The Summer Wives

by Beatriz Williams

  “That’s not true,” I said again. “It wasn’t a few kicks. It was everything. All summer—why do you think I kept delivering those stupid messages? Why do you think—didn’t you see it?”

  His hand dropped back to his side. He was shaking his head. “What are you saying? What are you saying, Miranda?”

  “I wanted to stop, it hurt so much, but I couldn’t stop—just to see you—not until I promised myself—I promised God—well, something.”

  Joseph’s face was soft with wonder, with disbelief.

  I drew in breath. “But Isobel—”

  “Forget Isobel,” Joseph said. “Just say it to me plain, straight out, so I can understand you.”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “I want you to tell me you’re as crazy about me as I am about you. That’s what I want.”

  “That depends on how crazy you are, I guess.”

  “I am—I am—at this exact second, Miranda? I am pretty much goddamned certifiable.”

  “Well, I’m crazier than that, believe me,” I said, and Joseph moved forward then, made a whoop of jubilation as he put his arms around my waist and hoisted me up in the air, so my hands were on his shoulders and his nose crashed into the hollow of my neck.

  “Saturday, the eleventh of August,” he said. “She loves me. She loves me.”

  6.

  That hour on the cliffs, I remember it still. The innocence of it, the clean newness. The way we tumbled to the grass and kissed and laughed and kissed again, seized by a kind of giddy, childlike wonder I have never felt again. Not a single article of clothing came out of place, I mean maybe my dress rode up a little, but that was all. That was enough. Just to put my arms around his neck, just to lie there in the prickling grass and touch my mouth to Joseph’s mouth, just to know the curve of his shoulder and the angle of his elbow and the weight of his knee, was enough. Or maybe it wasn’t. In the middle of some delicate, heady maneuver, in which the tip of Joseph’s tongue found the tip of mine, and my hips arched upward in reflex, he broke off and rolled onto his back.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Nothing. Just catching my breath.”

  “I didn’t mean to—”

  “It’s not you, believe me. Give me a minute, that’s all.”

  I rolled on my side and stared across the plane of his shirt to the long grass beyond, and it seemed I could see every blade, every seed and speck and insect, I perceived every detail of the world around me. How many ages ago lived the fog that had existed that morning, in the vague Before of my life! Now I lived in the After—O brave new world, that has such people in ’t!—and my lungs breathed with Joseph’s breath, and my limbs warmed with Joseph’s warmth.

  “It’s real, isn’t it?” I said. “We’re not dreaming this?”

  “I don’t know. Feels like a dream to me. I mean, I’ve been dreaming it all summer, so what are the odds you’re really there?”

  “Well, what are the odds we’re both having the same dream?”

  “For God’s sake, I’m just a fellow hauling lobsters out of Long Island Sound. You’re Miranda Schuyler, you’re a Foxcroft girl, Hugh Fisher’s stepdaughter, you’re like—you’re like one of the stars in the sky.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m anything but that.”

  “It’s true. You hang there twinkling at me, and I can’t even reach you.”

  “All right, then you’re the earth. You’re everything solid and real and strong.”

  Joseph laughed. “Jesus Mary. Listen to us, like a couple of fools. Stars and earth. How about we’re just a boy and a girl, lying around an island somewhere, and the boy wants to kiss the girl again, but he’s afraid, if he turns around, she won’t be there after all.”

  I reached for his opposite shoulder and pulled him on his side to face me. “You see? Here I am.”

  “There you are.”

  “From now on, whenever you turn around, I’ll be here.”

  “Until the end of summer, anyway. A few weeks, not even that.”

  “Is that all?”

  “I don’t know about you, but I’m due in Providence for convocation on the fourth of September.”

  There was a tuft of grass in his hair. I lifted my hand and picked it away. “I want it back. All that time we had! I wish we could just call all those weeks back and live them again.”

  “It wouldn’t have gone any differently. Just be glad for what we’ve got.”

  “You’ll be fishing all morning.”

  “You could come with me. And we have the afternoons. Evenings. At least until the happy couple returns from Europe.” He took my hand and drew it away from his hair. Climbed to his feet, pulling me with him. “Come on. I’ll walk you home and make you a sandwich.”

  “I can make sandwiches.”

  “Not as good as mine, I’ll bet.”

  He plucked the grass out of my hair and my dress and helped me with my cardigan, and we walked along the deserted road, hand in hand, while the sun dropped behind us. As the road curved back away from the cliffs, the Greyfriars drive appeared, lined by rhododendrons; the distant house; the meadow bordered by a low stone wall, painstakingly maintained to a state of picturesque dilapidation. We hadn’t said a word since rising, and we didn’t speak now as we turned down the gravel lane. On each side of the driveway, the rhododendrons had grown in thick with stiff, waxy new leaves, obscuring the meadow and the sea cliffs, the facade of Greyfriars itself. I felt as if a great weight had descended on my chest, constricting my breath. Joseph kicked the gravel and made a noise of frustration, like he, too, was trying to lift something heavy and couldn’t quite get his weight under it.

  There was a particular enormous rhododendron, ancient, right on the corner, that might have shielded a small car if someone had been so bold as to drive inside the shelter of its branches. I reached out as we passed and ripped away a single leaf, an act of terrible desecration, I don’t know why. I crushed it in my fingers and dropped it to the ground just before we rounded the bend and Greyfriars slid into view like an ocean liner.

  Ahead of us, the house sat primly, shingled in gray cedar and trimmed in white, windows sparkling, looking so much statelier than it did from the other side. The front of the place was formal, tidy, symmetrical as could be, but from this decorous facade Greyfriars rambled every which way, trying to catch the sunshine and the sea views from every possible angle, and I never could quite get over the difference between the two sides, front and back. Either way you looked, it was beautiful, you couldn’t deny its beauty and its size, its class and its pedigree, no more like my old, damp cottage at Foxcroft than a child’s clay sculpture compared to the Winged Victory.

  It’s your home now, Isobel had told me once, as we skidded around this exact curve one night, returning from some party at the Club. She was sentimental with cocktails and cigarettes, and when we came to a stop just outside the garage, spilling happily onto the grass, she leaned down and laid her head on my lap and gazed up at the stars. She looked so tender and happy, I hadn’t wanted to bruise her with the knowledge that this wasn’t my home, didn’t feel like my home, was instead like some elegant private hotel in which I had taken up residence for the summer. And Isobel herself was like some friend you meet in a hotel like that, also staying for the summer, with whom you strike up a passionate friendship, all the more fierce for its unlikelihood, its mismatch, because you know that it’s not going to last. You’re going to leave at the beginning of September in a flurry of promises to write and meet up over Christmas, and though you may both believe this at the time, you also know it’s simply not going to happen. You’re not really friends. You’re not really sisters. You’re just pretending. No, it’s more than that. You’re not pretending, you’re acting in a play, in a film, and for that space of time, it’s perfectly real. And there’s your trouble, right there.

  I turned to Joseph just as he turned to me, and the suddenness of his earnest face almost made me forget what I meant to say to
him.

  “Isobel,” I gasped.

  “What about her?”

  “What are we going to tell her?”

  “I guess we’ll just tell her the truth.”

  “She’ll hate me for it.”

  Joseph shook his head. “You’re wrong about that, Miranda. You’ll see. I’m telling you, you’re worried about the wrong Fisher.”

  “You mean my stepfather? Why should he care?”

  “He’ll care plenty, believe me.”

  “It’s none of his business. He’s not my father, is he?”

  “Miranda,” said Joseph, and I looked away, toward the garage. He touched my temple with his thumb, smoothing the skin, and went on, “I’ll just have to bite the bullet, I guess. Walk up to him, hat in hand, like every other fellow who’s fallen in love with a girl he shouldn’t, and explain myself.”

  “You don’t need to do that. It’s not the Middle Ages.”

  “What else am I going to do? I’m not going to sneak around with you. And if he sees me hanging about, he’s going to want to know why.”

  “Well, they won’t be back from Europe until Labor Day. Isobel, on the other hand—”

  “Never mind Isobel. Right now there’s nobody to worry about, not a thing to think about except you and me.” He tugged my hand. “Let’s enjoy it, all right? Every last minute, starting now. Come on, we’ll pack some sandwiches and I’ll take you sailing. There’s this beach I know where nobody goes. Build a nice fire and stay out all night with the stars. How does that sound?”

  “Like heaven.”

  So we ran down the lawn toward the kitchen door, but before we reached it Joseph just stopped and let go of my hand. Stood there arrested on the grass, staring toward the water. “What’s the matter?” I said, but I really didn’t need to ask. I just followed his gaze down the slope of the lawn to the dock, where a long, elegant yacht lay against the side, taking up all the space there was. The Fisher King.

  7.

  There was something different about my mother after her honeymoon, though I couldn’t quite put my finger on the change at first. She looked as beautiful as ever, maybe more beautiful, but it wasn’t that. I remember how she came out on the terrace and called my name, just as I turned in shock from the sight of the yacht to absorb the meaning of Joseph’s stark face.

  “Mama,” I whispered, and then, turning in the direction of her voice, “Mama!”

  I ran across the lawn and up the stone steps to the terrace. We met right in the middle, hugging and laughing, and yet there was some slight reserve, some bit of Mama held back from me. I pulled back and she pulled back, and I thought she looked older—not in weeks and days, the clock hours passed since we saw each other last, but in experience. There was something worldly and mysterious in the shape of her eyes and the width of her smile, like she had finally grown up.

  Before I could say anything, another voice called my name. I turned to the open French doors just as Hugh Fisher stepped across the threshold in a suit of impeccable summer wool. His pale hair instantly caught the flash of the setting sun. He smiled and held out his arms to me. “My new daughter,” he said, and of course I went to him and embraced him too. Expressed my surprise, my delight at their early return. Hugh looked at my mother and she looked at him, and a thought passed between them.

  “We just couldn’t stay away any longer,” Hugh said, and his head turned toward the lawn, where Joseph still stood with his hands folded behind his back. “Joseph. Nice to see you.”

  There was some faint question at the end of the sentence, a bit of upturn. I said quickly, “Isobel’s off on the mainland, so I went out fishing with the Vargases today.”

  “Oh, what fun!” said my mother.

  “That’s good of you,” said Hugh to Joseph. “I’m sure our girl was in good hands.”

  “The best,” I said. “We caught forty-two lobsters.”

  “My goodness! Whatever did you do with them?” asked my mother.

  “We sold them in the market, of course. That’s how they make a living.”

  “Oh, of course. How silly of me. Would you like to stay for dinner?” she said to Joseph.

  “That’s kind of you, Mrs. Fisher, but I’d better be going home now.”

  I stepped forward. “Oh, wait!”

  My stepfather put his hand on my shoulder, and his grip surprised me with its strength. “Joseph’s got to be up early, sweetheart. Maybe another time.”

  “Yes,” Joseph said. “Maybe another time.”

  I started to say something, but Mr. Fisher’s hand tightened on my shoulder, and Joseph gave me a quick, hard stare that wanted to tell me something, only not just yet. “I had a wonderful time today, Joseph,” I said instead. “Thank you.”

  “Anytime.” He made a small salute and turned to go.

  “Give my regards to your parents,” said Mr. Fisher.

  8.

  Here’s a funny thing: in all our weeks here on the Island, from the wedding at the beginning of June until now, the eleventh of August, we hadn’t eaten any meals in that grand, beautiful dining room overlooking the cliffs. We’d taken every single dinner at the Club or at somebody’s house, and so I hesitated when we entered it, Mr. Fisher and my mother and I, wondering where to sit and also, in a larger sense, where on earth I was. Where did it come from, this acre of white tablecloth, this crystal and silver, these beautiful plates of delicate, paper-thin porcelain edged in gold? And Esther in her best, crisp uniform like it was a hundred years ago.

  Mr. Fisher didn’t hesitate. He was accustomed to such things, I guess. He pulled out Mama’s chair and then mine, which turned out to be right in the center of the table between the two of them, but not within reach of either. And Mama sat like a princess, all dignity and decorum, selecting the proper fork and directing Esther with small, discreet, elegant gestures. A perfume wafted occasionally from her skin, when Esther’s movements created the right direction of draft, and I didn’t recognize the scent.

  “I’ve sent out the yacht to fetch Isobel,” Hugh said. “She’ll be home first thing tomorrow, I hope.”

  “Wonderful,” said Mama. “I can’t wait to see her again. I expect you’ve had a wonderful time getting to know each other, haven’t you?”

  “Wonderful,” I said.

  “You did say Providence, didn’t you?” said Hugh.

  “Yes. The Biltmore, they told me. I have the telephone number.”

  Mama said, “But why didn’t you go to Providence, sweetpea? Don’t you want to buy some new things? I’m sure Hugh wouldn’t mind if you bought a few things. Would you, darling?”

  “Buy all you want,” said my stepfather.

  “You’ll need new clothes for college, after all,” said Mama.

  “You should have gone. Why didn’t you go?”

  Esther came around with a large dish, from which Mama served herself. I watched the deft motions of her hands and said, “I wanted to stay here, that’s all.”

  Hugh, who was gazing intently at my face, turned to the window. “So I see.”

  We ate, I don’t remember what. I had a small view of the water from my seat, and I kept glancing that way, in hopes of something. Some sign of Joseph, I guess, some sign that I hadn’t dreamt what happened that afternoon, that I was still living in the brave new After of my life. I’d changed into a dinner dress, and my bare arms were so lean and sunburned that Mama remarked about it.

  “You’re looking awfully tanned yourself, Mama,” I said. “I guess Europe agrees with you.”

  She gazed across the table at her husband, and it’s a look I haven’t forgotten, because I’d never before seen that expression on her face, and I never did again. “Hugh agrees with me,” she said gently, and I remember thinking that she could have said Marriage. Marriage agrees with me. But she said his name instead, because she meant one specific husband. Her new husband, Hugh.

  He set down his fork and looked back at my mother the way you might look at the sun, newly risen. “
Darling, shall we tell her?”

  “I thought we were going to wait until after dinner.”

  “I can’t wait any longer. I feel as if I’ve been waiting my life for this. I’m about to burst with joy.”

  “Oh, Hugh.”

  I reached for my wine and swallowed it. My fingers went a little numb. “Waiting for what?” I said.

  “Dearest,” my mother said, turning to me, stretching her long arm toward my hand, and I saw it then in the glow of her face, the new fullness in her cheeks, so she didn’t need to go on. But of course she did. “Dearest Miranda. It’s the most wonderful news. You’re going to be a sister. We’re going to be a real family at last.”

  9.

  I waited until just before eleven o’clock, when the light in the master bedroom winked out. I had discovered, you see, that I could see the corner of their room from mine, such was the rambling construction of the Greyfriars rear facade. And because sometimes people turn out the light and then realize they’ve forgotten something—a book or a glass of water or whatever it is, and they rise again with a muttered oath—I waited a few more minutes, just to be sure. I listened for any voices, for any telltale vibrations, although of course they were really too far away from me, all the way at the other end of the house. Still, I waited, until the silence reached such a pitch as to satisfy me. Then I threw back my comforter and stole out the door and down the back stairs to the kitchen, the same way I had gone that first morning when I ran down to meet Joseph and Popeye on the dock.

  Throughout the summer, Isobel had bemused me by her refusal to use the telephone to communicate with Joseph. Why bother with all that cloak and dagger business, with sending messengers and flashing lights and such nonsense, when you could just pick up a telephone receiver and speak directly? Now I knew. I considered the possibility of being overheard, of Mama or Hugh or the housemaid picking up the extension, of Mrs. Vargas or Mr. Vargas answering the telephone in the lighthouse instead of Joseph. Impossible even to think of it. Instead I ran directly down to the boathouse and found the flashlight and made for the dock, but as I passed by the handsome Lutyens bench at the edge of the seawall, I heard my name in a voice that seemed a little amused.