Whitney imagined the pressures he felt—as Charles’s future son-in-law, his presumed security in the eyes of others could only nourish his own self-doubt. “Just for the fun of it, Peter, can I ask you to imagine something?”
“Chapter Ten of the Kama Sutra?”
“A little less acrobatic. I’ve been thinking more about how much you liked your coaches. Could you ever see yourself at a boarding school like Exeter?”
“Away from New York?”
“Uh-huh. I can imagine living in a quiet place, teaching and maybe writing.”
Peter turned his face to hers, his expression puzzled and surprised. “I don’t know, Whitney. That’s a whole different life, way more modest than you’re used to. My teachers didn’t even own the houses they lived in—the school provided them. I’m sure it was the same for your teachers at Rosemary Hall.”
“It was. But they didn’t seem miserable to me. Did your lacrosse coach?”
“No. I just never imagined being him.”
“But can you?”
Peter’s gaze became more probing. “Are you worried I won’t make it at Padgett Dane?”
“Of course not,” Whitney assured him. “It’s not the only thing you can do, that’s all. I don’t want you to feel stuck.”
Frowning, he sat up. “I can’t let your dad down, Whitney—not after everything he’s done. Besides, I don’t know of any teaching jobs.”
“Not yet. But you could always look. If not now, maybe in a year.”
“I just joined the firm, all right? Let me try it without thinking about a whole other life. Besides, do you really want to work? Who’d take care of the kids when they’re babies?”
He looked so young, Whitney thought, to be imagining his life as a father. “We both could—our hours would be flexible, and there must be a way of arranging care when we’re both working. It’s really no different than Billie watching after me so Mom could see her friends.”
Peter grimaced at this. “Maybe it seems like that to you. But I don’t want strangers raising our kids so we can work, at least when they’re small. I’d like them to know we’re always there.”
This was about losing his father, Whitney surmised. But though she sympathized, she could not quell her own misgivings. In the life Peter imagined for her, she would have several roles—wife, mother, helpmate—but none unique to her. Instead, those roles had awaited her since birth, as they had for countless women of all kinds. But there was no way she could articulate this to him, at least right now, without eroding his self-confidence. He felt too vulnerable in his new identity not to read his own doubts into hers.
“I understand,” she told him. “We can talk about it later.”
Exhausted, Peter turned in early. Climbing into bed, Whitney took Couples with her. She read for over an hour, then put it down again.
It was beautifully written. At times, she confessed to herself, the sexuality of Updike’s characters had spoken to her own, the desire to lose herself so completely that sex felt like transcendence. But she found his cycle of adultery between linked couples ultimately depressing, a march through meaninglessness toward death, undertaken less from lust than from fear of one, the other, or both. She could understand her father’s aversion: his life was too purposeful, in business and at home, his convictions about marriage and family too central to his idea of himself. Nor could she imagine living with and yet betraying Peter in such a casual way—or, she amended, any way at all.
She put aside the book, unsure that she wished to finish it.
Three
On an afternoon in late July—warm and cloudless, with a light breeze on Quitsa Pond—Whitney and Ben rowed the dinghy to the Barkley’s Herreshoff. She had passed the test, naming each component of the boat. Now it was time for her to sail.
Sitting behind him, Whitney said, “I guess you saw that the Senate killed the gun control bill. Republicans, mostly.”
Ben turned to her, a bitter light in his eyes. “Surprise, Whitney. Nixon needs the NRA. A few nuts with guns kill people every day, so why should one more dead guy make a difference—especially Bobby Kennedy.” He started rowing again, speaking over his shoulder in a low, angry voice. “But it wasn’t just the Republicans. That pompous prick Gene McCarthy said we shouldn’t pass it under ‘panic conditions.’ His last chance to piss on Bobby’s grave.”
He lapsed into silence, rowing fiercely. Whitney regretted saying anything at all.
Reaching the mooring, they tied up the dinghy and climbed into the sailboat. Under Ben’s tutelage, Whitney helped him rig the sails, his concentration on their task leveling his mood. Manning the tiller, he pointed to a passage between Quitsa and Menemsha Pond. “I’ll get us through the narrows. After that, you’ll take over.”
Propelled by a southeast wind, they headed toward the passage. “It’s called Chaukers,” Ben explained. “It’s shallow there, easy to run aground. To thread the needle requires tacking with each wind shift, consistently moving the mainsail. You’ll have to keep ducking or the boom will take your head off.”
As they headed toward the opening, Ben started tacking with the wind, fighting the tide from Menemsha Pond. Caught by each shift, the mainsail swept across the boat, Whitney ducking beneath the heavy wooden boom. Atop the mast, the arrow that showed wind direction kept veering. Taut and intent, Ben tacked again as the banks of Chaukers closed around them. Thirty feet of width, then twenty. “Notice where the water’s brown,” Ben said between his teeth. “That’s where it’s shallow enough to run aground.”
Swiftly tacking, he guided the Herreshoff along a ribbon of blue between the smudged brown nearer the banks. A gust of wind carried them into Menemsha Pond. “One of my favorite places on the Vineyard,” he told her. “About a mile across and over a hundred feet deep, left by a glacier millions of years ago. God’s gift to sailors.”
Ben still held the tiller, allowing Whitney to take in the expanse of blue water, the direction of the wind. “Now it’s coming from the side of us,” he pointed out to her. “We’re sailing sixty degrees off the wind—a full reach, the perfect tack to be on.”
All at once they were moving faster. As they cut through the water, Whitney felt her spirits lift. “I wish you could see us,” Ben told her. “There’s nothing prettier than a Herreshoff under sail.”
Gaining speed, they headed toward the soft green banks of Herring Creek. “Closer to land, Whitney, the wind will change direction. If you know where and when that happens, it can help you win a race.”
He was different now, she thought—fully absorbed in a task that seemed to touch the deepest part of him, happy in a primal way that perhaps only sailing could create. For a moment it was as if she were not there. Then he turned the boat in a semicircle, away from land. “Your turn, Whitney.”
She sat sideways to the tiller, Ben beside her. As he handed her the mainsheet, she felt the mainsail tugging on it. “Can you tell where the wind’s coming from?” he asked.
“Right at us.”
Looking up at the arrow, Ben nodded. “You can’t sail into a headwind. So you tack off starboard, or port, depending on where you want to go. Pick a direction.”
Whitney pointed toward the far bank. “See the white house? The one peeking through the trees?”
“Head for it, then. Move the tiller toward you, and the boat will go in the opposite direction. Same thing when you move it away. It may seem counterintuitive, but you’ll catch on.”
Unsure of herself, Whitney gripped the tiller tightly. “No white knuckles,” Ben said in the same even tone. “Just keep three fingers on it, with a light touch. Don’t worry that you’ve never done this. You’re not going to break this boat, and you’ve got me to help you.”
He was different than on land, Whitney thought—calm and reassuring. Her grip lightening, she moved the tiller toward her, and saw the mainsail fill with wind. In a half minute, she had them gliding along the water, experimenting with the feel of a boat responding to her hand
. Suddenly, she felt the exhilaration of being in control—that she, the wind, and the sailboat were working together. It took Ben’s chuckle to make her realize that she was grinning from sheer pleasure.
“I love this feeling, Ben.”
“I know. I want to do this all my life, sail everywhere there is to sail. I hope I get the chance.”
Hearing the softness in his voice, Whitney felt she knew him in a different way. For a brief moment, she was aware of how close they were sitting. Then a powerboat rocked the sailboat sideways, and left them foundering in its wake. “These boats don’t capsize,” Ben assured her. “Check the wind, then get us back on course.”
Glancing at the arrow, she saw that the wind was shifting and angled the mainsail to catch it. Instantly, they were skimming along the water again. Pointing ahead, Ben told her, “You’ll want to miss that lobster pot.”
Moving the tiller away from her, she cleared the pot. “The wind’s behind us now, Whitney. Use it.”
Within seconds they were racing so close to the wind that the water sped by. In a fresh burst of elation, Whitney thought that she was doing something no one in her family ever had, something all her own. She loved this new sense of mastery—now nothing mattered but the boat, the water, and her. “Want to take us back through Chaukers?” Ben asked.
“Sure.”
“Turn it around, then. You’ll have to be patient, and you’ll be fighting the wind. But I can help you tack.”
As the boat circled, sailing became work again. With Ben’s guidance, she tacked back and forth for endless minutes as the sailboat struggled closer to the passage. Whitney felt herself tense, unsure of where the shallows were. She tacked again, then again.
Abruptly, the boat lurched, stuck in mud she could not see. “Damn,” she muttered.
“Happens all the time,” Ben said with a shrug. “Hard to see these shallows in the afternoon light.”
Peeling off his shirt, he lowered himself into the waist-deep water and began pushing the boat off the mud. As he pulled himself back in, Whitney saw again how lean and muscular he was, the line of dark hair down the center of his chest. For a moment, she imagined herself as Clarice.
Taking the tiller, Ben worked them through the narrows. “Did you ever swim here?” she asked.
“Sure. When I was sixteen, I swam across the pond.”
“The whole mile?”
“Uh-huh. It was a point of pride for me, because my father never learned to swim. That’s a common superstition among fishermen—they take learning to swim as an admission they might drown. So Dad didn’t, cementing his chance of drowning. One of the many reasons I don’t use him as a role model.”
With a final tack, they made it through the narrows. Then Ben let her sail them to the mooring.
Together, they took down the sails. This time, Whitney felt different—his partner as well as his student. “Thank you,” she said. “That was even better than I’d imagined.”
Ben nodded. “I think you have a feel for this, Whitney. Not everyone does.”
His approval warmed her. “You made it easy for me, really. You’re very patient on the water.”
Ben started folding canvas. “As opposed to on land, you mean? Another reverse lesson from Dad. On the lobster boat he would shout and curse—the worst way to teach anyone. The trick is to never make a beginner feel intimidated by the water. That makes it easier to learn, as does this boat.”
Whitney thought again of her friend. “I should thank Clarice for both of us.”
Ben shrugged. “The boat means nothing to her. She knows just enough to know that I won’t sink it.”
Whitney looked up at him. “You don’t like her much, do you?
“To the contrary, I admire her clarity of purpose. As I perceive it, she’s a girl who knows exactly what she wants—which is what she already has. What’s most intriguing about Clarice is the steely quality she tries so hard to conceal.” He smiled. “To all outward appearances, she has no ambition but to keep on living the life she was born to, killing her allotted time on earth as pleasurably as she can.”
To Whitney’s surprise, his assessment had an uncomfortable ring of truth. “You could say at least some of that about me.”
Ben gave her a thin smile. “I could. But I won’t. Though you may not think so, you’re different.”
Whitney stared at him. “Why do you say that?”
“At the risk of being presumptuous, you’ve been living your life on autopilot, sleepwalking toward eternity. The challenge presented by Clarice is her relentless self-interest, and whether anyone could ever penetrate that. But unlike Miss Barkley, you ask questions, and you’re curious. I also think you’re questioning yourself.” He shot her a quick grin. “A dangerous tendency, Whitney. Trust me about that.”
Whitney felt the remark jangle her nerve ends. There was something uncanny about him, she thought, that made her want to hide. “I think you’re imagining things.”
“Am I? Would you mind if I read your diary?”
“Actually, I would,” she said stiffly. “It’s private.”
“Obviously.” Pausing, he regarded her with surprising seriousness. “You’re more like me than you think—a loner. Except that you’re surrounded by other people.”
Whitney shook her head, resistant. “I certainly don’t feel alone.”
“I think you are,” Ben retorted calmly. “You want to write, but I’d guess no one urges you on. You taught black kids, but I’d give odds that everyone in your family—and certainly your intended—saw it as an experiment in idealism, from which you managed to escape without being gang-raped by a pack of subliterate schoolyard basketball players . . .”
“That’s not fair,” Whitney snapped.
“Isn’t it? Has your fiancé ever encouraged you to do anything other than get married?”
Whitney sat straighter. “I have to say that you wear better under sail. Here on land, it’s my dim understanding married people grow together . . .”
“Actually, mine shriveled.”
“Maybe so,” Whitney retorted sharply. “But most men don’t beat their wives.”
“Most men don’t have to. Would you say that your mother has grown in her marriage?”
Whitney gave herself a moment to speak more calmly. “You’re in no position to ask that question, let alone to answer it. My mother raised us, and helped my Dad in every way she could. That’s how she wanted to spend her life, and there’s a lot of good in that for everyone. In spite of your jibes about Clarice.”
Ben smiled at this. “I certainly didn’t call Clarice a fool. I’m quite sure that beneath her very pretty and vivacious surface she’s coolly determined to find a husband capable of protecting her many prerogatives in life.”
Once again, the accuracy of his perceptions unsettled Whitney. “So was my mother,” she told him. “At least if you mean that its easier to stay in love with a man you admire and respect, rather than to some guy you have to prop up every minute. Even if he has money.”
“Didn’t your father?”
“Hardly. Despite your seemingly unshakable prejudices, my dad came from nowhere. In fact, oddly enough, Clarice gave you a bigger compliment than you deserve. She said you reminded her of him.”
Surprise bled the irony from Ben’s expression. “Interesting coming from Clarice, who I take to be a keen judge of men. At least the ones she knows well. But it’s odd she should pick your father as my soul mate. From what I can gather, we’re nothing alike.”
Whitney gave him a wintry smile. “True. Dad’s far more generous of spirit.”
The trace of humor reappeared in his eyes. “A pretty low bar, I guess. But have you ever defied him, or known anyone who has? Not your fiancé, certainly. Seems like Dad’s arranged life precisely the way he wants it.”
Once again, Whitney felt herself bridle at his presumption. “Let’s talk about something else. You can pick the topic.”
Ben smiled again. “But they’re nar
rowing so quickly. First Peter, then Clarice, and now your father.”
“Then choose one you know something about, like sailing. I thought you were here to teach me.”
A new and unreadable emotion moved through his eyes, then vanished. “I am,” he said simply.
Four
On a warm, humid evening in early August, the Danes and Barkleys attended a charity dinner to support the purchase of land for nature preserves. It took place on the lawn of a rambling summer home overlooking Quitsa Pond, evoking for Whitney her last sail with Ben. The men wore blazers—often navy-blue like Charles’s and Peter’s—the women bright summer dresses. Whitney’s dress was pink, cut slightly above the knee, while Clarice’s yellow miniskirt revealed the tan, slender legs that were her pride. Waiters in black bow ties and white cloth jackets dipped in and out among the guests, serving canapés and drinks on silver trays. To Whitney it seemed much like other such evenings—pleasant enough but ultimately boring, a gathering of lemmings whose chatter was as bland as the hors d’oeuvres. Deciding that a glass of wine might improve her perspective, she drifted away from Peter and her parents, and realized the waiter approaching with a drink tray was Benjamin Blaine.
Despite his lack of expression, she sensed an awkwardness that matched her own. Recalling that Ben and his brother had catered parties in high school, she wondered how this felt to him after his years at Yale and the murder of his candidate-hero. As he held out the tray, she mustered her warmest smile. “Hi, Ben. It’s nice to see you.”
“And you, Lady Dane.”
Whitney took a glass of white wine. “Lady Dane? Didn’t the Rolling Stones record that?”
Ben had the grace to laugh. “I preferred ‘Under My Thumb.’ Enjoy the party, Whitney.”
As he started to leave, she said swiftly, “So when are we sailing again? It was a nice day, I thought. At least mostly.”
He stopped briefly, glancing at her sideways. “I don’t have my appointment book with me. But you know where I live.” Then he was off again, circulating among the guests.
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