The Family Beach House (14 page)

Hannah and Susan were at the arts and crafts fair on the grounds of the Ogunquit Playhouse. Going to arts and crafts fairs wasn't Hannah's favorite thing to do, but Susan loved them so Hannah went along. It was funny, she thought, how love broadened your horizons, whether you wanted it to or not.

They recognized a few of the craftspeople from the year before. The guy who made simple but beautiful wooden toys was there, as was the woman who made very delicate, silk-screened scarves. Hannah had bought one for Susan last year, and if Susan wanted another one this year, she would buy her another one. Several people were selling their handcrafted jewelry made of gold, silver, beach glass, and beads; one older woman was selling gorgeous quilts and intricate wreaths constructed of all sorts of pinecones, made by members of her church. A local farm was selling various honeys, homemade soaps, and fragrant sachets to stash among sweaters and lingerie. (What lingerie? Hannah wondered. Does Hanes brand count? Did underwear really have to smell anything other than clean?)

After a half hour of wandering, Susan excused herself to visit the ladies' room in the Playhouse. Hannah waited for her under a big, shady tree out front. Before Susan had been gone a moment, a woman walked by that Hannah thought she recognized.

“Karla?” she said.

The woman turned and smiled. “Hannah!”

They hugged. “Wow, I haven't seen you in years!”

“I know,” Karla said. “I think the last time we ran into each other was just before your mom died.”

“That's why I'm here right now. I mean, staying at Larchmere. We're having a memorial for my mother. It's been ten years since the accident.”

Karla frowned in sympathy. “It must still be tough on you all. You always seemed like such a close family.”

“Mmm.”
Close is relative,
Hannah thought.
Pardon the pun.

“How is your father? And your aunt? What fun she used to be!”

“My dad is great, thanks. And Ruth is Ruth. She never seems to change. She never seems to get any older, either.”

Karla laughed. “I'd love to know how she pulls that off!”

“You're not the only one! Oh, and I'm married now. I'd love you to meet Susan but she's in the ladies' room at the moment.”

“Hannah, that's wonderful!” Karla cried. “I don't hear much about the old gang now that we live in New Hampshire. Congratulations!”

“Thanks,” she said. “So, what are you doing in Ogunquit?”

“Howie and I are up for a week with the kids. We're staying at the SeaStar Motel in Wells. It's pretty basic but who needs anything fancy when you've got the beach?”

“And Billy's Chowder House right there on the marsh.”

“Onion rings! Remember how we used to go there Sunday afternoons after working all Saturday night at the restaurant and gorge on onion rings?”

“Those were fun days. Now I have to take a Tums before I eat onion rings!”

“Oh, gosh,” Karla went on, “remember that time when that guy who used to wait tables at Billy's came to work with us at Two Boats and the first night he was on the floor all of our tips went missing? I was so upset! Remember, he was caught red-handed. I never understood how he could be so stupid!”

And there it was, a memory that Hannah had managed to keep from coming back for some time now, tapping noisily at her brain. She had been a sophomore in high school. An answer key for a final exam had been stolen. Another girl had accused Hannah. Hannah, of course, was innocent and had protested her innocence to her parents. Charlotte had come around to believing her only after much persuading and many tears. They were scheduled to meet with the principal to discuss the situation. The night before the meeting, Charlotte announced that she would not be able to attend. She had “another appointment.” Bill and Hannah had gone alone to the meeting. In the end, Hannah was believed and her name cleared, but her mother's lack of support and then of her abandonment had scarred Hannah.

What kind of mother didn't believe in her own daughter's innocence? What kind of mother didn't fight tooth and nail for her child? Her own mother, that's what kind. And Hannah was her mother's daughter. Well, Tilda was Charlotte's daughter, too, and she seemed to be a kind and attentive parent but that didn't mean…

“Oops,” Karla was saying, “I'd better go! See that little boy over there, the one running in circles? That's my youngest. He's about to fall down any minute. I don't know why he likes to make himself dizzy like that! It was so good seeing you again, Hannah.”

“It was good seeing you, too, Karla.” Hannah mustered a smile and Karla hurried off to where her son was now staggering to the ground.

Hannah watched her old friend lift her son to a standing position and hold his arms until he steadied himself. She watched as Karla smoothed the boy's hair and kissed his cheek. She turned away, moved and disturbed. She was deeply afraid of imitating her own mother's lackadaisical and at times downright dismissive parenting. She was so deeply afraid that she couldn't seem to admit to the fear out loud. If she said it—“I'm afraid I'm going to make the same mistakes my mother made”—it might somehow come true. She knew she was being ridiculous, even superstitious. She couldn't help it.

Susan was striding toward her, her coral-colored crinkly cotton skirt happy in the breeze it created. There was an inquiring smile on her face. “Who was that you were talking to?” she said when she joined Hannah. “I didn't recognize her.”

“Oh, no one. Just Karla Goodhue. We used to wait tables together, back in the old days. I hadn't seen her since before Mom died.”

“Did she say anything to upset you?”

“No,” Hannah said. It wasn't really a lie. “Why? What's wrong?”

Susan looked at her closely. “That's what I'm asking you. You look…down suddenly. Distracted.”

“I'm fine. What? You're looking at me weird!”

Susan sighed. “All right, have it your way. Come on, let's get out of here. I know what will cheer you up.”

“I don't need cheering up.”

“Yeah, you do. Because if you don't snap out of the weird mood that came over you while I was in the ladies' room, I'm going to toss you into the ocean. And you know how much you hate cold water.”

“We're nowhere near the ocean.”

“Hannah.”

“Okay,” she admitted. “So I'm in a bad mood. Memories of my less than saintly, coldhearted mother tend to do that to me. What will cheer me up?”

“A rum punch at Barnacle Billy's.”

“It's only eleven o'clock. I'm too old to be drinking before noon. Not that the idea doesn't have appeal. Not that I don't make exceptions.”

“This is a time for radical measures. I'll buy you some food, too.”

“All right, you convinced me. But if I get tipsy, you're driving us home.”

“Of course.”

They walked, hand in hand, to the parking lot. “Do you know,” Hannah said, “Barnacle Billy's was once an art supply store called the Brush and Needle, back when Ogunquit was an important center for American art?”

“No. I didn't know. How do you know?”

“I read it in a book called
A Century of Color.
It's about all the old art colonies in Ogunquit. There's a copy in the library at home.”

“Oh. Maybe I'll take a look at it.”

They reached their car. Susan went around to the passenger's side. “I guess Ogunquit still is an important center for art,” Hannah said, opening the doors. “At least, in some respects. Michael Palmer still lives and works here. Beverly Hallam lives in York. Just last year the museum mounted a show of her work. Isabel Lewando is still around. All artists. The Barn Gallery is thriving. It's nice to be in a place where history feels so alive.”

Susan smiled. “See? You're in lecture mode. That means you're already in a better mood. Just the thought of a rum punch helped!”

The cocktail party at the Ogunquit Museum of American Art was an invitation-only event. Founded in 1953 by Henry Strater, a painter and philanthropist, the museum's permanent collection now included almost sixteen hundred pieces of art. A long, low building with huge windows overlooking the water, it was designed by architect Charles S. Worley Jr. It was a dramatic building in a dramatic setting. Many believed the museum to be the most beautiful small museum in the United States. The grounds included the Victory Garden out back, and on the front lawn, a reed-rimmed pond and several large wooden sculptures of animals by Bernard Langlais. When they were kids, Jon and Jane liked to climb and clamber all over the sculptures, in spite of Tilda's admonitions not to touch.

Tilda and Dennis arrived about half an hour into the cocktail party. It was inevitable that she would know or at least recognize the majority of the attendees, as year-round locals or as longtime summer residents. She was prepared for questions about her father and her aunt, for mentions of Frank, for questions about her own state of well-being. At least, she hoped that she was prepared.

She wore a blue and white, vertical-striped blazer, navy linen slacks, a white T-shirt, and navy canvas espadrilles. The gold hoop earrings had been a birthday present from Frank. So had the slice of green Maine tourmaline she wore on a slim gold chain around her neck. Of course, she was wearing her wedding ring.

Dennis went off to get Tilda a glass of wine. She warned him, with a smile, that the drinks line would be long. A lot of wine was consumed at these museum events. One evening Frank had counted one old geezer's total as ten glasses in two hours. The man had left the museum on foot and unaided, a real professional.

“Tilda McQueen O'Connell! It's so good to see you!”

Tilda turned to see a peculiarly short man in a blue and white seersucker suit fast approaching.

“Alan Horutz! Hello!”

Alan Horutz was one of Ogunquit's more pleasant characters. His age was indeterminate; Tilda thought he could be anywhere from fifty to seventy years old. The strange thing was, he had always looked exactly the same as he did now. He lived in a little house on Agamenticus Road and owned a successful little shop that sold all sorts of quirky objects, from funky kitchen utensils to contemporary handcrafted jewelry to antique dolls. He had never been married or been known to have a partner. When the weather was right his pet parrot, a monstrously large bird named Hugo, would stroll the town with Alan, perched on his shoulder. Come rain or shine, in winter and summer, Alan Horutz always wore an immaculate blue and white seersucker suit.

“How have you been?” he asked with genuine interest and sympathy. “I haven't seen you since, well, I think it was last summer.”

“I'm doing okay, thanks. It's been a rough couple of years but…”

“Yes, I imagine. You know, just the other day I was thinking about Frank. What a great man. I was remembering the time when I came down with that dreadful summer cold and was flat on my back. Well, there was no way I could run the store, and do you remember Frank filled in for me! He sacrificed an entire week of his vacation for me! How many people would do that sort of thing for another person? I ask you.”

Tilda mustered a smile. “Not many,” she said.

Alan chatted for another moment and then took his leave. Tilda stood there feeling a bit dazed. She knew that Alan Horutz had not intended to make her feel guilty for being at the party with a man other than Frank, but inadvertently, he had. What man could hold a candle to Frank? That was what Alan had implied. No man. So why was she bothering to spend time with Dennis?

Maybe,
she thought,
I shouldn't have come tonight.
There were so many vivid reminders of her life with Frank. She had spotted one of his fishing buddies, a guy named Mark who owned a high-end craft shop in town and who spent the winters in Key West. They had caught each other's eye and waved. Neither had made the effort to cross the room.

There was Frank's favorite painting in the main gallery, a Marsden Hartley work called “Lobster Pots and Buoys,” painted in 1936. There was that sculpture Frank liked, the one of men playing boccie ball on the beach. (He had bought a boccie set after first seeing the piece and had quickly become good at the sport.)

It had been over two years but it was almost as if Frank was still with her—even if he wasn't communicating directly. She knew that this feeling of closeness, of presence, could be a good thing—she had been hiding safely in the emotional proximity of the past—but for the first time she felt a bit stifled by it. For the first time Tilda wondered if life in Ogunquit was a healthy thing for her. What if Larchmere was left to her, and not to Adam or Hannah or, God forbid, Jennifer? Would the weight of the memories suffocate her?

Tilda wondered. When you died, maybe the most important way you lived on was in other people's memories. Memories were your most intimate legacy. But if those memories were compromised in some way, would your continued existence be compromised, too?

What would happen to Frank if she started to forget things about him? Would he, in effect, die again? She desperately wanted to keep him alive…but recently, really, just since coming to Larchmere this summer, she had begun to wonder if she was clinging too closely to his memory and to the memories of their life together. Would such clinging wind up killing her, in a metaphorical if not a physical way? Still, she was afraid that letting Frank go, letting him ease away just a bit, for her own selfish sake, would be cruel, a sort of moral crime or a betrayal.

Her father, clearly, had let go of his wife, enough to be romantically involved with another woman. But Tilda didn't feel she could ask him about his process of healing—and of forgetting. Besides, Bill McQueen wasn't the sort of man to talk much about his feelings. Maybe his reticence was more a generational behavior. Either way, she would probably never know what, exactly, her father had experienced in his ten years as a widower.

She saw Dennis now across the room, neat and trim in his navy blazer and tan pants, a glass of wine in each hand. He had stopped to study a painting from the permanent collection, one that Frank had hated. Tilda couldn't remember the name of the artist or of the painting. She wondered why.

Tilda looked away from Dennis and saw her coming. It was Louise Sherman, a longtime local resident no one much cared for, a rather aggressively gossipy woman who owned several small and very successful family restaurants in Ogunquit and Wells.

There was no escaping her. The crowd was too thick for Tilda to easily slip away. In a moment Louise was up against her. She put her hand heavily on Tilda's forearm and closed her bony fingers around it. She was painfully thin, something her choice of clothing accentuated rather than hid, and was doused in a heavy, cloying perfume. Tilda found Louise Sherman macabre. She fought the urge to shiver in disgust.

“So,” Louise said by way of greeting, “what's going on with your father and that fashionable girl from away?”

“Hello, Louise.”

“I think her name is Genevieve or Jocelyn or—”

“Jennifer,” Tilda corrected. “What do you mean about what's going on?”

“Are they serious? Are they going to get married? I remember when she first came to Ogunquit, years ago. That was with her first husband. They're divorced now—well, of course you know that. She lost the house in the divorce, or maybe they sold it, I don't know. The husband, ex-husband I should say, isn't around anymore. I heard she has some sort of condo in Portland. Or maybe it was Portsmouth. I—”

“Portland,” Tilda said, and wondered why she had bothered to continue this awful conversation.

“Well, I wonder what his plans are for Larchmere. I mean, if he marries her, you and your brothers and sister might very well be out of a summer home. If I were a McQueen I'd be in a state about it all! The thought of losing that big, gorgeous house to a—”

“Excuse me,” Tilda blurted, finally done with this horrible woman. “I must be going.” She wrenched her arm from Louise's death grip and forced her way through the crowd of revelers. In the smaller gallery she now saw Dennis and hurried to his side.

“What's wrong?” he asked immediately, handing her the glass of wine he had fetched. “I'm sorry I abandoned you. The line was long and I got waylaid….”

“Nothing is wrong,” Tilda said. “Just some horrid woman. It was nothing.”

“All right.”

Tilda took a sip of white wine. She was suddenly, painfully aware of the eyes of other guests upon her, questioning, probing. Who was this strange man she was with, this newcomer? Was he her date, a boyfriend, something more? She was not being paranoid. She knew all about life in a small town. She had felt relatively safe and secure in the dimly lit rooms of the Old Village Inn. But here, in this bright and open space, she knew she was a center of attention and it bothered her.

“I'm kind of rattled by this evening,” she said now to Dennis. “That woman…I think I had better just go home. I'm sorry.”

Dennis managed to look disappointed and understanding at the same time. “Of course,” he said.

Tilda put her hand lightly on his arm for a moment. “You came to Ogunquit to enjoy a vacation. I'm sorry. You don't need to be dragged into a stranger's drama.”

“I am enjoying my vacation,” he insisted. “Don't apologize, please. And to be honest, you don't feel like so much of a stranger.”

Actually, Dennis didn't feel like much of a stranger to Tilda, either, but she was not prepared to admit that. Dennis following, they wove their way through the crowd and out into the golden evening sun.