13. Percival

13

Percival

W e arrived at our beach cottage several days after my initial suggestion we leave the city for the remainder of the stifling August weather. Mother had been thrilled at the idea and soon had us organized and packed up for a few lazy weeks by the ocean.

I'd arranged with a colleague to keep watch over my practice, hoping I could spend most of the days with my family instead of in the city checking on patients. I sent a letter to the asylum to let them know I would not be visiting for several weeks.

We'd sent Penelope and Robert out the day before to air out the cottage and get it ready for our arrival. For our time at the beach, we typically brought a minimal staff. We lived simply at the beach and only had room for two in the servants' quarters, unlike our apartment in the city. In the past, Mother and I had enjoyed a few weeks of simplicity, without formal suppers or social obligations. We spent our days doing little but beachcombing, swimming, and reading.

Clara and Stella climbed down from the back seat of my newly purchased Studebaker Special Six. Before we left the city, I'd taken the top down to enjoy the wind in our faces. Mother and Stella had wrapped scarves around their wide-brimmed hats and now unwound them, the gauzy material lifted by the sea breeze in pastel ribbons.

Mother had ridden up front with me. I ran around the front of the car to open the door for her, but she had gotten out by the time I reached her. Grinning, she turned to face the ocean, closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. "Is there anything better than the scent of the beach?"

I had to agree. My shoulders already felt less tight than they had in the city.

"This is beautiful." Stella clasped her hands together, seeming to take in everything at once.

The cottage had been in Mother's family for generations, although I'd updated it five or so years ago with electricity and indoor plumbing. Weathered cedar shingles had lightened naturally to a soft, slivery gray tone in the salty, moist air. A prominent gable with decorative trusswork lent a touch of elegance to the otherwise rustic facade.

My favorite thing about the house, though, was a generous wraparound porch that provided places to sit, read, or converse from every angle. Wicker chairs and a swing bench faced directly toward the ocean.

"It's been too long since we visited," I said.

"I'd like to stay here for a whole summer," Clara said.

"Wouldn't that be lovely?" Mother asked, absently.

"Miss Stella, would you like to see the beach?" Clara asked.

"Darling, let's get settled first," Mother said. "We need to have lunch, and then we can put on our bathing costumes for a swim."

Clara nodded and ran ahead, reaching the front door to our cottage around the same time Penelope appeared.

Robert came around from the sea facing front of the cottage, greeting us with a friendly wave. He wore a light-colored linen suit instead of his usual formal black, and a straw boater hat. Even Robert was more relaxed at the beach.

He helped me with the trunks and bags from the back of the car, while the ladies and Clara followed Penelope into the house.

Soon, we had everything from the car inside the house.

"May I offer you a tour?" I asked Stella.

"Yes, please."

"I'll help Penelope with lunch," Mother said.

As I showed Stella around the house, I wondered what she saw. To me, the furnishings, a mix of hand-me-downs and carefully chosen pieces, were not only comfortable and functional but gave off an air of faded elegance. Would she agree or would it look shabby and disorganized?

Walls paneled with light-painted wood created a bright and airy feel. Braided rugs covered wide-planked, honey-colored wood floors. My mother's father had loved the sea and collected framed maritime maps and paintings of the sea that now adorned the walls.

Large windows and a sunroom gave expansive views of the ocean. Light flooded the rooms, and sounds of waves permeated the atmosphere. Large double-hung windows draped with light, breezy curtains that fluttered in the ocean breeze. A large stone fireplace served as the centerpiece. The mantel displayed a collection of seashells, beach glass, and old family photographs in mismatched frames. Several shelves were packed with books and games.

"What do you think?" I asked.

"It's a place for a family," Stella said. "I can only imagine the memories that have been made in this room."

Next, I took Stella into the kitchen, with its practical, freestanding cabinetry and a deep farmhouse sink. The back door led from the kitchen to a small herb garden that added splashes of greenery. Penelope and Mother were putting together sandwiches, chatting amicably about our plans for the week.

We went upstairs where Robert was in the process of delivering bags to the right rooms.

I ushered her into the largest of the bedrooms. With the best view of the ocean, the room had a queen-size bed with an ornate wooden headboard, draped in a quilted bedspread. A sitting area by the window offered a perfect spot for morning tea or reading, with an old-fashioned chaise longue and a small wooden bookshelf filled with well-worn novels.

"Mother and I argue every year about who stays here, but I always win. She's the matriarch of the family and should have the best room, don't you think?"

"I couldn't agree more." Stella and I shared a smile that felt like a secret handshake.

And made my heart pound and my stomach flutter.

I pushed away the sensation. It wasn't the first time in the last few weeks I'd had such a reaction to Stella. The night we'd shared so much of ourselves had left me absolutely unmoored. I could not stop thinking about her.

If I were honest, one of the main reasons I'd wanted to bring my family here for the rest of the summer was to see the joy reflected in Stella's eyes instead of sadness. Once she'd told me she'd loved the beach as a child, I could not let the idea go. I wanted her to spend time by the seaside where salty mist had cured more than one broken heart in years past.

"This is Clara's room," I said, opening the door to let her go in before me.

"How quaint," Stella said, a touch of melancholy in her tone.

Would she ever be able to see a child's room and not think of the one she'd lost?

Twin beds separated by a shared nightstand remained from the days Mother and her sister had slept in this house. The beds were covered in patchwork quilts, and the walls were adorned with whimsical, nautical-themed wallpapers featuring ships and seashells. A toy chest at the foot of one bed held treasures from many summers spent by the sea.

We had two additional bedrooms, similarly furnished with double beds and wooden dressers. Each room had a small desk by the window. I showed her into the room across the hall from the one I stayed in.

"What a sweet space," Stella said. "Thank you for inviting me here."

"I wanted you to see it. The beach, that is. And the house, I suppose. We made a lot of good memories here when I was a boy."

"I'm sure we'll make a few for Clara this week," Stella said.

Robert appeared with the last of Stella's things, which he set near the dresser. "Should I send Penelope up to help you unpack?" Robert asked Stella.

"That won't be necessary. I can take care of it myself," Stella said. "Thank you."

"Mrs. Bancroft has asked if you will join her downstairs when you're ready," Robert said. "Penelope is preparing a meal for you."

"Thank you, Robert. We'll be right down," I said. If only we were a we instead of two lonely souls hanging on for dear life.

"Where do Robert and Penelope stay?" Stella asked after he left.

"There's a converted room in the attic for Robert, and Penelope takes the maid's room off of the kitchen."

I leaned against the doorframe, watching her as she thrust open the bay window. This room was located on the side of the cottage with a view of tall grasses and a skinny trail that led down the beach.

Stella pressed her nose against the window screen. "The air's refreshing here. The scents too—they're like a healing balm."

"I hope they will be," I said. "For both of us."

She turned away from the window to look at me. "Thank you, Percival."

"For what?"

"For everything. For taking me in. For helping me get better. For bringing me here. I didn't think I would ever feel like living again, but I do now. Your family has been so good to me. I shall never be able to repay you."

"There's no need. I'm happy to see you smile." If only I could be the reason for that smile. But I was not free. I must resign myself to a dear friendship and nothing more.

"I'd like to see your smile more often," Stella said softly. "If only I could change things for you, I would."

I cocked my head to the right, contemplating her sweet, beautiful face. "Knowing you would if you could is somehow almost as good."

For a moment, an all-too-fleeting one, we locked eyes, and it was as if we were the only two people on earth. Until, seconds later, she flushed and looked away.

"I'll see you downstairs," I said, awkwardly, feeling as if I'd just taken off my clothes and shown her every part of me. "Take your time."

She mumbled another thanks before I turned away and left her room for my own.

The rest of that afternoon we spent on the beach. Robert and I put up an umbrella for shade and lugged three chairs out from the storage shed to sit upon. Mother spread out an old blanket that smelled slightly of mothballs under our feet. Penelope brought a chest with a block of ice wrapped in newspaper to keep it from melting quite as fast. Inside she'd placed a jar of lemonade and bottles of beer, as well as a tin of strawberries and a plate of cookies.

Our beach consisted of light, powdery sand near the dunes but became more compact closer to the water. Clam, scallop, and oyster shells and the smaller periwinkles and slippers peppered the shoreline. Today, the long stretch of sand was populated with bathers and picnickers as far as my eye could see in either direction. Bathers bobbed in the water not far from shore. Others played volleyball or badminton in the sand. Couples walked hand in hand strolling along the water. Children ran, laughing and squealing, in and out of waves.

Mother sat primly in one of the chairs, reading a novel. She'd changed into a bathing costume but had covered it with a robe and had declined a swim, preferring to read peacefully under the shade of the umbrella. I sat next to her, attempting to read, but I couldn't focus. Instead, I stared out at the blue water and let my mind wander aimlessly. Clara had convinced Stella to help her build a sandcastle. Thus far, their castle seemed more like small hills of wet sand, but who was I to judge?

It struck me how young Stella seemed in this setting. She wore her hair long, unlike many of the young women of late. Today she'd braided it and let it hang casually down her back. A straw hat kept the sun from her face. Her bathing costume was made of a dark blue wool and of the right length to keep the police from fining her for indecent exposure. I hadn't seen one today, but often cops prowled the beaches with their ruler, making sure the skirts were no more than a modest eight inches above the knee.

My little daughter also wore a hat, but hers kept slipping off her head and dangling from the string around her neck. Her skinny legs were pink from the cold water. Sand stuck to almost every exposed surface of her skin.

"Put your hat on," I called out to Clara. "Or you'll get burned."

Clara obeyed without a glance in my direction. She and Stella were bent over their work, serious expressions on their faces. Occasionally, they exchanged words, but the breeze carried them away.

"She's something, isn't she?" Mother asked, glancing sideways at me.

"Clara?"

"Yes, Clara, but actually I was referring to Stella," Mother said.

"Yes, she is…splendid to have around." Too splendid.

"Splendid. Interesting word."

"You know what I mean."

"Do I?" Mother asked.

I looked over at her to see her gazing at me intently. "What?" I asked.

"You're a married man."

"Don't you think I know that?" I asked, anger creeping into my voice.

"It's not unheard of, you know."

"What's that?"

"To have a mistress. You could be discreet."

My mouth dropped open. "Don't be absurd. What kind of man does that to a woman? She should be married to someone who can give her the world."

"She's not exactly untainted. With fewer choices than she might have had. Perhaps she was sent to us for a reason."

"Mother, I can't believe what you're suggesting. You of all people?"

"Because of your father, you mean?" Mother asked, gaze focused on the water.

"Yes. Because of that. What else could I be referring to?"

"I was not ill or living in an asylum. This circumstance is different." She brushed sand from the pages of her book, still looking out to sea. "I don't want to see you this lonely for the rest of your life."

"We don't choose our fates, do we?" I asked. "As much as we'd like to."

"I don't know about that. There's acceptance of one's situation and there's fighting to make one's life better no matter what you've been given."

"I'm not the kind of man to have a mistress. What would Clara think if she were to ever learn of it? She would lose all respect for me."

"She loves you and wants you to have a good life. I can't imagine she would begrudge you love."

"What about you? Why haven't you found love again if it's so attractive?" I asked.

"I've never met anyone that I care for." She shrugged. "But that's not the situation here."

"Mother, I'm appalled at what you're suggesting. No one wins in the situation you're describing. I'd be committing adultery, a sin in case you've forgotten. Clara would see me acting without honor and who knows what long-lasting effects that could have on her. And, lastly, Stella should have the very best of what a man has to offer—wealth, security, marriage, a family of her own. I have none of those things to offer her. It would be unconscionable for me to treat her with such disrespect."

My mother didn't say anything for a few minutes. I thought I'd convinced her to the drop the outrageous subject. However, I was incorrect.

"Darling son, you surely know how short life is and how we must seize love should it come our way. I see the way you look at her. I've been thinking about this for some time, and I've come to the conclusion that I'd rather you choose love than more years of loneliness. Mary's not returning to us. You know that as well as I. Do you want to spend the rest of your life lonely?"

"What about you? You've never even tried to meet someone new."

She turned and looked at me directly in the eyes. "I regret it. I'd do it all differently if I could. I was still young and beautiful when your father died. I should have let my heart open to the idea of a good man coming into my life. Instead, I withdrew, focusing only on you and my volunteer work. Now, as I enter the last chapters of my life, I wish I had someone to wake up next to. Someone who made me laugh and with whom I could share the simplest of life's pleasures."

I dug my bare heel into the soft sand. As close as Mother and I were, we did not discuss such topics.

"I'm sorry. I've made you upset. Let's speak no more of it," Mother said. "I only wanted you to know how I felt. It's your decision to live your life the way you want, of course. But what kind of mother would I be if I were to act as if everything was so cut-and-dried? Yours is a marriage on paper only. You are a good man. I'm proud of your ethics and fierce loyalty. However, I want you to be happy. Standing aside and watching you sacrifice everything for Clara's sake when I know it's not the right thing to do is enough to make me sick."

"You're not sick, are you?" Maybe she was dying? Why else would she have broached such an outlandish notion?

She shook her head, laughing softly. "No, I'm not sick. Only worried. About you. The plight of all mothers."

We could not continue the discussion further, thank God, because Clara came running up from escaping a wave to ask for lemonade and a cookie, followed closely behind by Stella.

Stella flopped into the chair next to mine and dangled one arm over the side, looking over at me with laughter in her eyes. "I haven't had this much fun in a long time." She lowered her voice and drew closer. "Thank you for sharing Clara with me. Spending time with her warms my broken heart and gives me a glimpse into a future where I could feel joy again, without the burden of my mistakes. I know I don't deserve to spend time with such a special gift, but I'm grateful just the same."

An ache in my chest made it hard to breathe. How could something so beautifully said be so tragically sad?