Summer House (15 page)

The music changed. Helen started to leave the dance floor, but Lew Lowry took her arm. “Dance?” he asked. And she liked to dance, so she did. She danced all evening, with all her husband’s friends and all the husbands of her women friends. When she danced with her brother-in-law Kellogg, she felt like a piece of luggage being manhandled around the room. And both Mandy’s husband, Claus, and Mellie’s Douglas
plodded.
She’d always felt that Grace and her family had none of the charm Charlotte, Oliver, and Teddy had, but of course she, as their mother, would think that. Truly, Worth was effortlessly more attractive than his sister. Well, Worth was his mother’s favorite. He moved through life as if a red carpet were unrolling before him while the crowd stood back, eyeing him with admiration. It was the way he had been raised, really. Was Worth unfaithful to her because she didn’t smother him with idolatry like some giddy girl?

She was breathless when she returned to her place at the table. Tomorrow her back would kill her. All that weeding in Charlotte’s garden, and now all this dancing. Sipping champagne, she surveyed the room. Nearby, Charlotte was paired off with Bill Cooper. Helen looked for Miranda Fellows but didn’t see her. Bill had an appreciative grin on his face as Charlotte undulated, her arms high above her head, her gold gown swaying provocatively against her perfect slender body. Oh, my. Charlotte had had a crush on Bill when she was a girl, and it looked as if she had a crush again. Across the room, Whit Lowry leaned against a wall, trapped by a young woman who was practically crawling on top of him in her efforts to keep his attention, but Whit kept looking over at Charlotte. God, Whit Lowry was handsome! And from the way he looked at Charlotte—goodness, he was interested in her!

Helen couldn’t prevent her mind from flipping into the future: Charlotte married—to Whit or to Coop—and having children! At last, Helen would be a grandmother.

Although it was possible she’d be a grandmother in a matter of months. During dessert, she had tried talking with Suzette but found the girl unresponsive and monosyllabic. Suzette did not wear a wedding ring, but that wasn’t proof that she wasn’t married to Teddy. And marriage or not, Teddy seemed to believe there was a strong possibility that the child Suzette was carrying was his. Perhaps Teddy was ready to be a father to the child no matter whose genes it had, but Teddy was an impetuous, unreliable fellow, like a bead of mercury, gleaming like silver but rolling in all directions, never still and not always there when you needed him.

“The girl’s a gold digger.”

Helen startled, almost knocking over her water glass. She had turned her chair around so she could watch the dance floor, and Grace had swooped down next to her, dragging a chair parallel to Helen’s. Helen leaned close to her sister-in-law. “Grace, she might hear you.”

“Are you kidding? Over this din? I can scarcely hear myself. Besides, what if she does hear me. The little skank needs to know that we’re not buying her act.”

“Don’t call her a skank, Grace! Why are you being so uncharitable? I’m concerned, too, but Teddy said they’re married, and as Teddy’s wife she deserves our respect. And our assistance. The poor thing looks like she hasn’t had a decent meal in ages.”

“She’s a drug addict, Helen, of course she hasn’t eaten.”

“You don’t know she’s a drug addict! Give her a break, Grace. Teddy loves her.”

“And Teddy is such fine judge of character, being such a fine character himself.”

Helen turned to face Grace full on. “Are you drunk, Grace? Because that’s the only excuse for your speaking this way.”

“Maybe I am drunk. But I’ll be damned if I allow some little piece of trash your druggie son’s dragged in to lay claim to any part of the Wheelwright legacy.”

Helen sat perfectly still. She had never been close to Grace, but
they had gotten along all right. They’d shared so much over the many years, cooking for their large intertwined families, organizing beach picnics, sailboat races, tennis matches. She’d never imagined Grace felt anything like this. She’d never seen Grace quite so vitriolic. In fact, she’d never seen Grace so passionate about anything.

From the corner of her eye, she saw the black gleam of a tuxedo, and then her husband was standing in front of them. He leaned down to his sister. “Grace, may I have this dance?”

Grace rose without another word. Helen just sat there, staring out at the dance floor, watching all the smiling, happy, well-fed people dancing by. Did anyone else have a family like hers? Were any other women forcing gaiety when inside they burned with grief? Did any other women feel separate from their own families? Helen’s parents had gobs of money, and Helen had had a sterling education. She played a decent game of tennis and could sail a boat well enough. She’d chaired committees and supervised events, and back in Boston she’d given all the cocktail parties Worth had wanted.

But in her heart, she was not a Wheelwright. So then—who was she?

The wildest thing she’d ever done was to suggest—merely suggest—that she open an art gallery on the island. When the idea was vetoed by the rest of the Wheelwrights, she let the matter drop. Helen had never wanted a career. All her life had been about her family—
her
family, Worth and their three children. She just hadn’t cared about being a Wheelwright. She didn’t care now. She wanted her three children to be happy and healthy. If she wished for anything else, it would be to have more presence in her children’s lives. She liked her children so much, even roguish Teddy. No matter what Grace said, Helen’s children were wonderful, amazing people, good people, and perhaps Teddy was facing more challenges than most, but he was still a good person, and she would stand by him and his choice of a wife, and to hell with the Wheelwrights!

Grace returned to their table, obviously avoiding Helen and seating herself next to Nona. Helen saw Worth slow-dancing with Harriet Hingham, an old friend of Worth’s and a maniac sailor who crewed for him anytime he asked.

Suddenly, there was a commotion. Nona gave a little cry and slumped sideways. Grace shrieked. People jumped up from nearby tables and rushed over. Nona’s body was limp. Worth pushed through the crowd and knelt at his mother’s side, taking her weight in his arms. Roger Parsons, their island doctor and a friend, pressed his way through the crowd.

“Come on, folks, give her air.” He leaned down to feel for Nona’s pulse at the side of her neck. He looked up. “Call nine-one-one.”

Eleven

C
uddled in dreams
like a china doll among soft cotton puffs, Nona became aware of a man bending near. She could sense the rumble of his deep voice, the force of his male presence, a large masculine hand on her crooked old chicken claw, and then his voice. She tried to open her eyes, but her lids were too heavy. Still, she could glimpse through her lashes, just a bit….

It was Bobby! Her heart quickened. Her darling beloved son—but no, it was Worth. Or was it Herb? It wasn’t Kellogg or one of her granddaughter’s husbands—this male was hers, belonged to her; she knew it in the way she knew a familiar scent.

“Nona?”

It was Oliver.

It was Oliver, and with that knowledge rushed a plethora of information: she was in her summer house, in her dear comfortable bed, and the cotton puffs were pillows, and it was day. She could somehow feel the light through the windows, and the windows were open; bless Glorious for keeping the windows open.

“Nona?” Oliver sat carefully on the side of her bed.

He smelled delicious. She had never approved of men using cologne, but Oliver did smell delicious, like a mixture of gin and pears.

She managed to open her eyes. “Oliver.” Her voice was a whisper.

“She’s awake!”

It was Grace shouting from the doorway, of course it was Grace, she had always wanted to be the first with any good news, as if she would somehow be given credit for it, a gold star somewhere on her cosmic lifetime behavior chart. Grace liked to be the first with bad news, too, for that matter.

The air of the room roiled as Grace rushed to the bed, elbowed Oliver out of the way, and bent over Nona.

“Nona! How are you?”

“I’m fine. Don’t fuss.”

“You fainted last night at your party.”

“Of course I did. I was overwhelmed and exhausted.”

“You gave us all such a fright!”

“I’m sorry, Grace. I didn’t mean to.”

“The doctor said you’d only fainted. We brought you home in an ambulance, and you’ve just slept eight hours straight!”

“Could I have some water, Grace? My throat is dry.”

“I’ll get it.” Grace flitted away.

Nona was still holding her grandson’s hand, and now she squeezed it. “Are you leaving?”

“Yes, Nona. We have to get back. Owen has a conference tomorrow morning that he has to attend. But we’ll be back in two weeks, for Family Meeting.”

“And for your wedding.”

“Yes. And for our wedding.” When Oliver smiled, he looked like an angel.

“Where’s Owen?”

“I asked him to wait downstairs. I didn’t think you’d want too many people crowding around you right now.”

“That’s thoughtful, Oliver, and you’re right. I’m tired, and not
feeling especially social at the moment. But kiss Owen goodbye for me, will you?”

“Of course.” Oliver bent down and kissed her cheek. “Goodbye, Nona.”

He was her first grandson. She could remember holding him when he was only a few hours old. She had trembled at the exquisite completeness of him, his little bald head, his squinting eyes, his birdlike rib cage. She could remember thinking how
smart
he was, and now she smiled at her memory. How could she have thought that a newborn was smart? And yet Oliver was, wise and intelligent and clever. She had known it when she first set eyes on him, and she knew it now.

“Goodbye, Oliver.” It was an effort to speak.

To her surprise, he grinned a wicked grin and shook his head. “Don’t even think it. You’re absolutely not going to die on me, Nona. We want you there for the ceremony. But you’re not going to die for years and years anyway, you know that.”

“What are you saying!” Grace swept up, water glass in hand. “Oliver! Don’t talk about death in front of Nona!”

“Right,” Oliver responded archly. “Because she’d never think of it on her own.”

The bed jiggled as Oliver stood up. “Goodbye, Aunt Grace.” He waved at Nona and left the room.

“He’s not as cute as he thinks he is.” Grace settled on the bed. “Can I help you sit up, Nona? So you can have a sip of water?”

“Thank you, Grace, I can do it alone.” But Nona was dismayed at how weak her arms were. It was only sheer pride and cussedness that fueled her as she struggled, managing to hoist herself just a few inches higher on her pillows. When Grace held out the water glass, Nona was horrified to discover that she didn’t have enough energy to say
Wait a moment.
She rested, just breathing. After a few moments, she was able to reach out for the glass, but her hand was shaking.

The water was cool, a slide of crystal elixir down her throat. She took another sip. And another. Oliver was an unusually handsome man, she thought. She had handsome children. But no one was as handsome as Herb.

“I’m going to sleep some more,” Nona whispered. Seeing the concern on her daughter’s face, she said, “Don’t worry, dear. It’s just sleep.”

1943

The steamer
Nobska rounded Brant Point on its voyage across Nantucket Sound to Woods Hole. Anne slipped her high heels off and tucked her feet up under her for warmth and comfort. Herb hadn’t warned her about the cobblestone streets and brick sidewalks of Nantucket, and the walking tour he’d taken her on of the quaint village center this morning had been hard on her feet. They ached. Her heart ached even more.

“So,” Herb said. He settled across from her on a bench, looking handsome and relaxed in his civvies. “What do you think?”

Anne gazed out the window at the long sandy beaches and gray shingled houses, the moderate waves breaking gently against the easy shore. “I think Nantucket’s beautiful.”

“And? You’re looking mighty pensive.” He reached into his breast pocket for his cigarette case, held it out to her, and, when she shook her head, took out a cigarette for himself.

Anne forced herself to be brave. To face him straight on. “Herb, I can’t marry you. At least not yet.”

He recoiled in surprise. “Why, Anne, what’s gotten into you?” His face changed. “My parents are
that
bad?”

“I didn’t say they were bad. I didn’t say anything about them, Herb. I’m not calling anyone names. But you can’t deny that they didn’t take to me.”

“Look.” Herb leaned forward, elbows on his knees, earnest in his speech. “I know my father’s a cold fish and my mother’s—well, she’s
formal.
That’s just the way they are.”

“Herb, your parents didn’t like me. Not even a little bit.”

“My sister liked you!”

“Yes, and I like Holly. But your parents—”

“Damn it, Anne, we’re not going to live with my parents!”

“Well, perhaps not, but you’re going to work in the bank, aren’t you? And won’t you want to spend every summer on Nantucket, in that big old house, sailing and all?” She had to look away. Every fiber of her being yearned to kiss him, touch him, be with him—that was all that mattered. But she couldn’t
let
it be all that mattered. “Besides, Herb, maybe they’re right. Maybe we’re rushing things. Well, we
are
rushing things. We’ve only known each other three weeks.”