A Summer Love Affair, page 19
“That’s a wonderful idea, Mom,” Cam said. “I’ll grab the glasses.”
Petra nodded. “I agree. Most times, the present is the best place to be.” In spite, she added silently, of the undeniably compelling allure of the past.
Chapter 41
Petra was alone in the house. Her mother was at the library, where she had been volunteering for as long as Petra could remember. Petra had waited until the house was empty before she sat down to compose a message to the man who, along with her mother, had given her life. It took her some time to write the few simple lines.
Dear Mr. Ryan,
I’m the youngest daughter of your old friends Hugh and Elizabeth Quirk. Though I never met you, I know that you were important to my family. I wonder if we could talk. E-mail or Zoom or phone would be fine.
Thank you.
Sincerely,
Petra Quirk
It was bland and maybe not tantalizing enough to encourage a positive response. But Petra wasn’t interested in teasing Chris Ryan by hinting at another, darker reason behind her stated request to speak to an old family friend.
The words would do. She hit send and leaned back in her chair. She had taken the first step—looking at the photos of Chris at her parents’ wedding had indeed been a bit of a catalyst—but toward what end, she didn’t and couldn’t know. All she could do now was wait. Waiting wasn’t always easy.
A good, vigorous walk was what Petra needed, so she left the house and headed into town, with no particular destination in mind. For a moment, she considered stopping into Re-Turned to say hello to Michael, but she quickly realized she wasn’t in the mood to chat with anyone. Besides, after their last conversation about the fate of old wedding dresses, Petra was a bit wary about accidentally opening up a topic that would make her feel sad again.
Today, with the weather hot and humid, the walk into downtown Eliot’s Corner felt long and wearing. But rather than turn back, Petra kept going. By the time she reached Main Street, she felt pretty wilted and decided to stop at Chez Claudine for a bottle of water. On the way to the café Petra found herself walking not far behind a middle-aged man and woman. They didn’t look like a couple—it wasn’t hard to tell that sort of thing; they might, instead, be colleagues on their lunch break—and suddenly, it seemed to Petra from the way their heads were tilted toward each other, and the way the woman seemed to be nodding in a meaningful way, that they were gossiping about someone. A colleague, a neighbor, a mutual friend, it could be anyone.
Petra hurried around the pair. Busybodies. She hadn’t heard that term used in a while; clearly it had been lurking in her mind. She wondered if anyone in Eliot’s Corner had suspected her mother of having an affair. But if anyone had, how likely was it that he or she wouldn’t have spoken? People with suspicious minds needed to share their suspicions about the behavior of others for reasons they would claim were altruistic but that were really mean-spirited and self-righteous. And good, old-fashioned gossips came in all shapes and sizes; it was silly not to admit that men as well as women could be gossips, the young as well as the old.
In having sent a message to Christopher Ryan, her mother’s erstwhile lover, Petra realized she had taken a terrible risk. True, she hadn’t revealed anything of importance in her e-mail, but surely a hacker invading the private correspondence of Christopher Ryan could possibly make a vital connection between Petra Quirk, Elizabeth Quirk, and the famous man. No means of communication was entirely safe or private. Suddenly, Petra realized that she had told a lie by claiming to be the youngest child of Elizabeth and Hugh Quirk. Well, it wasn’t entirely a lie, but Petra hated to lie.
Another disturbing thought clouded Petra’s mind as she approached the café. It could be argued that her mother had been supremely selfish, wanting both Hugh and Christopher in her life, wanting what each could give her without thought as to what it cost the men. Petra felt a surge of anger toward her mother. She thought she had conquered that unhappy emotion. She knew that her mother felt genuine guilt for her duplicitous behavior. A guilty conscience was punishment enough.
Petra opened the door to Chez Claudine, enormously grateful for whoever had invented air conditioning. She bought a bottle of cold water and gulped it greedily. The vigorous walk she had hoped might distract her had failed; the intense heat and heavy humidity had probably even contributed to her suspicious and paranoid mood.
Somewhat refreshed, Petra left the café and headed back to Lavender Lane. A nap in her childhood bed seemed like a very good idea. She would put her phone in silent mode. She couldn’t allow herself to become obsessed with checking for a message from Christopher Ryan, a message that might never come.
A message for which Petra might regret ever having asked.
Chapter 42
Elizabeth and her friend Mrs. Shandy had been doing volunteer work at the Eliot’s Corner public library for the past fifteen years or so. Once upon a time their services would have been paid, their work performed by high school kids in need of pocket money. But kids didn’t seem to want to take an after-school job at the library for a tiny salary when they could make a heck of a lot more money working at one of the clam shacks out by the water or at the midsized retail stores a few towns inland.
At the moment, the two women were filling wheeled carts with books to be re-stacked, grouping volumes by subject and call number.
“Do you remember learning the Dewey decimal system when you were young?” Elizabeth asked, as she placed a general history of the English Civil War next to a study of the Plantagenet dynasty.
“Most certainly. I thought it was a brilliant. I suspect I was the only child in my class who did.”
“I learned it on the job,” Elizabeth said. “I worked for a summer in high school at my local library. It was a dream come true. Being surrounded by all those books! The temptation to slip behind a stack and read was strong, but I managed all right. At least, I wasn’t fired.”
“Elizabeth. Mrs. Shandy. I knew we could rely on you to help out.”
Before Elizabeth could respond with a word or a nod, Jane Stodden, the head librarian, sighed grandly and went on. “It’s the women with husbands you can’t rely on. Husbands always demand precedence, especially when it comes to activities that don’t directly benefit them in some way. If Mr. So-and-So finds it inconvenient that Mrs. So-and-So spend two or three hours volunteering at the library—after all, who will make his lunch?—then Mrs. So-and-So stays at home.” Jane shook her head, and as she turned to walk away, she added, wearily, “It’s the way it’s always been.”
Elizabeth looked to her friend. “Um,” she said, “what are we to make of that?”
Mrs. Shandy smiled. “Besides the fact that Jane has never been married and therefore doesn’t entirely understand the give-and-take of a domestic relationship?”
“But she is right to some extent. I mean, there are still plenty of husbands—mostly over a certain age—who find it difficult to accept that their own needs aren’t always primary.”
Mrs. Shandy looked closely at Elizabeth. “We’ve known each other a long time, haven’t we?” she said. “First as colleagues and then as friends.”
Elizabeth nodded. “Yes. We have. Forgive me if I don’t count up the years.”
In a lower voice, Mrs. Shandy went on. “I’m sure you’ve wondered why I refer to myself as Mrs. Shandy when, clearly, there’s no Mr. Shandy at hand, and I’ve never made any mention of such a person, not once in all the years you’ve known me.”
“I have wondered,” Elizabeth admitted, more than a little surprised that her friend had introduced the topic. “But I figured you would tell me about Mr. Shandy at some point if you wanted to.”
“Like if he ever existed? Come now, I’m sure you’ve considered that I might have invented a husband along the way for my own interesting reasons.”
Elizabeth nodded. “I’ve entertained the possibility, yes. For one, the title ‘Mrs.’ still carries some weight socially; right or wrong, it gives a woman a bit of standing. And when no husband is at hand it suggests widowhood, which always has an air of dignity, or seriousness. Of course, it could also suggest divorce but somehow . . . No. I’ve never thought that you were divorced. Don’t ask me why. Just a feeling.”
“Well, you’re right there,” Mrs. Shandy said. “I’m not divorced. I’m a widow.”
Elizabeth was truly surprised, though the possibility had occurred to her often enough. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“Thank you,” Mrs. Shandy replied brusquely. “The sad truth is that my husband died on our honeymoon. There was a boating accident. We’d dated for only three months before running off to marry, an act that infuriated my parents and wound up alienating them forever. I was all of seventeen at the time—Ross all of nineteen—a bit of a hippy, and totally on my own. Of course, I contacted my parents after Ross died. I suppose I thought they’d feel bad for me and tell me I could come home, not that going home would have been such a smart idea. Well, they responded promptly and made it clear that I’d let them down, betrayed my faith—rather, that I’d betrayed their faith—and that I was on my own.”
“So much for Christian charity,” Elizabeth said with a frown, “assuming they were Christians. Or for familial bonds. I’m sorry.”
Mrs. Shandy nodded. “I’m sorry, too, or, I was. A lot of time has passed. You see, my family were members of a small and very strict religious sect that had adopted some aspects of Catholicism and some aspects of the more extreme forms of evangelism. I was only about eight or nine when I realized it was all hooey—at least, for my purposes. But it wasn’t until I met Ross that I found the courage to get out. Not that I used him as a way to escape; I truly loved him, and he loved me.”
“I believe you. What a sad story. Oh,” Elizabeth exclaimed. “Something just occurred to me. Your first name. You never told me how you came to be called Foundation, but now I think I have a notion. . . .”
Mrs. Shandy laughed. “You’ve hit upon the truth. The sect my parents belonged to favored giving babies odd and ponderous names, sure to cause bullying by outsiders. My father chose to name me Foundation as a reference to Jesus’s naming Peter as the rock upon which he would build a church. Why they couldn’t call me Petra or even Peter—I could have dealt with that—I’ll never know except that they were, as you will have gathered, strange people.”
The irony—was that the right word?—wasn’t lost on Elizabeth, who had chosen Petra as a silent nod to Chris’s confirmation name: Peter. The apostle upon whom Jesus declared he would build the church.
“You could have left your first name behind,” Elizabeth noted.
“It turned out that I couldn’t. It had stuck. So much of what I’d been taught, so much of my childhood didn’t stick, thankfully, but my name did. And Shandy was really Ross’s last name; I kept that and happily.”
Elizabeth put her hand on her friend’s arm. “Thank you for telling me all this.”
“I don’t know why exactly I did!” Mrs. Shandy declared. “After all these years. I hope I’m not getting batty in my old age.”
Elizabeth laughed. “You’re not old nor are you in the least bit batty. And by the way, there’s no need to ask for my silence. You have my word I’ll say nothing to anyone.”
“Thank you. I suppose in some ways it wouldn’t matter if people knew, but I have grown very fond of my mystique, if you like. I often wonder what fantastical stories the good people of Eliot’s Corner have told themselves about me.”
“I honestly haven’t heard a one. Though as I said, I’ve always wondered about Mr. Shandy’s whereabouts. It’s natural to be curious about one’s friends and neighbors.”
“Curious or obsessed. Well, I’m off to tidy up the children’s room now. The staff is supposed to be teaching the children how to bring the books to the librarian when they’re done with them, not just leave them lying around on the floor and who knows where. But the lesson doesn’t seem to have taken.”
Left on her own, Elizabeth continued to load her cart with books—literature here; social science there—though what she was really thinking about was her own massive secret and the impossibility of her ever revealing it to anyone in Eliot’s Corner, even Mrs. Shandy. Like her friend, Elizabeth wondered if she was going batty, telling her children something about her past that was so potentially damaging.
But it was too late for regrets or retractions. And honestly, her family hadn’t fallen apart or exploded upon the revelation of her affair.
At least, they hadn’t yet.
Chapter 43
Petra was propped against the pillows on her bed, having a FaceTime chat with Cam. She didn’t particularly like video calls or whatever they were called now; in spite of her youth she had never fully absorbed the dynamics of the current media/ tech culture. Sometimes she was teased for her lack of interest and proficiency, called a Luddite, even irresponsible. Not that she cared.
“Where’s Ralph?” she asked now. Cam was at her kitchen table, wearing a plain blue T-shirt, her hair tied back.
“At his mom’s, with the kids. What’s going on in Eliot’s Corner?”
“The same,” Petra replied. She continued to keep her silence regarding the fact that she had reached out to Christopher Ryan. If he failed to respond, or, if his response was dismissive, she might never let her sisters know what she had attempted.
Cam frowned. “Have you seen Jess? I left her a voice mail the other day and sent her two texts, but once again, she’s radio silent. I hate when she gets like this.”
“I’m sure she’s okay,” Petra said automatically, but was she sure? “I’ll call her again this afternoon. Or maybe I’ll drop by her apartment this evening.”
Cam laughed. “I wouldn’t risk a pop-in. Not with Jess.”
“You’re right. I might not make it out alive. Look, I’ve been thinking about the Ralph and Lily situation.”
“Sorry,” Cam said. “I mean, I don’t want my problems to engulf you.”
“They’re not engulfing me,” Petra assured her. “But . . . You said before that you suspect Ralph is in love with Lily but that you believe he still loves you. I’ve been wondering. Don’t you think it might be better in the long run to have someone love you and not be crazy mad about you? I’m beginning to think that crazy mad passion never holds up in the end. It certainly doesn’t in all the great stories. Look at Wuthering Heights. Passion leads to misery and madness. Or death. Or separation, like it did with Mom and Chris.”
“I think anyone in a serious, committed relationship,” Cam responded, “will tell you that a bit of both mad passion and loving concern is what she—or he or they—wants.”
“Of course,” Petra said quickly. “I didn’t mean . . . Honestly, I don’t know what I meant. I have so little personal experience with relationships.”
“You might be lucky in that.” Cam sighed. “I don’t know. It worries me that Ralph might look at Lily and see life with her as an escape from the life he’s got with me, a what-might-have-been if he hadn’t married and had three kids. I mean, Lily’s life is so carefree compared to ours. She’s got a glamorous career, no dependents of any sort, a gorgeous condo kept in perfect shape by an army of house cleaners.” Cam poked at her midsection. “And no mommy body.”
Petra felt her blood begin to boil. “Well, if that’s the case,” she said, “Ralph’s not really in love with Lily, he’s in love with his idea of her, which is insulting to both you and Lily, really. He’s acting like the sort of man who objectifies women rather than accepting each woman as an individual with her own unique qualities. Because there’s no way Lily’s life is carefree. No one’s life is, no matter how cushy it seems from the outside.”
Cam seemed to reflect on that for a moment. “I’ve never thought of Ralph as a misogynist,” she said finally, “or as a guy who objectifies women, though maybe that’s the same thing. But maybe there’s a trace of that—I don’t even know what to call it; prejudice?—in every man, no matter how intelligent and sensitive he is.”
“I don’t know the answer to that, either,” Petra admitted. “Look, Cam, I just wish you would talk to Ralph!”
“I know I should, but he could easily lie, deny he has feelings for Lily. Or, maybe worse, he might tell me a very ugly truth. He might say that he’s fallen back in love with her, or that he never actually stopped being in love with her, even when he married me. What am I supposed to do with that sort of information? Ignore it? Not possible.”
Petra sighed; she was beginning to feel as if they were going in a very silly circle. “I get what you’re saying, Cam, I really do. You’re afraid. Believe me, I know all about being afraid! But is it really better not to know the truth? To wait until he comes clean to you, which could take months? You’re already worn down by the situation. Just talk to him!”
Her sister suddenly looked guilty, or maybe it was ashamed. “I haven’t told you this yet,” she said, “but Ralph’s mother shares my suspicions. I mean, she is a bit nutty, but she’s not stupid or blind. And she knows her son.”
“She said something to you?” Petra asked. She had met Mrs. Perry a few times over the years and found her formidable, not at all above butting in on her son’s personal life. As for nutty, well, Petra had thought she was kind of fun, a true individual.
“No,” Cam admitted. “But she’s given me enough meaningful, thoughtful looks when we’re all together to make me certain she knows something’s going on.” Cam paused. “Like at the party we gave back in April for Beth’s birthday. We both saw Ralph practically drooling over Lily. It was embarrassing. I’m sure we weren’t the only ones who noticed. I dread being questioned by one of my friends or neighbors, you know, the so-called well-meaning ones, who are really hoping to hear some story of marital misery so they can feel better about their own not-so-great domestic situation.”
“I’m sorry you feel so exposed,” Petra said. “Truly, I am. But Ralph acting goofy when Lily is around isn’t necessarily proof of an affair.” Petra considered before going on. “It sounds to me like just silly flirting, stupid behavior at worst, that’s all. If something really were going on, wouldn’t Ralph and Lily want to keep things super quiet? Why would they be so blatant?”
Petra nodded. “I agree. Most times, the present is the best place to be.” In spite, she added silently, of the undeniably compelling allure of the past.
Chapter 41
Petra was alone in the house. Her mother was at the library, where she had been volunteering for as long as Petra could remember. Petra had waited until the house was empty before she sat down to compose a message to the man who, along with her mother, had given her life. It took her some time to write the few simple lines.
Dear Mr. Ryan,
I’m the youngest daughter of your old friends Hugh and Elizabeth Quirk. Though I never met you, I know that you were important to my family. I wonder if we could talk. E-mail or Zoom or phone would be fine.
Thank you.
Sincerely,
Petra Quirk
It was bland and maybe not tantalizing enough to encourage a positive response. But Petra wasn’t interested in teasing Chris Ryan by hinting at another, darker reason behind her stated request to speak to an old family friend.
The words would do. She hit send and leaned back in her chair. She had taken the first step—looking at the photos of Chris at her parents’ wedding had indeed been a bit of a catalyst—but toward what end, she didn’t and couldn’t know. All she could do now was wait. Waiting wasn’t always easy.
A good, vigorous walk was what Petra needed, so she left the house and headed into town, with no particular destination in mind. For a moment, she considered stopping into Re-Turned to say hello to Michael, but she quickly realized she wasn’t in the mood to chat with anyone. Besides, after their last conversation about the fate of old wedding dresses, Petra was a bit wary about accidentally opening up a topic that would make her feel sad again.
Today, with the weather hot and humid, the walk into downtown Eliot’s Corner felt long and wearing. But rather than turn back, Petra kept going. By the time she reached Main Street, she felt pretty wilted and decided to stop at Chez Claudine for a bottle of water. On the way to the café Petra found herself walking not far behind a middle-aged man and woman. They didn’t look like a couple—it wasn’t hard to tell that sort of thing; they might, instead, be colleagues on their lunch break—and suddenly, it seemed to Petra from the way their heads were tilted toward each other, and the way the woman seemed to be nodding in a meaningful way, that they were gossiping about someone. A colleague, a neighbor, a mutual friend, it could be anyone.
Petra hurried around the pair. Busybodies. She hadn’t heard that term used in a while; clearly it had been lurking in her mind. She wondered if anyone in Eliot’s Corner had suspected her mother of having an affair. But if anyone had, how likely was it that he or she wouldn’t have spoken? People with suspicious minds needed to share their suspicions about the behavior of others for reasons they would claim were altruistic but that were really mean-spirited and self-righteous. And good, old-fashioned gossips came in all shapes and sizes; it was silly not to admit that men as well as women could be gossips, the young as well as the old.
In having sent a message to Christopher Ryan, her mother’s erstwhile lover, Petra realized she had taken a terrible risk. True, she hadn’t revealed anything of importance in her e-mail, but surely a hacker invading the private correspondence of Christopher Ryan could possibly make a vital connection between Petra Quirk, Elizabeth Quirk, and the famous man. No means of communication was entirely safe or private. Suddenly, Petra realized that she had told a lie by claiming to be the youngest child of Elizabeth and Hugh Quirk. Well, it wasn’t entirely a lie, but Petra hated to lie.
Another disturbing thought clouded Petra’s mind as she approached the café. It could be argued that her mother had been supremely selfish, wanting both Hugh and Christopher in her life, wanting what each could give her without thought as to what it cost the men. Petra felt a surge of anger toward her mother. She thought she had conquered that unhappy emotion. She knew that her mother felt genuine guilt for her duplicitous behavior. A guilty conscience was punishment enough.
Petra opened the door to Chez Claudine, enormously grateful for whoever had invented air conditioning. She bought a bottle of cold water and gulped it greedily. The vigorous walk she had hoped might distract her had failed; the intense heat and heavy humidity had probably even contributed to her suspicious and paranoid mood.
Somewhat refreshed, Petra left the café and headed back to Lavender Lane. A nap in her childhood bed seemed like a very good idea. She would put her phone in silent mode. She couldn’t allow herself to become obsessed with checking for a message from Christopher Ryan, a message that might never come.
A message for which Petra might regret ever having asked.
Chapter 42
Elizabeth and her friend Mrs. Shandy had been doing volunteer work at the Eliot’s Corner public library for the past fifteen years or so. Once upon a time their services would have been paid, their work performed by high school kids in need of pocket money. But kids didn’t seem to want to take an after-school job at the library for a tiny salary when they could make a heck of a lot more money working at one of the clam shacks out by the water or at the midsized retail stores a few towns inland.
At the moment, the two women were filling wheeled carts with books to be re-stacked, grouping volumes by subject and call number.
“Do you remember learning the Dewey decimal system when you were young?” Elizabeth asked, as she placed a general history of the English Civil War next to a study of the Plantagenet dynasty.
“Most certainly. I thought it was a brilliant. I suspect I was the only child in my class who did.”
“I learned it on the job,” Elizabeth said. “I worked for a summer in high school at my local library. It was a dream come true. Being surrounded by all those books! The temptation to slip behind a stack and read was strong, but I managed all right. At least, I wasn’t fired.”
“Elizabeth. Mrs. Shandy. I knew we could rely on you to help out.”
Before Elizabeth could respond with a word or a nod, Jane Stodden, the head librarian, sighed grandly and went on. “It’s the women with husbands you can’t rely on. Husbands always demand precedence, especially when it comes to activities that don’t directly benefit them in some way. If Mr. So-and-So finds it inconvenient that Mrs. So-and-So spend two or three hours volunteering at the library—after all, who will make his lunch?—then Mrs. So-and-So stays at home.” Jane shook her head, and as she turned to walk away, she added, wearily, “It’s the way it’s always been.”
Elizabeth looked to her friend. “Um,” she said, “what are we to make of that?”
Mrs. Shandy smiled. “Besides the fact that Jane has never been married and therefore doesn’t entirely understand the give-and-take of a domestic relationship?”
“But she is right to some extent. I mean, there are still plenty of husbands—mostly over a certain age—who find it difficult to accept that their own needs aren’t always primary.”
Mrs. Shandy looked closely at Elizabeth. “We’ve known each other a long time, haven’t we?” she said. “First as colleagues and then as friends.”
Elizabeth nodded. “Yes. We have. Forgive me if I don’t count up the years.”
In a lower voice, Mrs. Shandy went on. “I’m sure you’ve wondered why I refer to myself as Mrs. Shandy when, clearly, there’s no Mr. Shandy at hand, and I’ve never made any mention of such a person, not once in all the years you’ve known me.”
“I have wondered,” Elizabeth admitted, more than a little surprised that her friend had introduced the topic. “But I figured you would tell me about Mr. Shandy at some point if you wanted to.”
“Like if he ever existed? Come now, I’m sure you’ve considered that I might have invented a husband along the way for my own interesting reasons.”
Elizabeth nodded. “I’ve entertained the possibility, yes. For one, the title ‘Mrs.’ still carries some weight socially; right or wrong, it gives a woman a bit of standing. And when no husband is at hand it suggests widowhood, which always has an air of dignity, or seriousness. Of course, it could also suggest divorce but somehow . . . No. I’ve never thought that you were divorced. Don’t ask me why. Just a feeling.”
“Well, you’re right there,” Mrs. Shandy said. “I’m not divorced. I’m a widow.”
Elizabeth was truly surprised, though the possibility had occurred to her often enough. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“Thank you,” Mrs. Shandy replied brusquely. “The sad truth is that my husband died on our honeymoon. There was a boating accident. We’d dated for only three months before running off to marry, an act that infuriated my parents and wound up alienating them forever. I was all of seventeen at the time—Ross all of nineteen—a bit of a hippy, and totally on my own. Of course, I contacted my parents after Ross died. I suppose I thought they’d feel bad for me and tell me I could come home, not that going home would have been such a smart idea. Well, they responded promptly and made it clear that I’d let them down, betrayed my faith—rather, that I’d betrayed their faith—and that I was on my own.”
“So much for Christian charity,” Elizabeth said with a frown, “assuming they were Christians. Or for familial bonds. I’m sorry.”
Mrs. Shandy nodded. “I’m sorry, too, or, I was. A lot of time has passed. You see, my family were members of a small and very strict religious sect that had adopted some aspects of Catholicism and some aspects of the more extreme forms of evangelism. I was only about eight or nine when I realized it was all hooey—at least, for my purposes. But it wasn’t until I met Ross that I found the courage to get out. Not that I used him as a way to escape; I truly loved him, and he loved me.”
“I believe you. What a sad story. Oh,” Elizabeth exclaimed. “Something just occurred to me. Your first name. You never told me how you came to be called Foundation, but now I think I have a notion. . . .”
Mrs. Shandy laughed. “You’ve hit upon the truth. The sect my parents belonged to favored giving babies odd and ponderous names, sure to cause bullying by outsiders. My father chose to name me Foundation as a reference to Jesus’s naming Peter as the rock upon which he would build a church. Why they couldn’t call me Petra or even Peter—I could have dealt with that—I’ll never know except that they were, as you will have gathered, strange people.”
The irony—was that the right word?—wasn’t lost on Elizabeth, who had chosen Petra as a silent nod to Chris’s confirmation name: Peter. The apostle upon whom Jesus declared he would build the church.
“You could have left your first name behind,” Elizabeth noted.
“It turned out that I couldn’t. It had stuck. So much of what I’d been taught, so much of my childhood didn’t stick, thankfully, but my name did. And Shandy was really Ross’s last name; I kept that and happily.”
Elizabeth put her hand on her friend’s arm. “Thank you for telling me all this.”
“I don’t know why exactly I did!” Mrs. Shandy declared. “After all these years. I hope I’m not getting batty in my old age.”
Elizabeth laughed. “You’re not old nor are you in the least bit batty. And by the way, there’s no need to ask for my silence. You have my word I’ll say nothing to anyone.”
“Thank you. I suppose in some ways it wouldn’t matter if people knew, but I have grown very fond of my mystique, if you like. I often wonder what fantastical stories the good people of Eliot’s Corner have told themselves about me.”
“I honestly haven’t heard a one. Though as I said, I’ve always wondered about Mr. Shandy’s whereabouts. It’s natural to be curious about one’s friends and neighbors.”
“Curious or obsessed. Well, I’m off to tidy up the children’s room now. The staff is supposed to be teaching the children how to bring the books to the librarian when they’re done with them, not just leave them lying around on the floor and who knows where. But the lesson doesn’t seem to have taken.”
Left on her own, Elizabeth continued to load her cart with books—literature here; social science there—though what she was really thinking about was her own massive secret and the impossibility of her ever revealing it to anyone in Eliot’s Corner, even Mrs. Shandy. Like her friend, Elizabeth wondered if she was going batty, telling her children something about her past that was so potentially damaging.
But it was too late for regrets or retractions. And honestly, her family hadn’t fallen apart or exploded upon the revelation of her affair.
At least, they hadn’t yet.
Chapter 43
Petra was propped against the pillows on her bed, having a FaceTime chat with Cam. She didn’t particularly like video calls or whatever they were called now; in spite of her youth she had never fully absorbed the dynamics of the current media/ tech culture. Sometimes she was teased for her lack of interest and proficiency, called a Luddite, even irresponsible. Not that she cared.
“Where’s Ralph?” she asked now. Cam was at her kitchen table, wearing a plain blue T-shirt, her hair tied back.
“At his mom’s, with the kids. What’s going on in Eliot’s Corner?”
“The same,” Petra replied. She continued to keep her silence regarding the fact that she had reached out to Christopher Ryan. If he failed to respond, or, if his response was dismissive, she might never let her sisters know what she had attempted.
Cam frowned. “Have you seen Jess? I left her a voice mail the other day and sent her two texts, but once again, she’s radio silent. I hate when she gets like this.”
“I’m sure she’s okay,” Petra said automatically, but was she sure? “I’ll call her again this afternoon. Or maybe I’ll drop by her apartment this evening.”
Cam laughed. “I wouldn’t risk a pop-in. Not with Jess.”
“You’re right. I might not make it out alive. Look, I’ve been thinking about the Ralph and Lily situation.”
“Sorry,” Cam said. “I mean, I don’t want my problems to engulf you.”
“They’re not engulfing me,” Petra assured her. “But . . . You said before that you suspect Ralph is in love with Lily but that you believe he still loves you. I’ve been wondering. Don’t you think it might be better in the long run to have someone love you and not be crazy mad about you? I’m beginning to think that crazy mad passion never holds up in the end. It certainly doesn’t in all the great stories. Look at Wuthering Heights. Passion leads to misery and madness. Or death. Or separation, like it did with Mom and Chris.”
“I think anyone in a serious, committed relationship,” Cam responded, “will tell you that a bit of both mad passion and loving concern is what she—or he or they—wants.”
“Of course,” Petra said quickly. “I didn’t mean . . . Honestly, I don’t know what I meant. I have so little personal experience with relationships.”
“You might be lucky in that.” Cam sighed. “I don’t know. It worries me that Ralph might look at Lily and see life with her as an escape from the life he’s got with me, a what-might-have-been if he hadn’t married and had three kids. I mean, Lily’s life is so carefree compared to ours. She’s got a glamorous career, no dependents of any sort, a gorgeous condo kept in perfect shape by an army of house cleaners.” Cam poked at her midsection. “And no mommy body.”
Petra felt her blood begin to boil. “Well, if that’s the case,” she said, “Ralph’s not really in love with Lily, he’s in love with his idea of her, which is insulting to both you and Lily, really. He’s acting like the sort of man who objectifies women rather than accepting each woman as an individual with her own unique qualities. Because there’s no way Lily’s life is carefree. No one’s life is, no matter how cushy it seems from the outside.”
Cam seemed to reflect on that for a moment. “I’ve never thought of Ralph as a misogynist,” she said finally, “or as a guy who objectifies women, though maybe that’s the same thing. But maybe there’s a trace of that—I don’t even know what to call it; prejudice?—in every man, no matter how intelligent and sensitive he is.”
“I don’t know the answer to that, either,” Petra admitted. “Look, Cam, I just wish you would talk to Ralph!”
“I know I should, but he could easily lie, deny he has feelings for Lily. Or, maybe worse, he might tell me a very ugly truth. He might say that he’s fallen back in love with her, or that he never actually stopped being in love with her, even when he married me. What am I supposed to do with that sort of information? Ignore it? Not possible.”
Petra sighed; she was beginning to feel as if they were going in a very silly circle. “I get what you’re saying, Cam, I really do. You’re afraid. Believe me, I know all about being afraid! But is it really better not to know the truth? To wait until he comes clean to you, which could take months? You’re already worn down by the situation. Just talk to him!”
Her sister suddenly looked guilty, or maybe it was ashamed. “I haven’t told you this yet,” she said, “but Ralph’s mother shares my suspicions. I mean, she is a bit nutty, but she’s not stupid or blind. And she knows her son.”
“She said something to you?” Petra asked. She had met Mrs. Perry a few times over the years and found her formidable, not at all above butting in on her son’s personal life. As for nutty, well, Petra had thought she was kind of fun, a true individual.
“No,” Cam admitted. “But she’s given me enough meaningful, thoughtful looks when we’re all together to make me certain she knows something’s going on.” Cam paused. “Like at the party we gave back in April for Beth’s birthday. We both saw Ralph practically drooling over Lily. It was embarrassing. I’m sure we weren’t the only ones who noticed. I dread being questioned by one of my friends or neighbors, you know, the so-called well-meaning ones, who are really hoping to hear some story of marital misery so they can feel better about their own not-so-great domestic situation.”
“I’m sorry you feel so exposed,” Petra said. “Truly, I am. But Ralph acting goofy when Lily is around isn’t necessarily proof of an affair.” Petra considered before going on. “It sounds to me like just silly flirting, stupid behavior at worst, that’s all. If something really were going on, wouldn’t Ralph and Lily want to keep things super quiet? Why would they be so blatant?”
