XVI

The Buccaneer was a converted frigate anchored at the pier, with chairs and tables set about a broad sloping deck and great canvas awnings stretched overhead between the masts. Waitresses in colonial costumes came up the gangplank from a kitchen housed on the pier, and sea gulls hovered at the edge of the deck, flapping their wings and uttering shrill cries. A crust of bread tossed into the air by one of the tourists brought the great birds in a sudden shrieking flock to the spot; others bobbed gently about on the waves below, waiting for scraps of food to be thrown down. A sharp wind blew across the deck, the paper napkins took to the breeze when the plates that weighted them down were lifted, and occasionally a glass of water was blown over or a vase of flowers strewn about one of the tables.

“I’m so busy hanging onto things,” Sarah Howard said, “that I can’t keep my mind on my food. Not that it matters,” she added; “it’s stone cold anyhow.”

“The boys would love this place, though. My children, I mean.”

“Yes, and all the old ladies who trip about Nantucket—and that vast American public to whom anything quaint is the equivalent of romance.”

Ethel Grandin felt rather uncomfortable with the cynical Mrs. Howard; they had little in common, and she wondered how they were going to get through the next hour or two together. She wondered even more when Sarah Howard suddenly opened up a subject which she herself wouldn’t have dreamed of mentioning, had their positions been reversed.

“I hope you won’t mind too much if I speak of something that’s absolutely none of my business. But Bill and I have both noticed it, we like you and your husband, and—well, naturally we’re concerned. I’m talking about the Haumans, of course.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand—”

“Let’s be frank, then. That Billie is an extraordinarily pretty girl. They don’t come any prettier. But just because she’s been a student of your husband’s, and they seem to be carrying it on even here, doesn’t mean anything necessarily.”

“Carrying what on?”

“Look, Mrs. Grandin, Bill and I weren’t born yesterday and neither were you. Your husband is infatuated with her.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Don’t you think so yourself?”

“But the Haumans are just married—they’re on their honeymoon.”

“Do you think that makes her any less attractive to your husband? Men are always titillated to their finger tips in the presence of a young bride. Now I don’t mean for one second that she and your husband are actually having an affair, but they’ve known each other for some time and he’s interested in her, and she knows it. It’s the only reason Bill and I can think of for their moving in on you like this. Cliff seems to realize it too, or else why would he go to such lengths to be so damned broad-­minded about it? He’s positively ostentatious in trying to show that it’s all right with him, just so nobody else will notice. The way he goes on about Johnnie-­and-­I-­this or Johnnie-­and-­I-­that, as though he and your husband were bosom pals, whereas in reality they haven’t the remotest thing in common or even the faintest reason for liking each other. My god, he talks as though you two wives didn’t exist. It’s pretty obvious.”

“That’s just his way, perhaps.”

“Of course if you mind my butting in, I’ll shut up.”

“I don’t mind, really. I only—”

“As I said, we’re concerned because we like you, and I thought it wouldn’t do any harm to air the thing, just between you and me. Bill and I are happily married—completely, I think—but even so, there have been several times in the past few years when his eye has been caught by a pretty girl and I’ve had to pretend I didn’t notice. It’s the only thing to do. They always come back. These momentary flirtations mean nothing. The boys are beginning to feel their age and they don’t like the idea. It helps some if they can sort of make believe they’re having one last romance with a young girl before the long freeze sets in for good.”

“I appreciate your interest, but—maybe you’re imagining all this.”

“Maybe I am. I hope so. But Bill and I have noticed you’re unhappy and we thought it was because of Billie.”

“I— This is difficult to talk about, really. It seems so unfair to John—behind his back . . .”

“To hell with him. Think of yourself first, why don’t you? Then maybe he’ll think a little more of you and less of Billie. Me, I never for a moment let Bill Howard lose track of the fact that I’m the most wonderful woman he ever met. So I’m a complete fraud, you see, but at least it works. Bill does think so—and will to his dying day. . . .”