Helen had been pleased that her husband had championed her, but after that meeting she lost her momentum. Even then she was aware that her children were breaking away from the Wheelwright traditions, and she didn’t want to seem to be widening the breach. And perhaps she didn’t want to risk failure; perhaps that was a small part of her decision.
Now a small bolt of pain forked through Helen’s head. Could it be nervous tension? Because she was headed for another season on the island?
She focused on her engagement calendar. When her three children grew up and left home, Helen had joined several volunteer organizations, helping with church fairs, volunteering in libraries both in Boston and on the island, and tutoring students in English as a Second Language. All this work brought her great pleasure, a sense of accomplishment, and—she could never admit this to anyone—a kind of self-awareness she hadn’t even realized she was missing.
In July the Nantucket library would hold a book sale. She was co-chair. She was also in charge of the auction of the needlepoint quilt for the church. But she wasn’t worried about these responsibilities. She had them well in hand. Her volunteer work was not the cause of her headaches.
Helen closed her calendar and allowed herself to admit the truth.
For the first time ever, she was dreading the two months at the summer house. Dreading being around Worth’s sister and her perfect family. Helen’s own children seemed so feckless in comparison.
All three of Grace’s children had made good marriages with people from Nona’s circle. Mandy and Claus had presented Nona with two healthy great-grandchildren. Mandy and Mellie’s husbands both held prominent positions at the bank.
But Helen and Worth’s children showed no interest in banking. They were, at the best, eccentric and at the worst—well, the worst didn’t bear considering.
Charlotte, the eldest child, had tried working at the bank. Charlotte adored her father and wanted to please him. She had put in three years before suddenly handing in her notice. At the next Family Meeting, she’d surprised them all with her naïve little scheme for an organic garden. Helen sympathized with Charlotte, who was trying to save the world, as Worth secretly joked, one head of lettuce at a time. And she thought Charlotte appreciated the fact that the family were all being supportive of her oddball endeavor. Well, they were all comfortable with Charlotte in an oddball endeavor. Charlotte’s enthusiasms were always genuine and passionate but seldom long-lasting. The family could indulge Charlotte one more time. She’d settle down eventually—she was their best hope for being what the family would consider normal. Perhaps she would return to the bank.
Oliver, Helen’s second-born and secretly her most beloved child, would never work at the bank. Staggeringly handsome, Oliver had always been the most like his mother, interested in art and music, bored with sports and banking, mild-mannered and dreamy. Helen and Worth had not been surprised when, at sixteen, Oliver announced that he was gay. Back then, Worth was still trying to groom Oliver to take over the bank, but Oliver combined his father’s facility for numbers with his mother’s love of art and became an architect. Now, at twenty-eight, he was living and working in San Francisco with his partner, Owen. Oliver and Owen were planning a commitment ceremony this year.
Their third child, Teddy, was the real problem. He was becoming—could she actually say it?—a drug addict and alcoholic. Harsh words. Painful, frightening words. She wasn’t sure they were accurate. Teddy had always been moody, volatile, and, she had to admit it, spoiled. Possessed of the same charismatic good looks all her children had—the shining maple sugar hair, the sapphire eyes rimmed with thick dark lashes—Teddy was the baby of the family. If Helen had spoiled him, so had everyone else. Helen had often wondered just how much difference it made that Herb, Teddy’s grandfather and the stern commanding patriarch of the Wheelwrights, had died during Teddy’s teenage years. She’d always believed that Herb might have talked some sense into Teddy. She and Worth had not managed to do that, no matter how hard they’d tried.
Since they couldn’t change Teddy, somehow they had, without conscious agreement, changed themselves. Changed their standards. Teddy hadn’t been subjected to the tongue lashings and groundings they’d imposed on the two older children. But Teddy was so sweet!
As a child he was simply a mischievous elf, playing pranks. Somehow all that had blurred, until, when he was eleven, he’d sneaked out one night and driven Worth’s Mercedes around the neighborhood and into a wall. That time, they’d been so glad he wasn’t injured that they hadn’t gotten angry. And really it was hard to be angry with Teddy. He had an infectious laugh and a lightning-quick wit. He had the same easy charm Worth and Oliver had, too. He was kindhearted and gentle, never mean. At boarding school he got into trouble for all kinds of silliness, but he was always simply playful, roguish, not destructive, at least not on purpose.
Worth thought it was his fault, the way Teddy had turned out. Worth had a sense of humor—Helen thought he’d gotten Grace’s share, as well—and especially with his family he indulged his flippant side. He loved pounding on the piano, and all through the years Worth had often entertained his family by spontaneously transforming their daily activities, successes and woes, into a musical comedy. He’d roll up his shirtsleeves, seat himself with a flourish at the baby grand, and bang out the theme from Sound of Music as if it had been written by Wagner. “Teddy wants a dog, but Mom’s allergic, Oliver has a cold, but Charlotte’s fine!” he’d bellow, or something just as silly.
When the children were learning to sail, Worth had concocted elaborate pirate fantasies that lasted for days. He’d arrive at the island with a multitude of plastic “gem”-encrusted swords, ravage the trunks in Nona’s attics for dress-up clothes, and charm Nona into turning her old hats and scarves into tricornes and black eye patches. Grace had always scoffed at her brother’s foolishness, but her daughters followed Worth into his games with stars in their eyes.
Worth had taught his children to ski, to play tennis, and to sail. During blizzards, he’d spend hours playing board games with them, and if it rained for several days during the summer, he’d invent an indoor scavenger hunt that involved the entire family, Grace and Kellogg and their daughters and Nona, too. He worked hard, and he played just as hard.
How had that love of fun been transmuted into an addiction to drugs and alcohol for their third child?
A year ago, Teddy had dropped out of another college—the third he’d been admitted to after failing out of the first and being banned from the second for being drunk and high and mooning a professor on campus. He’d raided his college fund to travel around the continent, phoning from time to time to assure them he was okay. He’d phoned three weeks ago, and he’d promised to arrive on Nantucket, in time for Nona’s birthday.
Perhaps when they were all together, all her children, safe on the island, enfolded in family routines as polished by the years as soft-buffed silver, perhaps then Helen’s headaches would cease. She would be so grateful for that, even if it lasted only a few days.
Nona’s birthday. Helen would focus on that. She needed to get ready for the trip. She rose. Worth might be awake now, might enjoy sitting down to a proper breakfast for once. She’d ask him.
Worth didn’t often eat breakfast, even though Helen reminded him that doctors said it was the most important meal of the day. Her husband sprang from bed wide awake and energetic, ready to take on the world. Even coffee didn’t interest him. But then, Worth was a good sleeper, not a continually exhausted insomniac like Helen. Worth fell asleep when his head touched the pillow around eleven at night, and he snored, twitched, and slumbered luxuriously in what was obviously a refreshing, rejuvenating state until, around seven thirty, he awoke in full consciousness, threw back the covers, and strode into the bathroom for a brisk shower. He dressed entirely, crisp shirt, cuff links, suit, tie, and wingtips, without even a sip of juice. If Helen tried to press breakfast on him, he told her he’d grab something when he got to the offic
e, and he’d snatch up his briefcase, peck her on the forehead, and march out the door.
It still seemed wrong to her, separate bedrooms, even though it had been her own relentless insomnia brought on by hot flashes that, a few years ago, drove Worth out of their marriage bed and down the hall to one of the guest rooms. It suited them both, really, since they went to sleep and woke at different times, but she missed the warmth and weight of Worth’s body in the bed, missed the accidental touch of his knee against the back of her leg, which often inspired them toward lovemaking.
Although, now that she thought about it, in the first few months after his move, they had made love more than usual. And it had been better. Worth had taken the trouble of seducing her, and she had returned the favor. It had been like having a lover.
When had that changed? They still made love occasionally, not as often as Helen would like but, as Worth reminded her, he was sixty. He showed affection in other ways—he brought her flowers, and books, he complimented her on her hair, he noticed when she looked good—but it seemed to Helen that marriage was not just about dutiful displays of fondness but profound physical encounters. Perhaps not as often now, but still, even at their age.
Worth must be awake by now. She could make eggs Benedict. Or even pancakes. Her spirits rose as she headed up the stairs and down the hall to Worth’s bedroom.
As she drew close to Worth’s door, she heard him talking on his cell phone. Good, she thought, because he was awake, and then, Oh, dear, because she hated it when his work, his important overriding work, invaded their home on weekends.
“Come on, Sweet Cakes, don’t be that way. You know I’m thinking about you every minute. You know the only thing I want to do is take you back to bed.”
What? Helen stopped dead in the hall, as if she’d run into an invisible wall. What was Worth saying? Who was he talking to? Sweet Cakes?
“You know I do. And you know I will. I promise. But I’ve got to get through this family business first. I’ve explained it to you. Come on, talk nice to me.”
Talk nice to me? Worth’s voice held a low, playful, sexual urgency Helen hadn’t heard for years. The very sound of it made her blush. She stood there, paralyzed in the hall, eavesdropping on her husband and flushing with a painful heat.
“I don’t think she’s awake yet. I don’t smell coffee. But she’ll be up any minute so I really should get off the phone. Oh, Sweet Cakes, you know I’ll phone you.” His voice grew louder, as if he were moving closer to the door, to the hall, where Helen stood paralyzed.
Then the primitive fight-or-flight survival instinct shut down her thoughts and shocked her into action. Heart pounding, she raced down the stairs and into the den, where she paced around the room, wringing her hands together.
My God. Worth was having an affair.
She had known something was wrong. She’d sensed it, the presence of a parasitic vine twining around her life, draining her marriage of its nutrients.
Growing green and supple, while she grew gray and brittle.
But perhaps she was wrong! Perhaps—but no. She had heard her husband say it. All he wanted was to take Sweet Cakes to bed.
All right, then, perhaps it wasn’t serious. But what if it was? Worth was a handsome man with enormous charm and charisma. He was a powerful man with many friends. She was sure he hadn’t had affairs before now. For one thing, he was always so busy, either at the bank or with his family. Of course she was not naïve; she knew a man could always find time to have an affair, but Worth was a Wheelwright, and Wheelwrights were all about family.
Worth’s father would not have tolerated any kind of insult to the family. But Herb had died five years ago. He was not here to judge. Nona judged, and harshly, but she didn’t have the kinds of access Herb had had to the world of men. She did not have the enormous range of contacts.
Was this why Worth was having an affair? Because his father had died and his mother was aging? Nona’s hearing and strength were failing. Worth was always her favorite, and Nona’s slowly flagging energy had to be very hard for him to see.
And his children were refusing to go through the golden doors Worth had opened for them, into the business of the family bank. Perhaps he considered himself a failure because of this, and Worth did not like to fail.
Oh, come on, Helen, she told herself. It doesn’t take a convoluted Freudian reason for a man to have an affair. It only takes Sweet Cakes and chemistry. What should she do?
What could she do?
Should she confront him? No. Not now. Not today. It was Nona’s birthday. Her children were already bringing enough disorder into the clockwork perfection of the Wheelwright family. She would not allow herself to distract anyone from this weekend celebration of their revered and beloved Nona.
But she was almost shivering with a frantic energy that outdid any caffeine hit she’d ever had. Was she hysterical? Probably. She had reason to be!
She had to think about something else, or she’d simply explode. Hurrying to her desk, she forced herself to focus. Book sale, her calendar said. Book sale. She needed to sort books for the island library sale.
One wall of the den had shelves built in from floor to ceiling, and the shelves were full. In some places, books had been placed in front of or on top of the original rows. Pacing back and forth, she scanned the titles, and then she began to empty the shelves. The Scarlet Letter! They hadn’t read that in years. And all those Hemingways were her college texts. And Edgar Allan Poe was so weird and depressing. These editions, handsomely bound, would bring a pretty penny.
Her stack grew. She would box these up and take them down to the island when they moved down for the summer.
And the children’s books! She could pack those too, all of them! Who knew when she would ever have grandchildren? She longed for grandchildren, but would she ever have any? Oliver and Owen wouldn’t have children. Teddy was practically a child himself. And she couldn’t press the responsibility on Charlotte. Charlotte already had enough on her plate, with her father’s constant reminders that he’d love her to return to work at the bank.
“What are you doing?”
Helen jumped, startled, heart pounding, as if she’d been caught in some dire guilty act. “Books,” she managed to say. “I’m sorting books.”
“Why now? And why are you crying?” Worth came toward her, an expression of genuine concern on his face. “Helen? What’s wrong?”
Helen turned away and hid her face in her hands.
“Grandchildren,” she sputtered desperately. “I’ll never have grandchildren to read all these wonderful books to.”
Worth put his arms around her and pulled her close to his body. “Of course we’ll have grandchildren. Everyone has their families late these days. Charlotte’s only thirty.”
Helen sniffed and wiped her cheeks with her hands. “I know. I’m just being silly.”
“Not silly. Not at all. I’d like grandchildren, too.”
She pulled away from him. His warmth and understanding made her feel like an emotional nutcase; he was having sex with Sweet Cakes and yet he could be so loving to his wife. She couldn’t process it.
“I need to shower and pack,” she said, without looking at him. “We don’t want to be late.”
Without waiting for a reply, she left the den and hurried up the stairs to her bedroom. She crossed her room, entered the bathroom, shut the door and locked it, stripped off her gown, and stepped into her shower. Pain slammed at her head. She wrenched the water taps open to the fullest, grateful for the onslaught of noise and water. She bent over, put her hands on her knees, and gasped for breath.
The hot water beat against her bare back. She unfolded to her full height and sagged against the tiled wall, letting the steady flow of water comfort her.
But the thought would not recede: Worth was having an affair.
Had Nona ever run down the hall and thrown herself into a shower to collect her thoughts? Helen doubted it. Nona was always composed. Nona wa
s perfect.
Helen turned off the water, stepped out, dried off, and ran a comb through her heavy, curly salt-and-pepper hair. She’d always been secretly proud of her hair, thick and wavy and luxurious. She never wore makeup, except for lipstick on formal occasions. Her skin was pretty good, considering all the time she’d spent in the sun. Her mother had been an early devotee of sunblock and straw hats. Her blue eyes were her best feature, she thought; she needed glasses only for reading. And although she’d gained weight over the years, the various sports she pursued in her own mild way and the hours spent on the exercise bike or treadmill when she thought about it had paid off. Perhaps she was not slim, but she was not fat, either. Until now, she’d considered herself just pretty much healthy. And at sixty, healthy was fabulous.
But obviously not fabulous enough for Worth. Helen returned to her bedroom and pulled a loose floral sundress over her head. She slipped into a cashmere cardigan in the same dreamy pinks and sat down on the side of the bed to buckle her sandals. As she stood before her mirror, fastening her necklace, a tinkling dangle of silver with beads and nuggets of reds and yellows and blues, her hands trembled. Sweet Cakes. The name conjured up a soft blond beauty, someone with delicious flesh and adorable dimples. Someone irresistible.
Someone who could change all their lives.
How different would this summer be? Would Worth still fly down every weekend, to swim, sail, and play tennis, to enjoy lobster dinners and clambakes? Or would he remain in Boston, claiming the exigencies of work, when in truth he wanted to be with his—his what? His mistress? That sounded rather Victorian and frivolous. His girlfriend? She couldn’t imagine Worth with a girl.
Well, then, a lover. She hugged herself and rocked slowly as she sat on the side of her unmade bed.
“Helen?” Worth called from the bottom of the stairs. “What’s taking you so long? We’ve got to leave for the airport.”
Nancy Thayer Page 4