East Hope (2 page)

“Do you believe this heat?” Pete asked.

“I probably should have driven,” Caroline said. “It looks like we might have a storm.”

Pete nodded. The partially lowered lids of his dark eyes made her think of blinds tilted against the late-afternoon sun. “Red, you look great. You really do.”

Caroline looked away. Pete had given her this nickname when they first met. During the winter, when he'd helped her go through Harry's papers at the office, he'd started calling her that again.

“Come on back and join the others,” he said, and guided her to the sunroom. He was the sort of man who gave a firm handshake, patted the backs of his buddies, and kissed his women friends. After months alone, Caroline was alert to the sensation of his hand on her waist.

The familiarity of touch had vanished from her life. Even during the last months of Harry's life, when he had grown remote, when they had quietly retreated from each other, there had been moments of contact—a brief kiss, a light hand on her shoulder, the unconscious gravity that pulled two bodies together deep in slumber. Unbeknownst to her, these insignificant gestures had nourished her. Pete's touch now made her think about what she had been missing.

They passed through the living room, a room possessing all the expected details of a large colonial house in this Washington neighborhood: a gilt mirror above the fireplace, a set of four English prints matted in teal, a Chinese bowl of potpourri on the coffee table. Everything was in order, tasteful and elegant. Like Marjorie. Caroline's own living room was not much different, and the thought displeased her. She stepped into the sunroom, where family pictures of children at boarding school, trips to Vail, and days on sailboats filled spaces in the bookshelves.

“Well, well. Here she is at last,” Arthur Cummings said with theatrical enthusiasm. Arthur, recently retired, had been chairman of Harry's investment firm. He gave Caroline a robust, fatherly hug. She sensed they'd been talking about her from the quick glances that passed between Arthur and his wife, Julia.

Julia Cummings stood and leaned forward to kiss Caroline on both cheeks, releasing wafts of Chanel No. 5. “You look wonderful, dear,” Julia said. She was a woman in her sixties, with the perfectly highlighted hair, polished nails, and trim figure required of women in their circle. The sudden thought that she might one day be just like this woman, twenty years her senior, was unsettling to Caroline.

Julia reached for Caroline's hand. “Come sit with me on the sofa; I want to hear how you've been. I don't think I've laid eyes on you since Harry's funeral.”

“Margarita?” Pete asked. “It's that kind of night.”

“I think I'll stick to white wine. Thanks,” Caroline said.

Arthur inspected his glass and joined Pete to freshen his own drink. No sign of Marjorie. She would be in the kitchen putting the final touches on a dinner that would be something from the latest
Gourmet
or
Bon Appétit
. Pete took Arthur's glass, and Arthur asked him what he thought of trends in the European bond markets.

Julia held the salt-rimmed glass of one of Pete's infamous margaritas. She gave a small shrug, seemingly accustomed to her husband's tendency to talk about business. “How are you coping?” She spoke softly, as if about to share womanly confidences. “Is it getting any easier?” Julia appeared sincere in her concern, though there was a weariness in the lines around her eyes, a woman tired from the weight of continual thoughtfulness and attention to propriety.

Caroline shifted on the soft cushions. She had feared that the conversation might go this way. “Nothing's the same since Harry died, but . . .” Julia always had a way of making her feel inept, an ingenue at the functions that they had attended over the years. And here she was now, an ingenue in the realm of grief. If only she had the energy to get up and leave, maybe make some excuse of a headache coming on.

“I can certainly imagine,” Julia said. “We all think it's time you got out and started seeing people.” Julia sipped her drink. “You're still young. It's not good to go through life alone.”

“I have Rob,” Caroline said. She thought of her son at college, his first year. Rob had become more withdrawn since his father's death. His silence worried her. Tonight, Sunday, was when she usually called him. He had not e-mailed at all this past week.

“Come on, dear. I'm not talking about children. You should go out. Meet someone.”

“I don't want to meet anyone.” This came out more sharply than Caroline intended.

Arthur laughed loudly at something Pete had said. Julia said, “Well, of course, I know it's too soon. Still . . .” She glanced up at Pete and Arthur, now coming to join them.

“I'm doing fine,” Caroline said. “I'm keeping busy, and I'm editing another book for Vivien.”

A look of annoyance crossed Julia's face. “But that's work.” The wrinkles on her forehead deepened. “You shouldn't spend all your time working. Anyway, you can't need the money.”

Caroline felt her face redden. Obviously Julia had no knowledge of her financial affairs. She wondered if Pete had told Marjorie about the mess she was in. Before she could reply, Pete handed her a glass of white wine. She took a long sip. It tasted woodsy, like spring. She leaned back into the soft sofa cushion. A dull exhaustion lingered in her bones.

Julia turned her attention to their host. “Pete, a girl could get in trouble drinking this concoction.”

Pete grinned. “Not you, Julia.” He pulled a chair closer to Caroline and sat down. “Here's to Caroline. She's been incredibly brave, a real trouper.” He looked at his friends. “To Harry.”

Pete, Julia, and Arthur raised their glasses. Pete clinked his glass against Caroline's. She sipped the wine, and, feeling the familiar tears threatening, she sipped again and swallowed.

“I still remember how beautifully you spoke at Harry's service, Pete,” Julia said. “You captured all his remarkable traits.”

Pete and Harry had been close friends in business school as well as partners at the firm for almost twenty years. Their friendship was somewhat unexpected; Harry, the proper Bostonian, quiet, diligent, was the opposite of Pete, a party boy with dark-haired good looks and an easy grin. Pete was known for being a tough, hard-driving businessman, not afraid of a fight to close a deal. Yet, when he had helped her this winter, Caroline had witnessed his kinder side, his patience with her endless questions, his willingness to give her his full attention not just as a business adviser, but also as a friend.

“I miss him,” Pete said. “We all do.” His gaze slid to Caroline. She sipped her wine and set the glass down.

Arthur cleared his throat. “Harry was remarkable,” he said. “Never missed a day at the office. Stayed on top of everything, a perfectionist.” Arthur's silver hair, silk tie, and blue blazer exuded authority.

Caroline tried to smile. Arthur was probably unaware of the full extent of Harry's business dealings, his disastrous encounter with Sunil Gava and Avistar, the biotech start-up. Maybe Pete hadn't told him everything. Caroline didn't want to disappoint Arthur, a man so comfortable in his predictable world. He had helped nurture Harry's career. What good would it do to tell him that even a hardworking perfectionist had made terrible mistakes?

Caroline eased forward on the sofa. She reached for her wineglass and stood, seeing the concern in Pete's eyes. “I'll go give Marjorie a hand in the kitchen.”

In the dining room she paused, recalling one of the awful conversations she'd had with Pete in his office after Harry had died.

“You knew nothing about this?” Pete had stared at her across his desk, all glass and chrome. Harry's old office, just down the hall, had been traditional, with mahogany furniture, a leather chair, and photographs of Caroline and Rob on the desk.

“I knew he was excited about Avistar.” She admitted her ignorance about Harry's work beyond that.

“He'd had several bad years and knew he had to turn it around. Most of his older clients were loyal, but I'm afraid his performance was all there in black and white.”

“But he worked so hard,” Caroline said.

“Some of it's luck.” Pete turned away. He seemed embarrassed.

“I've been through everything at home. There's almost nothing. Just the shares in Avistar.”

“They went belly-up in September.”

“Just like that?” She was breathless. Harry had told her nothing.

“It was actually a slow downhill spiral. Harry insisted it would turn around.” Pete looked so annoyingly vital.

“What about his shares in the firm?” Caroline's voice quavered. She swallowed. “He's been here for so long.”

“He'd been cashing out. He took the last of it in September.” Pete came around the desk. He put a hand on her shoulder. “He must have said something.”

Caroline's mind raced. She recalled flashes of Harry's anger when she'd asked about his work. How long had it been like that? This entire situation was so trite. She felt like the idiot wife who'd lived her pretty life, being a good mother, working in her garden, cooking, writing about food.

She hunched forward. “There's still money in our checking account,” she said.

“That's not going to last long. I can help you.” Pete crouched beside her and placed his hand on her back. She lowered her head. “I've got a client who might be interested in buying your house,” he said.

“You want me to sell my house?”

He withdrew his hand and stood. “You're going to need the money.”

“It's Rob's house. It's where he grew up.”

“We can invest the profits. You can get something smaller.”

“I just don't think I can do that.” She looked around for her handbag, wanting to get away from him, not wanting to hear any more.

“Let me help you, Red.”

“I'm going to be fine.” She found her handbag on the floor. “I'll work things out.” At that moment she had been overcome with anger, though not at Pete. He had only been trying to help.

“There you are, Caroline, darling.” Marjorie, a pretty, dark-haired woman wearing a crisp linen dress, came through the swinging door into the dining room bearing a white ironstone soup tureen. “You've been hiding away far too long,” she said, a little too loudly. Marjorie placed the tureen at the head of the table, removed the lid, and smiled with satisfaction.

During dinner, Pete kept Caroline's wineglass filled. The strains of a violin concerto trickled into the candlelit dining room above the hum of the air-conditioning. Caroline and Harry had dined at the Spencers' home many times, but tonight was the first time she had been there by herself. Everything felt strange to her, as if she had never been with these people before.

Caroline no longer fit into this world of couples. Her life was now made up of solitary rituals: breakfast in the kitchen, and after her second cup of coffee she would sort through Harry's papers and documents in hopes of salvaging something, a statement from a forgotten mutual fund, an overlooked insurance policy. The only new thing was the letter from Maine. Harry's great-aunt, who had died the previous summer, had left him her house. She hadn't shown the letter to Pete.

Most days, after lunch, sometimes with her best friend, Vivien, Caroline walked for hours on the canal towpath. More work, and then supper alone in front of the evening news. She never even went to the trouble of opening a bottle of wine. She went to bed early, still keeping to her side of the bed.

Working on the cookbooks was the only way she could escape the intolerable consequences of Harry's death. Vivien, the food editor at World Life Books, was producing a new series, Back to Basics, a kind of “clean cuisine,” she called it, with the emphasis on simple recipes using fresh organic products. They were pitching it to an older, well-heeled set.

Caroline had spent the winter working on the soup book, writing an introduction to each recipe, and clarifying the accompanying directions. After Harry died, soup was the only thing she liked to eat; everything else seemed to get caught in her throat. She wrote about a velvety cream of broccoli, the virtues of a hearty pasta fagioli, and a smoky lentil soup with an underbite of curry that tasted like no other version she'd ever prepared. If it weren't for the task of cooking, tasting, and trying to make the recipes appealing and workable, she might have cooked nothing at all that winter.

Marjorie, like many who knew that Caroline was a food writer, went overboard in an effort to impress her. Tonight Marjorie was serving carrot-and-ginger soup, a roast pork tenderloin in a teriyaki sauce with new potatoes in a cheese sauce, along with asparagus in a piquant lemon vinaigrette, a menu that didn't make much sense. In truth, Caroline never minded what people cooked when she went to parties. She was happy for a night away from her own kitchen. In the last few years she liked thinking and writing about food more than cooking it. She complimented Marjorie on the soup.