“Me, too,” I said, tears prickling behind my eyelids. “I can’t even imagine what all those years would have been like without you…without us. We’re like family. No, better than family, because we chose each other.”
“You know what Robert Frost said about family and home,” Camilla smiled. “He said, ‘It’s where, when you go there, they have to take you in.’ We’ve taken each other in through everything.”
“Till death do us part,” Lewis grinned, teasing her for her crazy delight.
“Till then,” she said, her eyes brimming, and I knew that she was serious. Somehow, the thought made me uneasy.
We had agreed for this one night to dress formally, over the groans from Lewis and Henry, and I went up to our bedroom and hung our evening clothes in the musty, mothy closet. Does anything else smell like a beach house closet? Out the window I could see scudding cloud shadows on the beach and water, and see the spartina bending down under the rising little wind. Little gusts of sand peppered the windowpane. Suddenly I was wild to be out on the beach to taste the wind, to let the blown sand sting and scour my face.
“Anybody want to go for a walk?” I said.
“Absolutely not,” Camilla said. “I’ve worked all afternoon on my hair.”
“Me, either,” Lewis said. “I’d join you in a nap, though. If we hurried up and slept fast, we could get in a couple of good hours.”
Even though he’d largely passed on his regular practice to young Philip Ware, he sometimes went in when a real surgical emergency presented itself, and one had last night. He’d been in the operating room at Queens until three. Most doctors I knew were chronically sleep deprived, and grabbed naps when and wherever they could.
“Go on and take one,” I said. “I won’t be long. I just want to take the last beach walk of the century. I’ll be back way before dark.”
“Take the dogs, will you?” Camilla called from the kitchen, where something smelled heavenly.
And so the two grumbling old Boykins and I went out into the stinging wind, and walked down the wooden steps to the beach.
It was colder on the beach than I had expected. The wind was straight out of the east, raw and smelling of dank, salty winter water. I scrunched my neck farther down into the cowl of my hooded sweatshirt, and jammed my hands into my pockets. We crossed the corrugated ripples where the tide cut ran when it was full, and went down to the hard-packed sand just above the tidal slick. The tide was going out. Frothy lips of dirty white foam receded toward the water. Here and there a broken shell or a rubbery, glistening tentacle of seaweed lay half buried. Sometimes in the winter the beach was studded with sea glass and shells and wonderful, twisted limbs and logs of driftwood, but today the beach was nearly empty, of both its artifacts and its people.
Boy and Girl sat down on the sand at the same time and gave me reproving looks. They refused to get up when I whistled to them, so reluctantly, I took a last look at the tossing green-gray sea and turned back toward the dunes and the house. Complacently, now that they had achieved their purpose, they gave me doggy grins and waddled ahead of me toward the steps.
I looked up at the house, thinking that it was the last time in this century that I would see it like this, looming like a light ship over the beach and the sea, just at twilight, with the windows glowing. As always, my heart lifted.
My eyes went past the house to the big dune to its left, and my heart gave a great, fishlike leap and then seemed to stop. There, on the dune line, just as I had seen it on the week before Hugo so long ago, was a figure cloaked in gray, looking down on me. I stood still. The dogs whined at me reproachfully.
Then the fading light shifted and the figure became Camilla, in her old gray raincoat, waving to me and calling something.
“Lewis and I are going for more ice,” she shouted through cupped hands. “Be back in a few minutes.”
I waved back, standing still for a moment while my heart slowed its thundering. Somehow I thought I could not have borne another omen.
By the time they came in with the ice, dark had fallen. I had had a quick shower and was upstairs dressing. I felt, for some reason, as breath-held and tremulous as a young girl before her first prom. It was not, of course, the first time we had all seen each other in evening dress, but it was the first time on this island, in this house. Why that was important, I could not have said, but it was.
“You up there?” Camilla called out from the kitchen below. “I could use a hand.”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m coming.”
I went slowly down the old staircase, trailing my fingers on the splintery banister, stepping over the perennially damp spot on the runner underneath the leak we had never had fixed. I took a deep breath, and then came all the way down into the living room.
“Holy shit,” Lewis breathed.
“Anny, you look absolutely glorious,” Camilla said.
I could feel myself, ridiculously, blushing.
The dress was black and fluid and long, thin-strapped and cut in a deep V in front and back. More of my modest, sun-speckled breasts showed than in anything else I had ever worn. I had bought it impulsively at Saks several years ago when they had marked almost everything down to nearly affordable, thinking that a plain black evening dress would probably last my lifetime and should come in handy one time or another. But in the intimate light of my own bedroom my breasts had seemed to protrude like overripe melons from the bodice, and the black silk cupped my ample behind like lascivious hands, and I had never worn it. But tonight it was just us….
In the past two or three years, a thick silver streak had appeared in my hair, running from part to ends as if it had been painted there. I secretly liked it, though I often said I knew that I looked like a skunk, because it was the only distinctive thing about my still-untamable thatch of curls. Tonight I wore a pair of silver earrings I had bought in Arizona, when I’d gone there to work in the remote Four Corners area with Lewis and Henry. The earrings were ornately scrolled and pierced, and hung halfway to my bare shoulders. They and a pair of excruciatingly painful black satin high-heeled sandals that I could not remember why I had bought were the only accessories. I had practically no jewelry, and had never really wanted any.
“Is it immoral to ravish your own wife on the stairs?” Lewis said.
“No, just uncomfortable,” Camilla said, laughing. “Go on upstairs and get dressed yourself, you goaty satyr. You’ve shot your chance for a nap.”
“Open the wine and pour us a glass, Anny,” she said as she followed him up the stairs. “And would you stick another log on the fire? No, wait, let Lewis do it when he comes down. Oh, and Fairlie called. Henry is stuck at the hospital with an emergency and will be here when he can. She’s coming on out. She’s furious with him.”
I rummaged in the drawer we called the thing drawer for a corkscrew, thinking that it was late in the game to get upset when your doctor husband had an emergency. By the time Camilla and Lewis came down, the wine was poured and waiting and I had set out the pâté and crackers and a bowl of the benne wafers that no Charleston cocktail party is ever without.
I drew in my breath when Camilla appeared. I had expected her usual silvery-gray chiffon or dull-green satin, but she was dressed in a long slide of crimson velvet, cut low and caught under her breasts with a diamond brooch that I knew had been her grandmother’s, long sleeves that came to a point over her slender hands, and a diamond and ruby necklace that looked a part of some fabled crown jewels, under glass in a tower across the sea. Her copper-and-silver hair had been brushed until it flew around her face with electricity, and, like Camilla herself, seemed to give off sparks. She could have been a woman on a tapestry in a great castle. She seemed utterly archaic, utterly of another time. I had thought so many times before, but Camilla tonight was a medieval effigy come to life.
“Excuse me while I go upstairs and set fire to my dress,” I said. “It seems a shame to waste this on us.”
“I wouldn’t wear this except for us,” she said. “I’ve had this dress since I came out, and the necklace was my great-grandmother Charlebois’s. She’s supposed to have smuggled it out when the Huguenots fled the persecution, but I think she nicked it somewhere. What persecuted Huguenot ever had anything like this?”
A car’s tires scrunched in the driveway, and Lewis, looking scrubbed and correct in black tie, went to look out the kitchen window.
“Lila and Simms,” he said. “All dressed up, as my old mammy used to say, like mules in buggy harness.”
“You never had an old mammy,” Camilla snorted. “You were the only kid in Charleston who had a white nanny.”
“That never goes out of this house,” Lewis said, and went down to help Simms with the case of champagne.
Like many downtown men, Simms wore evening clothes as if he was born to them—which he was. No matter how paunchy or jowly he got, nor how often we saw him in salt-stained sailing clothes or his hideous old college madras bathing trunks, Simms in black tie was formidable, so right that you thought, on seeing him, “Well, of course.” Even Simms struggling through sand holding one end of a case of champagne was indisputably south of Broad.
How do they
do
that? I had wondered more than once.
Lila, picking her way through the sand in cobwebby silver sandals, looked, in the diffuse light from the old yellow outdoor bug light, as she must have looked on the night of her debut. Hers had been the St. Cecilia ball, I remembered, possible to you only if your father was a member of the society. She wore a simple white dress cut modestly at the neck, with cap sleeves and a princess waist, and her mother’s famous triple-strand pearls. Her hair was put up, and her earrings were modest pearls, and until she turned around, Lila Howard might have seemed a dove among peacocks. But in back, her dress was cut to the waist or perhaps even a bit below, and had a skirt slit to the knee. She was so thin that the knobs on her spine stood out in bas-relief, but somehow, I thought, an extra ounce of flesh would have looked gross. Lila, like Simms, looked exactly what she was. Somehow they drew the eye like a light in darkness.
Fairlie had ridden out with them. I had seen Fairlie’s sea-green silk before, a shimmery column that dipped up to the knee in front, and left one elegant shoulder bare. But whatever she wore, it was not possible to look away from Fairlie for very long. Her spectacular red-and-silver hair brushed her shoulders, and two hectic red spots stood out on her cheeks. I had seen those spots before. They were anger, not rouge. Fairlie looked…incendiary. I thought, moving to kiss her cheek as she came into the kitchen, that it could not always be comfortable being married to Fairlie. Exhilarating, beguiling, amusing, yes. But rarely simply comfortable. I had never thought Henry minded, particularly; he gave no sign of it. But I thought also that I would not like to get the full bore of those flaming blue eyes, as he would when he finally got here.
It could have been another tense evening, but Camilla’s incandescent happiness simply banished tension. She sat beside the fire with happiness flowing off her like honey, and none of us would have spoiled the night for her any more than we would have slapped a child. We smiled at her reminiscences of our holidays on the island with as much glee as she did; when she laughed, we laughed with her, delightedly, as you do at a small child’s belly laugh. Before long we were simply giddy on Camilla. She could have asked us to jump off the widow’s walk and we would have rushed to do so.
I had a sudden thought.
Bunny Burford was right, I thought. She does get what she wants. And we give it to her gladly. She does it with sheer laughter and love; who could refuse that? If that’s manipulative, it’s also enchanting, a gift to all of us. It may even be what’s held us together for so long. I always thought it might be the house, but maybe it’s simply Camilla. It’s like a spell, or sorcery.
And I smiled at my old friend with love and amusement. She smiled back, a smile that warmed and enfolded. You are the most special thing in my life, it said.
“I’m not going to wait one more minute for Henry,” Fairlie said, getting up to look in on her asparagus. “He can just eat leftovers. The rest of us are starving.”
Of us all, Fairlie was the only one who seemed impervious to Camilla’s spell. She sat straight in her chair by the fire, her beautiful back totally upright, her legs crossed, one foot swinging. I was reminded of the lashing tail of a great cat. Her mouth was a straight line and her narrowed eyes were fixed on Camilla. I could not imagine what she was thinking; if she was angry, let her confine it to Henry.
She went into the kitchen, and we all stirred and looked at Camilla. She was looking after Fairlie with a sort of tender bemusement.
“Perhaps she’s right,” she said. “Henry could be held up for who knows how long.”
We were getting up from our chairs, reluctant to lose the magic of the last hour, when there was a thundering of footsteps on the back steps, and the door flew back on its hinges, and Henry hurtled into the kitchen, grinning and breathing heavily, as if he had been running for miles.
“Tell me I didn’t miss dinner,” he said.
We all burst into laughter. He wore rumpled blue hospital scrubs and the clogs many surgeons wear when operating, and over them his perfectly fitted tuxedo jacket and a black tie, untied and hanging crazily down the front of him. His long face wore its customary beatific smile, and his silver hair was in his eyes. Suddenly I simply and wholly loved him.
Camilla ran to him and hugged him fiercely. Then she tipped her head back and looked up into his face.
“I love you, you idiot,” she cried. “Who is more wonderful than you are?”
And the night lifted up and flowed on again, borne up by joy.
We sat late at dinner. Camilla had brought out her mother’s huge silver candelabra, and in the middle of the table the ivory tapers burned steadily. The table itself was swathed in Lila’s mother’s silky white damask. The matching napkins, I thought, might have served as tea-table cloths.
“Mother always called them the double-damask dinner napkins,” Lila said. “She always washed and ironed them herself. Eliza could out-wash and out-iron her any day, but Mother wouldn’t let anybody else touch them. Woe unto whoever spilled anything on them, or actually used them to dab their lips. I have a great urge to dump red wine on every one of them.”