“What do you mean?” she asked.
“I mean that I’m moving to New York City.”
“But why?” Bonnie knew she wasn’t stupid, but for some reason she couldn’t quite take in what her sister had told her.
Carol leaned forward; her look was intense. “Because I’m bored here,” she said. “I need something more out of my life than what I can build in Yorktide. An early marriage. A passel of kids. A dead-end job. No thanks.”
“But what about Mom and Dad?” Bonnie asked. “They’ll never let you go!”
Carol had laughed. “They can hardly stop me. I’m nineteen. Anyway, I’ve already told them. They’re not happy about it but like I said, what can they do?”
“But what about Ken?” Bonnie asked then, her voice trembling just a little. “Is he going with you?”
Carrol uncrossed and then recrossed her legs before replying. “I broke up with Ken. He doesn’t have what it takes to make it in New York. I’m going alone. On my own,” she added defiantly.
A feeling of relief flooded through Bonnie’s sixteen-year-old heart. Ken would be staying. At least she wouldn’t be losing him, as well. Not that he knew she existed.
“So, what do you think?” Carol prodded. “Are you excited for me?”
“I guess,” Bonnie said automatically. “I don’t know. Sure.” A million thoughts were running through her mind. What would she do without Carol sleeping in the room next door to hers, sharing the breakfast table every morning, secretly laughing at the way their mother drank her coffee in a series of tiny little sips?
Ken.
Would Carol take her record player with her or leave it behind for Bonnie? Would her father pay more attention to her once Carol was gone?
Ken was staying.
Would her mother stop making her really delicious chocolate coconut cake, which was Carol’s favorite, because it would remind her of Carol and make her too sad?
Ken . . .
“When are you leaving?” Bonnie asked.
“In two weeks.”
Bonnie felt the words as a slap. “So soon?” she cried. “But you’ll miss the harvest festival! Maybe you could stay until after the festival or maybe—”
“Bonnie,” Carol said firmly. “I’m going in two weeks. For good if I can help it.”
Bonnie wanted to ask her sister if she would miss her. But she didn’t. She was too afraid the answer would be no. And why would Carol miss her little sister? She was a nobody, at least compared to Carol. Worse, Carol might lie, say, of course I’ll miss you, and Bonnie would know it was a lie but not have the nerve to admit as much to Carol.
“Okay?” Carol said. There was a smile on her face.
Bonnie nodded. “Okay,” she said, but she wasn’t sure to what she was agreeing.
Carol got up and left the room with her usual brisk stride. Bonnie sat staring at the ugly gray television screen. Carol was going away. Bonnie put her face in her hands and sobbed.
That night she had tiptoed through the dark second-floor hall to the closed door of her sister’s room, where she leaned close, hoping to hear the familiar and reassuring sound of her sister’s rhythmic breathing in sleep. In only a few weeks’ time there would be no sound at all coming from that bedroom. It would be empty. Carol would be gone. Bonnie’s world would be hollowed out.
By the next morning, however, Bonnie’s deep sadness had taken a dramatic turn. She realized that she felt an almost overwhelming need to punish her sister for what she was about to do to her family. When Carol was taking a shower, Bonnie snuck into her sister’s room and stole Carol’s favorite lipstick. Then she dashed from the house and threw the lipstick—a shade of icy shell pink—into the pond at the end of the road. When Carol stomped through the house that evening on a frantic search for the missing lipstick, Bonnie had sat quietly on her bed, pretending to read a Nancy Drew novel she had read about a million times before and listening with satisfaction to her sister’s wails of frustration.
But Carol’s plans to abandon her family did not waver, in spite of Bonnie’s subsequent small subterfuges meant to undermine her sister’s confidence. Desperate times called for desperate measures. Bonnie had heard her father say that often enough. So, two days before Carol’s scheduled departure, Bonnie drank an entire bottle of ipecac. If Carol found her little sister terribly sick, there was no way she would leave. Ever. Bonnie was sure of it.
The results were not what she had hoped they would be. There were a few nasty hours of vomiting, during which she was attended to by her worried mother. Carol refused to visit her sister’s sickroom. What if she came down with whatever bug had felled Bonnie? There was no way she was going to miss that bus out of town.
As far as the sixty-two-year-old Bonnie knew, Carol never suspected her sister of the sabotage and the subterfuge. She would die before she would ever admit to either.
With a sigh of frustration, Bonnie threw the rumpled sheet from her legs and got out of bed. Sleep, a restful one, was not going to happen now.
Visiting the past was dangerous, she thought as she stuck her feet in her ancient fuzzy slippers. What if you couldn’t make your way back to the present?
What then?
Chapter 66
Carol was thinking about her daughter. She was far too realistic to consider Nicola’s hesitation to commit to the Peace Corps a reaction to her mother’s settling in Yorktide. Stay home to be close to Mom? No.
Still, Carol wondered what was going on. Asking would be futile. She would just have to be patient and accept the possibility that Nicola’s thoughts might always be strictly her own. Like whatever had been going through her daughter’s mind when they parted company outside the Daffy Duckling. Nicola had stepped aside before hurrying off, almost as if she had expected her mother to reach out for a hug, the one thing she wanted most of all to avoid.
Well, Carol told herself as she parked outside Judith’s house, life was never simple. It just never was.
Carol found her cousin in the backyard. Bonnie was with her. Carol was startled; she felt a sort of buzzing in her head. How had she not seen her sister’s car out front?
“I didn’t know you’d be here,” she said.
Bonnie shifted awkwardly in her seat. “I was in the neighborhood and . . .”
“We’ve just been discussing this year’s Fourth of July shindig at Ferndean.” Judith gestured for Carol to take a seat at the table, on which sat a pitcher of iced tea and several glasses.
Carol sat and poured herself a glass of tea. She hoped there wasn’t sugar in it. She felt jumpy enough already.
“You haven’t been in Yorktide for a holiday in a very long time, have you, Carol?” Bonnie asked in a barely repressed accusatory tone of voice.
“You know I haven’t,” Carol replied evenly. She would not be baited.
Bonnie sighed. “Holidays in the old days were always so much fun. Remember how everyone contributed a dish, potato and fruit salads in the summer, casseroles and pies in the winter. And except for church on Christmas and Easter, nobody bothered to dress up, except for Mrs. Harrison, who wore those ancient, tattered ball gowns everywhere. She was always leaving a trail of broken sequins and torn lace in her wake.”
Judith shuddered. “I used to wonder if the gowns were gruesome reminders of lost loves, like Miss Havisham’s decaying wedding dress.”
“I asked her about her clothes once,” Carol said. “Some of them were actually couture pieces. A few were by Charles James and she even had a Schiaparelli. She wasn’t entirely clear on how she’d come by the dresses—I think her mind had been going for some time before that—but she appreciated my interest.”
“The point is,” Bonnie said in an unnecessarily loud voice, “that parties around here—at least, our sort of parties—aren’t fancy affairs. This year’s Fourth of July party . . .”
Suddenly, Bonnie reached for her napkin and held it to her eyes. Carol squirmed.
“It’s okay,” Judith said, patting her co
usin’s hand. “Hosting for the first time without Ken will be a challenge.”
“Excuse me.” Bonnie got up from her chair.
“Poor thing,” Judith said when Bonnie had disappeared into the house. “Being on her own is still so new. And I know the cost of giving the party isn’t insignificant. She must be thinking about how she can cut corners without people really noticing.”
Carol considered. This might be a chance for her to be of real benefit to her family. “I’d like to contribute something,” she said. “Take some of the burden off Bonnie.”
“Fantastic,” Judith said enthusiastically. “What do you have in mind?”
“Well, I could pay for the food, the drinks, whatever it is Bonnie and Ken used to provide.”
Judith shook her head. “Bonnie won’t like it. You know how proud she is.”
Carol did know. “But I can still offer.”
“And I can’t stop you. Any other ideas?”
Carol thought for a moment. “We could set up a sort of art studio on the lawn. You know, easels and palettes with a selection of paints and brushes. A friend of mine who lives in the Hamptons did something very similar and it was a huge hit. We could end the day with someone judging whose painting is the best and whose is the worst.”
Judith cleared her throat. “Let me get this straight. You want people to paint pictures during the party.”
“Exactly. Maine has a long history of artists’ colonies. For years, people have journeyed here to make art. I think it will be fun.”
“I’ll tell you what’s fun,” Judith said, lowering her voice, though Bonnie still had not returned. “At least, what Bonnie and Ken’s circle think is fun. Eating hot dogs. Drinking beer. Playing horseshoes. More eating and drinking. Then heading to one of the evening fireworks displays. Not painting en plein air.”
“Mark my words,” Carol said. “My idea will be a hit.”
“You’re not also handing out black berets and Gauloises cigarettes, are you?” Judith asked wryly.
“Very funny.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Carol spotted Bonnie walking toward them.
“Sorry,” Bonnie said, taking her seat. Carol noticed there was no trace of a tear on her face. “What did I miss?”
“Carol wants to help out with the party,” Judith said.
Bonnie frowned. “How?” she asked bluntly.
“I’d like to pay for your contribution to the festivities. Well, it could be considered our contribution, yours and mine. Just tell me how much you think the food and drink will cost.”
“No,” Bonnie stated. Her face was flushed. “Absolutely not. Ken and I never—Just no.”
“But as cohost I have a duty to—”
Judith shot Carol a look that said, Don’t push it. Maybe, Carol thought, she shouldn’t have used the term cohost.
“Well, then,” she said, “I have another idea.” And she explained. “It was a lot of fun to see who could actually draw and who was still at a kindergarten level.”
Bonnie’s lips tightened to a very thin line.
“It won’t work,” she said dismissively. “You’ll be wasting your money on all that stuff, paint and easels and whatnot.”
Carol took a calming breath and a sip of the iced tea. That buzzing in her head had returned. “I’m not worried about the money,” she said after a moment.
“What if it rains?” Judith asked.
“Then we’ll move the easels inside and people can paint portraits or still lifes,” Carol said.
“Absolutely not,” Bonnie stated. “We’ve never done anything like that and we’re not going to start now.”
“Why are you so opposed to trying something new?” Carol asked almost desperately.
“If it isn’t broken, it doesn’t need fixing.”
“I’m not saying your party plan is broken,” Carol protested. “I’m just offering to help.”
“If I may intervene,” Judith said loudly. “Bonnie, why don’t you do what you do best, and, Carol, you contribute your bit and as long as there’s plenty of food and booze, I’m sure everyone will have a good time.”
“All right,” Bonnie said after a moment. Her tone was begrudging. “And you can help with other things, too, if you really mean it. Like cleanup.”
Carol nodded. “Thank you,” she said.
She didn’t stick around for long after that. She felt worn out by the latest encounter with her sister. Why did Bonnie always have to be so difficult? As Carol maneuvered her car away from the curb in front of her cousin’s house, she became aware of a new burning itch on the left side of her neck.
“Damn it,” she muttered. Stress always brought on her eczema, and sometimes psoriasis and hives, as well. And people thought she was an expert at being calm as the proverbial cucumber. Well, appearances could be deceiving.
Carol forced her mind to concentrate on driving. She would stop for another tube of cortisone cream on the way back to Ferndean and call her dermatologist when she arrived. Dr. Foss could have a prescription medicine sent on.
And then, Carol would take a nap. After making a call to an art supply house.
Chapter 67
Nicola was seated at a picnic table on the grounds of Pine Hill Residence for the Elderly, a medical journal open before her, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and an apple next to that. It was a lovely day. The temperature was hovering around eighty, and there was enough of a breeze to cause her hair to flutter against her neck.
But Nicola was not happy.
She didn’t know why she had to remember that awful time now. Well, of course, she did. Sophie had asked about her troubled past in New York and Nicola had told her.
But not everything.
Not about what she had done to her mother’s assistant.
Though Nicola’s encounters with Ana had been few and far between, she had always been acutely jealous of the woman she viewed as a rival for her mother’s attention. It had all come to a very ugly head one afternoon about three weeks after Carol’s surgery.
The twenty-five-year old Nicola literally squirmed. She was still appalled that she could have been so horrid to another human being.
Ana had come to the apartment to save Carol the trouble of traveling to the office. Carol Ascher hadn’t been right since coming home from the hospital. She had little energy; she was in constant pain; she slept badly and had no appetite. Nicola was frightened. Whatever was really going on was being kept a secret. She hadn’t even been allowed to visit her mother in the hospital.
Ana was tall and slim. She dressed a lot like her boss in tailored pieces in neutral colors. Her jewelry was simple and expensive, just like Carol Ascher’s. Sometimes Ana even sounded like Carol Ascher. Nicola wondered if her mother’s right-hand woman ever had a thought of her own. Probably not.
Ana stood in the center of the living room, a large black case in one hand, a small black bag slung over her shoulder. She greeted Nicola with a smile. “It’s nice to see you again,” Ana said. Sucking up to the boss’s daughter, Nicola thought. Nice try.
Nicola did not return the greeting. Instead, she slowly circled Ana, her arms folded across her chest. When she had completed her inspection, she stopped directly in front of her mother’s assistant.
“Your nose is huge,” she said. “You should get a nose job.”
Ana, whose nose was indeed big, but in a way reminiscent of the magnificently elegant Anjelica Houston, didn’t even flinch. Instead, she smiled blandly at her employer’s daughter. “I’ll take your advice into consideration,” she replied.
Suddenly, Carol Ascher was in the doorway. “Nicola,” she said firmly as she came into the room. “Apologize this minute.”
Nicola had shrugged. “Why? It’s not like I lied.”
“You were rude to my guest. Apologize now.”
“I won’t apologize for telling the truth,” Nicola replied.
With a look of disgust—that was how Nicola had read it—Carol Ascher waved h
er hand in her daughter’s direction. “Go to your room,” she said.
Nicola had been absolutely shocked that her mother would take Ana’s side over hers. She realized that she was shaking and that she felt like she was going to vomit. “But, Mom—” she began to protest.
Too late. Her mother, followed by her assistant, was leaving the room. A moment later Nicola heard the door to her mother’s office close behind them.
Nicola felt humiliated. And angry. Until she hit upon the idea of retaliation. She would force her mother to notice her. She would force her mother to realize just how much she loved her daughter and to feel sorry that she had ever scolded her in front of her precious, big-nosed assistant.
One of the girls at school gave Nicola a few tips on how to tell the story to achieve maximum pity. It was a performance worthy of an Oscar. Until it wasn’t.
Nicola arrived home one afternoon a few days after the incident with Ana with her hair a knotted mess, a scrape on her cheek, and a tear in the arm of her jacket. She had never faked tears before but somehow, they came the moment she saw her mother. She claimed to have been attacked on her way home from school. No, she hadn’t seen the faces of the two men who had grabbed her; one put a hand over her eyes. They had dragged her into an alley. Where? She didn’t remember where. Everything was all muddled. She had tried to scream, but they had stuffed a dirty rag in her mouth. She had kicked out and hit one of them in the leg. Then they had tried to tear her clothes off, but she had struggled.
There was more of the same. But as Nicola talked on she began to flounder. The details she had rehearsed slipped away. Her mother’s look of concern slowly morphed to a frown of suspicion. Was the scrape on her cheek too obviously self-inflicted? Were her tears, now forced, losing effect?
Finally, Nicola broke down. Nothing had happened to her. It was all her mother’s fault. Why had her mother embarrassed her in front of Ana? What was wrong with her mother? Why didn’t she like any of her daughter’s friends? She was always punishing her for nothing. Why didn’t her mother just leave her alone?
The whole sorry scene ended with Nicola running off to her room. She didn’t come out for dinner. No one came to get her. When she crept out to the kitchen the following morning, warily, unsure of what she would encounter, she found a note. Her mother had gone to the office. The housekeeper would be in later. Nicola poured a bowl of cold cereal and congratulated herself for having gotten through the latest debacle unscathed.
All Our Summers Page 22
