Everlasting (14 page)

For Catherine, New York was a million miles away. New York was a dark dream. Kit and Piet, Shelly and her mother and father, Mr. and Mrs. Vanderveld, all were enclosed in a glistening balloon that Catherine tossed in the air and watched float away until it disappeared from sight. She was among clever new friends. She was relaxed. She was intoxicated by the Boxworthy family. She was almost happy.

* * *

I
t rained during the drive back to Everly. But the next day the sun came out blazing. At last the Eliot women could have a thorough, leisurely tour of the Everly gardens. Hortense had to get back to work weeding and picking fresh flowers and vegetables for the house, and for the pleasure of her company, Ann helped. Ned had to catch up on the paperwork and Madeline and Elizabeth on the baking, so Catherine and Kathryn meandered together through the formal boxed hedges down to the gurgling stream or sat on a marble bench next to a brick wall engulfed by plumy spills of wisteria. The air was warm, the sky a rapturous blue. Delphiniums, phlox, daisies, hollyhocks, sunflowers, and roses dappled their vision, while birds chirped from fruit trees and made rustling raids on gooseberries and currants.

Which Everly do you love best, Grandmother? Catherine longed to ask, but never did. In the gardens of the British Everly, Kathryn was at her most aloof. Her very carriage declared: Stand back. Don’t intrude. The American Everly was less formal, more inviting, Catherine decided, if only because of the rambling house and the wild superabundance of the gardens, which Kathryn didn’t have the time or money to control. Upstarts at the American Everly, seeds that had drifted in on air currents or birds, often managed to take root and grow, causing startling and cheerful combinations.

One lovely day they went on the excursion Kathryn had been longing for—to Sissinghurst in Kent, to see the elaborate gardens Vita Sackville-West had designed. None of the Boxworthy women could go; they were too busy. But Ned came along, insisting on driving them in his father’s old, immaculately cared for Bentley.

“It’s good for the old thing to get some fresh air,” he said, fondly stroking the silvered gray of the hood.

Catherine was surprised that Ann chose to join them rather than spending the day at Hortense’s side. Then she noticed as the day passed how Ann’s eyes brightened each time she looked at Ned. Ann had a crush on him, and Catherine didn’t blame her. He was beautiful, and clever, and kind. Catherine left Ann to herself with Ned, a romantic afternoon young Ann would remember all her life, Catherine thought. She looped her arm through her grandmother’s and strolled with her along a brick path, under an archway of white roses so abundant, they looked like a foaming cataract of blossom. They climbed the steep spiral staircase to the turret room where Vita Sackville-West used to write. At the top of the tower they stood looking down at the flowers, divided by hedges and glowing with color like stained-glass windows, surrounded by the rolling meadows of Kent.

* * *

T
hat evening Catherine showered and dressed for tea. She had just stepped out into the dark upstairs hall when Ned appeared so suddenly that he startled her.

“I’ve got something for you!” he whispered. “Come up to my room a minute.”

“The others—”

“Won’t notice if we hurry!” he said.

She had never been to his attic room. It was charming, entirely masculine, furnished in dark heavy oak and rough green plaids, the ceilings low and slanted, shadows striping the floor.

“Here,” Ned said without preamble. “I brought you a present.”

He handed her a package. She tore off the paper to find an exquisitely decorated book about the Sissinghurst gardens and the life of Vita Sackville-West.

“How lovely! Ned, thank you!” Catherine’s face warmed with pleasure and surprise.

She was even more surprised when he pulled her against him and folded her in an embrace. At first she resisted, but his kiss was very pleasant. He smelled like summer grasses. His body against her was warm, animal-hard, masculine. His breath, tongue, teeth, and lips were as sweet and dazzling as strawberry jam and clotted cream.

“Come up here to me tonight,” he whispered into her ear. “Please.”

Catherine realized she was kissing him, pressing herself against him at the same time knowing she should push him away. “I don’t know,” she replied. “Oh, I don’t know.”

“I know,” he said. “You should come.”

Flustered, she moved away from his embrace and rushed down to her room to smooth her hair and fix her lipstick. What should she do? What did she want to do? She thought Ned immensely handsome, and she liked him, too, but something about him amused her. She was able to observe him from a distance, to remain separate from him, while with Kit she had instantly felt bonded, completely at home. Well, with Kit she had been tricked, by him and by herself. Perhaps Ned was the cure. It was obvious that Ned wanted only a fling with her, nothing more; that was what she wanted, too.

In the library, Madeline Boxworthy was working on a needlepoint cushion cover. Kathryn was looking through the books on the shelves. Various guests were playing bridge or just milling around. Catherine could not settle down to any one thing. They would be going home in two days, she and Ann and Kathryn, and perhaps that was why Ned had waited until now to invite her to his bed. That way, the offer clearly involved nothing more than enjoying themselves. Now Ned was gently teasing Elizabeth, who was reading a book of poetry. Suddenly Hortense said, “Ann, sleep in my room tonight, will you! We’ll eat pastries in bed and stay up all night telling ghost stories.” Ann agreed at once. Catherine stared at Ned. She could not tell if he had orchestrated Hortense’s offer or not. But at least now she did not have to consider what to tell Ann if she wanted to slip out of their room.

What an odd summer this had been. After three years of grinding routine, she’d been to Paris in June and now to England in August. She’d made love for the first time in her life and fallen in love for the first time in her life. And had her heart broken for the first time, too. Damn Kit!

Perhaps she only thought she loved him because she had made love to him.

She would go to Ned’s room, after all.

* * *

N
ed had the courtesy to seem happily surprised when she knocked on his door at midnight.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t come,” he said, drawing her in.

“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” she began, suddenly confused, but then he wrapped himself around her and kissed her. He was still dressed in a soft white shirt and slacks, while she wore a light summer nightgown and robe. His hands moved down her body. When his mouth moved to hers, his kisses inspired a need in her, like a thirst. Together, they went to his bed. He turned off the bedside lamp.

She was pleasantly surprised by how playful Ned’s lovemaking was. He wasn’t intense as Kit had been; he wasn’t in need. Ned teased Catherine, tickling her with his tongue, tasting her, testing her to find her most sensitive, susceptible spots. He smiled; he chatted.

“Do you like this?” he asked her several times. The first time the question embarrassed her, but eventually his tenderness broke through her shyness.

At one point he took her hand and placed it around his erect penis. “Do that,” he said, moving her hand. “Ah. Yes. John Thomas likes that a lot.”

“What?” Catherine asked, puzzled. “Who?”

Ned laughed. “I guess you’ve never read
Lady Chatterley’s Lover
. John Thomas is what the gamekeeper calls his penis.”

“Good heavens, you’re literary even when you’re making love!” Catherine exclaimed, and Ned laughed again.

When he finally entered her, Catherine didn’t feel the dreamy glow of first love that she’d felt with Kit, but she did feel pleasure. She enjoyed the slide of skin against skin. His breath, his sweat, his concentration … the intimate shock of connection. The sounds he made. The puppyish way he had nuzzled against her. It didn’t matter that he hardly knew her and didn’t love her. It was just so very pleasing to be touched.

This is good, Catherine told herself. Now I’m not even thinking of Kit, and how he made love to me, and later I won’t remember Kit’s body, but Ned’s. This is helping me forget Kit, she told herself as she moved against Ned’s body in the dark.

* * *

N
ed was driving Kathryn, Catherine, and Ann back to Heathrow.

Ann was sitting on the front seat next to Ned, babbling nonstop. In the back, Catherine and her grandmother were quiet, looking out the window. The car rolled past fields of grass, corn, flax, and wheat, with occasional streams curling through, but Catherine was not really seeing the landscape. Nor was she thinking of how Ned had felt against her last night. Oddly, she was thinking of Vanderveld Flowers, and her heart was doing little drum-rolls of anticipation. She had enjoyed this vacation, but she was glad it was over. She missed the fragrance and feel of all the cut flowers, the rainbow variety she casually worked with each day, the slither of wrapping paper, the festivity of ribbons, the sight and smell of so much sweet green. She even missed the Vandervelds, especially Piet. She had not learned to forget Kit, but she had learned that there were other things in life she wanted: right now she felt a raging desire to go home, and “home,” she realized with a smile, meant the flower shop.

* * *

B
ut first she had one final duty to perform. She’d promised Ann she’d go with her to the Eliots’ Vineyard home to visit their parents. Maybe this time she could change things. Life at the British Everly had made her more optimistic about happiness in her own family.

Catherine hadn’t been to the Vineyard for the past three years.

When she arrived at her parents’ house, she was shocked by how shabby it looked. The outside needed a new coat of paint, the roof needed reshingling, the garden was weedy and overgrown. Inside, the blond oak furniture and lightweight tables lacquered in Oriental reds and blacks—so modern in the fifties—looked dated. There were no fresh flowers, and the windows needed washing. Catherine’s heart sank as she looked around. No wonder Ann had been upset.

Her father entered the living room. “Hi, Dad!” Ann cried, running to hug him. Formally, he shook hands with Catherine.

Catherine was pained by how old he looked. He was nattily dressed in patchwork cotton pants and a lime green linen blazer. He was well groomed; he would always be handsome. But he had lost weight, and his skin hung around his jawline. His eyes were sunken. Nevertheless he smiled as he offered his daughters drinks.

Catherine almost cried out when Marjorie entered the living room, the change was so terrible. Her mother had gotten so fat that she looked absolutely porcine. Her beautiful blue eyes were hidden in a face so swollen with fat, it looked quilted. Her dainty feet and hands looked ridiculous attached to her gross body. In her vividly flowered muumuu, adorned and clanking with necklaces and bracelets and rings, she looked like some kind of costumed circus animal.

“Marjorie! You should have gone with us!” Ann cried, hugging her mother. “The British Everly is smashing! There, don’t I sound British! I love the Boxworthys! They’ve got a daughter, Hortense, and …”

Under the cover of Ann’s excitement, Catherine sipped her gin and tonic and wondered how, why, had her father allowed her mother to get in this state? Always before when her weight had gotten out of control, Marjorie had gone off to some posh beauty spa in Arizona and returned after a few weeks or months slimmer and calmer. Why hadn’t he sent her off weeks, no months, ago?

Genene had cooked a perfect summer dinner: broiled swordfish, potato salad, corn on the cob. Drew and Marjorie toyed with their food and drank whiskey. Ann kept up a running burble of talk about Everly. Catherine wasn’t hungry. How could she have considered her family in the same light as the Boxworthys?

Shelly stumbled in when dinner was almost over. He was with two older boys. His face broke into a delighted grin when he saw his older sister. “Catherine! Hey, babe! You’re looking great! Hi, Annie-fanny. How’d you like the Brits?”

At sixteen Shelly was attractive in a dangerously adult way. Tanned and fit, his body radiated health and pleasure. His green eyes were as freshly innocent as Easter grass, his smile dazzling, boyish, but as he leaned over to hug Catherine, she smelled the alcohol, cloying and offensive, on his breath.

“How are you, Shelly?” He’s growing up too fast, Catherine thought.

“Great! I need to change my shirt. There’s a party at John’s tonight. Don’t wait up for me. Bye!”

He was out of the dining room in a flash, his two friends trailing him like the tail of a comet.

“That boy,” Drew said proudly.

“Drew. I need another drink,” Marjorie said, rattling the ice cubes in her glass.

Ann wanted Catherine to take her to a movie after dinner. The movie, a Pink Panther comedy, hardly captured Catherine’s attention. She needed to formulate a plan, a plan that would save them all. She had to talk to her father. But she couldn’t think of a thing.

They returned from the movie to find Drew waiting up for them in the living room. He and Marjorie had gone to the club to meet some friends for a drink, and now, he told them, Marjorie was already in bed.

“It’s your bedtime, too, honey,” Drew said to his youngest daughter.

Always the good daughter, Ann kissed her father and sister good night. Drew led Catherine into the den, a large room with a pool table and a Ping-Pong table at one end and a nautically decorated bar along one wall. In the dark, it gave more an illusion of privacy and coziness than the other rooms of the house. Without asking, he poured a large whiskey for each of them, then sat down across from her on an overstuffed chair covered in blue sailcloth ornamented with white anchors and ropes.

“Catherine,” her father began, then stopped. He cleared his throat. He could not seem to bring himself to meet her eyes. He busied himself with a cigarette and lighter, rattling the ice cubes in his drink as he spoke. “We’ve never been close, you and I. What I have to say is difficult, but you should know the truth.”