Summer Darlings Page 7

  Teddy dove onto Anna’s bed. “Ruth has runs in her stockings.”

  Heddy eyed him. “Maybe she needs a new pair.”

  “Can’t she afford any? I mean, we pay her enough.” Heddy had noticed the run, too, a subtle pull up the back of her leg. He was just mimicking his mother, but still, she thought, that she’d raise children to have empathy for others.

  Anna wrapped her arms around Heddy’s neck while she straightened the hem of her dress. “The sooner we eat lunch, the faster we can get to the beach,” Heddy said, eager to escape the luncheon herself.

  “We can see if we trapped any lobsters.” Teddy pushed his belly into Anna, knocking her over, and Anna pushed right back.

  Outside, Heddy could see the guests were still milling about.

  Heddy held a single finger in front of the boy’s face. “I need better behavior or no beach. You understand?” She ran upstairs to swap her dress, too—the pee smelled acrid in the heat—immediately regretting snapping at Teddy. Someday he’d grow up and understand what kind of money he had, how that separated him from the other children and defined every last bit of him. But right now, he was a child, and she needed to be more patient.

  She had the kids walk in single file onto the porch, where guests were taking seats at tables, husbands and wives placed more formally next to each other. Ash was in between Jean-Rose and her best friend, Susanne, who leaned into him, blowing smoke into the air and crinkling her nose, like she knew how adorable her pixie cut was. Heddy immediately hated her.

  Jean-Rose stood to get everyone’s attention, using her largest fork to make a chiming sound against her glass. “Ted and I would like to thank you for coming today,” she told the crowd. She glanced at Ash. “As I’ve told many of you already, we met Ash at the beach.”

  Ash piped in. “I nearly beached a whaler I’d borrowed from a friend. That would have been an expensive ride home.” Everyone laughed.

  Then Ted: “Next time, take the surfboard.” The crowd chuckled, Ash grinning.

  Jean-Rose, hands clasped at her chest, waited for everyone to quiet. “After he ditched the boat and swam in, we realized we were neighbors. And what a neighbor! To imagine that the great-grandson of Florida’s original developer is in our midst. Harrison Porter is responsible for Palm Beach, and now his great-grandson has a dream of his own.”

  Heddy saw a few couples whisper and point in the direction of Ash’s house, even though they couldn’t see it through the trees.

  “Ash is working on a new luxury community in Florida that we’re so excited about. So, without further ado, I present to you the man bringing surfing to the Vineyard, Ash Porter.”

  To light applause, Ash stood in front of a poster featuring photographs of a spectacular pool surrounded by palm trees and Corinthian columns, a woman lying on a beach blanket on powder-white sand, the water so clear people could see to the bottom. “Welcome to the Coconut Coast” read the caption.

  He slid one of his hands in his pocket. “When the weather turns cold, Palm Beach is my paradise. My friends are there. My favorite restaurants are there. And when I swim in the water, there’s nowhere else in the world I’d rather be.” He moved to the other end of the porch, and everyone followed him with their eyes. He was a natural public speaker, unlike Heddy, who could agonize for weeks over giving any kind of presentation.

  “I could look at him all day,” an elfin woman with studious glasses whispered to a friend.

  “Don’t get any ideas—he’s taken,” the friend said back.

  “No, he’s a bachelor!”

  “That’s not what I heard.”

  Ash put his foot up on a chair, leaning toward the crowd.

  “On the shores of West Florida, the sand is as powdery as the snow of Aspen. The water, as turquoise as this beautiful woman’s bracelet.” Ash was behind the woman with the glasses, and he gently asked her—“May I?”—and after a nod, he held up her arm to show everyone her turquoise-stone bracelet.

  “I got this in Santa Fe,” she told people at her table.

  “The Coconut Coast is what Palm Beach was ten years ago, the next big resort town, the most spectacular development of our time. Your children will thank you for buying here, so will their children’s children.” There were murmurs, nods. Ash began handing out a stack of folders, each one decorated with the same photographs as the poster on the easel behind him.

  “Here, houses aren’t just houses. They’re sprawling estates painted in a rainbow of pastels, each one surrounded by their own piece of the West Florida jungle, the smell of hibiscus drifting by as you sit next to the pool and wonder if it’s snowing back in New England.” Ash sipped his cocktail as everyone opened their folders, sifting through the color brochures inside.

  “As kids, we spent some winters in the Berkshires, skiing a cold day away. But air travel has put paradise within everyone’s reach. Why not jet off to the next big thing? A resort created with the distinguished young family in mind.”

  Heddy looked at the brochure’s sprawling Mediterranean-style estates, a golf cart parked in front of each one. The woman in glasses raised her hand. “Can you tell us about the community? Palm Beach has theater, fine restaurants.”

  “If you’re asking who bought in”—he smiled, with mischief—“well, let’s just say we have six founding members: two work in film, one is a jazz singer, and the others are in finance.”

  A rush of excited murmurs, whispers about who the film stars were.

  Ted’s voice rang out over the hush of the crowd. “When will the houses be complete?”

  Ash toasted his glass to Ted’s. “We’ll be toasting again when we open our community center at Christmas, 1964. We’re on the hunt for people with refinement and taste who can help us build this area into a world-class community.” Ash paused for emphasis, staring into the horizon, where storm clouds hovered. “Have you ever looked around a club or a resort and thought, I could have done this better? Why didn’t they think to do this or that? This is your chance.” His eyes were full of magic now. “Don’t be a part of someone else’s paradise. Build your own.”

  Ted tipped his chair back, his legs spread open, his feet anchored to the floor. “But why would I buy a house in the swampiest part of Florida? All the bugs. It’s making me itch just thinking about it.” Ted itched his forearms for comic relief; the crowd laughed.

  Ash took in the faces around him, like he was charmed. “You’re not going to let a few bugs scare you away, are you, Ted? All of Florida is swampland, but we clear-cut, plant palm trees, make sure there’s no standing water. To keep away those pesky bugs.” Ash turned to the other side of the porch. “Any other questions?”

  Ted’s voice broke the quiet again. “Let’s talk dollars and cents. How much for one of these beauties?” Ted pointed to a large manor house, yellow stucco with white shutters.

  Jean-Rose pressed her hands into a prayer. “What Ted’s saying is: Should we or shouldn’t we?”

  Ash’s face was unruffled. “I’m glad you asked. To get started, we need a significant contribution. But remember, it’s the first step in building your dream house.”

  Ted, on his feet now, patted Ash’s back, letting his voice carry out over the din. “So what is the buy-in? Specifically?”

  Jean-Rose took in a sharp breath. “Ted, perhaps he wants to discuss it privately.”

  Ted put his arm around Ash’s back, feigning innocence. “It’s sales, darling. Everything has a price. So tell me, dapper fellow. What do you want for this piece of paradise?”

  “Seven thousand dollars.” Ash’s voice was clear and unapologetic. “To reserve your land.”

  The crowd erupted into chatter. Ted, a smirk of satisfaction on his face, raised an eyebrow, looking around at the others at the table.

  Jean-Rose clasped her hands together. “Well, I want in. That yellow house with the shutters—I can’t shake it.”

  Everyone clapped, and Jean-Rose broke into a grin, holding her clasped hands at her
heart.

  “A quick reminder: Everyone save the date for our annual clambake on August eleventh. Now let’s all thank Ash Porter for dropping by today.”

  Heddy looked at Ash then, taking a bow. When he came up, his eyes scanned the crowd, and when he locked on Heddy, he smiled—a dashing smile.

  She felt the earth under her shift.

  * * *

  Later that evening, Jean-Rose and Ted hardly noticed when Heddy slipped down the emerald-green stair runner to meet Ruth outside for a smoke. With the stink of a cigar wafting through the house, Ted watched Walter Cronkite, while Jean-Rose chatted away on the telephone. After worrying all afternoon that Jean-Rose would fire her for messing up at the party, her boss had been in good spirits when she and the children returned from the beach.

  “I can’t exactly let her go,” Jean-Rose gossiped into the receiver. “From what I gather, her mother doesn’t have much time, and her father is always laying into somebody at Rooney’s. It’s a mess.”

  Ruth sat on a small boulder by the garage, and Heddy could hear Jean-Rose’s voice there, too, but Ruth was unfazed.

  “They finally asleep?” Ruth picked a bouquet of hydrangea and held them in a wet paper towel.

  “They were exhausted from swimming all afternoon.”

  The two women walked together down the driveway. At the end, Ruth crouched her spindly legs onto the grass near the mailboxes—she had the look of a person who was ill as a child, whose body never quite caught up.

  “I thought this day would never end,” Ruth said, lighting a cigarette.

  “Do you think these people ever see themselves through our eyes?” Heddy took a long drag, grateful for the buzz. Her hair was wet from her shower, her skin smelling of Ivory soap. “If only they could hear themselves, a recording played back on the radio. ‘They’re hourly girls, right?’ ” She mimicked the woman from the luncheon.

  “Someone said that?” Ruth ashed in between her knees. “Jean-Rose was going to kill you! Her eyes were so narrow, they nearly touched.”

  “You were the one that had to be fetched.”

  Ruth looked down, exhaled. “I know.” Heddy remembered Ruth’s mother sleeping in the chair, the crooked screen door, the beer bottles on the stoop.

  “Weren’t you worried she’d fire you on the spot?”

  Ruth shook her head. “We have an understanding.”

  That Ruth and Jean-Rose knew anything about each other beyond their formal relationship at the house made Heddy uneasy. “I wasn’t aware you were such good friends.”

  Ruth took another drag of her cigarette. “Friends? I’m her charity case. Do you know she sent me to the bank to make a deposit yesterday? I looked at her balance: $107,000.”

  “One hundred thousand dollars!” Heddy had yelled it. It was enough to buy a mansion, a couple of cars, too.

  Ruth nodded. “One hundred and seven. It wasn’t even a joint account.”

  Heddy didn’t know what she’d do if she had that kind of money. Perhaps she’d buy a steamer trunk, board one of those fancy ships that left out of New York Harbor. No, she’d buy her mother a house in one of those pretty Westchester suburbs. After she paid for school, that is.

  “Ruth, are you in a bad way?”

  The girl darted her eyes. She knew what Heddy was asking. “I’m fine.”

  Heddy reached her hand out to rub Ruth’s back, pulling it away before it touched. “It’s just. Well, you were so upset today.”

  Ruth laughed. “Don’t worry. It’s stupid.”

  Heddy exhaled, trying to blow smoke rings, her tongue getting in the way and making a mess of them. They smoked in silence, night overtaking the clouds.

  “You realize Jean-Rose needs you more than you need her,” Heddy said.

  “Well, I need that envelope of cash every week, but this isn’t about her anyway.” Ruth loosened her bun, letting her hair fall around her shoulders. It softened her long nose, making her pretty. “To think, I was all set to go to cosmetology school.” Ruth stubbed out her cigarette. “Did I tell you I was going to be a stylist?”

  “That’s amazing, Ruth.” Heddy pressed her heel to her cigarette. A firefly flickered.

  “Well, it’s not happening now.” Ruth sighed. “I just wonder how different my life would be if I hadn’t been born on this island.”

  “Less simple, I suppose. The city is harried.” Heddy was drawing in the gravel with a twig.

  Ruth hunched, her back curving into a C. “That’s what people think, sure. They come here, and they see a wonderland. You know what I see when I look at all this water? A fence, one tall fence. Everyone gets to leave. You’ll leave. But I’m not sure I ever will.”

  Heddy stopped drawing. She didn’t realize this was the conversation they were going to have.

  “I could give up, too, Ruth. But I know what I need to do, and I do it.”

  “Easy for you to say, college girl. You’ll have a degree.”

  Heddy shifted positions, moving onto her knees. How could she explain? Where would she begin? “There’s a letter—”

  Ruth cut her off. “He just makes it so hard.” She leaned back against the mailbox post. “He takes all of it.…”

  Heddy put her arm around her friend, squeezing her. “You’ll make more.”

  “But not enough,” she said, resting her head on Heddy’s shoulder. “There will never be enough.”

  “Sleep over tonight, will you? You can stay in my room.” Don’t go home to that sad place, Heddy wanted to say.

  Ruth shook her head. “I can’t. Mother.”

  “Please, Ruth. I won’t sleep tonight knowing you’re upset.” She sensed a nod, and while Ruth didn’t say yes, they both knew one night wouldn’t hurt anyone.

  “C’mon,” Heddy begged. “It will be like when we were little and had sleepover parties.”

  “You’re a goofball.” But Ruth was smiling, and Heddy knew she’d done good.

  * * *

  That night, after they practiced applying blue eye shadow to each other’s lids, Heddy and Ruth climbed into bed, Ruth falling asleep while Heddy wrote in her journal.

  June 30, 1962

  Jean-Rose told me today that someday my social cache will be built upon how few wrinkles I have on my face. She gave me a bar of Pears glycerin soap to wash my face with, prescribed ice-water plunges to keep my skin firm, and handed me a jar of Pond’s Cold Cream to apply before bed each night. She’s even gone and set me up on a date, although I’m terrified that I won’t like the guy but I’ll have to pretend to, just to please her.

  I am under pressure to please her always, or I get the sense that she’ll turn on me. It sounds harsh, but I know it’s true. While Jean-Rose is exceedingly friendly and quite likable, she’s also studied. She’s extra aware of what her words and behaviors reveal about her, and she acts as though shaping the family’s public face is of highest priority. Even if she’s friendly, I must remind myself that we are not friends.…

  Closing her journal after midnight, Heddy went downstairs to warm some milk since she was having trouble sleeping. Ted sat at the kitchen table hunched over a sheet of notepaper and holding a pen, several crumpled papers gathering like snowballs at his elbow. She saw he was wearing a ribbed tank top and chambray boxer shorts, which meant she was standing there with Ted in his underwear.

  “Sorry, I thought I was the only one awake,” she whispered, wrapping her robe tighter, wishing now she’d never come down.

  He jumped at the sound of her voice, grabbing at the papers, even the ones he’d balled up. With an irritated grunt, he disappeared into the darkness of the living room. A light in his study went on, and the door clicked shut.

  She didn’t bother heating the milk, and as she trudged up the stairs to her room, she wondered: What kind of letter needed to be written in the dead of night?

  FIVE

  The following Monday camp started, and Heddy went for a long swim after dropping the children off, pushing her body to the limit. Afte
r a leisurely shower, she holed up in the quiet of the attic and read. She and Ruth ate egg salad for lunch, gossiping at the kitchen table about the latest developments in As the World Turns, and at 2:00 p.m., she fetched the children. Jean-Rose had given her full use of their extra car, the Buick, but after pickup, they decided to ride bikes.

  It was after three when the trio parked under a towering sycamore tree at the park across from town hall. Heddy spread the woven camp blanket she’d packed in her basket and unscrewed the red cap of the tartan thermos, turning it over to use as a cup and pouring water for the children to sip.

  “I should have flipped that kid the bird.” Teddy scratched at a scabbed mosquito bite on his knee. It started to bleed, causing Anna to examine a scrape on her elbow.

  “One day you’re going to get clocked in the face, you know that?” Heddy used a corner of her handkerchief to dab his knee. “Your dad isn’t going to tell you that, but I will. You gotta stop making kids mad, or they’re going to beat on you.”

  Teddy pushed her hand away. “No one will hurt a six-year-old.”

  “I’ve seen five-year-olds with black eyes.” Heddy stuffed the hankie in her pocket. She was exaggerating but maybe it would keep him from holding up his middle finger to random kids zooming past him on their bikes. In the distance, Heddy saw a man walking with his dog across the field. She couldn’t believe the animal wasn’t on a leash, roaming wherever it wanted, lifting its leg. “I’ve seen little boys left in a heap, bruises and broken arms.”

  Teddy fell dramatically backward on the blanket, arranging his Yankees hat so it covered his face. “I’m so bored. When will Daddy take me camping? He and Mr. Mule go.”

  “Ask him. The only way to get what you want is to try.” Heddy braided Anna’s hair to get it out of her face, the girl seeming to relish the feeling. The man with the dog was coming down the hill now, and she wondered if she should worry about the children getting too close to the animal.

  Teddy stomped his sandaled feet on the blanket. He had moods like this, where he’d swing into sadness or anger. “Mama did ask him; I heard her. But he told her that was his time. She had her time, and he had his.” His arms outstretched, the boy grabbed at grass clumps with his fingers, sprinkling them on his chest.