Fortune's Rocks

by Anita Shreve

  Ezra comes for her at the appointed time, and so anxious is she about her proposal that she finds it difficult in the extreme to make conversation with the fisherman. And as Ezra is by nature taciturn, the two pass the journey in near silence. When they enter the township of Rye, Olympia takes Philbrick’s card from her purse and gives Ezra the address. He seems at first puzzled, even though he appears to know where it is. After a series of turns onto roads that become narrower and narrower, finally reaching a lane that is barely wide enough for the carriage, Ezra stops before a small cottage.

  “This is it?” Olympia asks incredulously.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I do not think this can possibly be correct,” she says.

  She surveys the cottage, nestled into a landscape of thick honeysuckle with the sea not far in the distance. The cottage is weathered-shingled with two multipaned windows in the front and a large glassed-in sun parlor to the side. In the second story, if it is indeed a second story and not an attic, there are long, narrow windows that span the length of the house. It is a charming building, one that reminds her more of a gardener’s cottage than of the home of a man of finance. Surely, there has been some mistake.

  But then she sees Rufus Philbrick himself, in a light-blue linen suit, emerging from the sun parlor to greet her; and she can do nothing but climb down from the carriage and walk forward to take his hand.

  “Mr. Philbrick.”

  “Miss Biddeford.”

  By prior arrangement, Ezra has agreed to wait for her. She waves to the fisherman and then allows Philbrick to take her arm and lead her into the cottage.

  “You are very polite and so will not say anything, but you are shocked that this should be my home,” Philbrick says disarmingly.

  “Well, yes, rather,” she answers, smiling slightly. “I had imagined . . .”

  “Indeed. I am a man of few needs, apart from my vanities, and I discovered that I much prefer living in a small house to rattling around in a manse that is clearly too large for a single man. Also, I do not care for the constant invasion of privacy that servants must necessarily cause. Therefore, I decided, some years ago, to swap grandeur for freedom, and I must say I have never regretted the trade. My housekeeping skills are minimal, not to say nonexistent, however, and so I have a housekeeper who comes in twice a week and cooks for me. But I am rambling on and on when you are standing here in need of food and drink.”

  “No, no,” she protests as she gives him her parasol. “Please do not go to any trouble.”

  “Nonsense. I seldom have visitors, and Mrs. Marsh has made marionberry pie. We shall go into the parlor and take a small lunch of sandwiches and so forth and then the pie. Or would you rather sit out here?”

  Olympia gazes around her at the sunporch, the white beaded boards rising to the chair railing, the large windows in a bank above it. Some of the windows have been latched to the ceiling, so that breezes move through the screens. Around the sun parlor, someone has planted beach roses and flox, and to one side she can see the ocean. Through the open doorway of the cottage, she catches a glimpse of part of a kitchen. Unadorned. Yellow wood.

  “Here would be lovely,” she says.

  He asks her to sit in one of two wicker rockers he has drawn up to a small round table. With no discernible limp, he disappears into the kitchen. His foot must be better, she decides. She gets up and follows Philbrick into the kitchen. She asks if there is somewhere she might wash up.

  “My dear. Of course. Walk straight through there, and at the end of the hallway, you will find the lavatory.”

  Olympia does as she is instructed, admiring a small parlor that looks more like a man’s study than a sitting room. On an intricate walnut desk with many compartments are half a dozen silver frames of varying sizes with photographs of what must be family members, including several of handsome young men who might be Philbrick’s younger brothers. In another corner is a grand piano, too large for this modest room, and on it a sweet-scented bouquet of flox in a pink glass vase. Beside the piano, there is a small silk settee as well as an ornate captain’s chair, not unlike her father’s. A Persian rug covers the floor and even licks at the walls. It is a room filled with furniture that clearly used to belong to a larger house — pieces too cherished to abandon.

  Along the hallway, papered in tasteful green-and-black stripes, are several good oil paintings. She recognizes one by Childe Hassam, another by Claude Legny. At the end of the hallway are two rooms, and she guesses that the lavatory will be on the right. She realizes her mistake at once, however; she appears to have entered Philbrick’s bedroom. Its accoutrements are obviously masculine: the double bed, ill made; a cherry dresser, bare but for a man’s hairbrushes and humidor; another bureau of bleached pine on which a bowl and pitcher sit. She turns to leave, but something odd about the room causes her to linger a second longer than she might, and it is then that she notes the second set of boar-bristle brushes, the two identical paisley silk dressing gowns on hooks beside the bureau, the two sets of striped pajamas folded, one under each of the pillows of the double bed. Two matching stained-glass lamps sit on bedside tables, and next to each are large gold glass ashtrays with the remains of cigars in each. She moves closer to one of the tables, picks up a photograph in a marquetry frame. The young man has a beautiful face, seen in profile, a cloud of pale hair lit from behind. The face is smooth, unlined, the planes of the cheeks high and dramatic.

  Olympia is unnerved but not stunned, not stunned as she might once have been. And neither is she disturbed. But though she cannot know for certain, and though she cannot truly understand this knowledge, she cannot help but regard Philbrick as a somewhat different man than he was just moments ago. And as she thinks about the pictures of the other young men in silver frames on the walnut desk (perhaps not brothers after all), she remembers Philbrick’s statement about love, words she thought slightly odd at the time but now make perfect sense. I daresay I have some understanding of difficult love and its consequences, he said to her.

  Portraits, she thinks as she replaces the marquetry frame. We are all unfinished portraits.

  When she returns to the sun parlor, Philbrick comes through with plates of sandwiches and a pitcher of iced tea, condensation dripping from the glass. The sight of Philbrick in blue linen amidst these humble surroundings — and further, the image of Philbrick in his paisley silk dressing gown conversing with a young man standing at a bureau and knotting his tie — moves her, and for a moment she forgets her manners and cannot help but stare at the man. But then she is herself, the smell of the food awakening her, the vision of the gruff Philbrick bearing plates of sandwiches so astonishing that she wants to smile despite the gravity of her mission.

  She opens her mouth to speak, but he holds up a hand.

  “I know you have come on important business,” he says, “but it is my belief that one should never discuss serious matters on an empty stomach, as such a condition will lead only to light-headedness and a faint heart.”

  This is logic Olympia cannot argue with; and besides, she is unexpectedly ravenous. Later she will remember this small lunch as one of the half dozen best meals of her life, the simplicity of the food and its circumstances fueling a hunger that had lain dormant for weeks.

  For a time, they speak of fish paste, blue willow plates, the lamentable license in bathing attire, and the garish arcade in town. “You are a woman of appetite,” Philbrick says appreciatively when between them they have devoured nearly all of the sandwiches. “Now, you must have some of Mrs. Marsh’s incomparable marionberry pie.”

  He brings from the kitchen two white plates stained with dark juices. “It is a local berry,” Philbrick explains, handing her a dessert plate and fork. “A cross between a raspberry, a blueberry, and a cranberry.”

  Olympia tastes the pie, a claret droplet falling from her fork and onto her peach shirtwaist. Philbrick reaches forward to dab the spot with his napkin. For a time, they eat in companionable silence, the on
ly sounds the industrious buzzing of bees outside the sunporch window. “This is delicious,” Olympia says after a time. “Both sweet and tart. I did not know such a thing existed.”

  “A well-kept secret,” Philbrick says.

  Olympia sets down her glass. “Mr. Philbrick,” she begins. “I know you are a busy man, and I will not take too much of your time. Let me tell you why I have come.”

  “Please do. What is this grave matter?”

  “In April of 1900, as you know, I gave birth to a baby boy,” she says boldly, the blood pounding in her ears at her audacity. She has never spoken that sentence aloud to any person before. Philbrick, who has been leaning forward to put his glass on the table, slowly sits back in his chair.

  “The child was immediately taken from me,” she continues. “My father had made arrangements. I do not know to whom he gave the child. I know that he himself did not leave the house that day or the next day.”

  “I see,” he says.

  “When you came to my house, I did not know that the child had been brought to Ely Falls,” she says.

  Earlier, she made the decision to be forthcoming and honest with Philbrick, for she knows him to be a man who can detect falseness in a person. And if he detects this in her, she will fail in her campaign. “It was a shock for me to comprehend that the child had been placed with the Orphanage of Saint Andre. Shortly after your visit, I went to the orphanage to inquire about the boy.”

  “Did you indeed?” Philbrick asks, appraising her closely.

  “I spoke with a sister there.”

  “Mother Marguerite Pelletier, I suspect,” he says. “Small but formidable?”

  “Very.”

  “And you survived.”

  “Barely.”

  “Go on.”

  Olympia takes a breath. “The sister would tell me only that my son’s name is Pierre. And that he has been placed out.”

  “You did not know the name of the child before?”

  “No, I was never told. It was not a subject my father would discuss with me.”

  “No, perhaps not.” Rufus Philbrick dabs at the corners of his mouth with his napkin. “You want to know where your son is?” he asks.

  “Yes, yes, I do. I want to know his whole name. I want to know where he is, with whom he is living. I want to know if he is well.”

  “And?”

  She folds her hands in her lap. “I could lie to you,” she says, “and tell you that I wish merely to ascertain if the boy is well, but I do not want to be false with you if I am asking for your help. My hope is that one day I may have him to live with me.”

  Philbrick seems to take in the whole of her now, as if gauging her moral weight. He folds his fingers under his chin. “This is a very grave undertaking.”

  “Yes, I know that,” she says. “But I cannot say truthfully to you that I will not try to win him back. He was taken from me, stolen from me one might say, and I am heartsick at the loss. I have already lived with this for some time now. I believe I have paid a heavy price.”

  Philbrick is silent. He adjusts his tie and looks down at his large stomach, as if assessing its comfort. Then he leans forward, emphasizing the seriousness of what he is about to say.

  “I have always regarded you, Olympia Biddeford, as a responsible and gifted young woman. I confess I was shocked and saddened at the events which occurred four summers ago. It seemed so unlike you, I hardly knew what to think. I was distressed for your father, of course, who was my friend, and I was very concerned about Mrs. Haskell and the children. I am sorry to bring this up again, but these things must be said.”

  “Yes.”

  “Actually, I was not as shocked to hear of a child as I might have been. It is, sad to say, a not uncommon occurrence. Hence, the existence of the orphanage.”

  “Yes.”

  “But let me ask you this, Olympia. Are you prepared to take a young child, barely more than a baby, from his home? From the only mother he has ever known?”

  She has thought about this question and has rehearsed her response. “She is not the mother,” Olympia says quickly.

  Philbrick shakes his head. “You have wronged one family already. I am sorry to say this harshly to you, but there it is. Are you quite certain that you wish to do this again? Surely you do not expect a foster mother to give up her child so easily?”

  “He is not her child,” Olympia repeats.

  “I doubt very much the woman in question will see it that way.”

  “But what if the woman is not caring for the boy properly?” she asks. “What if she has many other children and thus little to go around? What if she is Franco? Indeed, she almost certainly is Franco to judge from the name of the boy. Do I want a child of mine to be raised in a culture he was not born to?”

  “But what if the mother is a loving, caring woman?” Philbrick asks. “Does station or income or culture matter in such a case? Do you not think of what is best for the child?”

  “I do,” Olympia cries. “I do. And I think I shall be best for the child. I have some means. I have no other responsibilities. I know that I can take good care of the boy. That I will be a good mother. I sincerely believe this.”

  Olympia hears the note of near hysteria in her voice and tries to compose herself. “Mr. Philbrick, I cannot argue my case, for it is an argument written in the blood of my body. It is a debate more heartfelt than reasoned.”

  Philbrick stands up then and walks to a window.

  “Am I to be eternally punished by not even being allowed to know the whereabouts of my own child?” Olympia asks. “Shall you not at the very least tell me whether he is well cared for and what his situation is? Am I to be denied that simple knowledge for the rest of my life?”

  Philbrick turns. “Let me think about these matters, Olympia. They are difficult.”

  “I know.”

  “I believe I can answer at least one question for you,” Philbrick says. “I cannot say for sure what name the child has now, but I do know he once had the name of Haskell.”

  “My father gave the name Haskell to the boy?” Olympia asks.

  “It was John who brought the child,” he says quietly.

  Olympia turns her head away and stares through the screen at an old lilac bush, now divested of its blooms. Philbrick leans toward her, but she waves him off.

  “No, I did not know,” she says. “I thought only that my father, having heard about the orphanage and reasoning that it was far from Boston, had made arrangements.”

  “And doubtless he did,” Philbrick says. “But he made them with Haskell.”

  She shakes her head. It is inconceivable to her that her father communicated with John Haskell during that terrible time before the birth. Inconceivable that Haskell would have given over his own child. But then, as she removes a handkerchief from her purse beside her, she remembers an argument she and Haskell once had in a carriage on the way back from the Rivard birth, and how he advocated life in an orphanage for a child over life with an unwed mother who was ill prepared for her lot.

  “You never heard from John himself then?” Philbrick asks, again quietly.

  “No.”

  Philbrick clears his throat. “I daresay the child is thriving,” he says. “Although it has been some time since I inquired. Actually, I am ashamed to say that it has been years. This is news to me that the child was placed out.”

  “How dare my father and Haskell conspire to take the child from me!” Olympia blurts out suddenly. In an instant, anger has replaced shock.

  “Oh, my dear,” Philbrick says. “Of course, you know they did it for you. I am certain they thought it best for you.”

  “They could not possibly know what was best for me,” Olympia says heatedly. She stands. “I must leave you now,” she says, only then remembering her manners and the lovely lunch. “Mr. Philbrick, thank you for a truly wonderful luncheon. And I do mean that sincerely. I envy you your house.”

  “Do you indeed?”

 
She studies him for some sign of how he lives in this modest cottage, some clue to his secret life; but he remains, in his blue linen, only a kindly, if blunt, man of finance. “You will not write my father?” she asks.

  “No,” he says, walking her to the door. “I can promise you that. This matter is between you and me.”

  They move out onto the front lawn. In the lane, Ezra is waiting.

  “I will try to discover the whereabouts of the child,” Philbrick says, “and then determine for myself if he is being well cared for before we will discuss this again. I do not like to be the arbiter of your future, but you have placed me in this position.”

  “I can think of nothing else to do.”

  “I shall write to you,” he says. And with that he bends and kisses Olympia at the side of her mouth, which is nearly as astonishing to her as the news she has so recently had to digest.

  AS SHE HAS been doing each of the eleven afternoons since she visited Rufus Philbrick’s cottage, Olympia sits looking out to sea, an occupation that consumes nearly all of her time. Sometimes she brings a book with her onto the porch, even occasionally her mending, but these, she has come to understand, are mere accessories to the true task at hand, which is no task at all, but rather the necessity merely to be patient, to sit and look out over the water and to wait for a letter.

  She watches a fisherman working from his boat not fifty feet off the rocks at the end of the lawn. A not unfamiliar sight, the boat bobs in the slight chop while the man hauls in wooden pots from the bottom of the ocean. The craft is a sloop, no, perhaps a schooner, laden with barrels of bait and catch — a charming sight, but testament only to a life more harsh than any Olympia has ever had to endure, even during those wretched weeks at the Hardy farm. Prior to meeting Ezra, Olympia had hardly ever given any thought to such men or to their families. She has passed by the rude fish shanties from which the lobstermen work dozens of times, seeing the shacks and the boats themselves and even the men aboard them as mere backdrop to the true theater of Fortune’s Rocks, the life of the privileged summer colony at its leisure; when of course it was much the other way around, these farmers of the sea being the time-honored inheritors of the native beach and its environs. And it strikes her again, as it has so often lately, how easy it is not to see what is actually there.