by ANN HYMES
And then she surprised herself by considering the possibility that Kevin might have an affair while she was out of town. Her imagination took off. He would not see it coming: An innocent invitation to have dinner with one of the secretaries after a long day in the office, a quick drink back at her apartment, her sympathetic ear to the problems of the day. Theresa pictured him sitting on a couch with a young woman in a short skirt, his arm relaxed along the top of the sofa, his brow furrowed from thoughts of work. She would melt into him, tentatively kissing him on the neck and cheek. Caught off guard, he might respond to her eagerness like a flattered and vulnerable man who ate the same dinner every night, hungry for variety but afraid of change.
Theresa knew Kevin was honest and honorable, but he was also a handsome and successful man. A wedding ring was no guarantee of fidelity. She had never seen him flirt with another woman, but their lovemaking had long since lost the thrill of forbidden pleasure. She yearned for that urgency of young love, not love as a condition of convenience frozen by responsibilities. Theresa was surprised that feelings of jealousy welled up, of not wanting to lose what was not quite enough. They knew each other’s mind and body, the coming together of which brought familiarity instead of excitement.
“Routine,” said Theresa aloud, “routine is the death of love.”
She looked into the next envelope, trying to push the thoughts of Kevin with another woman out of her mind. She squirmed uneasily. Could Kevin really be unfaithful? She wondered whether he ever thought about other women. She wondered whether she could ask him. And then she wondered whether she herself could be tempted. Unconsciously, she fanned her face with the envelope. Thoughts of fantasy and sexual desire startled and aroused her, and she felt a need she was not used to feeling. She looked out across the lawn and imagined making love with Kevin on the warm grass.
Looking down at the letter in her hand, Theresa pulled her emotions back to the present. The handwriting was the same as the previous letter, and perhaps there would be answers to the layers of mystery in her grandparents’ relationship.
November 19, 1929
Dear Theodosia,
Your letter pursues topics we had agreed not to discuss. For the sake of my position and the community, we must continue the appearance of a marriage. My reputation depends on it. There has never been divorce in the Hampton family, and I will not consider it.
We can have separate rooms. Be assured that my comforts are satisfied elsewhere, and there will be no demands on you. This is a time of great stress and upheaval, and it is necessary for you to do your part in the obligations of the moment. Sell the Cape Cod house for whatever price it will bring. Surely someone there can still afford to buy.
I have been looking for the jewelry that was my mother’s. Especially the sapphire and diamond flower brooch. Do you have it in Massachusetts?
Your husband, James
The closing words were the summary of the whole letter for Theresa: “Your husband,” your boss and master, the authority of rank and the audacity of power. Wives were not much more than possessions back then, she realized, but Theodosia was cut from a different bolt of fabric. And Whimsy Towers and the sapphire and diamond pin were safe in the hands of her granddaughter. Some plans were destined to fall off track.
The other papers were receipts for Oriental carpets, the real estate contract to purchase Whimsy Towers, and an appraisal of jewelry. The appraisal was dated December 11, 1929, and was typed on letterhead from a jeweler in Boston that read, “Specialists in Appraisal and Estate Jewelry.” Theresa scanned the short list and was jolted by the last entry: “exquisite diamond and sapphire brooch—value $11,000.00.” The details of stone arrangement, cut, and clarity followed, but Theresa was riveted by the value. Surely $11,000 could have bought quite a house in 1929—or settled a lot of bills! No wonder Grandfather was anxious to reel in the jewelry after Black Thursday.
Grandmother must have headed straight to Boston to find out for herself the value of her jewelry after receiving her husband’s letter. The pearls were valued at $4,000, the diamond and ruby ring, at $4,500; and another ring of all sapphires, which wasn’t in the box, was listed at $3,000. Theresa wondered what had happened to the sapphire ring, and then she shuddered to think that it might have gone to the bottom of the ocean as a gift on her mother’s hand.
Handwritten at an angle across the bottom of the page were two more entries: “Solitaire diamond engagement ring, $5,500,” and “wedding band with diamonds, $3,800.” There was no indication of who had made the additional appraisals or when they were made, but Theresa could imagine her grandmother pulling off her wedding rings for the last time, establishing their value, and then sealing them up with other memories of her faraway husband. What had finally transpired between them? How stubborn was this plucky Southern woman?
Theresa was finding more questions than answers at Whimsy Towers. She whistled for Gypsy and headed down to the beach, deciding not to stop at the boathouse to check on further activity. Players from the past were filling her thoughts, and those in the present would have to wait.
Theresa kicked off her shoes and left them in the tall grass where green met sandy brown on a long stretch of quiet beach. She unbuttoned her blouse and let the wind blow through her, feeling the hot rays of the afternoon sun against her skin. No one was around to see her, and she closed her eyes to savor the salt air and calm.
Gypsy ran ahead, occasionally veering into the water, her tail wagging with a horizontal chop through the rising waves. When she lost her footing, she bobbed with the ease of a cork, legs paddling furiously toward the land, until the next wave gently and effortlessly carried her to firm ground. Theresa threw a stick over the dog’s head into the ocean, and Gypsy instinctively charged forward to retrieve it.
“Not bad for a land dog.” She laughed. “Guess your water retrieval skills are built in after all!” The stick did not make it all the way back to Theresa, but she was running down the beach, calling over her shoulder to Gypsy, “Come on! I’ll race you!”
The two ran along the edge of the water, where the sand was firm and moist. They were used to jogging together in Virginia, but the regular route was sidewalks near their house. When Gypsy was younger, Theresa could go several miles with her; now it was a combination of jogging and walking for just the distance around the block.
Accepting changes in life was what Theresa was grappling with, she decided. Knowing when to make a change, or take a stand, or turn away and ignore the whole situation. She thought of her father’s last weeks. He had seemed troubled by something other than his illness but would not confide in her or in Kevin. He’d closed himself up in his house with his memories and his fears. He had seemed frail and exhausted. They had taken away his car keys and called or saw him every day. They had wondered how long he could stay alone in his house, but they’d avoided talking about it. The decision had eventually made itself.
Theresa thought about her grandmother’s last thirty years at Whimsy Towers, not really knowing what was going on or who was with her, but at peace with being in her own home, in the atmosphere she loved. The same dedicated nurse had spent all those years as a companion and caregiver. She must have raised her son here, thought Theresa, and she wondered how the three lives had intertwined and how old the boy was.
Theresa looked back at the house and saw how it rose from the land as the coastline pushed up from the water. It certainly stood as a beacon, if not a lighthouse, on the shore. The towers would be visible for quite a distance out into the ocean. The one on the right side, the red one, was above Grandmother’s bedroom, and Theresa could picture her slowly climbing the steps at bedtime to take in the night sounds and air from the little balcony. She could have watched the rolling ocean and cursed the wind as it blew angry waves in tumbling curls over her lost daughter. Or perhaps the memory was washed from her ravaged mind and had slipped away like a soft breeze.
; Farther down the beach, a neighbor’s house came into view, tucked back into towering wild rose bushes and partially hidden by a wooden fence with pointed posts. No patio furniture or beach chairs or other sign of activity was evident. The tide had chewed into the shore, shortening the beach area and bringing the house much closer to the water’s edge than Whimsy Towers. Theresa decided she would go that afternoon to buy an outdoor table with bright umbrella and some lawn chairs. She wanted to see life at Whimsy Towers.
Sandpipers and seagulls scurried in circles in front of her as Gypsy ran ahead. She thought of Grandmother’s Glory-of-the-Seas and imagined the thrill of looking down and seeing such a shell lying on the beach. It probably was found by divers in deep waters, but sometimes wondrous treasures do get laid in full view in life’s path.
For several hours Theresa wandered, sat, stood, and stared. The beach remained deserted. Her feet were cold from stepping into the still-icy chill of the water. Her winter-white toes pushed into the sand like anxious explorers, sinking and then pushing on. She wondered when it would be warm enough to swim comfortably, and she decided her Virginia-bred beach feet could use some waking up with red polish.
Enough daylight remained for another trip into town, and Theresa took the road that seemed to run parallel to the shore. A small Lawn and Garden Center with dozens of potted ferns along the roadside caught her attention, and she steered Red Rover into the parking lot, searching for signs of garden furniture. At the back fence she spotted a group of round tables, each with an umbrella coming up from the center. The open umbrella tops looked like giant-sized hard candy, with colorful stripes of pink and yellow, their edges bumping into each other. They were huddled together as if expecting to be sold as a unit, a dazzling tent over a summertime party. Theresa got out and began to look them over.
“Hello there,” someone called from the jungle of ferns. “How can I help you today?”
Theresa turned to see a woman about her age, wearing blue jeans and a cable-knit sweater that hadn’t seen its true color in some years. A long braid, tied with twine, flopped down her back.
“Hi. I’m looking for a table and chairs. Looks like you have quite a few.”
“Yes, we’ve been stocking up for the season. The rush begins in another ten days or so. You’ve come at just the right time. What kind are you looking for?”
“Well, I guess I don’t really know,” said Theresa, realizing she had never bought outdoor furniture. Their porch at home had all wicker, and it did not get wet unless a peculiar wind swept rain through the screen on the northwest side. “What do you recommend?”
“Covered or uncovered?”
“Uncovered, I think. I want to put it right out in the middle of the lawn.”
“I’d stay away from cushions then. Some are designed not to absorb rain, but they do get a little flat. And mind the color you choose because of fading in bright light. Chemicals can only fight Mother Nature so far!”
The woman took long strides toward the huddled tables, pulling them apart to make room for Theresa to walk around. They were clean and new; the umbrellas smelled faintly of dye and packaging. Fresh beginnings.
“I think I’ll take this one,” said Theresa, pointing to a white table with yellow and white umbrella. “Yellow is sunshine’s color. There should be no fighting!”
Both women laughed, and Theresa helped pull the table out from the pack.
“Hey, Rick! We need a little help here,” yelled the woman to a man piling bags of mulch or dirt. He stood up and looked in their direction but did not move. The two women had already separated out the table.
“Do you need delivery?” she asked Theresa. “No charge if you’re local.”
“I guess I do,” answered Theresa, liking the sound of being “local.” “I don’t think a table and four chairs would quite fit in my Jeep.”
“We can bring it first thing in the morning. Where do you live?”
Theresa gave her the address and directions. As she turned to leave, she noticed Rick loading the heavy bags into an old Dodge Ram truck. The tailgate was down, and she could see rakes, shovels, a bird bath base, and a jumble of bricks. The truck was parked next to a shiny new Dodge truck, with extended cab and green lettering on the side that read, “Lawn and Garden Center, Our Family Serving Yours.”
The silvery ram’s head jutting out of the hood of the old truck caught her eye, and she called out, “Great truck. I like your ram.”
As soon as she’d said it, she felt foolish and pointed awkwardly to the hood ornament on the older truck.
“Oh, yeah, thanks. At first I didn’t like it, but now I’ve gotten kinda used to it. Like a bowsprit that points the way. Maybe someday it will be a collector’s item.” He laughed.
Theresa fantasized what the ram would look like on the front of Red Rover. Cars and trucks were becoming so ordinary, she thought, having no room for frivolous ornaments with the new aerodynamic designs. She had seen customized cars whose owners had incorporated incongruous elements, creating vehicles that were true only to their makers’ imaginations. Thank goodness for dreamers, she thought. They’re the ones who really change the course of things. Most people just march along the side of the road.
Rick’s shirt was dirty in front from lifting the bags close to his chest. He was tall and rugged, already suntanned so early in the season. He stood waiting before starting back to his work, as if to see whether Theresa would continue. She liked these two people and lingered for a moment, deciding whether to look around for some plants. She was glad to have met a couple her age.
“Do you sell lilacs?” she asked.
“Yes, we do,” he replied, pulling off a glove and coming toward her. “This dwarf variety is particularly good. It’s called ‘Miss Kim.’” He rubbed several leaves between his fingers, as if enjoying the feel of the smooth leaf. It was too early for blossoms from the tiny buds. “Plant some near a porch or open window, and you’ll feel absolutely intoxicated with sweet fragrance. Guaranteed.”
Theresa laughed. “I’m not sure I want to lose control of myself under horticultural influence! But I’ll try five or six. Let’s say six. Will they fit on the truck with the table?”
“Oh, sure. No problem. Do you need peat moss and mulch?”
“Yes, I think I’d better be prepared. I don’t know about the soil here.”
“That should do it,” he said. “And we can just add it to your ticket. Anything else?”
“No, thanks. I’d better not get too far ahead of myself!”
Theresa turned to go back into the little office to revise her purchase charge. At the door she passed a rack of brochures with local information about sightseeing, shops, and restaurants. She stopped to look. A lecture series on coastal ecology, a seafood festival, and several pamphlets about whale watching particularly interested her.
“Can you see whales in Chatham?” she asked the girl at the counter, who looked like an almost-teenage version of the woman outside.
“Not really. The whale watching boats operate mostly out of Provincetown. That’s the best place to go. And the closest. Are you here for long?”
“Just a few weeks, I think.”
“Well, there are trips around Nantucket and the Vineyard that are excellent for whale watching as well as seeing the area. You need to plan a whole day, however, not just a couple of hours. Have you ever seen a real whale?”
“No, this is all new to me, and I want to take it all in.”
“You’ll love it. It’s amazing. It’s almost unbelievable the first time you see this enormous animal come to the surface like a rising mountain. The Dolphin Fleet has scientists onboard that tell you all about the whales and dolphins and birds. They really want to protect these creatures and educate people about them. It’s so neat! Take a warm sweater when you go, though; it gets colder out on the water.”
“Thanks for the t
ip. How far is Provincetown?” asked Theresa.
“From here, less than an hour. It’s a … an interesting community. Lots of galleries and fishing boats and good restaurants.”
“I think you’ve just planned my day for tomorrow. Thanks,” said Theresa, tucking the brochures into her purse.
“You’re welcome. Have a great time. But don’t forget about your delivery in the morning. The bushes will wait for you to plant them; just don’t let them dry out.”
“I promise,” she replied, as she stepped back outside and headed for her car. The couple were busy stacking bags together, laughing and talking. Theresa envied them. Rick stopped and waved, and she waved back with a smile. Chatham was a neighborly kind of place, she decided.
“See you tomorrow,” he called, giving a playful pull to the long brown braid that swished across his arm.
Chapter Seven
THE POTHOLES in the driveway to Whimsy Towers had not changed in two days, but Theresa drove around them with the assurance of knowing what lay ahead. She remembered her first glimpse of the house, with its bold pink trim and odd towers, and her approach this time held a mixture of eagerness and ease. There was no curiosity. There is no surprise in coming home to the place that holds your heart, and she felt a sense of welcome and belonging.
Evening was slowly dropping its misty veil, and sounds of crickets and mournful bird calls signaled the end of day. Theresa stopped the car in the thicket of trees and opened all the windows. She put her head back and closed her eyes. Squirrels scampered up and down tree trunks, and dry leaves on the ground crunched with small animals hurrying home for safety and rest. Night would soon take over.
And with the daylight yielding to darkness, Theresa wanted to get back to the house. She was anxious to resolve the puzzle of the lights in the towers. How could she turn them on? Were they still connected? It would be easier to see their effect at night, and she was determined to see Whimsy Towers in full glow.
