Nancy Thayer

by Summer House (v5)

  “Goodbye, Oliver.” It was an effort to speak.

  To her surprise, he grinned a wicked grin and shook his head. “Don’t even think it. You’re absolutely not going to die on me, Nona. We want you there for the ceremony. But you’re not going to die for years and years anyway, you know that.”

  “What are you saying!” Grace swept up, water glass in hand. “Oliver! Don’t talk about death in front of Nona!”

  “Right,” Oliver responded archly. “Because she’d never think of it on her own.”

  The bed jiggled as Oliver stood up. “Goodbye, Aunt Grace.” He waved at Nona and left the room.

  “He’s not as cute as he thinks he is.” Grace settled on the bed. “Can I help you sit up, Nona? So you can have a sip of water?”

  “Thank you, Grace, I can do it alone.” But Nona was dismayed at how weak her arms were. It was only sheer pride and cussedness that fueled her as she struggled, managing to hoist herself just a few inches higher on her pillows. When Grace held out the water glass, Nona was horrified to discover that she didn’t have enough energy to say Wait a moment. She rested, just breathing. After a few moments, she was able to reach out for the glass, but her hand was shaking.

  The water was cool, a slide of crystal elixir down her throat. She took another sip. And another. Oliver was an unusually handsome man, she thought. She had handsome children. But no one was as handsome as Herb.

  “I’m going to sleep some more,” Nona whispered. Seeing the concern on her daughter’s face, she said, “Don’t worry, dear. It’s just sleep.”

  1943

  The steamer Nobska rounded Brant Point on its voyage across Nantucket Sound to Woods Hole. Anne slipped her high heels off and tucked her feet up under her for warmth and comfort. Herb hadn’t warned her about the cobblestone streets and brick sidewalks of Nantucket, and the walking tour he’d taken her on of the quaint village center this morning had been hard on her feet. They ached. Her heart ached even more.

  “So,” Herb said. He settled across from her on a bench, looking handsome and relaxed in his civvies. “What do you think?”

  Anne gazed out the window at the long sandy beaches and gray shingled houses, the moderate waves breaking gently against the easy shore. “I think Nantucket’s beautiful.”

  “And? You’re looking mighty pensive.” He reached into his breast pocket for his cigarette case, held it out to her, and, when she shook her head, took out a cigarette for himself.

  Anne forced herself to be brave. To face him straight on. “Herb, I can’t marry you. At least not yet.”

  He recoiled in surprise. “Why, Anne, what’s gotten into you?” His face changed. “My parents are that bad?”

  “I didn’t say they were bad. I didn’t say anything about them, Herb. I’m not calling anyone names. But you can’t deny that they didn’t take to me.”

  “Look.” Herb leaned forward, elbows on his knees, earnest in his speech. “I know my father’s a cold fish and my mother’s—well, she’s formal. That’s just the way they are.”

  “Herb, your parents didn’t like me. Not even a little bit.”

  “My sister liked you!”

  “Yes, and I like Holly. But your parents—”

  “Damn it, Anne, we’re not going to live with my parents!”

  “Well, perhaps not, but you’re going to work in the bank, aren’t you? And won’t you want to spend every summer on Nantucket, in that big old house, sailing and all?” She had to look away. Every fiber of her being yearned to kiss him, touch him, be with him—that was all that mattered. But she couldn’t let it be all that mattered. “Besides, Herb, maybe they’re right. Maybe we’re rushing things. Well, we are rushing things. We’ve only known each other three weeks.”

  Herb said, “Anne, I knew I wanted to marry you the moment I saw you.”

  She couldn’t hold back the tears. She buried her face in her hands.

  “You said you felt that way, too,” Herb quietly reminded her.

  She nodded. “I know. I did. But we shouldn’t be hasty.”

  “Anne, I have never taken a woman home to my parents before. I have never asked a woman to marry me before. I have gone out with several women, and been a little bit serious about one or two, but when I saw you, it was like—like getting hit right in the gut.” He paused. “That doesn’t sound very romantic, does it?”

  Anne couldn’t help but smile. “It sounds very romantic. I know exactly what you mean.” She unclasped her purse, took out her embroidered handkerchief, and wiped her eyes. She was determined to be dignified about this. “But that doesn’t mean we have to get married right away, does it?”

  “I leave for special training in Arizona tomorrow,” he reminded her.

  “And we can spend the night together,” she said. “And I’ll be true to you, Herb, and I’ll write you letters, and when you get home from the war we can get married.”

  Herb’s mouth set and he drummed his fingers on his knees, thinking. Then he said, “What if we didn’t have a war on? What if I weren’t getting sent away? You know what? I’d still want to marry you right away, and not to sleep with you or to keep you from sleeping with other men, and not to start a family or be sure a baby’s legitimate if we accidentally did start a family. I’d want to marry you because I want you to be my wife. Right now. Right away. I want to be officially connected to you. You are my person. I finally found you. Why do I have to wait any longer?”

  Anne looked out the window, trying to compose her thoughts. The ferry steamed away from the calmer waters of the shoreline and hit rough water, the early October winds transforming the waves into troughs. The ferry reared and dropped, reared and dropped. Salt spray dashed against the windows and the horizon tilted alarmingly. Anne’s stomach turned.

  She put her hands on her midriff. “I’m going to be ill.”

  “Lie down,” Herb advised her. “Try to sleep.”

  She slid down on the long bench, pulling her light cloth coat over her. Herb rose, folded his overcoat into a pillow, and gently placed it beneath her head. It did help to lie down. She shut her gaze against the way everything slanted.

  She could feel Herb looking at her, and she remembered the first day they spent together just three weeks ago.

  That morning, their first morning together, when Anne and Herb finally made it to Anne’s little kitchen for breakfast, they saw the sun blazing in the high blue perfection of the sky. It was late September. Anne had the windows open, and a fresh breeze occasionally stirred the curtains. As she moved around, fixing scrambled eggs and bacon and toast and coffee for Herb, she was well aware of the domesticity of the moment, she felt as if she were trying to form a mold or pattern for their future life so that this simple event would be stamped into time like a phonograph record, to be played over and over again. She wore her summer wrap, a lightweight silk peach kimono. Herb had tried to put on her white chenille bathrobe, but his shoulders were too large. How they had laughed! He pulled on trousers and an undershirt. She wanted to sit on his lap while he ate. She wanted to be the food that he ate.

  Herb set his coffee cup back on the saucer and leaned back. “That was great. Thanks, Anne.” He looked out the window. “What shall we do with this fine day?”

  “Well, we could stroll through the Public Gardens. The trees are just starting to turn, and I love the trees in the autumn.”

  “You’d rather do that than go to a museum?”

  “Oh, always!” She shot a quick glance his way to see how he took this. “I guess I’m just a Midwestern outdoor girl at heart. Anyway, Herb, I’ve been in Boston for four years. I’ve pretty much seen the museums.”

  “Have you ever been out to Concord?”

  “You know, I never have. I don’t have a car. Well, I do at home, of course. But when I was at Radcliffe I never needed a car, really. I just took a bus or a cab if necessary. I was so busy all the time with my courses, and every social event was with the boys at Harvard. Sometimes we went down to New York
on the train, but otherwise I never even thought of leaving Boston and Cambridge. Do you think I should see Concord?”

  “I do. Absolutely.” He stood up, suddenly awake and energetic. “Let’s get dressed. We’re going for a ride in the country.”

  Anne wore a blue dress with a white belt, tied a red sweater over her shoulders in case they were out late, and knotted a silk scarf around her long brown curls. They walked up to Herb’s family home on Beacon Hill. While Herb changed into a fresh uniform, Anne waited in the living room, which was much like Hilyard Clayton’s parents’ stuffy old mausoleum. All she could think about was how glad she was that Herb’s parents were down at their summer home on Nantucket Island, because she wouldn’t have wanted to meet them this way, the morning she and Herb had become lovers. She was vaguely aware of the quality of the oil paintings on the walls, the porcelain on the tables, the high dignified ceilings, but it was really a small place compared to her parents’ home in Kansas City, so she wasn’t overwhelmed or even impressed. She was just thinking about Herb. She was just aching to be back in bed with him, to do all those things she’d learned to do this morning, while the sun rose.

  Herb raced down the stairs, two at a time. “Okay! We’re off!” Behind the house, on a narrow cobblestone lane, sat his own automobile, a 1938 Terraplane convertible. It was aqua, with a shining curved chrome grille and white sidewall tires. The seats were natural leather, the dashboard a shining curve of wood—teak, Anne thought.

  “What a beaut,” Anne said, and Herb grinned proudly.

  The top was up, so for a few minutes they occupied themselves in folding it back, and then they settled onto the leather seats, and Herb turned the key and pulled out the choke and gunned the gas, and they were off.

  Herb steered knowledgeably through the cramped and winding Boston streets. He glanced over at her. “Did you know that the streets of Boston were originally old cow paths? That’s why they’re so confusing.”

  Anne said, “I must confess I don’t pay attention to streets. I think I navigate by buildings, landmarks. Like, my apartment is two blocks away from the little diner where Gail and I like to have breakfast.” She waved an arm through the air. “This is all new to me.”

  When they reached Route 2, they picked up speed and their words were lost in the wind. The sun beat down on their shoulders and the wind blew at them, ruffling Anne’s scarf against her face. She lay back against the warm leather and allowed herself to soak in the soft magic of this day. Even without turning to look, she sensed Herb’s every move, downshifting the gears, smoothly passing a slow dump truck.

  Concord lay about fifteen miles northwest of Boston, away from the growing city, nestled among forests and neat farms. A perfect little village, with handsome colonial mansions and tidy stores and banks in discreet brick buildings, it slumbered beneath the sun like a town dreaming of the past.

  And it was a town in love with its past, a venerable past. Herb parked the car near the long grassy rectangle named Monument Square and ushered her around the village, pointing out historic spots. Emerson had lived in Concord, and Thoreau and Nathaniel Hawthorne as well. They strolled along Lexington Street, and stood in silent thought in front of Orchard House, where Louisa May Alcott had written Little Women. Walking a bit farther, they came to another house, where the Alcotts had lived; then, Hawthorne; and, much later, Harriet Lothrop, writing her book The Five Little Peppers and How They Grew.

  “So much history in one place,” Anne mused.

  “And you haven’t seen my favorite spot yet.” Taking her arm, he turned her back toward the center of town and his car.

  “Walden Pond?” she guessed.

  He only shook his head and smiled.

  They got back in the car and drove out of town along a narrow wooded road, not much more than a lane; the houses fell away, and they were in the countryside. Trees lined the road, shading them from the sun, making the light seem to flicker as they rolled along. Twice a bright orange maple leaf drifted down into the convertible. One landed on Anne’s lap, the other on Herb’s head, and they laughed.

  Herb steered the car into a small car park, and said, “We’re here.” They got out, crossed the road, and walked along a path between more august old trees. The lane was sprinkled with fallen leaves, like flags or trail marks.

  Anne saw a modest wooden bridge. Before it stood a small obelisk, indicating that the stone wall was a memorial stone for the British solders killed and wounded here during the Revolutionary War.

  “For the British soldiers,” Anne whispered, and she couldn’t help but think of them, those boys in their red coats, so far away from home, having survived crossing the Atlantic in order to march this far and then, on foreign soil, to die.

  They crossed the bridge, their feet thumping solidly against the wood. On the other side rose a statue by Daniel Chester French of the Minuteman. Beneath the plinth, carved into a plaque, were words from Emerson’s memorial hymn:

  By the rude bridge that arched the flood,

  Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled,

  Here once the embattled farmers stood,

  And fired the shot heard round the world.

  “I’ve memorized that poem,” Herb told her. “We had to, in school.”

  “I’d like to hear the rest,” Anne told him.

  Herb cleared his throat.

  “On this green bank, by this soft stream,

  We set today a votive stone;

  That memory may their deed redeem,

  When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

  Spirit, that made those heroes dare

  To die, and leave their children free,

  Bid Time and Nature gently spare

  The shaft we raise to them and thee.”

  “Oh, Herb.” Anne hugged herself, tightly.

  “I know,” Herb’s voice was hoarse. “I’m always moved, every time I come out here. I think of those farmers, that raggedy band of men fighting against the British troops, but I think of the British troops as well, who were probably all yearning to return to their own homes and families and farms and green fields and lush meadows.” He cleared his throat. “And of course those words—that made those heroes dare to die, and leave their children free—well, that’s what we’re going to be doing over in Europe, isn’t it?”

  Anne looked straight ahead, at the gentle arch of the bridge. “Are you afraid, Herb?”

  He chuckled, putting an arm around her shoulders and hugging her against him. “Of course I’m afraid, only a fool wouldn’t be. But I’m not superstitious, if that’s what you mean, I’m not—well, dreading the battles. And I do believe what we’re doing is right, I believe in the cause, and I’ve always thought a man had to have a cause to believe in, a cause he would die for, if he was going to be a real man.”

  Her throat was swollen with unshed tears. She managed to say, “You are sort of an old-fashioned guy, aren’t you, Herb?”

  “No, I don’t think I am. Or if I am, so are most of the men in the country. But don’t you see now, Anne, why it’s important to me to marry you? I don’t know, maybe it’s old-fashioned of me, but I’d like to have a wedding ring on my finger and a wife to write letters to, and not just any old wife. I’d like to know you were my wife. Here, in my country while I’m off fighting.”

  He was such a romantic man. Anne had never met such a romantic man. “You know I love you, Herb.”

  He tilted her face up so he could look in her eyes. “Then marry me,” he said.

  She had said said, “I will. Yes. I will …”

  “Anne?” Herb leaned over and gently touched Anne’s shoulder. “We’re almost there.”

  She sat up, smoothing her skirt down over her legs. She ran her fingers through her hair. “I’m not a very good sailor, I’m afraid.”

  “It was a rougher crossing than usual.”

  She stood, pulling her sweater up against her shoulders, and looked out the window at the long harbor with sandbars and long stretch
es of beach and gray shingled cottages among the low dunes. Fishing boats motored past, and a handsome orange and black Coast Guard vessel was pulling away from the dock. She saw cars on shore, and people standing in the sunshine waving at the approaching ferry. She liked seeing the bustle of normal life. It made her braver. Herb’s parents were only two people, after all, in all the wide world, and as Herb said, in all this wide world they had found each other.

  Herb stood behind her. He didn’t touch her, but she could feel his breath on her hair. “How do you feel?”

  “Better.” She looked up at him. “Much better. I was being silly before, and I’m sorry. I want to marry you, Herb. As soon as possible.”

  Twelve

  The very early mornings had come to be Charlotte’s favorite time of day. She’d wake to her alarm, pull on her work clothes, and tiptoe through the sleeping house, down the stairs, and out to the mudroom, where she sat on an old wooden bench and laced up her boots. Then, careful not to slam the door, she stepped out into the fresh morning. As she hurried to her shed for her tools and then strode up the drive toward her garden, dawn slowly revealed itself like a secret shared with her alone. She had become so acquainted with the few magic moments when the sun, with stately royalty, rose, that she could sense it on her shoulders before her eyes saw the light. She felt a primitive response in her belly and across the back of her neck; it was if someone invisible leaned toward her, whispering. She felt a breath.