That Camden Summer

by LaVyrle Spencer

  The yard emptied.

  Gabe and Roberta stood on the front porch steps listening to the autumn silence. Beyond the rooftops the sea looked like a plate of sky-blue enamel broken by the distant, jutting islands that burned up out of the water like small fires. Vibrant orange and blue—the entire vista—with occasional spires of evergreens poking through, and white boats coming home at day’s end.

  Nearer, the ferns around Sebastian Breckenridge’s anchor had turned rusty and curled back toward earth, in the direction from which they’d come. The iris leaves had long since yellowed, and the bridal wreath bordering the yard had been touched by frost and hung like an orange waterfall. A line of meditative gulls trimmed the ridgepole of a rooftop below, and as Roberta and Gabe watched, one of the birds broke rank and took wing, followed by others, who flocked over their own front yard to cock their heads and deliver their tuneless squawk to the man and woman standing on the steps.

  ‘‘I remember when you built this porch,’’ Roberta said.

  ‘‘Six months ago.’’

  ‘‘Is that all?’’

  ‘‘Whoa, did you hate me.’’

  Roberta chuckled. ‘‘I did, didn’t I?’’

  ‘‘Remember the day you first saw the house? You came in the bedroom and found me making off-color jokes about you being a divorced woman. Lord, was I wrong.’’

  He had been watching her, waiting for her head to turn so he could read her eyes. She turned, and if there was anxiety within her, she hid it well.

  They stood there on the edge of evening, Gabe wondering how she felt about making love before dark, Roberta afraid that at the last minute she’d ruin their wedding night over something that was none of his doing.

  ‘‘Are you tired?’’ he asked.

  ‘‘Yes . . . I am.’’

  ‘‘Want to go in?’’

  In answer she turned and her footsteps slurred across the hollow porch floor. The screen door opened lazily, then closed them inside, followed by the inner door with its scarred dentil trim below the curtained window.

  They crossed the living room without haste and stood in the kitchen doorway—Gabe’s right shoulder curving behind her left one—inspecting the room, which the girls had left cleaner than it had ever been. On the table sat a plate of candy and Caroline’s philodendron plant.

  Watching Roberta’s eyes pause on it, Gabe asked, ‘‘Do you mind?’’

  ‘‘No, of course not. Isobel asked me if she could bring it over. Actually, it dresses up the room . . . and you know I’m not very good at doing that myself. There are things Isobel can teach me.’’

  He had never met another human being like Roberta, so unsusceptible to jealousy, so open to change, to discovery. She had accepted not only Gabe and Isobel, but a third person as well, for Caroline was an integral part of their past, and she understood this. Jealousy was foreign to Roberta, for she was so comfortable with herself that there was no need for it in her life. She saw her shortcomings as clearly as she saw her strengths, and neither denigrated herself for the one nor lauded herself for the other. She simply lived life day to day by her own code of happiness first.

  ‘‘Roberta?’’ he said.

  She turned from the philodendron to him. ‘‘Hm?’’

  ‘‘I love you. I’ve been standing here realizing just how much.’’

  ‘‘Why, Gabe,’’ she said as he curled her into his embrace.

  She would have said I love you too, but he kissed her with a tenderness so exquisite that it made her heart hurt. Kissed her and kept his hands only on her back. When the kiss ended he embraced her full length, so hard it hurt her ribs, and kept her flush against his body without moving, her chin caught on his shoulder and her breasts firmly cushioned against his chest.

  With his lips closed he pulled in a deep breath, then exhaled unsteadily, and she knew the next step was up to her.

  She leaned back, hands coming to rest on his chest, and said, ‘‘If you don’t mind, I think I’ll use the new bathtub.’’

  ‘‘I don’t mind,’’ he said, releasing her.

  While she went inside and closed the bathroom door, he removed his shoes, his tie, his collar and jacket.

  The water ran. And stopped. And blipped as if a foot went in. And blupped in a lower tone as if a body went in.

  He sat on a chair in their new bedroom, staring at the new wooden finish work he hadn’t had time to varnish yet, at the bed she’d made up with all new bedding, everything white.

  Some soft splashing sounded, the burble of a cloth being wrung out.

  He rose and turned the chenille spread and the blankets down and thought about getting in, then changed his mind and returned to the chair, leaving the bedding downturned and waiting.

  The water began draining . . . then silence.

  He waited where he was.

  Finally the door opened, emitting a billow of moist air and the flowery scent of powder. She stood in the doorway closing two buttons on the yoke of a blue cotton nightgown, neither prim nor promiscuous. Her hair was brushed and her feet were bare. And her eyes came straight to his.

  ‘‘I’ve never had a bathtub before. Thank you, Gabriel.’’

  ‘‘You’re welcome,’’ he said.

  She glanced at his bare feet, his unbuttoned shirt: It was obvious he’d been sitting there waiting.

  ‘‘Did I take too long?’’

  ‘‘No! No, not at all.’’

  ‘‘Do you want to . . .’’ She motioned behind her, leaving the invitation unfinished.

  ‘‘Oh . . . sure.’’ He went in and deliberately left the door ajar, brushed his teeth, washed his face and came back out with a towel in his hands and his suspenders hanging.

  She was sitting on the edge of the bed facing him. He went around to the other side and, with his back to her, removed all but his short-legged union suit and got in.

  When he lay down, she lay down, covered to their waists.

  It was still shy of seven o’clock and even on the east side of the house, far from dark.

  He crooked his right arm beneath his head and looked over at her. She was looking at him.

  ‘‘Gabriel,’’ she said matter-of-factly, ‘‘I was not a virgin on my first wedding night, so this is very awkward. I feel like I am one tonight.’’

  He rolled to face her, keeping plenty of distance between them, and the elbow still crooked beneath his ear.

  ‘‘I would’ve thought you would be,’’ he said.

  ‘‘No, I wasn’t. Were you?’’

  ‘‘Yes, I was.’’

  ‘‘Somehow that doesn’t surprise me. So you’ve been through this before.’’

  He cleared his throat, then nodded instead of speaking.

  ‘‘All of this is unlike me,’’ she said. ‘‘I am no cowering wallflower. I never have been.’’

  He took her hand and held it on the clean sheet between them, watching his thumb as it played over hers.

  ‘‘Roberta,’’ he said, and lifted his eyes to hers. ‘‘Tell me what scares you most.’’

  ‘‘The memories come back. I can only go so far and then they all come back and it’s as if I’m on my back again on that gravel road, and I know perfectly well it’s you I’m with and not him, but it happens—I get scared and I can’t help it. It’s not like me, Gabe, honest, it’s not! But I don’t know what to do . . . how to get over it.’’

  He continued rubbing her hand with his thumb, letting her get used to seeing him on the other half of her bed. His eyes kept steady on hers as he wondered how to proceed.

  Finally he tugged on her hand and whispered, ‘‘Come here . . . ’’ and rolled to his back, dragging her halfway across his chest, then releasing her hands. ‘‘We’ve both done this before,’’ he said. ‘‘Do what you want.’’

  She lay above him looking down while he flung his wrists back and let them lie pulse-up on the pillow. She studied his eyes for a long moment while neither of them moved so much as an eyelash. Her righ
t hand lay on his chest right where he’d released it, over his heart, which she could feel beating as fast as her own.

  A tress of her hair fell from behind her ear across his chin. He did not move, only met her gaze with his steady one, waiting.

  She threaded the stray hair behind her ear and slowly leaned down to kiss him. What he denied his hands, he allowed his mouth, opening it beneath hers and moving it persuasively as his head angled on the pillow. Her hair fell again, and in pushing it back she touched his hot face, then spread her hand on his cheek with her fingertips at the corner of his eye.

  She ended the kiss and they opened their eyes, so close they could feel the radiant warmth of each other’s skin, and the fanfare of fast breathing that fell from between their parted lips.

  She whispered, ‘‘Gabriel . . .’’ and got to her knees beside him, lining his cheeks with both palms.

  He whispered, ‘‘Your hands are hot.’’

  ‘‘So is your face. And your heart is racing. I can feel it beneath my arm.’’

  ‘‘Is yours?’’

  ‘‘Yes,’’ she whispered, kissing him again, tipping forward off her heels until her breasts hung pendulous within her nightgown. Midway through the kiss she found his upturned wrists and circled them with her hands, squeezing as if to pinion him in place and keep him from lunging up when he was only lying as before, posing no threat at all. His pulse beat up against her palms and her freed breasts felt heavy as she knelt over him. Desire came as a gift, an onslaught free of fear or memory.

  She slung a leg across his hollow belly and straddled him, watching his eyes darken and his nostrils dilate, still holding his wrists against the pillow. Then she carried them, blue veined and strong, to her breasts, and let her eyes close as his palms filled with her flesh. She sat upon him thus, head tipped back, her hands over his, their joined hands flexing together until hers fell and his remained, rocking her backward and forward to some primal rhythm they heard in their heads.

  Minutes later she fell forward and stretched her limbs along his, murmuring a behest into his open mouth, carrying his hand once again, expelling her breath at the return of goodness when he complied.

  There was bedding between them. They wrestled it down and lay on their sides, legs opening, knees lifting, coming together first in wishes, creating their own welcome torture of waiting. They drew back with luminous gazes and shed their garments—hers first, his second— and lay in the gloaming that shaded their skins with the falling evening, venturing first glimpses of each other.

  They spoke the universal language of lovers, with throaty sounds of wordless praise, and touched freely.

  Then they were coupled, still on their sides, face-toface on a single pillow, eyes open . . . then closed. Grips loose . . . then tense. Breath flowing . . . then held.

  She opened her eyes at the final moment and saw him with his lips drawn back in the near grimace of ecstasy, and marveled that she could bring him to such straits.

  She smiled, and let her eyes close once more, and claimed her victory over Elfred Spear.

  She would see Elfred intermittently in the years that followed, crossing a street or passing in his motorcar. But they never spoke, nor did she and her sister, Grace. Once, when Roberta was entering the bank, Grace was coming out and they nearly collided. ‘‘Oh! Birdy!’’ Grace said, without thinking.

  Roberta smiled, her heart racing, and said, ‘‘Hello, Grace, how are you?’’

  But Grace gathered her dignity about her like an ermine cape and moved on without further word. Roberta watched her go with a heart full of pity.

  ‘‘Poor Grace,’’ she whispered, touching her own heart.

  The Spear girls, though forbidden, found ways to come to Roberta’s house and take part in plays and musicales with their cousins.

  Myra came too, when invited, but never stayed long and always left in a huff over some disagreement with her younger daughter, whom she’d never been able to bend to her wishes as she could her older. Roberta would watch her go. And sigh. And whisper to herself an echo of what she’d said the day she ran into Grace.

  ‘‘Poor Mother.’’

  Then her husband would come up quietly behind her, and slip an arm around her waist and kiss her temple. And soon the girls would be there too, watching their grandmother huff away as if the world had done her a grave injustice . . . again.

  ‘‘What makes Grandma so ornery?’’ they’d ask.

  And Roberta would reply, ‘‘Who knows?’’

  And then one day they asked and Gabriel replied, ‘‘Jealousy.’’

  Roberta snapped her head around to gape at him. ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘She’s jealous of you. Don’t you know that? So is Grace. Because you’ve always been so happy and you’ve made your happiness yourself.’’

  ‘‘Really?’’

  He just put a half-smile on his mouth and left it there.

  She considered his opinion for some time, then kissed him on the jaw—they kissed quite regularly in front of the girls now—and said, ‘‘Why, thank you, Gabriel. I never would have figured that out for myself.’’

  ‘‘That’s because you don’t have an ounce of jealousy in you so you can’t see it in others.’’

  ‘‘Hm,’’ she said thoughtfully.

  He closed the door and walked, with her hard up against his side, to the kitchen where the supper dishes were waiting to be washed. Stopping in the doorway with his arm still around Roberta, he called back over his shoulder, ‘‘Whose turn is it tonight?’’

  Someone called back, ‘‘Not ours!’’

  Someone else called back, ‘‘Not ours!’’

  It was nice having teams . . . when they did their work. But there were always so many more inventive things to do!

  Gabe looked down at Roberta, who made the equivalent of a facial shrug.

  ‘‘Oh, hell,’’ he said, ‘‘should we do ’em?’’

  ‘‘Naw, let’s leave ’em.’’

  ‘‘They’ll be all dried up tomorrow.’’

  ‘‘But tomorrow it’ll be somebody else’s turn.’’

  He laughed, then cocked on eyebrow suggestively, ‘‘So what else should we do instead?’’

  She went up on tiptoe and whispered something in his ear.

  He faked a gasp and said, ‘‘Mis-sus Farley! At this hour of the day!’’

  Then they snagged jackets from the hooks by the door and headed toward the front of the house, calling up the stairs as they passed, ‘‘Hey, girls! Be right back. Gotta take a run over to the shop real quick!’’

  And ran out into the twilight, giggling.

  Turn the page for a preview of LaVyrle Spencer’s

  newest novel . . .

  SMALL TOWN GIRL

  Available in hardcover from G. P. Putnam’s Sons

  The black 300 ZX with the smoked windows looked completely out of place in Wintergreen, Missouri, population 1,713. Heads turned as it downshifted and growled its way around the town square behind Conn Hendrickson’s lumbering Sinclair fuel oil truck and Miss Elsie Bullard’s 1978 Buick sedan whose speedometer hadn’t seen fifty since she drove it off the showroom floor. On the open road, Miss Elsie cruised at forty-five. In town, she preferred a genteel fifteen.

  The Z came up short behind her, its stereo booming through the closed windows. The brakes shrieked and its rear end vaulted, drawing attention to the Tennessee vanity plates.

  MAC, it said.

  And MAC said it all.

  Four old men stood out in front of Wiley’s Bakery with coffee on their breath, sucking toothpicks, following the car with their eyes.

  ‘‘There she is.’’

  ‘‘She’s back.’’

  ‘‘Showin’ off some, too.’’

  ‘‘Shoo-ey. ’At’s some car she’s herdin’.’’

  ‘‘What’s she doin’ here anyways? She don’t come back too often.’’

  ‘‘Her momma’s havin’ her other hip surgeried. Come back to hel
p her out awhile’s what I heard.’’

  ‘‘How can she see out them there windows?’’

  ‘‘Always figgered people who needed windows that black got somethin’ to hide, ain’t that right, Delbert?’’

  They watched the sleek machine follow right on Miss Elsie’s tail. The traffic around the town square moved one way, counterclockwise, and on this lazy Tuesday in April, Miss Elsie, just off her volunteer stint at the Three Rivers Nursing Home, was hankering for a strawberry ice cream cone from Milton’s Drug Store. She puttputted around four sides of the square at the speed of a candle melting, searching for just the right place to park; the Z followed her around three, a scant yard off her heavy chrome bumper.

  Inside the sports car Tess McPhail interrupted her singing and said aloud, ‘‘Move your ass, Miss Elsie!’’

  For the last five hours she’d been listening to her own voice on a rough cut off the upcoming album she’d been recording in Nashville for the past several weeks. Her producer, Jack Greaves, had handed the tape to her on her way out of the studio yesterday, and said, ‘‘Give it a listen on your way up to Missouri, then call me when you get there and let me know what you think.’’

  The tape continued playing as Tess impatiently tapped the leather steering wheel with a long persimmon fingernail.

  ‘‘Elsie, would you move it!’’

  Miss Elsie, her sprouty white hair creating a fuzzball silhouette, retained a two-handed death grip on the wheel and continued around the square at the same snail’s pace. She finally reached the corner, turned left and got out of Tess’s way while Tess squealed around a right, speed shifted, laid on the gas and burned her way up Sycamore, muttering, ‘‘Lord o’ mercy, small towns.’’

  This one hadn’t changed since she’d left it eighteen years ago. Same red brick courthouse in the town square, same tired storefronts around it, same old World War II veterans watching the traffic and waiting for the next parade to give them something to do. Same aging houses along Sycamore. Though the hickories and elms were bigger, most places looked just like when Tess had graduated from high school. There was Mindy Alverson’s house: did her parents still live there? And what had happened to Mindy, Tess’s best friend back then? That was where Mrs. Mabry used to live. She had taught geometry and could never instill the tiniest flicker of interest in Tess, a girl who had drifted her way through any class that wasn’t related to music or creative arts, insisting she wouldn’t need it, not when she was going to be a big country-western singer after she graduated. And there was the house where that snotty Gallamore girl used to live, the one who landed the lead role in the class play the year they did Oklahoma! Tess had wanted the play the part of Laurie so badly she’d cried when the cast had been announced. Everybody said she should have gotten it; it was only because Cindy Gallamore’s father was on the school board that she got picked instead.