Page 76 of Our Last Vineyard Summer

“That doesn’t make it okay,” she said. Now it was business between them, details that needed clarifying.

He sighed, sitting against the edge of his desk, his pants leg rising and revealing argyle socks. He tracked her walking. “I was lonely back then. You were always with the children, and I was always here working. One night I had too much to drink at the Willard, and I came back here to work on a speech with Melody. The way she used to look at me, it was different from how you did after a day with the children. The kids, they took up all our time, and there really wasn’t any time for you and me.”

“I really don’t think…” She crossed her arms, poised to tell him not to blame the children for his misgivings.

“Just listen to me, Virgie. I swear there’s a lesson here.”

“You and your empty lessons. Why would I believe anything you say?”

His hands gripped the edge of the desk, and she realized then: he was trying to remain steady. “You know that I wanted those girls every bit as much as you did. But you must admit that they changed things between us, and while it’s not a reason for a man’s eye to wander, I just want you to know that I was lonely. From the moment it happened though, I regretted it, and Melody came to me ten weeks later. She was so happy, telling me I didn’t need to have anything to do with the pregnancy, but she would return to Boston and distance herself from you. All I could do was offer her money to get rid of it. I was so scared you’d discover it. That you’d leave me.”

“I’m sure she was thrilled to be a single mother, to raise her child without a father.”

“Melody promised to remain quiet.” He held his face still. “You remember how much she wanted a family, and she knew I couldn’t give her that. That I had a family of my own. After she had the child, she senta photo of her to my office, one of those small squares, and it brought on so much guilt. I decided I would give them the house to live in, and every month I sent a fifty-dollar bill in an envelope.” He took a step toward Virgie then, holding his hand out and cupping the smooth of her cheek. “I am so sorry. But it was one night ten years ago. It wasn’t love. It’s not like what you and I have. We are different. You know that, right?”

She turned into his palm, a momentary comfort in his touch, while knowing nothing he would say would ease the sting of what he’d done. “But Charlie, all you ever said is that you didn’t have enough money for the campaign. We’ve lived so modestly—my uncle’s house is the only thing we have that’s extra. Where did the money for the Nantucket house come from?”

He turned around and got a piece of paper, writing on it. Virgie froze, wondering what it would say, why he was writing at all. Moments later, he handed her a page of scribbles and she read it:I don’t know who’s listening… the house was a gift. It was a gift from a man who needed help, and I helped him, and what’s done is done. Please forgive me.

They locked eyes. It wasn’t enough of an answer, and perhaps it would take many more discussions to get to the truth, but she did know one thing—Charlie’s truths might have started to blur, but hers would not.

“Lucky for you, I do not want a divorce.” She lifted her bag off the chair where she’d been sitting. There wasn’t much longer that she could stand here and pretend to be this in control. Charlie sat down at his desk, his hands folded atop his papers, and listened carefully.

“Next week, my column will begin appearing regularly again in theHerald, and I will no longer edit what I say for your voters. I will be me, and I will tell readers what I think. Not what you think I should think.”

He stubbed out the cigarette. “I was wrong in taking that from you.”

Neither one of them said anything for a moment, the ticking of the clock, the keys of a typewriter. He tried again. “I was wrong in hurting you in all the ways that I did.”

A flame in her heart ignited. She pressed her lips inward, feeling the entirety of her young life in a single breath.

“If you want to have a chance at loving me, you need to remember that you’re not the only one whose voice matters. Your girls matter. They matter more than a United State Senator’s does because they are ours, and I will spend my life teaching them what real power looks like, what good can come of true power, when a woman has the courage to use her voice.”

She whirled out of his office, afraid to hear his response. Virgie listened to the clip-clop of her heels through the wide marble hallways, the flags of Nebraska and Pennsylvania blurring in her sight line, feeling as though she’d won a marathon.

As she left his office, she heard the young woman at the front desk call out to her.

“You’re amazing, Mrs. Whiting. I love your Dear Virgie column. Please keep writing it. You inspire so many of us.”

The elevator doors opened. She descended to the lobby, her pulse nicking her clavicle, a smile overtaking her face. It was time to swim.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONEBetsy

1978

Betsy had completely forgotten. Tonight was their first meeting of the feminist summer book club since they’d been forced to postpone it a day. Her mother had put out pigs in a blanket and cheese puffs on the back patio, a tray of fresh-cut veggies and onion dip. Betsy carried her dog-eared copy ofThe Awakeningoutside under her arm, her hair wet and smelling of Pert, her silver hoops still in her ears from the morning in Nantucket. To mark the occasion of their first meeting, Aggie had brought throw pillows from the couch to the wrought iron chairs, resting them against each chairback so they could be comfy during the discussion.

Her mother dipped a pretzel in onion dip, waving happily at Betsy as she padded outside and sat beside her. Her mother’s blue maxi dress fell to her ankles, the spaghetti straps showing tan lines on her back. She wondered how her father could have cheated on this beautiful woman, how her intelligence, their long history together, hadn’t kept him faithful.

Her mother scooped more dip, finished chewing. “I would like to welcome you…”

“Mom?” The book club had been Betsy’s idea, and she wanted to start the meeting. She knotted her wet hair up with a plastic clip. “Can I begin?”

Her mother waved her on. “Of course. Go ahead, Betsy.”

Betsy pressed her palms on the iron table. “I would like to welcome you to the first meeting of the Feminist Summer Book Club.” She smiled, holding up the small paperback copy ofThe Awakening. “But first, before we get into the book, I have a very big announcement.” She paused once more. “Mom, we don’t have to sell the house.”

Betsy waited for her mother’s applause, the sound of a laugh track with everyone hooting. When it didn’t come, she continued.

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