The Summer Cottage

by Susan Kietzman

  Claire and John Thompson exchanged glances.

  “How old is she?” said Charlotte.

  “Really old,” said Helen. “Thomas thinks maybe in her twenties.”

  John smiled. “What’s her name?”

  “Anna,” Helen said. “Anna something.”

  Claire didn’t say another word about Thomas or Anna until she and John were settled on the porch with their after-dinner coffee. “I don’t like this,” she said as soon as they sat down. And while they had discussed a number of topics at dinner after their initial conversation about Anna, including the theft of several lobster pots owned by their neighbors, John knew exactly what she was talking about. He didn’t like it either. But he trusted his son, who was rarely foolhardy even though he was only eighteen. “What in the world is Thomas thinking, dating an older woman with a child?”

  “We don’t know what he’s thinking,” said John. “And we don’t really know what’s going on. What little information we have is hearsay, so I suggest we wait on forming an opinion, girding our loins, until we have talked to Thomas. Has he said anything to you?”

  “No,” said Claire. “Now I do remember his mentioning something about not being home for dinner tonight, but I didn’t press him on it, John. I was in the middle of a béchamel sauce, and I just assumed he was working.”

  “I’m not blaming you, Claire. I was simply asking if you had more information.”

  “No.” Claire’s coffee sat untouched on the table beside her.

  “Okay,” said John, taking his first sip. “Let’s leave it alone for now, since there is very little we can do at the moment. I will talk to him when he gets home. How was Julie today?” Julie Dasco was one of their neighbors. She had badly broken her leg waterskiing, and, with four young children to take care of, was very pleased to see Claire that afternoon with a bag in each hand—one holding a family-sized lasagna made with white sauce since Julie’s youngest didn’t like tomatoes, and the other a meatloaf and a quiche Lorraine.

  “Are we really going to talk about Julie?”

  John sipped his coffee. “Would you prefer to talk about something else?”

  Claire looked at her husband, who raised his eyebrows at her. She sat back in her chair and took her first sip of coffee. She audibly exhaled. “Julie was fine. Her mother is coming tomorrow and can stay for a couple weeks to help her with the kids. And Bill is going to take two weeks of vacation time after that, so she’ll be covered for a month. After that, she’ll be in a walking cast, which will make life a whole lot easier.”

  “You’re good to bring them food, Claire.”

  Claire waved her hand in the air in front of her. “It’s no trouble. I’m in the kitchen anyway.”

  “Yes, you are,” said John, raising his coffee cup to her. “And I don’t tell you often enough how much I’m thankful for it. You are a very good cook.”

  Claire smiled at him, aware of what he was up to, that he was trying to ease her worry about Thomas. She was appreciative of his efforts, of his compliments, and also of his ability to wait out potential problems that more times than not ended up going away on their own. Claire was the fretter of the pair, something she attributed to motherhood. She wanted so much for her children—and when her plans for them went awry, her stomach churned with anxiety.

  Thomas sat in Anna’s dusted and vacuumed living room while Anna put Amy to bed in her tiny room at the end of the house’s single hallway. He sat back on the couch, his stomach full of hamburger, potato salad, green beans, and ice cream. He had grilled the burgers himself, even though Anna told him she and Amy were “cookout queens.” And they had come out pretty well, in spite of the fact that Thomas had had just three grilling lessons from his dad. Standing over the grill in Anna’s fenced-in backyard, with a long-handled spatula in his hand, had made him fleetingly feel like a husband and father. And this feeling was a pleasant one, in a daydreamy kind of way. He could hear them in Amy’s room, which they had recently painted orange at Amy’s request. And he pictured them sitting on one of the twin beds, next to the small wood table with two chairs. This was where, Amy explained during the house tour, she worked while her mother studied at their kitchen table. Anna’s room, large enough to accommodate a queen-size bed, two bureaus, and two bedside tables, was just across the hall from her daughter’s. The entire house—living room, eat-in kitchen, two bedrooms, and one bathroom—reminded Thomas of a house on a TV set. The viewer would see all these rooms, but know there were more. There would be a staircase in the background that would lead to other bedrooms and other bathrooms. But in this case, it wasn’t true. What he had seen on the tour Amy proudly led was it. Thomas could hear them so well because the house was so small. Anna was telling her daughter a story about African animals, and then Amy, full of questions, was adding detail along the way. Within minutes, it was quiet. Thomas could see Amy’s light go out, and then Anna appeared. Thomas stood, as his father had taught him to do when a woman entered the room. “Are you leaving?” she asked.

  “Not yet,” said Thomas. “I mean, not unless you want me to.”

  “I want you to stay.”

  “Good,” he said.

  “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Do you want to split another beer?”

  “That sounds perfect,” said Anna. “I’ll be right back.”

  “You sit,” said Thomas. “I’ll get it.”

  Thomas walked into the kitchen and took one of the beers he had brought with him in a brown paper bag out of the refrigerator. It was very cold, just the way Thomas liked it, and, given his level of nervousness, Thomas knew he could kill it in a minute or two. With most girls, Thomas was relaxed. He was smarter than any of them, so it was they who needed the beer to calm down, to converse. They were overeager, the high school girls, and at a loss for interesting topics of conversation. Who really cared who fell down on the mile run in gym class? Anna was so different. She was comfortable around him because she was comfortable with herself. “Hello again,” he said, walking back into the living room with the beer in his hand.

  “Thank you,” she said when he handed her the bottle. She took the first sip.

  “Thank you,” he said, “for the terrific dinner and even better company. Your Amy is something else.”

  Anna smiled. “Four going on forty, right?”

  “She’s a great kid. She reminds me somewhat of my youngest sister, who’s quite precocious when she wants to be.”

  “It must be her father’s genes,” said Anna. “He was nothing if not gregarious.”

  “Where is her father?” Thomas asked, now that Anna had mentioned him.

  “In Arizona,” Anna said, looking down at the beer, which she handed to Thomas before saying, “He left the day before Amy was born.”

  “I’m sorry.” Thomas took a sip. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “Yes, you should have. You’ve got a right to know. We never married—we were intending to get married, but my pregnancy changed that.” Thomas took another sip and then handed the bottle back to Anna. Sharing a beer with a girl, with a woman, was almost as intimate to Thomas as kissing her. “He didn’t want children,” said Anna, explaining. “When I got pregnant, he thought he might be able to do it. But, in the end, he changed his mind.”

  “Oh,” said Thomas.

  “We keep each other company, Amy and I. I didn’t realize how lonely I was until you delivered pizza that first night. You were so cheerful and kind that I wanted you to stay, even then.” Anna looked at him. But it was Thomas’s turn to study his lap. His heart, jump-started by her words, was ba-booming in his chest, against his skin and his cotton shirt. He was certain Anna could see it, could read his feelings. His nervousness bound his tongue. He knew he had never been this panicked with other females. He had always been in charge. In parked cars or on front porches at the end of the night, the girls he dated looked at him shyly, desperately wanting and needing to be kissed as a validation of their date. Althoug
h he was sitting on a couch six inches from Anna, he could not lift his hand from his lap to touch her. And kissing her seemed out of the question, even though it was suddenly all he could think about.

  “Do you go out much, Thomas?” Anna asked, prompting Thomas to lift his eyes, to look at her face. It was framed with shiny black hair that fell just below her shoulders. He could tell she’d had it in a ponytail earlier in the day because it had a ridge along the back where the coated elastic had been. She had taken out the elastic, let her hair fall, for him. Her eyes were almost as dark as her hair, and her mouth, turned up at the corners, perpetually smiling, was coated with inviting pink lipstick.

  “Not really,” he said. “I have three jobs, which keeps me pretty busy.”

  “Oh,” Anna said. “Amy will be disappointed.”

  “I mean, I’m busy, but not too busy to see you two. I have a day off once in a while and a couple nights off, too. Most nights I go to bed early because I drive a bakery truck four mornings a week.”

  “You are busy.” Anna smiled at him, as if to announce her pleasure with his productivity.

  “How about you?” Thomas asked. “Where do you work?”

  “I work every weekday from nine to five at Hudson and Lambert.”

  “The law office?”

  “Yes. I’m a secretary.”

  “Good for you,” said Thomas. “What does Amy do?”

  “She goes to preschool five mornings a week during the school year, then gets dropped off at my neighbor’s house for the afternoon. Mrs. Purdy is almost sixty and has more energy than I do. She watches five or six kids and has a ball. Amy loves her like a grandmother. She stays there all day in the summer, with a few weeks at day camp here and there.” Unintentionally, Thomas yawned. “I’m sorry,” Anna said. “I’ve gone on too long.”

  “No, no,” said Thomas. “I’ve been up since early this morning. Please go on. I could listen to your voice all night.” Thomas blushed as soon as he spoke. He was warm and tongue-tied and suddenly wanted to leave before he made a fool of himself.

  “You’re sweet,” said Anna, standing. “It is getting late, though. Let me get your sweater.”

  She walked into the kitchen, where Thomas’s navy blue sweater lay draped over a padded wooden chair. She grabbed it and held it close to her for a few seconds before returning to the living room and handing it to him.

  “Thank you,” he said, “for the sweater and the dinner. I had a terrific time.”

  “Come down here,” said Anna. Thomas leaned forward and down until his face was just a few inches from hers. “Thank you,” she said, putting her hands on his cheeks, “for waking me up.”

  Thomas kissed her, softly brushing his lips against hers. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and kissed him back. And then he did something he had never done to anyone but Helen. He lifted Anna off the ground, and held her to him and kissed her again, feeling her energy flow from her mouth into his, and from his mouth into his body, racing like an ocean current until it crashed into his fingertips and pulsated in his toes. Hesitantly, he put her down. He no longer felt awkward and wanted, again, to stay with this woman. She looked up at him. “Come back,” she said.

  “I will. I’ll call you tomorrow.” Thomas bent down and kissed her on the cheek. She led him to the front door and opened it for him. Thomas strode out into the night, feeling like he had just completed a test and had known every answer.

  When Thomas approached the cottage in his car, he could see that one of the lights inside the porch was still on. He looked hard as he cruised past the house and could see his father sitting in the chair he always sat in, reading a book. It was late, making Thomas instantly wonder what had gone wrong. “Dad?” he said, as soon as he was in the house, walking from the kitchen through the dining room and living room to the porch. John removed his reading glasses and looked at his son. “Everything okay?”

  John smiled at him. “Yes. I just thought I’d wait up for you. Sometimes we pass like ships in the night, you and I. Can you sit?” Thomas sat in the chair next to his father, the chair normally occupied by his mother. “How was your evening?”

  “It was fine, Dad.”

  “Helen told us you had a date.” And there it was—the reason behind John’s late-night reading session. And because his father was a very reasonable man and Thomas trusted him, even though many of his friends barely spoke to their parents, Thomas told his father about his dinner with Anna and Amy, about the circumstances behind her single-parent status. John nodded as he listened, and then said, “She sounds like a lovely young woman.”

  “She is, Dad.”

  “You sound serious about her.”

  “Dad, we just met.”

  “I understand that. But sometimes, when we meet people who we think will be a positive influence in our lives, we can get serious quickly.”

  Thomas hesitated. Did he want to tell his father that he was, indeed, already feeling serious about Anna? “I like her,” he said. “That’s all for now.”

  “Well, enjoy her company then,” said John, closing his book and setting it on the table between them. Thomas shifted his weight to the front of the chair. “Do remember that you are headed off to college in the fall and that your studies at Princeton will keep you very busy.”

  “I sure will,” said Thomas, springing out of the chair. “I’m going to grab a quick snack before bed.”

  “You do that, my boy,” said John. “Sleep well.”

  As soon as Helen heard her father close his bedroom door, she descended her bunk-bed ladder, crept down the hallway, and eased her way down the stairs to the living room. She walked quickly through the darkness to the kitchen, which was lit by the light under the stove hood. Thomas was standing next to the fridge, drinking from a half gallon container of milk. “Hi,” she said.

  Thomas spilled milk down his chin onto his sweater. “Jesus, Helen, you scared me. What are you doing up?”

  “I’ve been waiting for you to come home.”

  “Because you squealed on me?” Thomas looked at her sternly.

  “I’m sorry, Thomas,” she began. “It was out of my mouth before I knew what I was saying. Mom and Dad didn’t know where you were.”

  “I told Mom I wouldn’t be home for dinner.”

  “She forgot, Thomas. And then when I mentioned that you were on a date, all eyes were upon me.” Helen’s eyes were moist. She could feel his disappointment.

  Thomas put the milk carton down and bent down to hug his sister. As soon as he said, “It’s okay, Helen,” she started to cry. “Hey, hey, what’s this?”

  “Are you in trouble, Thomas?”

  Thomas wiped Helen’s two tears from her cheeks, gave her another squeeze, and then released her. He stood tall. “No, I’m not in trouble—at least not with Dad. This is okay. What I did tonight was okay. Anna is a single woman my age. She just happens to have a child.”

  “Why does she have a child, Thomas?”

  “Her boyfriend left her. He didn’t want children.” Thomas turned his attention back to the counter and the milk, which he lifted with one hand. He took another gulp.

  “That’s sad.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Anyway, I’m sorry, Thomas. I should have kept my big mouth shut.”

  “That’s okay, Helen. I wouldn’t want you to lie about anything anyway.”

  “You can be mad if you want.”

  “I’m not mad,” said Thomas. “Did Mom make cookies today?”

  “Yes,” said Helen, feeling forgiven. “They’re in the pantry. I’ll get them.”

  After a glass of milk and two peanut butter cookies each, they walked upstairs. Thomas patted the top of Helen’s head and said good night. In his room, he took off his clothes, save his boxers, and climbed into bed. A warm breeze blew in the windows, lulling him to sleep. In the morning, he would tell his mother everything she wanted to know. He would tell her about Anna. He would tell her about Amy. He would tell her about
Anna’s selfish boyfriend. He would be truthful about everything, except his feelings.

  He did not see his mother until the following afternoon, after his bakery run and newspaper delivery. When he walked into the kitchen she got right to the point, saying, “I understand you and your father had a conversation when you got in last night.”

  “Yes,” said Thomas, looking in the fridge so he wouldn’t have to look at her.

  “He assures me that this situation is not serious.”

  Thomas turned his gaze onto his mother’s face. “What situation is that?”

  “Thomas, don’t play with me,” said Claire, hands on hips. “You are at the very beginning of what promises to be a very productive and successful life. Don’t let this kind of distraction derail your motivation.”

  It was fruitless, Thomas knew, to argue with a statement like this. When his mother made up her mind, she rarely changed it. Facts were irrelevant. “Right-O,” said Thomas, shifting his attention back to the fridge. “Helen said there was a burger leftover from the other night.”

  “Bottom shelf, left,” said Claire, looking back at the pot of fish chowder on the stovetop. She was satisfied this was a dalliance, this relationship with the woman on the other side of town. And while she didn’t want the woman to get hurt, she admitted to herself that she didn’t really care—as long as Thomas stayed on track.

  CHAPTER 19

  2003

  Claire opened her eyes, blinking at the bright sunlight that came streaming through her windows. For a moment, she wasn’t sure what day it was, and then decided upon Saturday. It was the weekend, yes, and today was the day Thomas would arrive, and she would have her four children together in the house for the first time in as long as she could remember. Had it really been thirty years? Helen had been in the house all along, and Pammy had come for a short stay every summer. Charlotte, depending on whom she was married to or dating and where in the world she was living, showed up periodically. But Thomas had not been back to the cottage since that summer after his senior year in high school. It had not been intentional, Claire had decided long ago. He had simply been too busy making money to take any time off from whatever job or internship claimed sixty hours of his week. He had rarely taken time off, telling his mother whenever she had invited him to the cottage that he didn’t need vacation time. He found it counterproductive, a setback, like school children returning to the classroom after a bookless summer and remembering nothing from their previous year’s instruction. It was a well-documented fact, Thomas had told Claire, that teachers spent the first two months of the academic year reteaching what the children had already learned.