Carley turned to Margaret. “Sweetie, would you like more mashed potatoes?”

  Margaret nodded enthusiastically. As her mother spooned them onto the plate—making a “pond” in the middle for the gravy—Margaret chirped, “And Mommy’s going to make cakes and cookies for the tag sale, and I’m going to help her!”

  Russell could not resist his granddaughter’s excitement. “Well, then, I’ll have to stop by and purchase something.”

  “Oh, Granddad,” Margaret laughed. “You know we would always give you and Nana our cakes for free!”

  Everyone at the table laughed, too. In the face of such sweetness, Annabel backed away from the subject of the tag sale, asking both girls about school. But when she glanced at Carley, her eyes were dark as thunder.

  9

  • • • • •

  Monday, as soon as the girls were off to school, Carley climbed the narrow stairs and opened the door to the attic. She could tell, instantly, that something had changed. Things had been moved around. There was a very slight smell … of tobacco? She shook her head. Couldn’t be.

  Still, she closed her eyes and let her nose lead her. Past the drop-leaf table with the broken leg. Past the cardboard wardrobes of clothing old enough to be called vintage. Past one of the boudoir chairs … There. In the corner was a kind of nest. Cushions and pillows were piled around Cisco’s CD player and a pile of CDs.

  Carley smiled. Cisco and her friend had been up here in their own private aerie, listening to music, discussing life, love, and boys. Cisco had a new friend these days, a sloe-eyed girl called Polo who had just moved to the island. Polo was shy, but polite. She didn’t seem to talk much, but Carley had heard her and Cisco giggling, and that gave Carley great hope that when Cisco finally realized she was not going to be a ballerina, she wouldn’t be devastated. Polo had no interest in ballet.