Between Husbands and Friends (15 page)

The sailboat skipped over the choppy water as we sped between the cut in the Jetties and out toward the northeastern part of the island and the wide Atlantic. High above us the August sky spread in cloudless blue, but toward the northeast whipped-cream clouds were piling up. Dozens of motorboats and sailboats dotted the horizon like a million Monet canvases flickering in the wind.

Everything was new to me and excitingly unfamiliar: the rough bite of line as I sheeted in the jib, the impatient flap of the sails, like wings of a great bird lifting off into the sky, the greed of the boat to move, so that it seemed we spent as much time reining it in as letting it go.

Chip was totally engrossed in the sail and infinitely patient with me as I bumbled around taking directions from him, usually having to ask him what he meant. The wind was capricious and unsettled, blowing steadily, suddenly gusting. We skipped across the waves, the bow lifting
and falling wildly in the churning water. The low green and gold shoreline raced past us as we headed out into water that was the rich, brilliant blue of great depth. I was secretly afraid, and very grateful that we hadn’t tried to bring the children.

Chip sat out hard on the side of the boat, using his weight to balance the heeling of the vessel. He was grinning from ear to ear. It occurred to me that I’d never seen him look quite so young and happy. The stiff restraint with which he carried himself at all times had lifted off, and he was moving fluidly. He was exactly where he wanted to be, and it was exciting to see him. Exciting and oddly intimate. This was a man I didn’t know; this was his secret heart, exposed.

If Kate weren’t my best friend, if I weren’t so happily married … I slammed the lid tight on the thought.

When I looked back at the water, I saw that it had darkened, had become as indigo blue as the sky just before night falls. I looked up. Storm clouds were advancing toward us like an implacable battalion, bearing the wind. The dark surging sea frothed with whitecaps. All at once I was frightened.

“We should go back!” I shouted at Chip.

He looked surprised. It was as if he’d forgotten I was there. I saw him evaluate the situation. The wall of clouds rolled relentlessly forward, blocking out the sun. The air grew chill. The water deepened to a green-black.

“Right,” he said. “Ready about. Hard-a-lee.”

I scrambled for the next few moments, ducking under the boom, then settling back and sheeting in the jib sheet. We planed across the water, the waves slapping against the bow. We were far from shore now, but speeding back, and I grew a little more comfortable as the land enlarged.

Rain began to fall in large, fat, icy drops. The wind whipped it sideways so that it stung my skin. A gust came roaring up, Chip yelled something at me that the wind ripped away, and the little boat lifted up on the crest of a wave, rode the air for a few wild moments, tilted sideways, and plummeted toward the water. This was way past my experience with sailing, and I was frightened, but Chip was laughing.

“This is great, isn’t it?” he yelled, and was too busy with the boat to wait for my response.

I wrapped my arms around myself. If I were on land, I’d love this. This was the sort of weather that drew Margaret and me from the house in our rubber boots and rain slickers to dance along the beach, stretching our arms out for maximum impact from the wind, throwing our heads
back to catch raindrops in our mouths, shrieking with exhilaration.

Now I hunkered down in the cabin, cold and wet and worried. It was a relief to see all the other boats heading in; we looked like a regatta. When we slipped back through the cut in the Jetties and entered the calmer waters of the harbor, I felt my muscles unclench. If I had to, I could swim from here to shore. In only moments we were back at Chip’s rented buoy. I helped Chip lower and roll the sails. We took a launch back to shore, where I actually thought about kissing the ground.

As we walked to the car, Chip hugged me against him with one arm, a side-by-side, jovial, comradely sort of hug. “How’d you like that?”

“It was a little too much for me,” I confessed.

“Were you frightened?” he asked as we arrived at the car.

I nodded. The weather had changed so quickly; when we came out I’d worn only a bathing suit and a T-shirt, both of which were completely wet. I found a towel in the backseat and wrapped it around my shoulders like a shawl.

“God, I’m sorry, Lucy.” Chip turned on the heating, even though he seemed perfectly comfortable in only his wet swimsuit and visored cap. “I grew up sailing. I forget that it’s not second nature to everyone else.”

“You really love it, don’t you?”

“It’s a lifesaver.”

This admission knocked the breath out of me. I’d known the Cunninghams for two years now. Max and I had shared countless meals with Chip and Kate, and many August nights and days we’d all lived together in the Nantucket house like one big family. I knew when Kate was premenstrual; I knew what television shows gave Matthew nightmares; but I knew very little, really, about Chip. About Chip in the first person, as opposed to Chip, husband of Kate, about whom I did know a little. I knew that most men were not like Max, like Max in his normal, real self. Most men did not talk so readily and often and enthusiastically about whatever it was that was on their minds. But Chip was especially reserved, which seemed odd, given his profession. Or perhaps it was because of his profession that he was so reluctant to discuss private matters.

“A
lifesaver
?” This implied that his life was in need of saving. That perhaps he didn’t like his work, or something, as well as I’d thought.

He hesitated, then said, “Sailing is straightforward. Like working on the farm or riding. Pure action. No words. I get sick of words.” Chip stretched out an arm and turned on the radio. “Let’s see what the forecast is. Looks like a real storm is settling in.”

That was as close as I was going to get to Chip today, I thought lazily. The heater blew warm air onto my goose-bumped skin. Torrents of rain cascaded down, drumming on the roof of the car, spraying the windows. The windshield wipers ticked steadily, soothing pendulums in a turbulent world. I considered asking Chip if he and Kate were having problems, but decided against it. The tension between them was no worse than it had been at times between me and Max. I was Kate’s friend; she would confide in me if she wanted me to know anything.

But,
lifesaver
? I was fascinated.

That next weekend the men did not come down, and Kate and I went to the Muse. I danced until my clothes were transparent with sweat and my hair clung to my skull. At midnight I drove home alone. This time I fell asleep without fretting about Kate, but I did wake up and look at the clock when I heard the front door open and close.

Five-thirty.

The sun was up. Its light was dazzling. Birds were yammering away in the yard like maniacs. I pulled my pillow over my head and went back to sleep.

“I don’t see why you’re so upset,” Kate said.

Our voices were low and reasonable, because the M&Ms were near. We could have been discussing our fall wardrobe.

It was raining. Matthew and Margaret had built a fort in the dining room out of chairs turned on their sides with blankets and pillows over them. Kate and I sat in the kitchen over coffee.

“For one thing, it makes me feel odd,” I said. “It makes me feel I don’t understand you. Don’t
know
you. For another, I hate keeping secrets from Max.”

“How can you not understand me? You of all people in the world should understand me. Don’t tell me you never lust after any other men.”

“Well, of course I do, but I don’t act on—”

“Don’t tell me that sometimes you don’t regret marrying so young.”

“You know I feel that way sometimes.”

“Don’t tell me you don’t get sick of being so damned good.”

Margaret and Matthew came into the kitchen. My daughter still wore her pink nightgown and her brown hair curled wildly up and outward like the tendrils of some sun-starved plant. Matthew wore his Red Sox jersey and his
Star Wars
pajama bottoms.

“Mom, can we take the pillows off your bed?” They chorused their question simultaneously.

“Sure,” Kate and I replied.

“Yay!” The children raced off for the stairs.

I said, “I do get sick of being good, Kate. But that doesn’t mean I really want to be bad.”

“And you think that sleeping with someone other than my husband makes me bad.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You implied it.”

“I don’t know what I think, Kate, except that it makes me uncomfortable and worried.”

“Maybe because you want to sleep with another man, too. Maybe because the corollary is knowing that Max would like to sleep with another woman.”

“Kate, we’d all like to sleep with other people. The point is that we don’t. Once we’re married, we don’t. Just like, once we’re adults, we don’t live on a diet of chocolate, vodka, and corn chips.”

Kate smirked. “That reminds me.” She rose, went to the freezer, and took out a Dove bar.

“I worked off so many calories last night, I deserve this.”

“I don’t want to know the details.”

“I meant dancing.”

“Oh.” After a moment, I got a Dove bar, too. I sat down across from Kate. The M&Ms were dragging pillows into the dining room and into their fort. I watched for a moment, remembering the completely consuming joy of being five years old and constructing a fantasy world. The satisfaction of a shadowy cave with imaginary lions outside and a pillow smelling of my own scent next to me. A carpet as a jungle floor, a crystal pool, a pit of vipers. Being thrilled with fear, and at the same time profoundly safe.

I had lost all that, the bliss of a pretend world. I had grown up.

“Kate,” I said. “I lied. I do want to know the details.”

She told me, while we licked the melting chocolate and the sugary ice cream.

It’s our third day on Nantucket, and when I awake to the summons of the alarm clock, I lie for a moment watching the breeze billow the white cotton curtains, filling the room with the fragrance of salt and roses. I stretch, feeling happy and relaxed in every vertebra and cell.

One of the many familiar pleasures of our August vacations is the unscheduled pace of our waking. Unlike the nearly synchronized routine of our work and school day mornings, when we all have to be dressed, fed, and out of the house by a certain precise moment, our Nantucket mornings belong to each of us. We can rise early and jog down to the ocean or sit with a cup of coffee and a novel on the back porch or stroll into town for a huge breakfast. If the men are here, a delicate languor suffuses the air as Kate and I tiptoe from our bedrooms to let the men sleep late, or lie in bed talking to our husbands in whispers that make the moment richly intimate.

All the children become sloths, twisted in their sheets, snoring, twitching, or as still as statues. Usually the Littlies, Abby and Jeremy, wake first, with puffy faces and damp hair, to wander into the kitchen or onto the porch, yawning jaw-cracking wide yawns, and crawl into someone’s lap, their bodies warm with heat and sleep. Then Margaret rises, showers, and dresses, bringing into any room she enters the sweet light floral fragrance of her perfume. Finally Matthew stumbles down the hall, Neanderthal man not yet evolved, not capable of evolving until after breakfast. If he devours last night’s pizza, cold, for breakfast in front of the television, we let him, because once he eats, he really wakes up, and usually he’s the first one to announce that it’s time to head for the beach. According to the weather, we unhurriedly plan our day, a day built around sunshine and families and friendship and pleasure.