Summer Beach Reads 5-Book Bundle: Beachcombers, Heat Wave, Moon Shell Beach, Summer House, Summer Breeze (152 page)

The second week, when Ilke rose from bed and declared herself fit and put on a maternity dress that hung off her, displaying her newly slender figure, that week Anne had not been jealous, but she had been, perhaps, on guard. Ilke washed her hair, and what had been matted with sweat and tangled from her writhing in labor now lay in shining pale gold silk, framing her beautiful pale face. Ilke did not seek out Herb. She seldom spoke to him, and when she did, it was in English, her broken, faltering English, and Anne appreciated this, because she knew that Herb understood some German, and Herb and Ilke could have conversed in a language Anne did not comprehend. But Ilke’s love and energies were all directed toward the infant.
She walked him, she nursed him, or tried to, and she wept with frustration when her milk was not ample.

Nona suddenly recalled another kindness of Ilke’s. Whenever she handed the baby over to Herb, she said the same thing she said when she handed the baby to Anne:
Here, little one, go to your friend.
Or,
Now your friend rocks you, my love.
She never called Herb “Papa.” Perhaps it was not really a kindness so much as a matter of self-defense. Perhaps she did not believe that Herb would claim and support the child throughout his entire life, or perhaps she didn’t, in her secret heart, even hope for that. Perhaps she hoped Herb would return to America, forget the child, and she would marry a German who could claim the baby as his own.

For Anne, it had been a through-the-looking-glass experience. Nothing seemed quite real. Each day was isolated from every other, each moment devoted to the necessities of the present, with no time to plan for the future.

Nona remembered piercingly how pleased she had been when she lifted the baby from Herb’s or Ilke’s arms, and the baby had grown calm as she gently jiggled him, walking her path through the house. The baby had responded to Anne as if he understood that she was keeping him safe. Herb was not always so successful, although he tried. Perhaps his uniform was too stiff against the infant’s cheek, perhaps his male voice was too brusque or deep or loud, perhaps, like many men, he did not feel comfortable and capable with an infant, and the baby sensed this. But in a way, Anne felt chosen by the infant. She loved him. She purely loved him.

She did not feel sexually attracted to Herb. She was always busy, and she was always very hungry, and she felt occupied and capable and
alive.
When Ilke’s nipples became cracked from the baby’s demanding and unsatisfied suckling, it was Anne Ilke came to, not Herb. In those days men did not share such experiences. Anne remembered a friend who had used A & D ointment, and Ilke had some in the house and used it sparingly and found relief. How proud Anne had been of herself! She had been so pleased that, when Herb came home, she told him about Ilke’s cracked nipples and her own advice—and Herb had blushed scarlet and left the room, grumbling
under his breath. She had remembered then that Ilke’s breasts, Ilke’s nipples, had once been objects not of milky sustenance but of sexual pleasure. Had Herb lain next to Ilke, suckling her, fondling her? Of course he had. Jealousy had twisted through her then. She had gone to her bedroom and wept, stuffing the pillow in her mouth to hide her sobs. Oh, she had not been without jealousy and bitterness. But then she slept. And then the baby cried, and Ilke asked her to walk him so she could sleep, and Herb was already asleep in his room, exhausted from his day’s work. And Anne had taken the baby in her arms, and looked down into his face, and everything but a profound and amazed love had disappeared.

Now her son, her sixty-year-old son Worth, finished removing her shoes. He rose. His face was stiff and closed. It would take time for him to heal.

“One question,” Worth said. “Are you going to share this news with anyone else? I’m sure Grace will be thrilled. But what about Oliver, and Charlotte, and Teddy? Will you tell them?”

“I won’t tell anyone else,” Nona assured him. “It is my duty, I believe, to give you this information, and Helen, as your wife and the mother of your children, should know as well. It’s up to you, the two of you, to decide whether or not to tell your children.”

Worth snorted angrily. “Teddy’s going to laugh his ass off.”

“Worth,” Helen remonstrated softly.

“Teddy loves you,” Nona assured her son. “He idolizes you. He believes he can never live up to your standards.”

Worth shook his head. “Well, Nona, it seems that
I
don’t even live up to my standards.”

“Then perhaps,” Nona suggested, “the standards need to change.”

Worth scrubbed his face with his hands. He looked angry and anguished, and Helen rose and went to him. “Worth. We can—”

Abruptly, he threw her hand off him. “I can’t deal with this. I’m going back to Boston.”

Helen started to object and then nodded. “Yes. Perhaps you should.”

During the intense heat of the late Sunday afternoon, Charlotte strode along a furrow, furiously hoeing the weeds out of the beds of kale and eggplant and chard.

“No, too hot, too hot!” Jorge had called, rushing up to her. “I hoe. I hoe!”

“Not today,” Charlotte told him. “I need to hoe today. You can go work on the beans.”

Catching her look—she was clearly not in the mood for argument—Jorge had hurried off to another part of the garden.

During the ride from the hospital after seeing the newborn baby, her parents hadn’t spoken, but anger oozed from their pores until Charlotte thought she could actually see the air turning a bilious green. Clearly they did not want to talk in front of Charlotte. But she knew what the argument was about. Her father did not want to accept Suzette’s baby as his grandchild. Deep in her heart, Charlotte was glad her mother was standing up to him.

But when she had been lacing up her work boots in the mudroom,
her parents did talk, and Charlotte had overheard them. Her mother had actually threatened divorce—and the words had been like a hard kick in Charlotte’s stomach. They took her breath away. Would her mother actually leave her father? It couldn’t happen. A frantic energy filled her, but she didn’t know how to use it. Her mother had stormed up the stairs, and her father had followed, and she knew this was a battle they had to fight out by themselves.

Well, the garden always,
always
needed weeding, and today she was grateful for the work. Charlotte took down the
CLOSED
sign at the farm stand, put out some lettuces and vegetables so they wouldn’t go to waste, then stomped into the garden with a hoe.

A taxi came slowly up the lane toward Nona’s house. Charlotte stared. It had no passengers, so no one was arriving. Anyone who would be leaving would be driven by Grace or Helen, so this was a little odd.

She continued to work but stopped again when, a few minutes later, the taxi came back down the lane toward the main road.

Her father was sitting in the back, alone.

“Dad!” she called, waving her hands.

He didn’t seem to hear. The cab bore him away.

She set back to work, hoeing with maniacal energy.

Sometimes Charlotte allowed herself to wonder about her family, about its genetic makeup. Why were she and her brothers such fuck-ups? Perhaps that was too strong a word. Or imprecise. Oliver, for example, was a great success, both in his loving long-term relationship and in his work, but he had clearly abandoned his family and any part he might have in it, choosing to live as far as possible from the East Coast. Had he been drawn there simply by career opportunities or did he just not want to deal with the whole Wheelwright business? Someday, Charlotte would ask him.

Perhaps
rebel
was a better word than
fuckup.
She’d grown up watching Mellie, Mandy, and Mee following their parents like mindless but very cute fluffy little ducklings, paddling politely through the pond of life without making a ripple, and there her family was, Charlotte, Teddy, and Oliver, splashing and dunking one another and trying to fly, clowning around, dashing in different directions,
and disappearing for months at a time. Charlotte wondered whether there was a genetic kink passed on by their mother—for clearly their mother was the outsider—that caused the three of them to rebel. She knew she would not have done the terrible thing she did if she hadn’t been trying so hard to live within the cold hard lines of her father’s rules and feeling so imprisoned, so caged.

“You look like a lady who could use a cool drink.”

Startled, Charlotte looked up to see Coop standing there, in shorts, T-shirt, baseball cap, and deck shoes.

“Hey, Coop.” She realized she was dripping with sweat.
Attractive.
“What time is it?”

“Time for me to kidnap you and carry you away.”

“Oh. Well, I still have—”

“It’s after six. Jorge’s gone home. There’s nothing left to sell on the farm stand. You need a break.”

“Coop—”

“Okay, you’re forcing me to do this.” With one swift lurch, Coop bent, grabbed Charlotte’s legs, and threw her over his shoulder.

“Coop!” Writhing, she dropped her hoe. “I need to put my tools away.”

“They’re fine out here. No one’s going to take them.”

It was hard to breathe with his shoulder wedged into her abdomen. “Coop, put me down!”

“Will you go with me nicely?” Staggering under her weight, he stomped down the long garden row, trying to keep in the furrow but occasionally stumbling sideways, his foot smashing down on a plant.

“Yes! Yes! Put me down!” She beat on his back with her fists, and when he’d trodden down a luscious Brandywine tomato plant, she went quiet, submitting. “Please, Coop. Put me down.”

He did, awkwardly unloading her onto more tomato plants. She felt the juice squirt and the stalks snap beneath the weight of her body. Coop grabbed her hands and pulled her to her feet.

“You need to relax,” he said, pulling her close. “And I know just how to relax you.”

“Coop,” she protested, “I need a shower. I’m all—”

He wrapped his arms around her. “Hey, I like my women hot and bothered.”

“Would you stop this caveman stuff!” She stomped her foot but it hit only the soft ground and made no noise. “Honestly, Coop, this is
not
turning me on!”

At once he dropped his arms and stepped back. “Sorry. Sor-
ry.
I was just playing.” He shrugged. “I was just—listen, if you’re not interested, all you have to do is say so.”

She took a deep breath. “Oh, Coop, I’m sorry, too. And I am—um, interested. I’ve just got so much to do.” She felt like hitting him. She felt like crying. She almost said,
My parents are fighting, Mom’s talking about divorce, and Suzette’s baby has black hair.
Instead, she surrendered. “I guess I do need a drink.”

Coop took her by the hand and led her out of the garden. It almost killed her to leave her damaged plants lying broken in the dirt. She only wanted to run back, tuck them back into the safe ground, do what she could to save them, but she allowed herself to be tugged along. She shut and latched the gate. They walked down the lane until they came to the road and the farm stand. Everything she’d put out had been bought. Charlotte emptied the basket of money. Coop helped her fold up the tablecloth and the card table and tuck them up next to the tree. He put a comradely arm around her shoulders as they walked over to his drive and down to his house.

“Why not take a quick shower?” he suggested. “When you get out, I’ll have a nice cool drink waiting.”

“That sounds wonderful. Thanks.”

She went into his bedroom, stripped off her clothing, and, stepping around various piles of discarded clothing and towels, made her way into the bathroom and the shower. She lathered her hair and body, then let the water pound down on her, and it was such a relief, such therapy. Afterward, she wrapped herself in a huge towel, tied it above her breasts, and padded barefoot out to the deck where Coop sat, a drink in his hand. His dogs curled at his feet. An iced glass was on the table for her, and a board of cheese and crackers.

“This is nice, Coop. The shower was lovely.”

“And look at the view. Peaceful, huh?” Coop lounged in his chair, lanky and calm.

Charlotte looked at the view. Blue water swept over to the far shore, green with beach grass and wild roses, and off to the western horizon, past the sandbars, to the town, which appeared, from this distance, in miniature, a toy village.

She did not want to talk about her family. “What did you do today?”

Coop stretched. “Played tennis. Sailed.” Glancing over at her, he grinned. “I know, it’s a hard life, but someone’s got to do it.” Seeing her smile, he asked, “Have you ever seen Harrison Clark play tennis? He talks through the entire game. And he’s killer competitive.” Coop assumed Harrison Clark’s clipped accent. “I should have gotten that. Why didn’t I get that? My backhand’s gone all to hell. I need more practice. Was that out? I think it was out. All right, I’ll let you have that point since you swear it was in, but I still think it was out. I think you need glasses. I think I need glasses. Damn, I stubbed my foot. My ankle hurts. Why does my ankle hurt? I’m too young to have my ankle hurt.”

His imitation of Harrison was so perfect, Charlotte lay back in her chair and laughed. Coop told her about Peggy Windruff’s new fifty-one-foot sloop, describing its teak decks and sleek lines, its electric stowaway mast and state-of-the-art electronics, the handsome staterooms. He told her about his trip in February, down to the Bahamas with his friend Jimmy Jackson—what a paradise it had been, sailing for a month in clear water, catching fish to grill for dinner, kicking back toward nightfall to watch the stars freckle the sky and the moon rise so full and close it seemed that, if they set sail, they’d reach it by morning.

His voice and the images he called up lulled Charlotte, reminded her of the beauties of the world and the luxury of sailing. After a while, Coop asked her if she wanted another drink, and she said yes, and he fixed her one, but when he returned to the deck, he didn’t hand it to her but held it just out of reach, teasingly, and so he coaxed her out of her chair and into the house and into the bedroom. Her towel fell away from her naked body as she lay back on the bed, and
he put her drink on the side table, and they both forgot about it completely.