Summer Beach Reads

by Thayer, Nancy

  And she was unhappy and deeply lonely. Ed traveled constantly and she missed his company, but more than that, she missed having women friends. Most of the women Lexi met were the wives of Ed’s colleagues, and those women were older, or first wives who disliked Lexi on principle. Or they were women with children.

  Children. Oh, how she wanted a child.

  For a few years, Lexi had been on the Pill. Ed didn’t like condoms, and she knew she was too inexperienced in this new life to be a good mother. When she stopped taking the Pill, after they’d been married for four years, she assumed she’d get pregnant within months. And she did. Two months later, she miscarried.

  Ed was kind to her, on his way out the door to another meeting. He didn’t want more children—he already had three. So Lexi never told him about the two other miscarriages. She could never tell him how, as the months passed, with the rise of hope and the plunge of disappointment, she came to hate her body, not for the way it looked but because of what it could not seem to do.

  It was impossible to share these deep and intimate emotions with him. She quickly learned, and constantly was reminded, that Ed liked her when she was perfect and distant, but in her imperfect neediness, she was on her own. Lexi had tried to find friends. She gave dinner parties, and networked with other women by doing charity work. She invited women for lunch. Sometimes they invited her back. After a while, with committee meetings and luncheons, she had at least the illusion of friendships. But never did she have that flash of connection she had had with Clare, that sense of being immediately at home, in the same pack. She could never talk about what really mattered to her.

  Focus on the positive, she ordered herself.

  Okay, she did have one friend. She did have Gloria. Thank goodness for Gloria. Two years ago, bored with herself and tired of feeling insecure because she was less knowledgeable than Ed’s older, more experienced crowd, Lexi told him she wanted to go back to college. Nonsense, Ed said. In the first place, that would tie her down so she couldn’t travel with him, and in the second place, how embarrassing would it be for him to have a wife in college? He had children in college!

  But he agreed she could have a tutor.

  So brilliant, funny, warmhearted Gloria Ruben entered her life—and changed her life. Gloria was ten years older than Lexi, plump, maternal, and energetic. She taught literature and theater criticism at CCNY and supplemented her income with tutoring. Gloria had been divorced twice, she had two teenage children and a constellation of relatives and friends and old and new lovers who were always needing her, but as Lexi and Gloria got to know each other, Gloria made time to accompany Lexi to a new off-Broadway play or a concert at Carnegie Hall.

  And when Lexi had a miscarriage, Gloria mourned with her, and nursed her, tucking her in bed with pillows and bringing her chocolates and a pile of new novels. Gloria was the one who insisted Lexi see an ob-gyn about these miscarriages, and when the medical verdict came—Lexi was fine, there was no reason she couldn’t have a baby—it was Gloria who celebrated with Lexi, drinking Taittinger champagne.

  Lexi could certainly use Gloria’s warmth and generosity today. Once again a sudden flood of blood and an agonizing clench of pain announced the end to the hopes she’d nourished over the past two months. She’d been scheduled to attend a luncheon for the hospital committee, but she’d phoned and left her regrets.

  Her regrets. What a concept, to leave her regrets.

  With each passing day, she regretted the way she’d left the island. In her defense, she had been so young. And she’d gotten carried away with herself, the brand-new fabulous Lexi who’d been proposed to by one of the masters of the universe. In the sanctuary of her closet, helped by ten years’ experience, she burned with shame to remember that last vitriolic battle with her parents. She’d called them narrow-minded, mediocre ignoramuses with a worldview too limited to even comprehend her dreams. She’d raged at them so terribly, she’d been a whirling spitfire, fueled by her fears. But even with all the horrible things she said to them, she had managed to contain her most grievous complaint, knowing how it would have wounded them. She had not said to her parents: I would not be doing this if you weren’t failing financially! If you could send me to college, if you weren’t so depressed and anxious and burdened, if I weren’t such a burden to you, I wouldn’t marry this man. That would have been the cruelest thing to say, and Lexi was glad she had not said it, even though she believed that when she left, her parents must have felt some relief mixed with their consternation and anger. She’d said horrible things to Clare, too, although Clare—Lexi couldn’t help but smile—had given as good as she’d got.

  Those final arguments had been so savage that when she left the island to marry Ed, she’d done it all alone. She’d slammed out of her house, carrying only a small suitcase. No one drove her to the airport, no one waved good-bye or wished her good luck. She’d been delighted to get away from them all. They would have held her back, she told herself. She was going to a more exciting world. She thought she’d escaped from her island life like a butterfly sloughing off its chrysalis.

  For a long time, she had enjoyed her new life, and if she ever found herself feeling sad or lonely or homesick, she put that down to sheer exhaustion. She’d had so much to learn, she was always on the run, boarding airplanes, hearing operas, smiling at important people who didn’t speak her language, it was as if time danced along, carrying her with it, and she was engrossed, learning the moves as she went. In those early days she didn’t miss her parents or Clare, because, in an odd way, she brought them with her, as if they were tucked away in a compact in her purse, and every time she opened it, they could see her, sleek, glossy, and having the time of her life.

  Those first few years she’d been quite impressed with her new self in her amazing clothes, drinking champagne in exotic places. Looking back, she saw how the communications she’d attempted with her parents and with Clare had been one-part genuine attempt for connection and three-parts sheer show-off bragging. She sent postcards to her parents and Clare, and Christmas cards with photos of her and Ed posed on camels or llamas. She sent her parents expensive coffee-table books about the Louvre or spices from the Nile Valley for Christmas. Her parents returned Christmas cards with stiff messages. “We’re glad you’re happy.” They never thanked her for the presents. That first Christmas, she sent Clare an amazing silk scarf from Bangkok. Clare never responded. She stopped sending presents. If they could live without her, she could live without them.

  But the gloss of Lexi’s grand new life was dimming. Her relationship with her husband, never hot, was growing even cooler. Sometimes she thought she received the most attention from him when they were being settled into their first-class seats on an airplane. Ed fussed over her then, being sure she had magazines, champagne, a light blanket. They were very seldom alone in the apartment together, and when they were, he was working, or sleeping. He still found her sexually attractive, but her attempts at pillow talk afterward were thwarted. She was amazed at his ability to fall asleep during her most earnest attempts to gain his interest. She was saddened that he didn’t want children with her, and then, when she stopped taking the Pill and tried to get pregnant, she was even more heartbroken, because she could not share her loss with him. She couldn’t even turn to him for comfort.

  She had no one to turn to. Somehow, the worse she felt, the more she felt walled in by her own youthful mistake—for now she understood that marrying Ed had been a terrible mistake. She hadn’t sent her parents postcards for years. Even the briefest note—“Having a wonderful time!”—would have been a lie. And telling them the truth would have been humiliating.

  One morning, lying on the lonely expanse of their king-sized bed, she closed her eyes and found herself yearning not for the cosmopolitan streets of Paris or the exotic landscape of Bali, but for the comforts of her childhood room, the soft pillow with the lavender case, the companionship of her stuffed animals, the apple tree swaying just outside her w
indow, the smell of simmering pot roast, her brother’s loud laughter. She recalled being foolish with Clare, both of them laughing like hyenas, literally falling out of their chairs with laughter. “You girls,” Lexi’s mother would say fondly.

  She daydreamed of phoning Clare, but they had been so mean to each other that last summer, equally mean, Lexi thought, like children in a rage. And after all these years, living so far apart, could they ever get that kind of friendship back again?

  Could she get back in touch with her parents and still keep up the pretense of having a happy marriage? She thought perhaps Adam might be a good mediator. He hadn’t been on the island the summer she met Ed, he hadn’t been involved in the arguments, and he’d never weighed in with an opinion. One rainy January when Ed was off on yet another business trip, Lexi had Googled her brother. Adam was working at a veterinary practice in Boston. She e-mailed him just a “Hey, how’s it going?” kind of message. He responded, and from then on, they kept up a casual online correspondence. But Adam was busy, usually having time for only a brief answer to her longer e-mails, and it was clear that while he hoped she’d reunite with their parents, he wasn’t going to volunteer to arrange it.

  So she was on her own. No one got to erase the mistakes she’d made in life. The self-help books advocated taking positive action. So she would not allow herself to lurk like a spoiled four-year-old, hiding in her closet, feeling sorry for herself. She’d get out, she’d do something, she’d have fun. She’d phone Gloria.

  Ed didn’t like Lexi socializing with Gloria—he said she shouldn’t be so chummy with the help. She had argued with him about that, and while she rarely stood up for her own opinions against Ed, she was proud that she’d risked his anger and his contempt by insisting that Gloria was her friend. Today, Lexi could really use a friend.

  Just making the decision made her feel better. It was a Thursday, and Gloria didn’t teach at the college on Thursdays. She would take Gloria to lunch at that new Asian restaurant on East 70th Street, and afterward they could take a stroll through the Met—that always cheered Lexi. Wiping her tears away, Lexi left her closet. She walked through the small dressing room that connected it to the master bedroom, and opened the door.

  And stopped short.

  She saw a gleam of skin, and a blur of movement. A man and a woman were in bed together, naked, so closely entwined they seemed like one creature.

  She put a hand out to the wall for support. “Ed?”

  “Jesus Christ!” Ed unceremoniously dumped the naked woman on her side as he yanked the covers up over both of them. He sat up in bed, his face red with anger. “What are you doing here? I thought you were at that hospital luncheon today.”

  “I … I canceled.” Her head seemed to be full of sparks. She couldn’t stop staring.

  “Look,” Ed’s tone was exasperated, “get out of here, Lexi. Go on, damn it. Let us get dressed.”

  “Okay,” Lexi said reasonably. “I will. But first …” She inched forward. “Gloria? Is that you?”

  Gloria peeked out from behind a sheet. “Lexi, I’m sorry.” Her black hair was mussed, her face mottled with embarrassment.

  Lexi stared. For a moment she was helpless; she was like something whirled and abraded by a natural violence, like a shell sucked out of dark depths and tossed up into full, glaring sunlight. The oddest thing was that she didn’t cry.

  She walked out of the bedroom, leaving the door open, and down the hall, and down the magnificent staircase, and into the living room. It was as if she’d been injected with a marvelous drug that made her see more clearly and think more brilliantly. She looked around the living room with all its deep burgundy and gilt furnishings and thought how much she disliked this somber room.

  Footsteps clattered down the stairs. The front door opened. Voices murmured. The door closed. More footsteps, and then Ed was in the room with Lexi. He’d pulled on a pair of chinos and a pink-and-white-striped shirt, and he was rolling up the sleeves as he talked.

  “Lexi, look, I didn’t mean for you to see that. I thought you were out of the house.”

  She stared at him. He was almost fifty now and almost completely bald. In spite of his personal trainer and the hours he put in at the gym, he was gaining weight and growing a belly. But that didn’t matter. It wouldn’t have mattered if she loved him. She did not love him, but she didn’t hate him, either. She only seemed to see him very clearly.

  She took a deep breath. “Ed, I want a divorce.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Gloria means nothing to me.”

  “She meant something to me.”

  “Oh, grow up.”

  “Actually, I have. Grown up. And you’ve been very kind to me. But now I want a divorce.”

  He waved his hands in a “stop” motion. “Lexi, calm down a moment.”

  “Don’t I look calm?” She was lucid and composed. “You’ve been cheating on me all along, haven’t you?”

  “Don’t be so dramatic. It never means anything. I married you.”

  That was true, and Lexi knew it was important. For a moment she hesitated, considering his needs and her responsibilities. Then he did the thing that really set her free. He sneaked a glance at his watch.

  “Ed,” she said firmly, “I really do want a divorce.”

  SEVEN

  2007

  When the phone rang, Clare was idly doing the breakfast dishes, gazing from the kitchen window to the end of the yard, where two bird feeders stood, their platforms heaped with sunflower seeds and cracked corn. The cardinal couple was there, the vivid male eating while the duller female perched on the rim, keeping watch. It was April, a shimmery quicksilver month, with days of wind and rain interrupted by long, surprisingly warm twilights and a come-hither sun winking promises as it set.

  “Hello?” She clamped the handset between her shoulder and ear, leaving her hands free to finish scrubbing the skillet. Even if, during the rest of the day, her father forgot to eat, she knew she’d started him off well with a stack of bacon, a huge pile of cheesy eggs, and thickly buttered rye toast.

  Penny’s voice exploded over the air waves. “Scoop, honey! Big scoop!”

  Clare grinned. “What? Has the Little Genius started walking?”

  “Stop it.” In the background, Penny’s baby boy was making the funny guzzling noises he made when he nursed. “This is so not about babies. And it’s going to make your eyes pop, I promise. But you have to come over to hear about it.”

  “Tell me now. Pleeeeese? You know you want to.” The large handsome blue jay she’d privately named Johnny Depp swooped down, claiming the bird feeder, and the cardinal couple flew off in a flash of red.

  “No way. I want to see your face when you hear this.”

  Clare hesitated.

  “Are you still there?” Penny demanded.

  “Yeah, just thinking. How about this. I’ll come over for coffee this afternoon. Four-ish. I’ll bring some clam chowder and corn bread and salad for dinner tonight.”

  “You’re an angel.” Little Mike let out a wail. “Oops. Burp time. See you later.”

  Clare moved around the kitchen, mixing the corn bread, enough for Penny and her father. Since her mother’s death last fall, her father had become even more vague and forgetful. Retired from teaching high school English, he was sixty-two years old and lost in sorrow. On good days he stayed in his study, researching and writing his book on island mythology, but on bad days he roamed the house, restless in his loneliness and misery, forgetting to shave, dress properly, or eat sensibly. Clare had become the one to nurture him.

  She put a batch in the oven, set the timer, then raced upstairs to take a quick shower and dress. Sweet Hart’s was closed for two more weeks, so she had time to play around with a new recipe. Jesse would be working today, custom building cabinets for a gazillion-dollar new house, and he might come by for dinner and a video tonight, but even if he did, she could slop around in these jeans and the comfy blue cashmere pullover she’d bought on sa
le two Januarys ago at Murray’s Toggery. It had been washed so many times it felt like satin, and it set off her dark eyes and short, tousled brown hair.

  She slid her feet into her felt clogs, clomped down the stairs, and entered the kitchen just as the buzzer sounded. A heavenly buttery aroma filled the air. She took the corn bread out of the oven and was stacking various cartons into a straw tote when the phone rang again.

  “Hey, babe.”

  Clare rolled her eyes at the sound of that “babe.” She continually asked Jesse not to call her babe. It was such an anonymous, generalized designation. Any woman could be babe. And for Jesse, countless women had been. Perhaps that was the price Clare had to pay for being in love with such a handsome man. “Hey, Jesse, what’s up?”

  “Just wanted to say good morning.” A chorus of hammer falls and whining saws created background music to his voice.

  “Good morning, sweetie.” Clare curled up in an ancient wooden captain’s chair at the end of the kitchen table, pulled her knees up to her chest, and leaned into the sound of his voice. She could envision Jesse at work in his flannel shirt, jeans, and work boots, his thick blond hair tied back in a ponytail with some old rubber band. Perhaps by now—the crew started work early—he’d have warmed up and tossed off the flannel shirt. So he’d be wearing only an old white short-sleeved T-shirt. She thought of the muscles in his arms, the lean stretch of his torso.