The High Tide Club

by Mary Kay Andrews

  Lizzie handed over the packet of papers, and a yellowed newspaper page fluttered to the floor. It was from the front page of The Florida Times-Union, dated October 10, 1941. BOSTON INDUSTRIALIST STILL MISSING; FOUL PLAY FEARED.

  “Read the letters and you’ll understand.” Lizzie said.

  Oct. 29, 1941

  Hingham, Mass.

  Dear Gardiner:

  Thank you for your kind letter of condolence concerning Russell. I’m so torn and confused right now, your letter was a great comfort. Perhaps you’re right, and he and I were never meant to be. His poor grandparents are distraught, of course, but your dear father has been wonderful dealing with everything, and I will be forever grateful to him.

  Please tell me all about your training. Is it exciting? Fascinating? Terrifying? Things are very quiet here at home with Mother and Grandmama. We never speak of what happened on Talisa, but I believe they feel I’m somehow to blame for Russell, and I fear I will never be able to move past this awful doubt. Maybe I will become an old maid and crochet doilies and shout at small children who ride their bicycles past our house. We read the newspapers every day and listen to the radio for war news, and I can’t help but be frightened for you. Please let me hear from you soon.

  Your good old friend,

  M

  Nov. 10, 1941

  Hingham, Mass.

  Dear Gardiner:

  I believe our last letters must have crossed in the mail. I think of you often too and pray constantly for your well-being and safe return home. Of course I would love to see you when you are back in the States on leave at the end of the month, but are you certain you wouldn’t rather spend your precious time with your family? I know Jo would be so disappointed not to see you. We had lunch together last week, and she spoke of you constantly. We had a fine time gossiping. Did you know she is doing volunteer work with the Red Cross? And Ruth has a new beau. He is from Chicago and very dashing. Not nearly as dashing as you, though, in your splendid RCAF uniform, so I do thank you for the photo, which I have hidden in my Bible, because Mother has become such a terrible snoop. She quizzes me constantly about who I am seeing and speaking to on the telephone. She has no idea of our friendship, because I am the one who brings in the mail every day, and I keep an eagle eye out for letters from my favorite airman. Speaking of the mail, must stop now before the postman arrives.

  Fondly,

  M

  Brooke sighed. “Wouldn’t you just love to read the letters Gardiner wrote to Millie?”

  “I would. And I looked for his letters but didn’t find any,” Lizzie reported. “They weren’t in the trunk, which makes sense.”

  WESTERN UNION: DEAREST G: CONFIRM I WILL BE ON TRAIN FROM BOSTON, ARRIVING GRAND CENTRAL STATION AT 12:10 P.M. NOV. 27. UNTIL THEN, M.

  Nov. 30, 1941

  Hingham, Mass.

  Darling Gardiner:

  I know it’s terribly selfish of me, but I was so very glad to have had you all to myself last weekend in New York. I never dared to dream in all the years we have known each other, since I was a funny-looking little kid pestering you for a ride in your car, that you would feel the same way about me as I do about you. My darling, I cannot believe that we wasted so much time pretending otherwise. But now that we are older and wiser, I don’t intend to let a moment go by without telling you that I love you, have always, will always. The trip home was fine, but the train was awfully crowded and overheated. You asked me what I told my mother about my trip, and I am ashamed to report that I told her I was meeting Ruth in the city for some shopping. I did take Ruth into my confidence about our feelings for one another. First, because I simply had to share my happiness with someone, and second, in case Mother checks up, Ruth will cover for me. Unfortunately, I don’t think it’s wise to let Josephine know just yet about our relationship. I love Jo so, but you of all people know how prickly she can be and how jealous and protective she is of her beloved big brother. Gardiner. There are so many things I regret in my life—Russell and so on—but the hours I spent in your arms last weekend are something I will never forget or regret.

  Your most loving M

  Dec. 11, 1941

  Hingham, Mass.

  Darling G:

  Well, it’s war. We all listened to President Roosevelt on the radio this week, and afterward, I hid in my bedroom with a pillow over my head while I had a good long cry. I try not to worry about you, but since your training has ended and you’ll be flying missions soon, that is impossible. So whenever I feel a black mood coming on, I pick up my knitting needles. Yes, your girl is knitting, and the results are ghastly. Which you will see for yourself—as soon as Grandmama manages to teach me how to cast off. The war is all we talk about and think about now. Ruth’s beau has signed up and shipped off to Camp Pendleton in California. Maybe now that the United States has joined the fight, we will be that much closer to beating the Germans and the Japs. All I know is that I live for the day when we will be together next. Is there any chance for New York again? Maybe at Christmas? You did mention that you might get leave again before you receive your orders, so I live in hope and am already making up a fine whopper of a tale to tell Mother. In the meantime, I am enclosing something to keep you warm in my stead.

  Your loving, lousy knitter,

  M

  Brooke looked up, and Lizzie thrust a bulky woolen bundle at her. “Here.

  It was a gray woolen scarf, knobby, full of dropped stitches, knots, and holes, but Brooke held it to her nose and inhaled. The scarf had retained the scents of cigarette smoke and camphor.

  “Millie knitted this,” Brooke said wonderingly, stroking the coarse woolen fabric. “Over seventy years ago.” She sighed and looked down at the diminishing stack of letters in her lap. “This is so amazing and unexpected. But I feel like such a voyeur, reading my grandmother’s love letters.”

  “I know,” Lizzie said, nodding sympathetically. “Keep going anyway.”

  Jan. 8, 1942

  Hingham, Mass.

  Darling G:

  Christmas came and went without you, and I was in a terrible, foul black mood. Please forgive my selfishness. You warned me that it was unlikely you could get away again, so this is all my fault. Can you forgive me for not writing sooner and sending you buckets of love and cheer? I did receive your sweet gifts. We all loved the maple syrup, which was such a treat with all the sugar rationing now. And the cashmere sweater was much too extravagant, and a totally improper gift from a gentleman to a spinster such as myself, which made me love it—and you—that much more. We actually spent Christmas Day with Jo and your papa at the house in Boston. There was a ham sent up from Talisa and oysters and as much jollity as we could muster under the circumstances. I believe Mr. Samuel has finally come around to agree with your views on the war, and at any rate, he and Jo are so terribly proud of their royal airman. I know you can’t tell me much about your orders or where you’re being sent, but I pray every moment that God will keep and protect you until we are together again.

  Your loving, bratty M

  Brooke’s eyes filled with tears as she tucked the letter back into its envelope. “I want my mom to read these letters. This is a side of Millie I don’t think either of us ever saw. I know I didn’t. Even despite the war, she seems so young and alive and joyful and frank and funny in these.” She found a tissue and dabbed at her eyes. “This is so unbelievably poignant, knowing Gardiner actually didn’t make it back to Millie.” She sniffed.

  “From the documents I found with the footlocker, Gardiner’s Spitfire was shot down by the Luftwaffe while he was on a bombing raid in northern France at the end of January ’42,” Lizzie said. “He’d just strafed a railway station in Boulogne and was headed back to base when his plane was hit.”

  Lizzie passed a hand over her own glittering eyes. “I researched it, you know? Online? These kind of RAF missions were called ‘Rhubarb Raids.’ They were basically just a nuisance to distract the Germans and keep them from concentrating on fighting o
n the western border. I think Gardiner and the men in his squadron were considered collateral damage.”

  “Fuckers,” Brooke whispered.

  “There’s one more letter from Millie,” Lizzie said hesitantly, holding it in her outstretched hand. “And it’s what Grandma Ruth would have called a doozy.”

  61

  Feb. 21, 1942

  Hingham, Mass.

  Darling Gardiner:

  It’s nearly midnight here at home. We’ve had so much snow this month, the drifts have nearly covered the dining room windows. Grandmama has had the flu, and now Mother has a fever too, but the weather has been so terrible the doctor can’t get here to check on them. Right now, I am tucked into bed under my quilt. I have all your beautiful letters saved in the now empty chocolate box you gave me in New York. Nights like this, when I am lonely and afraid, I read and reread them, and your sweet words of love give me strength. I’m praying that I’ll receive one of your letters any day now. It’s been a month, and I miss you so terribly, my darling. I follow the war news and believe your squadron must be in England by now, though I know the censors won’t allow you to say more. The thing is, darling, I have some news of my own that I’m afraid can’t wait. I’m pregnant! By my calculations, the baby is due in August. I finally saw a doctor in the city this week, and he confirmed my suspicions.

  I am so terribly sorry to bring you this news now, but I really don’t know what else to do. We talked about marriage in New York, and I know I was the one who was afraid of creating a scandal by marrying so soon after Russell, but now I realize just how foolish I was. Oh, if only we had married in November, and I could call you my husband and announce this news to the world and hold my head high.

  Of course, I dare not tell Mother. Do you know, she still seems to be mourning Russell? So far, I think my secret is safe. I’ve barely gained any weight, and aside from a little bit of morning queasiness, I feel fine. I did confide again in Ruth, and she has been my rock. She suggests that if you can somehow get emergency leave to come home, we could have a quick wedding. Eyebrows might be raised, and tongues would be wagged, and months would be counted, but that is the least of my concerns right now. But we both agree Jo cannot hear about the baby until after we are married and you have made a “respectable woman” of me. You know your sister can be terribly old-fashioned.

  Write to me soon, darling Gardiner, and tell me what to do. I love and miss you with all my heart, but the thought that I will soon hold our own sweet baby in my arms has me giddy with excitement. And terror. Do you know, I’ve never held a newborn or changed a diaper?

  Your expectant M

  Brooke read the letter a second time and again a third time. She heard the loud ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner and the whir of the box fan in the window, and she felt the slow slide of sweat trickling down her back. Finally, she looked up at Lizzie, who was watching her with open curiosity.

  “My God,” Brooke said finally. “Millie was pregnant with my mother. And Gardiner was my mom’s father. Not Pops. Gardiner.”

  “That’s what it looks like to me,” Lizzie said. “Gardiner Bettendorf was your grandfather. Which means that Josephine was your great-aunt.”

  Brooke’s hand trembled as she handed the letter back to Lizzie. “I’ve got to talk to my mother.”

  “Agreed,” Lizzie said. “And then you’d better call Gabe too.”

  “Gabe?”

  “Uh, duh. If Gardiner was Marie’s father and your grandfather, unless I’m sadly mistaken, that makes the two of you Josephine’s closest family. Her heirs.”

  Brooke let that sink in for a moment, especially in light of what they’d learned during their visit to the children’s home in Savannah.

  “Don’t count out C. D. yet,” Brooke cautioned. “If he really is Josephine’s long-lost son, he’ll be calling all the shots around here.”

  “And he’d be your mom’s cousin.”

  “Eeeewww,” they said in unison.

  Brooke flopped backward onto the carpet and stared up at the ceiling, whose plaster was water-stained and flaking. “This whole thing is too weird to be true.”

  “I know. It’s gonna make a great story. And just think! You’ll have every right to tell Dorcas and Delphine to kiss your grits.”

  “Kiss my grits?” Brooke said. “Now I know you really have gone native.”

  62

  Brooke and her mother sat in the small room her parents had added to the back of the 1920s-era Ardsley Park home. Marie had transformed the former den into a cozy sunroom, painting the dark pine paneling, ripping down the drapes, and installing a pair of flowered chintz love seats, wicker armchairs, and huge baskets of ferns and pots of pink geraniums.

  “I fixed us an early supper,” Marie said. There was a large club salad with wedges of juicy red tomatoes, hard-boiled eggs, sliced, poached chicken breasts, and bacon bits. She served Brooke a plate and handed her a linen napkin rolled around the flatware.

  Marie had never flagged in keeping up the standards Millie had instilled in her. Bone china, linen napkins, and always the good silver. The only time Brooke could ever remember eating off paper plates was when the family went on beach picnics.

  “Okay,” Marie said. “You’ve got me on pins and needles. What’s so important that you had to drop everything and drive up here today? Is it something about Josephine? Have the DNA results come back on C. D.?”

  Brooke sipped her iced tea. “Yes, it’s definitely about Josephine. But this isn’t about C. D., Mom. It’s about you. And Millie. And Gardiner.”

  “Oh yes,” Marie said. “The pilot. He was killed in the war, right?”

  “That’s right.” Brooke handed her mother the packet of letters. She’d had Farrah make photocopies of everything before leaving the office, but she wanted Marie to read the originals.

  “Before I forget, your dad wants you to call him.”

  “Why? What does he want?”

  “He’d like to speak to you. Could you just do me a favor and call him, please?”

  “No.” Brooke abruptly set her glass down on the table. “I’m not calling him. He can call me if it’s that important.”

  Marie handed the letters back. “I’m not looking at these until you call your father.”

  “Mom! This is really important. It’s why I drove all the way up here today.”

  Her mother folded her arms across her chest. “What your dad has to say to you is important too. So I’d say we’re at a stalemate.”

  “Okay, fine. You read the letters while I call Dad.”

  “Good idea.” Marie picked up the first letter and adjusted her reading glasses.

  Brooke was too jittery to sit and watch her mother read Millie’s letters to Gardiner Bettendorf anyway. She walked slowly up the stairs and without really thinking about it pushed open the door to her old bedroom.

  It was a small room, with a low, sloping ceiling and pink-and-green-striped wallpaper, last decorated when Brooke turned fourteen. Marie hadn’t gotten around to redecorating it yet, for which Brooke was thankful.

  She sat on the white-painted canopy bed and scrolled through her contacts until she found Gordon Trappnell’s cell number. She checked the time. Not yet five. With luck, he’d still be at his office and out of earshot of Patricia, his second wife.

  Gordon and Patricia had been married for five years now, but Brooke still refused to refer to her as her stepmother. Once, Patricia and her first husband had been close friends with Gordon and Marie. They’d been members of a neighborhood supper club, and Patricia had been part of Marie’s book club. But the divorces had shattered both those groups, not to mention Brooke’s own fondest notions about her parents’ “perfect marriage.”

  She tapped his number, silently hoping he wouldn’t pick up. But he did, on the first ring.

  “Brooke? Is that you?”

  “It’s me, Dad. Mom said you wanted to talk to me. What’s up?”

  “Oh. Well…” Her father seeme
d to be at a momentary loss for words. “How are you? How’s that boy of yours?”

  Fifteen seconds. She was only fifteen seconds into a call with her father and already doing a slow burn.

  “His name is Henry, Dad. H-E-N-R-Y. And he’s fine.”

  “I know his name, Brooke. Your mom keeps me up to date on everything. Is his arm healing? Maybe next time you come up, we could get together. I’d really like to see him.”

  An acid, sarcastic response was on the tip of her tongue, but she chose to let the moment pass. “That would be nice. His arm is totally healed. I’ll see what I can do about a get-together. In the meantime, what’s so important that you needed to talk to me about?”

  “Marie tells me you’ve started seeing Gabe Wynant. Actually dating?”

  “Don’t start on me about the age difference, Dad,” Brooke warned. “We’ve seen each other socially a couple of times. It’s no big deal, and besides, we’ve known each other for years.”

  “Actually, you don’t really know him at all,” Gordon said. “This isn’t about that, although it’s ridiculous for a man his age—”

  “Whoa! I’m thirty-four years old, you know. A little past the age when I want dating advice from my daddy.”

  “Listen to me, damn it! Patricia says Gabe is a charlatan—”

  “Okay, just stop right there. I’m not going to listen to your new wife’s character assassination of a man I’ve known and admired for the past decade.”

  “If you’d just let me finish,” Gordon said.

  “Nope. Not interested. Nice try. Bye, Dad.”

  Brooke disconnected, still fuming. She stared at the assortment of framed photos on her old white-painted dresser, Brooke laughing into the camera with her best friend, Holly, on the beach at Tybee Island. There was Brooke in her cap and gown after her graduation from Savannah Country Day. She picked up the oldest photo, a three-generation snapshot of her grandmother Millie seated on the sofa next to an impossibly young-looking Marie, who held an eighteen-month-old Brooke in a frilly white Easter dress.

  Millie was gazing adoringly at the baby, and Marie was beaming proudly.