SHADOW OF WHIMSY

by ANN HYMES

  “The soil is really good here,” he said. “You should be able to have a great garden, if you want. Are you a gardener?”

  “I do like to dig in the dirt.” She laughed. “I tend to go for perennials and easy care plants, however. And I hesitate to commit to a garden here. It would just create more for you to look after when I go.” She stopped for a moment. “I do want to talk with you about some maintenance arrangement, if you’re willing.”

  Rick looked up at her from his crouched position, and Theresa felt like a country girl, fresh from the field. The morning sun cast golden shadows on her dark hair, and her shirt and jeans were brushed with dirt.

  “Let’s sit down and figure out what you need. I’ve got to get going now, but I can come back when it’s convenient for you.”

  He carefully spread mulch around the last bush and instructed her to let the hose trickle on each one for ten minutes.

  “I guess we’ve got each other’s phone number,” he said, somewhat sheepishly. “We need to figure out a maintenance schedule that you’re comfortable with. If we keep selling you more plants, I’ll create business two ways!” He laughed as he climbed into the truck.

  Gypsy reluctantly got up as the engine started and the truck began to move.

  “Thanks again, Rick, for all your help,” Theresa said. “And thank your wife for helping me select the table. I really love it.”

  “You’re welcome, Theresa. I’m glad I could help. I hope you’ll like Chatham.” And as he started down the drive, he leaned out the window and called over his shoulder, with that broad grin, “She’s my sister.”

  Chapter Eight

  ALMOST A WEEK passed before Theresa thought again about whale watching. The breezy and bright mornings seduced her into staying at Whimsy Towers. She sat for hours under the umbrella at her new table, sometimes with her legs outstretched on an adjacent chair to get some sun and sometimes crisscrossed in Indian posture. She read and drew and listened to her thoughts. Gypsy wandered around the property, never going out of sight and checking often to see whether Theresa had moved; she didn’t want to miss the cue for a beach walk.

  Rick had not called to talk about a work schedule, and she was too embarrassed by their parting conversation to call him. But the grass was getting long, and either she needed to buy a lawn mower or she needed to make some arrangement. The prospect of serious yard work was not appealing, and she felt grateful that Kevin always cared for the lawn at home. She wondered for the first time whether he actually enjoyed it or did it simply from duty or habit. He fertilized, mulched, and mowed; she was free to design flower beds and plant what she wanted. Not exactly a fair division, if labor and pleasure were the ingredients of a yard.

  Theresa realized she’d been staying around the house in part because she was curious about Rick. She hoped he’d call. Was he really married after all? Or did he wear a wedding ring from a wife he’d lost and couldn’t quite let go of? She thought of her father and wondered whether he’d worn a ring while her mother was alive. When he died, the only jewelry she’d found in his house was a pair of gold cuff links with his engraved initials.

  Leaving the shady cool of the umbrella, Theresa went into the house and dialed the number taped to the phone. An answering machine came on.

  “Hello. Sorry not to be here to take your call. Please leave a message and a phone number after the beep.”

  Theresa took a deep breath and held it. She considered hanging up and then exhaled as she spoke.

  “Hi,” she began slowly, stretching out the vowel sound while she debated what to say next. “This message is for Rick. It’s Theresa calling. I just wondered when it might be convenient to discuss the work around my house we talked about when you were here.” She hesitated, as if he was going to respond. “I’m sure you are busy, but I’ll need hip boots before long to get through this grass.” She stopped, thinking she sounded a little too presumptuous and corny. “We could deal with this over the phone, and you wouldn’t need to come back.” Pausing again, trying to think of a businesslike way to wrap up this rambling, she continued, “I’m headed to Provincetown this afternoon. You have the number. Thanks. Bye.”

  She hung up the phone, wishing she could erase her words and start over. She was frustrated that the answering machine gave no hint of who else might hear her message. But most of all, she realized, she wanted to call back again, just to hear the sound of Rick’s voice on the tape.

  “Get a grip, Theresa,” she said to herself. “You’ve had too much salt air!”

  She closed her eyes, put her hands to her temples, and shook her head. The curls in her hair had tightened from the moist ocean breeze, and she felt them bounce with untamed freedom. She couldn’t remember whether she had brushed her hair that morning—or the morning before. Living alone with sun, sand, and water had reduced her to nature’s child, without worrying about makeup or tidy hair or even covering all the parts of her body that polite society required.

  Whimsy Towers had cast its spell on her; she felt no desire to be anywhere else. The absence of routine and responsibility, of time itself, allowed her to eat, sleep, wander, and read on her own schedule. It was luxury loaded with selfishness, she realized; but like the waves creeping up the beach, days repeated with gentle changes that soothed and charmed her. No storms had yet ravaged the shore.

  Grandmother had come to this place and never left. Leaving behind her husband and all the obligations of her social position, she had begun a new life. She had traded the South for the North and the security of old friendships for new ones. Grandmother did not sit still, Theresa decided. A dining room that seats a dozen people does not suggest a lonesome woman who ran away from the world.

  Theresa wondered whether she could ever leave Kevin, whether her life would be better or just different without him. What is the tipping point that leads to change? For Theodosia Hampton, there was Paris—and a pregnancy outside her marriage. Was she a rebel in hoop skirts, a southern belle reacting against what was expected of her? Perhaps there have always been women wandering the marital maze of searching and belonging.

  The 1920s had been filled with new opportunities for women. They were on the brink of social revolution that would rock the country’s bedrooms and bank accounts. Women wanted choices. Theresa pictured her grandmother before her marriage in the ’20s as a suffragette, carrying a sign demanding the right to vote, her chestnut hair piled properly on top of her head or perhaps streaming down her back in subtle defiance. Causes were good, Theresa mused. Causes give meat to everyday life, but dissatisfaction does not always build into a crusade. Personal disappointments and yearnings have a way of reaching their own limits, like the tension of an over inflated balloon. One last breath causes the explosion.

  Theresa realized that she and Kevin were tiptoeing around each other, afraid to cause that last breath. They lived together separately, balancing irritation with the desire for peace. It took energy to argue, and each avoided the confrontation that would lay irreconcilable differences on the table. Each still wanted to protect the other from the pain of separation and the uncertainty of life alone, but what is not acknowledged cannot be changed.

  Theresa looked down at the bright red polish on her toenails and rolled back on her heels to wiggle her toes. Kevin would see no sense in painting toenails. She had almost put the polish back on the store shelf when she bought it that week; she’d heard Kevin saying, “Who will see it anyway? It’ll just wear off inside your shoes.” But she had tightened her grip around the little bottle and said aloud, “But I like it!” An older woman looking at nail files on the same aisle had stopped and stared at her; and then, peering over the top of her glasses, she had said, “Yes, dear, I do, too.”

  Remembering the woman’s deadpan expression, Theresa now laughed as she slipped on her sandals and looked approvingly at her feet. “Score one point for all frivolous expenditures under five dollars!”


  She headed back outdoors to move the hose that was watering the lilac bushes. The water trickled across her feet and added more shimmer to the red toes. Gently putting the hose on the last bush, she sighed, “I just like it, Kevin. Some things don’t make sense, I guess; they just give silly pleasure.”

  With ten minutes’ soaking time ahead, Theresa went back into the house to change clothes for whale watching. She remembered the advice about the sweater and grabbed a warm hooded sweatshirt. Across the front, it said “Virginia is for Lovers,” a wildly successful ad campaign to spark interest in her home state. Her father had considered it a cheap shot, nonsensical and demeaning both to Virginians and to the advertising profession that he loved, but the slogan had caught on like wildfire. It was on bumper stickers and coffee mugs and even on children’s pencils and lunch boxes.

  Theresa had learned a lot from her father about sales promotion, advertising, and customer feelings. He had had a wonderful way with words and could create a mood or promote a product with perfectly chosen phrases and sounds. “Less is more,” he used to tell her. “Know when to say when—say it and leave it.” He had always appealed to the best in human nature, believing that advertising had a legitimate purpose in informing about a product or service, not tricking people into foolish decisions. But his style and motives had slowly been pushed aside by an industry in pursuit of big contracts and dollar-driven marketers. For him, advertising had lost its soul, and he himself had become a kind of aging product passing from the scene. With new revelations about her family, Theresa wished she could talk to her father about choices.

  Turning off the hose, she called to Gypsy, who clearly looked disappointed at the prospect of going inside. A walk on the beach provided sniffing and adventure, but she trotted obediently onto the porch and lay down.

  “Good girl,” Theresa said, extending half a dog biscuit as a peace offering. “I’ll see you later. Take care of things.”

  The road to Provincetown was well marked, although the logic of the Cape was confusing. Theresa was traveling north, yet the signs said she was headed to the “Lower Cape.” Provincetown sat on the northernmost edge of the Cape on her map, balancing on the fingertips of an arm extending out into the ocean, reaching for the Gulf of Maine. It looked to be the end of the road, the last stop before plunging into water or retracing one’s steps. A real outpost, she thought, as she tried to refold the map and slowed the car to observe the passing scenery. Pines thickened, and stretches of sand appeared where grass had struggled or given up. The air was cooler.

  Theresa imagined winter here, with harsh, wind-swept days frozen in place for weeks at a time. Tourism and fishing must come to a halt, she figured. What did people do during the dark winter months? Why would anyone choose to live where outdoor life stopped and nature laughed at man’s vulnerability? Perhaps the hardy folks of Provincetown curled up like hibernating bears and read books or whittled wood or made babies.

  Theresa felt the heat of the sun on her arm as it rested on the open window. The sun’s rays tingled her skin, causing the warm sensation to spread, sending sensuous shivers through her whole body. She suddenly wanted to let the sun make her skin hot all over, and she thought of Kevin’s touch and the desire she had felt for him in the front seat of her new car. In the early years they had made love often, just for the pleasure of it, and they had conceived a baby—but never seen it. She had miscarried the only opportunity that came. It was a cruel irony that she wrote books for other people’s children and would never read them to her own. Their lovemaking had waned with the inability to create a child, causing her whole life to become barren. She feared the death of desire.

  The narrow road passed through acres of scraggly pines, spaced as if to allow room to grow but stunted for lack of nutrition in their sandy footing. Sun and water were not enough for life to take root in soil that could not sustain it. The sand blew across the road, sometimes blurring the pavement edge and blending into a continuous Sahara. In this desolate landscape, Theresa felt very alone.

  A sign pointed to public access of the beach in a state park, and she turned the car toward the parking area. No one else seemed to be around, and she walked the little path to the ocean. Birds chirped wildly in a thicket of low bushes, voicing the urge for mating and spring nest building, thought Theresa. The birds and the bees. She unbuttoned her blouse and let the wind blow through her camisole. It was cool and made her skin feel prickly and taut.

  The beach was deserted. A few gawking seagulls paraded along the water, stepping quickly to avoid the creeping tide, poking their beaks into the shallow water for snacks. Theresa marveled at them, at their perseverance, at the repetition in their lives. Why couldn’t people be satisfied with that kind of sameness, she wondered; and then she shuddered at the realization that some people could.

  She stood staring at the ocean. Not a sign of man or boat. The sun was high in the sky at its noontime peak; the sand was dry and hot under her bare feet. She lay down on the quiet stretch of beach and bunched the sweatshirt under her head. Her blouse fell open, and she felt enveloped by warmth. The sand cradled her. Theresa slowly pulled her camisole up to feel the sun’s warm embrace. She closed her eyes, and her thoughts drifted off to those places of intimacy and passion that stir desire.

  The wind blew just over the top of her, not rustling the sand or chilling her exposed body. Asleep or awake were no longer clear in her mind. She felt a hand on the side of her leg, slowly moving across her. The fingers were slightly rough. Soft lips followed, gently kissing her warm body and causing her to reach and yearn for this affection. The hand slid downward, and she felt ready to lose herself in a swirl of attention and need.

  The hot sun clouded as a heavy weight came onto her, and she felt legs locking together in rhythmic motion. Her head had slipped off the sweatshirt, and her dark curls pressed into the sand. The two bodies began to roll with the ease of a downhill log, the sun flashing and fading. Sand stuck to glistening skin with each roll, and they held each other with determined purpose and hope. Birds chirped above the sound of moans and waves.

  “Hey, lady, are you okay? Lady!” came a voice from somewhere outside herself.

  Theresa opened her eyes and realized she was lying at the edge of the water. Her feet were already wet, her red toenails caked with sand. She sat up quickly, pulling down her rumpled camisole to cover herself. Her hair was full of sand, and she was a mess.

  “Are you okay?” the voice repeated.

  Turning to see the source of the question, she squinted in the sun and saw two men standing behind her, holding hands.

  “Oh, yes. I … I’m fine,” she stammered, feeling confused and trying to smooth her hair and straighten her clothes. She stood up awkwardly, wondering how she’d gotten so close to the water. Sand fell from her hair onto her shoulders like a shower of brown sugar; her face flushed at the remembrance of her dream.

  “I guess I just …” Her body still tingled, and her thought trailed off.

  “We were worried about you. From way down the beach we saw you rolling towards the water. When we got close, you didn’t move; and the tide is coming in.” The man paused, gripping his friend’s hand tighter. They were both slim and wore tiny bathing suits and silky shirts. “Not an efficient way to drown yourself.”

  Theresa couldn’t yet see humor in this situation, and she didn’t like leaving the unfinished dream. The young man looked relieved that she was not acting drunk or crazy. “And who’s Rick? Would you like for us to call him?”

  “Rick?” Theresa half whispered, as if saying the name aloud revealed a deep secret. “What do you mean?”

  “You kept saying his name. Is that your husband?”

  “No, no. I mean … He’s not … not exactly … ” She felt as though these two strangers had somehow crept into her fantasy, watching her with the faceless lover that she had called Rick. “But thank you for your concern. I’m a
ll right, really I am.”

  Theresa grabbed her sweatshirt and stumbled up the beach toward the thicket of bushes and the path that would provide refuge from this embarrassment. She didn’t look back at the two men still standing at the shoreline. The midday sun was high and piercing. Her body shivered as she got into the car, dropping sand everywhere.

  • • •

  Downtown Provincetown felt very different from Chatham. More fish and fewer diamonds, she thought, as she walked the narrow sidewalks lined with souvenir shops and cheap eats. Bars and nightlife beckoned more boldly than in Chatham, and the people out walking seemed younger and less formal. It was a relaxed and tolerant kind of beach town, with lifestyles that shared the sun and the ocean and didn’t bother about the differences.

  It was easy to find the piers, where fishing boats and whale-watching companies had small booths to sell tickets. Theresa scanned the choices and then walked out to the short line in front of the Dolphin Fleet sign. Ducks waddled among the tourists, as if awaiting their turn for a place on the boat. Children dragged sweaters along the rough planks of the pier, watching seagulls circle above them and reluctantly holding on to their parents’ hands.

  “One adult ticket, please,” she said to the already suntanned young woman in the booth.

  “For what day?” came the cheerful response.

  “For today,” she answered.

  “I’m afraid this afternoon’s trip is already sold out. Could you come back tomorrow? We have space on the morning and the afternoon trips tomorrow.”

  Theresa thought a moment. She hoped to hear back from Rick and wanted to be available for his call or return visit. Part of her wondered whether it was a good idea to ever see him again, but the rest of her knew she had to see him, to separate out the feelings of dream and reality. Could she be tempted to have an affair? She was unsettled in her marriage but had never before been attracted to another man. She felt guilty and eager, curious about the man behind that wonderful grin.