Chapter Ten
Daniel is surviving on a mixture of fear and adrenaline. He has promised Dr. Posner he will explore this further, not rock the boat just yet, wait until he and Bee are with Dr. Posner to tell her, if, in fact, that is the route he chooses, but now that his secret is finally out, now that he has told someone, he wants to stop living this lie immediately, wants to be able to be who he really is.
Every night when he parks his Land Rover next to Bee’s Mercedes wagon in the garage, walks in the mudroom door of their beautiful center-hall colonial, puts his briefcase down, walks through into their huge kitchen where the girls are curled up on the sofa at one end, watching Hannah Montana on the HDTV flat screen that sits above the stone fireplace, he feels his heart pound, and he doesn’t know how much longer he can pretend.
He is not sleeping at night. He lies awake for hours, sometimes looking at Bee, wondering how he can tell her, what words he will use, so scared of the pain he will cause her. He loves her. He just doesn’t love her the way he needs to love her. But she is his partner and the thought of hurting her, causing her pain, is almost unbearable.
Bee is so strong, but he can see this destroying her. And what about her friends? The close circle of friends Bee has found while he is at work, the people they hang out with at barbecues in the summer, meet in town for riotous dinners at Zest. Not that any of the men are necessarily his type—Daniel has always felt more comfortable with the wives—but he has tried to fit in, has done a pretty good job, he thinks, even making sure he knows the latest sports news before they get together so he can pretend to be interested.
And everyone is interested in property, so they all find common ground. Most of the husbands work in finance, but all of them want to invest in real estate, build houses, do what Daniel is doing, and they all know everything about the real estate in the town, spending Sundays going to Open Houses and inspecting layouts and finishes, scouring the local paper and memorizing the property transfers by heart. Real estate, Daniel has decided, is porn for married people.
“How about that house on Old Hill Road?” one will say. “Can you believe it’s on for five million?”
“Well, the one on Hillspoint sold for six,” someone will chip in.
“But that has water views,” another will add.
“Only if you’re standing on tiptoe on the roof,” Daniel will say, and they all laugh.
“You know the developer bought that for three? What do you think that cost, Daniel? Three fifty a foot?”
“Maybe four,” Daniel will say with a shrug. “The finishes are good.”
How will he face these people, these men who drink beer, love sports, drive Escalades and Wrangler Jeeps? How will he ever be able to show his face in this town again once they find out he’s gay?
And they will find out. In a small town such as this, dramas don’t happen too often, and when they do, everyone wants to know everything. He knows of several divorces already, husbands leaving wives for the babysitters or secretaries, but this? A husband or wife leaving because they’ve come out of the closet? He doesn’t know anyone in Westport who has gone through this.
He can’t run away, can’t move to another area, start afresh. He can’t stray from his girls, because, whatever happens, he is determined to be in their lives almost as much as he is now.
Those nights he lies awake in bed, he fantasizes about his perfect life. He sees himself in a condo, maybe in one of those cool loft-like developments in South Norwalk. Or in a small house by the beach, maybe on Mill Cove, although there are no cars allowed on the tiny island and it must be a nightmare to get groceries up there in winter when it’s snowing.
But imagine how the girls would love a house on the beach! Imagine waking up, throwing open the doors in your living room and stepping out onto sand! Imagine turning over in bed and seeing the person you love, being able to reach out and stroke his arm, smiling to yourself as he sleeps, tracing the outline of his hard, smooth chest.
These are the fantasies Daniel has suppressed his whole life. The fantasies that have been chasing him for years, trying to sneak their way in, only ever able to hit a home run when he is asleep, when his subconscious welcomes them, when he wakes up unbearably turned on, having dreamed he was with a man. Always with a man. Just a dream, he would tell himself, guilt and shame hitting at the same time as the memory of the dream. Doesn’t mean anything.
Except now he knows it does.
They are off to Nantucket in two weeks. The house they looked at when they were there for the weekend was just as lovely as it appeared in the pictures: a gray shingled cottage overlooking both Lake Quidnet and the bay, and Bee was so excited, the realtor so enthusiastic, Daniel found, despite the dread, he couldn’t say no.
There was something magical about Nantucket, Bee’s father was right, and while Daniel was there, strolling through the village with Bee, he had started to relax, to think that perhaps things would be okay, perhaps they would find a way through the mess that had become their marriage, for they were still friends. Best friends.
And now it is done. The check for the holiday—a small fortune, but worth it, Bee had said—was sent last week, the contracts had been signed, and a series of e-mails between the landlords and Bee were still flying back and forth.
Try to do your shopping off-island, they had recommended— far cheaper! They sent instructions as to how to get the oversand permits if they were driving a car that could go on the beach. Bring your own beach towels, they reminded her.
Getting out of it isn’t an option, but how can he go to Nantucket for what he knows Bee is hoping will reinvigorate the romance in their life, given what he has finally been able to admit to himself?
Just last night Bee put down the magazine she was reading in bed and turned to him with a smile.
“I feel really good about this summer,” she said, putting out a hand and taking his, squeezing it with affection. “I think it’s a new start for us. Thank you for taking this house, for doing something that I know you weren’t sure about, but that I truly believe will make us happy.”
Daniel nodded mutely, swallowing the lump of fear in his throat.
“Wasn’t it wonderful, being in Nantucket that weekend?” Bee snuggled into him and as a reflex Daniel put his arm around her. Feeling nothing.
“Mmm,” he said, non-committally.
“I do love you, you know,” she said, looking up at him.
“I love you too,” he said, and this was easier, because it was true.
“ ’Night.” She pecked him on the lips, rolled over, and reached out to switch off her bedside light.
Daniel felt relief wash over him.
“ ’Night,” he said, and went back to his book.
No one sleeps together anymore, Bee told herself, when she was forced to think about it. On the days when she and her friends got together for coffee, or lunch, or had play dates with the kids, if ever the subject of sex came up, all of them would laugh and say, “Sex? Who has time for sex? Who even wants to have sex anymore?”
They would joke that they were running out of excuses to give their husbands, that the headache excuse was far too old and boring, and that they were constantly having to come up with new ones.
“My husband thinks my period lasts two weeks of every month,” Jenny had said recently with a grin and they had all roared with laughter.
“After I had my second baby I told my husband my gynecologist had advised me not to have sex for a year,” said someone else. “And he believed me!”
Maybe she wouldn’t want sex, Bee thought, if Daniel wanted it all the time. Maybe the only reason she misses it so much, misses the intimacy, the warmth, the closeness, is because he refuses. Isn’t it human nature to always want what we cannot have?
No one is having sex, she tells herself when nagging doubts, horrible thoughts that she refuses to permit, try to make their way into her head. We have young children, we are exhausted, all we want to do when we climb into bed is sleep.
And she tries very hard not to think about the fact that it is Daniel’s refusal, not hers. The one time she contributed to one of those joking conversations, she realized it wasn’t normal.
“I know!” she’d added. “Daniel does this thing where he’ll stay in the shower until he thinks I’m asleep so he doesn’t have to have sex with me!” And she’d looked around for laughter, and seen only sympathy and slight embarrassment.
She didn’t bring it up again.
“I think you have to spend some to make some,” Sarah tells Nan, standing over the large cardboard box and cutting it open to reveal packages of crisp white sheets. “And it really wasn’t expensive, ” she adds. “All things considered. And you didn’t have enough sheets for the bedrooms you want to rent, so we had to do it. Oh, they had a special on towels too, so I ordered four sets of white towels.”
“You think of everything,” Nan says with a smile, ripping open the packaging and cooing over the softness of the towels. “And while Andrew Moseley would probably have a heart attack, I couldn’t agree more. We can’t have our tenants sleeping on anything other than the best.”
“Speaking of tenants, I think we’re nearly ready to post our ad.”
“Oh I’m so pleased!” Nan claps her hands together. “I can cycle into town later and post the ad on the message board.”
Sarah pauses. “I think we should put it online too,” she says. “On Craigslist and some of the other online boards. Those are the best ways these days.”
“I think you’re absolutely right,” Nan says. “Come upstairs and see what I did to the blue room this morning.”
Both Nan and Sarah have spent every day transforming the house. Old faded rugs have been rolled up and put in the shed, and Sarah has sanded and waxed the wooden floors of the bedrooms, as her brother Max re-grouted tiles in the bathrooms, painted walls bright white and cornflower blue.
They have shopped together online, Nan going over to Sarah’s house to access her computer, marveling at what can be found, stunned that you just point and click, and two days later magnificent things arrive on your doorstep.
They have labeled each bedroom by color. The blue room has, naturally, blue walls, pretty blue and white toile curtain panels, with matching bedspread, valance and pillow, and a jug of fresh hydrangeas on the old washstand. A blue and white checked quilt that Sarah had lying around is thrown haphazardly over the little loveseat in the bay window.
The green room is white, with a green and white vine design on the fabric of the panels and bed. A bowl of viburnum stands on the chest of drawers that had been stained and burned, but Nan had reluctantly agreed to paint it and it is now a muted and pretty antique white.
There is a red room, a white room and a patriotic room—the stars and stripes of the flag echoed in both the bedspreads and a flag that Sarah found, framed, at a tag sale. But the biggest changes are in the rest of the house.
White canvas slipcovers have been thrown over the sofas and armchairs in the living room, blue and white pillows piled on top, giving the room a freshness and a lightness it hasn’t seen in years.
The coffee rings on the tables, the burn marks, have been covered with stacks of books. Beautiful vases Sarah has found are filled with fresh flowers. All the fusty, dusty rugs have been replaced with simple seagrass rugs, cut and bound from offcuts going cheap at a carpet store on the Cape that was going out of business.
The dining table has been sanded down, stained and waxed, and Max re-grouted the subway tile in the kitchen, so all is gleaming and white.
“It will be a bed and breakfast,” Nan announces as she pulls the mask off her face, switching the electric sander off just as she finishes the last corner of the kitchen table.
“Don’t you have to talk to Planning and Zoning about that?” Sarah looks up from where she is sealing the counters, worried.
“Probably, but I won’t. It won’t be official, but how could I possibly have people living in the bedrooms and not give them breakfast at least? I won’t advertise as such, and I know we’ve put coffee machines in each of their bedrooms, but, my dear, I’d feel guilty if I didn’t feed them. And just imagine what fun it will be, all my tenants sitting around the kitchen table. It will be like old times.”
“I don’t know that everyone will necessarily want breakfast,” Sarah says. “You may not even want them sitting around the table. You may not like them.”
“Ha! True!” barks Nan with a grin. “But I’m usually pretty good at sizing people up and I won’t let anyone in that I don’t like.”
“But if we advertise online, you won’t be able to meet them. You’ll just have to take them in good faith.”
“I can tell on the phone,” Nan says. “Did I ever tell you about George?”
“George?” Sarah shakes her head.
Nan sighs and sits down, lighting up a cigarette with a dreamy smile. “George was the first man I fell in love with after Everett died.”
“He was? How come you never mentioned him!” Sarah sits down opposite, wishing she still smoked.
“Sometimes I think it’s easier not to think about the what if’s,” Nan says sadly. “What if I had agreed to move to London with him, leave Windermere? What if I had known he would meet someone else a few months later and marry her?” She sighs.
“But I met him on the phone,” she continues. “He was an old school friend of Everett’s, from Middlesex, and he phoned to pay his respects when he was summering on the island one year. Well, I knew from the minute he said hello that I would fall in love with this man, and do you know, he came up to the house for a drink that night, and I did! I swear, I took one look and fell head over heels in love.”
“And?”
Nan smiles at the memory. “And we spent a blissful summer together. I was in such a fog after Everett died, and didn’t think I would ever find anyone, wasn’t looking to find anyone, and then lovely George came into my life, and even though it wasn’t forever, it made me see that I could be happy again, that Everett’s death wasn’t the end of the world by any stretch. Although by that time I was still struggling to get out of the mess Everett left me in.”
“I don’t understand.” Sarah shakes her head. “If you were happy together why didn’t it last?”
“George was my bridge from grief to living again. I think I knew that it was this perfect bubble that wouldn’t continue, and then he got a job in London. Goodness, it sounded so glamorous, but Michael was so little and I didn’t want to uproot him or disrupt his life any further, and we promised we’d stay in touch.” Nan stubs out her cigarette before continuing.
“I did think he’d come back for me, though,” she says wistfully. “And then I received an invitation to his wedding. Millicent Booth Eden was her name. I sent a lovely crystal decanter, although it may have smashed by the time it crossed the Atlantic, and then we lost touch.”
“Haven’t you ever thought of finding him again?” Sarah says excitedly. “You could probably Google him. You can find anyone. I spend hours Googling people I went to school with, old boyfriends, anyone I can think of.”
“Maybe you could,” Nan says with a smile, snapping back into the present. “George Forbes. From Boston originally, last heard of in London.”
“God, wouldn’t it be lovely if we found him and he was—I don’t know, divorced or widowed or something, and he came back and you fell in love and lived happily ever after.”
Nan smiles widely. “My sweet Sarah, don’t you know that I’m going to live happily ever after anyway?”
Later that afternoon Nan cycles into town, a sheaf of papers tucked into her basket. They have photocopied pictures of the house, pictures of the rooms, the magnificent view from each of the windows.
Rooms to rent for summer in beautiful old Sconset home with water views and direct access to beach. Own bed and bath. Breakfast available on request. Unique opportunity!
She parks her bike on Main Street and pins one of her ads to the board, standing for a while to read about what’s going on in town. Yoga at the children’s beach, she notices, thinking that perhaps she ought to do something to stretch these old bones.
“Nan?” She turns to see Patricia Griffin, another old-timer, rounding the corner and pausing when she spies Nan.
“Hello, Pat.” She smiles. “How are you? How’s Buckley?”
“Oh you know,” Patricia says. “Life goes on as usual. What’s this I hear about you having furniture sales?”
“Just an idea,” Nan says. “Out with the old and in with the new.”
“I heard the developers were circling like vultures.” Patricia laughs.
“They were a bit. Not that I’m selling.”
“Good. It would be a shame to see your house torn down. Did you hear what happened to the Oldinghams?”
“Up at Madaket? No, what happened?”
“Their neighbor persuaded them to sell him their house, offered them a price they couldn’t say no to, apparently, but he vowed he was going to preserve it, he said he wanted an extra house for his children to stay in and he was going to create a compound.”
“And did he?”
“The minute they closed, the bulldozers were in tearing the house down. Three huge mansions are going up now.”
“And what about the Oldinghams?”
“Gone back to the Cape, but isn’t it awful?”
“Well, they won’t be getting their hands on my house if I have anything to do with it.”
Patricia smiles, then catches sight of the board. “What’s this? You’re renting rooms?”
“I am.” Nan stands proud. “It’s too quiet for me these days. I thought what fun to fill the house with people, and I need something to keep me busy.”
“What a good idea,” Patricia says. “Lovely to see you, Nan. We ought to get together. Maybe you’ll finally come and join the gardening club.” And with that she hurries off home to inform her husband that it’s true, Nan Powell is clearly having financial trouble after all.