Family Reunion by Nancy Thayer (ereader android .TXT) 📗

York fashion world emphasized hippie clothes and glamour dresses made of synthetic materials that Eleanor disliked. Her parents were appalled when Eleanor told them she wanted to be a seamstress of some kind, and really, Eleanor didn’t quite know what she meant. Her mother had a seamstress named Minnie who came to the house to alter her clothes to fit her perfectly.

That August in Nantucket, Marsha Richard had called to ask Eleanor to make up the fourth for a game of doubles tennis. Her tennis partner was Rocky Colby, a regular summer visitor and Marsha’s beau. Rocky’s friend, Eleanor’s partner, was Mortimer Sunderland, a tall, slender, dark-haired man. He was extremely handsome, and Eleanor expected him to flirt with her, but Mortimer concentrated on tennis as if it were a game of chess, taking his time to consider the arc of the ball before reaching out to slam it back just over the net. He was older than Eleanor, and quiet, cautious, giving little away. After the game, the four sat on the patio drinking Anchorages, half iced tea and half lemonade, and while Eleanor couldn’t keep her eyes off him, she assumed he didn’t like her because he spoke so little.

To her surprise, later that day Mortimer phoned to ask her to dinner. Now, here in the attic, she could still recall how her heart had thumped at the sound of his voice. She drove herself crazy trying to decide whether to wear a dress with a plunging neckline—sexy—or a more conservative dress—elegant. Should she wear her hair down—sexy—or up—elegant? Mortimer seemed to be a closed door, and she was determined to open that door. At least a little.

At the same time, Eleanor was deeply disappointed in herself. How could she be so physically attracted to this man who was absolutely and exactly who her parents would have chosen? She wanted to be a rebel, or at least rebellious. She wanted to fall in love with the wrong person, someone dangerous, maybe with a motorcycle. And here she was, trembling with excitement to see a man as conservative and sophisticated as her father.

The evening turned out to be almost dull. They ate at the yacht club, where so many of their parents’ friends stopped at their table to say hello that their conversation was superficial, almost forced. Mortimer looked dashing in a white shirt with yacht club cuff links and a navy blazer, and he seemed as drawn to Eleanor as she was to him. It didn’t make sense. She’d heard about Mortimer. He was a catch. She was certain this would be their only date.

At one point, Mortimer leaned across the table and touched her cheek lightly. She was so surprised and pleased she couldn’t remember what she’d just said that made him react affectionately. She gazed into his eyes, completely smitten. Then he said, “Sauce. It’s gone now.” She put her hand to her cheek, blushing with embarrassment.

But he must have liked her. When he drove her home, he asked her for a date the next night. He waited until the third date before he kissed her—back then it was some kind of unwritten law.

During that summer, Mortimer snowed her—that was what her friends called it in her day. He asked her out almost every night, he sent her flowers, he brought her home to dinner with his parents. Eleanor discovered that Mortimer had been brought up to believe that the guiding principle in life was duty. He was a very serious man, but in those early years, he was also a very sexy man, knowing how to focus and pay attention. Mortimer was an accountant in an established insurance company, a man good with statistics and percentages, so Eleanor knew that he wasn’t fooling around when he told her he liked her a lot, and after dating three months told her he loved her, and after dating six months, he asked her to marry him. She said yes.

They had had the extravagant wedding both their parents wanted. She was a virgin and Mortimer was patient, gentle, and sometimes funny in bed, so that as she turned their small rented Boston apartment into a home, she discovered she was eager for the evening and the night. She had fallen in love with the man she married.

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Mortimer continued working as an insurance investment manager. They bought a large house in the right neighborhood, using loans from their parents for the down payment. Eleanor gave Mortimer a daughter and, seven years later, a son, and sadly, as the years went by, the passion of the early months of marriage flickered and died. Eleanor was overwhelmed with her babies. She had help from her nanny, but she had responsibilities to help her husband, too—dinner parties, cocktail parties, joining the proper clubs. Mortimer worked even more assiduously at the insurance company, and he left for work each morning with an eagerness he didn’t have when he was alone with Eleanor.

Still, Mortimer had been a diligent father, blocking out time to be with his family as if referring to an invisible chart. Every June he took them on a vacation for two weeks. To London. Paris. Florence. Alaska. Brazil. He arranged special tours and went along with Eleanor and their two children, his presence serious and watchful, making it obvious that he wanted his children to learn more about the civilized world and not giggle with each other about penises on statues. When the family returned home, Mortimer went back to work in Boston, and Eleanor brought their children to the island, where they were wild with joy at being liberated. They rode bikes, raced around with friends, bought candy, swam and swam and swam beneath the hot summer sun. They stayed up too late, they went days without eating broccoli or Brussels sprouts, they camped out in a tent in the backyard, they played outdoors after nine o’clock when the sky was dark and they could run free.

As the children