“Oh, husbands cheating on their wives, and how Katie must have it the worst because she’s married to Claude Giraud, and how women always fall in love with their surgeons,” Olivia said.
“And she has an especially talented and compassionate one,” Jane said. “Just last week, remember? Rescuing that drowning boy from Mitzi’s pool – it was, well, simply heroic.”
It hadn’t been clear at the time that the boy was really drowning, but it was a near thing; he certainly could have. The boys had been tussling pretty energetically in the deep end and one boy jumped into the fray from the low board without looking and landed right on top of little Gary Evans. Claude spotted it – it appeared that no one else was paying particular attention to the kids – and when the nine-year-old didn’t surface, he dove in and pulled him out. The boy was choking and crying and there was a big scene in which Claude, of course, played the role of the sun, the moons and the stars.
“Wasn’t that marvelous? You’re a lucky girl, Katie,” said Anne. All their eyes swiveled toward me, and I picked up my cue. I was acutely aware that Victoria Langley was regarding me intently.
“Yes… I’m so proud of his rescue. When I saw Claude checking the boy’s vital signs and calming him, I said to myself, now there’s a dedicated doctor who… who saves lives,” I said. “A healer.”
Suddenly I saw the scene again, but I remembered it in a very different light: this time, Claude really was a hero, not a show-off – and he had saved the boy from drowning while the rest of the crowd was sucking down gin and congratulating themselves on being rich good-looking, and successful. For all I knew, he might have been looking out for the kids the whole time; I sure wasn’t. Then he’d sat with the Evans boy for ten minutes, talking to him, letting the boy get control of himself, making sure he was okay. Yes – a healer and a good man. Just like the Claude I’d met and fallen in love with.
Something furious and sad twisted inside me, and I pushed it down hard.
“Exactly!” Anne was saying. “Just like your father. Did you know, he operated on my mother when she had cancer?”
“No, I didn’t know that, Anne,” I said. “He’s operated on so many people. Multitudes. He’s a real operator, my father.”
Silence.
Victoria spoke up. “So you’re married to Claude,” she said. “Well, not to speak of Claude, of course, but philandering husbands certainly isn’t a new topic. Men have cheated since the beginning of time. And believe me, I know. I was there!”
The other women jumped in all at once, giggling and politely disagreeing, and the mood lightened. Victoria waved them off. “Oh, I’m as old as the hills,” she said. “But the thing that redeems being my age, at least a little, is that I’ve seen everything and done everything, or nearly, and nothing shocks me.”
She had her audience’s attention and clearly relished it.
“The nineteen-forties Hollywood scene was wild – all those parties in the Hollywood Hills and in the canyons – but at least everyone kept their mouths shut, and the press cooperated with the movie stars and the studios instead of hounding them – well, mostly. It was a big, elaborate system, but it worked.”
“I think I’ve seen every one of your movies, Miss Langley,” I said. “I’m such a fan.”
“How nice,” she said, and she sounded genuinely pleased. “Which was your favorite?”
“That’s easy. White Glove Escapade.”
“Mine, too. I had such fun making that movie. If you don’t have a copy, come with me after lunch, and I’ll give you one.” She studied me quizzically, then her eyes widened. “Oh, I just remembered where I met you,” she said. Then she covered her mouth discreetly and leaned in, speaking low as the conversation continued around us. “You were the girl I liked in his office! I didn’t realize you were also his wife. You’re so young and beautiful. He’s lucky.”
We smiled at each other, and even though I hardly knew her, the instant camaraderie and warmth between us went straight to my heart – I needed it badly. And she was the only one who’d told me that he was lucky.
As lunch neared its end, Olivia said, “I have a little announcement to make before everyone leaves.” The food on the plates in front of each person, I noticed, had only been partially eaten. I was the only one whose plate was clean. Claude would have been livid.
“I’m expecting,” Olivia said.
We all went aaahh! and fluttered, except Victoria, who simply smiled.
“When are you due?” Anne asked.
“I’m not sure. You see, I’m not actually having the baby – I’m just expecting it,” she said.
Blank faces.
“We got a surrogate to do the ‘having’ part,” she continued. “Richard didn’t want me ruining my figure, or getting all distracted with the whole medical side of things. He really likes having me there for him. So this very nice doctor took my egg and Richard’s sperm and hooked us up with a sweet young woman down in North Carolina who needed money and was willing to do the walking-womb thing for nine months in order to get it. It’s win-win for all of us.” She stood up and swayed a little. “Wooh! Hey, Anne, where’s the powder room?”
Anne pointed the way, and I watched Olivia walk. She was as svelte as she’d undoubtedly always been and always would be. Claude’s world, I thought: pregnancy was a drag, breasts existed to be lifted, women were designed to make any room look better the moment they entered it – and men? Men worshiped two gods, money and sex, and they invested in both expecting big returns.
Suddenly I missed my daughter. I wanted to be building sand castles with her, flying kites and reading stories to her in bed, her warm sweet body tucked up next to mine. I discreetly checked my watch.
“I think it’s time to leave,” said Victoria. Perhaps she’d seen me. “Are you ready, Katie?” she asked me pointedly.
We said our goodbyes, and as I kissed Anne she said, “Oh, Katie, I almost forgot. Here’s the regulation sheet for the next miniature arrangement competition, and I’ll see you tomorrow morning at tennis clinic.”
I thanked her and turned away to fetch my purse. When I turned back, Anne was still standing beside me. She smiled and took my arm and led me to the door. When Victoria stepped outside, Ann quietly said, “How did you get that big bruise on your leg?”
I froze. I’d forgotten to check the backs of my legs when I got dressed. Every day, as part of my morning routine, after I dressed I stood in front of the full-length mirror in our bedroom and, like a mechanic looking over a vehicle, went through a checklist of body parts, making sure no damage showed, and that my clothes, even my summer clothes, covered up any traces of Claude’s hand, or, in this case, his wooden hanger. That was my alarm clock yesterday – Claude hitting me with a wooden hanger.
“I think playing net the other day,” I said. “My partner served and hit me by mistake.”
My reply fell into one of those conversational lulls that seem conveniently designed to catch and amplify remarks not meant to be overheard. Ears pricked up, and the women turned toward us. Anne smiled and nodded.
“Ouch,” she said.
*
I followed Victoria Langley’s car out onto Eel Point Road and made a sharp left into her driveway where a small wooden sign read PORT IN A STORM. It was mid-afternoon, and the fog had long since been burned off by the sun. With the sea air in my lungs and the open space surrounding me, my mind began to clear.
“Welcome to my home,” Victoria said as we walked through the front door. “Charles,” she said as her butler closed the door, “some port in the drawing room, please.” We walked down a long, somewhat stuffy hall whose walls were covered with black-and-white movie stills. She pointed out each film and described the particular scene in every case.
“What an incredible life you’ve had,” I said, looking at photos of her standing with Gary Cooper and Marlene Dietrich.
“Well, yes, I suppose I have. Everyone has to make their own life, you know,” she said.
“I know,” I said.
My voice must have betrayed more than I’d intended, because Victoria said, “You sounded wistful for a second, dear. Tell me more about yourself. Still working in your husband’s office?”
“No, not for some time. Claude decided it would be best if I didn’t.”
“Oh, did he? Well, if it’s not what you want to do, then all the better, I suppose.”
“I really only worked there in the beginning to help him, but it’s not for me. Not challenging, really. I have a daughter now, and I love being with her.”
“Oh, that’s certainly a full-time job. I raised two, and it was the hardest and most rewarding work I ever did.” She regarded me sidelong, then said casually, “But maybe you might want something more in your life?”
“Maybe.”
“Well, life is long,” she said. “It has its phases. You’d be surprised what can happen. Shall we?” And she led me into her drawing room.
“This is extraordinary!” I said as we entered and I took in the gleaming richness of half a dozen nautical paintings mounted on all four walls. I recognized the artist in an instant. “Could these all be Gordon Grants?” I asked.
“Yes, they are, but how did you know?”
“I majored in art history in college. I did a paper on Grant because I used to love sailing, and he had such a passion for ships and the sea. He was best known for his 1927 USS Constitution painting…”
“Go on.”
“Well… he went to study in Scotland at the age of thirteen. After that, he painted in New York and in California. They’re so perfect for here, for this island,” I said as I went from one to the other, examining each one.
“You’re certainly well informed,” she said. “I never knew that about Gordon Grant, and I can see you have a real love of art.”
I flushed. It was as if I had forgotten how much this kind of painting meant to me; and now, surrounded by the beauty of the painterly and nautical variety, I felt uncommonly happy, buoyed up by the vibrant scenes.
“You used to love sailing, you said,” Victoria said.
“Excuse me?”
“Goodness, you looked alarmed. I meant, don’t you still sail? You’re in just the right place for it.”
“Oh.” I remembered the night Claude proposed. That had been the last time I’d been on a sailboat. The incredible happiness of that night. “Yes, well, with Rose being so young…”
“I see,” Victoria said, and I had the uncomfortable feeling that she did see. I hurried on.
“Look at the fine strokes,” I said, “the marine blues, the wind blowing the sails. There’s really a suggestion of motion – more than a suggestion, it’s not just movement, but aliveness, a real feeling of life. Only the best of them can achieve that. A landscape, or a seascape, can just lie there, telling you the story of its motion, its life, but the artist who can capture that life,” – I stopped before I committed the sin of comparing my arrested life to a dead seascape – “is one in a thousand.”
“Katie, you know, I think I could use your help,” said Victoria. “I have another fifty of Gordon Grant’s works in storage—”
“Fifty!”
She laughed. “Yes, fifty, paintings as well as some watercolors and drawings. And I’ve wanted to do a proper catalogue for ages. How would you like to put it together for me? I know you said you’re busy with your daughter and all, but do you think you could make some time for me? It would be part-time work, and I’ll pay you whatever the going rate is for an art cataloguer.”
“Art cataloguer?” I said with a laugh. “I don’t have any experience, Victoria. I’ve never—”
Shut up.
“With your ability and background? Did you just hear yourself? Don’t sell yourself short, dear. Look, husband number two was a big collector. He and I used to haunt the auction houses, and it was great fun. He’s long gone, but his paintings remain, and it’s a shame that they’re just languishing. I don’t even know how to take care of them. And if I don’t organize them, write them up, tell somebody what they are, someday when I’m dead and gone someone’s going to come in here and throw the whole lot out.”
“Let’s hope not! What a morbid thought.”
“Designed to get you to accept graciously,” she said, smiling.
“It worked.”
We stood beaming at each other, and in that moment I could see the young, lively woman in her eyes – she looked like an ingénue, not a former star facing her final years.
“Good,” said Victoria. “Let’s have dinner next week to finalize the details and celebrate. I love that restaurant on the beach called The Galley.”
“It’s my favorite,” I said. “But can we make a date now? My phone hasn’t been working very well, so if I have to get in touch with you, I will.”
The telephone might not be safe.
“Typical phone stuff. Let’s do next Tuesday at six o’clock, and hopefully there will be a spectacular sunset.”
“I’m so happy we have a definite date.”
“We have a lot in common, apparently,” she said. “Oh, and here, the reason why you came over,” she said, handing me a videotape of White Glove Escapade. “Enjoy it,” she said. “And don’t laugh too hard at my fainting scene. I didn’t get it right, and now it’s too late.”
As I drove away I marveled at what an incredible day it had been. Who would ever have thought that I’d see Victoria Langley again, and at Anne Marshall’s of all places, and that she would offer me a job doing something I love? I’d make my own money, ask to be paid in cash, and put it all in the Fund. I pictured leaving my life behind – yes, a long train ride clear across the country to California with Rose, and a little apartment down one of the side streets in Carmel-by-the-Sea, where I’d read in some travel magazine that lots of artists lived. And with a little luck I could find a job doing something, anything, and she and I would find a way to be happy – we would be happy, and safe.
Only Claude must never know I’m working for Victoria Langley. He’d—
I glanced in the rear-view mirror and spied, half a dozen cars back, the black and white pattern of a police cruiser.
Without really thinking, I sped up, putting a little more distance between the cruiser and my car; then following a curve around, I slowed, signaled and turned in at a service station. At the pump, I watched and waited. In a few moments the police car went by.
When it was out of sight, I slowly pulled out again and headed back the way I’d come, and in five minutes I was pulling into the parking lot at the Kensington Club.
I eased the car around the building, found a slot among the employees’ cars, and shut off the engine.
Rose was okay with the babysitter. Claude was in Boston.
I was here.
I got out and walked up to the screen door at the rear of the pro shop. Feeling too foolish to knock, I was about to circle around the building to the front when the door slapped open, and Nate came out.
“Hi,” he said. His surprised expression gave way to a smile. “What brings you out to the back of beyond?” Then he laughed. “I’m sorry – no manners at all. How are you?”
“Fine, good. I was just… well, I was in the car and I wanted to come over and maybe see you and say hello and, well, goodbye too, I guess, because I know I ended my lessons so abruptly. Claude did, I mean.”
I just went with it.
“It wasn’t my idea, and I feel embarrassed. And I really feel foolish now, Nate, so please forgive me if, well, just forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive, Katie, don’t worry.”
“Well, I know, I mean, I think I know that. But, so how have you been?”
We had slowly moved, by mutual inclination or a desire for privacy, over to the high, honeysuckle-covered chain-link fence that enclosed the near end of the courts. On the other side I could hear the soft thwock of tennis balls and the players’ shouts and laughter all down through the row of courts.
“I’m good,” he said. “The season is sort of winding up, so… so, yeah, I did wonder why you stopped taking lessons. I thought maybe it was me…”
It was you.
“No, no!”
“…Something I said or did.”
“Absolutely not. My husband… well. Claude can be kind of difficult, and boy if that isn’t a freaking understatement, and he said he thought my game had improved enough, but you know what I think? He didn’t want me to show him up on the court, that’s what I think,” and I reached out and just plucked at the button on his polo shirt to make my point or to touch him, almost, and then I looked up into his eyes.
“But you know what else? He’s jealous, a very jealous and… possessive man, and I think he could tell that I liked you.”
“So… did you?” He was staring a hot hole through me.
“Oh, yes,” I said. “I did. I do. And I don’t mean like a friend, I mean, you know, friends are great, but I just – what I really came over here to do today was to say goodbye, Nate, and to kiss you.”
I put my hand on the back of his neck and pulled him down hard and kissed his mouth.
“And so now I have to go,” I said.
And I did.
10
Beacon Hill
Fall 1997
When summer ended, Claude and I packed up our things and prepared to return to our city life, which, despite the stresses I’d felt on Nantucket, was far worse for me. In Boston Claude’s schedule was unforgiving, putting him in unpredictable, often monstrous moods for the entire workweek. Mostly I tried to stay out of his way.
Rose started at Beacon Hill Playschool soon after our return. It was a little early, but the program looked great, and there was much for me to do around the house – and Rose was always eager to see Anne’s girls. It would be easy to work for Victoria, cataloguing the Grant artworks while Rose was in school. I was thrilled, not only for the friendship, but also because she insisted on paying me more than I asked for. Claude knew nothing about either the work or the money. Thanks to Victoria Langley and, an unexpected windfall – a gift of $2,500 from an aunt I hadn’t seen in years – I only had ten thousand more to go, which was a lot for me, but I’d saved nearly thirty thousand and was up to the last volume in History of Art – volume eight, Art of the Twentieth Century – and with this new project it wouldn’t take much longer to reach forty thousand.
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