East Hope (16 page)

“You're new here, aren't you?” the taller woman asked. Will had surmised from their conversation that she was the summer resident, the shorter woman her houseguest.

“I moved here from Pennsylvania,” he answered, trying to remain polite while drawing an end to her questions.

“Philadelphia?” she asked.

Will shook his head. “I lived in Habliston, west of Philadelphia,” he said.

“Where that little college is?” She put her wallet back inside her basket handbag and turned to her friend. “I think the Hartleys' daughter goes there.”

Before this conversation went any further the houseguest unknowingly came to his rescue. “Shouldn't we be going, Marion?”

“You're right,” she said. “Eddie and the girls are going to wonder where we are.” Marion offered a friendly smile. “Have a fun evening,” she said. The screen door banged behind them.

Fun, he thought. When was the last time he'd thought about having fun? All month he had thrown himself into setting up the store. He hadn't thought about fun in even the remotest connotation, though he had discovered certain pleasures: sitting on the front step of Taunton's Used Books after a good long run, his demons in momentary remission; a quiet stroll through the woods to his private beach to climb on his rock, his thinking place where the water lapped or crashed at his feet, depending on the weather; reading in his chair, the windows open, enjoying the generous smell of summer flavored with ocean air, pine woods, and freshly mowed fields.

There was also the satisfaction he took in running the store. He liked the regular routine, visiting with the customers and learning about the book collectors who came through the store on their travels up the coast. He enjoyed the simple pleasure of spending his day with books. Time seemed to slow to a summer pace.

The store was silent now. He pictured the two women joining friends, arriving at their party. The social part of his life had stopped. For him it would be another night alone. He thought of Mary Beth in New York and suddenly wanted to hear her voice. Maybe he could talk her into coming up for the long weekend. The last time they spoke she had agreed to come once in August and also for their anniversary in early September. That promised visit was a long time from now. Will brought in the flag, locked the door to the shop, and went up to the apartment. He poured a glass of wine, carried it to his chair, and dialed Mary Beth's home number.

A man answered. For a moment Will wondered if he had mis-dialed. “I'm calling for Mary Beth Harmon,” he said.

“Just a minute.”

Will heard voices in the background and the man who had answered saying, “M.B., it's for you.”
Who the hell? M.B.?

“Hello,” she said, her voice pitched a level higher than usual.

“What's going on?”

“Will, it's you.”

The voices in the background faded. He imagined her carrying the phone into the bedroom. He'd seen the apartment for all of twenty minutes and had trouble picturing it. He forced aside his irritation at finding her with friends and told her he'd been thinking of her, that he hoped she'd reconsider and come up for the Fourth.

“I told you I need to stay in the city,” she said quickly. “I have to work.”

“It doesn't sound like you're working. Who answered the phone?” His surprise was giving way to anger.

“Drew. He came east for some meetings. He's here with friends from the office. Taking us all out to dinner.”

“That doesn't sound like work,” he said.

“Don't sound so testy. We have to eat.”

Will didn't know what to say. His hopes of having her here for the weekend disappeared.

“Remember,” she said, “it was your decision to spend the summer up there—don't complain to me.”

“I'm not complaining. I was hoping I could change your mind, that's all. I've been thinking. We need to talk.”

Her voice softened. “I'll call you later. I promise.” She hung up before he could reply.

Will remained in the chair by the window and finished his wine. He stayed inside all evening. He picked up the book he'd been reading,
We Took to the Woods
by Louise Dickinson Rich, a wonderful account of a woman who lived with her family in the Maine wilderness in the 1940s, but after an hour or so he could no longer concentrate. After flipping through the stations on the small television in the bedroom, he tried reading again. Without cable, television reception was impossible. Mary Beth didn't call. At eleven he tried her again. The answering machine clicked on. The sound of an electronic recorded message made him furious. He slammed down the phone. He decided to go outside and get some air.

Caroline began the first of July with her head above the white porcelain bowl of Aunt Lila's toilet. The off-and-on queasy feeling had become full-blown morning sickness. She reflected on the whole ironic series of events. Of course she was pregnant. The stick inside the box with the rose on the cover had left no doubt. Ludicrous, impossible, miraculous, and a plain fact.

She bent again to another wave of nausea. Within a few minutes she felt as if her stomach were inside out, and her forehead was covered with a cold sheen of perspiration. She opened the tap, waited for the water to become hot, and splashed the stream of warmth onto her face. It was just after five. The sky was lightening despite a damp fog curling in through the open windows. Caroline crawled back into bed and tried to relax into sleep.

She worked on breathing calmly, taking slow, even breaths, gathering her thoughts, willing herself to think clearly. She could solve this problem. All spring she had been solving problems: deciphering Harry's financial mess, working out some sort of budget on the little money that was left, sorting and disposing of Harry's effects, sending certain books and mementos on to old friends and family, and reaching out to Rob with phone calls, letters, and care packages. She had done all of this while editing the soup book for Vivien and keeping up with the regular business of life. Now, all by herself in Maine, she felt suddenly cold right through to her bones. She shifted onto her back, pulled the covers up under her chin, and looked at the ceiling.

Aunt Lila's room was the largest and on the southeast corner of the house. It was the sunniest room and caught the breeze off the water. Caroline had taken to sleeping in the very middle of the bed, and lying here, she tried to imagine Aunt Lila in her later years, alone in this same bed, and staring at this very ceiling with its feathery cracks like a miniature road map.

Perhaps Lila had had mornings like this, lying still in the quiet, waiting for the day to begin. Or lying alone in the long winter nights with the wind whipping against the house. Caroline wondered what her worries had been. Harry had not told her much about Lila, only that she had inherited the house from Francis, her much older husband.

Lila had been so kind to her the one summer that she had spent at the house in East Hope. It was the only time she had been able to talk about Grace's death. Caroline had been so consumed with her own loss that she had never thought to ask Lila about her life and what it was like living in this house. Caroline regretted that now.

When Grace was born with a defective heart, Caroline had read everything she could about children's heart problems, hoping to discover what had caused it. Could she have eaten better, taken more vitamins? Had she exercised too much or not been active enough? Was it an inherited problem? Could another child by her and Harry be born with the same ailment? If so, how likely was that? She knew that more could go wrong among older mothers—greater genetic risks, possible developmental problems, more of a chance of Down syndrome. Thinking of all this now made Caroline decide that from a physical standpoint alone, it would be a mistake to have this baby. She was under seven weeks pregnant, or was it eight? If she were to end the pregnancy, she would need to act quickly.

Caroline dozed. When she looked at the clock on her bedside table it was almost eight. Vern was due to arrive to finish the outside painting, and she remembered that she had invited Hollis for a drink that evening. She had planned to make a vegetable tart for the cookbook she was editing. The directions, still unclear, needed to be rewritten. The sun was trying to break through the fog, a familiar condition early in the day, and she had been told that there would be less fog in August, though she would probably be gone by then. Caroline pulled on her jeans. She had to tug to close them. Could they already be tight? She pulled on a white T-shirt, leaving it untucked, along with a beige cardigan that she had saved from Lila's things. The sweater was soft and comfortable, and Caroline found herself reaching for it more and more often these days. Her nicer clothes from Washington—linen pants, silk shirts, tailored blazers—stayed in her closet. She preferred her old khaki shorts, T-shirts, jeans, and, when it got cool, Lila's wool sweaters. It was amazing how few things she actually needed, living this quiet life.

She had tea, nibbled on some toast, which made her feel better, and started the new recipe. The vegetable tart required several cups of chopped spinach, along with basil and chives. After cracking eggs into a big ironstone bowl, she added a cup of cream and two cups of grated Gruyère cheese. Lila's kitchen did not have the usual modern kitchen gadgets that she was used to. There was no blender, no electric mixer, no juicer or food processor. If she were ever to stay on here and work seriously on food, she would have to bring some of her equipment up from Washington.

Lila had well-sharpened knives, in Caroline's mind the most essential tools for a good cook, and she loved the way time slowed as she diced and chopped on the big board next to the sink. She cut fresh basil into ribbons, and the sweet green smell conveyed the essence of a summer morning. Since coming to Maine and living in the simple old house, Caroline had discovered the many pleasures of doing things by hand. Without the noise of the machines, she could still hear the birds chirping at the feeder in the yard, the rustle of leaves when the wind picked up, and Vern's cheerful whistling as he went about his chores. She put down the knife, wiped her hands on a towel, and went out to the herb garden for the chives.

The sun was warm now. She kicked aside her shoes and felt the tickle of the soft grass beneath her feet. Lila had planted the herb garden just outside the back door in the shelter of the porch. On one side of the steps the mint had completely taken over. On the other side, three large clumps of chives with spiky purple blossoms stood at attention. Caroline cut some chives for the tart and picked a handful of the flowers to put in a vase for the table. The parsley that she had planted just after she arrived was thriving.

Carefully, setting her chives on the granite step, she knelt down to study the nasturtium seedlings poking up at the edge of the bed. The seedlings would not do well if they were spaced too close together. The heart-shaped leaves were a delicious sage color. She pinched a stem between two fingers and delicately lifted one out. The wee seedling came easily, still so new in the fog-moistened earth. The root was a bare sliver, a silken thread, nothing more. She pulled a second and then a third leaf, both crowding out the stronger plants adjacent to them. Caroline sat on the porch step and looked down at the tiny slips that would have become fully developed flowers if they had come up in a different spot of ground. They were so easy to pluck out and discard, mere specks wilting in her palm.

Pulling out the baby plants was the right thing to do. Like the decision not to have this baby. She already had a grown son. And, of course, she must consider Pete. The previous sleepless night she had been filled with images of telling him what had happened, of returning to Chevy Chase pregnant, resuming her old life at the garden club, the book club, as the pregnant widow carrying an illegitimate child. It was a ludicrous thought.

Then again, why couldn't she keep this baby? She could stay here in East Hope for the year. No one here really knew her; people in town kept to themselves. She could take the baby home next summer. The few friends she still saw in her neighborhood might wonder who the father was, but they would presume it had been some sort of brief love affair during her time away. Caroline didn't care what they thought anyway, except for Vivien. Vivien was coming the day after tomorrow, and it would be such a relief to tell someone, to try to make sense of what had happened, to come up with a plan.

Caroline lifted her palms, scattering the tiny bits of green, and wrapped her arms across her chest. What would it be like to hold a tiny baby again? A baby, a birth. Until now all she had thought about was death, trying to understand death, cope with death, live with death. A baby was all about life, new life.

She looked down at her bare feet. Rob's feet had once been delicate and small, the size of her thumb. When he was three his plump little feet, browned from the sun, had tottered around this same garden.