The Last September: A Novel

by Nina de Gramont

  “So,” he said, in a different tone. It sounded businesslike, and aware of an unpleasant task ahead. “I was talking to my mother this morning. About the wedding.”

  “What’s wrong?” I said.

  “Nothing’s wrong.” Ladd’s eyes flickered a tiny bit, ever so slightly unnatural. “Everything’s perfect. It’s just my family, it’s stupid, but, I can’t get married without a prenup.”

  A small laugh burst from my throat and Ladd frowned a little. I realized it annoyed me that he was still looking out toward the water, instead of at me. Did he always do this? Look away in the most important moments? Is that why he’d missed the fact that I counted his money against rather than for him?

  “A prenup,” I said.

  “Yes,” he said. “A prenuptial agreement.”

  “I know what it is,” I said.

  “It’s just a formality.” I could feel his arm tense behind my neck, the fingers slack over my shoulder. His words marched out in the manner of someone who’s planned a conversation ahead of time. “My mother signed one.”

  I pictured a young Rebecca in some plush Boston office, leaning over a shining oak desk, her blonde hair pulled off her high forehead. Doing what needed to be done. Practical woman, dressed just right.

  But that’s not me, I thought. I wasn’t practical, or well dressed. I wasn’t that kind of person. For the first time in years I did something I’d assiduously trained myself not to do: I thought of Charlie. Obviously his family wasn’t as wealthy as Ladd’s. But no matter how much money Charlie had, I knew he would never do this, ask me to sign a document, ask me to prepare for the end of something before it even began.

  I could have told Ladd that his money didn’t interest me. I could have expressed surprise that he didn’t know this until now. I could have gotten angry, and refused. Instead I just said, “Okay.”

  “What does that mean?” His voice sounded not so much tense but released from tension. He’d come here braced for battle and maybe now he could move forward with it.

  “What does okay mean?” I said.

  “Does it mean, okay, you’re listening? Or okay, you’ll sign it?”

  “I’ll sign it.”

  I could feel his arm relax, then stiffen, as if he didn’t quite believe it could be that easy. “It’s not me who wants it,” he said, too fast, not himself. Embarrassed at the premature outburst. “It’s them. It’s not even them. It’s just the machine. I know we don’t need it.”

  It would have been nice if he’d said that first. My gaze remained outward, toward the seals. I could feel the tension rising again in Ladd, his arm twitching as if he wanted to remove it from me. He was sticking to his side of the script. But I didn’t know what my lines were. The words that felt most natural—any kind of argument—might ruin everything.

  He said, “It’s very standard.”

  I knelt down and picked up a small gray stone, then flung it, hard as I could, toward the water. It skittered, disappointing, just short of the breaking waves. Because I’d already peered down that rabbit hole, I went ahead and thought that Charlie would never say something like that, It’s very standard. Then I reminded myself, Charlie would never ask me to marry him in the first place. He’d never even asked for a second date.

  “Okay,” I told Ladd. “That’s fine.”

  A full minute passed. We watched a seal roll sideways off its rock. I could see its sleek head, bobbing in the water, staring at us. I took a step toward it, and the seal disappeared, under water. The rain picked up, not just misting but steady and torrential. Without speaking or putting our hoods up, Ladd and I ran up the beach, to the slick sidewalks, back toward town.

  On the drive to Saturday Cove, sunlight slanted rays onto the pavement, making the puddles of water look like puddles of gasoline, streaked with black and violet. Clouds began to disperse. Ladd’s knuckles looked red and chapped on the steering wheel. His hair was soaked and slicked back, his jaw set and irritated.

  “I don’t see why you’re angry,” I finally said, as if I weren’t angry myself. “When I said I’d do it.”

  “I’m not angry.” His teeth set the barest bit, biting back the emotion he couldn’t contain or admit to. I sympathized with the struggle, and wanted to run my finger over the sunburnt skin across his cheekbones.

  But I didn’t. Instead I said, “This is good news for your uncle’s party. The sun.”

  Ladd’s face settled into a kind of relief, his eyes widening back to their normal size. He reached across to close his hand around both of mine. His hands were big enough for that.

  “Yes,” he said. “It’s good news.”

  I NEVER GOT AROUND to asking the reason Ladd’s father hadn’t inherited Daniel’s beach house. Maybe he didn’t want it? The house he did have was significantly larger than the one that belonged to his younger brother. I suppose to make up for the fact that it wasn’t on the beach, it had a swimming pool—a long, gleaming swimming pool, with a diving board, surrounded by white lounging furniture. I had never seen so much as a leaf floating on the surface of that pool, and I had never seen anyone swim in it. Late afternoon before the Fourth of July party, I stood staring out through the French doors at that pool. Ladd was their only son, and as Daniel had no children, there were no cousins. It would be up to me, then, to give the pool the life it needed. I tried to rearrange the placid scene before me, fill it with splashing children, the diving board always quivering.

  From the staircase, I heard footsteps: definite, male, not Ladd’s. I didn’t turn, though I knew it was rude. Ladd’s father stood there quietly and I imagined I could feel joy emanating from him. Ladd had delivered the news, how easy it had been. Not the barest whimper of objection. When I did turn around, he wouldn’t say a word about that, but just say my name, and tell me I looked pretty. What else does a man say to a woman dressed up for a party? What else does a man hand to a woman who’s agreed to marry him but a gold pen to sign a legal document?

  Would John Keats have signed a prenup? Would Emily Dickinson?

  My constitution could only handle ignoring him for so long. I turned around. The red dress I wore had been purchased for the party, on sale at Filenes. It had spaghetti straps. The hem grazed my ankles.

  “Brett!” His eyes looked ever so slightly glossy with sympathy. He likes me, I reminded myself. He is prepared to love me. He wants me to marry his son. “Don’t you look pretty,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  Ladd came down the hall to stand next to his father. The two were dressed almost identically, in blue blazers and khakis. “Well,” Paul said. “Should we announce the engagement tonight? At the party?”

  “No,” I said quickly. Ladd raised his eyebrows, surprised, and I said, “I want to tell my mother first.” As if anyone at the party knew of my mother’s existence, or she theirs.

  “Of course,” Paul said, pretending my request made sense. The three of us went outside to wait for Ladd’s mother by the car.

  I HAD BEEN TO one of Daniel Williams’s Fourth of July parties before, last year, when Ladd brought me home to meet his family. This time I knew what to expect and wasn’t taken aback by the valet parking, the full wait staff, the parquet dance floor installed on the lawn that overlooked the ocean. When we arrived, things were just getting underway. The band hadn’t started playing, and Ladd’s father went ahead and parked his own car, right beside the catering truck. Later on, there’d be professional fireworks, impressive enough to rival the town display down by the harbor. Ladd’s parents stopped to talk to some other early arrivals, and I walked out toward the deck while Ladd went to get us drinks. Daniel emerged and waved at me in a kind of half salute, then reached out to take my hand and examine the ring. “That was my mother’s,” he said.

  I waited for him to congratulate me, then realized he was too polite—too old-world—to ever congratulate the bride. Instead he said, “I hope you’ll be very happy.”

  “Thank you,” I said. Daniel didn’t drop my
hand. He lowered it carefully, back down to my side. Then he let go.

  “May I ask you a question?” I said.

  “Of course.”

  “Did your wife, Sylvia. Did she sign a prenuptial agreement?”

  Daniel looked down at me. He had just cut his hair and it looked unexpectedly boyish. “No,” he said. “No, she didn’t.”

  “Did you ask her to sign one?”

  “No,” Daniel told me. He made his voice very careful. “No, Brett. I did not.”

  Ladd walked onto the deck holding two glasses of wine. He handed me my glass and Daniel shook his hand vigorously. “Congratulations,” he said. His voice sounded very deep and very definite. “You have something good here, Ladd, and I’m happy for you.”

  “Thanks,” Ladd said. The three of us turned to look out at the party. The guests all seemed to be arriving at once, and a swirl of navy blue and seersucker jackets blended with the wider, more colorful array of summer dresses.

  “It’s a beautiful night,” I said. Daniel placed his hand on my bare shoulder, not squeezing but letting it rest heavily. If anyone else had done this—any of the other older men—it would have felt like a drunken gesture. But from Daniel it felt measured, even protective. When he excused himself to greet his guests, I sat down on the built-in bench, while Ladd stayed standing, his hand resting on the rail behind me.

  “How come you didn’t want to announce it?” he said.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know.” And then, remembering my previous explanation, I said, “I want to tell my mother first. And anyway, it feels weird. All that attention.”

  Ladd nodded and sipped his wine, squinting out at the increasingly crowded lawn. “Look,” he said. “Eli Moss is here. There’s his mother, too.”

  I sat up for a better view. All I had to do to find Eli was let my eyes follow Daniel through the crowd. He shook Eli’s hand and touched his shoulder, and then hugged the tall, blonde woman standing next to him—the curly-haired woman who’d picked Eli up from the ferry. Eli wore the same summer uniform as the other men. I guessed his mother had picked out his red tie and probably knotted it for him. Words he’d said years ago popped into my head: We had this girl who used to take care of us during the summer, Sylvia, she was so great with animals. Daniel’s late wife had loved Eli, and Charlie, too. It made them and Ladd sort of cousins.

  I looked back at Ladd. He said, “Daniel always invites them. I don’t know why they weren’t here last year. Funny, we would have found out then. That we both knew them.”

  “Funny,” I echoed. “I think I’ll go say hello.”

  We stepped down off the deck and partygoers closed in around us. One of them stopped Ladd as we made our way toward Eli, but I continued until another break in the crowd. The rainy day had morphed into a spectacular night. The temperature hovered a few degrees above cool. The wind blew just softly enough to seem romantic—the leaves on the trees fluttering, along with hems and stray wisps of hair. The grass felt slightly damp as I walked across it, toward Eli, who hadn’t yet seen me. From this distance, I marveled at how normal he looked, and wondered if that impression would burst as I got closer. Whatever Eli’s state, it made me happy to have someone there I knew, not because of Ladd or his family. I’d had a life before these people.

  “Brett,” a voice said as I approached the next section of crowd.

  If I’d taken one more step I would have physically bumped into him. Him, Charlie, the only man at the party not wearing a coat and tie, grinning at me like I was something he’d misplaced, and nothing in the world could possibly be happier than at last, after all this time. Finding me.

  I REMEMBER THIS MOMENT two different ways, depending on my mood. One way, I’m an immature and shortsighted girl who’s mad at her boyfriend but not strong enough to say so, my fragile ego still not repaired from Charlie’s rejection. I care so little for morals and responsibility that I ignore the diamond ring on my finger, the future I’ve accepted from the good man who sincerely loves me. And will-o’-the-wisp Charlie, thoughtless and charming, sizing me up because he hasn’t seen any more interesting girls at the party.

  AND THEN THERE’S THIS other way. The way, if I’m honest, I remember the moment most often, even now, knowing where it all led. I remember a single second where the sea of dark and pale blue, of summer paisley and Lilly Pulitzer pastels, fades away. It’s as if every other person at the party suddenly transforms into a thin mist of smoke—leaving him standing there, not only without a tie but wearing blue jeans and a white-and-red-striped shirt with a Nehru collar. Charlie, with curly blond hair and eyes the precise color of the sky that frames him. But most important smiling—at me—in a way that contains every private joke I’ve ever wanted to have with him. If I see arrogance in that smile—a how can you help loving me kind of knowing—I also see something else, something that looks like very genuine fondness. That affliction—the beating plague in my chest—leaps without any directive from me. If it could, it would escape from my rib cage and tackle him on the spot, like a golden retriever welcoming its long-lost owner home.

  “Hi,” I say, hating the catch in my voice, the crackling octave rise.

  All the little strands of smoke slowly resume their corporeal forms. Conversational noise—along with the surf and gulls—fills the air around us. A waiter comes by carrying a tray of Champagne flutes. Charlie reaches out and takes the wine glass out of my hand. He places it on the waiter’s tray, takes two glasses of Champagne, hands one to me, then clinks his against mine.

  “Do you remember me?” he asks.

  “I do,” I say. “You’re the one who didn’t read The Sun Also Rises.”

  “But you read it.”

  “Of course I did. I was an English major. I’m named after Lady Brett Ashley.”

  “So why did you lie?”

  Thump. Thump. Thump. Can he hear it? Can everyone? Can Ladd—somewhere in the crowd? Did he turned into a strand of smoke, too?

  “Because,” I say to Charlie. “Because I’m an idiot.”

  His smile widens, if that’s possible. As if I’d just paid him the best compliment in the world. And I can’t believe that he remembers as clearly as I do. I thought he had forgotten everything.

  Charlie holds out his hand and says, “Present tense. Does that mean still? Still an idiot?”

  “Apparently,” I say, then take his hand, and we walk together across the lawn to the wooden steps that lead down to the beach. Ladd’s grandmother’s diamond presses into Charlie’s palm.

  When we reach the shore, I can’t help saying, “I’m surprised you remember. About the book. About anything.” I feel grateful that my voice sounds neutral, not wounded or accusing. Just honest.

  Charlie says, “I remember all of it. The book. The bear. The snow. The whole night. I remember you, Brett.”

  For a moment, I can see it. He looks sad. He looks sorry. He’s going to apologize, and might even explain. But Ladd must have seen Charlie and me emerging from the sea of people, walking hand in hand and disappearing behind the bluff. Not hard to catch up to us, our dreamy saunter, and he appears at just that moment, before Charlie can speak again. I remember turning—the sunlight so much flatter, in that direction, pixels from staring at the water still dancing in front of my eyes—and seeing Ladd coming toward us. To my surprise he doesn’t look angry—as if anger, at this juncture, would be too risky. He just looks determined. And separate, as if the us naturally refers to Charlie and me. Ladd’s face wears a poorly concealed woundedness, a question mark, whereas Charlie and I stand next to each other, no question mark at all. Owning this moment together, this reunion, but not the discomfort we have created for Ladd. And I know that when I think back on that moment it’s obvious whom I should feel guilty on behalf of: Ladd.

  But oh, Charlie. I’m so sorry. Because if only I had been truer, stronger, deeper. If I’d ever been able to control and squelch that frantic, girlish knocking inside myself. You would still be here today. Not with me, it’
s true. But here. Among the living.

  6

  What were you and Charlie talking about?” Ladd asked on the drive back to his parents’ house, after five full minutes of loaded silence.

  “Nothing. Just hello, how are you. That sort of thing.”

  “Why were you holding his hand?” He used a conversational tone that must have taken quite a bit of effort.

  “I don’t know.” I tried to keep my voice equally neutral. “He just took my hand. It would have felt rude to yank it away. I think he was just being polite.”

  Ladd snorted. I didn’t blame him. And I didn’t have an answer for myself. Riding next to Ladd, it was like I’d just come out of a trance and couldn’t account for my behavior while I’d been under.

  He pulled the car into the driveway. His parents were still at the party, so we had the house to ourselves, but Ladd didn’t go inside. Instead he walked around back and through the gate to the swimming pool. I stood on the lawn and watched him go, then went inside through the front door. In the kitchen, I poured two glasses of white wine and carried them through the hall and out the French doors. Rebecca’s dog followed me. Ladd sat by the pool, still wearing his blazer, his pants rolled up and his feet dangling in the cool water.

  I put the glasses of wine on the dry deck, then pulled up my skirt and sat down next to him. Ladd had his hands on his thighs, his fingers tense. The dog sat between us, staring out across the pool as if that were the activity of the moment. Which I guess in a way it was. I picked up my wineglass and sat there, waiting for Ladd to tell me how hurt he felt. Or else to tell me the various stories Eli had alluded to, about the girls Ladd and Charlie had warred over in their youth, in a tone that would warn me away from even thinking about Charlie. I imagined leggy debutantes on the tennis court, girls in bikinis. Blonde and blue-eyed girls who lived worlds apart from my own childhood summers of university day camp. I hate to admit I felt a little rush, a bit of unaccustomed ego. I had never been the kind of girl men fought over.