All Our Summers

by Holly Chamberlin

  “I had no idea you second-guessed your decision,” Bonnie said, eyes wide.

  For a moment, Carol didn’t know how to respond. Had Bonnie really thought anyone who did something as crazy as move from a sleepy little town to a major metropolis at the age of nineteen would not have second thoughts?

  “Well, my doubts weren’t something I was proud of,” Carol said finally, “and certainly not something I was going to admit to the people back home in Yorktide.”

  “Even your family?” Bonnie said.

  “Telling family would have made the shame worse.” Nicola shrugged. “At least, that’s what I would have felt.”

  Carol nodded. “Exactly. Anyway,” she went on, “one day I was roaming the home furnishings department in Bloomingdale’s. Bloomingdale’s was pretty important back then; even Queen Elizabeth visited and designers like Ralph Lauren got their first really big opportunities there. It was a regular stop in my week, off the dirty, crime-ridden streets and into the cool and relative quiet of an important retail experience. I’d spend hours taking note of colors and fabrics, observing what piece of furniture worked next to another and what pieces didn’t. Sometimes, I’d even subtly rearrange displays of table trinkets. The salespeople knew me and as soon as they’d seen I wasn’t there to make trouble they mostly left me alone to . . . well, to dream I suppose.”

  Nicola laughed. “You were lucky they didn’t call the police on you!”

  “I wouldn’t have had the nerve to hang around without having the money to buy something,” Bonnie admitted.

  “That’s me,” Carol said with a laugh. “Always pushing boundaries. Or maybe it was the reckless bravery of youth. Anyway, that particular day I was wearing a Mary Quant dress I had found in a resale shop in the Village. I’d been poking around among the lamps and side tables for about a half hour when this exceedingly well-dressed man approached me, thinking I was a salesperson, and asked if I could show him the new line of sofas. I wasn’t even flustered. In that moment, I believed I was an employee of Bloomingdale’s and I immediately began to act like one. It was only after he asked for detailed information on the pieces, like what other fabrics and colors were available, that I realized I was in trouble. Suddenly, the manager of the department was hurrying over, wringing his hands, apologizing effusively to Mr. Spencer—that was my customer’s name it seemed—for any inconvenience. Then he turned to me with a look that could have killed and said, “Do you know who this is you have been bothering? This is Mr. Spencer, the celebrated interior designer.”

  “How embarrassing!” Bonnie cried.

  “I was shaking in my shoes,” Carol admitted. “I’d never seen a picture of the famed Mr. Spencer, so how was I supposed to know who he was? Mr. Spencer spoke up then and soothed the manager, and then asked me to accompany him to the store’s restaurant—there was one for the wealthier customers, white linen tablecloths and ladies who lunched dressed in the heavy-hitter designers, Givenchy and Chanel—and though I was in a bit of a daze, I went along and over tea and scones he asked about me. Where I was from. Why I had come to New York. Did I have a job? At the end of our meal he offered me a place in his studio.”

  “You didn’t wonder if he was just a guy on the make?” Nicola asked.

  “Not for a moment,” Carol said. “He was a gentleman. He just wasn’t the type to use and abuse people, you could see that right away. And the deference in which he was regarded by the embarrassed manager and the way he was greeted by so many of those wealthy, elegant ladies at lunch—he was Somebody. The very next morning I showed up for work at his studio on Seventh Avenue. And that’s where my real education and career began.”

  “You’ve had a charmed life,” Nicola said with a smile.

  How little Nicola knew! Then again, Carol thought, whose fault was that? “In some ways, yes,” she said. “In other ways, I paid my dues and then some.”

  “We all do.” Bonnie looked at Carol with an expression of—what? Conciliation? “You never know someone until you’ve walked a mile in their shoes.”

  “No one is only what she appears to be,” Carol said with a smile for her sister.

  “Why didn’t you ever tell us this story before?” Nicola asked.

  “I don’t know,” Carol admitted. It was the truth. Could she have remained silent because she didn’t think her family would be interested? Or had she thought that sharing the story of her good fortune would be seen as bragging about her connections to the rich and famous?

  “Where is this Mr. Spencer now?” Bonnie asked.

  “He died in 1991. He was a victim of the AIDS crisis.” Carol shook her head. “That was a horrible time in New York. So many sick and dying. Such talented lives cut short. I likely would have been chewed up and spit out of the city like countless other young dreamers if not for Mr. Spencer. Luck plays a part in life, or fate or chance, call it what you will. Maybe charm is the term, like Nicola said.”

  “This is kind of off the subject,” Nicola began, “but maybe not really. We had this speaker at Pine Hill the other day and she was talking about women and their relationship to work. She said what’s important about working is not only the financial reimbursement for services rendered, but also the real fulfillment we get from whatever it is we do. At one point, she used this great phrase, ‘kin keeping,’ to describe what women—well, mostly women—do so well, keeping the family close and in touch, whether it’s by sending birthday cards or calling the grandparents on a regular basis or organizing family reunions.” Nicola shrugged. “I guess I’m only now beginning to realize how important that job is.”

  Carol was silent. Kin keeping was not something she had known how to do or, to be truthful, had wanted to do. Maybe it wasn’t too late to learn from Bonnie, clearly a master.

  “The speaker also said this really fantastic thing,” Nicola went on. “She said, ‘A successful woman is one who can build a firm foundation with bricks others have thrown at her.’ ”

  Carol felt her heart leap. “That’s one of my favorite quotes,” she said. “I’ve used it a thousand times when talking to other women, old and young, about crafting a meaningful life.”

  “Maybe,” Bonnie put in, looking from Carol to Nicola, “the apple hasn’t fallen that far from the tree after all.”

  Nicola nodded. “We do share DNA. All three of us.”

  At that moment, Carol felt closer to her sister and daughter than she had felt all summer. As tears threatened, she reached quickly for the pie server. “We do, indeed,” she said. “Now, who wants a piece of this gorgeous cherry pie?”

  The party broke up not long after. When her guests had gone, Carol put away the rest of the food and loaded the new, energy-efficient dishwasher. She believed that the afternoon had been a great success. She had sensed no underlying tensions; perhaps they had been there but were simply being kept under control. That was all right.

  Carol glanced around the kitchen. She remembered her mother saying grace before each meal. She remembered her father having a glass of milk with his lunch and a glass of ginger ale with his dinner every day of every week. She remembered her sister scarfing her food in order to get to dessert sooner rather than later. She remembered them all laughing.

  And Carol? What had she been doing?

  She had been counting the minutes until she was free to be somewhere else.

  Chapter 95

  Nicola was stretched out on her bed, the fan aimed at her neck and chest, several books tumbled around her. She always slept with books in the bed. They were excellent companions, day or night.

  It was about nine o’clock. Her mother had sent her home earlier with half of a cherry pie and Nicola had eaten a slice for her dinner. She hadn’t been all that hungry, not after eating two big sandwiches for lunch. Followed by that scrumptious pie.

  But the best part of the afternoon had been listening to her mother’s story of meeting Mr. Spencer, her guardian angel. Envisioning her mother as a twenty-one-year-old pretending to be someone
she was not but hoped one day to be . . . The image made her smile. Carol Ascher had always had pluck, guts, drive, call it what you will. It was admirable.

  No doubt about it, Nicola thought. Her relationship with her mother was improving, and she was glad for it. Her mother, the woman who had given her life—along with that anonymous sperm donor, whoever and wherever he was. Did men like her father ever regret not knowing their own flesh and blood? And if they didn’t—why? How did you casually contribute to the making of a new life and then walk away?

  Nicola didn’t want to judge or condemn. She did want to understand, but that might never happen. What she did know—and was maybe coming to understand, just a bit—was her mother. And she felt more hopeful than ever that Carol and Bonnie could mend fences and come to an amicable agreement about Ferndean House and, more importantly, about their future as sisters.

  Suddenly, Nicola recalled her mother reminding her of all the things she had left behind in their New York City home. That statue from Paris. Toys. Books. Photographs. Maybe, Nicola thought, she would use her upcoming vacation days to visit the place of her birth. It felt important somehow to focus on what was in front of her in the present—her family—rather than on a future in a far-off place like Eastern Europe.

  To keep her kin.

  She remembered, however, what her mother had said about keeping her intentions to herself until she was one hundred percent sure of her commitment. So, she would say nothing but continue to imagine walking into the apartment where she had spent many happy years watching scary movies with her mother on the big-screen television in the library; decorating the Christmas tree in the living room while her mother hung wreaths on doors and draped greenery across mantelpieces; hanging out in the kitchen while her mother prepared dinner, regaling her with tales of what had happened at school that day.

  For a very long time it had all been very good. It was important to remember that.

  Nicola reached for a book—it almost didn’t matter which one—adjusted the fan, and scooted down in the bed to read.

  And to dream.

  Chapter 96

  People. Real Simple. Vogue. Julie chose the current issue of O. The waiting rooms in which she usually found herself had awful options. But this waiting room was different. There was a refreshment station offering herbal teas, enhanced water, and refreshing spritzers. The music playing was low and melodic. The temperature was perfect.

  Julie was treating herself to a massage at a salon in a town ten miles from Yorktide. A professional wouldn’t make (or think?) disparaging remarks about her body. And Julie very much needed a healing touch, especially after the emotionally fraught scene that had taken place a few nights earlier.

  Sophie had gone to a party given by one of the junior counselors. Ten o’clock, Sophie’s curfew, came and went. Julie had sent her a text, asking if she was okay. Sophie’s response had been brief and vague.

  Waiting for my ride.

  Be home soon.

  It’s cool.

  For the first time in months, Scott and Julie, husband and wife, father and mother, had stood together in parenting. They were worried. They were annoyed. Scott blamed himself.

  “I shouldn’t have allowed her to go,” he said, shaking his head as he paced the living room. “It’s that crowd. They’re trouble. She’s never ignored her curfew before.”

  “It isn’t your fault,” Julie had told him, half surprised that she was reassuring her errant husband. “Besides, we don’t know for sure that anything is wrong.” But her stomach had been in knots.

  Sophie had tiptoed in near midnight. She was surprised to find her parents waiting for her.

  “I thought you’d be in bed,” she said, nervously tucking her hair behind her ear.

  Scott had frowned. “You thought wrong.”

  “We trusted you to act responsibly,” Julie added. “You betrayed that trust. If your ride went missing, you should have called us and we would have come to get you.”

  Sophie had turned to Scott. “Dad,” she said, with a whine she often used when she wanted something from her father, “you know how it is when you’re having a good time and—”

  But Scott was having none of it. “I’m one hundred percent with your mother on this,” he said firmly. “You’re grounded for one week. You can go to work and you’ll come right home.”

  There had been tears. There had been words to the effect that Julie and Scott were the most unfair parents in the world.

  When Sophie was safely in her room, Scott had turned to Julie with a small smile. “Well, she hates us. Again.”

  “But we did the right thing,” Julie said. For a passing moment, she was filled with tenderness and was tempted to ask him to sleep with her in their bed that night. But she had remained silent.

  “Julie?”

  Julie stood, dropping the magazine and clutching her bag to her chest. “Yes,” she said. “That’s me.”

  She followed the young woman who had come to fetch her down a corridor painted a pretty pale blue. She had felt guilty about spending the money on herself, but something her aunt had said helped to assuage that guilt. “What used to be called pampering is now called self-care,” Carol had told her over lunch at The Green Apple. “I think the term is more accurate. Learning how to take proper care of yourself can be a very hard lesson to learn. Start small. Treat yourself to a pedicure or a facial. Let the feeling good happen from there.”

  Julie was left in the dressing room to change into a plush white terrycloth robe and store her belongings in a locker. When she had done so she took a deep breath.

  She was ready for an adventure.

  * * *

  Scott’s car was in the drive when Julie returned home. As she walked through the front door he came hurrying from the kitchen.

  “Where were you?” he asked. “I was worried. You’re always here and—Wait. Your hair. It looks good. It looks great.”

  Julie smiled. “Thanks for noticing,” she said. So, it had been worth the last-minute decision to stop for a haircut and blowout after the massage.

  “I always notice you, Julie,” he said. “Always.”

  Julie knew this was true. It was why he had been so worried about her. He had been witness to her anguish. He hadn’t turned his back. In that moment, Julie felt a shiver of longing for her husband, her friend, her companion in life.

  Scott followed her into the kitchen.

  “I thought I’d make that Mexican dish you like,” Julie said. She didn’t look directly at Scott as she spoke. But her back wasn’t to him, either.

  “Are you sure it’s not too much trouble?” His voice betrayed an excitement that had nothing to do with food.

  “No trouble. I do need some things from the store, though.”

  “Make a list. I’ll run out right now.”

  Julie reached for the notepad she kept on the counter by the toaster oven. She thought about what Carol had said about self-care. The same message could hold for the care of a relationship.

  Start small. Let the feeling good happen from there.

  Chapter 97

  Bonnie had just finished cleaning the bedroom she had shared with Ken for so many years. His clothes still hung in the closet and sat in the bottom two drawers of the dresser. One day she would bring the best of the clothing to the charity shop in town. But not quite yet. She went across the hall to the bedroom that had once been Julie’s and then Nicola’s. It hadn’t been used since the last time Sophie had come for a sleepover. That must have been at least three years before, Bonnie thought sadly as she stood looking around at the yellow walls; at the narrow bed neatly made, with one of Bonnie’s own quilts folded across the foot; at the small desk one of Ken’s carpenter friends had made as a gift for Julie on her twelfth birthday. That was what she had wanted from her parents. A desk.

  Nicola had used the desk in her turn. Bonnie could almost see her niece there now, head bent over her homework. The vision was too bittersweet and Bonnie turned fr
om the room and went downstairs to the kitchen to make a cup of tea.

  She had enjoyed the time she had spent with Carol and Nicola at Ferndean the other day, in spite of her usual misgivings. What had been particularly moving to witness was the relative ease with which Carol and her daughter had interacted. Things had changed since the start of summer, when Nicola had adamantly refused even to see her mother, let alone to share a meal and conversation with her.

  There was no denying it, Bonnie thought, as she put water on to boil. Carol and Nicola were alike, maybe in more ways than they currently realized. Most obviously, they each had a passion and had committed to it. And that funny quote about women building something good from the bricks people had thrown at them. Both Carol and Nicola had responded to that so enthusiastically. It wasn’t impossible that over time they might grow closer, learn to accept their differences and celebrate their similarities.

  Bonnie truly hoped this would be the case.

  She did.

  Nicola was no longer a child. And she never had been Bonnie’s child. Sometimes, too often, Bonnie had forgotten that. She would force herself to remember this fact going forward. After all, she had her own child, and a grandchild. Her life had been a good one. She had no major regrets. She had never felt that she had been held back. She had lived a contented life. If she was given the chance she would do it all again—marry Ken, raise a child, care for her mother, and yes, even take in her niece.

  Kin keeping. That was valid work.

  Still, Bonnie thought, as she poured boiling water into a cup, maybe now was a good time for her to pay attention to herself.

  All of the other women in her family showed respect for their passions. Judith had her gardening. Carol was a talented designer. Nicola’s passion was for service. Julie’s vocation was teaching.

  And Bonnie’s passion was twofold, quilting and caregiving. They each brought joy and challenges. The question was, could she parlay either of those passions into a job that would earn her income, without losing the component of joy that was so essential?