Elise was the first one to let out her laughter, and the other two joined her.
“What about Cal?” Olivia asked. “Felicity did a real number on him. How did he feel about such a public humiliation?”
“I have no idea.” Kathy refilled her wineglass. “He’s not married, if that’s what you mean, and he has a different date for every party. What’s with you and Cal?”
“He just seems to be the one who gets left out,” Olivia said. “I wonder how he reacted to that night? Anger at Felicity? Understanding? That kind of thing shows the true character of a man.”
“I don’t know. Like I said, Cal stays away from me. I do know that after that night he liked me even less than he did before. For months afterward, he wouldn’t even stay in the same room with me. At my wedding he said, ‘I hope you get what you want out of life.’ The way he said it made my hair stand on end. Actually, the man kind of scares me.”
“And now Ray is your life,” Olivia said softly. “More or less.”
“Maybe Andy was afraid to speak to you because you’re the boss’s daughter. Why didn’t you ask him out?” Elise asked.
“I’m fairly secure about what I can do in the advertising world. I’ve come up with a few good ideas. But—” she motioned to her body with her hand “—I’m not so secure in a, uh, personal way.”
“Oh well,” Elise said. “At least your husband knows you have a brain. Mine thinks I’m a not-very-bright child.”
“And mine thought I was only good for work.”
“Not if you get the right one,” Olivia said. “If I’d had Kit all these years I wouldn’t have gone after Alan and his son.” She sighed. “They would have had a life with people who made them happy.”
“I wish I hadn’t thought I was so powerful that I could make Kent love me.”
“And I wish I’d gone up to Andy and asked him out to dinner.”
The air in the room had become heavy with their regrets.
Olivia wanted to lighten the mood. “You think you young chickies have it hard? Let me tell you that when it comes to romance, there is nothing as bad as being an unmarried, older woman who is financially comfortable. You know how on TV and in movies when an older man’s wife dies a zillion women show up with casseroles? What I didn’t know is that people actually believe that what a financially secure widow truly wants is to take on some man to support, feed, and endlessly find whatever he’s lost. ‘A nurse or a purse.’ That’s what they want.”
She took a drink of her wine. “On the day of Alan’s funeral, three old men hit on me. Each one seemed to think it was his decision whether or not he would move into my mortgage-free house. And when I said no... The anger! None of the men wanted me. They just seemed to think it was my duty to take care of them. Sometimes I think I moved in with my stepson to protect myself.”
Kathy put down her glass. “I have a big, beautiful husband who has such a raw sexuality that women follow him down the street. He and I are best friends, and genuinely love each other—but he never touches me. He is kind, considerate, and generous—and I’d trade it all for one really great screw.”
They looked at Elise.
“Me? I’m a good girl. Obedient always. I never gave my parents any problems. When they pushed me toward marriage with Kent, I agreed. And why not? He’s gorgeous and smart and ambitious. I didn’t grow up fantasizing about rock stars. For me, it was always Kent. When I was eight, I started cutting out photos of the house he and I would have together. I made myself exactly what he liked. Shoulder-length hair with a headband? Check. Preppy clothes? Right. The schools that he said the woman he married should go to are where I went. I did it all. I never even questioned it. But what happened? He married me, he likes me, but he is passionate about Carmen. It’s not possible for me to be more opposite than Carmen.” She gave a pointed look at Kathy’s magnificent bosom.
“Don’t think these babies would solve your problems!” Kathy said. “I live on lettuce and broiled chicken, but even if I were as skinny as you, I don’t think that spark would be between Ray and me.”
Elise looked at Olivia, her eyes questioning. Should they tell Kathy that Ray was planning to leave her?
Olivia gave a curt nod and opened her mouth to speak, but a loud knock on the door startled them. She got up to answer it.
It was getting dark outside and Young Pete, his wrinkled old face scowling, had on a yellow slicker with raindrops on it. “I told those two to get out. They did, but they left the windows open.”
Elise and Kathy were behind Olivia and looking at the old man.
When he saw Kathy, his deeply wrinkled face wadded up into a smile. “Didn’t see you here.” His voice was soft as he looked her up and down in a lustful way. He held out an umbrella. “For you.”
“Thank you.” Kathy took it and smiled back warmly.
With that, Young Pete turned away, seeming to be pleased by the encounter.
Olivia closed the door. “I take it that he told Kevin and Hildy to leave. I better go close the windows.”
“We’ll go with you,” Elise said. “Someone has to protect Kathy from lecherous Young Pete.”
“No! Don’t! He’s the best offer I’ve had in years,” Kathy said, and they laughed. Kathy lent Elise a jacket. It was Prada, too big, but the buttery leather felt divine. “Kathy and I will close the windows,” Elise said as Olivia got the house keys out of her handbag. “You don’t have to go in.” She explained that Olivia wanted to wait until Kit was there so they’d be together when they first saw the house.
“No,” Olivia said. “I think I would like to see it. You two have made me feel good about having a man who actually wants me.”
When she turned away to the door, Kathy and Elise looked at each other. Maybe Olivia had found the man, but what about the forty-some years she’d missed out on? And didn’t the current problem have to do with that? Kevin and Hildy were part of her late husband.
But they said nothing. Kathy found a flashlight in a kitchen drawer and they followed Olivia across the drive to the fence that enclosed the River House. Elise made jokes about using the flashlight as a weapon to fight off Young Pete when he came after Kathy.
“Are you kidding?” Kathy said. “I’m encouraging him. Point out his house so I can sneak away later and meet him. He’ll be my own personal gamekeeper.”
When they reached the house, they were laughing.
Olivia had expected that when she first saw the interior of the house she and Kit were to live in, she’d feel only joy. On their long honeymoon they’d bought many lovely things. Laces in Spain, native sculptures in the Marquesas, antiques in China.
Stacy Hartman, their designer, had told them what was needed. “A chest of drawers for the linens,” she’d written, then given the measurements. She would add a note about the color, a hint of blue or silver, or a red lacquer to go with a rug Kit had bought twenty years before in a market in Egypt.
It had all been fun as they’d searched for beautiful things. When what they found didn’t fit Stacy’s measurements, they’d send her a photo and ask her to find a place for it. She always did.
At first, Stacy emailed them photos of the fabrics she thought would work, but she soon found out that Olivia and Kit could get something comparable in whatever country they were in. Their whole trip down the length of Italy had turned into a fabric-buying journey. They bargained for remnants of cloth that had been used in palaces. One day Olivia pulled a piece of brocade off a pile of old rugs and said she wanted it for the headboard in the guest bedroom. The fabric was dirty and faded in spots but there were no holes in it. Kit had bargained—in Italian—and they’d come away with the fabulous piece for a good price.
Two days later they went back to the store and saw that the wily old owner had tossed another gorgeous tapestry weave over the pile of rugs. Grinning, he told them that anytime he had a piec
e that he couldn’t get rid of, he threw it on the rugs and covered it with the floor sweepings. It sold immediately. “Usually to Americans,” he said, his eyes dancing in merriment.
There were a lot of things in the house that were from the years when Kit and she hadn’t been together, but there was enough of what they’d bought to make Olivia feel it was her home too. But she couldn’t help thinking about what she’d like to change. If she’d been with Kit through the eighties, she would have vetoed the African masks. If they’d been together during the nineties, she would have chosen different rugs. If, if, if, she thought. She followed the women into the kitchen.
Stacy had filled the pantry and the fridge. They made salads and threw two big pizzas in the oven.
“I want to hear about you, about the summer of 1970, when you and Kit were together,” Elise said to Olivia.
The rain was coming down hard outside, making them feel isolated.
“I don’t know...” she said. It was a story that she’d spent over forty years trying to forget, or at least to bury under the reality of her life. Kathy and Elise were staring at her. “I’m not sure I even remember it clearly.”
Neither Elise nor Kathy spoke, but their eyes said that they didn’t believe her. Olivia looked in the oven window to check the pizzas. Who was she trying to kid? Herself? If so, it wasn’t working because she remembered every second of that summer.
She used the big wooden paddle to remove the pizzas and they all went to the dining room. “This table came from England and was said to have been owned by—”
She stopped talking because Elise and Kathy were still standing, waiting for her to begin the story of her life.
“It’s your turn,” Kathy said.
“Not yet,” Olivia said. “We haven’t heard enough about your life with Ray. Didn’t you say you worked with him?”
“We were like business partners. He ran every idea past me and we discussed each of them. Nothing interesting. No dark-eyed gardener came to save me. And I rarely got credit for what I did. So there! That’s it. I want to hear about you and Kit and the summer to remember.”
“I agree.” Elise sat down next to Kathy. “I want to hear all of it. From the beginning.”
Olivia took the chair across from them. “The whole story would present me in a very bad light. I was obnoxious.”
“You?” Elise said. “But you’re perfect. You are calm and thoughtful and have great insight into people. You—”
“So help me if you say you hope to be like me when you’re my age, I’ll throw you out into the rain and let Young Pete have you.”
“I would really like to hear,” Kathy said. “And please tell us the truth about yourself. About everyone.”
Olivia closed her eyes and seemed to be trying to make a decision. “I tried so hard to forget, but I never could.”
She was silent for a moment. “It was 1970,” she began. “Nixon was in the White House and young men were dying in Vietnam.” She held up her wineglass and looked at it. The expression on her face wasn’t happy. “And the Food and Drug Administration had issued a warning that birth control pills might cause blood clots, so we were reluctant to use them.”
The women began to eat as Olivia talked.
“I graduated from college in the morning and took a plane to New York that afternoon. My drama teacher had arranged for me to audition for Elizabeth in a new Broadway production of Pride and Prejudice. I’m ashamed to say that when I got the role I felt more ‘of course’ than grateful. I had never had a bad thing happen to me so I had a feeling of being invincible. Nothing bad was ever going to happen to me!
“We went right into rehearsals and I loved every minute of it. I shared a tiny fourth-floor walk-up apartment way downtown with the girl playing Jane. She was from a small town in Nebraska and we were hungry for everything New York had to offer. It was a truly marvelous time and I thought my life would be like that forever.
“But then, the theater caught fire from old, worn-out wiring and was shut down for a complete overhaul. Actually, the theater needed a full remodel. The show was put on hold until September. I couldn’t afford to stay in New York with no job so I had to go home.”
Olivia paused. “As I said, I was obnoxious. My parents had liked the quiet of their lives while I was in college. But I returned full of New York energy, critical of boring little Summer Hill, and angry that ‘my’ show wasn’t opening immediately.”
She smiled. “I didn’t know it then but my mother was a very wise woman. She and Dad put up with me for three whole days. But Mom had so accurately foreseen what I was going to be like, that she’d found me a summer job. She told me I was to be the live-in cook-housekeeper for two old men.”
“What did you say to that?” Elise asked.
“I very dramatically said that I’d rather die than spend my last summer as a normal person cooking for some old men.” Olivia shook her head. “You know, my last remaining time before I became an internationally renowned star.”
She laughed. “It’s hard to think about now, but I was the spoiled only child of older parents and you can’t get much worse than that. But my mother knew that it was time for me to grow up. She handed me my packed bag and told me that Mr. Gates would pick me up in ten minutes. I was shocked! But I told myself that if all I had to deal with were two old men, both of whom I knew to be sweet tempered, I’d have time to go over my lines and perfect them.”
Olivia drank of her wine. “It was on the drive over that Mr. Gates told me the job was open because Mrs. Tattington, a relative who usually cooked for them in the summer, had broken her arm. She was there with her husband and five-year-old daughter. And Dr. Everett’s five-year-old son was staying with them in the Big House. Mr. Gates said it would be nice if I helped with all of them too.”
“How many people is that?” Kathy asked.
“Two old men, one of whom was in a wheelchair, three in the Tattington family, and a young boy. It was six people I was supposed to take care of.”
“But wasn’t Kit there too?”
“Not for the first few days. The night he arrived I was so exhausted from cooking and cleaning that I slept through the turmoil. The next morning, when I was told that a nineteen-year-old boy had been added to my workload, I was furious. Volcanoes were less angry than I was.” Olivia was smiling.
“I guess something changed your mind,” Elise said.
“Think of the way Alejandro dresses.”
“Yes,” Elise said. “Shirtless.”
“And nearly pantless,” Olivia said in a dreamy way. “In 1970, I’d never seen a man with less clothing on than he was wearing. And I’d never, ever in my life seen a body as beautiful as his.”
She grinned. “Nor have I since.”
Chapter Fourteen
Summer Hill, Virginia 1970
Olivia put the dishcloth onto the big porcelain sink and looked out the window. It was beautiful on the grounds of the old plantation, but when you were as angry as she was, nothing looked good.
Behind her at the kitchen table were Uncle Freddy, Mr. Gates, and the two little kids.
Uncle Freddy’s wheelchair was beside Mr. Gates’s old cane-backed seat and the children’s legs dangled off the bench. They were eating the Campbell’s soup and grilled cheese sandwiches she had fixed for lunch. Again.
Olivia knew she should get her anger under control, but at the moment, life seemed too unfair for her to think clearly. Everything had been so perfect. She’d had Broadway and a future that held nothing but promise.
Turning, she looked at the four of them, their heads down and eating in silence.
Damnation! How did she get out of this job? She was totally unsuited for it. She’d never cooked much and wasn’t interested in learning how. These men and the children—especially little Ace—deserved better. Last night she’d called around and foun
d an opening at Abigail’s Dress Shop. If she could find a replacement here, she could have that job.
Olivia looked at Uncle Freddy’s bent head. He was an old man and she didn’t want to hurt him. Beside him was his lifelong companion, Mr. Gates. The two men often told how they’d been born on the same day. “And that makes us twins,” they’d say, and laugh every time. Uncle Freddy was blond and fair skinned; Mr. Gates was African American.
Same birthday but very different worlds, and everyone in Summer Hill knew the story.
Frederick Ethan Tattington had been the youngest of four sons born to an old, rich, hardworking, humorless family in Philadelphia. On his twenty-first birthday, his father did what he’d done to each of his children: He asked Freddy what he most wanted. His older brothers had each said a variation of “Own the world.” Their father had set them up with businesses they could rule.
But young Freddy, handsome to the point of prettiness and beloved by them all, said he wanted Tattwell, the plantation in Virginia that the family still owned. The family’s ownership in a Southern state was still an embarrassment to them. Not because of the humanity involved, but because they’d been on the side that had lost a war.
Gladly—for his father had run out of businesses to give away—he turned over the decaying plantation to his son, along with the money needed to bring it back to life.
Freddy had always been a happy person, but on his twenty-third birthday his joy was severely tested. He had three glasses of champagne as he toasted the good that was his life. Then he mounted his horse and decided to see if he could jump over a hay wagon. Everyone begged him not to do it.
He made it over the wagon but just as his horse hit the ground, one of the barn cats ran past. Rather than hurt the creature, Freddy jerked the reins to the right. The horse tried to turn but couldn’t. Freddy went flying off and hit the old stone well in the small of his back. He was paralyzed from the waist down.
His beautiful fiancée left him and his family ordered him to return to Philadelphia. But Freddy stayed where he was, and he never lost his love of life. About a year after the accident, after he’d very kindly fired three highly qualified men his family had hired to help him, a tall, thin, African American young man came by looking for work. He glanced at the entry gates and said his name was Gates, just the one name.