This was the day Peter had planned the family doubles. After lunch he and Amanda took on Tess and Emma. Peter and Amanda won the toss.
“You start, Nanna,” Peter said, and tossed her a ball. “I just got the bill for the second half of your clinic. I want to see what I’m getting for my money.” He moved up to the net and leaned forward, waiting for Amanda to serve behind him. He grinned at Tess across the net. “I’m going to poach,” he warned her.
“Don’t,” ordered Tess. She shook her head at him.
Amanda stood, frowning and slouching, at the service line. She was wearing a dirty tennis skirt, though her T-shirt was clean. When she had come downstairs in the dirty skirt, Emma asked if she didn’t have a clean one, but Amanda said this was the only one she could find.
“I’m sure there’s a clean skirt for you to wear,” Emma said, touchy. Was Amanda implying that the laundry didn’t get done here? She felt silent reproach from Peter, for sending his daughter off in dirty clothes.
But Peter stepped forward and put his arm around Amanda’s shoulders. “She looks fine,” he said, not looking at Emma. Now Emma felt reproached for being too fussy. “Let’s go.”
Amanda’s shoulders drooped, her matte black hair seemed greasy. She looked so forlorn, thought Emma, so unhappy. Right now her heart went out to Amanda. I’ll do better, Emma promised. I’ll change things.
Amanda threw the ball up too high, and off center. She drove it into the net.
“Fault!” Peter called, short and high, like a referee.
Amanda threw up the second ball and walloped it into the net.
“Fault!” barked Peter again. He walked jauntily across the court. He looked back at Tess. “I’m still going to poach.”
“Don’t,” said Tess happily.
Amanda double-faulted again, then managed to get a weak second serve to Tess, high and deep and slow. Tess backed up wildly, swung off balance, and sent the ball straight up into the air.
“Where will it land, where will it land?” sang out Peter. “World’s Smallest Grown-up Sends Ball into Orbit.” They all watched it hurtle upward, finally pause, and drop down, outside the court.
“Good try, Tessie,” Emma said.
“We got a point, Nanna!” Peter shouted. He threw up his arms triumphantly as though they had won the U.S. Open. Emma and Tess laughed. Amanda said nothing. She walked back to the service line. Peter turned around to watch her.
“Okay, another patented Amanda Chatfield serve! Can they handle it! Nothing else like this in all tennis, folks, it’s never been returned yet! She learned it that summer she took a tennis clinic on Marten’s Island, it all started there, folks, the career of”—Amanda threw the ball up—“Amanda ‘Tiger’ Chatfield.” Amanda slammed the ball into the net.
“Fault,” Peter said.
Amanda threw the ball up again. It went into the net.
“Fault,” Peter said, more quietly.
“Dad,” Amanda said.
“Sorry, Nanna, I’m distracting you,” Peter said. “I won’t say anything more.”
Amanda lost the game with another double fault, and Peter called to her.
“Good try, Nanna,” he said. “You’ve got a great swing.”
Amanda said nothing. She took up her position to receive, feet apart, knees bent, eyes on the ball, frowning.
It was Tess’s serve. She stood still for a moment at the service line, collecting herself. She threw the ball up high and straight, arching her back supplely, bending gracefully as she’d been taught. But she mishit, slamming the ball hard onto the court, on her side of the net.
“Oops,” she said cheerfully.
“Good try,” said Emma.
Tess’s shirt had pulled out from her shorts, and her ponytails loosened. She danced and jiggled at the service line. The racquet looked too big for her, and her shots were wildly erratic. Tess grinned when she hit the ball in, grinned when she hit it out. Emma saw her connect solidly with a powerful two-handed backhand, her weight on the right foot, her arm in the right position. They all watched as the ball sailed out into the sky, toward the clubhouse roof.
Tess hunched her shoulders. “Oops.”
Peter kept up a running commentary. “There she is, ladies and gentlemen, the world’s smallest grown-up, serving one of the great games in tennis. First she’s going to hit the ball with the racquet, then the racquet is going to hit the ball with her.”
“Peter,” Tess said. “I can’t do this if you keep talking.”
“Sorry, madam,” Peter said cheerily. “I won’t say a word.” He made a face at her.
“Peter!” Tess scolded. “I’m going to start over.”
Amanda said nothing. She moved reluctantly across the court, her face sullen. She looked constantly over her shoulder, as though she was expecting the arrival of someone more interesting. When Peter served she stood at net, yawning uncontrollably. Every time she hit the ball Peter said, “Good try! Great swing, Nanna!” Amanda never answered.
Afterward, Peter walked back to the car with his arm around her.
“You have gotten really good, Nanna,” he said. “I think this pro has really helped you. Your swing is really fantastic, and when it starts going in, no one will be able to touch that serve, or that forehand.”
Amanda frowned.
“Do you like the pro?” Peter asked.
“I like him,” Tess offered.
But Peter wanted to hear from Amanda. “What do you think, Nanna?”
“Yeah,” Amanda said, shrugging her shoulders. “He’s okay.”
“Only okay?” asked Peter. “I have to pay the second half of your clinic. If you don’t like him, maybe we should move you to private lessons. Do you think this is worthwhile or not?”
“It’s fine, Dad,” Amanda said, and behind her, Emma heard desperation in her voice.
Poor Amanda, she thought again.
Peter, rebuffed, took his arm away from Amanda’s shoulders.
Poor all of us.
At home, Emma followed Tess into her room and sat down on her bed.
“Tessie, what happened last night?”
“When?” asked Tess.
“The nightmare,” said Emma.
“Oh, yeah,” Tess said, looking troubled. “I had a nightmare.”
“About what?”
“A rabid dog,” Tess said. She began twisting her torso, swinging her arms against the pull, not looking at her mother.
“But why were you thinking about a rabid dog, Tessie?” Emma asked. “Is it something that bothers you?”
Tess shrugged her shoulders and raised her eyebrows. “I guess,” she said.
“What frightens you?”
“Well, if a rabid dog came after you,” Tess said, swinging hard, “it could kill you.”
“But there aren’t any around here,” Emma said.
Tess looked at her sideways. “You said there might be.”
“It’s within the realm of possibility,” Emma said, “but it isn’t something to worry about. There are no rabid dogs around here. None.”
Tess eyed her and did not answer. She swung her arms back and forth.
“But why are you thinking about them?”
Tess shrugged her shoulders.
Emma stood up. “Well, don’t, okay?”
She left, worried. If Tess came in again that night, Peter would be furious. It was strange, Tess being so frightened.
Peter and Emma had barely spoken all day. They were invited to a cocktail party that night, and they dressed to go out in cold silence. Emma stood in front of her mirror, in silky white pants, a deep turquoise top. She pressed the tip of her forefinger against the round open lip of the perfume bottle and tipped it up. She touched her neck, behind the point of her jaw, at the base of her throat. The rush of scent made her feel pretty, wanted, and she looked at Peter in the mirror, hoping he would look back at her and smile. She hoped that Peter would say she looked nice, that he would forgive her, but instead he st
ood by the door and asked distantly, “Ready?” Still in disgrace. Her heart hardened and she nodded. She pulled a shawl around her shoulders and followed him without speaking. Peter went ahead to say good-bye to the girls.
They were in Amanda’s room. They were sprawled raggedly on the beds, still in tennis clothes, happily reading comics.
“Okay, guys,” said Emma. “We’re going to Mr. Taylor’s, for drinks.”
“We know,” said Tess, not looking up. “You already told us.”
“Well, blink if you understand,” said Peter, nudging Amanda’s foot with his knee.
Amanda looked up and smiled at them, peacefully, at that moment as though she were another child altogether, someone who loved them. Her short hair was slicked back, showing the shape of her head. Her blue eyes glowed. She’s pretty, Emma thought, surprised. She’d be beautiful if she were happy.
“Have a good time,” Amanda said, as though she were the grown-up, sending them off for the evening. “You look nice,” she added generously to Emma.
“Thanks,” said Emma, touched. “We’ll be back around eight, eight-thirty, and then we’ll have dinner with you.” She smiled at Amanda.
Peter smiled, too, at Amanda. He did not look at Emma.
“Okay, we’re off,” he said to Amanda. “See you later, Nanna. Be good, Grown-up.”
“Bye,” said Tess peacefully.
“Bye,” said Amanda.
Going down the stairs behind Peter, Emma was furious at him, for being so friendly to them, so cold to her. How dare he stay angry at me all day because I comforted my daughter? She hated the back of his head, hated his wide shoulders, hated the way he went downstairs with his hands in his jacket pockets.
Outside, the evening was still light, the sky high and luminous. The trees were silent, and as they walked across the gravel their footsteps sounded loud. They got into the car without speaking.
The road curved down the hill into the village, then out through a little wood. Beyond that, the landscape opened up onto the Point, which projected into the Sound. The road ran along the water’s edge. Beyond a narrow rocky shingle was a broad sweep of quiet water washed by the settling sun. It was calm. Far out in the transparent evening air were gulls, gliding, silent. When they rose, out of the shadow, their dusky forms turned brilliant as they were struck by the rays of the dying sun, their shapes suddenly gleaming in the high light-filled sky. They seemed autumnal; Emma thought that the summer was nearly over. She wondered suddenly if she would see them next year, if she would be at Marten’s next summer.
They turned the last corner, and the Taylor house came into view on the spine of the low ridge. The house was big and white shingled, with a deep wooden porch running all the way around. Lawns sloped away from it on all sides. There was a line of cars along the road. Peter pulled in behind the last one. They walked up the broad rising lawn, Emma on tiptoe, so her heels would not sink into the soft earth. Approaching the house they could hear the sound of the party: affable voices, laughter. On the porch was a crowd of people.
Old Mrs. Taylor had left the house to her two children, Christian and Edwina. Edwina used the house in July, and Christian in August. They each gave a big cocktail party during their respective months. They were highly competitive.
Edwina was married to a partner at Lehman Brothers and had more money than Christian. Her party was fancier, but she pretended that money had nothing to do with it. If you complimented her on the caviar, she said, “Oh, well, anything’s better than what Christian gives you. You’re lucky if you get salted peanuts, straight from the can, from Christian.” She shook her head. “Christy was always like that. Always. He doesn’t care what he eats. When he was little he ate kibble out of the dogs’ bowls. He loved it. They nearly starved. Really. We had to start feeding them out in the kennel, instead of in the house, because of Christy.”
But Christian’s cocktail party was very good. He did not, of course, serve dog kibble, or peanuts from a can. His hors d’oeuvres were wonderful, and if you complimented him on them, he smiled and said, in his nasal drawl, “Well, I know it’s not like Edwina’s party, but we do our best. And, frankly, I’ve never thought liveried servants was in very good taste, in the summer, you know, at the beach. A touch pretentious, don’t you think? But Edwina was always like that, even when she was a child. That was always her little way.” Edwina did not, of course, have servants in livery. Edwina hired the same four waiters that everyone else on Marten’s used for cocktail parties.
Emma and Peter had gone to Edwina’s party, in the beginning of July, and they were going, of course, to Christian’s. Everyone went to both. Edwina’s party marked the height of the season, and Christian’s marked its close. And they were elegant parties: it was a great pleasure, exalting, to stand on the broad shining porch, the evening sun lowering, in the big handsome house overlooking the water.
Christy Taylor stood at the top of the steps. He was portly, broad-faced and dark-haired, with horn-rimmed glasses. His skin was deeply sun-burnt, with white crinkles around his eyes. He wore a blue blazer, a striped shirt and bright green pants. He was a dandy, all his creases sharp, his colors bright, his edges crisp.
“Hello, Chatfields,” he said genially. He held up a frosted glass. “Welcome.” He took Emma’s hand and kissed her theatrically on each cheek.
“Christian,” Emma said, smiling.
Christian drew back, still holding her hand, and looked her up and down. “You’re a lucky man, Chatfield,” he said soberly, shaking his head. Christian loved women, though he had never married, and never appeared with a companion of either sex.
“I know that,” said Peter. He smiled, but the smile was for Christian, not Emma. She looked at Peter appraisingly, as though he were someone she had just met.
Up on the ridge, they were again in the full glow of the dying sun. Peter was lit by its radiance, his damp hair shining, his blue eyes brilliant against his summer-darkened skin. He looked golden and triumphant, as he had when Emma had first seen him, at his own cocktail party. Then he had moved so confidently among his friends, warm, expansive, in his own beautiful rooms. He had seemed then shining, potent.
Peter was older now: creases deepened his cheeks, and his eyes looked weathered, with strong lines around them. Still he seemed to gleam. Now that Emma knew him, she still loved his looks, his wide-set eyes, the slightly crooked mouth, the upper lip’s slant to the left. But Emma now knew his center, sullen valleys as well as sunny peaks. She hardly cared what he looked like: he was who he was, he was part of her. They had been married now eight years. She hardly cared that she was angry at him, or he at her, she felt so locked to him now, so joined, angry or not, handsome or not, it was his core that was joined to hers. Even their estrangement connected them. She longed now for his anger to subside.
“So, Taylor,” Peter said, “what are the chances of getting a drink around here?”
“Damned sight better than at Edwina’s shindig,” said Christian at once. “The bar’s inside, but someone’ll be around in a minute.” He held up his glass again. It was rimmed with pale glitter. “House specialty: margaritas.”
“Yum,” said Emma.
“You bet,” said Christian, but his attention was going. Behind them someone else was climbing the stairs, and Christian looked past them to greet the next arrivals.
Under the wide porch roof, on the freshly painted green floor, was the party. Everyone was in summer clothes: fresh linens, bright flower-garden colors. There was glossy slithering hair, tanned skin. White smiles. The voices were eager. The guests stood in knots and clumps, while among them threaded waiters with silver trays. The waiters, in white shirts and black jackets, carried long-stemmed glasses of white wine, salt-rimmed glasses of margaritas. The waitresses, in black dresses with white aprons, passed food: neat rows of toasts, glistening savories, fresh crudités. Everything was small, gleaming, tempting. Mounds of vivid green parsley declared everything fresh.
A waiter came up f
or their drinks order. Peter and Emma moved toward the animated crowd. They were side by side, but they still did not speak to each other. Emma wished he would relent. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. She’d have spoken if he did.
“I hear the blues were biting yesterday,” someone said, “in the race.”
“Emma! Will you be here next weekend?” a woman asked. “My sister is coming. She remembers you from last year.”
The voices swirled around them.
“He’s been posted, you know,” a man said confidentially, “at the Racquet and the River Club. And they can’t pay the maintenance on their apartment, so every morning he has to carry his trash down on the service elevator. In his business suit.”
“He’d never even seen her before April,” said a woman’s gleeful voice, “and by July she had him moved out of his house and into divorce court. He never knew what hit him.”
“No, he’s back at First Boston again. Somehow. I don’t know what kind of a deal he made. Nobody knows.”
Peter and Emma drifted apart. They knew everyone there; moving among them was like rocking in a warm bay, washed by friendly waters. Some people they made their way carefully over to, some people they only waved to; some people they had seen too recently to have anything new to say to now, some people they never had anything to say to, and merely smiled at.
Emma was talking to Susan Cartwright when Peter came up. Big Susan looked like a goddess, in billowing green silk, a tunic and loose pants, and long green earrings that fluttered gently when she moved her head. Peter appeared next to Emma. He touched her elbow, hot warmly.
“Let’s go,” he said. He did not look at her.
Irritated at his abruptness, Emma did not answer, and moved her arm away from his hand. She looked steadily at Susan, who greeted Peter happily.
“Peter! How are you! I haven’t seen you all summer, it seems,” she said, and kissed him on both cheeks. The margaritas had expanded her personality; she was now brimming with warmth. “How is your beautiful new house?”
This Is My Daughter Page 34