Nick gave her a perplexed squint. He was handsome, rich, and famously lettered in every sport available at every school he’d attended. For Mr. Cabot it was probably a major twist that a gal wouldn’t devour his flattery.
“I heard about your mother,” Nick said. “I’m so very sorry. She was a gem.”
Ruby smiled wanly and clutched her stomach. The man was giving her fits. Even her body knew the guy was shady as a cedar grove. Either that or her new girdle was screwy. It was at once too tight, or her bladder too full. This pregnancy devilry was nuts, her body changing by the hour.
Suddenly something trickled out of Ruby. Dear God. She’d been warned by women who knew, but it seemed far too early to be wetting her drawers.
After hastily excusing herself from Nick Cabot’s questionable company, Ruby hustled toward the ladies’ and hitched her panty girdle down. At once she wailed in pain, though dull cramps were the only physical sensation. This pain was from her heart, her hopes, and her dreams. The pain was from seeing her underwear’s confident, innocent, white satin sheen completely doused in blood.
* * *
He was going to be named Robert. They planned to call him Bobby.
Ruby telegrammed Sam but for the longest time did not hear back. At first she feared the worst because this was war and the worst was surely to come. Finally, Sam answered back with one word. HEARTBROKEN.
The dreams that would never come.
45
Saturday Morning
Bess wakes up at four o’clock in the morning. She assumes that the quirks of pregnancy (indigestion, sharp pains under the rib cage) have jostled her to attention, but in fact it’s all the clashing and thumping going on down the hall. Cissy, of course.
Another reason she can’t have a baby. What example does she have? Bess loves that crazy woman, but sometimes she fantasizes about one of those regular homemaking, cookie-baking moms. Really though, Bess doesn’t care about sweets. She’d settle for someone not risking her life for a house, someone not knocking about in the dead of night doing Lord knows what.
Bess turns onto her left side. She lies there for several uncomfortable minutes before turning onto her right. When that doesn’t work, she flips faceup but then remembers that pregnant women aren’t supposed to sleep on their backs. Then again, does it matter?
All spun up into a wired-exhausted state by 4:42, Bess lurches out of bed. After grabbing a robe off the pink bureau, Bess wraps it around herself with a double knot and patters out into the hallway. She’s surprised to find it dead dark, all the way down to Cissy’s room. The thumping has disappeared; the only sound is that of the waves breaking beyond.
Was Bess imagining things? Jacking up the volume on the home’s creaks and cracks?
Suddenly she hears the front door whoosh open and then slam shut. It’s not even five o’clock in the morning and the old bat is already out of her lair. Bess runs to the round window in the hall, a window now partially blocked by Cissy’s ill-conceived secondary flagpole.
“Damn it, Cissy,” Bess grouses with a laugh.
Although the view is obstructed, Bess has a clear shot of Baxter Road, and one Mrs. Caroline Codman scuttling across it like a blond crab. And what do you know, she’s headed straight toward Chappy Mayhew’s.
Bess inhales, holding the breath behind her chest until her raging heartburn intervenes and she’s forced to let go. What is Cissy doing? Breaking and/or entering? Damaging property? Every possibility seems farfetched yet likely at the same time. This is how it goes with the woman, a respected town doyenne and shooter-of-Kennedys both.
Bess turns away from the window and jogs back to her room. When she fishes her phone from the depths of a Young Family Reunion windbreaker, Bess sees an unread text. It’s from Evan, time-stamped 10:33.
Hey—Just got your text. Wish I could’ve gone to party but at LAX tourney on the cape. Keeping phone off as a good example to kids. Hope you had fun. Talk Sunday.
Bess smiles even as tears fill her eyes. She can’t believe how happy she is because of a few words. He was with a bunch of kids.
You’re supposed to be the good example in this scenario? she types in response. Poor kids. JK. Travel safe.
Bess thinks to text her mom (I see you! Step away from the Mayhews’!), but remembers it won’t get read until sometime next week. She chucks the phone onto her bed, tosses on her ratty espadrilles, and then books it downstairs and out the front door, bedclothes and all.
Bess stalks across Baxter Road. As she gets closer to Chappy’s, Bess notices there are lights on inside, which means Cissy’s operations are not covert. A confrontation, possibly? Her mother wouldn’t physically harm the man, Bess doesn’t think.
Soon she is on the property, tramping through the yard. Rose stems prickle Bess’s skin as she winds between the hedges and flowers. It’s foggy. The air and ground are wet, her ankles already filthy. After lunging over three low plants, Bess sidesteps some type of open-trench situation before ultimately steadying herself on a windowsill.
Bess glances down to see scratches crisscrossing her legs. Her palms are scuffed up and her nightgown looks like she’s been locked in an Appalachian barn for twenty years. But Bess will not remember the minor abrasions. When evaluating that particular night, these discomforts will prove the least of the damage.
Traumatic brain injury is nothing to joke about, but there’s no other way to describe Bess’s emotions after looking at the window and the appalling portrait it frames. Here is a real-life shot of Chappy Mayhew, stark naked and bucking, jamming an equally naked, very willing Cissy Codman against a wall.
46
Saturday Afternoon
“You’re back.”
Bess stands in the open doorway as the wind sends sheets of drizzle sideways into the house.
“Yes. A day early,” Evan says. “We laid a big fat egg in the tournament. I thought we’d at least make it to Sunday. I’m not sure what it says about me that I’m more upset than they are. You’d expect nine-year-old boys to be more cutthroat. Haven’t they read Lord of the Flies? Can I come in?”
Bess stares at him. With so much to say, she doesn’t know where to start.
“I hurried back,” he tells her and holds up his phone. “Because of your um, slightly grumpy text. Came straight from the ferry. Is everything okay? And what is it I didn’t tell you, exactly?”
“Are there multiple options to choose from?”
“Ummm…”
Bess looks around, though she is the only person at the house. She hasn’t seen Cissy since that morning, when she saw way too much.
“Did you know?” Bess asks.
“Know what?”
“About Cissy. And your dad.”
“Shit.” Evan closes his eyes and lets out a small groan. “She finally told you.”
“She didn’t tell me crap. I found them. Going to town. Not, like, Nantucket Town.”
“Pound town?”
“Gross.” Bess scowls at him. “Not funny. But yes.”
“Sorry, sorry,” he says, chuckling. “Maybe it is kind of disturbing. They’re usually pretty discreet. Where were they?”
“They were in his house. It was … I saw them through…” Bess shakes her head. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. Your dad and my mom are having an affair, which you were apparently aware of. We’ve had some pretty intimate conversations and meanwhile…”
“Can I come in?” he asks again.
Bess looks down. The strip of hardwood between them is now completely slick with rain.
“Fine,” Bess says, and ushers him inside. “Just so you know, I’m pretty pissed off.”
“Noted.”
They walk toward the living room, most of it now boxed up.
“You know what I’m thinking,” Evan says as he takes a seat beside Bess on the floral couch.
She promptly moves to the light blue settee.
“I was thinking,” he goes on, pretending not to notice the relocation, “I
’m ahead on my project on Codfish. After the holiday weekend, I can bring my guys in to help with the rest of the packing. You’ve done a lot but this place still feels very … lived-in.”
“Well, yeah, because it is very much lived-in. I’ve practically set down roots.” Bess exhales loudly. “Why didn’t you tell me about them? Good grief. Cis’s archnemesis. No wonder you thought my parents were divorced! Poor Dudley.”
“I don’t think your dad is being duped or anything.”
“So they have some sort of arrangement? Well, that’s fabulous. What a great example. I guess my divorce isn’t shameful after all.”
“Shameful?” Evan smirks. “As far as I’m concerned, your divorce is one of your better qualities.”
“Don’t be cute.”
“Listen, Bess, I thought you knew. At first. And when I realized you didn’t, I decided it wasn’t my news to tell. Our parents are entitled to their private lives, same as we are. You’ve kept a couple things from your mom.”
“So not the point.”
Bess laces her hands together and sighs. Cissy and Chappy. Always at odds, always mired in some squabble or battle of wills. You’re an asshole, you’re a bitch. And what about the restraining order? Bess isn’t the most experienced person in the world, but she knows you generally have to be within fifty yards to have sex with someone.
“So their arguments,” Bess says. “They’re a façade?”
“Hell no. They’re like a pair of not-very-mature teenagers. Breaking up, getting back together. Screaming matches. Restraining orders. It’s exhausting. But there’s a load of love there. They respect each other’s passion. Neither one is a pansy.”
“You’ve got that right. God. I can’t believe it.”
“It’s pretty sweet when you get down to it,” Evan says. “Even if the last few years have been extra teenagery given the bluff situation.”
“How long has this been going on?” Bess asks. “That you know of?”
Evan thinks about it for a minute.
“Fifteen years?” he says, an estimate, but close enough.
“Fifteen years!”
“Around that. It started when I was in Costa Rica.”
“Costa Rica,” Bess grumbles. “Of course it started when you were in Costa Rica.”
Evan squints at her, mystified.
“Um, not really sure what you mean by that,” he says. “And I don’t know the details about how it began. But when I got back they were already several years in.”
“So. Gross.”
“You might not want to hear this, but I’m glad they have each other, broken marital vows notwithstanding. They are happy together, in their own bizarre and twisted way.”
“It’s so incomprehensible,” Bess says. “My brain can’t process…” She grabs the sides of her head. “It’s as though you’re telling me one thing, and my mind is just spitting it back out, like a wonky dollar bill in a soda machine. ‘Do Not Accept.’ Jesus. Fifteen years. Well, at least Cis had the decency to wait until after my grandmother died to commence the sinning. Ruby would’ve been horrified.”
“I dunno.” Evan shrugs. “I get the sense she might’ve understood. Don’t you think she’d want her daughter happy, if nothing else?”
“No, absolutely not,” Bess says. “I mean, yes, she’d want Cissy to be happy in general but not in an Oprah ‘follow your bliss’ kind of way. Grandma Ruby was a make-your-bed-and-lie-in-it type. I’m imagining strongly worded letters sent from the afterlife. On linen stationery.”
“I guess we’ll never know.”
Evan slaps his hands together and stands.
“I hate to break up the party,” he says. “But I must go. Lacrosse practice is in an hour and I haven’t been home yet.”
“Practice? Weren’t they just playing in a tournament?”
“If they were still in the tournament, I wouldn’t need to make them practice,” Evan says with a wink.
“Wow.” Bess laughs, melting toward him already.
She tried to be angry. She really gave it her all.
“You’re quite the hard-ass,” she says. “Isn’t it raining?”
“Cissy’s right, you are a Californian,” he says and snorts. “They wanted to practice, so I agreed to a quick one for fun. Then I’m having them over for dinner and a movie.”
“At your house? I wouldn’t let my kid go to that at all,” Bess says. “Hey everyone! Coach is hosting a sleepover! He doesn’t have a son on the team but no big deal! Pretty sure you can get arrested for that.”
“It’s a barbecue, not a sleepover,” he says. “And the parents are invited. I’m actually good friends with many of them.”
“Smart cover.”
Evan gives a brisk laugh and then surprises Bess by pulling her into a snug hold. As she breathes him in, Bess warns herself to be careful. The feelings coursing through her will not do at all. And so she wiggles free.
“Thanks for stopping by,” she says, eyes sweeping the room. “And somehow convincing me that I shouldn’t be mad at you. As for Cissy, my fury endures.”
“I can live with that. Should I come over tomorrow?” he asks as they return to the foyer. “To pack?”
“I don’t know why you’d want to, but sure. I need help and it’s probably better if there’s a buffer between Cissy and me so I don’t strangle her.”
“Where is she, anyway?” Evan asks.
“Stalking engineers? Screwing your dad?”
Evan opens the door.
“There are worse things in this world,” he says, “than the romance of a couple of fogies.”
“Like my situation?”
He frowns.
“That’s not what I meant at all.”
“I know,” she says, and waves him away.
Evan gives her another hug—perfunctory this time. After exchanging good-byes, he steps onto the drive. Then he stops. He pauses before flipping back around.
“Bess…” he says, digging around in his pocket as he makes his way back to her. “I need to give you something.”
From his wallet, Evan removes a piece of paper.
“A receipt?” Bess says, the only thing she can fathom.
“I have a confession.”
“Uh-oh. You know what? That’s okay. I’ve had enough revelations for one day.”
“I remember what I wrote,” Evan says, pressing on, even as Bess inches away from him. “In the book, on the day of your wedding.”
“You remember? All these years later? How?”
Evan nods toward the scrap now in her hand.
“Because I’ve kept it in my wallet ever since,” he says. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you but I didn’t know what to say. I still don’t. Then as I was thinking about the move, and your divorce, and everything you’re going through, I decided that you should have it. It is yours, after all.”
Evan bites down on his lip and then lightly pats Bess on the shoulder.
“Good-bye, Bess.” He backs away from her. “I’ll see you tomorrow. I promise to have you out of Cliff House within the week.”
47
The Book of Summer
Evan Mayhew
August 15, 2008
Cliff House, on Elisabeth Codman’s Wedding Day
Dear Bess,
It’s 6:30 a.m. Dad and I are here, helping Cissy set up the stuff she doesn’t trust to others. You’re getting married today.
Way back a hundred years ago, I heard a rumor that you’d gone to Boston College to be near me. It only made sense because you’d been accepted at Yale and Dartmouth and a bunch of other schools besides. I hoped what they said was true. Until I realized that’s not what I wanted at all.
I knew you’d break my heart. A Nantucketer might be okay on-island, hardy and handy and such, but as my dad said, you’d acquire a new taste going to school in “America.”
So to save you from yourself, I went to Costa Rica, my education not in degrees but in building homes. I knew I’d fare okay in
a remote outpost, having grown up in one myself. In Costa Rica I fell in love with a country and a girl. She was a great woman, one I picked because she resembled you in appearance but acted the opposite in fact. Turns out temperamental is not so fun. I like things calmer, a bit more low-key. It did not work out. Not that I ever thought it would.
The Costa Rican adventure wasn’t a total waste. I became a good surfer, a decent chef, and a reputable builder of houses for wealthy Texans and Californians and people on the lam. It was all enough, for a while. But eventually the pull of Nantucket was too strong.
The night I returned, I had dinner with Dad and Cissy at the Summer House. Over Caesar salad, Cissy told me that you had a serious beau, a techie type with an MBA. A good American, just like Dad predicted.
“Sounds about right,” I said nonchalantly.
According to my dad, I was not at all nonchalant and instead acted like a “pouty brat” for the rest of the meal. Meanwhile, Cissy chattered on about this or that, filling the silence as she loves to do. Whenever you’re in town, I miss having her at our table. For a guy whose own mother went island-crazy and bailed before he could walk, Cissy’s as close to a mom as I’m ever gonna get. A decade of Cis. Not a bad second prize.
Anyway, back to the MBA. You’re marrying him.Today. And as sure as the fog will roll into Sconset, you are settling for this guy. I’ve met him once, though have seen him snaking around more times than that. As far as I can tell, he’s a Grade-A douche. I’ve known a lot of douchebags, was one myself for a time, so I have some expertise. I’m sure he has a sweet résumé and a killer paycheck and those teeth could not be whiter or straighter. But like his teeth it’s all veneers, whereas you’re the real deal.
It kills me because the whole reason I went to a foreign land was to make sure you didn’t settle for a chump like me. If I’d known this was going to happen I would’ve stayed. I would’ve loved to have been the person you settled for.
I tried to talk to you last night at the rehearsal dinner. Listen, I planned to say, scrap all this. Your friends won’t care. Cissy won’t care, though you might have to help break down the “set,” as she calls it.
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