All Our Summers

by Holly Chamberlin

  The lights from a passing car flared through the darkened bedroom. Bonnie turned onto her left side; her back was now to the window and she was facing the pillow on which Ken had once rested his head. One thing Bonnie knew for sure. Ken would have wrangled guests to the easels and people would have had fun drawing badly or playing Hangman; he would have tried a few sips of the various locally made gins and made jolly comments about them; he would have taken the time to speak with Carol and thank her for her contributions. Ken had had the most generous spirit of any person Bonnie had ever known.

  What would it really have cost her to show some appreciation for her sister’s efforts? Maybe more than she could have afforded. It had been a struggle to play hostess without Ken by her side. At one point, she had even sought refuge in her childhood bedroom and cried as if her heart was freshly broken.

  With a rough and impatient gesture, Bonnie threw the covers from her and sat up. Another sleepless night. Well, she thought, as she climbed out of the bed, she might as well not waste time staring at the ceiling when there were floors to be swept and furniture to be polished.

  Work, Bonnie had always found, was an excellent antidote to sadness.

  Chapter 78

  Carol had never found Adirondack chairs in the least bit comfortable, but they seemed to be considered necessary for a house in the country. Carol twisted uncomfortably. As soon as Ferndean was hers she would toss the chairs and buy a set of stylish and comfortable garden furniture. Maybe she would offer the old chairs to her sister. Bonnie probably had an emotional attachment to them, too, like she did to every corner of the house and every fork and knife in it.

  Carol was in a glum mood that not even the brightness of the sun and the singing of the birds could alleviate.

  It was clear to her now that she had moved insanely far away from the ability to sustain an intimate emotional relationship with a fellow human being. Why had she offered to pay for the party? Only recently her sister had stated that she would never take money from Carol (Nicola’s care excepted), and she remembered Nicola saying, in a somewhat superior way, that money could not be equated with time and effort.

  Carol Ascher was out of her depth. She needed to rethink what to say, how to act, how to let her family know that she needed them—without coming right out and saying the words.

  I need you. I need to know that when I’m gone someone will genuinely mourn me.

  The return of the native. The reemergence of the prodigal daughter. The long-anticipated homecoming was a time-honored journey, a commonplace of the human condition, explored in countless books and movies, from Homer’s The Odyssey to Toni Morrison’s Song of Solomon, from The Royal Tenenbaums, and even, it could be said, to Dante’s Divine Comedy. How did the opening lines go? Depending on the translation, something like: “In the middle of the journey of our life, I came to myself in a dark wood, where the direct way was lost.”

  That was the thing about being a reader, Carol thought. No matter what situation in which you found yourself you could easily call up a quote to illustrate or illuminate the matter. Like that famous line by Charles Dickens: “Every traveler has a home of his own, and he learns to appreciate it the more from his wandering.”

  Carol wasn’t sure that was true in her case. First of all, she had not spent her life wandering. She had left Yorktide deliberately and had deliberately put down roots in New York City. She did not appreciate Yorktide more now than she had. Maybe she had hoped to; why come back only to feel as tepid about the place as she always had in the past? Would Dickens’s statement make more sense for her if she substituted the word understand for appreciate? No. She would be kidding herself if she believed she understood Yorktide any better now than she had in the first nineteen years of her life. She had always been a stranger here and she always would, even if she settled back into Ferndean House, even if her sister and her daughter finally welcomed her, even if Julie managed to dig her way out of the depression and learn to consider Carol an ally.

  At least Julie hadn’t rejected outright Carol’s offer of her New York apartment. In truth, the offer had come out of the blue; perhaps it had been spurred by the pathetic figure her niece had cut that afternoon. Maybe the offer had been an attempt at atonement for her earlier harsh words about the dangers of self-pity. Whatever the reason, the offer stood and Carol sincerely hoped that Julie would accept it.

  “Hello!”

  Carol turned to see her cousin striding across the lawn.

  “I never found those things comfortable,” Judith declared as she joined Carol. “I’ll sit on the ground, thank you.”

  “What brings you by?” Carol asked. She was not sorry for the company.

  Judith shrugged. “I had nothing better to do. Sorry. That came out wrong.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “No sign of the party. Good job with the cleanup.”

  “As if it never happened.”

  “The cocktails weren’t a big hit, were they?”

  “There’s enough gin left to drown the city of London. Oh, well. It will keep.”

  “Carol?” Judith was looking at her intently. “Are you still committed to the idea of living here in Yorktide?”

  Carol spoke carefully. “I have to be here.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “I’m not sure I do, either,” Carol quipped. “Not entirely.”

  Judith frowned. “Now you’re just being annoying.”

  “Sorry. It’s just that being back here in Yorktide isn’t . . . It isn’t great. In fact,” she said with an unhappy laugh, “it’s kind of awful.”

  “Don’t you think you’re exaggerating a bit?”

  “Are you saying that things will look better in the morning?”

  “They often do. At least long enough for you to take another, more clear-eyed view of the situation.”

  “But in the morning, I’ll still be here in Yorktide,” Carol countered.

  Judith sighed. “You’re not alone in returning to the place where you were born. Even Shakespeare went back to Stratford in the end.”

  “And he died there. Some think he caught typhoid fever from the river close to his house. Sometimes home can be deadly.”

  Judith rose from the ground. “Well, be miserable if you want to be,” she said. “I’ll be on my way.”

  Carol smiled weakly. “Sorry, Judith. I didn’t mean to inflict my grim mood on you.”

  “No worries. I’m largely made of Teflon. Need help getting out of that thing?”

  Carol took the hand her cousin extended.

  “Final word of advice?” Judith said. “Give things another try.”

  Chapter 79

  Nicola’s mother had invited her to Ferndean for tea. Nicola had accepted, largely because the invitation had brought to light a long-buried memory of the afternoon Carol and Nicola Ascher had enjoyed high tea at The Plaza in New York City. Nicola didn’t remember the specific occasion; a birthday, maybe? But she did remember feeling as if she were a princess in a movie, special and pampered. And she remembered all the delicious food.

  As Nicola turned onto Wolf Lane, she wondered if her mother also remembered that happy afternoon at The Plaza, and all the others like it, when it was just the two of them on an urban adventure, exploring new neighborhoods in Brooklyn or Queens; window-shopping along Fifth Avenue; sitting side by side on a bench in Central Park while eating hot dogs from a vendor’s cart.

  She must remember, Nicola thought as she pulled the car to a stop. How could a mother ever forget? Even a mother who had sent her child away.

  How dramatically her feelings about Ferndean had changed over the years, Nicola thought as she made her way up to the house. When she was very young she had been frightened of it. It was so big and dark. On rainy days, it looked like a mansion in an old black and white horror movie. Also, it smelled musty, not at all fresh and clean like her home in New York smelled.

  When Nicola was eleven or so, Ferndean suddenly morphed
into a romantic castle from a classic fairytale. She was eager to explore the many rooms on her own, to sneak up into the attic in hopes of uncovering a hidden treasure or maybe, if she was very lucky, a ghost. Not the scary kind, but the kind who was dashing and handsome, the kind of ghost who would vow to protect her from harm until the day she died and was finally able to join him in eternity as his bride.

  When she was fifteen and had come to live full-time in Yorktide, Ferndean soon lost its air of menace and mystery and became simply what it was, the family homestead. Special in its way, but not frightening or especially attractive.

  Nicola found her mother on the back deck. The small table was covered with a daisy-print cloth. There was a pitcher of iced tea with mint leaves floating on top. The pastries looked as delicious as those they had shared at The Plaza.

  “So, is the whole town still chuckling about my artisanal drinks and paint boxes?” her mother asked when they had taken seats.

  Nicola was surprised by her mother’s tone. She sounded upset, maybe even embarrassed, by the failure of her efforts to entertain Bonnie and Ken’s circle.

  “I don’t listen to gossip,” Nicola said truthfully. “And I don’t think anyone is still chuckling. Really. It’s not that big a deal.”

  Her mother laughed. “Oh, I know. I’m just being silly. Look,” Carol went on, “I know things between us have been strained for a long time, but I hope you still have happy memories of the first fourteen years of your life, when it was just you and me.”

  Nicola was taken aback. “I was just thinking about the old days,” she admitted. “About all the fun we had. Like the afternoon we had tea at The Plaza. We got all dressed up. We even wore white gloves.”

  Carol laughed. “I think I gained five pounds that afternoon, but it was worth every calorie.” She poured a glass of tea for each of them before going on. “And remember how we traveled almost every school break? Niagara Falls. Boston. Universal Studios in Florida. And remember the birthday party you had at the American Museum of Natural History? And how we’d spend rainy Saturday afternoons browsing Tiffany’s?”

  “I remember,” Nicola said. She felt—overwhelmed. She felt as if she might cry.

  “How about the night we went to the opening of Seussical on Broadway?” her mother asked.

  Nicola swallowed hard before speaking. “I wore a purple dress.”

  “We got that dress in a little boutique in SoHo. It was handmade in Denmark.”

  “What happened to it?” Nicola asked. She had liked that dress.

  “When you grew out of it I donated it to a thrift shop,” her mother explained. “I used to sell my unwanted things on consignment, but for some reason I couldn’t bring myself to sell anything that had belonged to you.”

  Nicola didn’t know what to make of that.

  Her mother smiled. “I’ll never forget the time we were having dinner in the Village and the lead singer of that British boy band you were mad about came into the restaurant.”

  “He was pretty short,” Nicola said with a smile of her own. “I remember being surprised.”

  “It was nice of him to give you an autograph.”

  The entire experience now came flooding back to Nicola. The excitement upon seeing her idol up close. And the mortification she felt when her mother waved him over to their table and asked him to sign a page in her small, leather-bound notebook. “It’s for my daughter,” Carol Ascher had explained. Nicola had been completely tongue-tied.

  “Yes,” she said. “It was nice of him.” And it had been nice of her mother, too. “What happened to that older couple who lived in our building?” Nicola asked. “Bert and Margot. The last time I saw them—”

  “Was the last time you visited me,” her mother said quietly, “the summer you were seventeen. The Shapiros died. It was to be expected. They were ninety if they were a day.”

  Nicola felt real sorrow at this news. “Oh,” she managed. “I wish I had known.”

  “I’m sorry. I should have told you then. Margot passed and Bert followed a month later. Not uncommon for couples who’ve been together most of their lives.”

  “I can almost smell the delicious apple pies Margot used to bring us. And I can see Bert all dressed up in a suit and tie, no matter how hot and humid the day. In some ways,” she went on, “they were the inspiration for my interest in working with older people.”

  Carol smiled. “I’m glad they had such a positive impact.”

  “Me too. So, have you made any big changes to the apartment?” Nicola wasn’t sure why she was asking. At times, she could barely recall the layout of the home in which she had spent the first years of her life.

  “Not terribly big, no,” her mother said. “I had the kitchen and bathrooms upgraded at one point, but the other rooms are pretty much the same as they were, including your room.”

  Nicola’s eyes widened. “You mean you didn’t make it into an exercise room or something?” she asked.

  “Why would I have done that? I kept it so that you would have a place other than Yorktide to call home. If you ever wanted one.”

  “Thanks. I mean, I’m surprised.” But she wouldn’t have been surprised, Nicola realized, if she had slept in her bedroom on those few, long-ago visits back to New York. She had refused even to enter the room, sleeping instead in the library. A silly act of rebellion.

  “I’ve mentioned this before,” her mother went on, “but if you want any of your old belongings, well, they’re yours to have.”

  Nicola shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “There might be some items you want to keep,” her mother went on. “Like that brass Art Deco statue of a nymph you picked out in Paris. You loved going to the Les Puces de Clignancourt in Saint-Ouen.” Carol smiled. “Sounds so much better than ‘flea market, ’ doesn’t it?”

  Nicola returned her mother’s smile. “I’ll think about it,” she said. She did like that statue.

  “I could have it all sent to Ferndean, if that would be easier for you than coming to New York. I know you’re busy with work and all.”

  Nicola noted that her mother had not mentioned the Peace Corps as a factor in Nicola’s busyness. She was thankful for that.

  “I’ll let you know,” she said.

  “Let’s not let these pastries go to waste.” Carol selected a jam tart and Nicola chose a particularly decadent-looking pastry with a crown of whipped chocolate cream.

  The conversation turned to less vital topics, like the large number of fireflies to be seen in the vicinity of Ferndean and the outstandingly bad reviews that had been accorded to one of Yorktide’s newest restaurants.

  “The food critic had to have had a grudge against the chef,” Nicola noted.

  “More like a vendetta,” her mother said dryly.

  Nicola left when the pitcher of iced tea was empty; she had an appointment with a plumber; the landlord was finally going to fix the leaky faucet in her tiny kitchen sink. As she pulled away from Ferndean House, she saw that her mother was standing at the front window.

  Nicola waved. Her mother waved back.

  Afternoon tea at The Plaza was all well and good, Nicola thought as she drove away, but in some ways, it had nothing on afternoon tea at Ferndean.

  Imagine that.

  Chapter 80

  Julie was pretty sure the expression on her face betrayed the extreme shock she felt on finding her aunt on her doorstep.

  “I know,” Carol said, rolling her eyes. “Everyone tells me it’s rude to just show up at someone’s house and maybe everyone is right. But here I am.”

  Julie smiled in spite of herself.

  “I thought we could go for a drive,” her aunt went on. “You pick the destination. As long as wherever it is isn’t too rocky or muddy. These shoes are not made for the great outdoors.”

  “Let me get my bag,” Julie said, surprising herself with the snap decision. “And change my clothes.”

  “I’ll wait by the car.”

  Julie
hurried upstairs. Quickly, she shed the dirty clothes she had been wearing, put on a clean T-shirt and pair of chinos, ran a comb through her hair, and hurried back downstairs.

  “So,” Carol said, when Julie was buckled in beside her. “Where to?”

  “How about the Sarah Orne Jewett House?” Julie said. “Is that okay?”

  “Sure,” Carol said. “Though I have to admit I know next to nothing about her. She was a writer, yes?”

  Julie nodded. “If you want to read her work you might start with the novella called The Country of the Pointed Firs. That’s probably the most popular.”

  Neither woman said much on the drive, but that was okay. Julie noted that her aunt was an alert driver and that further helped put her at ease.

  “This is a charming little town,” Carol said as they parked a block from their destination in downtown South Berwick.

  Julie laughed. “Maine is lousy with charming little towns.”

  Together, they walked to the corner of Portland Street. “This house belonged to Sarah’s grandparents and was built in 1774,” Julie explained. “Sarah and her older sister, Mary, inherited it in 1887. When Mary died in 1930 she left the house to Historic New England.” Julie pointed. “The house next door was built by the sisters’ parents. I’ll let the tour guide tell you the rest.”

  Julie and Carol went inside and joined three other people—a couple from New Hampshire and a man from Illinois—on the tour. Their guide was well-informed and well-spoken. As she led the group through the front hall she enthusiastically pointed out the eclectic blend of styles.

  “The wallpaper is fantastic,” Carol whispered to Julie as they climbed to the second floor. “Such energy. I wish more people these days went bold in their homes. But if their neighbor is going minimal, chances are they will, too.”

  “You might want to visit the McLellan House,” Julie suggested. “It’s part of the Portland Museum of Art. Well, you probably know that. The paint and wallpaper and painted floor cloth are exact reproductions of the originals. It’s also pretty out-there stuff.”