Though she was focused on the task at hand, her mind was also roaming. The e-mail from the party supply company had served in a roundabout way to remind her of how far she had come from Green Lakes, from a childhood spent wearing her cousin’s hand-me-down clothes, shunning waste in any form (turnip tops could be cooked and eaten, and coffee grounds were a valuable bit of compost for the vegetable garden), and doing without Christmas gifts in lean years, to an adulthood in which she was able to afford this beautiful house on the beach, where she could treat her dearest friends to a vacation.
And Bess associated those friends with the time in her life when she had begun to blossom into a full person. That was why the reunions meant so much to her. These people—Mike and Marta, Chuck, Chris and Allison—had been witnesses to her coming of age as she had been to theirs.
And what a coming of age Bess’s had been. She was the first in her immediate family to go to college; the first and so far, the only one. While her parents had been supportive they had also been wary, especially when Bess announced her intention of accepting an offer from a school in Massachusetts. Without her own car—and that was out of the question—Bess would be able to afford few visits home. This prospect didn’t worry Bess; summers in Green Lakes would be quite enough for her what with two much younger, rambunctious sisters underfoot.
Although Bess had begun to put out feelers for jobs at the start of her senior year, nothing had come through by June and she had been forced to return home after graduation while she continued the search. Several members of her family had expressed the hope that she would settle down in Green Lakes, marry, have kids, and maybe find a job at the mini-mall out on the highway. To this, Bess had argued (if silently): “What was the point of my going to college if all I was going to do is come back here and be someone I never was in the first place?” But she had simply smiled and said meaningless, noncommittal things like, “We’ll see,” and “That’s an idea.”
After a depressing summer spent earning what money she could locally while continuing to hunt for jobs in Portland, and somewhat sadly realizing how little she knew of her newly adolescent sisters, who only wanted to spend time with their friends, Bess finally landed a gig working as a waitress for a caterer on Exchange Street in the Old Port. She could barely contain her excitement the day she left home for what she swore would be forever.
Six months later, Bess was promoted to assistant manager. A year after that, Bess was manager. Two years on, she was working for another, bigger and more successful catering company that also did some event planning. Bess Culpepper was on her way.
Still, those early years in Portland were tough. Her parents had no money with which to help her make ends meet (not that she would have accepted it if they had) and worried constantly about her safety, calling daily and sending care packages of homemade cookies, jams, and deer jerky. The few times Bess had suggested that Ann and Mae visit for a day—they had never been to big, bad Portland—her parents had firmly nixed the idea; Bess had later learned that her sisters hadn’t wanted to visit. Green Lakes offered all they wanted, except, maybe, for a few better shops selling cool hair ornaments and pre-made friendship bracelets.
But Bess survived those lean years living in awful little apartments shared with unsuitable roommates. She never doubted that she was where she was meant to be, doing what she was meant to do, which would one day lead to her establishing her own successful event and party-planning business. It had taken her less than ten years to achieve that goal.
Bess knew that her native idealism and optimism had served her well. Allison had once compared Bess to the infamous Sarah Bernhardt, who kept on going in spite of a series of outrageous setbacks and who had had fun in doing so. “Her catchphrase,” Allison had told Bess, “was quand-même. Roughly translated it means even though, or anyway, all the same, malgré tout, nevertheless. As in: J’avais peur, mais je l’ai fait quand-même. I’m afraid, but I’ll do it anyway.” “That’s me, all right,” Bess had said. “For better or worse I keep on going!” Mike had likened her to the Energizer Bunny, a less happy comparison that was nevertheless accurate.
Nothing else in Bess’s e-mail folder needed immediate attention, so she closed her laptop and left the den. She found Allison and Marta relaxing on the back porch, a pitcher of lemonade on one of the side tables.
“Can I get you anything?” Bess asked.
“Nothing,” Marta said, indicating the lemonade. “We helped ourselves.”
“So, tell us about your dress,” Marta asked.
Bess shook her head and sat in one of the white wicker armchairs. “Nope, it’s a surprise. But I will tell you that my something old is a gold brooch that once belonged to Nathan’s grandmother. Her name was Betty Creek. What luck, right, that we have the same initials! It’s a beautiful piece.”
“The something new is the bag your mother is making,” Marta said. “And we know how you feel about that.”
Bess restrained a frown. Marta really could be annoying. Bess would not mention that her original something borrowed was the fussy garter her sister Mae had worn at her own wedding. It was made of a cheap acrylic-like material and was a ghastly shade of pink. Bess had no intention of wearing it.
“My something borrowed,” she went on, “is from my assistant, Kara. It’s a Victorian silver filigree bangle. As for my something blue . . . Wait, I’ll go and get it.”
She returned a few moments later, clutching a black velvet ring box in one hand. “I splurged,” she said.
Marta laughed. “No! You?”
For a moment, Bess hesitated to show her treasure. She thought of what her thrifty parents would say if they knew how much this wedding was costing; if they knew she had spent several thousands of dollars on her something blue; if they . . .
“It was worth it,” Bess said stoutly. And, she thought, she could well afford it. “Remember when Meghan got married last year?”
“Who?” Allison asked.
“Meghan. Meghan Markle, Duchess of Sussex.”
Allison raised her eyebrows. “Oh, that Meghan! How could I have forgotten?”
“And Harry gave her his mother’s aquamarine cocktail ring and she wore it to the evening reception. Well, since then I’ve been searching for a perfect aquamarine cocktail ring of my own to wear on my big day and voilà!”
Bess opened the box to reveal a six-carat emerald cut aquamarine in a retro-era yellow gold setting.
“It’s stunning,” Marta admitted. “Way too glamorous for me, but it suits you, Bess.”
“Where did you get it?” Allison asked.
“Market Square Jewelers, in Portland. There’s a shop in Portsmouth, too, if you guys want to do some fun browsing. We could drive down one afternoon.”
“No, thanks,” Marta said sharply. “When you have three kids you don’t have the luxury of buying yourself gifts.”
Bess looked at Allison, who smiled kindly. “I could be persuaded to spend an hour or two window-shopping,” she told Bess. “I remember all the time you and I spent browsing those vintage shops in Cambridge. I still have a silk Hermès scarf I found for ten dollars!”
Marta put her empty glass of lemonade on the table at her side. “I guess I could go along and keep you two out of trouble.”
“Wonderful!” Bess pronounced. She wouldn’t mention it at the moment, but she had her eye on a ring from MSJ’s Elizabeth Henry collection. “Are you sure I can’t get anyone anything? A snack? Maybe a sandwich?”
Marta rolled her eyes.
“No, thank you, Bess,” Allison said with a hint of a smile.
Chapter 17
Allison had gone out early that morning, telling none of them where she was headed. Not that she was under any obligation to do so, but Bess had seemed a bit hurt by Allison’s discretion. Nathan and Dean had taken the baby to the Seashore Trolley Museum, leaving Marta, Chuck, Bess, and Mike lounging on the back porch with second and third cups of coffee. Once again, the conversation had drifted to th
e subject of their friends’ divorce.
“Even though Chris was the one to file for divorce, he might not be totally innocent in whatever went on,” Marta pointed out.
“Of course. Rarely is one person entirely to blame,” Chuck said. “Or, better put, rarely is an issue that becomes problematic created and sustained by only one partner.”
“I just wish we knew what happened,” Bess complained. “I know we could bring them back together.”
“Their marriage is not your business,” Marta argued.
“In some ways, it is my business. Yours, too. That’s why we’re all talking about it. We’re friends. We have each other’s backs.”
“Stay out of it, Bess,” Chuck said firmly. “If Allison or Chris want to tell us what went on behind closed doors they will.”
Mike shook his head. “The last thing I ever thought Chris would do was leave Allison. She’s so pretty and sweet-natured, she just couldn’t have done anything so bad.”
Marta frowned. She wasn’t jealous; she knew Mike was devoted to her, but his typical male stereotyping annoyed her. This sort of archaic thinking—that pretty women were morally pristine, above temptation and yet, paradoxically, in need of protecting—had resulted in his spoiling his own daughter. And spoiling was not protecting; if only the spoilers could understand that! Sam would be in for a rude awakening once she was at college and realized that Daddy was no longer around to smooth every bump in the road.
“Nothing against Allison,” Chuck commented dryly, “but a pretty face and a sweet personality doesn’t necessitate an innocent soul. Come on, Mike. Get with the twenty-first century. And it’s dangerous to put people on pedestals. Chris is only human. He shouldn’t be unduly punished for taking a step he felt was necessary to his happiness, even if that step hurt someone else.”
Marta drained the last of her decaf coffee and rose from her chair. “I’m off to take a shower,” she announced. Only human, she thought as she climbed the stairs to the second floor. Chuck was right. It was because they were only human that she and Chris had indulged in a one-night stand in college while she was dating Mike and he was dating Allison.
Marta grabbed her robe from her room and went down the hall to the bathroom. It had taken some brutally honest thinking the night before to realize that her current discomfort about this old crime was closely linked to the unsettling knowledge that the person she was most angry with about the unwanted pregnancy was herself, not Mike. To keep the acknowledgment of one’s own culpability firmly centered on oneself and not to shuffle the blame onto someone else required Herculean effort. It was so much easier to point the finger—at Chris; at Mike—than to admit that you were the cause of your own calamity.
Once back in her room, Marta impulsively reached for her phone.
“Why are you calling?” her mother asked bluntly. “We spoke last evening.”
Immediately, Marta regretted having made the call. “No reason,” she said.
“I don’t believe that,” Mrs. Kennedy said. “You never have ‘no reason’ for doing something. Spontaneity isn’t your strong point.”
Marta wondered about that. Was her mother saying she was a calculating person? “Fine then,” she said, trying to hide her annoyance. “I called to see if everything was all right this morning. Are the kids wearing you out? I know Leo can be a know-it-all and—”
“Marta,” her mother interrupted, “you worry too much. Leo is fine. Sam and Troy are fine. Your father and I are fine. And if we weren’t all fine, I’d have let you know.”
“Fine,” Marta said, then winced. The most overused word in the English language. One of them, anyway.
“Oh, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,” Mrs. Kennedy went on animatedly. “Guess who I ran into the other day in the mall? Olivine Kaye. Do you remember? You were in Girl Scouts together for a few years. Then she went to that private high school so you stopped spending time with each other.”
Marta vaguely remembered Olivine. The girl had been one of those forgettable people you came across on occasion—and promptly forgot. “What’s she up to?” Marta asked, not caring in the least.
“Well, now that both of her children are in college, Olivine’s gone into business for herself. She opened a classic English tea shop and it’s just what the town needed. It’s doing fantastically well and she’s already thinking of expanding!”
“How nice for her,” Marta said woodenly. There was an uncomfortable, mean-spirited feeling in her gut. So, Olivine had turned out to be not so forgettable after all.
“You’ll be looking to fill your time now that the kids are growing up,” her mother went on. “Sam will be off to college next year and once Leo gets his driver’s license he’ll be gone most of the time and then there’s only Troy. Before long you’ll be your own woman again.”
Marta frowned. Her own woman again? Whose woman had she been these past seventeen years? Fill her time? As if she would just be marking off empty days on a calendar until the moment of her death? She said as much.
“I meant no such thing,” her mother replied placidly. “I just meant that as your responsibilities toward the children fall away, you’ll have more time to spend pursuing your own interests and passions. Like how once you were in high school I had more time to devote to my gardening.”
That question again! Interests. Passions. What were they? What brand of cold cereal had the most nutritional value for the dollar? Making sure Sam had filled the tank with gas whenever she returned her mother’s car? What fertilizer was most eco-friendly so that Leo wouldn’t start in again on how irresponsible his mother was when it came to caring for the planet? Trying to convince Troy that pajamas were never appropriate school clothing?
Anyway, what did it matter if she had no real interests or passions? She was pregnant. Again.
“I often wondered,” her mother went on, “if you were one hundred percent sure about your decision not to go on to law school but at the time I didn’t like to ask.”
Marta was stunned. “Why didn’t you like to ask?” she demanded.
“Well, you were very fierce about it being your right to choose not to pursue another degree,” her mother explained. “Frankly, I didn’t think I’d get anywhere if I questioned your motives. But look at how nice your life has turned out. Three lovely children, a wonderful husband. How could you have any regrets?”
“I couldn’t,” Marta snapped. “I mean, I don’t have any regrets.”
Marta ended the call as soon as was compatible with decency and found herself standing before the closet she was sharing with Mike, unable to select a pair of pants and a blouse. She had been very fierce about her choice not to go to law school? Maybe that was only her mother’s take on things. But if she had been fierce, had her defiance served to mask an insecurity, a deep-down fear that her decision to focus on a family was in some way misguided? Would it have made a difference if her mother had quizzed her? And what did it all matter now?
Marta rubbed her temples. She was convinced this soul-searching in relation to her lost career wouldn’t be half as upsetting if she hadn’t gotten pregnant. The whole mess had begun in a very ordinary way. After almost twenty years on the birth control pill, Marta and her doctor decided that enough was enough. There were too many health risks for someone with heart disease in the family (two maternal aunts) and twice in seven months she had developed a benign ovarian cyst. Benign or not, cysts were no fun. Her doctor had outlined the alternatives, none of which were terribly attractive, until she had mentioned a vasectomy. The procedure was common and safe, and the results were pretty much foolproof. Sexual function was not negatively affected. In short, it was a fantastic option with only one potential drawback—getting Mike to agree to it.
The conversation in which Marta had told Mike she was going off the pill was still crystal clear in her mind.
“Oh,” he said, a look of abject panic on his face. “So, uh, what do you have in mind instead?”
“That should be a mutual decision,” she replied. “I’ve been carrying that burden on my own since we met.”
Mike nodded. “Right. Absolutely. So . . .”
“Condoms are an option, though not a fabulous idea on their own.”
“Right,” Mike said hastily. “Not a fabulous idea. What else?”
“You could get a vasectomy,” she had gone on. “It would take care of the problem once and for all and would also make good economic sense. We decided after Troy there would be no more children. Right? It’s not an outrageous idea, Mike,” she went on reasonably. “Lots of men get vasectomies and it would be doing me an enormous favor.”
But Mike balked. He was not a bad or an uninformed guy, just a regular guy, and the idea of having his “manhood” snipped away made him badly nervous. Marta got that. She didn’t like it, but she got it. So, she let him off the hook. She agreed—as a temporary measure only—to get fitted for a diaphragm. Mike had been relieved. He promised he would give serious thought to getting a vasectomy.
After a few weeks, Marta again approached Mike. “I’ve gotten the name of a highly respected proctologist,” she told him. “I can call first thing tomorrow to make an appointment. I’ll be with you, Mike. We’re in this together.”
But Mike had no spare time, not in the foreseeable future. “It’s this case I’m working on,” he explained. “It requires all of my time and attention.”
Marta had wondered. Was Mike aggrandizing his workload in order to avoid having to make a decision? But nagging never helped. Time went on. Day-to-day stuff happened. They used the diaphragm; Mike wasn’t too busy with work to forget about sex.
Then, after about two months, Marta discovered that she was pregnant. She had been scrupulous about following the directions provided by the manufacturer as well as by her ob-gyn, but the fact was that with “average use” there was a failure rate of twenty to forty percent after childbirth. Marta had known that all along. But she was devastated nonetheless. She did not want to be pregnant, not again.
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