by Nancy Thayer
“Oh,” Sonny said. “Well.” He let out a long, gusty sigh.
That sigh seemed so laden with import, Beth’s heart nearly stopped. Sonny was married, Beth suddenly realized. Or dying.
“Look,” Sonny said. “I’m not seeing another woman. I don’t want to see another woman, Beth.” He put his beer on the table, took her wineglass from her and set it next to the beer, then held her cold hands in his. “I love you, Beth.”
Her mouth fell open. “You do?”
He nodded.
Her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Sonny. I love you, too!”
“I want to marry you, Beth. That’s my question: do you think we could have a life together?”
Amazed, Beth could only nod.
Sonny pulled her to him and kissed her on the mouth. His mouth was soft, warm, and beer-flavored. She wrapped her arms around him. He picked her up and carried her into her bedroom—she felt like a heroine in the romances she loved! Sonny laid her on the bed, gently brought his body down on hers, and kissed the hollow of her neck. All the voices in her head were stilled as her body melded with his.
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Afterward, she lay against him, her face buried against his chest, breathing in the pungent smell of sweat and sex. Her legs were wrapped over his torso. She could feel his moist penis against her thigh.
“Sometimes,” she murmured, “when we’re making love, it seems more than physical to me, Sonny. It seems spiritual. Oh, it’s ineffable.”
Sonny was silent. Then, to her surprise, he said, “Sit up.”
“What?”
Gently he pried her off him and pushed her up to a sitting position. He sat, too, and turned toward her. “Listen,” he said, but for a long moment he didn’t speak. He took a deep breath. “I don’t know what ineffular means.”
She grinned.
His face darkened like thunder. “Great. You’re laughing at me.”
Horrified, she insisted, “No, Sonny, God, no! I’m not laughing at you. I’m just smiling because you’re so cute.”
“No,” he said stubbornly, “you’re laughing at me.” His face softened. “I’ve never felt this way about a woman before, Beth. I’ve only told one other woman in all my life that I loved her. I know I’m not good with words, and we might as well face that, as well as the fact that you’re smarter than I am. I don’t want our differences to come between us when we marry.”
“I’m not—” Beth began to protest.
“You’re book smarter than I am. I didn’t go to college.”
“That doesn’t matter!”
“Really?” He held her with a steady gaze. “You’re earning your doctorate. I’m a carpenter. Think about it.”
She put her hands on his face, shivering a little as the bristles of his beard scraped her palms. “Oh, Sonny, I love you so much.”
“Yeah, but forget the sex—”
“Like I could!”
“I’m serious. We’re so different. Wait, Beth, hear me out. I’ve been thinking about this a lot. Like, will I bore you when you get your Ph.D.? Will your friends look down on me?” Before she could speak, he continued, “But then I think, when we have children, it might be a good thing. We’d have all the bases covered, you could help with their schoolwork, and I could teach them sports.”
She was nearly swooning with love. She’d always been afraid to trust a handsome man, worried that, in reverse fairy-tale fashion, his façade would hide a toad inside. Now Sonny’s earnestness, his vulnerability, were amazing and precious to her. It was like opening a rocky geode to find gemstones glittering inside.
“We like thrillers,” she offered weakly. Her scholarly skills kicked in. She counted on her fingers, finding enormous relief in quantifying the indescribable. “We like the same kind of food. We share the same political views. We both go to church, but not as often as we should. We’re both morning people. We hate spending huge amounts of money at expensive restaurants when we could share a pizza and a video. On the other hand, I love ballet and opera.”
Sonny thought a moment. “I went to see the Nutcracker when I was in fifth grade.” His face fell. “But I can’t see myself going to ballets or operas very often.”
Beth nodded. “Well, I can’t imagine I’ll ever get excited about football or hockey.”
Sonny took her hands in his. “What about baseball?”
She’d watched the Red Sox on television with Sonny. “Well,” she confessed, “I think Danny Ramirez is kind of cute.”
Sonny burst out laughing. “It’s Manny!”
Beth smiled back. She knew it was Manny. But her little error might make him feel better about not knowing what ineffable meant.
Good grief! She didn’t know she could be devious! She buried her head in his chest, hiding a triumphant grin.
Sonny drew her against him in a bear hug. “I guess it’s time for you to meet my family.”
“Oh?”
“You want to know where I am Sundays or nights when I’m not with you? I’m over at their house, helping Dad with the yard. Mom fixes a great Sunday dinner. We watch baseball or football, whatever. My younger brother, Mark, and my sister, Suze, still live at home. I mean, we’re a close family. They’re really nice. They’re just kind of overwhelming, in a noisy kind of way. I guess I was enjoying having you all to myself for a while. But it’s time you met them, definitely.”
Beth bit her lip. “Do you think they’ll like me?”
“God, Beth,” Sonny said. “How could anyone not like you?”
3
She was going to be late!
Carolyn Sperry gunned her black Mercedes off the highway onto a two-lane country road with so many bends and curves she had to brake frequently. Finally she was forced to drop her speed to a sluggish forty miles an hour. She looked at the clock on the dash, then at her watch. That damned personnel meeting had run over its allotted time.
Cursing, she almost drove past the handsome stone gates she’d been seeking. She slammed on her brakes, jerked the steering wheel to the right, and squealed through the entrance to The Haven.
Mums and impatiens bobbed from the windows of the gatehouse. Green lawns dipped and flowed gracefully from the long stone driveway into the distance. The main building, an impressive stone castle, was brightened with flower beds. Pots of hibiscus bordered the massive front door, and the cars parked near the house were all sleek and costly. Good. It looked expensive. She liked expensive. Anyway, she could afford anything, would gladly pay anything, if they could help.
But could they help?
She hurried up the steps. The stone lions reclining majestically on either side wore wreaths of fresh flowers. She frowned, trying to judge what that touch of whimsy implied about this place.
Inside, she crossed the marble foyer and gave her name to the receptionist, who immediately showed her through tall double doors into a handsome lounge. Another point for The Haven. Carolyn hated being kept waiting.
The grandeur of the white marble fireplace and the floor-to-ceiling, leaded-glass casement windows was softened by rugs, sofas, chairs, and lamps in shades of rose and cream and emerald.
A door at the far end of the room opened, and a striking woman entered. Slender, attractive, she wore violet silk slacks and a lavender top with a swirling scarf.
“Hello,” she said, holding out her hand. “I’m Shirley Gold, director of The Haven. You must be Carolyn Sperry.” Shirley gestured toward a sofa and took one across from her. “Someone will be bringing tea in a moment. Apple spice, no caffeine, but delicious for this time of year. It’s a gorgeous day, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Nervousness made Carolyn’s voice crack. “Yes, it is.”
“Well, now,” Shirley said. “Let’s talk about what The Haven can do for you. You read our brochure?”
“Yes.”
“Great.” Shirley slipped a purple pen from a notebook and turned to a fresh, lavender page. “Do you mind if I take notes? It will help me organi
ze a path for you. I assure you, everything you tell me will be held in the strictest confidence.”
Carolyn laughed. “In my case, that may not be necessary. I feel like everyone in the world knows about my problems.” She twisted her hands together, realized what she was doing, and laid them in her lap.
“Really? Why is that?”
“Because the Sperry name is so well-known.”
“Oh, yes.” Shirley nodded, tapping her pen against her mouth. “I believe I have seen several pictures of you in the Globe and the Herald. You and your husband are patrons of the arts—”
“True,” Carolyn interrupted, “but what matters is my company. The Sperry Paper Company.”
“Is it in Sperry, Massachusetts?” Shirley inquired, naming a town thirty miles north.
Carolyn was taken aback. “The town was named after the company! Are you new to the area?”
“No, I’m not.” Shirley responded quietly with a smile. “Perhaps this offers some assurance that not everyone in the Boston area knows about your private concerns.”
A tap sounded on the door.
“Come in,” Shirley called, and a woman entered, bearing a silver tray set with tea and gingersnaps. “Thanks, Sally,” Shirley said as the woman set it on the table.
The next few moments were occupied with serving tea.
“Thank you.” Carolyn accepted a cup. “I didn’t mean to be abrupt. I admit I’m on the defensive these days. Sperry has become just a flea on the back of the giant paper companies, and I’m sensitive to the loss of its importance.”
“That’s perfectly understandable—”
“Sperry is holding its own. We’ve cut our inventory to focus on our signature product: elegant, personal, watermarked stationery. We still employ over three hundred people, and except for a slight dip a couple of years ago, our orders are actually on the rise, but we have to be vigilant. And I have a double whammy of responsibility.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
“My great-grandmother Geraldine Sperry started the company in 1918.” Carolyn leaned forward, her words spilling out in a rush. “She was widowed, with two little girls, and yet she managed to found a successful enterprise from her own interests, talents, and initiative. Geraldine Sperry intended for the company to pass from mother to daughter. But my father’s mother gave birth to only one child, a boy. My father. Aubrey Sperry. I’m an only child. I’ll inherit the company. I’m the vice president now. And—I’m pregnant.”
“Congratulations.”
“Yes, thank heavens! I’m thirty-seven years old! All the Sperry employees, as well as everyone in the town, and anyone belonging to a certain stratum of Boston society, have been waiting for me to produce this child.”
“And you?”
“I’ve always dreamed of having a daughter someday.” Carolyn placed her hands gently on her protruding belly. Her emotions brought a tremble to her voice and tears to her eyes. “We’ve had the amnio. It’s going to be a girl!”
“I’m so glad. How far along are you?” Shirley asked.
“Just two months.” Carolyn caressed her belly, and as she met Shirley’s eyes, she felt her face soften with a love and vulnerability she was powerless to hide. “I’m so happy! It took me a long time to get pregnant. I was afraid I’d waited too long.”
“This is your first child?”
“Yes. Hank and I were married five years ago.” Carolyn laughed abruptly. “I’m still surprised any man married me. Most men can’t deal with a woman being more successful or wealthy than they are.”
“And Hank can?”
“Oh, absolutely. He’s a Wellingell. His family is much wealthier than mine. The Wellingells run a private environmental conservation foundation. His mother and sisters are so strong-minded they make me look wimpy. Hank travels a lot, evaluating fragile or endangered ecosystems, helping groups set up preservation, advising on government policies.”
“So he has nothing to do with the paper company?”
“Nothing. Which is good. I have to work with my father. That’s enough stress.”
“Tell me about your father,” Shirley suggested.
Carolyn’s mouth tightened. “My father is handsome, charming, and well liked by everyone at the company.”
“And your relationship with him . . . ?”
Carolyn shrugged. “I love him, of course. He loves me. We work together well enough. But we’ve never been close, except perhaps when I was ten, when my mother died.”
“Your mother died when you were ten? How terrible for you.”
“It was.” Carolyn looked away.
“What happened?”
Carolyn lifted her chin defiantly. “Heart attack. At thirty-seven.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Anyway, my father’s seventy. He’s slowing down. Really, he should retire.”
“Is that a possibility?”
“Oh, absolutely. It’s high time he enjoyed life, kicked back, played golf, traveled, whatever.”
“But then you’d have to have more responsibility for the company.”
“That’s what Geraldine Sperry intended.”
Shirley made some notes in her book. When she returned her attention to Carolyn, she said, “Why don’t you tell me why you’ve come to The Haven?”
Carolyn closed her eyes. “I’ve been warned that my high blood pressure puts my pregnancy at a risk.”
“You’re seeing a doctor, of course.”
“Dr. Lewis. He’s the very best ob-gyn in the country.”
“What does he suggest?”
“I’m going on medication. But he wants me to try some lifestyle changes as well. He suggested I come here.” Carolyn rubbed her forehead. “He thinks I work too hard. I’ve told him that I live to work. He said if I want to continue this pregnancy, I’m going to have to change that, at least for the next few months.”
Shirley asked, “What do you normally do to relax?”
Carolyn snorted. “I’ve got too much to do to relax.”
To Carolyn’s surprise, Shirley came across to sit on the sofa next to her. Softly, she touched Carolyn’s arm. “You’re under a lot of stress. But you’re a healthy young woman, and intelligent enough to understand there are things you can do to help yourself. Perhaps it would help if you think of relaxation as part of your work.”
The sheer kindness in Shirley’s tone melted the imaginary rod that kept Carolyn’s backbone stiff. Longing swept through her—she wanted to slump against the other woman. She wanted Shirley Gold to wrap her arms around her, stroke her hair, and say, “There, there. Everything will be all right.”
She wanted her mother.
Tears stung her eyes. She sniffed them back.
Briskly, Shirley continued, “I’m going to work up a program for you. Massage twice a week. A consultation with our nutritionist and our aromatherapist. An hour a week with our counselor—”
“Do you think I’m crazy?”
“Of course you’re not. But a counselor can help you find ways to deal with stress. Ways to calm yourself, and to believe in yourself. Also . . .” Shirley checked a list, then continued, “I’d like you to join our Friday-night quilting bee.”
“But I can’t quilt!”
“Perhaps it’s time you learned. Quilting is a wonderful activity, after all. It’s calming. And the group conversation is usually pretty fascinating. I think quilting bees were probably what women did a hundred years ago instead of seeing psychiatrists. If more women belonged to them today, fewer women would be on antidepressants.”
“No quilting,” Carolyn said firmly.
“Fine.” Shirley picked up her lavender notebook and flipped through it to a calendar. “I’d like to have you start right away. I think you should give yourself a health day. Could you come in Thursday, from noon until five?”
“Are you kidding? Remember, I’ve got a company to run.”
“Perhaps it’s time you learned to delegate.”
“I know how
to delegate! But no one can do my work as well as I can.”
“How do you know? Why don’t you let someone try?”
“I’ve told you. My father is—”
“Older, yes, but can’t he carry the load for a while? He is your father, after all. He wants you to have a healthy baby.”
“Why, yes, I guess he does.”
“Tell him about your health concerns. He’ll want you to take care of yourself. Remember: it’s part of your duty, your job, to take care of yourself, so you can provide the company with its next president.”
Carolyn mulled this over for a moment. Her father could probably keep Sperry muddling along.
“All right. I’ll talk to him. I’ll try to fit my hours into whatever schedule you come up with for me.”
“Wonderful. I’m sure The Haven will be good for you.”
——————————
Thirty miles west of Boston, on the banks of the rushing Rock River, lay the long brick buildings of the Sperry Paper Company. Because sulfuric acid was used in the manufacture of paper, producing an unpleasant, rotten-egg-like smell, the town of Sperry had grown up a few miles east, on the other side of a rocky hill that blocked most of the stench. On the other side of the valley, looking down on Sperry, sprawled the Sperry family home, an enormous Victorian mansion.
Carolyn had lived in the family home all her life, as had her father and his mother and grandmother. Her father lived here still. It was another family tradition that worked, because the house was so large a Wagnerian opera could be performed within its walls and no one would notice. Carolyn’s father lived in the south wing; Carolyn and her husband, Hank, in the north. The west wing, with its great ballroom, billiard room, and conservatory, was seldom used. Carolyn and her father met in the east wing if they decided to have dinner together, which was often, since Hank traveled so much. Carolyn and Aubrey each had kitchens in their own quarters, but they also had a wonderful housekeeper, Mrs. B., who had been with them forever.
Today her father’s Jag wasn’t in the drive, and Hank would be gone overnight. Carolyn entered her house through the side door, chatted with the housekeeper for a few moments to be sure everything was under control, then went down the long hall and into the living room. Stretching out on a sofa, she was ready to click on the evening news when she heard a car come up the drive. Two car doors slammed.
