“This place you were talking about, it’s . . . discreet?”
“It’s called Saratoga Pines, and yes, it is. They’ve done it all up like a fancy resort, but really it’s for women who’ve gotten themselves in a fix. It’s pricey, but, like I said, no one will ever know.”
I stared at her, wanting to deny what she said. I wasn’t like those women. I wasn’t in a fix—at least not the way Caroline meant—but was there really a difference? I was going to have a baby, one I couldn’t keep. The reputation I was trying to protect wasn’t mine, but that hardly seemed to matter. A decision had to be made. And so I made it.
THIRTY-NINE
March 21, 1959
Saratoga Pines Resort, New York
I’ve been at Saratoga Pines several weeks now. The time finally came when I could no longer hide the truth, when questions would be asked, rumors started. Caroline drove me. I told her it wasn’t necessary, that I was perfectly capable of driving myself, but I think she was afraid I would change my mind. I very nearly did.
Jasper knows where I am, and why, but I’ve told no one else. As far as the rest of the world knows, I’ve gone into seclusion to grieve for my marriage, which is true in more ways than I can count. God knows, I’d rather be anywhere in the world than here, surrounded by doctors and nurses and carefully manicured hedges.
There are others like me here, sad-eyed women who keep mostly to themselves, clinging to their shame and their swollen bellies. A few are here for what the nurses call melancholia, a polite word for failed attempts with sleeping pills or razor blades. Others act as if they’ve come for a vacation, gathering each afternoon on the sun-drenched lawns to gossip and play cards or croquet. And still others who are here because of a fondness for things, for drinking and pills, mostly, but for other things, too, that are rarely spoken of, even in a place like this.
We all have our stories, our mistakes, and our little tragedies. That’s why we’re here, to erase them or patch them up, and pretend they never happened. We’ll go back out into the world when it’s over, back to our lives, hiding our scars behind brave little smiles. We’ll be fine, we tell ourselves. Fine.
Meanwhile, the days stretch before me, punishing me with their memories and their empty hours. Spring has come, soft and green and full of promise, and I must bear it all somehow, knowing how much I have lost—how much I still have to lose. I was happy once, though, which is more than most people get from this life. My one regret, my only regret in all of this, is that I was forced to hurt Roland. One day I will forgive myself for that. One day, but not yet.
July 25, 1959
Saratoga Pines Resort, New York
The baby has come.
It was a difficult birth, but then I knew it would be, an agony of slowly passing hours and far too much blood. I remember thinking toward the end that perhaps I would die this time, and then hoping I would. The child would not need me. No one needed me. I would do no harm by slipping from this world. But I did not.
They asked me, when it was over, if I wanted to see the child, to hold it, but I said no. I turned my head when they took it away. I had to. If I hadn’t, I might have changed my mind. I don’t even know if it was a boy or a girl. It’s better that way, so I won’t always be making up names in my head, wondering if she has my eyes, or if he has Roland’s smile. We can’t miss what we’ve never had. At least I pray that we can’t.
I’ve conceived two babies now. The first—torn from my body against my will—I did not want. The second—given away of my own free will—I loved and wanted with all my heart. I wonder sometimes, as I lie alone here in my well-appointed room, if having to give up Roland’s child is a kind of retribution, punishment for the aversion I bore that first unwanted child. I never wished it ill. I only wished it gone.
But maybe even that was a sin, one that must one day be repaid in kind. Sin or no, it is now my lot to go through this world with empty arms and a heavy heart, searching the face of every child I pass, counting off the years on my fingers, celebrating cake-less, candle-less birthdays.
Caroline is driving up later to take me home—and to make sure I do not falter in my resolve. She’s been such a mercy through all of this, coming to visit whenever she could, bringing books, and treats, and bits of gossip from home. I haven’t the heart to tell her I care for none of it, that my heart is too bruised for such trivial things.
A few weeks back she brought the final divorce papers for me to sign. I saw the look on her face as I took the pen from her hand. She thought I wouldn’t sign them, but I did, aware as my hand began to move that it was the last time I would sign my name as Lily-Mae St. Claire. As soon as the papers were filed with the court, it would be over; I would cease to be Roland’s wife.
In the days that followed I found myself wondering if it was done, if the legal ties that bound us had been dissolved once and for all. Surely, I would have felt the severing, like a limb torn from the body, or a heart from a chest. But there was nothing, no instant of knowing, of loss. Perhaps because I had done so much bleeding already.
Caroline reminds me constantly that what I’ve done is for the best. My head tells me she’s right. And yet, a question lurks in the heart, filling that place where my child’s name should reside. In a few hours I will leave it behind, unnamed, unseen. But how can I when it’s the only bit of Roland I will ever have, someone to cling to when my memories begin to grow bitter and dim? If I do this thing—this terrible, irrevocable thing—what is left?
Sand Pearl Cottage.
The words come to me like the quiet rush of the sea. That’s what is left, the place where it all began, and somehow, it must be enough.
December 9, 1959
New York, New York
I have left the cottage, but only to tend to some business. I’ve come to New York to shut up the apartment. I will not miss it, or this city, either. Perhaps because it’s where things ended, and the memories of those days are still too fresh. Everywhere I look there are reminders of our early days, restaurants where Roland and I dined, theaters we attended, hotels where we went to parties. There can be no moving on as long as I’m anchored by such things. And so it is time.
I arrived the day before yesterday. The phone started ringing the moment word got around that I was back. I am no longer the wife of Roland St. Claire, but apparently the money settled on me in the divorce still makes me an attractive guest at dinners and cocktail parties. I turn them all down, of course, making politely vague excuses. How can I accept any invitation where I might run into Roland? Besides, I have no wish to be a conversation piece, the object of curious stares and knowing glances.
This morning, I set out to see Jasper at his office. I was going to take a cab, then decided a walk in the chilly December air might do me good after being shut up for days. I was waiting to cross at the corner of Lexington and Forty-ninth when I spotted a headline splashed across one of tabloids on display at the newsstand—“Millionaire Financier Dumps Bride for Younger Sister.”
I snatched the tabloid off the rack, scanning the small print with a sickening knot in the pit of my stomach. The man running the stand barked at me to buy the paper or put it back where I found it. I fished a coin from my handbag with trembling fingers, and dropped it into his outstretched palm.
My vision blurred as I stared at the photograph of Caroline. She was wearing a small hat with a netted veil, her fingers wrapped around a small bouquet of flowers. It could almost have been me standing there beside Roland. And once, it had been. With a sick little lurch, I wadded the thing up and stuffed it into the nearest trash can, then stumbled blindly across the street to the building where Jasper had his office.
He needed only to look at my face as I stepped into the room to know that something was wrong. He must have thought I might faint. He got up from his desk and crossed the room, guiding me to the nearest chair.
“You’ve seen,
then, or heard?”
“In the papers,” I told him thickly. My lips had suddenly gone numb.
“I’m sorry, Lily-Mae. I didn’t want you to find out like this.”
I stared at him in disbelief, not sure if I was more shocked to learn that my sister had married my ex-husband, or that my dearest friend in the world had kept it from me. “How could you not have told me, Jasper?”
“I couldn’t tell you what I didn’t know myself, Lily-Mae. I read it this morning, the same as you. Before that, I promise you, there wasn’t a word of anything, no talk of them being seen together, nothing. I think it must have happened very quickly.”
I couldn’t help it. I broke into a sob as the reality of it sank deep. Roland, married to Caroline. How had it happened, and when did it start? Before the divorce was even final? While I was at Saratoga Pines?
Jasper stood and crossed to a small cabinet in the corner, and filled a glass with amber liquid. He brought it to me and pressed it into my hand. “Drink it down.”
I sipped, choked, then sipped again. Finally, the sobs slowed. “How could she? My own sister? When she knew—”
Jasper snorted, as if he found something amusing. “How could she?”
My head came up sharply, stung by the combination of mockery and disbelief. His face softened when he saw that he’d hurt me.
“Poor, sweet Lily-Mae. You never did see your sister clearly. You told me once about the time you found Caroline in Zell’s office, remember? What do you think that was about? She’s always had an eye for anything that belonged to you. Hell, she even threw herself at me a couple of times, until she realized you didn’t want me—and then neither did she.”
I shook my head from side to side, not wanting to believe it. But suddenly I was remembering the day in Zell’s office, the sight of Caroline in my clothes, batting her eyes. Is that what she’d done with Roland? Of course it was. I had seen it for myself. But I had looked the other way, made excuses, anything to keep myself from seeing it for what it was.
No wonder she’d been so adamant that I give up Roland’s child. She knew as well as I that a child would have bound him to me forever. And her willingness to act as go-between during the divorce, her keen interest in making sure I signed those final papers, had all been calculated. She had pretended it was for my own good, for the good of the child, when all the while she’d been planning, plotting, biding her time, like a hungry spider.
How had I not seen it?
It doesn’t matter. They’re married. She’s won, somehow, without my ever realizing it was a contest. But of course it was. It had always been a contest. Everything had. I saw it now. Now that it was too late.
I thought of the child I had given away, of the sacrifices I had made for both their sakes. I had been a fool, throwing away happiness with both hands in order to protect the people I loved, and this was how I’d been repaid, with deception and cold-hearted betrayal.
I stood stiffly and pushed past Jasper. I had no claim to Roland, no right to say who my sister could love or marry, but I needed them to know what I thought, what I felt. And I needed to know why.
Jasper laid a hand on my arm. “Where are you going?”
“Where do you think?” I replied so flatly that I barely recognized my own voice. “I’m going to pay my respects to the happy couple.”
“Lily-Mae, you’re in no shape to go anywhere, and certainly not to see Caroline. Besides, they’re not in town.”
I lifted questioning eyes to his.
“The paper said they’ve left on an extended honeymoon.”
“Paris?” I whispered, flayed raw by the thought.
Jasper shook his head. “Barbados, if the papers are right, and they usually are.”
I nodded miserably. I don’t think I could have borne it if it was Paris.
“And actually, it’s for the best.” He had me by the sleeve then, as if he thought I might bolt. “You don’t want either of them to see you like this. And what’s the point of a big scene? It’s done. I know that isn’t what you want to hear, but it’s the way things are. The best thing you can do right now is go back to the cottage and put some distance between yourself and your sister, and give yourself a little time to absorb it.”
As usual, Jasper was right—or mostly right. I did need distance. But the cottage wouldn’t be far enough. The truth is, at that moment I wasn’t sure there was anyplace on the face of the earth that would be far enough. I just knew I couldn’t be anywhere that reminded me of Roland, where I could hear the gossip or see the headlines. And so I picked up the phone and booked the first flight I could get, then returned to the apartment to throw some things in a suitcase. Tomorrow morning, I leave for Rome.
May 3, 1960
Rome, Italy
A letter has found me all the way across the sea. I scarcely know how Stephen knew to find me here. Perhaps Caroline gave him my address. The letter was brief, as most of Stephen’s letters are. But this one was handwritten, not typed, as if he had penned it himself rather than dictating it to his secretary. It said only that he was passing along some information that had recently come to his attention, as he believed I might find it of interest, and perhaps even some comfort.
I couldn’t imagine what he would be sending me. He had always been kind, but other than the papers I was required to sign from time to time, we have never had many dealings with each other. I was surprised, as I smoothed the creases from the carefully folded photocopy, to see the words “Mims County Register” printed at the top.
It was the face I noticed first. The photograph was blurry, and had been taken before my time at Mt. Zion, but there was no mistaking Harwood Zell. For a moment I felt the ground tilt beneath my feet, my hands suddenly trembling so violently I could barely read the badly blurred headline: “Local Minister Perishes in Mysterious Blaze.”
I don’t remember exactly what happened then. I remember closing my eyes, feeling tears squeezing past my lids, and then more and more, until finally I buckled to my knees with a silent prayer of gratitude and sobbed myself dry.
Dead.
For more nights than I can count, I have whispered Zell’s name—in both my curses and my prayers. I have cursed his name, and yes, I have prayed for him to die. Now it seems both prayer and curse have been answered. No longer will I have to look over my shoulder, or peer around corners, petrified that he’ll be there, waiting. I’m free.
The truth of it struck me so hard that I began to cry all over again, shaking until my teeth rattled and my bones ached. Finally, after a time, I quieted and looked about me for the photocopied article I had let slip from my hands.
I remained on my knees as I read, my eyes still gritty with tears.
A massive fire swept through Mt. Zion Missionary Poor Farm Thursday evening, destroying several buildings, including two dorms, the administrative offices, an equipment barn, and a portion of the main residence. Perishing in the fire were the Reverend Harwood Zell and his wife, Ruth, along with several unidentified residents housed in the dorms at the time of the fire. Witnesses say the blaze originated in the office building and then spread rapidly to the surrounding buildings, aided by recent dry, windy conditions. The cause of the fire is unknown at this time.
But it wasn’t unknown. Not to me. Suddenly, I was back in that office, looking at him across the desk through a haze of stale smoke, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his lips while another burned down to ash, forgotten in an ashtray on the other side of the room. Finally, his filthy habit had caught up to him.
As awful as it was, I couldn’t stop staring at the photos. There were several of the grounds, buildings ravaged to piles of soot and charred timber, and behind the burned-out barn, the graveyard, scorched black as far as the eye could see, its wooden crosses burned away so that there was no longer any way to tell who was buried there, no way to ever find the grave of Cindy Pric
e.
Sister Ruth is dead, too.
Even now, when the news has had time to settle, I try to muster some semblance of pity, or at least horror at the way she died. But all I feel is relief and a vague sense of numbness. There was a time when I could have strangled them both with my own hands. But now, strangely, all I feel is empty, as if losing the object of my hatred has left a hole in me.
Nothing will ever erase the horror of those days, or the shame I have quietly carried with me every day since, but justice has been done at last. Harwood Zell has been baptized by fire, though whether to cleanse him of his sins or prepare him for hell, I cannot say. I know only that he has gone to his God, and I must be content with that.
July 12, 1962
New York, New York
I stayed away from New York as long as I could, but I’m back again on home soil, though, if truth be told, this city has never felt like home. I have only one purpose in returning. I am back to lay my ghosts, to finally close up the apartment and then quit this place for good, to put it and its cruel reminders far behind me.
Not my memories, though. I have learned that that can never be. I thought once that I could outrun them—fool that I was—if I moved fast enough, and often enough. But memories are not stationary. They do not grow roots and stay in one place. They go with us, like shadows, always one step behind, pouncing when the party winds down and the guests start to leave. Or when darkness falls and there’s no one there.
I stayed nine months in Rome, in a rented flat overlooking the Campo de’ Fiori, where Julius Caesar died and heretics were once burned. It’s a marketplace now, filled with flowers most days. In the late afternoon when the sun was high I could smell their mingled scents through my open windows. I made friends and drank wine, learned new ways and new words, content for a time, if not truly happy. But eventually I grew restless, though for precisely what I could not have said. I moved on to Naples, to Procida, where the buildings are the color of Easter eggs, and the sea is everywhere you look. It was lovely, but it made me sad, too, because it made me think of Sand Pearl Cottage, and of Roland.
Summer at Hideaway Key Page 31