‘Good boy! Here’s your reward.’ He took the bone as softly from her hand as if his mouth was made from the same velvet as the book room’s sofa and drapes, and she watched him transport it sedately to his rug in front of the woodstove. Such a gentle giant, the bull mastiff, although she admitted people might be misled when given a display of those stalactite teeth. They were at work in earnest now and the heavy crunching scattered into the stillness, relaxing the tension of the void. The rain still slid down the windows, but now in trickles of silent tears. The wind had worn itself out an hour ago like a sleep-deprived child.
French bread and cheese would go well with the soup. There was also fruit in the bowl on the butcher block island. Gwen kept meals simple these days. Counted among her blessings was that Plover’s Grocery Store on Main Street continued to deliver, as it had done for more than half a century. All she had to do was make her list, pick up the phone, and await Mr Plover’s kindly voice in her ear. A chip off the old block was Gerry Plover, like father and grandfather before him. A Mainer through and through. In the view of many in these parts there were few higher compliments. Though not among the original settlers, the Plovers went back a long way in Sea Glass.
Turning off the gas burner under the soup, Gwen glanced up at the wall clock. Three o’clock. Madge Baldwin had said she would have the car back by two. She opened the refrigerator to stare at the Camembert and white Cheddar on the plastic-wrapped cheeseboard, as if expecting them to rearrange themselves on the platter.
Could Madge have returned the car while she was upstairs dealing with getting him into bed and settled down? But surely Madge wouldn’t have done so without handing back the keys, as had been agreed? Suddenly the silence that had seemed a gift throbbed with dreadful possibility. Barely aware of the dull pain in her chest, Gwen opened the door to the garage. White walls. Concrete floor. No car. Pressing a hand on the kitchen countertop to steady herself, she felt her breathing slowly ease.
Knowing she would not regain her equilibrium without checking that he was indeed safely in his bed, she went slowly up the stairs, holding onto the rail – something she rarely did – and opened the door to the room with its hunter green walls and colonial four-poster bed. The small glow from the brass bedside lamp revealed the pale profile below the gray hair. She yearned to move closer, to smooth that hair, once so golden, to press a kiss upon the exposed cheek. But she would not risk waking him. Retreating back into the hallway, she stood motionless, hands clasped, praying out of ingrained response, but without conviction.
At the foot of the stairs she found Jumbo waiting for her. He never followed her into that bedroom these days. ‘Come, my dear.’ She returned him to the kitchen to be reunited with his bone and went back into the book room. All was well. Quiet time. What to do with it? In the aftermath of fear came fatigue, verging on exhaustion, but she doubted she could settle to doze. Was this finally the moment to write the letter submitting her resignation as chair of the garden club? She could not keep putting it off. She’d missed too many meetings in the past six months. It wasn’t fair to continue abdicating her responsibilities to Madge, who had enough of her own as Treasurer along with being the primary organizer of event planning.
Resigning as secretary of the historical society had been a wrench, though not as sad as informing the Sea Glass Choral Ensemble that she could no longer continue as their regular pianist. She played well, even without her abilities approaching a sublime gift. That had not mattered to her. She had never yearned to be among the chosen few. Gardens, more than music, had always been her source of inspiration, joy and solace.
Gwen sat down at the secretary desk and reached for the box of stationery. Keep it short and simple. Her sister Rowena had considered sentimentality vulgar. She laid a piece of monogrammed cream vellum on the leather-bound blotter and picked up the fountain pen that had been her parents’ gift on her sixteenth birthday. At the thought of her mother and father, long gone now, she was back in the garden she had first loved. The one behind the colonial brick house in Concord, Massachusetts, so treasured a part of her childhood and adolescence. A garden ever waiting with balmy breath for summer. Honeysuckle and privet hedges, daisy and buttercup sprinkled lawns, the sound of the brook beyond the back gate murmuring its secrets to the weeping willows, the piccolo sweetness of birdsong . . . and family.
Images bright as poster paint schoolroom pictures emerged. Her father providing rides in a wheelbarrow when she and her sister were small. Rowena, the older by four years, with her exuberance and vivid coloring. Her pretty, golden-haired mother weeding the rock garden, looking round from kneeling position to smile at them. The old gardener leaning on his spade as he stood gazing up at the big apple tree in full white and pink blossom and proclaiming it to be a sight for sore eyes. Those endless summer days, echoing back the laughter. And always and forever the dew-drenched scent of roses.
Clearest of all, talking with her mother in that garden one afternoon in the week before she and Charles Norris were to be married under an arbor on the far lawn. Was she remembering or dreaming? That other Gwen was eighteen, Charles twenty-seven. She had known him her entire life, had woven secret dreams from adolescence onward of his declaring his love, never seriously believing, up until six months before, that he would ever see her in a romantic light. Not when there was vibrant, beautiful and stylish Rowena to overshadow her. Charles’ parents and theirs were close friends, had been from before their own marriages. Her father could not have been happier about the engagement. But that afternoon her mother, who had always seemed to think the world of Charles, gently voiced her concern that Gwen was too young.
‘Life, my darling,’ she had said, ‘hasn’t yet laid a finger on you. I regret not speaking out before. I should have done so when you told me Charles had proposed and you’d accepted him, but I hated the idea of doing anything to diminish that lovely glow.’
Gwen heard her in shocked disbelief. ‘You’ve been talking to Great-Aunt Harriet. She made a crack about going from the schoolroom to the altar.’
‘She’s outspoken, but not someone to influence me.’
‘I can’t believe this is how you’ve been feeling. Does Daddy agree with you?’
‘No, dearest, he unequivocally believes that the two of you are perfect for each other.’
‘And Rowena? Has her enthusiasm been a pretense?’
‘She loves you.’
Gwen was too distressed to reflect on the lack of answer in this response, but she was to play it over in her mind countless times in the years ahead. Now she set aside the pen, got up wearily from the desk and settled herself in her fireside chair, only vaguely aware of Jumbo’s return.
‘It’s not too late,’ her mother had continued gently. ‘Why not give yourself a little more time? What the girl thinks is right for her may not be what the woman wants or needs. I know you love him. How could you not? He’s good-looking, personable, ambitious, and he’s been part of our lives for a long time.’
‘Sounds like faint praise,’ replied Gwen resentfully.
Her mother did not answer that. Their blue eyes, so very alike, met. ‘I know you love him, but has there been one moment of breathless, heart-stopping rapture?’
This was startling. Her serene mother with her pearls and pastel clothing choices talking of rapture! It lifted the cloud, making ridiculous what had been not only unsettling but hurtful.
Gwen said patiently that of course there had been such moments. Many of them. And it was true. There had been the thrilling one when Charles had placed the sapphire and diamond ring on her finger, the heady delight of being showered with envious congratulations, the fairy-tale vision of her reflection in the bridal shop mirror. Ivory silk, heirloom lace veil and orange blossom. Of course she loved Charles. Deeply. She could not ask for more from life than to be his wife. That would never change.
A week later she had glided in a glow of happiness, hand on her father’s arm, to join her bridegroom under the arbor. A vio
lin was playing Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring. The pure, sweet accompaniment of song came from the birds. From this day forward . . . forsaking all others . . . till death do us part . . . She had made that vow as a girl imagining herself in the starring role of a play. Time, that ruthless archivist of all things young and foolish, would make that clear to her eight years later in another garden – the one behind the house in Boston that Charles had inherited from his grandmother shortly after their marriage.
It was in that Eden with its gnarled pear trees and goldfish pond that her mother’s fears were realized. At twenty-six Gwen was the mother of a beloved seven-year-old son, who from the age of three had gravitated to the piano. Happy? Yes, she was happy. Who but an ingrate would not have been? Admittedly Charles traveled increasingly with his job. The necessity of conducting audits all over the country was the lot of a successful CPA. But he was a fond and considerate husband, insisting that they hire a full-time housekeeper so that Gwen would not have to fend for herself during his absences. One concern was his occasional irritation with Sonny for groundless reasons. She had hoped for another child, had expected to quickly become pregnant again after having Sonny so soon. It hadn’t happened. And she had come to think that was perhaps for the best, that Charles wasn’t cut out for a bigger family. His was of a reserved nature. Gwen had been surprised a week beforehand when he had drawn her to him and told her that where she had once been pretty she was now beautiful. It had been a prelude to presenting her with a diamond necklace. This from the man who usually told her to buy herself whatever she wanted at Christmas or for her birthday because he had no imagination when it came to gifts.
It was around eleven on a Saturday morning in June. The idyllic sort of June she remembered from that childhood garden, when her perfectly painted, rose-scented world existed under cloudless blue skies. For the first time in nearly a month Charles was home for the weekend. There was also an added treat in store. Her parents and Rowena, newly returned from a three-month vacation in New Zealand, were arriving in time for dinner and to spend the night. Gwen was kneeling by the rockery, hoping to get in another half hour of weeding before it was time to go and get ready for lunch. Charles would not appreciate her appearing at the dining room table in her old, faded blue cotton dress. Footsteps approached. She looked up, shading her eyes with her hand, to see a dark-haired man coming down the flagstone path towards her. Charles was so fair. She would sometimes laughingly tell him that her ideal man had always been tall, blond and handsome. Despite his characteristic reserve they did have their teasing interchanges. The unknown man stopped a few feet from her. Not as tall as Charles, nor as good-looking. As their eyes met it seemed important to make note of that distinction. He smiled at her, and the air was instantly charged with something she did not recognize.
‘Hello.’ His voice was deep. In keeping with eyes of so dark a brown they could have been black. ‘So you’re Gwen. Rowena insisted you and your husband wouldn’t object to springing me on you as a surprise, in addition to an earlier-than-expected arrival. I’m not convinced your mother thought it a good idea.’
She came slowly to her feet, very much aware of her grubby hands, knowing she should say something welcoming . . . warm, light-hearted words. The fast beating of her heart prevented them.
‘Rowena sent me out here to introduce myself. I’m her fiancé, John Garwood.’
‘Oh, how lovely! What happy news!’ The world steadied. The heady feeling of shimmering anticipation was explained. Subconsciously she had hoped for this revelation. Suspected . . . guessed. That had to be it. Over the years she had longed for Rowena to finally find love. Instead, her admired, restless sister drifted from one fleeting affair to the next. It had begun to seem as though she didn’t want more than that, but along had come this man with the intent, dark gaze. Typical of Rowena to spring a surprise. It would have appealed to her mischievous side to send him out alone to break the news of their engagement, and John Garwood would love her for those flashes of insouciance. Love her with a fierce tenderness. His was a face capable of intense passion and . . . aching longing to have that desire fully returned. Gwen froze. What thoughts! Charles would be shocked. She could equally imagine Rowena’s wry amusement. Hadn’t she once laughingly exclaimed, ‘Darling Gwen, for a married woman you do remain something of a repressed Victorian virgin.’ She had resented her sister’s comment at the time, but now Rowena had been blindingly proved true. Gwen had never in the giddiest moments of girlhood delight experienced such thoughts about Charles – even when in his arms.
‘I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,’ John Garwood said without inflection, as though he was thinking of something else. And yet . . . there was that smile warming his mouth. It was, she thought, a wonderful mouth, neither thin nor full-lipped. A lover’s mouth. Oh, God, she begged, I have to stop this or I’ll end up like some nineteenth-century vicar’s spinster writing obscene anonymous letters to respectable members of the parish.
‘I’m so happy for you both. You’re very blessed to be marrying my sister and I’m sure she feels herself equally fortunate,’ she heard herself say.
‘Thank you.’ He held the hand she extended for the briefest moment. Did he release it so quickly because he sensed the impact his touch had upon her, every nerve-ending exposed? She could feel her color rise. That he did see. The awareness was in his eyes. She hoped he blamed her confusion of feeling on embarrassment. ‘Now your hand is grimy too.’ She added in a rush, ‘I should wear gloves when gardening, Charles is always telling me so, but I love the feel of the earth. It’s so quietly alive.’
‘Tranquility.’ He stood looking down at his spread hands. She expected him to produce a handkerchief and wipe them off, then offer it to her, but he continued to stand motionless for several moments longer.
‘It’s what I look for in a garden,’ she said, praying the sensation of being swept into a whirlpool would subside. ‘Yes,’ he said, upon raising those eyes to hers again. Quizzical now, above the strong nose and gently curving mouth. ‘Green-shaded loveliness; Rowena told me I would find it here. Shall we be getting back to the house?’
She was afraid he would offer her his arm on the walk up the path. But he maintained sufficient space between them so that they did not once brush against each other, and he addressed his words ahead of them. Their eyes did not meet again. He was a civil engineer, had been working in New Zealand when he met Rowena in Auckland at the home of a mutual acquaintance. That had been two months ago, and they had returned to the States together when his contract ended the previous week.
Moments later they were in the room Charles had named the library, even though its shelves were filled with his personal memorabilia rather than books. Gwen embraced her sister, wishing her a lifetime of happiness, and admiring her truly exquisite engagement ring; the stunningly simple setting, the diamond like a great drop of rain water. Rowena’s sultry lashed eyes went from Gwen to John Garwood as if seeking the answer to a question, one that shut out everyone else in the room. Something passed over her face and was gone, leaving her lovely mouth curving into a thoughtful smile. There was nothing Gwen could read in her future brother-in-law’s face. It was closed to her. She recognized out of some feminine instinct that he wanted it so. He knew . . . He was a man to know that he had aroused in her a physical and emotional response that was terribly, wickedly wrong. How could he not regard her as tawdry? A disloyal sister and a shame to her husband. Humiliation flamed as she turned to her parents, not thinking clearly. She only vaguely noticed the look of strain beneath her mother’s smile and that her father seemed to have aged.
Coming downstairs after making herself presentable, Gwen had a moment alone with her mother in the hall. Taking her hand, she asked, ‘Are you and Daddy all right? You are happy about the engagement?’
‘Very much so. John seems an extremely nice man. And by now Rowena should know what she wants.’
‘And there’s nothing else wrong?’ The question was automati
c. Gwen wished Charles would allow Sonny to join the family in the dining room, rather than eating in the kitchen with Mrs Broom the housekeeper. She had stressed that it was a special occasion, and her parents never wanted to miss a moment with their grandson, but he had remained adamant. Sonny could be included for afternoon tea, when it was to be hoped he wouldn’t spill something or drop a plate.
‘I’ve been a little concerned about your father.’
‘Why, Mom?’
‘My dear, I expect I’m worrying unnecessarily. It’s just that he hasn’t seemed himself recently, but maybe that shouldn’t come as a surprise. I used to wonder if he’d have a difficult time entering retirement. He’s always had so much energy and he’s only fifty-five. Some friends warned me that their husbands went through a mild depression at first. Probably all he needs is an energetic vacation, somewhere rugged where I can’t wear high heels and will be forced to eat yak.’
‘The Himalayas?’ Tears blurred Gwen’s eyes. She yearned to confide, to press her face against that forever shoulder. ‘Darling Mom, you continue to be such an inspiration.’
‘I shall keep a diary about my selfless heroism and make a great deal of money publishing it. And your father will call me a shameless hussy.’
Gwen hesitated. ‘That isn’t the problem? I mean . . . Dad isn’t worried about finances? Something gone wrong with your investments? Because if that’s the case you know Charles and I will do anything we can to help.’
‘Bless you, dearest, but no, nothing like that. Can you imagine your circumspect father gambling wildly on the stock exchange? We’re talking about the man who wages an inner battle every time he’s asked to buy a raffle ticket.’
Sea Glass Summer Page 4
