Now in full sunlight, she realized how very satisfying it was, working with flowers. The crumbling soil was warm and soft against the palms of her hands, and each plant appeared so singular, flowers and stems and delicate white angles of roots. She filled the terra-cotta tubs with soil, then carefully tucked in the plants, pressing the soil flat, ascertaining that the plants were standing happily on their own, not tipping sideways. She watered the flowers. Then she bent to heave the first tub up so she could carry it into the hedged garden. She was shocked at how heavy the tub was. She could lift it, but only by using all her strength, and carrying it was awkward.
She persevered. She stepped through the high arched opening cut into the privet hedge and stood for a moment on the slate path, surveying the interior of the hedged garden. Honestly, she thought, could her mother-in-law have been more boring? It was like standing inside a room with no roof and three high green walls, the fourth wall being the back of the house with its large windows. Near the house, on the slate patio area, a few deck chairs were set out, but that was the only sign of human habitation. Charity Wheelwright had decreed three long rectangles of privet, one inside the other, the outer wall eight feet high, the ones inside only four feet high, and, in the very center, a marble sundial. Slate of various colors, roses, grays, browns, had been painstakingly laid to be flat and even for walking around the hedges and into the center to observe the sundial. Somehow Anne’s mother-in-law had contrived to make nature boring.
Well, Anne thought, she would liven things up! All morning she lugged the tubs and pots into the hedged garden, setting them here, and here, and here, wherever she saw a spot that cried out for brightening. As she worked, she hummed to herself, feeling very industrious and diligent. The war was over. Soon Herb would be coming home. She would get pregnant! She would walk around theses slates, holding her toddler’s hand, and she would say, “See the pretty flower,” and, “No, don’t touch.”
When she returned to Boston, she found Stangarone’s Freight Company just as chaotically busy as ever. Gwendolyn Forsythe barely said hello before handing her a pile of bills of lading to be double-checked, noted, and filed. After work, she would join the other girls in the office for drinks and dinner and sometimes a movie: Abbott and Costello made them laugh, and The Lost Weekend, starring Ray Milland as an alcoholic on a four-day drinking binge, made them cry, and Bing Crosby made them happy, and John Wayne made them feel safe. The days flew by, and yet Anne was restless—and, she realized one morning, she was also oddly anxious. She couldn’t figure out exactly what it was she was so worried about. The war was over. But she was full of dread.
At the end of August, Anne took a long weekend and traveled to Nantucket. It was Charity Wheelwright’s birthday, and Anne knew she was expected to help celebrate the occasion. She bought an expensive set of Chanel perfume and talcum powder and wrapped it prettily and stashed it in her overnight bag. The ocean was as calm as a sheet of glass as the ferry trundled from Woods Hole to Nantucket, and the sun blazed high in the heavens. This is not such a terrible fate, she assured herself, to be forced to spend a long weekend on a beautiful island. Charity Wheelwright is not Satan, she reminded herself. However snotty and critical she was, she had raised Herb, and Herb was a wonderful man.
Norman Wheelwright met Charity at the ferry. He did not hug her; he wasn’t that kind of man. He did smile and extend his hand. “Welcome back, Anne.” He picked up her overnight bag and carried it to the car.
As he drove home, he asked Anne for details about her work at Stangarone’s. “It’s kind of interesting,” he said, “that Herb is in Germany, receiving supplies, and you’re in Boston, helping send them.”
It was one of the kindest things either of Herb’s parents had ever said to Anne. It made her feel linked with Herb and accepted by his family.
“Yes, that’s true. But I wish we were in the same spot. I miss Herb. I wish he’d come home.”
“Well, we should be grateful he wasn’t redeployed to the Pacific. And he’s doing important work, Anne. Necessary work. They’ve got to maintain order in Germany. The fighting’s over, but the world will never be the same as it was before.”
Anne nodded, feeling not chastised but certainly sobered. She was being selfish, yearning for Herb this way, wanting him back now. But her life and certainly her marriage seemed to be on hold; she was treading water and all she had to show for it were the days of her life drifting past.
Norman Wheelwright turned off onto the long white gravel drive, and Anne’s heart lifted. How odd, she thought, because nothing about her mother-in-law brought a song to her heart. It’s my flowers! she realized. She couldn’t wait to see all those beautiful, cheerful, fresh flower faces. Especially she longed to see the sunflowers, those flagpoles bearing bright banners of yellow. The moment the car stopped, she jumped out, raced across the gravel, and through the entrance in the hedge.
There was the patio, next to the house, shaded by the hedge walls. There were her pots and tubs—
Her hand flew to her bosom. The containers were just as she’d left them, but the plants in them were thin, unformed, and scraggly She hurried from pot to pot, bending over, touching the thin, unhealthy leaves, searching for signs of petals and finding none. She stuck her fingers into each container. The soil was moist. But the flowers looked sickly, deprived, failing. Tears sprang to her eyes. What had she done wrong?
“You should have used plants meant for shade,” a voice said.
Anne jumped. Turning, she saw Charity Wheelwright standing there, crisp in a pale blue dress and pearls, her hair tidily smoothed back into a chignon. She was smiling, just a little, and her expression was triumphant.
“Plants meant for shade?” Anne echoed.
“I thought you knew. You were so keen to garden. I thought you knew that many plants will not thrive in the constant shade of a hedged garden.”
“No,” Anne admitted sadly, “I didn’t know that.” She felt like a fool. Worse, she felt guilty—all those lovely plants, destined to struggle for the sun and not find it, and fall ill, fail, and flounder.
“Pity,” Charity Wheelwright said. “All that work for nothing.”
Summer
Eighteen
Charlotte lounged at the stern of Coop’s catboat, her face lifted to the sky as she watched the light dwindle and the stars, one by one, twinkle on, as if someone up there were walking through the heavens, lighting them like candles. In the soft evening air, the harbor waters spread around them in a gleaming quilt of indigo, while fishing boats and sailboats sped toward the distant shore, stitching ivory lines through the water with their wakes.
It had been two weeks since Oliver’s wedding, and for all that time the family had existed in peace. Their father had relented, giving Teddy another chance. Teddy had stayed sane and sober, driving off to work every morning, showered, shaved, and whistling, returning immediately after work for a swim or sail or to accompany Suzette as she waddled off for what Nona called “a constitutional” after dinner. When their father and the Bank Boys came down for a long weekend, Teddy remained respectful and polite, although on Sundays, his day off, he disappeared, driving Suzette around to show her the island and keeping out of his father’s radar. Their mother also seemed to be avoiding Worth, but perhaps it only seemed that way. Helen was so busy with committee work.
“You look relaxed,” Coop said. He was lazily steering them back to his dock. He wore only swim trunks and an ancient pair of deck shoes that flopped open where the toes had worn through. The summer sun had bleached silver streaks in his blond hair, and Charlotte smiled, thinking how much a woman would have to pay a hair salon to get just that perfect effect. He was very tan, and his green eyes flashed like bright gems in his face.
“I am relaxed,” Charlotte agreed. She wore her old one-piece black Speedo and flip-flops, and she’d pulled her hair back into a ponytail to get it off her face and out of the wind. This was the third time she’d sailed with Coop, and she knew by n
ow that like most men he preferred to be in complete control of his boat. Sometimes people liked it if she moved to do something—change sides to balance the boat if it was heeling too much, or adjust the centerboard—of her own accord. But she had quickly seen that if Coop wanted her to help, he’d tell her. Her father was like that. She jokingly called him Captain Bligh.
As they glided toward Coop’s house, Nona’s house also came into view, with its ridiculous Ionic columns and unused front door. Lights were on in the living room and in some rooms on the second floor, and the light was on in Suzette and Teddy’s room in the attic. From here, floating gently on the safe and increasingly shallow harbor waters, Nona’s house looked blessed. Radiant.
Coop followed Charlotte’s gaze. “How many of your relatives are there right now?”
Charlotte laughed. “The truth? I don’t even know. The Bank Boys come and go all the time, and so does Mee.”
“Man, I wish that woman would grow up and use her real name. I can’t stand calling her Mee. Makes me think of a cartoon mouse. Or a little kid. It’s not cute anymore, it’s just embarrassing.”
Charlotte chuckled. “Well, Coop, if you ask her out, I’m sure she’ll change her name to anything you like.”
Coop turned his glance to Charlotte and let his gaze linger on her. “It’s not Mee I want to be with.”
Charlotte felt herself flush, and she was grateful for the evening darkness that covered her. She supposed this could be considered their third date. Certainly it was the third time she’d spent an evening sailing with him, and now, as before, she was languorous with pleasure—although the icy gin and tonics Coop had brought in a cooler for their sail around the inner and outer harbor no doubt deepened her easy mood.
She stretched her arms wide. “Look at this night. Isn’t this the most perfect night in the world? A soft breeze. Warm air. Calm water.”
Coop dropped the mainsail and pulled up the centerboard. Jumping up, he walked carefully along the deck to the bow. He reached out, grabbed the buoy, and fastened the rope around it. His feet made solid thuds as he strode back to her side at the stern. “We can stay out here. But it’s more comfortable inside.”
Charlotte knew exactly what he meant by that, and she wanted to go inside with him. She wanted to press up against him, she wanted his mouth on hers.
Her heart knocked rapidly in her chest. “Coop, tell me about Miranda.”
His body tensed. He looked toward the outer harbor, and took a deep breath. He hadn’t yet spoken to Charlotte about Miranda. The first two times they’d gone sailing they had both behaved in an easy old-buddies friendship, but tonight something different was in the air.
“There’s nothing to say about Miranda,” Coop told her. “We dated, and now we’re not together anymore. And we won’t be together again.”
“Why not?”
Coop shrugged. “We were never serious. She’s a beautiful, fascinating woman, but we just don’t have that much in common. I want to live full-time on Nantucket, and she doesn’t. So I broke up with her.”
Charlotte frowned as his words conflicted with her memory of the conversation she’d overheard. I thought Miranda broke it off, she almost said. I heard you two arguing one day, and Miranda was in a fury because you’d slept with someone else during the winter. Oh, don’t be such a nitpicking priss, Charlotte ordered herself. After all, she had overheard only part of what was obviously an ongoing and complicated disagreement.
“Come on.” Coop held out his hand. “Let’s go ashore.”
Charlotte took his hand. He steadied her as she dropped over the side of the boat into the cool thigh-high water. He grabbed the cooler, jumped over the side, and together they waded to dry land. They walked up the sandy beach, through the low wild bushes, across his lawn, and onto his patio. He set the cooler on a low table and turned to Charlotte.
“Will you come in tonight?”
He was standing very close to her, his arms at his side. He wasn’t touching her, but the attraction between them was intense. The last two times he’d taken her sailing, she had gone right home after the sail, but tonight she wanted to enter his house.
“Coop.” Her voice was shaking. “I’m not—I haven’t been with a man for a long time. Months. Okay, three years. I’m kind of old-fashioned, I guess. I’m not asking for a commitment or anything, I just want you to know.…”
Coop lifted his hand and gently touched her cheek. “We’ll go as slow as you want, Charlotte.”
“But I mean—” How did people talk about this? It was so awkward! Moving away from him, she leaned on the back of a lawn chair, feeling a bit more in charge with the chair between her and Coop’s extraordinary magnetism. “I heard you were—seeing—someone else, too. This winter.” A slut, actually, she wanted to say. Miranda called her a slut, and that kind of scares me. But she didn’t want to let him know she’d overheard their argument.
Coop grinned. “Well, Charlotte, I did see another woman this winter. Saw several, in fact. But I’m not seeing her anymore. I’m not seeing anyone else. And I’m capable of being monogamous, if that’s what you’re asking. For the right woman, I could be monogamous. And if you’re worried about STDs, I’ve got a report in the house. I usually get tested every six months. Want to see it?”
“Oh, dear.” Charlotte tried to laugh, but her voice was shaking. “Here we are on this beautiful soft night with the moon and stars, and I’m asking about STDs. I’m sorry, Coop. This is so un-romantic.”
“Come inside, Charlotte,” Coop said. “I think I can get you in a romantic mood pretty fast.”
Charlotte sat up with a gasp, her heart pounding as if she were in danger. Looking around, she realized she was in a strange room, and then she heard Coop’s rumbling snore and fell back against her pillows, smiling at herself. She glanced at the clock on the bedside table: 4:29. Good for you, she told her brain. She was glad she was so used to waking at this time that she did it without an alarm clock, but she wasn’t very pleased about waking in a fright. It had been three years since she’d slept anywhere except her bed in her parents’ home in Boston or her sweet private attic room at Nona’s, but that was no reason to get neurotic.
She’d certainly fallen asleep easily enough.
She and Coop had made love—he was slow and gentle with her as he’d promised. Afterward, he’d served her pancakes and bacon, they’d gone back to bed and made love again, and sometime around midnight they’d fallen asleep. Coop was still sleeping, lying on his stomach, spread-eagled over the mattress, his pillow pulled over his head. Maybe she snored, too, Charlotte thought with a grin, and that wasn’t a habit but a way to shut out sounds.
Morning light was beginning to illuminate the room. She had to get up, get dressed, and get out to her garden. She could tell it was going to be another hot day, and she didn’t want to have to labor in the afternoon blaze. She scanned the floor, searching for her Speedo. Rex and Regina, his fat old labs, lay on their sides, snuffling and grunting, deeply asleep. Discarded clothing lay in heaps and mounds all around the room, and she remembered from last night how gritty the floor was with sand, and the sheets, as well. He had a cleaning woman in once a week, Coop told her, and she dealt with the laundry, putting clean sheets on the bed, and so on. Sandy sheets didn’t bother him. Not much bothered him, Charlotte decided. The kitchen counters were piled with dishes and pots and pans waiting to be washed, and his living room was littered with CDs, DVDs, and video games, newspapers, and magazines.
Stepping quietly, Charlotte slipped from the bed, grabbed up her Speedo, and with a look over her shoulder, left the room. Coop continued to snore. She pulled on her bathing suit in the kitchen and looked around for a paper and pen. She settled for the side of a brown grocery bag and a fat marker.
She wrote: I had a wonderful time. She thought of adding: I’ll be in my garden, but he knew that. He’d find her if he wanted to. She put the note on the table, weighted it down with the salt and pepper shakers, opened the slidin
g glass door to the patio, and stepped out into the morning.
She took a moment just to be in the day. Her body felt well used and content, like a racehorse that had been corralled for too long and finally allowed to run free. She wasn’t tired, even though she’d gotten so little sleep.
A small forest of evergreens and brush divided Coop’s land from Nona’s, giving them both privacy. Charlotte walked down to the beach, across to Nona’s beach, and up to her house. The mudroom door was unlocked. Doors were never locked on the island, there was no need. As quietly as she could, she hurried up to the attic, showered and shampooed her hair, and dressed. She went back down to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of orange juice, and drank it down, savoring the sweet brightness. Then she went out to her garden to make bouquets.
All around her, the world glowed with the freshness of morning. With each passing day, she understood that her self-imposed exile had turned into a kind of blessing. She loved her garden; she loved the work of it. As for romance—love—whatever she had going on with Coop was only lighthearted, nothing serious. She believed she could allow herself this much pleasure.
By eight o’clock, she was starving. The farm stand was always busy in July so she left Jorge in charge and ran back to the house to grab a bite of nourishment. Jorge was a hard worker, but his English was difficult to understand and he often replied to any statement by smiling, nodding his head, and saying, lispily “Yes.” She decided to fill a thermos with orange juice and grab some of the oatmeal cookies Glorious had made.
She didn’t bother to stop to unlace her boots. She was in a hurry, and the ground was dry today, she wouldn’t track in mud. The only person in the kitchen was Suzette, just sitting at the table, her feet propped up on a chair.
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