Nancy Thayer

by Summer House (v5)

  She was so concerned about Teddy and this new twist in his life that her grief over Worth’s affair receded into the background, but it did not disappear. From experience, she knew how to compartmentalize her thoughts and emotions, and she thought she was doing it pretty well. But she felt as if she had been dropped from a great height. She was shattered, every cell of her being in shards and sharp pieces, and she was holding herself together with a thin layer of skin and teeth-gritting determination.

  She and Worth hadn’t spoken intimately since they set foot on the island. No chance, really, not with the rest of the family slamming in and out of the house. When they arrived tonight at the yacht club, they were, as always, separated by their good familiar friends, with gossip about marriages and babies in Helen’s case and tips about the stock market in Worth’s. Helen spoke mostly with other women, Worth with other men, but occasionally Helen would glance across the room to see one of Worth’s female friends sidle up to kiss him on the cheek and, laughing, straighten his tie or take his arm. She was pretty sure none of his yacht club friends could be Sweet Cakes. But she was glad it would be Worth and Grace doing the master of ceremonies bit tonight. Helen thought that if she tried to speak aloud she might choke on the clot of misery in her throat.

  People were through eating. The waiters had cleared the plates away. From a nearby table, Grace waved at Worth, who nodded and rose. They went to the bandstand together and took turns speaking into the mike. Grace was her usual clipped bossy self—she was a good leader and a great captain of a racing boat—but it was Worth who made the crowd laugh and applaud and cheer. Helen couldn’t concentrate on his words. She was staring at Worth, thinking of his body, that elegant, healthy male body, naked with another woman.

  She would have understood if Worth had had some kind of flirtation. Worth was sixty also, and while time had not ruined his body quite as much as it had Helen’s, he was a bit heavier, his skin was looser, and when he stood up, his knees creaked and he limped for a while, muttering “no more tennis,” although he still played. Helen often grieved—weeping, in real pain—for the loss of her youth, for the erosion of her beauty. She missed receiving the spontaneous attentions of unfamiliar men the way she once had—a wink and a grin from a man in line at the post office, a flattering flourish of the arm when a strange man held the door open for her, a double take from a man at a restaurant. And she missed the electricity of attraction that had once connected her to Worth.

  But they had been married for so long: thirty-five years. They had truly grown old together. Helen had thought that the sexual passion of their marriage had been gradually replaced by deep affection, shared memories, and a sense of comradeship equal to that of old soldiers who once fought side by side in the trenches. People said that a sense of humor was important in a marriage; how many women said, “I married him because he made me laugh.” Worth still made her laugh. They still shared so much, especially their family: their children, Nona, and Grace and her clan. They shared friends.

  Perhaps that was not enough for Worth. Over the past few years, banking as an industry, and the world money market, had changed enormously. He couldn’t do it all himself. He couldn’t even oversee it all himself. So his sense of self-worth might have suffered, and his power had definitely faded. Helen could understand that he might want a fresh young woman to remind him that he was still, in all ways, virile. She did not want her husband to be unhappy, after all.

  But she could not bear his infidelity.

  She wondered whether Worth was in love with Sweet Cakes. She wondered whether he would ask for a divorce.

  She realized she was wringing her hands under the table like a madwoman. But her hands were freezing cold.

  People were making toasts now. Applause. Laughter. Appreciative sighs. The invisible bubble surrounding Helen set everything apart; she felt like an anthropologist surveying the rituals of a strange tribe.

  The band launched into an old-fashioned Strauss waltz, that familiar lilting melody of a birthday song, and Worth stepped down from the platform, bowed to Nona, and gently helped her up from her chair. He led her to the dance floor, put one hand on her waist, and with the other took her hand in his. Slowly, with great dignity, he waltzed with his mother, who gazed up at her handsome son with adoration. With her stiff carriage, in her splendid floor-length deep blue gown, Nona looked like royalty. Helen felt bits of ice sparkle against her face. When she touched her cheeks with her fingertips, she felt tears. But that was all right, other people were weeping, too. It was a moving and wonderful sight.

  After a few minutes, Kellogg stepped out onto the floor and with great ceremony tapped Worth’s shoulder. With a flourish, Worth ceded to his brother-in-law. Kellogg danced with Nona, and then Oliver cut in, and now Helen’s tears flooded down her face, to see her eldest son dance with his grandmother. Mandy’s Claus cut in, and then Mellie’s Douglas, and finally, handsomely, Teddy. By this time, Nona wasn’t so much dancing with her partners as being supported by them. Soon Worth came to her side and whispered something to Teddy, and together they helped Nona off the dance floor, to return to her seat. The music swelled. Douglas led Mellie out to dance, and Kellogg offered his hand to Grace, and Claus bowed to Mandy.

  “Mother?” Teddy stood before her, holding out his hand.

  She went with him to the dance floor. She had to reach up to put her arm on his shoulder. “I didn’t know you could waltz.”

  His grin was wicked. “There are a lot of things you don’t know about me.”

  Well, that was true, she thought. She took her time replying. His skin was healthy and slightly sunburned. His blue eyes were clear. “Do you realize it’s been almost a year since I’ve seen you?”

  “Well, you know, Mom, not all families are as ingrown as the Wheelwrights. I know dozens of people who don’t see their families for years at a time and still manage to be perfectly sane and productive citizens.”

  Lightly, Helen asked, “What are Suzette’s parents like?” Seeing Teddy’s face grow cloudy, she hastened to add, “I mean, where do they live? What do they do? How did you and Suzette meet?”

  “Why don’t you type up a questionnaire and I’ll have her fill it in.”

  “Stop it, Teddy. I’m only asking normal questions any mother would ask.”

  Just then, the song ended. The music stopped. People applauded, and Helen forced herself to smile gaily at the couples surrounding them.

  “May I?” Oliver was there, smoothly relieving Teddy of the burden of his mother.

  With a toss of his shaggy head, Teddy left the dance floor.

  “Oliver to the rescue,” Helen joked.

  “You spoil him, Mom; you always have, you always will,” Oliver told her.

  “Oh, Oliver!” Helen bit back her words. She didn’t want to take the frustration Teddy made her feel out on her other son.

  The music was faster now, a sixties rock-and-roll medley, fun for dancing, impossible for conversation. It raised the noise level in the room, so that people laughed more loudly and, it seemed, more often. Helen danced for a long time with Oliver, who was without a doubt the best dancer in the room. He moved as if he had no bones, he flowed. He was the handsomest of her three children and the most at peace with himself, Helen thought. But then Owen appeared next to them, with Charlotte as his partner, and subtly Oliver and Owen shifted directions, so that for a little while the two men danced opposite each other, while Helen danced with her daughter. Perhaps Oliver’s aura of peacefulness was partly an act, Helen thought, and deep inside him a great discontent burned, because here at the yacht club he and his partner were not really able to dance with each other, not to a fast dance and especially not to a slow one.

  The music changed. Helen started to leave the dance floor, but Lew Lowry took her arm. “Dance?” he asked. And she liked to dance, so she did. She danced all evening, with all her husband’s friends and all the husbands of her women friends. When she danced with her brother-in-law Kellogg, she fel
t like a piece of luggage being manhandled around the room. And both Mandy’s husband, Claus, and Mellie’s Douglas plodded. She’d always felt that Grace and her family had none of the charm Charlotte, Oliver, and Teddy had, but of course she, as their mother, would think that. Truly, Worth was effortlessly more attractive than his sister. Well, Worth was his mother’s favorite. He moved through life as if a red carpet were unrolling before him while the crowd stood back, eyeing him with admiration. It was the way he had been raised, really. Was Worth unfaithful to her because she didn’t smother him with idolatry like some giddy girl?

  She was breathless when she returned to her place at the table. Tomorrow her back would kill her. All that weeding in Charlotte’s garden, and now all this dancing. Sipping champagne, she surveyed the room. Nearby, Charlotte was paired off with Bill Cooper. Helen looked for Miranda Fellows but didn’t see her. Bill had an appreciative grin on his face as Charlotte undulated, her arms high above her head, her gold gown swaying provocatively against her perfect slender body. Oh, my. Charlotte had had a crush on Bill when she was a girl, and it looked as if she had a crush again. Across the room, Whit Lowry leaned against a wall, trapped by a young woman who was practically crawling on top of him in her efforts to keep his attention, but Whit kept looking over at Charlotte. God, Whit Lowry was handsome! And from the way he looked at Charlotte—goodness, he was interested in her!

  Helen couldn’t prevent her mind from flipping into the future: Charlotte married—to Whit or to Coop—and having children! At last, Helen would be a grandmother.

  Although it was possible she’d be a grandmother in a matter of months. During dessert, she had tried talking with Suzette but found the girl unresponsive and monosyllabic. Suzette did not wear a wedding ring, but that wasn’t proof that she wasn’t married to Teddy. And marriage or not, Teddy seemed to believe there was a strong possibility that the child Suzette was carrying was his. Perhaps Teddy was ready to be a father to the child no matter whose genes it had, but Teddy was an impetuous, unreliable fellow, like a bead of mercury, gleaming like silver but rolling in all directions, never still and not always there when you needed him.

  “The girl’s a gold digger.”

  Helen startled, almost knocking over her water glass. She had turned her chair around so she could watch the dance floor, and Grace had swooped down next to her, dragging a chair parallel to Helen’s. Helen leaned close to her sister-in-law. “Grace, she might hear you.”

  “Are you kidding? Over this din? I can scarcely hear myself. Besides, what if she does hear me. The little skank needs to know that we’re not buying her act.”

  “Don’t call her a skank, Grace! Why are you being so uncharitable? I’m concerned, too, but Teddy said they’re married, and as Teddy’s wife she deserves our respect. And our assistance. The poor thing looks like she hasn’t had a decent meal in ages.”

  “She’s a drug addict, Helen, of course she hasn’t eaten.”

  “You don’t know she’s a drug addict! Give her a break, Grace. Teddy loves her.”

  “And Teddy is such fine judge of character, being such a fine character himself.”

  Helen turned to face Grace full on. “Are you drunk, Grace? Because that’s the only excuse for your speaking this way.”

  “Maybe I am drunk. But I’ll be damned if I allow some little piece of trash your druggie son’s dragged in to lay claim to any part of the Wheelwright legacy.”

  Helen sat perfectly still. She had never been close to Grace, but they had gotten along all right. They’d shared so much over the many years, cooking for their large intertwined families, organizing beach picnics, sailboat races, tennis matches. She’d never imagined Grace felt anything like this. She’d never seen Grace quite so vitriolic. In fact, she’d never seen Grace so passionate about anything.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw the black gleam of a tuxedo, and then her husband was standing in front of them. He leaned down to his sister. “Grace, may I have this dance?”

  Grace rose without another word. Helen just sat there, staring out at the dance floor, watching all the smiling, happy, well-fed people dancing by. Did anyone else have a family like hers? Were any other women forcing gaiety when inside they burned with grief? Did any other women feel separate from their own families? Helen’s parents had gobs of money, and Helen had had a sterling education. She played a decent game of tennis and could sail a boat well enough. She’d chaired committees and supervised events, and back in Boston she’d given all the cocktail parties Worth had wanted.

  But in her heart, she was not a Wheelwright. So then—who was she?

  The wildest thing she’d ever done was to suggest—merely suggest—that she open an art gallery on the island. When the idea was vetoed by the rest of the Wheelwrights, she let the matter drop. Helen had never wanted a career. All her life had been about her family—her family, Worth and their three children. She just hadn’t cared about being a Wheelwright. She didn’t care now. She wanted her three children to be happy and healthy. If she wished for anything else, it would be to have more presence in her children’s lives. She liked her children so much, even roguish Teddy. No matter what Grace said, Helen’s children were wonderful, amazing people, good people, and perhaps Teddy was facing more challenges than most, but he was still a good person, and she would stand by him and his choice of a wife, and to hell with the Wheelwrights!

  Grace returned to their table, obviously avoiding Helen and seating herself next to Nona. Helen saw Worth slow-dancing with Harriet Hingham, an old friend of Worth’s and a maniac sailor who crewed for him anytime he asked.

  Suddenly, there was a commotion. Nona gave a little cry and slumped sideways. Grace shrieked. People jumped up from nearby tables and rushed over. Nona’s body was limp. Worth pushed through the crowd and knelt at his mother’s side, taking her weight in his arms. Roger Parsons, their island doctor and a friend, pressed his way through the crowd.

  “Come on, folks, give her air.” He leaned down to feel for Nona’s pulse at the side of her neck. He looked up. “Call nine-one-one.”

  Eleven

  Cuddled in dreams like a china doll among soft cotton puffs, Nona became aware of a man bending near. She could sense the rumble of his deep voice, the force of his male presence, a large masculine hand on her crooked old chicken claw, and then his voice. She tried to open her eyes, but her lids were too heavy. Still, she could glimpse through her lashes, just a bit….

  It was Bobby! Her heart quickened. Her darling beloved son—but no, it was Worth. Or was it Herb? It wasn’t Kellogg or one of her granddaughter’s husbands—this male was hers, belonged to her; she knew it in the way she knew a familiar scent.

  “Nona?”

  It was Oliver.

  It was Oliver, and with that knowledge rushed a plethora of information: she was in her summer house, in her dear comfortable bed, and the cotton puffs were pillows, and it was day. She could somehow feel the light through the windows, and the windows were open; bless Glorious for keeping the windows open.

  “Nona?” Oliver sat carefully on the side of her bed.

  He smelled delicious. She had never approved of men using cologne, but Oliver did smell delicious, like a mixture of gin and pears.

  She managed to open her eyes. “Oliver.” Her voice was a whisper.

  “She’s awake!”

  It was Grace shouting from the doorway, of course it was Grace, she had always wanted to be the first with any good news, as if she would somehow be given credit for it, a gold star somewhere on her cosmic lifetime behavior chart. Grace liked to be the first with bad news, too, for that matter.

  The air of the room roiled as Grace rushed to the bed, elbowed Oliver out of the way, and bent over Nona.

  “Nona! How are you?”

  “I’m fine. Don’t fuss.”

  “You fainted last night at your party.”

  “Of course I did. I was overwhelmed and exhausted.”

  “You gave us all such a fright!�
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  “I’m sorry, Grace. I didn’t mean to.”

  “The doctor said you’d only fainted. We brought you home in an ambulance, and you’ve just slept eight hours straight!”

  “Could I have some water, Grace? My throat is dry.”

  “I’ll get it.” Grace flitted away.

  Nona was still holding her grandson’s hand, and now she squeezed it. “Are you leaving?”

  “Yes, Nona. We have to get back. Owen has a conference tomorrow morning that he has to attend. But we’ll be back in two weeks, for Family Meeting.”

  “And for your wedding.”

  “Yes. And for our wedding.” When Oliver smiled, he looked like an angel.

  “Where’s Owen?”

  “I asked him to wait downstairs. I didn’t think you’d want too many people crowding around you right now.”

  “That’s thoughtful, Oliver, and you’re right. I’m tired, and not feeling especially social at the moment. But kiss Owen goodbye for me, will you?”

  “Of course.” Oliver bent down and kissed her cheek. “Goodbye, Nona.”

  He was her first grandson. She could remember holding him when he was only a few hours old. She had trembled at the exquisite completeness of him, his little bald head, his squinting eyes, his birdlike rib cage. She could remember thinking how smart he was, and now she smiled at her memory. How could she have thought that a newborn was smart? And yet Oliver was, wise and intelligent and clever. She had known it when she first set eyes on him, and she knew it now.