The gathering ended with the usual farewell hugs and “Thanks for having us!” comments. My mother-in-law carefully shepherded her 20-month-old grandson Stephen down the stairs from the deck to the lawn, then let him scoot back to our cottage next door ahead of her on the woodland path. I followed, carrying his toys.
A cocktail party
We’d all been invited over for pre-dinner drinks to my cousin Michael’s large white house on Lake Memphremagog in Vermont. My parents-in-law were with us for a weekend in July 1972. A highlight of their annual stay was sitting on Michael’s wide gallery facing the best view of the lake, Owl’s Head Mountain, and being generously plied with alcohol and snacks. He had a houseguest, too – one Harry Hopkins from England – which spiced up the social dynamic with fresh conversation.
Being a stay-at-home mum, it was a treat to meet new people in social settings. Like me, Harry was in his late twenties. A long-time friend of my cousin’s, he was single and rakishly handsome with floppy dark hair, a ready grin, and a delightful upper-crust accent. When I asked about his work, he replied that he was an accountant at Courage Brewery in London, on a business trip to Montreal.
As happens at cocktail parties, the conversation grew louder and funnier as time went on and I found Harry both charming and a little shy – rarely making eye-contact with me. As usual, I was preoccupied with making sure Stephen, the only child at the party, didn’t break or spill anything.
The surface of the lake was like glass and the red sun was preparing to set with its usual splendour, when I announced, “I think we should be on our way, folks” to trigger our departure. Michael and Harry planned to barbecue T-bone steaks, which I’d seen waiting on a platter in the kitchen.
Once back home, I settled Stephen in his crib, then put the finishing touches on our dinner of lasagna, salad, and garlic bread. When designating places at the table, my husband Jack gave his parents the best view of the sunset. Then he lit the candles and poured a good chianti out of its raffia-wrapped bottle. My own parents didn’t touch alcohol, so I quite enjoyed the more relaxed, jolly atmosphere when the Butlers stayed with us.
Dinner, dishes, coffee, more chatting, then we all turned in. The 50-year-old cottage had four bedrooms upstairs, with Jack and me using one near the shoreline. Silence descended in short order.
Summoned by a sound
A mother learns to sleep with one ear open, listening for her baby’s cries, coughs, bad dreams, and calls for Mummy. (Many dads can sleep through anything.) So, on that July night at 1:22 am, I became aware of a loud tap and raised my head from the pillow to discern its source. A minute later, it happened again. That’s a pinecone being thrown at our window! I realized.
Pulling the window blind aside to peer outside, I found the full moon’s illumination almost as bright as daylight. Standing on the pine needles below was a shirtless man, waving silently at me. It was Harry!
Grabbing a cotton robe to cover my short nightie, I hurried down the long staircase and went outside to speak to him.
“What are you doing here?” I whispered loudly – not wanting to wake anybody else. He was completely naked! Before he answered, I slipped back into the kitchen to the hook where I kept smocks and aprons. Choosing a coat-like smock that my deceased aunt had worn to do housework, I took it outside for Harry. Wouldn’t Aunt Eleanor be appalled to know who’s wearing this? I mused. At least it will cover him up.
“I couldn’t sleep for thinking about you,” he said quietly. “You are one of the loveliest girls I’ve ever met, and I need to know you better.” Slurring his words a bit, he was clearly drunk. Host Michael was a regular whiskey-nightcap kind of guy, and I pictured the pair downing several before turning in.
If I’d found Harry repulsive or annoying, I would have sternly told him to “turn around right now” and walk the 200 yards back to his bed. But I found him most attractive. I’d been in a relationship with Jack for eight years (dating, then marriage) and was flattered to be approached by this new acquaintance. The risk of his visit being discovered – he might have targeted the wrong window – made it even more titillating.
“Well, before we talk you need to put this on,” I said thrusting the smock his way. “Let’s go down to the water.” He slipped it on but couldn’t do up the upper buttons. A garment that once fit my diminutive five-foot-two aunt was inadequate for a broad-shouldered man six feet tall. Thankfully, the buttons below his waist worked.
Breaking the rules
We strolled towards the shoreline. Our barefoot navigation of the outcroppings of granite among the pine needles was made easier by the dazzling moonlight. No need for a flashlight. Gentle waves slapped against the rocks and breeze ruffled his dark hair. Feeling like an actor in a romantic movie, I tried to dismiss all the married-lady rules I was breaking. He’s heading back to Montreal tomorrow and England on Tuesday, I reckoned. This is the only time we will ever be alone like this so just enjoy!
We stood facing each other, holding both hands, with his back to the lake. Over his shoulder I watched the silver path of the moon sparkle against the black water. Harry behaved like a perfect gentleman, never forcing himself on me in any way. He murmured compliments like, “I wish you weren’t married. I believe we could fall in love you know.” My responses were both fond and non-committal. We kissed and embraced a few times, but there was no sexual touching. How sensational it felt to kiss somebody who wasn’t my familiar Jack while wearing a short nightie!
After about 10 minutes, I said, “Harry, you should really go back to Michael’s now. It was lovely that you came over to see me” and turned to stroll back up to the kitchen door. One final kiss and we parted. After locking the door, I hung up the smock, and gently climbed the stairs to our bedroom.
Slipping back into our darkened room, I was surprised to find Jack was awake and had pulled up the window blind facing the shoreline. Moonlight streamed in.
“What were you doing?” he asked, standing there. His tone wasn’t accusatory – just curious, I think. He was barely awake.
“Oh, that was Harry. He came over to talk to me and he’s really pretty drunk. We just chatted for a while.”
“Fine. Though from here you seemed to be standing awfully close to him.”
I didn’t say anything. I just climbed into bed and tried to get back to sleep. It took some time.