Page 39 of The Summer Club
But most of all, she realized, gasping for breath at the head of the trail, with herself. For not asking them sooner.
Tish
She supposes a late-morning tea service will buoy her spirits. Charley has called asking for a meeting. It will not change her mind, but it will give her a chance to lay eyes on her boy, and for that reason alone she agrees to it.
The front desk has secured a car for her. At first, the young girl at the reception desk (Tish could tell she was young; far too much hope and cheer in that tone) tried to suggest she take the trolley into town. Tish laughed. She has seen those trolley cars—jaunty little reproductions and quite well done, she might add. But they are open air and she imagines quite bumpy, and they are crammed full of other resort guests. Tish does not comingle. What tickles her most is the assumption by this hopeful young girl at the main desk that Tish is young enough to manage the walk up to the trolley car stand. The wait in the sun. The act of riding it about town and waiting for its return. That assumption of her youth is nice and makes her smile momentarily. It then occurs to Tish that maybe some of that girl’s chipperness has worn off on her; she’d best be careful.
As her car rolls down Main Street, Tish gazes out the window at all the tourists doing their touristy things. Downtown Chatham’s bustle is what appeals to so many. Not to her. The village boutiques are bright and cheery: window boxes teeming with flowers, shops filled with coastal goods, gaily-colored awnings abundant. It is the Americana summer postcard scene by definition.
“Shall I stop somewhere special for you, ma’am?” the driver asks. His voice is rich and deep, reassuring to Tish.
“Drive on,” she tells him. Her destination does not lie in this pastel haven.
They pass Where the Sidewalk Ends Bookstore, which Charley always recommends. Then they pass Tale of the Cod, which opened shortly after she and Morty bought Riptide and where she could always count on finding an elegant hostess gift. Outside Buffy’s Ice Cream shop, a line has already formed on the sidewalk. It’s far too early in the morning for ice cream. When the driver pauses for pedestrians to cross, which he has to do often—heavens, these crowds!—she squints at the window display in a gallery. There is a large painted canvas of a couple walking to the ocean, their little boy running ahead. The couple is holding hands. Tish’s heart skips. Before she looks away, she wonders if either of them knows their time together is not guaranteed.
When they finally arrive at the rotary, Tish directs the driver south on Route 28 and on to Yarmouth. The drive will take them about twenty minutes, but to Tish time is of little concern these days. She is glad to be out and about on a sunny summer day. Her suite at Chatham Bars Inn is lovely, the service impeccable. But she is feeling stifled by all the thoughts in her head and all the personal history shadowing her now that she’s back on the Cape. It’s good to have a diversion.
The Captain Farris House tearoom is where she has chosen to meet Charley. As her driver pulls up to the stately inn, she can see her son is already waiting for her on the porch. The driver opens the backseat door and helps her out, just as Charley swoops up to take her hand.
“Thank you,” she tells them both. Tish is a feminist right down to the marrow of her bones, but she will never understand this new brand of thinking that women should insist on opening doors for themselves.
The tearoom is swathed in late-morning light and Tish blinks as she follows the host to their table by a bank of windows. She orders the Windsor tea service: Earl Grey, scones with raspberry jam and clotted cream, cucumber and salmon tea sandwiches. As they wait, Charley sits stoically and bears small talk. She has raised him well. He knows to wait to get to the meat of the matter.
“Have a scone,” she tells him. They are still warm and buttery. Once more, Tish is surprised by her appetite. She does not nibble but eats the small pastry in its entirety. Then helps herself to a tea sandwich. The cucumber is crisp. As she sips her tea she contemplates the salmon. To her dismay, Charley has only had a bite of his scone.
“Have I ever told you the story about the first dinner party I was invited to at your paternal grandparents’ house?”
Charley perks up a bit. He has always loved stories about his late father.
“Your grandmother did not exactly invite me, your father did. We were newly engaged and terribly in love with the notion of it. Your father wanted me to meet everyone he knew. I felt like I was on tour!” She laughs softly at the memory. “We both went to Columbia, so when he introduced me to his school friends the playing field was what you might call even.” She studies his expression to see if he follows. “The same could not be said when your father took me to Sag Harbor.”
They had just graduated, and Tish already had two nursing position interviews in the city. She was still living with her parents in the family apartment, but not for long. Soon she would have her own job and income and get her own place with her husband. The wedding was not until that winter, but already Morty was keeping an eye out for the perfect apartment. Tish was on top of the world. Her new life would be so different.
She had first met Morty’s parents in the city at a restaurant downtown. And then she’d seen them again at a dinner party at their place near Central Park. Both times Tish had felt overwhelmed. Morty’s mother, Matilda, was impeccably dressed. She had a penchant for beautifully tailored suits of nondescript color, further elevated with furs and fine jewelry. What was most imposing was her carriage. Matilda maintained an erect posture and staid expression that Tish found difficult to read and impossible to emulate.
Unlike her own mother, who was expressive and vocal—yelling for children to come to dinner, breaking up sibling squabbles, assigning chores—Matilda spoke softly and addressed Tish minimally. Her greetings were swift and formal; an unnerving sweep of her gaze from Tish’s hair down to her sensible shoes, followed by the same tight smile. Then the abrupt dismissal, as Matilda turned her attention, often lavishly, to whomever else was nearby. Their interactions never extended beyond formalities, despite Tish’s best efforts to make a connection. In Matilda Darling’s presence Tish couldn’t help but feel guileless and awkward. Their stately homes and worldly lifestyle did not help. Tish was a fish out of water.
“Your grandparents hosted an annual lawn party at their Sag Harbor house over Memorial Day weekend. Do you remember it?”
“I think so,” Charley said, his eyes brightening. “I remember sailing at a club one summer. Didn’t Grandpa take us out on his boat?”
Tish nodded. “We only went to that party a couple of times. Once you came along your dad preferred to spend his summers here, on the Cape. Just us.” She’d never told Charley why. Perhaps it was time.
“That first summer your father brought me to Sag Harbor, I was fresh out of college and feeling my oats. Remember, I was the first of my family to get my degree. And the only girl to go. It was a pretty big deal.”
“Columbia, no less.”
Tish shrugged. “It was a nursing program of all-female students. A very different time. But still, I was feeling like an adult in charge of my own future. I was very happy that summer as we headed to Sag Harbor.
“When we arrived, the party was in full swing. Your grandparents’ place was right on the water. Very elegant. Fully staffed. I had never been before and I remember being quite taken by the setting, let alone the kind of people who attended.”
Sag Harbor was a mere two-hour drive from the city, but it was a world away to Tish. Out in the green expanse of the Hamptons, Tish had never imagined the magnitude of the houses, the scope of the sea. No sooner had Morty parked in the horseshoe-shaped pea-gravel drive did a valet sweep in to take the car. As they rounded the shingled house to the rear, Tish’s breath escaped her. In the center of the emerald lawn loomed a white tent housing linen-covered tables and gold chairs, servers in uniform, twinkling lights. There was a jazz band playing on a stage. And a croquet green where men in straw hats and women in tea dresses laughed and sipped champagne. And everywhere, clusters of guests dressed in summer whites and seersucker. But beyond all of that was what captured Tish’s attention.
“Come, there are family friends I want you to meet,” Morty said, pulling her by the hand toward the house.
“Wait,” Tish said, gently breaking free. She had to see it up close.
Morty watched as she crossed the lawn, stepping around guests as she went. Past the tent where real chandeliers sparkled from its peaks. To the edge of the yard to the seawall. There, atop the stone wall, the wind whipped at the edges of her dress and the surf drowned out the tinkling sound of the jazz band. Tish looked left and right at the endless blue stretch. How could such a heavenly enclave exist so close to the gray streets and wilted buildings she’d grown up among?