To the kind subscribers of Confluence:
Please note this blog's very first short story has been republished on my personal blog, which you can read here.
All the best,
James
Friday, March 30, 2012
Monday, February 21, 2011
Florida
I would love to be able to write that this is how Marilyn and Victor fell in love, this wonderful, lustful long summer in Coulter Point, a long tide of dating and tempting, of careful seduction until neither could resist the other. I would love to write that the culmination of their courtship was a romantic proposal and a long-planned wedding that took place on an autumn day when everything was perfect, that their lives were borne from a cradle of charming, American splendor.
Quite the opposite.
Victor and Marilyn spent a bizarre and unforgettable weekend together, rarely leaving each other’s company at all. But Victor drove back to the city that Sunday, and Marilyn finished the last week or two of summer there at the point before she packed her bags, kissed Alice goodbye, and returned to Confluence with her father.
Confluence would have been the natural backdrop for the idyllic scenario described above. It wouldn’t take much imagination to paint the picture of Marilyn, wearing a long gown, floating down the steps of the First Presbyterian Church like a princess. The Coolidge family would have bought a full page wedding announcement in the Confluence Spectator, in which the details would read as if royal nuptials had taken place.
Instead, I can take you to a filing cabinet in the back of my offices here on Main Street, open one of its long drawers, and find an obituary so short it might otherwise go missing in the small ocean of advertisements on the bottom of the page:
Grace Victoria Salarino, infant daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Victor Salarino of Confluence, passed away in the hours following her birth on March 18. The family will not receive visitors.
There aren’t many entries in Marilyn’s diary from this time. In fact, there is a span of more than fourteen months between when Marilyn made a note of packing her things to return home from Coulter Point, a strange sense of exhaustion overcoming her, and the next entry, made a few weeks before Thanksgiving:
“Victor and I are fighting over where to spend the holiday. If it were up to me (and I don’t think it is), we would stay home. As it is, I can only see another trip to the city to see his mother, and I’m not sure I’m ready for that.”
Marilyn had become pregnant. Victor felt it was his duty to marry her, even though such an act effectively ended whatever relationship remained after she had returned to her father’s house carrying Victor’s child. The child, a tiny daughter arriving several weeks too early, was still born.
It’s entirely true that things could have been worse. Although Mr. Coolidge famously went so far as to write his daughter out of his will, there was still Victor’s money, and he had enough.
They decided to leave town. Victor bought an apartment in St. Petersburg, Florida. It was flagrantly obvious that such a move would be difficult for their marriage, but Marilyn was determined to leave, and Victor was of the mind to oblige. Their home sat on the waterfront looking over the gulf.
Marilyn kept house and spent much of her time volunteering with a group of Cubans who ran a produce market with the Catholic church. Victor gathered a group of investors and opened two Salarino’s department stores. He spent a lot of time managing the shops, and when he wasn’t doing that, he was often on the balcony of their apartment with a drink.
They lived this way for four years.
Not that it was entirely bad. Yes, it was a difficult time that brought them there, but there were times that things worked well. They had no friends there in St. Petersburg. In fact, they hadn’t known anyone when they moved there—only each other.
There was the time they each forgot their keys to the apartment, Victor arriving home to find Marilyn sitting cross-legged on the stairway landing playing with seashells. Victor offered to climb up the side of the building, and Marilyn took him up on the offer. So he crept along, petrified, balancing on the top ledges of windows while he edged across to their balcony, pulling himself over the rail and consuming every ounce of energy he had left in the process—only to find they’d locked the door to the balcony, too.
And there was the time a little Cuban girl knocked on their door with an armful of kittens.
“Meess,” she said, “Papa told me we could not keep all of these keetey-cats and he said you should have one.”
Marilyn took one of the squirming varmints into her arm, and before she could say much back to the little girl, the kitten had nosed its way into the crook of her arm and fallen asleep, purring loudly. They kept him, and later Victor named him Ahab.
“Because he keeps chasing things he can’t find,” he said.
One of Victor’s investors made his money running a charter airline that ran tourists down to the keys, and he often offered to take Victor and Marilyn up for a ride. They did, on several occasions, fly with him. Marilyn loved it especially at night time, when they would soar above the coastline, the moon lighting up the surf below, and the lights stretched back inland until the marshland consumed them in inky blackness.
There was the time they began to fight, and the argument carried on and on, and eventually Marilyn told Victor she would wrestle him, and if she won, things would go her way. They tangled, Victor not really trying, but he was surprised by her strength and vigor. She pinned him, and then she leaned down and kissed him, and later they made love in the middle of the floor.
Still, there were no more children for Marilyn and Victor. Ahab would curl on the sheets between them as they slept.
Marilyn began to grow depressed their third year in Florida. She lost weight and ate only once or twice a day. Victor noticed, of course, but he decided not to say anything. Better for her to figure this out on her own, he thought. Still, he would take the time to ask her if she was all right.
The response each time was the same. “I’m fine.”
Quite the opposite.
Victor and Marilyn spent a bizarre and unforgettable weekend together, rarely leaving each other’s company at all. But Victor drove back to the city that Sunday, and Marilyn finished the last week or two of summer there at the point before she packed her bags, kissed Alice goodbye, and returned to Confluence with her father.
Confluence would have been the natural backdrop for the idyllic scenario described above. It wouldn’t take much imagination to paint the picture of Marilyn, wearing a long gown, floating down the steps of the First Presbyterian Church like a princess. The Coolidge family would have bought a full page wedding announcement in the Confluence Spectator, in which the details would read as if royal nuptials had taken place.
Instead, I can take you to a filing cabinet in the back of my offices here on Main Street, open one of its long drawers, and find an obituary so short it might otherwise go missing in the small ocean of advertisements on the bottom of the page:
Grace Victoria Salarino, infant daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Victor Salarino of Confluence, passed away in the hours following her birth on March 18. The family will not receive visitors.
There aren’t many entries in Marilyn’s diary from this time. In fact, there is a span of more than fourteen months between when Marilyn made a note of packing her things to return home from Coulter Point, a strange sense of exhaustion overcoming her, and the next entry, made a few weeks before Thanksgiving:
“Victor and I are fighting over where to spend the holiday. If it were up to me (and I don’t think it is), we would stay home. As it is, I can only see another trip to the city to see his mother, and I’m not sure I’m ready for that.”
Marilyn had become pregnant. Victor felt it was his duty to marry her, even though such an act effectively ended whatever relationship remained after she had returned to her father’s house carrying Victor’s child. The child, a tiny daughter arriving several weeks too early, was still born.
It’s entirely true that things could have been worse. Although Mr. Coolidge famously went so far as to write his daughter out of his will, there was still Victor’s money, and he had enough.
They decided to leave town. Victor bought an apartment in St. Petersburg, Florida. It was flagrantly obvious that such a move would be difficult for their marriage, but Marilyn was determined to leave, and Victor was of the mind to oblige. Their home sat on the waterfront looking over the gulf.
Marilyn kept house and spent much of her time volunteering with a group of Cubans who ran a produce market with the Catholic church. Victor gathered a group of investors and opened two Salarino’s department stores. He spent a lot of time managing the shops, and when he wasn’t doing that, he was often on the balcony of their apartment with a drink.
They lived this way for four years.
Not that it was entirely bad. Yes, it was a difficult time that brought them there, but there were times that things worked well. They had no friends there in St. Petersburg. In fact, they hadn’t known anyone when they moved there—only each other.
There was the time they each forgot their keys to the apartment, Victor arriving home to find Marilyn sitting cross-legged on the stairway landing playing with seashells. Victor offered to climb up the side of the building, and Marilyn took him up on the offer. So he crept along, petrified, balancing on the top ledges of windows while he edged across to their balcony, pulling himself over the rail and consuming every ounce of energy he had left in the process—only to find they’d locked the door to the balcony, too.
And there was the time a little Cuban girl knocked on their door with an armful of kittens.
“Meess,” she said, “Papa told me we could not keep all of these keetey-cats and he said you should have one.”
Marilyn took one of the squirming varmints into her arm, and before she could say much back to the little girl, the kitten had nosed its way into the crook of her arm and fallen asleep, purring loudly. They kept him, and later Victor named him Ahab.
“Because he keeps chasing things he can’t find,” he said.
One of Victor’s investors made his money running a charter airline that ran tourists down to the keys, and he often offered to take Victor and Marilyn up for a ride. They did, on several occasions, fly with him. Marilyn loved it especially at night time, when they would soar above the coastline, the moon lighting up the surf below, and the lights stretched back inland until the marshland consumed them in inky blackness.
There was the time they began to fight, and the argument carried on and on, and eventually Marilyn told Victor she would wrestle him, and if she won, things would go her way. They tangled, Victor not really trying, but he was surprised by her strength and vigor. She pinned him, and then she leaned down and kissed him, and later they made love in the middle of the floor.
Still, there were no more children for Marilyn and Victor. Ahab would curl on the sheets between them as they slept.
Marilyn began to grow depressed their third year in Florida. She lost weight and ate only once or twice a day. Victor noticed, of course, but he decided not to say anything. Better for her to figure this out on her own, he thought. Still, he would take the time to ask her if she was all right.
The response each time was the same. “I’m fine.”
Friday, December 3, 2010
Fine
The summer was almost over by the time Victor made it to Coulter Point to visit Marilyn. Out on the point, it was already growing cold at nights, cold enough for jackets and slacks, cold enough perhaps to even wear socks with your loafers. It was plenty cold enough for bonfires out on the beachfront when the sun went down.
As much as he had tried to deny it, Victor had grown cold toward the idea of going out to see her. Things in New York had been…well…more interesting for him. Victor liked the city. It was good to him, and it gave him the excitement he craved.
But Marilyn had written to say that it was okay if he didn’t come down—fine, actually—and something about the word fine set him in motion. He packed a suitcase, threw a sweater around his neck, and drove down.
When he arrived at the point several hours later, dusk was falling at the Inn. He grabbed his bags and went inside. The gentleman at the front desk greeted him. “Checking in?”
“Yes,” he said, pulling out his wallet. “Salarino.”
“Welcome, Mr. Salarino,” the clerk said. “I see you’ll be joining us for two nights?”
Victor paused, turning over the idea of staying the entire weekend in his mind. He hadn’t told Marilyn he was making the trip down.
“I think two nights will be more than enough.”
The porter delivered Victor and his luggage to one of the Inn’s more ample rooms at the end of the east wing. There was a sitting area and a small bar for mixing drinks, and the bedroom was separate. The suite had its own bathroom. Victor handed the gentleman a dollar, and as he turned to leave, asked him where he could find Marilyn Coolidge.
“Ms. Coolidge, who works at the restaurant?” the porter asked.
Victor couldn’t summon a response other than laughter.
As much as he had tried to deny it, Victor had grown cold toward the idea of going out to see her. Things in New York had been…well…more interesting for him. Victor liked the city. It was good to him, and it gave him the excitement he craved.
But Marilyn had written to say that it was okay if he didn’t come down—fine, actually—and something about the word fine set him in motion. He packed a suitcase, threw a sweater around his neck, and drove down.
When he arrived at the point several hours later, dusk was falling at the Inn. He grabbed his bags and went inside. The gentleman at the front desk greeted him. “Checking in?”
“Yes,” he said, pulling out his wallet. “Salarino.”
“Welcome, Mr. Salarino,” the clerk said. “I see you’ll be joining us for two nights?”
Victor paused, turning over the idea of staying the entire weekend in his mind. He hadn’t told Marilyn he was making the trip down.
“I think two nights will be more than enough.”
The porter delivered Victor and his luggage to one of the Inn’s more ample rooms at the end of the east wing. There was a sitting area and a small bar for mixing drinks, and the bedroom was separate. The suite had its own bathroom. Victor handed the gentleman a dollar, and as he turned to leave, asked him where he could find Marilyn Coolidge.
“Ms. Coolidge, who works at the restaurant?” the porter asked.
Victor couldn’t summon a response other than laughter.
***
Victor parked his convertible outside of the single-story restaurant down the block from the hotel. He could see her through the windows. She wore a simple black dress. Her skin was deeply tanned, so much so that when she laughed, the white of her teeth contrasted startlingly with the bronze of her face. He climbed out of the car and walked through the door. At first, she didn’t notice him.
“Excuse me, miss,” he said quickly. “I hope you have a table ready for me.”
She glanced up at him, her stare enough to make Victor momentarily wonder if she even remembered him. “I certainly hope you have a reservation,” she deadpanned.
“I’m sorry to say I don’t,” he said. “Perhaps you could make an exception, though. Surely you must know who I am.”
She paused, eyeing him from head to toe. “Nope,” she said, spinning around on one heel. She left him standing alone at the front of the restaurant.
“Just a minute!” he called loudly across the restaurant, maneuvering around tables to catch up with her. “I really ought to apologize for just coming out like this, but I felt rotten for not having visited, and after your last letter, I thought I needed to make it up to you and—“
She spun back around, this time, with a boyish grin on her face. “Did you say you needed a table?”
Victor liked the gleam in her eye. “Yes. I’m famished.”
Marilyn stepped toward him, stopped short, and took his hand softly into hers. She looked up at him, and quietly led him to the back of the restaurant, through the kitchen door, and past the cook. She gathered a basket, a small brick of cheese, and a bottle of red wine that was corked beside the stove. She handed them all to Victor.
“Mr. Moscow,” she called across the kitchen, “I am quitting for the weekend.”
Her manager eyed the picnic basket. “Well then. Don’t forget the salami.”
***
Victor watched the entire scene unfold in great fascination. Marilyn had taken complete control of a situation—a situation he’d planned on controlling. Now, he was following her down to the cold sand, clutching tightly to their dinner. She paused at the edge of the beach to take off her shoes, and then they walked out twenty yards or so.
He offered to build a fire, and she unpacked their goods while he set about the task. Soon he had a small pit filled with several sticks of driftwood ablaze. “I am so impressed,” Marilyn remarked. “That’s quite a fire for a city boy.”
“And that’s quite a picnic for the girl who works the front of the house,” he said. “Do you normally just quit jobs like that?”
She dug out a small knife and peeled the rind back on the cheese, slicing off a chunk and handing it to him. “Mr. Moscow doesn’t really think I work there anyway, so I doubt it’s much of a loss for him.”
They sat in silence for several minutes, each staring deeply into the fire. Already, it was beginning to burn down to embers.
Finally, Marilyn spoke up. “I’d mostly given up on you, Victor.”
He began to say something, but she cut him off. “I’d mostly given up on you, and that was fine by me. I’d just assumed that the distance and the problems with my parents and the fact that I’m not going back to New York would put an end to all of this. And that was fine.”
“There are plenty of boys here and Alice and I have had plenty of fun running around with them. I just figured that was that. We had a lot of fun, and I understand. It’s fine.”
“I have to admit I felt the same way,” Victor said. “You know my life. It’s busy when I want it to be. I’d let it get busy again. And then I got your last letter, and it was the ‘fine’ part that got to me.”
Marilyn laughed, deep and full. Victor smiled, not anticipating how sentimental he’d suddenly feel about hearing her laugh in person once more. “All I wrote in the letter, and it was the word ‘fine’ that made you think twice?” she giggled.
“Yes! It was. Look, I like you an awful lot,” he said. “And I knew you were down here playing around with all the point boys—“
“—And I knew you were off picking up girls in hotel bars,” Marilyn cut in.
“Well, then it’s mutual.”
“Maybe.”
“Fine.”
“Fine?” she said, grinning.
“See, that’s just it—fine.”
“I’m cold,” she said. “I’m moving over next to you.”
“Fine is such a terrible word,” he said. “Fine sounds like you’re giving up, like you’re resigned to whatever comes next.”
He threw the last piece of driftwood onto the fire. “And I was there in the city thinking about you and how much I liked you, and how much it hurt me to think of you settling for whatever ‘fine’ meant.”
She laughed again. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“It’s just that your letter set off some kind of strange, weird, possessive feeling in me,” he said, wrinkling his brow in frustration with himself. “I don’t know. It’s not something I might deserve to feel, but I do know that when we spent time together in the city, I wanted you to feel like my girl, like you were treated well.”
“You did treat me well,” she said, leaning her head on his shoulder.
“And none of these boys here can treat you the way I want to treat you.”
“No, they really can’t,” she said, her arm falling across his chest.
“And what I’m saying is that I really like treating you well.”
She reached her hand to his face, turning him toward her. “You’re going nowhere with this stupid soliloquy,” she said. “You ought to shut up and kiss me.”
So they kissed there by the fire, under the stars, the chilly breeze blowing in from the water. Victor was overwhelmed with feeling for her. His heart pounded wildly in his chest, and his feet began to grow cold. She pushed him down until they were lying there on the sand, the smell of salt pressing against them, her leg over his, their bodies twined together warmly.
When Marilyn woke up the next morning wearing only the long shirt Victor had given her the night before, she knew exactly what she was doing.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Work
Marilyn said goodbye to her father the next morning. Dinner the evening before had been uneventful but fun. Mr. Broadman and Mr. Coolidge mostly kept to themselves in the parlor, while Alice showed Marilyn around the Broadman Inn and its surrounding property.
The Inn itself was of modest design, but its magnitude—it was the largest structure on Coulter Point—distinguished it from anything else. Mr. Broadman drew inspiration from an old hotel in Pennsylvania, the design of which was repeated here: three wings, forming a large “Y” shape, with a large porch stretching between the front two. The outside was white brick, and the roof was made of terra cotta shingles painted deep orange.
Upon entering the hotel, Marilyn found herself in the middle of a four-story tall grand foyer, anchored on one side by a large, winding wooden staircase, and on the other by a rock fireplace. A bar counter took up most of the corner on the fireplace side.
Most of the guests at the Broadman Inn were tourists, rather than folks who summered here, and many of them relaxed in the foyer that evening. Alice introduced Marilyn to a gentleman wearing a dark suit and standing off to the side of the staircase. “Mr. Rostan, this is my friend, Marilyn Coolidge.”
“Ms. Coolidge, it is a pleasure to meet you,” Rostan said. “I am the manager of the hotel and property. Are you staying with us? Please forgive me for not seeing your name on our registry when I checked it earlier.”
“Oh no, Mr. Rostan, Marilyn is a staying as our guest at the house,” Alice said.
“Very good,” he replied, his smile emerging from his thick, gray beard. “We are happy to be of service to you should you require anything, Ms. Coolidge. Please don’t hesitate to call upon me or anyone on my staff.”
“Thank you,” Marilyn replied.
“We’re hoping to talk tomorrow with Mr. Moscow,” Alice said. “I’ve been working some at the restaurant to fill time, and I’d like Marilyn to join me.”
“I’ll be sure to let him know to expect you then.”
“Thank you, Mr. Rostan.” Alice grinned. “Can you ask him to keep the work light?”
Mr. Rostan chuckled. “Only because you’re making your house guest work for her room.”
to be continued...quite soon.
The Inn itself was of modest design, but its magnitude—it was the largest structure on Coulter Point—distinguished it from anything else. Mr. Broadman drew inspiration from an old hotel in Pennsylvania, the design of which was repeated here: three wings, forming a large “Y” shape, with a large porch stretching between the front two. The outside was white brick, and the roof was made of terra cotta shingles painted deep orange.
Upon entering the hotel, Marilyn found herself in the middle of a four-story tall grand foyer, anchored on one side by a large, winding wooden staircase, and on the other by a rock fireplace. A bar counter took up most of the corner on the fireplace side.
Most of the guests at the Broadman Inn were tourists, rather than folks who summered here, and many of them relaxed in the foyer that evening. Alice introduced Marilyn to a gentleman wearing a dark suit and standing off to the side of the staircase. “Mr. Rostan, this is my friend, Marilyn Coolidge.”
“Ms. Coolidge, it is a pleasure to meet you,” Rostan said. “I am the manager of the hotel and property. Are you staying with us? Please forgive me for not seeing your name on our registry when I checked it earlier.”
“Oh no, Mr. Rostan, Marilyn is a staying as our guest at the house,” Alice said.
“Very good,” he replied, his smile emerging from his thick, gray beard. “We are happy to be of service to you should you require anything, Ms. Coolidge. Please don’t hesitate to call upon me or anyone on my staff.”
“Thank you,” Marilyn replied.
“We’re hoping to talk tomorrow with Mr. Moscow,” Alice said. “I’ve been working some at the restaurant to fill time, and I’d like Marilyn to join me.”
“I’ll be sure to let him know to expect you then.”
“Thank you, Mr. Rostan.” Alice grinned. “Can you ask him to keep the work light?”
Mr. Rostan chuckled. “Only because you’re making your house guest work for her room.”
to be continued...quite soon.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Autumn Wedding
I realize I've been telling you the story about Marilyn and Vic for quite some time now, and as a result, I haven't told you much about what's going on Confluence. Forgive me. It's easy sometimes to get wrapped up in putting things together piece by piece. The story of those two is quite dear to my heart, and I want to make sure I cover all the bases as I relay it to you.
But that means I haven't gone back to the zany stories that make this town what it is. I haven't taken you back up toward Howard's Peak, up in Confluence North, where poor old Ricky burned down the Post Office while trying to kill a family of skunks. And I haven't walked with you down Main Street, past my office, down to Mary's Cafe, where we can sit and talk.
There's a new dress shop that just opened up this fall, and a little coffee stand that is attached to a narrow entrance in the storefront just to the left. It's called Buttons, and it's owned by Joshua and Christine, two relative newcomers to town. They are a young couple, and I like them a lot.
Joshua comes to Confluence by way of the West Virginia mountains. He met Christine in college at Penn State, and they eventually settled in a place that reminded him of home. They live now up toward the Peak.
I know plenty of people who might describe these two as "crunchy," but the older folks in town would simply think of them as hippies. They're not really either, but they seem so by outward appearances. Their clothing is simple, their tastes are organic (most apparent by the selections in the coffee shop), and their ideas are sound.
As you know, I am a sucker for coffee, and that's how I first got to know them, and that's how I was invited to their wedding a couple of weekends ago.
The day was calendar-page perfect, all bright and cool and nimble in the morning. They were married in the old country chapel we now call Lily of the Valley. The chapel sits up on a hill that looks out on the spot where the Upper Point River is dammed to create a small pond before it continues a long, twelve mile course down a twisting and rocky valley toward town. Every spring, lillies peek up, sometimes through the snow, and blanket the entire shore in yellow.
The chapel is only twenty or thirty feet across, but it's nearly twice as tall. On a good day, about fifty people can fit in. Maybe sixty, if they're all slender. There are three narrow, tree-like windows behind the altar that look into the woods.
The wedding began at 7pm sharp, and given that I am often quick to forget the standard protocol of my southern upbringing (always, always arrive at a wedding thirty minutes early), I slid into one of the last seats at the back. A friend of the bride played a fiddle; Christine walked up the aisle to "Blest Be the Tie."
They spoke their vows, and the minister blessed the tie that bound them as one. In its simplicity, the wedding left room for incredible meaning; I was overwhelmed by how full this service felt. Yes, God was here, but God was everywhere: in the candles' dim reach toward the chapel's high ceiling, in the fabric of dress and vest, in the last daisies of the year sitting alone on the altar, and in the fresh cold air of fall lofting through the open windows and curling at our feet, full of chill and soul.
The late wedding meant the reception was a moonsong. We toasted the bride and groom in the yard next to the chapel. The fiddler came outside and we danced under the glow of lanterns and by the end of the hour, all of us had fallen in love with Joshua and Christine, all of us felt our hearts grow tender and fill with warmth.
Then it was back to our cars and down the tiny county road that switches back and forth across the mountain to get to town, a goat path, really; some folks riding home together, some like me alone in our cars, all of us separated on the narrow lane by the sharp curves, our headlights looking out for deer and elk, our eyes looking eagerly ahead for the straightaway sight of tail lights, of someone there, someone else, with whom we can share this glow.
But that means I haven't gone back to the zany stories that make this town what it is. I haven't taken you back up toward Howard's Peak, up in Confluence North, where poor old Ricky burned down the Post Office while trying to kill a family of skunks. And I haven't walked with you down Main Street, past my office, down to Mary's Cafe, where we can sit and talk.
There's a new dress shop that just opened up this fall, and a little coffee stand that is attached to a narrow entrance in the storefront just to the left. It's called Buttons, and it's owned by Joshua and Christine, two relative newcomers to town. They are a young couple, and I like them a lot.
Joshua comes to Confluence by way of the West Virginia mountains. He met Christine in college at Penn State, and they eventually settled in a place that reminded him of home. They live now up toward the Peak.
I know plenty of people who might describe these two as "crunchy," but the older folks in town would simply think of them as hippies. They're not really either, but they seem so by outward appearances. Their clothing is simple, their tastes are organic (most apparent by the selections in the coffee shop), and their ideas are sound.
As you know, I am a sucker for coffee, and that's how I first got to know them, and that's how I was invited to their wedding a couple of weekends ago.
The day was calendar-page perfect, all bright and cool and nimble in the morning. They were married in the old country chapel we now call Lily of the Valley. The chapel sits up on a hill that looks out on the spot where the Upper Point River is dammed to create a small pond before it continues a long, twelve mile course down a twisting and rocky valley toward town. Every spring, lillies peek up, sometimes through the snow, and blanket the entire shore in yellow.
The chapel is only twenty or thirty feet across, but it's nearly twice as tall. On a good day, about fifty people can fit in. Maybe sixty, if they're all slender. There are three narrow, tree-like windows behind the altar that look into the woods.
The wedding began at 7pm sharp, and given that I am often quick to forget the standard protocol of my southern upbringing (always, always arrive at a wedding thirty minutes early), I slid into one of the last seats at the back. A friend of the bride played a fiddle; Christine walked up the aisle to "Blest Be the Tie."
They spoke their vows, and the minister blessed the tie that bound them as one. In its simplicity, the wedding left room for incredible meaning; I was overwhelmed by how full this service felt. Yes, God was here, but God was everywhere: in the candles' dim reach toward the chapel's high ceiling, in the fabric of dress and vest, in the last daisies of the year sitting alone on the altar, and in the fresh cold air of fall lofting through the open windows and curling at our feet, full of chill and soul.
The late wedding meant the reception was a moonsong. We toasted the bride and groom in the yard next to the chapel. The fiddler came outside and we danced under the glow of lanterns and by the end of the hour, all of us had fallen in love with Joshua and Christine, all of us felt our hearts grow tender and fill with warmth.
Then it was back to our cars and down the tiny county road that switches back and forth across the mountain to get to town, a goat path, really; some folks riding home together, some like me alone in our cars, all of us separated on the narrow lane by the sharp curves, our headlights looking out for deer and elk, our eyes looking eagerly ahead for the straightaway sight of tail lights, of someone there, someone else, with whom we can share this glow.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Coming to Coulter Point
“Marilyn!” Alice cried when the car pulled into the driveway. The former school classmates hugged for several seconds in the driveway. “I’m so glad you’re here! It’s been forever!”
Marilyn noticed that Alice seemed only slightly different than she remembered. She had grown a bit taller, and her light blonde hair had already bleached out a bit from the sun. Her skin was bronzed from laying out in the sun.
Mr. Broadman welcomed Mr. Coolidge with a handshake and an invitation inside for a cold drink, which he accepted. The gentlemen retired to the back of the house, where there was a wet bar. Mrs. Broadman greeted Marilyn and Alice inside the doorway and offered her help carrying Marilyn’s things upstairs to her room.
Marilyn’s room for the summer was a tidy but warm yellow perch at the back of the house, over the kitchen downstairs, with a view down of the sea about a hundred yards away. The furniture was mission style cherry: a vanity and mirror on one side of the bed, an armoire caddy corned on the other, and a decently sized writing table beneath the single, large window. Alice’s bedroom was next door. There were two other bedrooms on the second floor, one of which would be occupied by Mr. Coolidge for a night before he returned to Confluence. Mr. and Mrs. Broadman stayed on the first floor.
Alice chatted nonstop as Marilyn unpacked her things—mostly about her first year at Meredith College in North Carolina. “There’s not much to do in Raleigh, especially out where we are, but it’s a lovely group of girls. We all get along perfectly, and on Friday and Saturday nights, we go to the parties at N.C. State with all the farm boys. It’s a real riot.”
“I still cannot believe you wound up at that school” Marilyn said, grinning. “Of all the people to go and live in a place like that! Who on earth entertains you?”
“You should talk, Mrs. Mawr,” Alice kidded back. “Have you learned to crochet yet?”
Mrs. Broadman returned to their room to let them know that dinner would be at six thirty. “Come on,” Alice said, “let’s go sit outside while the adults plot.”
The Broadman House was once the original Broadman Inn. The original design featured eight bedrooms (the four original rooms upstairs, and four downstairs where there is now a parlor, piano room, and bar area), and the business operated as a bed and breakfast of sorts for folks traveling up the coast. When Mr. Broadman inherited the Inn from his parents, he set about designing and constructing a more modern hotel across the yard from the house, which is where the new Broadman Inn now sits. The Broadman House remains a taste of Victorian grandeur. A shaded porch wraps front and back, and a terrace off Alice’s bedroom on the side of the house commands a breath-taking view of the coastline south toward town.
As Coulter Point became more popular as a vacation destination, and tourists began booking the rooms solidly through the summer season, Mr. Broadman added onto the new building, and later, when Alice was in grade school, he bought the restaurant that had been built just down the road. Just a few years later, he purchased several houses nearby and turned them into guest cottages. Business boomed, and the Broadman family quickly became the single largest property owner on the point.
Still, the Broadman House had its own domain in the compound, and a small forest of oak trees in the front yard shielded it from the view of the new hotel. The girls wandered out to the back porch and sat on wicker chairs facing the Atlantic.
“I cannot tell you how thrilled I am to have you here,” Alice said. “There’s never anything to do here in the summers anymore. I can only play so many hands of bridge with Mother and her friends before I begin to feel stir crazy.”
“Well, I don’t doubt that,” Marilyn said. “I must warn you, though, I’m not much of a bridge player.”
Alice giggled. “My goal is to avoid playing a single hand of bridge this summer. But I do have another plan for us, and it’s more fun.”
“What’s that?”
“Let’s work at the restaurant this summer. We’ll be hostesses. My father said it’d be alright, but he probably won’t pay us.”
“You’re asking for free labor?”
“I’m offering free access to boys and booze,” she laughed. “There’s a bar inside the restaurant with the most gorgeous boy you’ve ever met named Billy. And there are the boys in the kitchen, too, who are incredible fun to be around.”
Marilyn grinned. “I can’t believe you’ve asked me down here to spend the entire summer getting into trouble with you. This isn’t the Alice Broadman I remember from school. Aren’t you supposed to be taking lessons on good posture?”
“The hell with that!” Alice said. “Bo-oor—ring!”
“Besides,” she continued, “my parents have given me full reign of the whole place, and they don’t care if I’m out late at the restaurant. It’s the perfect excuse to see boys!”
“You’d better tell me more,” Marilyn said.
“Okay. The one I want to introduce you to first is a boy named Charlie. He’s a tall, brooding hulk of a man. He has the most amazing arms you’ve ever seen. Now, Charlie lives here year-round, and his dad is a fisherman, and sometimes he has to go out with his dad to help with the catch, and The Red Scare gives him a hard time—"
“The Red Scare?”
“Mr. Moscow. That’s the manager of the restaurant. He’s kind of a hard ass, but everybody stays in line when he’s around. Anyway, Charlie works out on the boat with his dad sometimes, so he’s got this wonderful dark tan and dark brown puppy dog eyes. You are going to fall for him, I promise.”
“Surely you’ve claimed one of these boys for yourself.”
“Of course,” she said. “Naturally, I’ve picked out one of the bus boys. He is adorable, and he has shaggy blonde hair. He plays in a band!”
“Oh my Lord, you’re dating a musician.”
“We’re not dating!” Alice said, her voice lower. “And don’t say it so loud—my parents would completely panic if they knew I was hanging around the hired help.”
“Okay, so what do you call it?”
“We’re talking,” Alice said. “And drinking together! These boys are all a great time. You are going to love it here!”
Marilyn noticed that Alice seemed only slightly different than she remembered. She had grown a bit taller, and her light blonde hair had already bleached out a bit from the sun. Her skin was bronzed from laying out in the sun.
Mr. Broadman welcomed Mr. Coolidge with a handshake and an invitation inside for a cold drink, which he accepted. The gentlemen retired to the back of the house, where there was a wet bar. Mrs. Broadman greeted Marilyn and Alice inside the doorway and offered her help carrying Marilyn’s things upstairs to her room.
Marilyn’s room for the summer was a tidy but warm yellow perch at the back of the house, over the kitchen downstairs, with a view down of the sea about a hundred yards away. The furniture was mission style cherry: a vanity and mirror on one side of the bed, an armoire caddy corned on the other, and a decently sized writing table beneath the single, large window. Alice’s bedroom was next door. There were two other bedrooms on the second floor, one of which would be occupied by Mr. Coolidge for a night before he returned to Confluence. Mr. and Mrs. Broadman stayed on the first floor.
Alice chatted nonstop as Marilyn unpacked her things—mostly about her first year at Meredith College in North Carolina. “There’s not much to do in Raleigh, especially out where we are, but it’s a lovely group of girls. We all get along perfectly, and on Friday and Saturday nights, we go to the parties at N.C. State with all the farm boys. It’s a real riot.”
“I still cannot believe you wound up at that school” Marilyn said, grinning. “Of all the people to go and live in a place like that! Who on earth entertains you?”
“You should talk, Mrs. Mawr,” Alice kidded back. “Have you learned to crochet yet?”
Mrs. Broadman returned to their room to let them know that dinner would be at six thirty. “Come on,” Alice said, “let’s go sit outside while the adults plot.”
The Broadman House was once the original Broadman Inn. The original design featured eight bedrooms (the four original rooms upstairs, and four downstairs where there is now a parlor, piano room, and bar area), and the business operated as a bed and breakfast of sorts for folks traveling up the coast. When Mr. Broadman inherited the Inn from his parents, he set about designing and constructing a more modern hotel across the yard from the house, which is where the new Broadman Inn now sits. The Broadman House remains a taste of Victorian grandeur. A shaded porch wraps front and back, and a terrace off Alice’s bedroom on the side of the house commands a breath-taking view of the coastline south toward town.
As Coulter Point became more popular as a vacation destination, and tourists began booking the rooms solidly through the summer season, Mr. Broadman added onto the new building, and later, when Alice was in grade school, he bought the restaurant that had been built just down the road. Just a few years later, he purchased several houses nearby and turned them into guest cottages. Business boomed, and the Broadman family quickly became the single largest property owner on the point.
Still, the Broadman House had its own domain in the compound, and a small forest of oak trees in the front yard shielded it from the view of the new hotel. The girls wandered out to the back porch and sat on wicker chairs facing the Atlantic.
“I cannot tell you how thrilled I am to have you here,” Alice said. “There’s never anything to do here in the summers anymore. I can only play so many hands of bridge with Mother and her friends before I begin to feel stir crazy.”
“Well, I don’t doubt that,” Marilyn said. “I must warn you, though, I’m not much of a bridge player.”
Alice giggled. “My goal is to avoid playing a single hand of bridge this summer. But I do have another plan for us, and it’s more fun.”
“What’s that?”
“Let’s work at the restaurant this summer. We’ll be hostesses. My father said it’d be alright, but he probably won’t pay us.”
“You’re asking for free labor?”
“I’m offering free access to boys and booze,” she laughed. “There’s a bar inside the restaurant with the most gorgeous boy you’ve ever met named Billy. And there are the boys in the kitchen, too, who are incredible fun to be around.”
Marilyn grinned. “I can’t believe you’ve asked me down here to spend the entire summer getting into trouble with you. This isn’t the Alice Broadman I remember from school. Aren’t you supposed to be taking lessons on good posture?”
“The hell with that!” Alice said. “Bo-oor—ring!”
“Besides,” she continued, “my parents have given me full reign of the whole place, and they don’t care if I’m out late at the restaurant. It’s the perfect excuse to see boys!”
“You’d better tell me more,” Marilyn said.
“Okay. The one I want to introduce you to first is a boy named Charlie. He’s a tall, brooding hulk of a man. He has the most amazing arms you’ve ever seen. Now, Charlie lives here year-round, and his dad is a fisherman, and sometimes he has to go out with his dad to help with the catch, and The Red Scare gives him a hard time—"
“The Red Scare?”
“Mr. Moscow. That’s the manager of the restaurant. He’s kind of a hard ass, but everybody stays in line when he’s around. Anyway, Charlie works out on the boat with his dad sometimes, so he’s got this wonderful dark tan and dark brown puppy dog eyes. You are going to fall for him, I promise.”
“Surely you’ve claimed one of these boys for yourself.”
“Of course,” she said. “Naturally, I’ve picked out one of the bus boys. He is adorable, and he has shaggy blonde hair. He plays in a band!”
“Oh my Lord, you’re dating a musician.”
“We’re not dating!” Alice said, her voice lower. “And don’t say it so loud—my parents would completely panic if they knew I was hanging around the hired help.”
“Okay, so what do you call it?”
“We’re talking,” Alice said. “And drinking together! These boys are all a great time. You are going to love it here!”
Monday, September 20, 2010
A Brief Trip Home
Marilyn left her lunch with Victor Salarino relieved and excited about the summer.
She also felt uneasy.
“What I am doing is, simply, deceptive,” she wrote in her journal. “It is obvious that my parents do not approve of my having anything to do with Victor, and though I haven’t exactly promised them that I wouldn’t see him again, they are certainly under the assumption that I am taking the train home and leaving Victor in New York.”
“Instead,” she paused, taking time to doodle a long ellipsis at the bottom of the page, each circle darkened with thought.
She also felt uneasy.
“What I am doing is, simply, deceptive,” she wrote in her journal. “It is obvious that my parents do not approve of my having anything to do with Victor, and though I haven’t exactly promised them that I wouldn’t see him again, they are certainly under the assumption that I am taking the train home and leaving Victor in New York.”
“Instead,” she paused, taking time to doodle a long ellipsis at the bottom of the page, each circle darkened with thought.
***
Alice was thrilled to welcome her friend to her family’s summer home, and she wrote to Marilyn, asking her to join her in two weeks. Marilyn’s parents had sent her to Coulter Point with Alice a couple of times before, and had no problem with her summer plans. That left just ten days that Marilyn had to endure being at home.
Surprisingly, they weren’t terrible. Marilyn’s father didn’t bring up the subject at all, and her mother left her alone for the most part. She had a habit of alluding to the incident on the sailboat in subtle ways, which Marilyn found annoying, but there was nothing to do but wait. By the end of the month, she would be at Coulter Point, away from Confluence and away from her parents, and there she would be free to see Victor as many times as he cared to make the trip.
The point was a lengthy trip away from New York, which somewhat concerned Marilyn, but Victor had promised at least one weekend with her. Her heart raced every time she thought about it.
There was an incident at church, though, that added credibility to her parents’ anger. Pastor Roberts ended the service with the traditional time for announcements. Helen Daugherty stood up to announce that the Confluence Women’s Club was looking forward to extending invitations to several young women this summer to join the club for a reception and begin the year-long process toward membership. And then, she went on to read a list out loud that included all of Marilyn’s classmates—but not Marilyn Coolidge.
As they left the receiving line afterward, Marilyn’s mother approached Helen.
“Why, Mrs. Coolidge,” she smiled. “Good afternoon.”
“Helen, dear, it seems you’ve made an omission on your list of young ladies to invite to the club.”
Marilyn wanted to shrink away, but her mother had firmly taken hold of her wrist.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Helen said.
“You know right well what I mean, Mrs. Daugherty.”
There was an uncomfortable silence. “Mrs. Coolidge,” Helen said quietly, her eyes looking away from Marilyn and her mother, “our club is selective. We are a small group. We can only accommodate so many new members every year, and there were several young women who did not receive invitations.”
“Mrs. Daugherty, I would normally have thought this list and your reading it in front of God and everybody was a simple act of error, but given your willful ignorance on this subject, I can only assume you are acting in a very distasteful way. Marilyn deserves an invitation.”
“I cannot,” Helen replied firmly, her voice even quieter. “We have strict standards of character for our members, Mrs. Coolidge. You of all people should know that—you wrote our Code of Matronly Conduct, after all.”
Marilyn and her mother walked home from church in silence. Once they were inside, she spoke up. “Thank you,” she said, touching her mother’s arm. “You were awfully kind to have defended me.”
Her mother’s lips drew tight. “I shouldn’t have had to in the first place.”
But that was all; Marilyn’s mother retreated to her bedroom to change for lunch, and when they took their meal, nothing more of the matter was said.
“My home no longer feels like home,” Marilyn later wrote in her journal. “And that worries me. A person needs a place to go where everything feels all right, where she feels safe and well. This town doesn’t seem to recognize me anymore, and I don’t feel like I know it either.”
Two days later, Mr. Coolidge packed his daughter’s suitcases into the car and drove her down to Coulter Point.
“Helen, dear, it seems you’ve made an omission on your list of young ladies to invite to the club.”
Marilyn wanted to shrink away, but her mother had firmly taken hold of her wrist.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Helen said.
“You know right well what I mean, Mrs. Daugherty.”
There was an uncomfortable silence. “Mrs. Coolidge,” Helen said quietly, her eyes looking away from Marilyn and her mother, “our club is selective. We are a small group. We can only accommodate so many new members every year, and there were several young women who did not receive invitations.”
“Mrs. Daugherty, I would normally have thought this list and your reading it in front of God and everybody was a simple act of error, but given your willful ignorance on this subject, I can only assume you are acting in a very distasteful way. Marilyn deserves an invitation.”
“I cannot,” Helen replied firmly, her voice even quieter. “We have strict standards of character for our members, Mrs. Coolidge. You of all people should know that—you wrote our Code of Matronly Conduct, after all.”
Marilyn and her mother walked home from church in silence. Once they were inside, she spoke up. “Thank you,” she said, touching her mother’s arm. “You were awfully kind to have defended me.”
Her mother’s lips drew tight. “I shouldn’t have had to in the first place.”
But that was all; Marilyn’s mother retreated to her bedroom to change for lunch, and when they took their meal, nothing more of the matter was said.
“My home no longer feels like home,” Marilyn later wrote in her journal. “And that worries me. A person needs a place to go where everything feels all right, where she feels safe and well. This town doesn’t seem to recognize me anymore, and I don’t feel like I know it either.”
Two days later, Mr. Coolidge packed his daughter’s suitcases into the car and drove her down to Coulter Point.
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