Chapter 19 Cynthia
Cynthia
Early June
Even though the day was waning, the summer sun warmed the paddle in Cynthia’s hand, bronzing her skin and leaving her feeling drowsy and languid.
The slightly musty smell of the lake water rose to her nostrils as waves created by passing speedboats slapped against the side of the canoe.
With a few long strokes, she pulled up to the Mayhews’ dock.
She tethered the small craft to a metal cleat mounted to the end of the dock and exited the boat with little enthusiasm.
She had spent the better part of the day making the rounds at lakefront campgrounds and hotels looking for work.
Everyone she’d encountered was pleasant enough—kind, even—but not a one of them had a job available.
In fact, a few of them looked at her as if she were a bit touched in the head when she asked about possible employment.
If she didn’t find something soon, she would have little choice but to head home and ask her parents to allow her to look for work there.
She had even hinted to Mr. Mayhew that she would be interested in a position at the seasonal newspaper where he worked as the editor every summer.
He had lit up at the suggestion and had spent the better part of an hour telling her all about the paper before mentioning that there were no openings.
The newspaper was a small one, and the only other positions were highly valued by the local residents who had held them for years.
He told her that they depended on the income from their summer jobs and that he could not see depriving them of it for a college girl like herself.
She stood on the splintery dock, lost in thought and lulled by the sound of small waves slapping against its side.
A voice called to her from the lake, and she turned to look for the source of the sound.
She lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the glare of the lowering sun.
Mr. Mayhew pulled a paddle through the water, deftly propelling another canoe across the lake, swiftly closing the gap between them.
He lifted the paddle a few feet from the dock and allowed the momentum to gently push the boat up against the dock before tying it off and disembarking.
She had not realized it had grown so late.
He used the canoe to make the daily trip to the newspaper office, usually returning in time for the cocktail party his wife was sure to either be throwing or expecting him to accompany her to at one of the many neighbors’ equally lavish homes.
Cynthia would be expected to have already changed into evening clothes.
In the three weeks she had been in Mount Vernon, something of a routine had emerged.
For the most part, she spent some of each fine day at the beach with Pauline.
Searching for a job had taken up much of her time, as well, sadly to little result.
Each evening, Mrs. Mayhew expected them back home to socialize with the people she deemed worthy.
Parties at the Mayhew home, or at that of one of their neighbors’, had been held each day since she and Pauline had arrived.
Bridge, whist, cocktails, and even dancing were par for the course.
Pauline seemed to look forward to all of it, but Cynthia had had her fill.
Still, she could hardly refuse her hostess.
“You have some mail,” he said as he pulled a large envelope from the breast pocket of the sports jacket draped over his arm.
Cynthia recognized her mother’s rounded hand on the front of the oversize envelope. She accepted it from his extended hand.
“It’s from home,” Cynthia said.
“I hope it isn’t a message insisting that you return. Pauline has been so much easier to have around with you here to keep her company. And I must say, the rest of the family has enjoyed your visit too,” he said.
Cynthia felt her cheeks begin to burn. She had never quite learned the art of gracefully accepting a compliment. Besides, she couldn’t credit that his wife was pleased to host her. To hide her discomfort, she hurried up the path ahead of him.
“I’ve enjoyed myself too,” she said. “It has been so kind of you to have me.”
“Think nothing of it,” he said. “The pleasure is all ours.”
Mrs. Mayhew appeared in the doorway of the screen porch, a martini glass held aloft in her slim hand.
Sunlight glinted off a delicate gold bracelet dangling from her wrist. From the set of her jaw, Cynthia could tell she was not best pleased with her husband.
Cynthia stole a glance at her wristwatch and noticed he had arrived at least half an hour later than he had in the time she had been in Mount Vernon.
She lifted a hand in greeting to Mrs. Mayhew, waggling her envelope at her hostess.
“I’ve had a letter from home. I hope you will excuse me from the festivities for long enough to read it,” she said.
Not that there was any real question. While she was welcome to join the older generation for cocktails, such gatherings were not sit-down affairs and she would not be missed by anyone, likely not even by Pauline, who used the alcohol-fueled gatherings as an opportunity to make an impression on potential in-laws.
Besides, she had a sneaking suspicion that Mrs. Mayhew inexplicably regarded her as competition for Pauline.
“Take your time.” With that, she turned her gaze on her husband and held the door open to allow him to enter the house. Cynthia noticed she turned her face away just as Mr. Mayhew attempted to kiss her cheek.
Up ahead, strung between two lofty pines, was a hammock that was perfect for reading. She had polished off several books while stretched out on it since she had arrived and thought it would serve just as good a place to read her mother’s letter.
She climbed into the hammock with as much grace as she could manage, then kicked off her shoes and lay back, her head nestled against a folded-up blanket left by the last occupant. She carefully tore open the envelope and slid out the contents.
Her mother had saved up and forwarded all of her mail.
Cynthia sorted through it, noting letters from high school friends, an invitation for an open house at a new beauty parlor in her hometown, and even a newsy note from her mother conveying the activities of her bridge club friends and fellow churchgoers.
At the bottom of the pile was the latest issue of the American Economic Review.
Her heart thumped wildly as she thumbed through the magazine until she reached the article Professor Avery had assured her was to be included.
She read the title, one she had agonized over creating, and felt her spirits sink.
There, in bold black type, was Professor Avery’s name on the byline. Hers was nowhere to be seen.
A wave of cold washed over her despite the warmth of the night.
She had consoled herself that a publishing credit in such a prestigious journal might still make it possible to start a career as a stockbroker or even a columnist with a financial publication.
She had been counting on the article to convince someone to give her a chance at a job in her field even if she couldn’t get back to school.
Now even that was impossible. Angry tears welled up, and she brushed them away with the back of her hand.
Lights were blinking on inside the house and in the homes dotted around the lake.
She swung her feet over the side of the hammock and slipped her shoes back on.
She wasn’t sure how she could manage it, but more than ever she was determined to get back to Barlow and show them what a clever girl like her could do.
Laughter from the cocktail party spilled through the open windows and out into the yard.
She slipped in through the back door, hoping she might reach the rear stairs without encountering any of the Mayhews’ many boisterous guests.
She was in no mood to make small talk with strangers.
Not that she ever looked forward to parties all that much, but she doubted she would be able to do a good job of masking her true feelings with such news weighing heavily on her mind.
The kitchen was brightly lit but empty as she moved quietly past a long counter covered in platters filled with canapés and meatballs skewered onto frilled party picks.
She gasped as her elbow jostled a large plate placed close to the counter’s edge and set the towering molded gelatin salad it held quivering.
“I wondered where you had gotten off to—but I confess, I had hoped you were involved in more mischief than endangering the Jell-O,” Pauline said as she stepped out from the darkened breakfast nook, waving a hand in front of her face.
Cynthia smelled cigarette smoke. Despite her own habit, or perhaps because of it, Mrs. Mayhew discouraged her daughter from smoking and made a fuss about it whenever she caught her with a cigarette.
“Sorry, I just wasn’t up for a party,” Cynthia said. She felt her nose begin to sting and willed herself not to burst into tears.
Pauline cocked her head to the side and scrutinized her face. “What’s happened?”
Cynthia considered keeping her bad news to herself. How could someone in Pauline’s situation understand her own? But as her friend stepped forward and reached for her hand, she felt her resolve melt away.
“I’ve had a mail packet from my mother,” she said. “It had some bad news in it.”
“No one is ill, are they?” Pauline asked.
“No. It was nothing like that.”
“Well, what else could leave you looking so glum? She hasn’t asked that you return home early, has she?”
“It wasn’t anything my mother said. My magazine came, and it seems that Professor Avery took all the credit for the article I wrote myself.”
Pauline’s eyes widened. “What a crook.”
“I had been hoping that even if I couldn’t fund the rest of my education, I might be able to get a job in my field anyway if I had a prestigious publishing credit on my résumé.”