Summer Beach Reads 5-Book Bundle: Beachcombers, Heat Wave, Moon Shell Beach, Summer House, Summer Breeze (134 page)

July 22, 1944

Darling Anne
,

Arrived safe and sound after a very boresome and uneventful trip. My location is a military secret as far as you are concerned so please do not attempt to locate me. If my mail ceases in the not-too-distant future you will know that I am on an extended fishing trip. I’ve never tried ocean fishing but expect to enjoy it.

I hope you and my parents are knocking around all right together. They will warm up, I promise you. I miss you constantly and dream of the days when we can start our married life together in a safe and free world.

With all my love
,
Herb

Anne carried Herb’s latest letter in the pocket of her trousers. She liked being able to reach in whenever she wanted to and feel the crisp folded paper. It was as if she were touching a bit of Herb, as if he were safe and alive in her keeping. Gwendolyn Forsythe, her immediate superior at Stangarone’s, had insisted that Anne take two weeks off that July. “You need a break, kid,” Gwen told Anne. “Don’t worry, the war won’t end without you.”

So Anne rode down to Woods Hole with her in-laws and took the ferry to Nantucket Island, where a friend of the Wheelwrights met them, loaded his car with their luggage, and drove them out to their summer home on Polpis Harbor.

It was a luxury to be here; Anne realized that at once. Back in Boston, the July air was punishingly muggy, and in spite of fans set on top of filing cabinets, the humidity made papers stick together, made hair frizz or hang lank, made tempers short. On the island, the air was also humid, but the temperature was almost ten
degrees cooler, and a light sea breeze stirred freshness into the atmosphere.

Anne was given the guest bedroom at the opposite end of the house from Herb’s parents. She set her suitcase on the needlepoint luggage rack, opened it, and started to put away her clothing. Then she shuffled through her things, dug out her black bathing suit, and stripped off her clothing. She pulled on her bathing suit, grabbed a towel from the bathroom, and ran down the stairs.

The housekeeper, Mrs. O’Hara, came into the hall, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Hello, Mrs. O’Hara! I’m going for a swim!” Anne announced.

“Yes, I can see that. Use the mudroom door when you return, so you don’t track sand in any farther than necessary.”

“Right.”
You old Puritan
,
Anne thought as she hurried into the living room, down to the French doors leading to the harbor side. She went through them, her bare feet touched on soft green grass, and she sighed with pleasure. The lawn was man-made and needed a lot of tending, for wild shrubs of bayberry and barberry and
Rosa rugosa
crowded in luxuriant untamed abundance down to the shore. A narrow boardwalk extended between these bushes—the boards were hot to the soles of Anne’s feet—and then she was at the water’s edge, her feet sinking into the warm sand, the sun blazing down on her, light shimmering everywhere. Across the harbor, several sailboats were anchored, and in the distance a motorboat grumbled along. She waded into the water and plunged off away from shore until the water was deep enough for swimming.

She stroked through the water, swimming until she was breathless; then she flipped over and floated, gazing up at the blue sky. Oh, how she’d missed this—the sense of open space and the solitude. And the sensual pleasure. She missed Herb. She didn’t think she’d been wrong to marry him—she loved him like crazy—but she thought perhaps she’d been wrong to marry him just before he went off to war. It was as if she were a wild horse who had found a mate with whom to gallop full speed, mane flying, over an endless
pasture, only to find herself suddenly inside a fenced corral, ruled by strangers cracking whips to make her obey.

Oh, come on, Anne told herself. You have it so tough, living in luxury while Herb is overseas with bullets flying over his head. Stop whining. Grow up.

But how she missed him! Their few times together had wakened her senses in ways she’d never expected. Plus she had so much to tell him. And she wanted to hear everything he had to tell her. Missing him was a kind of pain, almost a grief. She remembered his long legs, his wide shoulders, his deep laugh, the sweet breath of his kiss. She needed that. She needed that again, and
now.
And he was so far away. She didn’t know where he was. She didn’t know when he would be coming home. She didn’t even know whether he would be coming home, and her heart ached with worry.

This, she told herself, is why you shouldn’t be alone in wide open spaces, because then you start worrying and remembering and you get maudlin and imaginative. Be a big girl, for heaven’s sake!

She swam back to shore, dried off, and walked back to the house.

“Would you like to see my garden?” Charity Wheelwright asked.

Anne smiled, pleased. “Yes, of course.” She had showered and dressed in a neat blue checked seersucker shirtwaist, slipped her feet into sandals, and pulled her hair into a chignon, to keep her neck cool. When she entered the living room, she found Charity Wheelwright seated by open French doors, working on a needlepoint sampler. The invitation surprised Anne and pleased her. Could there be an invitation more charming, more full of hope, than one to “my garden”? Now, perhaps, she’d discover her mother-in-law’s soft side. And Anne, who had never paid attention to flowers before, would learn all about gardening from her mother-in-law. She would carry on Charity’s gardening traditions! They would have a common pursuit to discuss!

Charity walked out onto the raked gravel. Anne followed. They
stood for a moment, blinking in the early evening sun. When Herb had introduced Anne to his parents, it had been winter, and they had not come out this way. As Anne looked about her, she saw high walls of crisply clipped privet hedge cut at natty, sharp right angles.

“The high hedges for privacy, you see,” Charity said.

Yes, Anne thought, you really need privacy out here on an island a thousand miles from anywhere, on an isolated chunk of land populated by deer, birds, and rabbits.

“Also,” Charity continued, “the hedges provide a sense of civilization and order in the midst of all this”—she waved her hand vaguely—“wilderness.”

Anne knew she had to say something appropriately complimentary. “Yes, I see,” was the best she could do.

Charity walked along the gravel path, and Anne dutifully followed. The hedged garden was essentially one long rectangle. Inside was another, shorter rectangle of privet, and inside that was yet another, even shorter privet box. At the center of all the boxes was a stone plinth and a small sundial.

Charity Wheelwright stood before it, smiling. “What do you think?”

Anne said, “It’s charming. Really charming.” Actually, she thought, it’s absurd, these rigid lines closing space in and in and in. She could see how it would be considered horticulturally interesting, and certainly it was unusual, but it made her feel claustrophobic. But if this was what made Charity Wheelwright happy, Anne would learn to love it, or at least admire it. She would do whatever would help bring peace between them. More than anything, Anne wanted peace.