Summer Beach Reads 5-Book Bundle: Beachcombers, Heat Wave, Moon Shell Beach, Summer House, Summer Breeze (136 page)

They were finishing dessert when Mee clutched Charlotte’s arm. “Look who’s here!” she squealed. “And he’s coming this way!”

Charlotte followed her cousin’s gaze and saw Whit Lowry walking across the room toward their table. His navy blue blazer made his dark hair and dark blue eyes flash. He made Charlotte think of a blue jay.

“Very dishy,” Oliver whispered into Charlotte’s ear.

“Talk to me!” Mee hissed at Charlotte, jerking her arm. “Say something funny!” Without waiting for Charlotte to speak, she tossed her blond hair and laughed trillingly.

“I didn’t know you had a crush on Whit,” Charlotte said softly, as Whit stopped at the head of the table to speak with Nona and Worth.

“Oh, Charlotte, duh. Everyone has a crush on Whit.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Well, I’m not saying I want to
marry
the man, although I sure wouldn’t turn him down. I’d just like the opportunity to—spend a night with him.”

“Well, you randy little thing,” Charlotte teased, and then Whit approached her.

He put a hand on the back of Mee’s chair, and a hand on the back of Charlotte’s. Bending close, he said, “Hey, Charlotte. Mee. Remember Devin O’Conner? He’s been in Tibet for the past year. He’s visiting us, and he’s got some fascinating tales. We’re having some people back to the house tonight, and I thought you might like to come over.”

“We’d
love
to,” Mee gushed. “Wouldn’t we, Charlotte?”

The Lowry house was an enormous old shingled Victorian off Cliff Road. The front door was open, and laughter and chatter floated out on the night air. Charlotte and Mee went up the steps, across the porch, and into the hall and followed the sounds to the back of the
house, where the party was gathered in a family room that opened onto the patio. Seated on sofas or leaning against walls or lounging on the rug, backs against a couch, were twenty or more friends they’d known forever. Mee left Charlotte to make a beeline for Whit. Charlotte went to the drinks table, poured herself a glass of seltzer, and joined the group around Devin O’Conner. Devin had been a short, muscular, energetic little boy, and now he was a short, muscular, energetic man whose flaming red hair had turned auburn since Charlotte had last seen him. His hair might have calmed down, but Devin himself was as enthusiastic as always, happy to be the center of attention, describing his trip with great flourish and drama. Charlotte allowed herself to be entertained for a while; then she grew bored and slipped away, out the door, into the fresh night air.

At the far end of the garden, a cluster of people were smoking, and the sweet smell of pot drifted through the night air, mingling with the stronger, darker smell of tobacco. In the brick wall delineating one edge of the property, a bronze cupid spilled water into a shallow pool. Charlotte sat on the low stone side of the pool basin, dipping her fingers in the cool water. It was after eleven. She should go home and get a decent night’s sleep. But Mee’s laughter bubbled from the party, and she didn’t want to spoil Mee’s fun.

“May I join you?”

She looked up. Whit stood there. He’d taken off his blazer, and his white shirt gleamed in the moonlight.

“Hi, Whit. Of course. Great party.”

He settled on the edge of the pool, carefully setting his glass next to him. “Devin is still the entertainer, isn’t he?” Whit leaned his elbows on his knees. “Charlotte, I’d like to talk to you about something.”

“Oh?” Charlotte was surprised at how her heart kicked. She’d always thought Whit was good-looking, but when she’d worked at the bank, she’d hated him, or at least resented him, Mr. Goody Please-the-Father Bank Boy. It was also true, she admitted to herself, that she’d felt he was judging her—and he
was
judging her, judging her ability to do the sort of work her mind could not seem to find engaging.

But out here, on this warm summer evening, with the fountain trickling its musical notes and laughter drifting on the air, she really
felt
that he was, as Oliver had said, absolutely
dishy.

Whit leaned closer to Charlotte and spoke in a low voice. “Oliver told me Teddy’s looking for a job.”

Charlotte gave a little snort. “The entire family’s looking for a job for Teddy. Except maybe Teddy.”

“Well, I think I’ve found the perfect thing for him. You know Gray Lady Antiques? On Centre Street?”

“Sure, although I’ve never gone in. The last thing we need out at Nona’s is another antique.”

“George Jameson and his wife, Audrey, own it. It’s got good stock, pricey but worth it. Well, Mom told me that George is having some surgery, prostate trouble, not uncommon for men his age, but he and Audrey will have to be going off-island a lot this summer. They need someone to run the shop.”

“And you think Teddy could do it?”

“Why not? He’s intelligent, friendly, well-spoken. The Jamesons know your parents and Nona; I’m sure they know Teddy, too.” Whit shifted on the pool’s edge. “I know Teddy might not want to work in retail, but he doesn’t have a college education or, as far as I can tell, any particular skills, so I’m not sure what sort of work he’s prepared for. The antique shop is classy, so Teddy might think it suits him more than—”

“—than selling T-shirts,” Charlotte finished for him, with a grin. “Whit, I think it’s a brilliant idea. You are so great to think of it!” Impulsively, she leaned over and pecked a kiss on Whit’s cheek.

Her action surprised them both. She felt her breath catch as Whit turned to look at her more fully. In the moonlight, his blue eyes seemed black and serious and compelling. She felt drawn to him—she felt
paired
with him—she felt spellbound, as if her spontaneous deed had been a kind of magic wand, and now they were enclosed together in a shimmering world of sensation; everything else in the world was distanced, muted, and all that mattered was this small magic sphere.

“Charlotte,” Whit said.

“Hi, guys!” Mee pranced up, her high heels clicking on the patio stone. “What are you two doing all alone out here?” With much flipping of her full skirt, Mee plopped down next to Whit, close to him. “Great party, Whit!”

“Actually, Mee, I was just saying goodbye.” Charlotte stood up. “I’m sorry, but I get up at four-thirty. I have to, to use all the daylight.”

Whit rose. He put his hand on her wrist, lightly. “I’m glad you came.”

“Well, I don’t want to go home yet.” Mee pouted. “I’m a free woman, I want to enjoy myself!” She waved her arms above her head. “I’d stay if I could get a ride home.” She smiled encouragingly at Whit.

“Perhaps Devin could drive you when he leaves,” Whit suggested.

“
Devin.
” Irritated, Mee jumped to her feet. “He’s a—a leprechaun.”

“Well, if you want a ride with me, you have to leave now,” Charlotte told her cousin.

“Oh, you are such a party pooper.” Mee sighed, made a face, then threw herself against Whit and kissed his mouth quickly. “Thanks for the invitation, Whit. It was fun!” Grabbing Charlotte’s arm, she pulled her toward the side of the house and the drive where Charlotte’s Jeep was parked. “See you!”

As Charlotte looked back, Devin’s younger sister Fiona came out of the house, heading toward Whit, her long curly red hair floating around her head, her body slim as a reed in a silk dress. She put a possessive hand on Whit’s arm.

“I thought you wanted to go home,” Mee snapped.

Charlotte realized she’d stopped walking, was standing there staring. “Right,” she said. “Right.” She forced herself to turn away, to walk with her cousin to the Jeep, to drive through the warm fragrant night to her lonely attic bed.

Oliver and Owen’s rehearsal dinner party, held at the yacht club, was a great success, but Helen was afraid, as she slid between the cool sheets of her sleeping-porch bed, that she had eaten too much. And perhaps had one too many glasses of celebratory champagne. She wanted to get a good night’s sleep, because tomorrow would be a memorable day. Tomorrow her older son would be married.

Lying on her side, she shoved and folded the pillow beneath her head, trying to ease her body so it would relax her mind.
Marriage.
What did it mean to Oliver, that he wanted to hold this ceremony with the man he loved? If nothing else, Helen was glad she had kept her silence about Worth’s affair over the past three weeks. That Oliver wanted to be married surely was a sign that he believed marriage was a worthwhile state, an enviable commitment, a circumstance graced with honor and hope. She did not want to stamp his days of joy with the imprint of his parents’ disillusion.

She flipped onto her back, rearranged her limbs, and still she was
uncomfortable. Rising, she padded across the floor to the little table holding her vanity items. She found the bottle of aspirin and her glass of water and took two pills. She stood for a moment, appreciating the fresh velvet night air, but she was too tired to stand for long. Was this going to be one of
those
nights, when her mind fretted and her muscles cramped and her brain pleaded for the relief of sleep but her body would not oblige, would not pull her under into sweet oblivion? Tomorrow was the wedding! She would be hollow-eyed, with dark bags on either side of her nose; she would be dizzy and short-tempered. She threw herself back onto the bed and tried to compose herself. Concentrate on happy moments, she instructed herself. Count your blessings.

When she met Worth, Helen had just graduated from college with a degree in art history. She’d taken a job working at a posh art gallery on Newbury Street while she tried to decide what she really wanted to do. An inheritance from her grandparents meant that she wouldn’t have to work at something she hated but could find the time to search out work she loved, whatever that would be. She enjoyed working in the gallery, especially when there was a new show to be hung and an opening to be organized and publicized and orchestrated.

One day in early summer, she was seated at the Chippendale writing desk, trying to look busy but really doodling on a notepad, when a tall man about her age walked in. He had thick gold hair, real gold, not light brown or strawberry blond, and eyes as blue as heaven. He wore a suit and tie, and his shirt was crisp, and he moved with a confident, comfortable stride, a man happy with himself and with life.

Helen rose and walked toward him. “May I help you?”

He smiled at her. She smiled at him. For a long moment they just looked at each other. He seemed to cast a magic circle, and she was included.

“Have we met before?” Worth asked.

Thank goodness she had chosen the sleek black dress and high heels today. “I don’t think so.” She couldn’t stop smiling at him.

“Well.” He seemed as stunned by her presence as she was by his. “Well,” he repeated, shaking himself, “I’m looking for a wedding present. For my sister, Grace.”

“Lovely! What sort of art does she like?”

He chuckled. “I’m not sure she likes any kind of art, actually. She’s more of an outdoor type. Loves sports. Big jock.”

“Ah. Does she sail?”

“She does.”

“We’ve got some lovely water scenes by a contemporary Impressionist.” She turned and walked into the back room, stopping in front of several large oil paintings.

In one painting, two people were silhouetted by the setting sun as they steered their sailboat toward a sandy shore.

“This might be nice,” Helen said. “Two people, together.” She turned to see how he was reacting to the painting.

He was looking at her.

He said, “Two people, together.”

She blushed.

“Look,” he said suddenly. “Who are you? I’m sure we’ve met before.”

“I really don’t think so,” she told him. “I’m sure I’d remember meeting you.”

“Yes. Yes—me, too. Well, how about a drink? Or let me take you out to dinner. Or lunch? Or tea?” He walked toward her.

The space between them shimmered. She was absolutely
dazzled.

“Breakfast?” he asked desperately, and they both laughed.

She agreed to have dinner with him that night. From that point on, they were a couple.

When she took him to Hartford to meet her parents, she worried that he might find them a little dull, because, in fact, they were. Her father was an executive at an insurance company and her mother was a homemaker and committeewoman, and both of them required a great deal of routine and tranquillity. This was the early seventies,
which Helen’s parents found more frightening than stimulating, and Worth, with his navy blazer and good manners, bowled them over. Helen was amazed at how easily he managed to create a conversation with her father, asking him about his opinions, his childhood, the insurance business, drawing him out. Helen learned things about her father that she’d never known before.

When Worth took her to meet his family, Helen felt like Dorothy in
The Wizard of Oz
—the black-and-white world became Technicolor. Worth’s family was so
active
and such a
tribe.
On Nantucket, they sailed together, played tennis together, swam together. Went on picnics together. Had parties together. In Boston, everyone except Worth’s mother, Anne, worked at the bank: Worth’s father, Herb; Worth himself; his sister, Grace; and her fiancé, Kellogg. Anne had a rule that no bank business could be discussed at home, and Helen could often see and feel the difference in Worth once he walked through the front door; he became lighter, brighter, happier. During the winter months, the family went north to ski, and at home in Boston on weekends, they would sit around the dining room table, playing poker or board games, or they’d gather in the kitchen to try out a new, complicated recipe. All the men cooked. That alone would have perplexed Helen’s father, who didn’t.