by Luanne Rice
“I can’t go,” Clare said when the time came to leave. She stood in my kitchen, leaning against the refrigerator. Pem sat at the table, wearing her winter coat, lipstick, and amethyst earrings. Clare’s eyes focused on her, and tears ran down her cheeks. I held my sister tight.
“That’s all right,” I said into her ear. “You don’t have to.” I could afford to be generous; I had Nick with me.
Nick entered the room. He wore a business suit; he had just shined his wingtips. Perhaps he thought his respectable appearance would work in Pem’s favor, make the staff realize she had responsible people looking out for her. “Come on, Pem,” he said, holding out his hand. She ignored it.
“Pem, don’t leave like this,” Clare sobbed. “You know we love you. This is terrible for us—”
“Clare,” Nick warned. We had agreed we would stay calm in front of Pem; we hadn’t wanted to upset her even more. But Pem seemed not to notice Clare’s tears. She walked toward the door, head held high. She did not shuffle. She moved as though transported by air currents.
“Take my arm and call me Charlie,” Nick said, slipping his arm through mine.
As we drove away I watched Pem, to see whether she would cast farewell glances at Honora’s house or her own, at the bay, at the stone gateposts, but she did not. She stared straight ahead. The drive to Steamboat Landing passed quickly, with Nick trying to distract me with talk about John Avery and a tender offer for shares of some movie studio. It must have worked, because what I remember about that ride is not Pem alone in the backseat but the names of the actors who were filming pictures at that studio. Nick pulled into the home’s circular drive.
“I want to take her in alone,” I said.
“Georgie, no—” Nick said.
“I’m going to,” I said, and I meant it.
Pem held my hand as we walked through the front door. A smiling nurse greeted us, shook our hands. She took Pem’s suitcase, just like a good hostess, and led us to Pem’s room. The windows overlooked a garden with chrysanthemums and a sundial. Pem’s roommate, an old lady with jet-black hair, dozed on top of her bedcovers.
“Oh, it’s a shame Leslie is asleep. You’re going to get along fine,” the nurse said. Then she left me and Pem to get settled.
We looked at each other. Pem’s arms hung at her sides, and she seemed more stooped than usual. She shook her head slightly. Pem was eighty-six; this could be her home for the next fourteen years. I had to leave. I couldn’t stand being there for another minute. I leaned to kiss Pem, and her arms clutched my neck. “Don’t leave me alone in this place,” she said, and her voice turned into a wail.
Nick stood at the nurses’ station, giving instructions to the head nurse. “Get me out of here,” I said, and he broke off his conversation in mid-sentence, and we ran through the double glass doors.
22
WITH PEM GONE, THE MACKENS STOPPED coming for dinner so often. We all felt relief, returning to our old lives and separate families. Every morning Clare and I would convene in the yard, to watch the plane take off. We would talk for a few minutes, until the plane disappeared into the clouds, and then we would part. We were maintaining a little distance. This was new territory, and we both needed to learn the lay of the land. Every day I called Steamboat Landing to inquire about Pem; Dr. Cooke had suggested she would adjust better if we left her alone for about a week. It took Clare days to ask me about details of the place.
“It’s what you’d expect,” I told her bluntly.
“Is it . . . institutional?”
“Clare, it’s an institution. Yes, it’s institutional. There’s always someone washing the floors, music plays in the elevator, school groups visit the place for their good-deed projects.”
“How can Pem stand it?” Clare asked sadly.
One afternoon Nick called to tell me he had a late meeting and would spend the night in the city. I tested myself: did I feel compelled to chase after him, spend the night by his side whatever the cost? No, but I wanted to look for maternity clothes, so I took the train to New York. I shopped a little, looked at some Rembrandt etchings at the Pierpont Morgan Library, then went to the Gregory. That night Nick and I met for a late dinner at Vinnie’s in the Village.
“I’m glad to be in New York tonight,” Nick said. “The Point’s a sad place these days. Everyone is remembering Honora and Pem.”
“I know. Nick, today I was walking through the thirties on the East Side, and I started thinking about living in New York again. You wouldn’t have to commute. After the baby is born, it’s going to be so hard on you, flying off every day.” As I spoke I thought about Black Hall. No one had mentioned it, but we would have to sell Pem’s and Honora’s houses. Things fall apart.
“I think I can manage the commute. I want the baby to grow up on Bennison Point,” Nick said.
“Clare and I can hardly stand to be together,” I said. “We remind each other too much of Mom and Pem.”
“It will be a long time before we get over missing them.”
“Everything happening is unnatural,” I said. “Honora wasn’t supposed to die young, and Pem was supposed to live her entire life on the Point.”
“I know,” Nick said. “It’s killing us all that she’s in the home.”
“The home,” I said, and I snorted. It was a place to live, but it wasn’t a home. Listlessly we twirled our spaghetti; we both left full plates, and we returned to the Gregory, where we lay down but did not sleep.
The next day I called Helen Avery. “Do you have some free time?” I asked. “Could you take a walk with me?”
“I’d love that,” she said.
We met at the corner of West Tenth and Fifth Avenue, and we embraced like old friends. We headed south, toward Washington Square.
“How’s the foundation?” I asked.
“Let’s see. The foundation itself is dandy, but some of its members are not so hot. Myself, for example.”
“Why? What’s wrong?” I asked, feeling myself draw back a little; I didn’t want to hear any sad news about someone I cared about.
“I’m in the doldrums, I guess. For years, since my husband died, I’ve been putting all my energy into the foundation. The foundation and tennis. The only people I ever see are relatives. John and I are driving each other crazy—we keep each other company at social functions, and we’ve gotten dependent on that. Instead of finding dates. After all these years alone, I’m starting to think about wanting someone.” She shook her finger at me. “And I have you to blame for that.”
“Me?”
“Oh, that day John and I had lunch at your house. I can’t tell you how often I’ve thought of it. I watched Nick slice those tomatoes—he was concentrating, making each slice the same thickness as the others. I thought—men don’t care about things like that! Then I watched you walk into your mother’s yard, to pick some basil. I want to be like them, I thought. Happy with someone.”
“Oh, Helen,” I said. And I thought: what if Helen could marry someone wonderful, move to Bennison Point, take over Honora’s house so we wouldn’t have to sell it. I was thinking of dinners, my baby in a high chair and Helen in Honora’s seat, then stopped myself. Helen was not Honora, and I couldn’t make her be.
“I haven’t cared about men for a long time,” she said. “I thought, Oh, I’ve had my great love. I had one good marriage—that’s more than most people can say. You love someone, and he dies, and it hurts terribly. I didn’t think I wanted to go through it again.”
“Now you do?”
“It seems worth it. I look at you and Nick. I remember that afternoon at my apartment months ago, when I told you you were torturing him. I’ll never forget the look on your face. I wanted to shrivel up for doing that to you. You couldn’t stand the idea of torturing Nick.”
I smiled, remembering that what I couldn’t stand was the idea of that incredible closeness ending.
We were standing beside the Stanford White arch. Helen took my arm, led me to a vacant be
nch. “It’s perilous, isn’t it?” she asked.
“What is?”
“Love,” she said.
And I sat there, thinking of the perils: of Nick flying through the sky and landing on the deep sea, of the night he imagined making love with Jean, of my mother dead and buried in the earth, of my baby who would never know her, of my grandmother alone in a place with bare floors and the stink of old age, of my sister and her husband and their repaired marriage, and I loved them all so much I wanted to whisper their names.
Helen frowned, staring at a pair of fire-eaters. “How do you think they do that?” she asked. “Why would someone ram a burning stick down his own throat?”
“It’s a mystery,” I said, thinking of other mysteries.
“Do you want a boy or a girl?” Helen asked, turning to me again.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said, though secretly I wished for a girl.
“This must be wonderful for your grandmother, looking forward to a new baby.”
“You don’t know?” I said, and then I told her about Pem.
“Oh, that’s awful. You wanted to keep her at home.” We were quiet for a moment, and then she cast me a sidelong glance. “I know you have your sister Clare, and there must be aunts and uncles on Nick’s side, but I can’t help this idea I have of playing a part in your baby’s life. Sort of an honorary aunt?”
I hugged her. “Thank you,” I said. “Nick and I would like that.”
“I’m so sorry about your grandmother, Georgie. Just keep looking forward. Soon you’ll have your baby.”
“Won’t that be a brave day?” I said.
PAUL MENDILLO WAS ON vacation, so the next night I was offered his seat in the seaplane. After dark I met Donald, Nick, and Grey Tobin at the pier in Battery Park. All three men carried briefcases. Grey was flying: I got to ride in the copilot’s seat. New York seemed hemmed in by small aircraft. I listened to Grey talk on the radio to traffic control; I watched seaplanes and helicopters whiz past. Then we were cleared for takeoff, and we winged east, over the New York necklaces of bridges and highways, twinkling and gaudy. My heart beat hard with excitement until we tracked our way down Long Island Sound, the vast, deep, dark path to Bennison Point, and sadness closed in. Even over the engine’s hum and Grey’s voice telling about a major client in the midst of bankruptcy proceedings, I could hear Donald and Nick sighing. The two pitiful lights of Bennison Point came into sight. Grey banked the plane. We circled once, then set down with a gentle splash.
“See you tomorrow, guys. Hope the flight didn’t bounce the baby too much, Georgie,” Grey called after us as we stepped onto the stone jetty. The night was black and moonless, and at first we didn’t notice Clare.
“What is it?” Donald asked, stopping dead still.
“We have to spring Pem,” she said. “I can’t take it one minute longer. We’re bringing her home.”
“But we decided—” I began.
“I don’t care,” she said, and I felt hope growing. “What the hell are we doing? We’re four able-bodied adults, and we can handle one infirm little grandmother.”
“I signed papers to get her into that place,” Nick said. “It might take some time to undo them.”
“But you want to?” I asked, looking into his eyes.
He nodded; his eyes smiled.
“We all want this?” I asked.
The answer was yes.
We climbed into our station wagon, drove to Steamboat Landing, and walked through the double doors. All four of us stood at the nurses’ station. From somewhere down the hall a television played. Two old people dozed in wheelchairs; one was tied in. Although Nick and Donald wore their darkest, most lawyerly suits, the head nurse regarded us with suspicion, as if we were marauders.
“Visiting hours are long over,” she said.
“We have come not to visit, but to retrieve,” Clare said grandly. Leaving Nick and Donald to argue with the brass, I led my sister down the shining corridor to Pem’s room. Pem sat upright in a straight chair, her head in one hand. She wore her pink pajamas and no robe. I thought she must be cold.
“Pem,” I said, shaking her shoulder.
She looked up at once, and her expression was as delighted as Honora’s had been the night I had visited her after her first heart attack. The memory filled me with a sadness so deep I thought my heart would crack, but I had things to do. Clare threw all Pem’s belongings into the ratty suitcase, which hadn’t been stolen. I helped Pem put on her shoes, then eased her out of the chair. I draped her winter coat over her shoulders.
“Where’re we going?” she asked, trusting us as if the intervening week had never taken place.
“Home, of course,” I said. And the three of us walked out of that room, down the hall, and out the door with Nick and Donald. We left the nurse shouting after us, and we never went back.
Georgiana Agassiz Swift
“Now it is April. I couldn’t file my share of the report until I knew what was going to happen. I tried, but last fall the story of my family would have been incomplete. My report will be brief. I am the Swift Observer. I’ve let the others tell the story.
“We had to wait two seasons for the cycle to come around. My water broke before midnight on the first day of spring, but Tia wasn’t born until the next day. She is so beautiful. I stare into her deep blue eyes looking for traces of me and Nick, Honora, Pem, but what I see is Tia.
“I remember that day last summer when Clare said one of us should have a daughter and make it four generations of Bennison women living on the Point. Even though Honora died before Tia was born, I think of us that way: four generations. I have never accepted loss easily. I know I’ll never talk to my mother again, but I think of her every day. I know how proud she would be of Tia, how she would tell her the old stories, how happy she would feel to have a granddaughter. Pem, Honora, and I are all the mothers of daughters.
“Pem has never mentioned her week’s sojourn at Steamboat Landing, and neither do any of us. It was right to bring her home. She is difficult; four nurses have quit in six months. We shuffle her between Clare’s house and mine, sharing the burden and confusing Pem in the process. She never seems quite sure of where she is, but she acts happy to be among us. She holds Tia in her arms. Sometimes she calls her Honora, sometimes Georgie or Clare. When I told Pem the baby was named Letitia, after Pem’s mother, Pem smiled for a long time before she forgot.
“Nick hates to leave every morning, and I hate for him to leave. Tia and I wave goodbye through the window; the weather is not yet warm enough for me to take her outside every day. ‘Maybe we should move back to New York,’ Nick said one night last week when he had to stay overnight in the city, but right away he corrected himself. Bennison Point is where we belong. This is our home.”
S.O., April 2006
Bennison Point, Black Hall,
Connecticut
About the Author
LUANNE RICE is the author of twenty novels, most recently Summer of Roses, Summer’s Child, Silver Bells, Beach Girls, Dance With Me, The Perfect Summer, and The Secret Hour. She lives in New York City and Old Lyme, Connecticut. Beach Girls was the basis for the Lifetime television network miniseries, and Silver Bells was a recent Hallmark Hall of Fame feature presentation.
Visit the author’s website at
www.luannerice.com.
ALSO BY LUANNE RICE
Summer of Roses
Summer’s Child
Silver Bells
Beach Girls
Dance With Me
The Perfect Summer
The Secret Hour
True Blue
Safe Harbor
Summer Light
Firefly Beach
Dream Country
Follow the Stars Home
Cloud Nine
Home Fires
Blue Moon
Secrets of Paris
Stone Heart
Angels All Over Town
ACCLAIM FOR
CRAZY IN LOVE
“An extraordinarily intimate portrait of love, both familial and marital.”
—Dominick Dunne
“Winsome and graceful . . . Luanne Rice proves herself a nimble virtuoso. What a bright and encouraging book [she] has written—like a porch light left on to show you the way home after dark.”
—Washington Post
“Rice creates a memorable New England clan, four generations living side by side. . . . A book worth reading for a good look at a real family faced with change and full of all the things families are made of: love, secrets, traditions, and memories.”
—Providence Journal-Bulletin
“Charming . . . Even if you do not have a family like Georgie’s, you will feel that they are there beside you, cheering you on.”
—Chicago Tribune
“The writing in this book sparkles. It’s clear and bright and rippled with humor.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“A delightful book—droll and passionate, and tender.”
—Alice Hoffman, author of The Ice Queen
“Crazy in Love is a fully ripened novel, bursting with the sweet juices of life. Luanne Rice creates characters so real, the reader is convinced their lives will continue past the final page but feels bereft to have to leave them on their own.”
—Elizabeth Forsythe Hailey, author of A Woman of Independent Means
“Rice conveys the delights and pains of loving relationships with verve and charm.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Rice’s trademarks are fine writing, a good eye for small detail, and an uncanny way of conveying the mysterious glue that holds families together.”
—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
PRAISE FOR THE TRANSCENDENT NOVELS
OF LUANNE RICE
SUMMER OF ROSES
“Rice masterfully weaves together a batch of sympathetic characters into a rich and vivid tapestry, all while exploring complex human emotions and the healing power of love.”
