Enchanted August (26 page)

He strummed the first mournful notes of “Dueil Angoisseux,” the perfect sad-guy-with-a-lute song, except it was about a woman being left in the lurch by a man. So he stopped. Had he left Caroline? Or had she left him?

Robert wasn't even sure where she was at this point. Some of her clothes were still here on the bed. He swept up her precious thin tissue of a T-shirt and held it to his nose. It smelled of woodsmoke and herbs and just a little bit of sweat, which made him crazy. He had been so angry when she'd told him the story. She'd expected him to laugh and protect her from the wrath of Rose and he had been furious and hurt instead. For no good reason!

Then he told her he needed space. Even when he said it he knew it was (a) a cliché and (b) not even true! He actually wanted to take her to bed and experiment with his guitar this time but he thought he should be hurt, so he acted hurt and now she was gone.

He played more of the sad-guy song, with his own lyrics. “I let her go-o. I really let her run and go-o,” he sang. It was an abomination to treat such beautiful music this way.

He put the lute down.

Go find her, you idiot. Maybe she hasn't left yet. That's got to mean something.

He got to his feet and starting pacing.

I need to find her. Now. Was she still on the island, or had she left for home without telling anyone? He didn't have a cell number for her. Fred had that. Bastard! He wasn't about to ask Fred for Caroline's number. He took out his phone and stepped over toward the window to get a signal. Max would know if she'd been on the ferry. So awful to chase after her like this! He couldn't do it.

He punched Max's number. Pick up. Pick up.

“Yep?”

“Max, it's Robert up at Hopewell.” It was humiliating to have to call about one's own girlfriend, if he could dare call her that. “Max, you haven't by any chance seen Caroline on the ferry today, have you?”

“Not today.”

Don't always be so exasperating! “When did you see her, Max? This is important!”

“She left on the seven-thirty a couple of days ago. I was running it myself.”

Robert felt ice run through his whole body. I've lost her.

“But she came back on the six,” Max added. “Did the same thing the next day. She hasn't been on the ferry since, far as I know.”

The blood rushed back to his head. “Then she's on the island.”

“Sounds like it,” said Max.

Robert ended the call. Maybe I'm in with a chance.

 • • • 

Caroline couldn't figure out why she was still hanging around Little Lost. The day after the shit hit the fan she found herself on the seven-thirty ferry, heading back to the city.

“Untie if we're going,” Max had said.

The engine was already running and her bags were packed and onboard. She'd unwound the rope from the cleat. She had gotten the hang of cleats, at least, if not of knots.

Max had steered the ferry away from the dock and opened up the throttle. She thought she'd heard him say something.

“What?” she'd asked.

“He's not a bad guy.”

“Thanks, I'll figure this out on my own.”

“Suit yourself.”

Caroline knew Robert was not a bad guy. He was actually a great guy. She could already tell that he adored her, and not as a screen goddess. He'd barely seen her movies. When he took her to bed and kissed her so ardently, he was not kissing a movie star. He was kissing her.

When she'd gotten off the ferry and into the parking lot, she discovered she didn't have her keys.

She'd spent the day walking around Big Lost Island and trying to find houses she thought she'd like more than Hopewell. There were none. She'd taken the six o'clock back and had no supper, even though Beverly had made paella.

The next day she caught the early ferry again, and this time she left her wallet behind. Clearly Dr. Freud was trying to tell her something.

Now it was the day of Possum's life celebration, and she didn't want to let Beverly down by not showing up. She'd avoid Robert and Rose during the ceremony, stay just till it ended, and then she'd go. If she didn't have her wallet and keys, she'd hitchhike.

Caroline didn't want to be in the cottage, and she was sick of riding the ferry back and forth, so to kill time she wandered up to the assembly room, the scene of her triumph as Captain Hook. She hadn't even checked to see whether any photos had gotten out or if they were making fun of her online. She'd had a blast that night. Robert's music had really helped.

She sat down at the piano. Another beautiful piece of wood covered in old paint. But the yellow was cheery, and matched the notes' tinny sound, so it all seemed to work.

She had lost what little piano skills she'd been taught at St. Andrew's. Mostly she could play “Für Elise,” “Chopsticks,” and a mean bass on “Heart and Soul.” She started on that now. She gave it a bluesy beat that echoed around the room.

She heard the screen door slam and knew instantly who was there. It would have been a real movie moment if Robert hadn't sneezed to announce his entrance. For a slender guy, he had an enormous sneeze.

Caroline looked over her shoulder. “You,” she said. He looked so utterly forlorn and crestfallen she almost forgave him right then. But let him say the first word.

“Oh my God, Caroline, I am so sorry.”

She started playing again. This time with a lot of drama. Keep him on the line.

He came closer. “I was an utter fool and idiot.”

She shrugged her shoulders.

He hovered next to the piano bench. “What I'm trying to tell you is I think I've fallen—”

“Say it with music,” she said.

He put all he had into “Heart and Soul.”

 • • • 

“Someone lead the way, before I lose my nerve.” Jon, Lottie, and Ethan were neatly dressed and ready on the porch at three o'clock. Rose had also appeared, silent and gloomy. Beverly was mistrustful of this instant family, but they were doing what family does: rallying round.

They took the boardwalk that led past the chapel and up to Cathedral Woods. Ethan ran ahead with Jon. Beverly's legs had grown stronger from all this walking, but still, it was a long way and he took it slowly. Rose and Lottie kept pace with him. No one spoke.

“This will do, won't it, Beverly?” Lottie asked. They had come to a spot where the spruce trees were particularly high. It did look a little like a cathedral.

“Yes, this is where Robert thought we should be,” Lottie said. They gathered around Beverly as Jon struggled to open the box. He took out his key chain and gingerly tore open the packing tape. He was mercifully gentle. Inside the box was a somber canvas bag, which Jon handed to Beverly.

“Poor old Possum,” Beverly said. There was silence. They don't expect me to speak, I hope. I won't be speaking.

The silence hung.

Then Rose spoke up. At first he wasn't even sure what she was talking about or to whom she was speaking or why. All he registered was her saying that losing things was not a disaster. Ha!

Was this a eulogy or just an observation? Beverly couldn't tell, but at least Rose's sudden declaiming meant he didn't have to say anything. He spilled some of the ashes out of the sack and onto the ground. There was no wind, which was a mercy. He did not want to touch the ashes or to have them touch him. What if he felt fur? Or a bone?

Rose's voice, though not Caroline's, was strong and deep. It was poetry she was reciting, he was sure of it. He closed his eyes and let her words wash over him. On she went, about losing things. And people. And places.

Gorsch would have liked it up here in Maine. He would so have enjoyed those lads who sang, from the hat party. Doubtless he would have invited one of them back to bed with him—and the poor boy would have had to accept: an invitation from the great Sam Gorsch! Who would not take him up on it? Gorsch would have had a whale of a time showing the lad his member. Half of Gorsch's success, Beverly thought, could be laid at the feet of his enormous dick. He smiled. Then he started listening to Rose again.

Now she had moved on to losing houses and keys. As if keys mattered! At least Jon is now going to take over the upkeep of all those houses we have, he thought. Jon seems so eager to do all the things I don't want to do at all. What will I do with myself instead, though? Lottie says we'll all stay friends. I doubt it.

Rose had not stopped.

She keeps saying that one line, Beverly thought, about the art of losing. Is it really in the poem that many times? What a lazy writer. He hoped it was not Rose who had written the poem, though her voice, now raw, was having an effect on him. And on the others. Between the soaring trees and the slanting light and the ashes and the birds and the ragged circle they had formed it was hard to resist the waves of sentiment. Sentiment or real feeling.

I lost my husband, Beverly thought. It has been a disaster.

When Rose finished speaking at last, there was silence for a while. Jon may actually have been crying.

“Now can I get gelato?” asked Ethan. That helped.

Then Beverly saw two figures at the edge of the circle of trees. His darling Caroline, and Robert. Had they patched things up? Rose walked away.

“We stayed at the edges,” said Caroline. “But we came. Robert is forgiven.”

“Thank you,” said Beverly.

“He must have been a very good companion,” said Caroline. “Possum, I mean.”

“They were both very good companions,” said Beverly. “And now one of them is laid to rest. The other one, my darling Sammy”—there, he'd said his name now, his true name—“Lottie said you'd help me, Jon. Will you?” He was suddenly almost panic-stricken that Sam wasn't taken care of.

“Of course,” said Jon. “Do you want to stay here and talk about Possum?”

“I have talked and talked about Possum,” said Beverly. “I think we can talk about other things.” He looked for Rose. “Did she write that poem herself, do you think?” he asked. “Rose, I mean. It was so repetitive, but it made sense. I wonder if she always writes that way, saying the same thing over and over.”

“I actually don't think she wrote it,” said Caroline.

“It's Elizabeth Bishop,” said Caroline and Robert together.

Lottie turned to Caroline. “Now Beverly must come here all the time, every summer, to visit.”

“I think that's up to Robert,” said Caroline.

“I think that's up to you,” said Robert. He took her arm.

“Everyone's coupling off,” said Beverly. “Rose!” he called. “I need a little help getting back to the cottage. Could you possibly give me your arm?” He was making Rose and Caroline get near each other and they both knew it. He gave Caroline his left arm and offered Rose his right.

Rose reluctantly took it. “You're trying to get me back into the fold,” she said. “Hi, Caroline.”

“Bah,” said Beverly. “In case it helps, what Gorsch and I did to each other over umpteen years was much worse than this little hiccup of yours.”

“I don't think it will make a difference,” said Rose, “but tell us about it anyway.”

 • • • 

After the cat funeral, Ethan ran off with the island kids, what few were left. A lot of them had already headed back home for school. The adults watched as he played soccer in the field next to the tennis courts. Robert and Caroline had organized a picnic. It made for the perfect funeral repast.

“Happy?” said Jon, coming up next to Lottie, very close.

“I'm happy,” she said, with a sigh.

“What's the matter?”

“I'm sorry about Rose and Fred. Otherwise I am perfectly happy.”

“The magic will wear off, though, once we get home. It's not like this in real life.”

“But we'll have had it. We'll know it's possible. That's a lot.” She gave him a kiss. “Why are all those hot blazer boys clustering around Beverly?”

“Hot blazer boys?”

“They're all in blue blazers and they all are very cute. What are they up to?”

The clear note of a pitch pipe sounded. It was the singing group who had been at the hat party all that long time ago—at least it seemed a long time ago.

“You know what fans we are of Sam Gorsch,” one of them said. He wore a lavender shirt. “So when we heard you were on the island, and we learned a little about you, we taught ourselves this song. Carl wrote the harmonies. They're a little different than you're probably used to. Plus, we made it a lot more upbeat. Times have changed.”

Beverly looked over at Lottie. “You'll have to check with my musical executors,” he said.

“Permission granted,” said Jon. “And we'll waive the fee.”

The lead singer blew the pitch pipe again, nodded to a snappy internal beat, mouthed, “One-two-three-four,” and they began to sing.

Two lovers,

Their flight of innocent grace.

One palace,

A vast impregnable place.

Father, brothers

All intent on breaking the pair.

Willow tree blows skyward

As the birds float on air

Blue willow . . .

When they were done, they held the last note a long time. Then they broke with a yelp. Everyone clapped. Beverly beamed. He turned to Caroline. “Say what you will about that dreadful world we'll go back to when all this is over,” he said, “but times have changed indeed.”

H
opewell Cottage was to be filled to the rafters for the last week of August, quite literally. The stray cat at last found Beverly's saucer of goodies and was coming around regularly for leftover grilled swordfish. Fred arranged with Rose that he would fly up with the kids to Boston on the last Tuesday of the month, rent a car, and bring them over on the ferry.

Rose met them at the dock. The kids went wild when they saw her. “Mama! Mommyyyyyy!”

They threw themselves at her and she had to stop herself from toppling over.

“Mommy's crying!”

“I'm crying because I'm so happy to see you.”

“That's crazy! You're crazy, Mom.”

“I know. I know I'm crazy.” She looked at Fred. “Thank you, Fred. Thanks for bringing them.” She wiped her nose on Bea's shoulder. “I'm sorry,” she said.

“Here take this.” He gave her a bandanna. He always had a clean bandanna. It made her cry more. “I wanted them to see you up here. I'm sorry, too. I was a shit.”

“Bad word! Bad word, Daddy!” Bea was thrilled to catch him.

Ben had already found the single scariest item on the dock. “Ben! Do not touch that hook!” Fred sprang after him. “Don't touch anything. And let's get out of the way of the other people.”

Rose hadn't even noticed that their homecoming was blocking the gangway for the rest of the ferry passengers. “Come on, guys, let's move for a second. Bea, what did you do to your hair?”

“Aunt Isobel let me make it
purple
! But not all the way.”

“Thank God for that. Are you taller than Ben now?”

“Nobody's taller than me!”

“Max said he'd take me back to the car,” Fred said, “I'm on the six o'clock shuttle from Boston so I've got to get going.”

“Wait,” Rose said. “You can't stay? Even for a little?”

“Mom, watch me jump!” said Ben.

“No jumping! Come here, Ben.” She grabbed him by the back of the life jacket.

“Do you want me to stay?”

At that moment, on that dock, with the kids and the water and the boats and the sunlight, she didn't want him out of her life. Their life. “I want you to be home when we get home on the weekend. Back home to Brooklyn. Is that okay?”

“That's good, Rose. Really good.”

“I gotta take this thing
off
, Mom!” Bea said. She was unbuckling her life vest.

“Life jackets on till we're off the dock.”

“Come say good-bye, kids,” Fred said. “I'll see you in a few days.”

“Bye, Dad,” Bea said and blew him a kiss. Ben had already strewn his life jacket on the dock and had commandeered a wheelbarrow up on the path to the cottages.

Max had started up the ferry engine. “I better go. I'll be home, Rosie. Come home soon,” Fred said.

The ferry cast off. If Bea hadn't been clinging to her leg and Ben hadn't been in danger of tipping himself over in a wheelbarrow, she might have jumped onto the boat too.

She watched it leave, and waved. Fred waved back.

“Don't worry, Mommy,” Bea said. “Daddy's okay.”

“Thanks, you,” said Rose. She buried her face in Bea's now half-purple hair. “Let's go see the others. I'll take you up in the wheelbarrow. Ben! Be careful!”

To her great surprise, Rose felt much better about Caroline once her kids were there, especially since Bea took such a shine to her and because Robert let Ben bash away on a very old guitar. It was hard not to like someone who obviously liked her kids. At night Ethan and Ben and Bea, plus assorted island kids who had been demanding sleepovers, slept in the boys' dormitory, like a den of puppies. Caroline told them stories in her thrilling voice, and Robert sang medieval lullabies accompanied by his lute.

“Better than Hogwarts,” Lottie said.

Beverly spent his last week on the island coaxing the cat, whom he'd named Abigail, onto the lawn of the cottage and from there to the porch. Even if he wasn't ready to have a pet yet, she was comforting to have around. Rose learned from another parent that Abigail was one of a litter of cats that had been born under mysterious circumstances. Her mama cat, presumed dead early in the season, had actually been hiding out in the old boathouse and had had enough company there to give birth in early June. “So the pedigree is impeccable,” said Beverly. “Little Lost Islanders through and through.”

Once Abigail was willing to be touched, Jon took her (kicking and screaming) to the vet in the Harbor, who fixed her up with shots and pronounced her healthy.

“We can't leave her here over the winter, can we?” said Beverly as they took the ferry back to the island. “She wouldn't survive alone.”

“No, I don't think she would,” said Jon, and that was settled.

Robert had emerged from the third floor long enough to arrange for someone to close up the cottage when they all left on Saturday. The end of the summer.

“We better go home soon, Mommy,” Ethan said. “Ben and I have to start being friends at home too. I told him he could go to my school.”

“And I want to take care of Abigail! She needs me!” said Bea.

“Oh, so this is how it happens,” said Rose. “Children and animals.”

“They always upstage one,” said Caroline.

“No one upstages you,” said Robert.

“Someone, please stop him,” said Jon.

“Oh not yet, not yet,” said Caroline.

“Turns out,” Robert said, “she likes the gawpers.”

“Only if they're you,” Caroline said.

 • • • 

August 31 was their last day. Robert said they were all welcome to stay longer, but Labor Day loomed, so there was school to get back to and co-op shifts to make up, and books to turn in and movie scripts to read. The weather urged them home too. It was as if the island were conspiring in the end of the season: the night came much earlier; the fog didn't lift in the morning; some of the leaves on the trees were starting to turn red. The pull of real life was strong and, by now, almost welcome. Not that they were tired of the magic of Hopewell Cottage; just that they wanted to take some of it back with them, and try it on for size at home.

 • • • 

The trash and bottles gathered, the food all out of the fridge, the laundry mostly done, the duffle bags dragged out to the island truck—they were ready. Fred and Jon got into the back with the kids and the bags. Robert squeezed next to Warren, Max's second in command. Rose and Lottie and Caroline would walk down with Beverly, who toted Abigail in a snazzy little cat carrier they'd found at an antique store.

“One picture of us all!” said Lottie. “Before we disappear to the four winds!”

“Can you take it, Warren?” Robert asked.

Warren agreed.

“We should take it on the cottage steps,” said Robert.

“On the truck! On the truck!” said Ben.

“On the truck!” repeated Ethan.

“On the truck it is,” said Robert. They gathered around the flatbed, the Roses, the Carolines, the Lotties, and Beverly with his Abigail.

“Say cheese!” said Warren. They said cheese; the picture was taken. Warren started up the motor. “Meet you at the dock!” said Robert, and the truck rumbled downhill.

Caroline, Beverly, Lottie, and Rose remained in the quiet left behind by the truck's noisy engine. They stood in front of the cottage for a moment, all of them lost in thought. With all the windows closed and the porch empty of towels and books and swept clean, it looked so serene.

“There are about a thousand things I didn't do,” said Rose.

“We never went to Bar Harbor,” said Lottie.

“Or climbed Cadillac Mountain,” said Rose. “And we didn't get to Monhegan. I didn't finish my dissertation. Or even make a start. But I will.”

“Did we have lobster rolls?” asked Caroline. Beverly couldn't pinpoint exactly when Rose and Caroline had started speaking to each other again, but he was glad they had. “Oh, right—way back at the beginning of the month. It seems like that happened last year. Beverly's the only one who accomplished what he came to do.”

“But we will accomplish what we need to do. I see it.”

“You know what, Lottie?” Rose said. “I actually see it too.”

“It's yours now,” Lottie said to Caroline. “Hopewell Cottage.”

“It's hardly mine,” said Caroline, as she put a hand on the stair railing. “But I do like Robert a lot.”

“Yes, we've picked that up,” said Beverly. “My room was directly under your love nest, and I'm not completely deaf.”

“Let's cut some of those flowers,” said Caroline, changing the subject, “to take home with us. A little piece of the island. Zinnias, right?”

“Zinnias, indeed. Pretty,” said Beverly.

“To go with our sea glass and shells and smelly seaweed,” said Rose. “We are taking practically a metric ton of the island back with the twins.”

“A little more won't hurt,” said Caroline. She dug in her shorts and found Robert's pocketknife. She smiled. “Remember when we looked at these the first day, Beverly?” She bent over and started cutting. “The red ones are gone but there are new ones now. Orange.”

“Orange?” said Beverly. “I would have called them persimmon.”