Summer Beach Reads 5-Book Bundle: Beachcombers, Heat Wave, Moon Shell Beach, Summer House, Summer Breeze (139 page)

May 1, 1945

Darling
,

Tonight I write you under candlelight and I am not green with envy, just short of paper, so I borrowed these sheets from my German host for the night. The family were just preparing supper when we moved in. I have to say the pan-fried potatoes left on the kitchen stove looked very tempting. The family left the food for us and moved out in their customary German rush when American troops told them their home would be used to billet troops. So I have a roof over my head. I don’t know how
long we’ll remain here. But now that the war is almost over I can give you a sketchy account of our activities since leaving the States.

We left New York on July 26 aboard the U.S.S.
William G. Mitchell
and debarked at Liverpool August 6. We went by train to South Wales. After living in the field for several days, we departed for Carmarthen to live in a tank camp near Pembroke. From September to November, we traveled via rough seas and complicated routes, listening to and ducking buzz bombs, until we finally hit combat in the northern flank of the Bulge with the 30th Infantry Division. Then we worked a long time with the 82nd Airborne Division, shoving the Jerries back within their famous Siegfried Line. I’ll never forget our bitter weather and the fighting during the latter part of December, January, and February. During this period I earned the Bronze Star.

Now we are up north and nearing the Baltic Sea and a linkup with the Russians and with the 8th and 82nd again. We are working with the 9th U.S. and 2nd British armies.

This information is not for all your friends or newspapers as yet; however, our folks can know.

My date for the cessation is May 7, and I pray the damn thing will be over before this letter reaches you. Fighting is sporadic and disorganized now; it is merely a matter of contacting the Krauts for them to surrender, and then we occupy the territory.

I suppose America was all agog over the big false, and unofficial news recently. I can’t see why people couldn’t wait for an official statement from General Eisenhower or President Truman. Now Americans will have to locate a new supply of liquor to celebrate officially. From reports received here, about all the celebration liquors were consumed.

Honey, I shall close now. This is not a romantic letter, but it does tell you why I haven’t written you for so long. I love you.

Herb

Anne didn’t receive the letter until early June. She wept with relief when she read it, even though by then the war in Europe was over. Herb was alive, that was what mattered; that was all that mattered. Soon they could begin their real lives.

The Stangarone Freight Company was busier than ever, as the Army of Occupation settled in Europe to deal with thousands of prisoners of war and even more thousands of displaced persons, families who had lost their homes, their communities, their real lives, and now were dependent on the relief offered by Americans. Food and supplies for the troops had to be shipped over the Atlantic, and now, in addition, the necessities for survival for everyone else.

When July rolled around, Gwendolyn Forsythe once again insisted that Anne take a two-week vacation, and once again Anne joined her in-laws in their old white whale of a summer house on Nantucket, but this time she felt restless and rebellious. She was tired of being around her hypercritical, unaffectionate, dull, and dreary in-laws and their rigid routine. She found some relief playing tennis or sailing at the yacht club, but even those activities did not bring real pleasure. She was only treading water, killing time, waiting for Herb to come home.

One morning as she sat on the patio sipping her third cup of coffee and listening to her mother-in-law run down the list of menus for the week, groceries that had to be bought, cocktail parties, luncheons, and bridge groups to be attended, Anne looked at the long rectangle of space closed in by tall privet hedges and thought she’d lose her mind.

“Mrs. Wheelwright?” Anne asked, because that was what her mother-in-law insisted she call her.

“Mmm.” Charity Wheelwright did not look up from her pad of paper.

“I’d like to do some gardening. Would you mind if I—”

“We have a gardener to attend to the hedges. You wouldn’t be able to do it properly anyway, Anne; there’s a real art to snipping them so they are straight and true.”

“Oh, of course; I didn’t mean that. I mean, I’d like to—fill a few pots with flowers and set them around, here and there.”

Charity Wheelwright gave Anne a look she couldn’t decipher. “Go ahead,” she said.

That was sufficient encouragement for Anne. She asked to borrow the car, found her purse, and soon she was driving across the island to Bartlett’s Farm. It was late in the season for planting, they told her, but they had a number of plants left, growing root bound in their terra-cotta pots. Anne went wild at the sight of so much color: vivid yellows, dreamy blues, explosive reds, cheerful whites. She got out her checkbook and loaded up the trunk of the car with daisies, geraniums, cornflowers, petunias, calendulas, black-eyed Susans, and, best of all, sunflowers, the pride of the Midwest. She bought wooden tubs and the largest terra-cotta pots she could find, and she bought bags and bags of potting soil.

Driving home, she found herself not just singing but absolutely bellowing out all the optimistic, hearty ballads she’d grown up singing during Girl Scout meetings or from a wagon piled with hay, drawn by horses, on the way to an autumn bonfire. “You Are My Sunshine,” and “Daisy, Daisy, Give Me Your Answer, Do,” and—for no reason except that it was so much fun to sing—“The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” With a flourish, she brought the car to a halt on the gravel drive and set her purchases near the mudroom, because she knew Charity Wheelwright would not want the mess of potting inside her hedged garden.

She got a late start. It was almost dark, and she had to content herself with the time-consuming matter of giving all the plants plenty of water. Her mother-in-law did not possess a watering can, so Anne found an old metal bucket, filled it at the outdoor spigot, and carried it to the flowers. By the time she’d soaked them all thoroughly, darkness had fallen, and suddenly she realized she’d missed the evening meal with her in-laws. In the kitchen, she washed her hands and prepared herself a plate of cold ham and potato salad, which she enjoyed with a glass of wine. Then, pleasantly exhausted, she brushed her hair and went into the living room to join Mr. and Mrs. Wheelwright by the large standing
radio. They all listened to
Fibber McGee and Molly
,
Jack Benny, and, finally, the last broadcast of the day’s news.

The day’s physical exertion had tired her, and for once she fell asleep easily, dreaming of sunny petals, emerald leaves. The next day she woke full of exuberance and plans. She pulled on her loose trousers, buttoned up a camp shirt, tied a scarf around her hair, and hurried downstairs and out the door, not bothering with breakfast or even coffee. All the plants waited for her, grouped together by the mudroom door, some of them already in bloom, others, like the sunflowers, still growing, their green stems and leaves vibrant in the sunlight.

She spent a good deal of time considering how she wanted to group them. All in one color massed together? But perhaps a mixture of colors would be more gay. She had never gardened before; she’d never had the interest. Her mother was her father’s right-hand man at the stockyards and limited her gardening to paying a gardener who mowed their expansive lawn. Sometimes Anne’s father sent his wife flowers, and then the heady fragrance of roses drifted through the house, and when they had dinner parties, guests often brought bouquets, and when they had buffet dinners or more formal parties, Anne’s mother ordered elaborate arrangements for the table, but Anne had thought no more of those plants than of the vases holding them.

Now in full sunlight, she realized how very satisfying it was, working with flowers. The crumbling soil was warm and soft against the palms of her hands, and each plant appeared so singular, flowers and stems and delicate white angles of roots. She filled the terra-cotta tubs with soil, then carefully tucked in the plants, pressing the soil flat, ascertaining that the plants were standing happily on their own, not tipping sideways. She watered the flowers. Then she bent to heave the first tub up so she could carry it into the hedged garden. She was shocked at how heavy the tub was. She could lift it, but only by using all her strength, and carrying it was awkward.

She persevered. She stepped through the high arched opening cut into the privet hedge and stood for a moment on the slate
path, surveying the interior of the hedged garden. Honestly, she thought, could her mother-in-law have been more boring? It was like standing inside a room with no roof and three high green walls, the fourth wall being the back of the house with its large windows. Near the house, on the slate patio area, a few deck chairs were set out, but that was the only sign of human habitation. Charity Wheelwright had decreed three long rectangles of privet, one inside the other, the outer wall eight feet high, the ones inside only four feet high, and, in the very center, a marble sundial. Slate of various colors, roses, grays, browns, had been painstakingly laid to be flat and even for walking around the hedges and into the center to observe the sundial. Somehow Anne’s mother-in-law had contrived to make nature boring.

Well
,
Anne thought
,
she would liven things up!
All
morning she lugged the tubs and pots into the hedged garden, setting them here, and here, and here, wherever she saw a spot that cried out for brightening. As she worked, she hummed to herself, feeling very industrious and diligent. The war was over. Soon Herb would be coming home. She would get pregnant! She would walk around theses slates, holding her toddler’s hand, and she would say, “See the pretty flower,” and, “No, don’t touch.”

When she returned to Boston, she found Stangarone’s Freight Company just as chaotically busy as ever. Gwendolyn Forsythe barely said hello before handing her a pile of bills of lading to be double-checked, noted, and filed. After work, she would join the other girls in the office for drinks and dinner and sometimes a movie: Abbott and Costello made them laugh, and
The Lost Weekend
,
starring Ray Milland as an alcoholic on a four-day drinking binge, made them cry, and Bing Crosby made them happy, and John Wayne made them feel safe. The days flew by, and yet Anne was restless—and, she realized one morning, she was also oddly anxious. She couldn’t figure out exactly what it was she was so worried about. The war was over. But she was full of dread.

At the end of August, Anne took a long weekend and traveled to Nantucket. It was Charity Wheelwright’s birthday, and Anne
knew she was expected to help celebrate the occasion. She bought an expensive set of Chanel perfume and talcum powder and wrapped it prettily and stashed it in her overnight bag. The ocean was as calm as a sheet of glass as the ferry trundled from Woods Hole to Nantucket, and the sun blazed high in the heavens. This is not such a terrible fate, she assured herself, to be forced to spend a long weekend on a beautiful island. Charity Wheelwright is not Satan, she reminded herself. However snotty and critical she was, she had raised Herb, and Herb was a wonderful man.

Norman Wheelwright met Charity at the ferry. He did not hug her; he wasn’t that kind of man. He did smile and extend his hand. “Welcome back, Anne.” He picked up her overnight bag and carried it to the car.

As he drove home, he asked Anne for details about her work at Stangarone’s. “It’s kind of interesting,” he said, “that Herb is in Germany, receiving supplies, and you’re in Boston, helping send them.”

It was one of the kindest things either of Herb’s parents had ever said to Anne. It made her feel linked with Herb and accepted by his family.

“Yes, that’s true. But I wish we were in the same spot. I miss Herb. I wish he’d come home.”

“Well, we should be grateful he wasn’t redeployed to the Pacific. And he’s doing important work, Anne. Necessary work. They’ve got to maintain order in Germany. The fighting’s over, but the world will never be the same as it was before.”

Anne nodded, feeling not chastised but certainly sobered. She was being selfish, yearning for Herb this way, wanting him back
now.
But her life and certainly her marriage seemed to be on hold; she was treading water and all she had to show for it were the days of her life drifting past.

Norman Wheelwright turned off onto the long white gravel drive, and Anne’s heart lifted. How odd, she thought, because nothing about her mother-in-law brought a song to her heart. It’s my flowers! she realized. She couldn’t wait to see all those beautiful, cheerful, fresh flower faces. Especially she longed to see the
sunflowers, those flagpoles bearing bright banners of yellow. The moment the car stopped, she jumped out, raced across the gravel, and through the entrance in the hedge.

There was the patio, next to the house, shaded by the hedge walls. There were her pots and tubs
—

Her hand flew to her bosom. The containers were just as she’d left them, but the plants in them were thin, unformed, and scraggly She hurried from pot to pot, bending over, touching the thin, unhealthy leaves, searching for signs of petals and finding none. She stuck her fingers into each container. The soil was moist. But the flowers looked sickly, deprived, failing. Tears sprang to her eyes. What had she done wrong?

“You should have used plants meant for shade,” a voice said.

Anne jumped. Turning, she saw Charity Wheelwright standing there, crisp in a pale blue dress and pearls, her hair tidily smoothed back into a chignon. She was smiling, just a little, and her expression was triumphant.

“Plants meant for shade?” Anne echoed.

“I thought you knew. You were so keen to garden. I thought you knew that many plants will not thrive in the constant shade of a hedged garden.”

“No,” Anne admitted sadly, “I didn’t know that.” She felt like a fool. Worse, she felt guilty—all those lovely plants, destined to struggle for the sun and not find it, and fall ill, fail, and flounder.

“Pity,” Charity Wheelwright said. “All that work for nothing.”