Summer Beach Reads

by Thayer, Nancy

  “Good morning, Mellie. How do you feel?”

  “Like a kangaroo. Oh.” Mellie’s tone changed when she saw Suzette in the rocker.

  “Won’t you join us?” Nona invited. “The sun is lovely.”

  “No. No, I’ll—” With a listless wave of her hand, Mellie waddled back into the house.

  “I should go.” Suzette put her hands on the arms of the rocker, trying to lever herself up.

  “Nonsense. Sit still. You just got settled.” All this domestic drama made Nona just tired. “Mellie’s irritable because of her pregnancy, that’s all.”

  But Suzette had achieved standing position. “That’s okay. I’m tired anyway. I think I’ll take a nap.”

  “All right then, dear.”

  Nona sighed. Any sane person would assume that Mellie, being pregnant, would befriend the pregnant Suzette so they could commiserate. But Mellie acted as if Suzette carried a fatally contagious virus. Partly, this was Grace’s fault. Grace was unashamedly disparaging about Teddy and his wife. It didn’t help that Helen was still in Boston. She was to arrive today for the summer, but without her balancing opinions, Grace’s bitter suspicions filtered through the house like that expensive perfume Grace used, the one that smelled like cat pee.

  Dear Lord, Nona thought, if her own family—her fortunate, wealthy, healthy family—couldn’t get along, how would world peace ever be achieved? For that matter, to bring the issue down to practical terms, how would they manage to get through Family Meeting without confrontations? Nona was dreading Family Meeting. She had never enjoyed them. All the statistical analyses of funds bored her. When Helen and Grace presented the charitable distributions and their suggestions for the coming year, Nona often received a rush of pleasure at imagining someone somewhere receiving comfort, and over the past few years there had been little reason for altercations. But now Teddy was here, so very much here, and not shaping up into any kind of practical, reliable man. And Charlotte, out there grubbing in the dirt, had made four thousand dollars from her little garden, which was driving her millionaire relatives wild.

  “Oh, good.” As if summoned by Nona’s thoughts, her daughter appeared in the doorway. “I want to talk to you,” Grace said.

  In khaki shorts and a hunter-green polo shirt and sneakers, Grace had the appearance of a camp counselor or Girl Scout. All she needed was a whistle around her neck. Actually, Nona thought, Grace would love to go through life with a whistle around her neck.

  “Please.” Nona gestured to the rocking chair. “I’m always so popular the day before Family Meeting,” she observed lightly.

  Grace arranged herself in the chair, resting a sheaf of papers and a clipboard on her knees. “Joke all you want, Mother, but we do have some important matters to discuss.”

  “Would you like to wait a little while? Helen’s flying in this afternoon, and—”

  Officiously, Grace cut in. “No, Mother, I need to talk with you in private first. My concerns involve Helen’s children, actually, and I think we need to get our ducks in a row before Helen gets involved.”

  “And these ducks would be?” Nona could feel her blood pressure begin to simmer as it always did when Grace cornered her.

  “Don’t be coy, Mother, you know exactly what I’m talking about. First of all, I’ll just be blunt: Owen. I know Oliver and Owen are going to have their ridiculous little marriage ceremony, but I feel very clear on the matter: Owen should not be allowed to attend Family Meeting.”

  “Oh, Grace.”

  “And second, Teddy should not be allowed to bring Suzette into Family Meeting unless they provide written documentation that they are actually married.”

  “Oh, Grace.”

  “Mother.” Grace’s face turned florid, her lips thinned, and her head jerked high, like a beast hearing a battle cry. “I don’t think you realize how much you favor Worth’s children and ignore mine.”

  “What?” Nona shook her head sadly. “That’s ridiculous.”

  But Grace was up and away. “I don’t think you appreciate the devotion of my side of the family. Kellogg works in Daddy’s bank. Mandy’s Claus works in the bank. Mellie’s Dougie works in the bank. Our side of the family is carrying on the Wheelwright tradition.”

  “Worth works in the bank,” Nona reminded Grace quietly.

  “Oh, yes, Worth!” Grace spat his name bitterly. “We all know Worth is your favorite child. He’s the charmer; he’s the Mary talking while I’m the Martha doing housework. But consider his children, Nona, seriously! Oliver has no interest in the bank, and he is not furthering the Wheelwright name in any way; he’s not going to provide you with an heir, do you think? Oh, perhaps he and Owen someday will adopt some homosexual AIDS child from Africa, just what we need to carry on the Wheelwright name. And Charlotte? She’s playing farmer in the dell or pretending to; Charlotte’s the smart one in the family, and just because she’s pretty, you think she’s incapable of duplicity, but you just wait! She’ll play out there in her little garden, and when you die, she’ll claim that all that land is hers and she’ll sell it and make a fortune.”

  Nona straightened in her chair. This was uglier than she’d expected. “I really don’t think Charlotte—”

  “No, you think Charlotte hung the moon, don’t you? And what about Teddy? He’s a fool and a freeloader. He’ll never be anything but a useless alcoholic. And that Suzette!”

  “Grace, lower your voice.”

  Grace recoiled as if Nona had slapped her. More quietly, she continued. “All you have to do is look at that girl to see she’s not much more than a whore.”

  Nona’s heart wrenched. “Honey. Why are you so venomous?”

  “Because I feel these things deeply. Because I have to be the one to say these terrible things, which is only what we’re all thinking, but no one else is brave enough to speak out. Mother”—Grace drew herself erect—“when that baby’s born, I insist on a DNA test to prove it’s a Wheelwright.”

  Nona raised her hand to her forehead, which felt congested. Her hand, her left hand, still ringed with a simple platinum band—she’d given the four-carat diamond engagement ring to Worth when he told her he wanted to marry Helen, and that was another decision Grace could not forgive her for—her hand was trembling. Frail old crone, she told herself. Yet crones were supposed to be wise, and she did not feel wise at all. She felt very tired. She rubbed her forehead lightly and strained to hear birdsong. She only heard her daughter breathing like a bull in the ring.

  “Aren’t you going to give me the honor of an answer?” Grace demanded.

  “Grace, please remember I am ninety years old. I am tired; I am very tired. I don’t quite understand what more you want. To me, it seems you have so much. But I do comprehend your concerns, and I’ll consider them.”

  “Mother—”

  “That’s all I can say for now. I need to rest.”

  Nona leaned her head back against the chaise. Now, as more and more often these days, life seemed to dissolve into a kind of gel around her, a warm, soothing, buoyant, cradling substance, rather like an ocean combined with a hot bubble bath. She was safe, nestling into this cushion; she was supported. She sank into it gratefully.

  1943–1944

  Anne didn’t wear a wedding dress when she married Herb in September of ’43. There wasn’t time for that sort of fuss. She bought a pale rose lightweight-wool suit with a little jacket and a hat with a half veil that tilted quite adorably. Anne’s best friend, Gail, was her bridesmaid, and Hilyard Clayton was Herb’s best man. Both men wore their dress uniforms and were proud to do so.

  Herb’s parents attended, looking stern and disapproving, and his sister, Holly, came, brightening the occasion, and Anne’s parents flew to Boston for the event, for which Anne was fervently grateful. At the celebration dinner at the Ritz, her parents charmed Herb’s parents so much that the Wheelwrights seemed to soften their opinion of Anne. Still, the entire event was overshadowed by world events. It was difficult, in spite of
the occasion, to talk about anything except the war. They spent their wedding night at the Ritz, and Herb joined his battalion the next day and moved out to Arizona for special training.

  Herb’s parents made it clear that it would be inappropriate for her to continue to remain in the apartment with the single, convivial Gail. They invited—commanded—Anne to come live with them. Herb said he would like that, too; he would know Anne was safe. Anne intended to continue as a secretary at Stangarone’s. She believed her work was, in its own small way, important. Because she would be gone all day and could meet Gail and other friends for dinner on weeknights and for fun on weekends, Anne reluctantly agreed to move in with her in-laws, even though the thought both terrified and bored her.

  Living with her in-laws wasn’t quite as ghastly as she’d feared. In fact, it was rather nice to come home from the noisy, overwrought, disorganized, frantic shipping office to the calm of a delicious meal and a nice glass of wine. The war curtailed much of Charity Wheelwright’s social appointments. Instead, women were getting together to knit stockings and pack goody boxes filled with tins of homemade cookies. Once in a while, Anne’s mother-in-law insisted Anne join them at a cocktail party or a concert or an afternoon tea. “We want to show you off, my dear,” Charity said smoothly. “Our new daughter-in-law.” Right, Anne thought. You want to show off my nice neat waistline, proof that your son didn’t have to marry me.

  On weekends, Herb’s sister, Holly, drove up from Rhode Island, where she taught sailing and math at a private school. Holly was engaged to another teacher, now an officer in the U.S. Army Air Corps, stationed in England. If Anne didn’t know about the fiancé, she would have believed Holly was a lesbian, because Holly was such a jock, very no-nonsense and abrupt. Plus, she wore really dowdy clothing. Often Holly was joined by some of her girlfriends, who nattered away loudly about their tennis, their squash, their dinghies, their Indian sailboats, their trips fly-fishing in Montana and golfing in Florida, and how amazing it was that Anne had landed the handsome Herb when she didn’t sail or play tennis. There was no malice in their remarks, though, no sense of threat. The group of athletic women regarded Anne with the fond amusement of human beings watching another species. When they went out at night to a movie or a party, they always invited Anne along and, best of all, whenever Charity Wheelwright began to criticize Anne for one thing or another, loyal Holly jumped to her defense.

  In May, Charity and Norman Wheelwright went down to Nantucket to open their summer house. They left on a weekday, so Anne couldn’t go with them, and they took Mrs. O’Hara, their housekeeper, and for a few blissful nights Anne had the large old mansion on Beacon Hill all to herself. At first it seemed eerie, being alone in the empty mausoleum, but Anne revved up her courage with a glass of wine and decided to snoop. Perhaps she might learn something about her in-laws that would help her be more comfortable around them. She had seen Holly’s bedroom, and the bedroom Herb slept in as a boy, and Anne was using the guest bedroom, which happily had a private bathroom. But she’d never seen Herb’s parents’ room, so she bravely set off up the stairs and down the long wide hallway to the room at the front of the house. She paused outside the closed bedroom door, asking herself what she was looking for, what she wanted to find. Well, she answered herself, she hoped she’d find signs of the small secret passions that make life rich. A stack of romance novels or mysteries. A bedside drawer stuffed with expensive chocolates. Even satin sheets, or a drawer of silk underwear. Perhaps—these were wealthy people, after all—perhaps a charming little Impressionist original oil over the fireplace.

  “Ta-da!” she yelled, giving herself courage, and threw open the door.

  The room could have been anyone’s. It was a handsome, comfortable room, with lots of heavy Empire furniture and brocade draperies and a thick Persian rug, but the signs of an individual personality were not in evidence. On the bedside table: a clock, a crystal water tumbler, a small china box holding nail clippers and an emery board. On the walls: framed photographs of Holly and Herb as children, framed photographs of distinguished, straight-backed, prune-mouthed citizens who had to be Charity and Norman’s parents. On Charity Wheelwright’s vanity table, a silver-backed brush and hand mirror, a small jar of cold cream, and a small wooden jewelry box holding Charity’s best pearls. Everything was set at right angles and aligned as if by a ruler. Anne pulled open the closet door. Charity’s dresses hung at attention, straight and proper, as if Charity never once had pulled something out, put it on, groaned at herself in the mirror, and tossed it back in the closet. She opened a drawer in one of the bureaus and saw not a rainbow of silk nighties, or a shocking quantity of satin underpants, but a large quantity of rubbery girdles. She decided not to open the other drawers. She could keep her fantasies that Charity Wheelwright had secret luxuries. She closed the drawer, looked around the room to be sure she hadn’t disturbed anything, and left.

  She went downstairs, through the house, and into the kitchen, where she ate a cold dinner of cheese, crackers, and sliced ham and had another glass of wine. Where did Holly and Herb get their sense of humor? she mused as she ate. Perhaps Herb’s parents came alive on Nantucket Island. Perhaps they relaxed there, and Anne could get to know their real selves.

  July 22, 1944

  Darling Anne,

  Arrived safe and sound after a very boresome and uneventful trip. My location is a military secret as far as you are concerned so please do not attempt to locate me. If my mail ceases in the not-too-distant future you will know that I am on an extended fishing trip. I’ve never tried ocean fishing but expect to enjoy it.

  I hope you and my parents are knocking around all right together. They will warm up, I promise you. I miss you constantly and dream of the days when we can start our married life together in a safe and free world.

  With all my love,

  Herb

  Anne carried Herb’s latest letter in the pocket of her trousers. She liked being able to reach in whenever she wanted to and feel the crisp folded paper. It was as if she were touching a bit of Herb, as if he were safe and alive in her keeping. Gwendolyn Forsythe, her immediate superior at Stangarone’s, had insisted that Anne take two weeks off that July. “You need a break, kid,” Gwen told Anne. “Don’t worry, the war won’t end without you.”

  So Anne rode down to Woods Hole with her in-laws and took the ferry to Nantucket Island, where a friend of the Wheelwrights met them, loaded his car with their luggage, and drove them out to their summer home on Polpis Harbor.

  It was a luxury to be here; Anne realized that at once. Back in Boston, the July air was punishingly muggy, and in spite of fans set on top of filing cabinets, the humidity made papers stick together, made hair frizz or hang lank, made tempers short. On the island, the air was also humid, but the temperature was almost ten degrees cooler, and a light sea breeze stirred freshness into the atmosphere.

  Anne was given the guest bedroom at the opposite end of the house from Herb’s parents. She set her suitcase on the needlepoint luggage rack, opened it, and started to put away her clothing. Then she shuffled through her things, dug out her black bathing suit, and stripped off her clothing. She pulled on her bathing suit, grabbed a towel from the bathroom, and ran down the stairs.

  The housekeeper, Mrs. O’Hara, came into the hall, wiping her hands on her apron.

  “Hello, Mrs. O’Hara! I’m going for a swim!” Anne announced.

  “Yes, I can see that. Use the mudroom door when you return, so you don’t track sand in any farther than necessary.”

  “Right.” You old Puritan, Anne thought as she hurried into the living room, down to the French doors leading to the harbor side. She went through them, her bare feet touched on soft green grass, and she sighed with pleasure. The lawn was man-made and needed a lot of tending, for wild shrubs of bayberry and barberry and Rosa rugosa crowded in luxuriant untamed abundance down to the shore. A narrow boardwalk extended between these bushes—the boards were hot to the soles of Anne’s feet�
�and then she was at the water’s edge, her feet sinking into the warm sand, the sun blazing down on her, light shimmering everywhere. Across the harbor, several sailboats were anchored, and in the distance a motorboat grumbled along. She waded into the water and plunged off away from shore until the water was deep enough for swimming.

  She stroked through the water, swimming until she was breathless; then she flipped over and floated, gazing up at the blue sky. Oh, how she’d missed this—the sense of open space and the solitude. And the sensual pleasure. She missed Herb. She didn’t think she’d been wrong to marry him—she loved him like crazy—but she thought perhaps she’d been wrong to marry him just before he went off to war. It was as if she were a wild horse who had found a mate with whom to gallop full speed, mane flying, over an endless pasture, only to find herself suddenly inside a fenced corral, ruled by strangers cracking whips to make her obey.

  Oh, come on, Anne told herself. You have it so tough, living in luxury while Herb is overseas with bullets flying over his head. Stop whining. Grow up.

  But how she missed him! Their few times together had wakened her senses in ways she’d never expected. Plus she had so much to tell him. And she wanted to hear everything he had to tell her. Missing him was a kind of pain, almost a grief. She remembered his long legs, his wide shoulders, his deep laugh, the sweet breath of his kiss. She needed that. She needed that again, and now. And he was so far away. She didn’t know where he was. She didn’t know when he would be coming home. She didn’t even know whether he would be coming home, and her heart ached with worry.

  This, she told herself, is why you shouldn’t be alone in wide open spaces, because then you start worrying and remembering and you get maudlin and imaginative. Be a big girl, for heaven’s sake!

  She swam back to shore, dried off, and walked back to the house.