“You. You see them all the time. I’ll try to get there Sunday morning. That way I can enjoy some sunshine. I’ll do all the cooking in the evening. It’s going to be fun.”
“It’s a good idea, Slade. It really is.”
Still, when Natalie hung up the phone, her stomach felt funny.
• • •
Sunday was a perfect summer day: hot and cloudless with the slightest of breezes sweeping away any visiting mosquitoes and filling the sails of the small boats drifting on the lake.
Natalie worked in the morning. She had gotten into a good work routine and almost begrudged the weekends, when people expected her to do something as worthless as having fun. Her charcoal of Petey had surprised her with its unexpected resonance. It was so good she couldn’t give it to the O’Keefes; she wanted to keep it for a show, when she ever had one. Until then, she needed to refer to it, to keep looking at it—it was leading her somewhere. So she was doing an oil of the same pose of Petey for the O’Keefes. They would prefer the oil, she knew. In it, Petey looked like himself, the real boy in living color; the charcoal had something more art museum, even antique, about it. She wouldn’t give the oil to the O’Keefes this weekend, not when everyone was around. She’d wait for a special time.
She worked in a new black bikini and an ancient paint-covered work shirt until she heard a van pull up in her drive. Not even her talented brother could arrive with all the picnic goodies on a motorcycle. She hurried downstairs to help him unload one of Dave Ralston’s vans. They lugged in beer and wine, soft drinks and sparkling water, and bags of groceries. They stocked the refrigerator, emptied bags of ice into a Styrofoam cooler, and shoved cans and bottles down into the sparkling ice. They set up beach chairs on the sand, and put out a table and a cooler of ice.
“That’s about it,” Slade said. “It’s hot. Let’s get out on the water.”
He disappeared into the downstairs bath, returning in surfer-boy boxer-short bathing trunks that slid down his skinny hips just a tantalizing inch. His long, lean body was muscular, but white.
“You’re pale,” Natalie teased as they left the house and tapped down the wooden steps from the deck.
“(A) I am not, and (B) not everyone lounges around on a lake all day.”
“I don’t lounge,” Natalie shot back.
Together, they dragged the old canoe out of the boathouse down to the edge of the water.
“Get the paddles,” he told Natalie. “They’re on the wall.”
In the shed, the summer fragrance of sun-warmed wood and packed earth surrounded her. She breathed in, closing her eyes just for a moment, then found the paddles and the flotation cushions and carried them down to the shore.
“You get in,” Slade directed. “I’ll shove off.”
Slade pushed the boat into the water and stepped in, rocking the canoe until it settled down as the lake embraced it.
They dipped their paddles into the water and stroked. The boat obligingly moved forward. They slid away from shore as gracefully as a swan. A beguiling silence enveloped them, broken only by the musical splash of their oars. The sun splintered the surface with streaks of dazzle. Along the shore, trees dappled the lake with shade. They passed the piers and docks and beaches of other houses, and people they didn’t know waved at them from their decks and porches. A pair of mallards bobbed near a fallen maple branch. A green fall of willow leaves bowed from the ground into the water; they slipped beneath the arch it created. Droplets of water fell from Natalie’s oar, each one a shimmering gem.
Natalie turned to look at her brother. “Hey, we’re like canoe pros! I don’t remember Aunt Eleanor teaching us.”
“She didn’t. We learned by trial and error.” Slade chuckled. “More error than anything else, if I remember right. And my swimming style sucks.”
“I’m terrible at it, too. I almost drowned last week. Bella’s brother Ben had to rescue me.”
Slade laughed. “You’re kidding me.”
“Nope.”
“Awesome.”
They continued along the lake in silence.
When do childhood emotions loosen their hold, allowing you to see the world, be in the world, as the adult you’ve worked so hard to become? Natalie wondered.
Today was like the Sundays of her childhood memories. The air smelled sweet and felt fresh on her bare skin, the sky arched higher than ever before—she could scarcely see the blue behind the shimmer of sunlight—and grasses, ferns, and green bushes drooped down the banks of the lake in a thick, verdant tapestry. Children’s laughter and the splashing of oars rang all around.
The Barnabys were already out. Louise was on the deck, reclining on a chaise with an umbrella angled over her to protect her from too much sun. Ben and his father were at their boathouse, carrying out deck chairs, oars, sails. Bella sat at the table on the deck, bent over a book. Brady and a friend were already on the lake, side by side in kayaks.
At the O’Keefes’, Morgan was fastening Petey into his life jacket while Josh stepped the mast on the Sunfish. All three were in bathing suits. Morgan and Josh waved at Natalie and Slade, then returned to the business of getting Petey into the sailboat. The little boy was so excited he was jumping up and down.
Happy families on either side. Happy families all around the lake. Natalie remembered this so well from visiting as a child, remembered the sense of difference she carried like a hump on her back—something visible to everyone else, something that set her and Slade apart. Their mother would drive them down in her rattling old station wagon and drop them off for a few days, scarcely bothering to come in for even a short chat with Eleanor. Which was fine with Natalie, because it hurt her to see her mother and aunt together.
Natalie’s mother was three years older than Eleanor, but she was so worn-out, overweight, and defeated in appearance she seemed more like Eleanor’s mother. Aunt Eleanor would be wearing something glamorous over her toned, lean body. Natalie’s mother would be in old jeans and a shapeless tee shirt, usually stained. Natalie knew that her mother was just as pretty as Aunt Eleanor, or would be if she could pull herself together, but over the years it became clear that Marlene would never change. And why should she? The loves of her life, her bulldogs, didn’t care what she looked like.
So there they would be, Slade and Natalie, stick children, all elbows, knees, and ribs, wearing the wrong clothes, feet pinched in old shoes, hair drooping shaggily and probably greasily over their eyes.
“Dear God,” Aunt Eleanor would always say. “You look like you stepped straight out of Dickens.”
When she was very young, before she knew who Charles Dickens was, Natalie had interpreted her aunt’s remark to mean she’d just left the Devil, which mystified and worried Natalie terribly, because even though her mother was poor and often cranky, she certainly wasn’t evil. She would huddle next to Slade, who would be rigid with anger at the entire situation. Of course, Aunt Eleanor always had other people staying at her house, gorgeous, wealthy, carefree playboys without a worry in the world—that was how it seemed. They’d glance at Slade or Natalie, widen their eyes, arch their glossy shaped eyebrows, and murmur “My, my” to one another before sauntering off to the deck.
Aunt Eleanor would hug Natalie and Slade. “Darlings, you know where your room is. Take your luggage there and change into your bathing suits,” she’d say before rushing to join her friends.
They were all younger then. Natalie and Slade were painfully aware of the Barnabys, who lived next door, with their badminton net set up in the side yard, their croquet set in the front yard, their deck and beach and boats and swarm of friends. Slade was about Ben’s age; Natalie about Bella’s. But they never met. Ben and Bella were too busy with their own friends, screaming with laughter as they splashed in the water, swimming with the natural ease of dolphins. Aunt Eleanor didn’t try to introduce them. She had no experience with children; she was trying to be kind and generous to her nephew and niece, whom she did love in her own grown-up way.
/>
Still, no one taught Slade and Natalie how to swim. “Go swim,” Aunt Eleanor would order them, knowing at least that on a summer day children shouldn’t be lurking in the house. It was humiliating to walk down to the beach in their last-year’s faded swimming suits, pale as slugs from under a log. Sometimes, if the Barnaby kids weren’t around, they’d really try to swim, occasionally succeeding, more often sinking and choking horribly. Slade was mean to Natalie in the water if other kids were around. He’d shove her under, or knock her off balance, or splash water in her face. She was younger and more sensitive to the opinion of others. Instead of getting into a fight with Slade in front of Aunt Eleanor or the neighbors, she’d stagger out of the lake, water dripping from her nose, her arms clutching her skinny body.
They didn’t belong there. Slade and Natalie knew it. They told their mother they didn’t want to go there, but she always answered with searing honesty that it was the only chance she had to provide them with any kind of summer vacation.
“I’m hot.” Slade’s voice broke into her thoughts. “My shoulders are getting sunburned. I’m thirsty.”
Natalie burst into laughter. “You are a tender flower!”
“Yeah, well, you should see your shoulders,” Slade challenged.
She looked. Bright red. “Ah,” she said. “We should have worn sunblock.”
They concentrated on turning the canoe back toward home, which suddenly had grown far away.
“How long have we been out here?” she asked.
“Over an hour,” Slade told her.
“We’re idiots,” she said mildly.
“I know,” he agreed.
A woman and her daughter sailed past in their kayak and waved at them. Far away, the O’Keefes glided through the water in their Sunfish. Birds flitted among the trees or swooped high in the sky, and a belly laugh boomed over the lake.
“Slade,” Natalie said, “do you think you’ll ever get married?”
He was quiet for so long she didn’t think he would answer. She heard only the silken dip and slide of the oars.
“Oh,” he said at last, “I don’t know.”
“You’re thirty-five.”
“You’re thirty.”
“I can’t seem to meet a decent guy. I’d like to get married, though. I’d like to have a family.”
He didn’t reply. They paddled along companionably.
“Bella’s nice,” Slade said.
Natalie almost fell out of the canoe. Turning around, she looked at him. “Bella? Bella is sweet. Bella is almost engaged to Aaron. Bella wants lots of babies!”
“I just said she was nice,” Slade replied defensively.
“Do you want children?” Natalie asked.
She could almost hear him shrug. “With the right woman.”
They drew near their beach.
“Slade,” Natalie said. “Listen, really. Don’t play around with Bella, okay?”
“Give me some credit,” Slade replied tersely.
Then they were back onshore, busy with the effort of getting the canoe up onto the grass, and turning it over, and hurrying into the house to shower and dress.
9
By nine-thirty that Sunday evening, the sky was still luminous with a pale lavender glow. The lake was empty of boats, but the porches and decks rang with laughter and conversation. The tempting aroma of grilled food drifted through the air. All around the lake, trees, shrubs, and sheds lost their edges, blurring into shadows, while lights at the houses gleamed like points of gold.
Morgan sat on the Barnabys’ wicker glider, comfortable on the deep pink-and-green floral cushions, with Petey sleeping in her arms. From here she could look over at Natalie’s deck, where most of the party was gathered. Her muscles were pleasantly tired from the day’s activities: Not only had she and Josh taken Petey out sailing, but later, after Petey’s nap and before the cookout, they’d played volleyball, badminton, and croquet with Ben, Aaron, Slade, Bella, and a hesitant and uncoordinated Natalie. Louise and Dennis had kept Petey occupied, pulling out dump trucks and backhoes that Beatrice’s children played with; the older people had insisted they loved being with the toddler. So Morgan was able to run and jump for the ball, feeling the slam of it against her palm, right down to her shoulder; she was able to swing her racquet forward to whack the birdie over Aaron’s head—she’d felt, for a while, young again, back in a body that could leap and spin and smash, an athletic body meant for movement. She didn’t have to prepare dinner either. It had been a perfect summer day.
Louise and Dennis had gone into the house to watch Masterpiece Theatre on PBS. Natalie had sat with Morgan for a long time, talking desultorily, lulled by the fresh air and all the delicious food they’d eaten. Natalie was back on her own deck now, slipping around inconspicuously tidying up: tossing used cans and bottles into a recycle barrel, covering the cupcakes and carrying them inside. Bella leaned against the deck railing, snuggled up against Aaron, who had his arm around her and from time to time bent to kiss her forehead. Morgan remembered those early-love days, the sweetness, the tug of connection. The others, Slade, Ben, and Josh, were arguing about the Red Sox.
One of the men pulled away from the others, went down the steps, crossed the lawn, and came up to the Barnabys’ deck.
Slade sat down next to Morgan, gently, so he wouldn’t rock the slider. “Hey. Where’d the Barnabys go?”
“TV. It’s after nine.”
Slade stretched. “Yeah. I’ve got to go soon. It’s been a long day. Everyone has to work tomorrow.”
Morgan spoke before thinking. “I don’t. I mean, of course, I’ve got Petey.…” She gazed lovingly down at her sleeping son.
“Does he sleep through the night?”
Morgan stared at Slade.
“I have friends with children,” Slade said defensively. “I know a couple whose daughter still won’t go to sleep unless she sleeps in their bed, and she’s two.”
Morgan shifted the heavy lump of her precious boy over to her other arm. “Petey’s been sleeping through the night for about six months now. Thank heavens. And he sleeps in his crib.” Slade wore cargo shorts and a black tee. Now in the dusk, the red streak of burn across his nose, forehead, and cheeks was less noticeable. She couldn’t really see his face, and yet amazingly, she was still intensely aware of his extraordinary good looks. Of his sexuality. It was like having a sleek panther curled on the glider with her, something feral, sensual, patient, aware of her, biding its time.
“I should put Petey to bed.” She struggled to rise.
“Let me carry him.” Slade stood up in one uncoiled move and held out his arms.
She thought for a moment. “Okay.”
Slade bent down; together they maneuvered the child into his arms. For the briefest moment, Morgan inhaled Slade’s scent, a mix of fresh air, clean cotton, and an unfamiliar aftershave. She arched her back and stretched, free of the child’s weight. “Let’s go in through the front door,” she suggested, “so all the talk won’t wake him.”
Slade followed her quietly down the steps, around the side of the house, across the lawn, and up the steps into Morgan’s house.
“Wow,” he whispered when they entered. “Posh.”
She wasn’t sure how to respond, so she only answered, “His bedroom’s upstairs.”
In Petey’s room, she quickly turned on the night light, then smoothed out the bedsheet and lowered the bars on the crib. With great gentleness, Slade bent to lay the sleeping child in his bed. Petey stirred, murmured, his pink lips twitching. Curling on his side, he continued sleeping. Morgan reached past Slade for Petey’s light cotton blanket and covered him, then stood for a moment, watching the boy sleep, as she always did. Only this time she was aware that it wasn’t Josh next to her—not that Josh was around much these days to help put Petey to bed. She was aware of Slade’s tight muscular concentration. He lived with a shield around him. Right now the shield drew her like a magnet.
“Okay,” she whispered
, and went out into the hall. Slade followed. She pulled Petey’s door halfway shut.
“What about his diaper?” Slade asked.
“He’s not wearing one,” Morgan confessed with a grin. “We allowed him to water the bushes by the side of the house. He was thrilled. I think he’s pretty much drained himself dry. Anyway, I’ll have to change his sheets tomorrow. He’s got sand on the bottom of his feet and heaven knows what in the pocket of his shorts, but I decided I’d deal with that tomorrow rather than wake him up for a bath tonight.”
“Gosh.” Slade stopped by an open door. “Is that your bedroom? Do you mind?” Before she could answer, he stepped inside. He strode across to the window overlooking the lake, then came back to the door, flicked on the overhead light, and surveyed their room before focusing on the bed. “Waverly, right?”
“Hey, you’re good.” Their queen-size mattress, bound in crisp white sheets, sat on a long, low heavy black frame with two black bedside tables, creating a kind of Asian look. It was lower to the ground than most beds, which for Morgan had created difficulties when she was nursing Petey and had to get them both into the bed in the middle of the night. But the look was spectacular.
“It’s my business.” Slade looked at their chest of drawers. “Although I can’t place this.”
“It’s Thrift Shop, circa 2009,” Morgan joked. “I haven’t found time to buy chests that will look good with such a—what the saleswoman called—a statement of a bed.” Morgan flashed on the days when they first bought the bed, how she and Josh had made love in it over and over again, turned on by its expensive unusual lines, feeling as if they were in another country, on another planet.
Slade squinted, thinking. “In our shop in Boston, we have a black lacquered table cabinet with five drawers, antique Chinese, probably 1880, similar severe lines.”
“Sounds like it costs a fortune.”
“About two thousand. But I could get a deal for you.” He didn’t look at Morgan when he said this, but his voice was an invitation, an overture.
Summer Beach Reads Page 135