Summer Breeze

by Nancy Thayer

  She could see Petey in Mrs. Smith’s passenger seat, holding on to the door, bouncing up and down, exploring the unfamiliar door handles and buttons. The older woman settled in the driver’s seat and showed Petey how to lift the console lid in the middle.

  “Petey.” Morgan knelt to face her child. “Mama’s going to move the car closer to Mrs. Smith’s.”

  But Petey wasn’t concerned. Mrs. Smith had handed him her keys.

  Morgan started up her SUV, and with the warning signal beeping because she hadn’t fastened her seat belt, she maneuvered her car so that its gas tank was just about two feet from the old Toyota’s. Her SUV was a good foot higher than the Toyota; this would work. She got out, opened the Toyota’s gas tank door, opened her own gas tank door, and threaded in one end of the clear hose. She held the other end in her hand and began to suck. The gas quickly rose. The second she saw it, she stuck her end in the Toyota’s gas tank. She watched the dark liquid flow downward. It didn’t take long. It didn’t have to. Mrs. Smith didn’t even need a gallon of gas to get to a station. After a minute or so, Morgan pinched the hose tight, yanked it from her car, and held it high, letting the excess flow down into Mrs. Smith’s tank. Then she pulled the empty hose from the tank, wiped it down with paper towels she carried in the car, and coiled it. She screwed on the gas caps and shut the doors. She cleaned her hands with antiseptic baby wipes.

  “Now,” she called to Mrs. Smith, “try starting the engine.”

  Mrs. Smith turned the key. The engine rumbled to life. Quickly she turned it off and scrambled out of the car. “You are a genius!”

  “I have my moments.” Morgan opened the passenger door and lifted out Petey. “You’ll have enough gas to take you to a station now.”

  “How can I ever thank you?” Mrs. Smith held out her hands helplessly. “If you hadn’t come along, I’d be out here broiling in the sun!”

  Actually, Morgan thought, Mrs. Smith would have been in the air-conditioned gym office, waiting while someone arrived from a garage with a five-gallon container of gas. “It was nothing,” she assured Mrs. Smith. “I’m glad to help.”

  “You know,” Mrs. Smith said, “you are.”

  Morgan blinked.

  “I am what?”

  “You are glad to help. Just like the other day in the gym when I was having trouble on the treadmill. You are a person who likes to help other people. A very admirable quality. I am most impressed.”

  Morgan flushed, surprised and shy at this sudden estimation of her qualities. “Well, thank you. I’m glad—” She stopped herself. Mrs. Smith’s words had touched something sensitive, tender, and yearning deep inside Morgan’s soul. For a moment Morgan was afraid she was going to burst into tears. “Okay, then, we’ve got to get along. I’ll see you again here at the gym.” She lifted Petey’s arm. “Say bye-bye, Petey!” That was another thing babies were good for, providing distractions from conversation.

  “Bye-bye.” Petey flapped his arm in a wave.

  “Oh, but I feel so grateful,” Mrs. Smith called. “I’d love to repay you somehow for your kindness.”

  “Don’t give it a second thought,” Morgan told her. “It was fun.”

  The truth was, it was fun, Morgan thought. Was that pitiful? That she got a kick out of doing what she’d learned to do as a teenager when she crawled out her window one night to go joyriding with friends? Even now she could remember how thrilled she was that dark night, to learn how to siphon gas.

  It was after noon, and she was starving, and Petey was crabbing away in his car seat. She drove into the center of Amherst, stopped near the Black Cow, hefted her son onto her hip, and ordered sandwiches and an iced latte to go. She handed Petey an oatmeal cookie to gnaw on while she drove through the labyrinth of roads into the heart of the U. Mass.–Amherst campus until she found a parking spot near the pond. Once more she unstrapped her big boy, clasped him on her hip, grabbed the paper bag of lunch goodies and the picnic blanket she carried stuffed under the seat. She locked the car and headed for a long strip of shade underneath the trees overlooking the pond.

  Petey loved to eat. Once they got settled, he focused intensely on his peanut butter and jelly sandwich, which he took apart and licked, allowing Morgan to take a deep breath, sip her latte, enjoy her own sandwich, and gaze around at the college campus. It was like a city. A world. She had loved every campus she’d set foot on. The professors, the students, the residences, the ivy-covered towers of classrooms, the libraries, the labs, and especially the maintenance buildings that kept this world running. Funny thing about maintenance: It was essential, yet no one paid any attention to it; no one praised it, yet the most brilliant scholar couldn’t function without it. It was like motherhood, Morgan thought, grinning to herself.

  After lunch, she held Petey’s hand and they slowly ambled down to gaze into the pond, but Petey was tired and ready for his afternoon nap, so they turned around and toddled back up toward the sidewalk. He clamored for Morgan to carry him; she wanted him to walk as much as he could, and this particular debate took all her attention as they made their way toward North Pleasant Street, where she’d parked her car.

  “Cawwy!” Petey lifted his arms pathetically.

  “You’re a big, strong boy. You’re full of jelly sugar,” Morgan reminded him. She needed him to use up all his energy so he’d have a good, long nap.

  “Cawwy, Mommy, pwease.” In his blue shorts, white shirt, and sneakers, he resembled a tiny track star who could go no farther. Petey knew how to push her buttons, knew how to make his voice full of pathos.

  She was kneeling to pick him up when a very polite, accented voice asked, “Is the child okay?”

  Morgan looked up, but not very far, for the voice came from a short, exceptionally neat Japanese man in a crisp linen suit. To her surprise, Ben Barnaby stood next to him.

  “Ben!” Morgan rose awkwardly, Petey in her arms.

  “Morgan! What are you doing here?” Ben was impressive in his suit and tie.

  “We just had a picnic by the pond. I had to come into town, and I thought I’d give Petey the opportunity to see the campus.”

  Petey waved an exuberant hello at Ben.

  “Hi, guy.” Ben high-fived Petey. “Morgan, this is Dr. Takamachi from Tokyo. He’s an expert in nuclear engineering. He was the keynote speaker at our conference here this week.”

  Morgan extended her hand and shook the scientist’s tiny white paw. “I’m honored to meet you, Dr. Takamachi.”

  Dr. Takamachi bowed slightly. “And I, you. You have a most pleasing son.”

  The charming man was so doll-like in his perfection, Morgan almost bowed back to him. “Thank you.”

  “I am availing myself of fresh air, which is excellent for the brain, while at the same time I am having a most thought-provoking conversation with this young scholar,” Dr. Takamachi told her.

  Petey was squirming in her arms now, turning into octopus boy. “Well, I have to get my excellent child home for a nap before he has a meltdown,” Morgan announced.

  “Meltdown.” Dr. Takamachi first looked concerned, then barked out a laugh. “I see! I see!”

  “It was nice meeting you, Dr. Takamachi. Bye, Ben!” Morgan strode away, hurrying toward the car.

  Petey fell asleep in his car seat on the way to Dragonfly Lake. Fortunately, the heat of the day and the excitements of the morning had used up his energy, so when Morgan unlatched him from his seat, he scarcely woke.

  14

  “I’ll call you,” he’d said.

  But he hadn’t called.

  It had been over a week since that startling, magical, unexpectedly lovely sail on Dragonfly Lake. When Natalie and Ben had returned to shore, she’d helped him drag the boat up onto dry land, unstep the mast, and fold the sail, both of them working quickly, without speaking. What happens next? she’d wondered. She had been opening her mouth to invite him over for a drink when Brady came whooping out of the Barnaby house, followed by several of his teenage budd
ies.

  Brady had rattled out his words so fast he was almost incomprehensible: “Mom says we can cook hot dogs tonight but we’re out of hot dogs can you go get some?”

  Ben shot Natalie a glance filled with dismay, but his brother didn’t notice. Brady and his friends surrounded Ben like enormous hyperactive jumping frogs, hooting and bumping into one another.

  Brady continued, bouncing on his toes, jiggling all over, “And I have my driver’s permit, so if you ride with me, can I drive, huh?”

  “Yeah!” Zack yelled, and the two other boys chimed in.

  Ben was helpless, encircled by such exuberance. “Sure,” he said.

  The boys exploded with cheers and raced for the driveway, knocking and shoving one another as they went.

  Ben had smiled ruefully. “I’m sorry.”

  The heat still trembled between them. It wouldn’t vanish easily, Natalie thought. “I’m sorry, too.” She summoned her courage. “Want to come over for a drink after you get back?”

  “Yes, I want to. But I can’t. I’ve got something else on. I’ll call you.”

  Those were the last words he’d spoken to her. I’ll call you.

  Right. How many times had any woman heard that from any man?

  Still, she had totally believed he would call her. She hadn’t even tortured herself wondering what if that “something else” he had on tonight was a date with another woman. She’d sauntered into her house, humming an old Beatles song. It was late in the afternoon, but she’d been full of energy.

  When she was happy like this, she wanted to work. She almost couldn’t keep herself from working.

  There was an oil on canvas by Margaret Foster Richardson titled A Motion Picture painted around 1912 that Natalie had always adored above all other paintings. It was a portrait of the painter moving toward her easel, a young woman with her hair pulled back, wearing glasses and a gray painting smock, holding brushes in each hand, staring intently at the viewer, her smock rippling with movement. The painting was compelling, dramatic, dynamic: a woman artist, alive, at work!

  This was what Natalie had always wanted to do, and right now she was in the mood to do it. She had the courage; she had the passion. She went into her studio, and as if on autopilot, put a fresh canvas on the easel. She found mirrors in two of the guest rooms, wrestled them off the walls, lugged them into her studio. She set them up, shoving furniture around to support them, angling them so that when she stood at her easel, she saw her own reflection.

  She began to work.

  That was last week.

  Today Natalie could not get the painting of herself to live. She turned the mirrors to the wall. She lifted off the canvas and put it in the corner. She paced her studio, chewing on her nails. She wanted to work, she still wanted to work, but she needed a new subject. She didn’t want to do oils, she wanted to go back to charcoal. Her charcoal portraits of Petey and Louise were by far the best things she’d done, and she wanted to keep at it. She wanted to do another charcoal, of a man. She needed a man.

  She’d be dammed if she was going to phone Ben and ask him to sit for her! If he had called her as he’d said he would, it would be the easiest thing in the world for her to ask him, and she knew his schedule was flexible in the summer. And his body was so beautiful, his long limbs an artist’s dream. His shoulders, so wide and strong, his collarbone, his throat …

  Maybe she could call him. Wasn’t it a new world, couldn’t women call men, weren’t all the silly old rules of courtship thrown out the window? And besides, this wasn’t about courtship, it was about her work!

  In a daze, she showered, dressed in shorts and a clean tank top, and wandered down to the kitchen for a bagel spread with peanut butter, which she washed down with a glass of juice. She tied on her sneakers and forced herself out into the heat of the day to walk the circuit of the lake.

  It was always early afternoon when she took her walk. During the week, most houses were quiet, only the hum of air conditioners breaking the silence. Natalie stayed on the shady side of the street, where it was a few degrees cooler under the trees. Occasionally a brilliant spot of summer flowers would catch her artist’s eye, but usually on this walk her attention was inward, on her artwork.

  Today, her mind was on Ben. Pathetic.

  Her pace quickened as she finished her circuit of the lake and came toward her home. Aunt Eleanor’s home, of course, but by now Natalie thought of it as her home.

  A white SUV passed her and turned into the O’Keefes’ driveway. Morgan stepped out, hurrying around to unbuckle Petey.

  “Hi, Morgan!” Natalie jogged up the drive toward her friend.

  “Hi, Nat.” Morgan’s son was dozing in her arms. “We’re just on our way to nappy time.” Her singsong voice and the look on her face warned Natalie that now was not a good time for a visit. “We just had lunch at the university, and Ben was there, and Dr. Takamachi, who knows everything about nuclear engineering!” She touched the SUV door handle and it slid closed. She lugged her purse and diaper bag and her drowsy little boy up to her house. “See you later, gator.” Her voice was now almost a whisper.

  Natalie waved, not wanting to break the silence. She walked back to her own house, let herself in, and then stood in the hall, frowning.

  Morgan had had lunch with Ben at the university? Morgan had had lunch with some nuclear engineer? Well, of course, Morgan was a scientist. So that made sense, kind of.

  But Morgan wasn’t a nuclear engineer. She wasn’t a chemical engineer. She wasn’t even employed. Why would Ben ask her to meet him for lunch?

  Morgan was married. So Ben wasn’t interested in her that way, was he? He certainly wasn’t like Slade, who tried to get every woman he met into bed. It had to be a purely intellectual friendship.… Still, for one blood-red moment, Natalie hated Morgan. She hated Ben, too. She was so full of anger she didn’t know what to do with herself.

  In the next moment she knew she didn’t hate Morgan or Ben, she hated herself. When was she going to grow up? Why was she such a basket case? So what if Ben had asked Morgan for lunch! Natalie hadn’t come out here to fall in love; she’d come here to paint. What she needed right now wasn’t a man. She needed some stimulation, some life, people, city stuff.

  She took another quick shower and pulled on one of her few dresses. It was black, like everything else she’d worn in New York. Suddenly she had a fierce yearning for a pretty sundress. Aunt Eleanor was paying her to “look after the house,” so for the first time ever, Natalie had some money to spend on herself. Maybe she’d get some new sandals, too. Stop by the used-book store in Northampton. Perhaps she could find some nice art books. Aunt Eleanor had a few books scattered around the house, but they were mostly thrillers, paperbacks with water-stained pages.

  As soon as she was in the silver Range Rover, she felt better. She punched in the classic rock station on Sirius and sang along as she drove. Northampton was a funky little town, its streets trailing away from the dignified campus of Smith College. Mixed among massive, fortresslike stone buildings were coffee boutiques, Afghani restaurants, and hole-in-the-wall shops selling tie-dyed bedspreads from India. She found a parking spot on the main street and ambled along the sidewalks, the tension flowing out of her shoulders as her eyes filled with the sight of so many young people, men and women, many of them dressed in colorful hippie garb. It was like photos she’d seen of the seventies.

  At the Mercantile, she found several sundresses in filmy cool prints, priced for a college student’s wallet, swirling with color and easy to wear, draped material falling from a sort of rope tied around her neck. She bought three and wore the purple one out of the shop. Much better now, much cooler. As she walked, the material belled out and gathered in around her knees, creating her own summer breeze.

  The used-book store was around the corner and down a hill. Inside, it was cool and slightly dampish, and packed wall to wall with books. She settled in the art section and surrendered to delight. She discovered a book with
several Lilian Westcott Hale portraits in charcoal on white board or paper and a more modern drawing by Margarett Sargent, a fourth cousin of John Singer Sargent whom Natalie had never known existed. She found a biography written by Margarett Sargent’s granddaughter, entitled The White Blackbird, and grabbed that as well. And a book called A Studio of Her Own: Women Artists in Boston, 1870-1940. She went to the cash register, dazzled with riches, stunned at how inexpensive the books were.

  “Natalie?”

  She turned. “Aaron!”

  Bella’s boyfriend was holding as many books as she was, and it didn’t take more than a second to spot that they were all various histories of San Francisco. “Oh,” Natalie said. “San Francisco! Did you get the job?”

  “I’m one of the final three contenders,” Aaron said. Rather sheepishly, he gazed down at his books. “Whether I get the job or not, the city fascinates me. Not just the architecture now, but the way it changed and evolved throughout the city’s history.”

  The cashier cleared her throat.

  “Oh.” Natalie dumped her books on the counter. “Here you are.”

  The cashier herself was a mobile work of art, so covered with tattoos and piercings she shifted like a hologram of herself as she rang up the purchases and took Natalie’s money.

  “Want to get some coffee?” Aaron asked as he laid his pile on the counter.

  “Sure.” This was just what she loved about the city, just what she needed—clothes, books, friends with interests that complemented hers.

  “The Golden Gate Bridge,” Aaron was saying as they left the shop and headed uphill toward the main street, “is both practical and romantic. It’s been called one of the wonders of the modern world.”

  Natalie stopped walking and talking. She stared at Aaron. Her blood thundered. “You’re a man!”

  Aaron stopped, too. He frowned at Natalie. “What?”

  “You’re a man, Aaron!” Natalie took a few steps to the left, estimating the depth of his rib cage beneath his shirt. “And I really need a man.”