Fortune's rocks_ a novel - Anita Shreve [185]
But they have not had their own child. And they have been told they may not ever. Not long ago, in Boston, a specialist suggested to them that Olympia’s infertility was probably a result of her having had to give birth at such a tender age.
She turns the corner and finds Philbrick in the study, once her father’s, now her own. Still robust at sixty, Philbrick is dressed in a dark maroon jacket with plaid trousers. Ever the dandy, she thinks, eyeing as well the empty sandwich plate on the side table.
“Olympia,” he says, standing.
“Mr. Philbrick. Please sit.”
The room is considerably more feminine than it was when it was her father’s. Books still line one wall, but on the other, Olympia has put her pictures — the paintings and drawings by local artists she began collecting half a dozen years ago: a Childe Hassam, a Claude Legny, an Appleton Brown, an Ellen Robbins. A red and white silk settee has replaced her father’s old captain’s chair, but she still has his desk. And she has never replaced the objets — the malachite paperweight, the bejeweled cross, and the shells — that remind her of the days when her father would sit in his chair, reading one of the hundreds of books that were warping in the damp.
“It has been too long,” she says, sitting.
“You have an extraordinary household,” he says.
“It is the people within it who make it so,” she says.
“I have long wanted to see it. Of course, I have heard much about it. How many do you have here?”
“We have twenty-three girls. Eight of them have not yet given birth. The others will stay on as long as they need to. We have had several girls three years now.”
“A marvelous enterprise.”
“Our neighbors do not think so.”
He smiles. “No, perhaps not. But more and more are understanding the need for settlement houses such as yours. I always said you would have a remarkable future, Olympia.”
“And I hope that future shall include me,” says Haskell, crossing the small room to greet Philbrick.
“John,” says Philbrick, standing once again. “I have heard nothing but good things about your clinic.”
“Thank you, Philbrick. Please sit. It has been a rewarding venture. And we have been fortunate in our funding.”
“So I understand. It is always difficult to maintain a private hospital. But your endowment is substantial now?”
“Yes, it is, and I am able to hire two new physicians this year. Indeed, I am afraid I must leave you now to go to interview a young man from New York about one of the positions. I shall be back for dinner, though, and I hope you will stay and dine with us?”
“Thank you,” Philbrick says. “I should like that very much.”
Haskell bends toward Olympia and kisses her. “Unfortunately, Rufus, with this household and my clinic, Olympia and I must often make appointments simply to see each other,” Haskell says.
Philbrick considers the couple. “It does not appear to have bruised the marriage any,” he says amiably.
“Nothing shall ever do that,” says Haskell. Olympia glances quickly up at her husband, who smiles genially at Philbrick, and perhaps only she can see the thing that has gone out of him and can never be replaced, no matter how much pride he has in his work, no matter how much love he has for his wife. For he has had to forfeit his children — once, as a result of having chosen love; twice, as he watched Olympia walk away from the boy; and now, a third time, in marrying a woman who most likely will not have another. Olympia thinks often about desire — desire that stops the breath, that causes a preoccupied pause in the midst of uttering a sentence — and how it may upend a life and threaten to dissolve the soul.
• • •
“Tell me, how are your father and mother?” Philbrick asks when Haskell has gone.
“My father visits often,” Olympia says. “Indeed, it is he who supports us. My mother is well and will come for the summer.”
“I hope I shall see them.”
“Then you shall. They are taking a cottage farther down the beach.”
“Olympia, I