by Nancy Thayer
Also, Kit was becoming increasingly involved with Blooms and GardenAir. At first she had only talked over specific problems and plans with him as they sat at dinner or during the drive from White River to New York for a play or an opera. He’d responded with such a fresh point of view, such sound and logical advice, that they were now in the habit of spending one night a week at the Blooms office together. Kit’s involvement with the inner workings of her company as they sat alone in the darkened building deepened the intimate connection between them, drew them even closer together.
But Catherine did feel guilty about the others at Blooms. The family atmosphere there had dissolved. It was her fault, she knew. She no longer had time for giddy dinners with Jason, and the attention she gave to Sandra or Carla’s personal gossip was all too brief. Sandra, who had grown daughters, understood and went her own calm way, but Carla had often complained of feeling left out. The entire staff had pointed out that Blooms, while holding its own in the competitive floral trade, was no longer the hottest shop in New York, and in response to their grumblings, Catherine had agreed to do the Vogue article. The publicity would boost sales and status for a while and keep her employees too busy to complain.
Shelly was a more serious problem. He worked hard as always, but in the past three years he had started to play hard, too. More nights than not he was out drinking, dancing, partying, always with the “right” people, always insisting when Catherine questioned him that it was all good for business. Just before Lily’s birth, Catherine, swollen, restless, unable to sleep, had gone in to Blooms at dawn, something she hadn’t done for months, to discover that Carla was off buying the flowers. Charming Shelly, often too drunk or too tired, had persuaded her to take over this early morning task so he could go home to sleep. Catherine had reproached Shelly, but he’d responded with accusations of his own. He’d told Catherine she was ignoring her business, and Catherine knew he was right—with poor Carla, weeping and martyred, trying to take all the blame herself. Catherine had settled it all by hiring a new florist, a quiet man named Leonard, who didn’t have the flair for arranging that Jason did but knew how to judge the quality and freshness of flowers and was willing to make the early morning runs. Shelly was now free to sleep late, and accordingly, he gave more time to the importing business. It was working out. Shelly was a grown man. He’d be all right. Eventually he’d get married and settle down.
Deep breath: finally, Everly. Kathryn was seventy-nine and becoming more reclusive and eccentric with each passing year. She’d refused to fly to England the past few years to visit the Boxworthys and Ann, who had graduated from college and was working full-time at the British Everly. The international travel was too difficult for her, Kathryn claimed, and her family understood. But in the past few months she’d refused to leave her house even for day trips. She’d declined to come in to the city for Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner at the Eliots’. When they’d said, very well, they’d come out to see her, she’d said flatly, “No. Don’t come. It’s too much bother. I don’t want any presents, I don’t want to give any presents, and the day means nothing to me. Don’t clutter up my life.”
Worst of all, Kathryn wouldn’t see a doctor. Clara, her maid, who was almost as old as Kathryn, assured Catherine and Drew and Marjorie that Kathryn was in good health and, in her idiosyncratic way, in good spirits. She just preferred to be alone with her house, her plants, her books.
During the past summer, Kathryn had agreed to let Catherine sow an unused field at Everly with wildflowers for Blooms, but she’d refused to enter into any contractual or written agreement. “If you’ll let me lease space from you, Grandmother, I can write off certain expenses,” Catherine said. “We could hire more gardeners. Perhaps even have some work done on the house.”
“It’s my house, my garden,” Kathryn had said testily. “I’m happy with it as it is.”
Catherine worried that her grandmother might forget their agreement, might suddenly snap and tell her she couldn’t use the field or pick the wildflowers. More than that, she worried about what would happen to Everly if someone didn’t start attending to it soon. Deep down, of course, she worried about who would inherit Everly—but that was a subject she didn’t dare broach with her cantankerous grandmother. She didn’t want to offend her. Even more, she didn’t want to hurt her. When they worked together on a sunny day among the flowers and the weeds, she loved her grandmother more than ever. During those moments, the rest of the world, even Andrew and Lily and Kit, faded, and the brown spots on Kathryn’s hands blended with the freckles on the lilies and the dots on the back of the jolly ladybugs, until Catherine felt she was part of something blurred and timeless.
Deep breath: Kit. Here he was, rubbing her shoulders and back so that she was warm and relaxed. Outside, the fierce wind howled and frosted the windows white. Inside, on their wide warm bed, she felt like spring, like summer, blooming with fragrance and beauty and hope. All that they had first guessed from touching had come true: they were right for each other. She was speed, passion, color, light; he was stability, endurance, depth, safety.
Now she rolled over to face him. She’d gained weight after having the children, and her body was silvered here and there with stretch marks, yet she felt completely lovely and unabashed.
“I’m so happy,” she said. “I wish this could last forever.”
* * *
In August Catherine received a note from Ann, who was in England, living and working at Everly.
Dearest Catherine,
Excuse this scribbled mess, but I never have time to write a proper letter, we’re all so busy. I just wanted to tell you I’m thinking of you a lot these days. The gardens are flourishing and so many wonderful things are happening, I wish you were here to share them. Will you ever come over again?
Love, Ann
Catherine sat holding the note, thinking.
With Andrew’s birth, Kit’s parents had at last let go of their anger and welcomed Catherine and their grandson into their home and lives. Every summer of their marriage, Catherine and Kit had gone, first with baby Andrew, then with Andrew and Lily, to Maine, to spend two weeks of August at the Bemishes’ summer home. For Kit, this was heaven. He sailed around the familiar islands and coves, played tennis with old friends, and showed his children the tree house where he had played as a child.
For Catherine, these visits were tedious and dull. She hated sailing, especially with the children on board, even if they did have life jackets on. She couldn’t understand why anyone would go to so much work to have fun. She hated tennis, she hated trying to swim in the frigid water, she hated being dutifully civil to her in-laws. No matter what she did, it seemed Joan Bemish always reproached her in her gentle Puritan voice: if Catherine fed Andrew carrots, was she sure she was giving him enough protein; if she fed him hamburgers, was she giving him enough roughage? She knew Joan meant well, and she surely loved her grandchildren. Her own parents wouldn’t notice or complain if she gave her children gin and tonics. And really, Catherine didn’t mind letting Joan nurture her only grandchildren, she only minded having to stand aside politely while Joan did it.
At the beginning of this summer, she summoned up her courage to tell Kit how she felt about going to Maine. Kit was baffled. “Well, Catherine, I don’t want to force you to do anything you don’t like, but … if you don’t like to sail, or play tennis, or sunbathe—well, what do you like to do?”
What Catherine liked to do, she realized, was to sit by herself at the British Everly, looking at flowers and waiting for cream tea. It had been years since she’d had that luxury, and as she told Kit about it, she realized it all would be changed, destroyed, even, if Kit and Andrew and Lily were there, pulling on her, needing her attention. Drew would run down the hedgerow screaming like an Indian. Lily would eat the dirt and probably the flowers. Kit would be bored to tears.
“Why not go over by yourself?” Kit suggested, breaking into Catherine’s maudlin reverie.
“Oh,
I couldn’t.”
“Why not? Mother would love to have the kids to herself, and Mary can take over whenever necessary.”
“Well … I haven’t really seen Ann for years now. It would be lovely to see her there, and to see Everly again.”
“Then go. Really, Catherine, go.”
“It just seems so—wicked! To leave my little children!”
“Think of yourself. Think how tired you are, how much time you’ve spent with the children, how refreshed you’ll be, and more energetic with them after a break.”
“You mean it, don’t you? Oh, Kit, I’d be so grateful! If you’re sure … I think I’ll go.”
Of course she didn’t tell him that Ned would be there. Or rather, though Kit knew that Ned Boxworthy lived at Everly, he certainly didn’t know Ned had once been Catherine’s lover. And of course she didn’t intend to sleep with Ned ever again, she’d always be faithful to darling Kit—but …
But it would be part of the pleasure of visiting Everly to see Ned, to enter his particular electromagnetic field and experience those old sexual sparks. Her body had belonged to her children for over three years now, in pregnancy and birth and nursing; it would be fun to see if it could, this old stretched and wearied body of hers, still incite Ned to desire.
* * *
In August Kit took the children to Maine, and Catherine boarded a plane for London. The flight was rough, due to a summer storm, and then the plane circled above Heathrow for over an hour. The customs lines were crowded, and when the driver met her and handed her into the Everly car, it was pouring rain. An American couple was also going to Everly, and the wife talked at Catherine incessantly for the entire hour’s drive.
When she finally arrived, Catherine hoped she could retreat to a room for a nap before saying hello to anyone. She was jet-lagged and suddenly in that state of surrender to exhaustion that, for Catherine, only happened when someone else was taking care of the children and the business. But Ann was waiting. She greeted Catherine with a warm hug.
“Catherine, I’ve got so much to tell you!”
“I want to hear everything, Annie, but please let me catch a nap first. I’m too tired to think straight.”
Ann showed her to her room. Catherine promised she’d be down for tea, but to her amazement she awoke to find she’d slept the day and night through. She threw back her covers, pulled on a bright cotton dress and sandals, splashed her face with water, and hurried down to the dining room.
“Catherine! At last!” Madeline Boxworthy was seated at the long table. She held out her arms, and Catherine bent to hug the older woman. “I didn’t know whether to wake you or not. But now here you are. You look marvelous. Tell me everything. Did you bring pictures of your children? Oh, but I’m being selfish. I know you want to see Ann. She’s already out in the gardens with Hortense. Do you want to go on out?”
“Not until I’ve had a nice big breakfast!” Catherine said, laughing. She rose and helped herself at the buffet, heaping her plate high. “I looked at the gardens from my window. They look wonderful.”
“Well, it helps to have Ann with us. And Tom, you know, is such a good worker. Elizabeth is pregnant again, and I shouldn’t tell you, because Hortense wanted to, but Hortense is getting married!”
“When? What’s he like?”
Madeline clapped her hands. “Perfection! He’s an architect! He loves Everly, and wants to renovate it himself, put everything in tiptop shape!”
“Mother! You promised you’d let me tell! Hello, Catherine. God, it’s good to see you. Don’t mind the dirt, it’s clean.” Hortense entered the dining room, a basket of roses over her arm, and embraced Catherine with her arms, holding her dirty hands away.
“Catherine! You’re up!” Ann rushed over like a child, grabbing Catherine in a big, greedy hug.
Catherine put her hands on Ann’s shoulders and held her away to study her. The past few years had changed Ann. Her hair was still golden, her face still sweet, dominated by her large, expressive blue eyes, but sun and weather had worn Ann’s face, which was finely lined now and covered with freckles. Yet in spite of these imperfections, and rather because of them, Ann’s face looked interesting. It had a quality of experience behind it, of laughter and sun. Ann’s long blond hair was carelessly tied back with a string. Catherine touched the string and laughed.
“Oh, I’m just a poor working girl!” Ann said, her eyes shining. “I can’t be bothered with makeup and frills. But Catherine, you look gorgeous! Motherhood must agree with you. Did you bring pictures of my nephew and niece?”
Catherine was happily caught up in the heat and chatter of the moment. Before the morning had ended, Elizabeth and her two-year-old son came in, kissed Catherine, and sat down to trade news. Tom passed through with some papers for Madeline to sign and greeted Catherine with a peck and a smile. Before Catherine noticed her coffee cup was empty, someone jumped up to refill it. When the telephone rang, it was never for her. Hortense wanted to show Catherine her wedding gown, Elizabeth wanted to talk about babies, Madeline wanted to hear about Kathryn, Ann wanted to hear about Drew and Marjorie.
Then Ned came in. He was wearing only a white shirt and blue jeans, and his black hair was mussed as if he’d been dragging his hands through it, but his entrance caused all the women to go quiet, each in her own way satisfied at the presence of this handsome male.
“Catherine,” he said. “You’re back.”
He stopped just inside the doorway, so Catherine rose and crossed the room to hug him. She kissed him on the cheek, which was stubbly. He smelled like ink and electricity, dark and sharp and vivid. She took his hand and pulled him to the table.
“It’s so late. What have you been doing?”
He sat down next to Catherine. Ann put a cup of coffee in front of him.
“I, my lazy dear, have been working. Since before dawn. I’ve just about finished revising a book, the first in a series, I’ll have you know, and a series that a publisher is seriously interested in!”
“My God, Ned, how marvelous!” Catherine said. “Tell me about it.”
“Yes, Ned do tell her about it,” Hortense said, her voice tinged with mischief.
“Oh, he won’t tell anyone anything,” Madeline said. “He’s a wretched tease. No one will publish his awful books, he isn’t even writing anything, he’s just pretending so we’ll all wait on him hand and foot. How I’ve spoiled the child.”
Catherine laughed and listened to the family banter. As she watched, Ann said, “Madeline, your tag’s sticking out,” and rose to tuck in a tag in the neck of Madeline’s shirt. Ann’s hands on the older woman were gentle, but casual, possessive, relaxed, as if this sort of touching were a common thing. And Catherine remembered how, so long ago—twelve years ago!—Catherine had fallen in love with this family and wished her own were like it. Now little Ann, her baby sister, had done her one better and made this family her own. She was living here, working here, one of them.
As Catherine watched, Hortense said, “Well, all, we’ve got to get back to work. See you at tea, Catherine.”
“Are you sitting in the garden today?” Ann asked Catherine, rising with Hortense. “Don’t worry. I’ll find you. I want to have a nice long lovely private talk.” She kissed Catherine on the cheek, then, before going out the door, bent to kiss Ned’s cheek, a more lingering kiss.
Well! Catherine thought. What is innocent little Ann up to? But Ned excused himself before she could ask, and soon everyone had gone off on their various errands. Catherine was left alone, stuffed with food and new thoughts.
* * *
After she bathed and unpacked, Catherine wandered out in the early afternoon to survey Everly’s gardens. It was a hot, clear August day. The flower beds made her jealous. Ann and Hortense had been working hard over the past few years, and it showed. The house rose above the gardens in its grand stone solidity, scorning wood and its submission to time and weather.
Catherine found a corner to herself on a sto
ne bench by a brick wall so covered with lustrous ivy, it seemed quilted. Above her the apple, pear, and plum trees hung down their tight green or purple-blue fruits. She had purposely found the wilder part of the garden, where the flowers blazed untidily, abundant and boisterous, greedily unkempt. Fat, prickly globe thistle, as silvery blue and swollen as a pigeon’s breast, mingled with golden rudbeckia, white Shasta daisies, and pink trumpeting Crinum, exiled here because although their fragrance was heavenly, their long, flopping, slender swords of leaves made them unwelcome in a more well groomed section.
She could hear Madeline’s secateurs click-clacking away nearby. Birds chattered and chirped, bees hummed. She closed her eyes and was almost asleep again when a fresh rush of cool air passed over her. Ann slid onto the bench next to her.
“Didn’t I arrange a smashing day for you?”
Catherine laughed. “I can’t get over how British you sound!”
“I love it here! Listen, Hortense said to take all the time I want, but we’ve got buckets of work to do, so I don’t want to leave her alone for long. Tell me, how is everyone back home? Anything you can tell me out here that you couldn’t tell me at the table?”
“No, not really. Mother and Dad are just like always. How their bodies continue to function, I don’t know. I think they miss you, Ann. They see very little of Drew and Lily. You know Mother, she’s afraid the children might mess up her clothing, and she does have a point. Children are so messy! But God, Ann, how I love them! And Kit is—” Catherine smiled, out of breath, out of words. “Wonderful.”
“You have a perfect life.”
