The wind gets cold in October, even when the air remains humid and warm. New Jersey is close to the sea; it's not as if humidity in October is something unheard of. But stalking over the fields, turning bronze in the autumn sunlight, Abby still thinks that Octobers should be cold and crisp, smelling of wood smoke and dying leaves. Like the first October. Like every October afterwards, only with that splash of Indian summer that reminds her always of the first time with Carol.
As Carol's best friend, Abby is happy about her relationship with Therese. It's all they've ever wanted for each other, after all. And Carol is so happy now, more than she ever was with Harge, and more than she'd ever let herself be before she was married. There was always a hesitancy with Carol when it came to being outwardly happy; Abby remembered tickling her just to hear her laugh. Carol has a deep, strong laugh that comes up from her belly, and it's contagious. Every time Carol laughs - really laughs - Abby can't help but dissolve into giggles, too.
Abby stops to pick up a red maple leaf, bright against the yellowing grass. The fields around here are mostly fallow; they are occasionally rented out to farmers looking to plant a few extra crops for the winter, but they're the products of owners not having enough time nor inclination to make something out of them. And in a way, that was Abby's life, too, until she discovered her love for entomology and the way that sunlight glimmers on a butterfly's wing, or the interesting ways that carpenter ants can decimate an entire piece of wood in no time at all. The way that insects consistently make something of their lives, no matter how long they may be - from the three-day lifespan of a Mayfly, to the years a Monarch butterfly may live. It's more than just sitting around waiting for something to happen.
Abby has learned that in order to live an interesting life, you need to make interesting things happen.
Abby figures that her parents never expected her to get married. She has a brother; it was enough for him to find a pretty wife and settle down in a mansion not far from their family home. They have a few children; spoiled brats Abby chooses not to spend time with besides sending expensive gifts at Christmas and enduring the annual summer family picnic. That seemed to satisfy her parents, which means that the pressure was off. Abby went to university. She got a degree, and then a Masters, and then the war happened and all the promising young men flew off to their deaths while Abby worked on her thesis. And there was Carol, too. There was always Carol.
Abby's first memory of Carol is playing House with her when they were four and six. Abby, older and wiser, had insisted on being the Mother, which suited quiet, blonde, pretty Dresden-doll Carol perfectly. Abby, pleased, had instructed Carol to play the baby of the family. And she did, up to and including sitting so long in the corner as a punishment for a contrived infraction devised by Abby, that Carol wet her pants and had fled to Abby's back garden in horror and shame. But Abby had found her, the tear-stained, dirty-faced little blonde girl, and had given her a gruff bear hug.
"Of course I won't tell anyone, silly," said Abby.
And Carol had sniffled, and reached out to give Abby a tight hug.
They'd lost track of each other through school and different friend circles. Carol would occasionally see Abby at a children's party or a gathering hosted by one of the families in the area, but their parents didn't remain friendly and they didn't get many chances to play together anymore. Abby had admired the way that Carol always looked so put-together, even at age eight; her blonde hair perfectly curled into fat sausage-like ringlets, her clothing impeccable. Abby's own clothes were always slightly rumpled and dirty, much to her mother's chagrin, and she'd cheerfully taken a pair of scissors and cut off both of her long, glossy braids the year before, causing her nurse to just about have a heart attack. Consequently, Abby's hair softened into a pageboy that suited her much better.
But time went by, and the next time Abby saw Carol was on a vacation home from Wellesley. Carol had attended a finishing school in Connecticut and was also home on a short autumn break. And she had changed - bloomed, really. Abby had been struck speechless.
Carol, always willowy and tall for her age, now stood at least five feet nine inches in height. Her thick blonde hair was elegantly curled; her suit was expensive and carefully tailored. She wore just the right amount of makeup and gave off a delicious scent of perfume. And she smiled at Abby, outwardly confident. But behind the smile was a shyness and a vulnerability that Abby felt herself drawn to, just as she had when she was six years old and had been made to play with four-year-old Carol, someone she would have usually written off as a "baby".
They had met in the market square in the tiny town of Ridgewood and agreed to get a drink together. Abby had been impressed at the way that Carol let her take the lead - Abby, in her tweed suits and soft brown hair messily pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck, was much less feminine than Carol, it was true, but she wasn't used to taking the role of "gentleman", no matter how many girls she had illicitly kissed at her all-women's college. But Carol had easily settled back and let Abby order wine and then food for both of them. And slowly and surely, Carol's cool and put-together exterior had crumbled with the influence of the wine, and then ryes, as Abby teased out details of Carol's life and made her laugh that deep belly-laugh.
"I'm going to marry Hargess Aird," Carol had blurted after two glasses of wine and a glass of rye on the rocks, and then she'd clapped a hand over her mouth, giggling. Hargess Aird, of whom Abby knew only slightly, ten years older than Carol and from what Abby remembered, dull as a pan of dishwater, marrying the vibrant woman across from her? It seemed unthinkable.
And it seemed so to Carol, too, because she suddenly burst into tears.
"Oh, shh, no, no . . ." Abby awkwardly patted Carol's shoulder, and was amazed when Carol leant against her, cuddling into Abby's shoulder. She seemed uncaring that they were in public, even though it was a dark corner of the only decent restaurant in Ridgewood and no one could have really seen her. And Abby found herself drawing Carol to her, holding her closely, securely, and murmuring all sorts of silly things that her nurse had probably said to her when Abby used to wake up with nightmares when she was small.
But it worked. Carol stopped crying. And then she looked up at Abby and whispered, "Take me home. Please?"
They'd somehow gotten back to Carol's parents' house, but Carol had fumbled with her key in the back door so badly that Abby had simply taken over and unlocked it for her. And then she'd ushered Carol upstairs, making sure she didn't stumble against the banisters or trip over the risers on the stairs. Carol simply clung to her, and then when they reached Carol's bedroom and Abby had softly closed the door, Carol turned to Abby and kissed her.
It tasted like salt, and tears, and the sweet stickiness of rye, and then Carol had started to cry again.
"Oh, sweetie. You're having such a hard time, aren't you?" Abby, unused to being soft like this, found it came to her naturally. "Shh, shh. Let's get you ready for bed."
"I'm so tired," murmured Carol through her tears, and raised her arms to Abby so that she could take Carol's blouse and bra off. And it would have been so easy to put kisses on that creamy, soft skin; to unhook the bra and rub the red marks that marred Carol's skin away. But Abby didn't do any of those things. She helped Carol to undress and then she tugged Carol's silky nightgown down over her body. But Carol started to fumble with her panties, and that's when Abby realized that they were damp - well, more than damp. They were wet.
"Oh, we should have taken you to the ladies room before we left," Abby murmured, and Carol started to cry again. Abby drew Carol close to her and put a rare kiss on her soft hair. "Shh. It's not the end of the world."
"It is. Everything is," said Carol.
"That's life, though," said Abby, and she smiled, her smile lighting something in Carol. Carol tentatively smiled back.
And they found another pair of dry panties for Carol, and Abby sent her to the bathroom and then put her to bed. And Carol looked like an angel, lying against the pillows, her hands tucked sweetly under her chin. But before Abby could slip away, she reached out for her.
"Stay," Carol said.
Abby stayed, that night and many nights more, after their soon-to-be-weekly Friday night drinking sessions at the restaurant in Ridgewood. And she always slipped out before morning, making sure to never forget to press a kiss on Carol's cool forehead or cheek; never forgetting to whisper to her. "Sleep tight, darling."
Carol got engaged to Harge, despite her admitted apathy towards him. Well, they all knew the drill; it wasn't as if Abby wouldn't have been put in the same position had her brother not married someone of their class. They had to keep the money in the family, and add to the wealth. It was the entire reason one had children when one was rich. But Carol insisted on a long engagement, which puzzled both Harge's family and her own. She would twist the diamond ring on her finger, looking uncomfortable, and then deliberately take it off and slip it into her handbag when she thought she could get away with it.
Abby was amused. "You nitwit. Someone's going to see you, and then where will you be?"
Carol had tossed her hair. "I don't care. Abby, I don't care, and I don't want to talk about it when I'm with you." She'd taken a long swallow of her drink, then. "I just want to pretend I don't have a care in the world."
"Ah, sunshine. Don't we all wish that," Abby had replied dryly, but she'd slipped her arm around Carol and given her a squeeze. "When we're together, we don't have any cares in the world."
And that night, they'd gone to Abby's deserted house. And that night, Abby had kissed Carol longer, and deeper, and more passionately than she ever thought possible. They had lain, locked together, and Abby had taught Carol what she'd really learned at Wellesley five years before.
While their relationship remained sexual until the very day Carol married Harge, it had stayed emotional for at least a year afterward. Because Carol stopped eating. And Carol stopped willing to take care of herself without a lot of prompting. Carol was desperately unhappy, and she started to fade away.
Abby found herself over at the stone-sided mansion, bought with Harge's trust fund money, more nights out of the week than she was home. Harge was nearly always away, staying in the city, working his way up the corporate ladder, and Carol was alone, chewing on an olive stick and sipping her fifth martini of the night. Often by the time Abby arrived, Carol was unable to even remember what she'd done that day. All she wanted was for Abby to hold her and to take care of her.
And Abby would change Carol's wet panties, because she could never hold her bladder when she was that drunk. And she'd wrap her warmly in her nightgown, and pin a terrycloth towel onto her for any other accidents that might happen through the night (and they did happen . . . Abby had started using the towel once she'd noticed how much mess Carol could create). She'd fill a glass with water, but later on, they'd switched to a baby bottle because Carol sometimes couldn't hold the glass in the mornings and needed the fluids.
If the servants wondered what was going on, they never said. And Abby would sometimes come over when Carol was stone-cold sober, because Carol started to depend on Abby for the cuddling and the care and the safety. She'd beg Abby to sing to her.
And Abby, never a good singer, would find an old lullaby back in her mind to hum to Carol in her cracked contralto, and hold her close.
"Shh, baby doll. Shh, my little one. You're safe. I've got you."
The drunken nights stopped when Harge started coming home more. He was pleasant enough, and never minded Abby's presence, but when Carol started refusing glasses of wine at dinner and cut meals short when Abby was there, he started to look suspicious. The sessions both women depended so much on moved clandestinely to Abby's house instead; her parents spend most of their time in the Hamptons now, and Abby essentially ran the house on her own.
Carol would stay overnight, at first, but after Harge complained, she started coming home in the early hours of the morning, and then just after midnight.
And then Carol got pregnant.
It was a bit of a shock. Abby was so used to Carol needing her so desperately; she couldn't imagine Carol as a mother. But as Carol quietly drew away, pushing Abby inexorably into "friend" category only, Abby realized that this was the right way for things to go. Because when Rindy was born, Abby found herself needed more than ever.
Neither of them knew how to take care of a baby, and besides, Rindy had a nurse for that. But they would spend hours together, the baby lying between them, kicking her little legs happily, and it was almost the same. Carol would place the sleeping baby in her basket, and then she'd turn to Abby, cuddling into her, sucking on the nipple from her old baby bottle, sighing deeply as Abby rubbed her back and whispered in her ear. Carol was still so little, even as a mother.
But things change. And Abby felt them slip away in the early days of the autumn when Rindy was about to turn a year old in the early part of the coming new year. Carol stopped calling as much. She would be a little more formal with Abby, much as she was to the many acquaintances she'd collected over the past three years with Harge. And her marriage kept crumbling around her, crumbling to the point of ruin.
Abby was patient. She knew the cycles of things. And Carol always came back; this time, she came back with a vow to divorce Harge once and for all.
They spent hours in the oriel window at the top of Abby's stairs. The window seat was soft; they both just fit, legs tangled around each other, Carol's head on Abby's shoulder. The humid air blew in through the window, scented with salt and smoke. And Carol would cry, and laugh, and vow that one day, it would be her and Abby, sitting in a window far away from Ridgewood, New Jersey.
Therese happened, and the divorce happened, and Carol became a caregiver to a little one of her own. The dreams never came to fruition; Abby thinks of them now, like smoke on the wind from some autumn bonfire in the distance.
Abby turns towards home, her fieldwork shot for the day. But she's always known that she can never concentrate on work when it comes to Carol. She could never focus on anything but Carol herself - her sparkle, her magnetism, and her unending need for Abby to take care of her.
And yet, despite making your own happiness - Abby knows they could have been something extraordinary, if only the wind had blown a little differently.
She arrives back at the house, letting herself in through the back door. And Mary is there, dusting the credenza in the back sitting room. "No messages, Miss Abby," she says, and Abby thanks her. She's going to take a bath, anyway.
Wearily, her bones hurting a bit from the dampness outside, Abby is about to go up the front staircase when a movement outside catches her eye. It's a familiar champagne Packard in the driveway; Abby knows the car well, having driven it miles back from a winter road trip taken almost a year ago.
And exiting the car, her hair just a little more out of place than usual, is Carol, her stance impatient, nervous. She squints into the afternoon light, looking up at the front window, her eyes searching. And then she waves, and comes walking purposefully towards the door.
Abby opens it and smiles.
"Did you miss me?" asks Carol.
It's so different now. The years slip by, like pearls on a necklace, and yet the cycles continue - they circle, as regular as the seasons; as colourful as the leaves around Carol's feet. Abby looks at Carol, at the new wrinkles around her eyes, at the bronze leaf brooch Therese bought her at some art sale in the Village, at Carol's style, influenced by Therese's much more relaxed sense of fashion, and she knows it will never be the same. But still. And still.
"No. I knew you'd come sometime," replies Abby. And she takes Carol into her arms, feeling Carol melt against her; knowing Carol has kept it together until this very moment, where she is safe.
"Oh, shh. You know I'm always here."
"I just needed you," murmurs Carol, and Abby kisses her hair.
"I know. Come here, my darling."