The Family Beach House (16 page)

Monday, July 23

The beach seemed more than usually crowded that morning. Families were already beginning to settle in for the day. A group of about ten gay men had set up blankets and chairs and lounges in a large semicircle facing the water and had erected a flag that read “Happy Birthday, Eric!” Tilda spotted Tessa Vickes on her own morning constitutional and waved but Tessa didn't see her. Wade Wilder was there, too, chatting with someone Tilda didn't recognize, maybe a summer visitor. Wade would chat with anyone who cared to chat back.

Tilda walked at the water's edge—the tide was coming in—enjoying its coolness. Jon and Jane would be joining the rest of the family soon at Larchmere. She was looking forward to their arrival, but one little thing was nagging at her. Just before she had left South Portland the other day, both of them, separately, very casually, had mentioned the possibility of her dating. Too casually, Tilda thought. She wondered if they were cooking up some scheme to force her into the dating world. Would they secretly sign her up on a dating Web site? Or, horror of horrors, bring home someone they had scouted out on their own?

She wondered if her children would have been so eager for her to date if their father had died suddenly. Maybe not. But Frank had been sick for a long time and Jon and Jane had witnessed the difficulties Tilda had endured. Taking on most of Frank's chores around the house. Driving him to and from the hospital. Caring for him in the awful days after a round of chemotherapy. Tempting him with all of his favorite foods, only to have him turn his head, barely able to hold down water.

She kicked a bit at the water rolling in and remembered a
New York Times Magazine
article she had read the year before. Deborah Solomon had interviewed Joyce Carol Oates. Ms. Oates had described widowhood as “physically arduous.” Tilda understood that. While Frank was sick, she was already in a way widowed. She had had to assume so many of Frank's responsibilities, as well as shoulder the burden of care for him. And then, when Frank was gone, well, the burdens became all too real and permanent.

Anyway, Tilda thought, she was pretty sure both Jon and Jane believed that their father would want their mother to be happy, and if that meant remarrying, then so be it. In life, Frank was nothing if not generous, affable, and kind spirited. Why should he be any different in death?

And there was also the fact that both Jon and Jane would soon be setting out on the adventures that would be their own lives. Tilda suspected they would be a lot happier if Mom was being looked after by a husband and not by them! The truth was she was meeting no resistance from her children regarding dating. She almost wished they did object, and strongly; it would give her an excuse not to move on. Excuses not to act were underrated. Because what if you acted—what if you tried—and you simply didn't get what you wanted? What if, in spite of her best efforts, she never again achieved a real, settled kind of love like the love she had had with Frank? It took time to develop that kind of love, a love in which two people were completely comfortable with each other. Maybe it was too much to ask for.

She stopped. She looked up to the sky, turned from left to right, and then she looked behind her. Except for the wheeling gulls and one lone pigeon, the sky was empty.

 

Ruth was in the library, dusting shelves and the spines of the books on them. Percy was asleep in a corner of the brown leather couch.

“Ruth?”

She swung around to find Adam's fiancée standing just inside the door. She wore a cap-sleeved, very fitted, hot pink T-shirt and an above-the-knee wraparound denim skirt. Ruth wondered if she owned anything with long-sleeves—a blouse, a sweatshirt, something! Certainly in the winter she must cover up?

“Do you mind if I ask you something?” Kat said.

“Of course not,” Ruth replied. She put the duster on the desk. For an awful moment Ruth wondered if this young woman was going to ask her opinion of Adam. What if she asked for advice about marrying him? What in the world could Ruth say?

Kat took a few steps into the room. “I was wondering, why are there corks all along the wall in the sunroom? I mean, obviously someone put them there but—why?”

Ruth looked at her nephew's fiancée keenly. “You're not a craftsperson, are you?”

“No,” she admitted. “I mean, I took a pottery class once but I was awful at it. But what I mean is, how is lining up corks—how is lining up anything, shells or rocks or whatever—how is lining up stuff along a shelf a craft? I'm sorry. I don't mean to sound critical. I just don't understand.”

Ruth shrugged. “There's not much to understand. You see, every time I finish a bottle of red wine I put the cork on a shelf, right next to the cork from the last bottle of wine I finished.”

Kat's face betrayed confusion. Ruth assumed she was debating whether to laugh or to wonder if alcoholism ran in her fiancé's family. “Oh,” she said.

“And someday,” Ruth went on, “when the wall is filled with corks, when I can't squeeze one more cork onto a shelf, that's when I'll be ready to die. Not before, mind you.”

Kat put her hand up against her heart. “What do you mean,” she said, her voice a bit squeaky, “that you'll be ready to die? You're not planning—anything, are you? I mean you're not…”

Ruth smiled blandly. “What you're trying to say is that I am in complete control over the placing of the corks. You're trying to say that I can quite easily calculate the number of corks it will take to fill those final shelves and that I can drink bottles of red wine as fast or as slow as I please, knowing that when I fill that final shelf I'll be ready to die. You're trying to say that my statement sounded…poetic, but that in reality I am planning—drawing out or hurrying toward—my own demise.”

There was a moment of silence. “Uh,” Kat said finally, already turning toward the door of the library, “I think I'd better be getting back to Adam.”

Ruth smiled to herself.
Poor kid,
she thought.
So easily rattled. Spooked by the crazy old spinster aunt.
She supposed she should have been nicer to her a moment ago. She was going to be a member of the family—unless she smartened up and dumped her jackass of a fiancé. Ruth knew she shouldn't talk about a family member, her own nephew, in such negative terms, but blood didn't make one blind. At least, in her case it hadn't.

Hannah appeared in the library then, mumbled something about a book she had been reading having gone missing, and then noticed her aunt's expression. “You look thoughtful,” she said. “What's up?”

“Kat was just here. She's very young, you know. Emotionally. Adam is going to destroy her within a month of the wedding. Poor thing. She's clearly incapable of saving herself. But I don't know how I can be of any help. You know how I don't like to interfere. It seems…immoral somehow. Or maybe unethical is the more appropriate term. Something one isn't supposed to do.”

Hannah shook her head. “How could it be unethical to advise someone against a danger she might not see, a danger that you see quite clearly? How could that be wrong? It would be wrong not to say anything.”

“Yes,” Ruth agreed, “it would be wrong, in most cases. If I see a car barreling down on a pedestrian, I'm under every moral or ethical obligation there is to shout out a warning. But in Kat's case…It's difficult to warn someone about a danger you sense, a danger that's intangible, even though, in your own opinion, it's real. Like Adam's voracious ego.”

“Yes. I suppose you're right. Though I do wish there was something we could say to her. But any word of warning against a marriage to Adam would be suspect, coming from his own family, wouldn't it? Kat might very well think we just don't want her to be a McQueen because of something wrong with her.”

Ruth sighed. “We are in an untenable position. Besides, in the long run it probably is in Kat's best interest to make up her own mind about a future with Adam. Everyone's got to grow up sometime, don't they?”

“Tell that to Craig.”

“Now that's unfair,” Ruth said forcefully. “Your brother isn't entirely immature, you know that.”

“Maybe not,” Hannah admitted. “I'm in a charitable mood. But I don't know why he can't accept responsibility for anything. I mean, I don't think he's ever paid rent on a place to live.”

“Don't be ridiculous. Of course he's paid rent. In some form or another, maybe not in cash but certainly in services.”

“I know for a fact he doesn't have a checking account.”

Ruth laughed. “That hardly makes him a criminal. At least he's not the sort to pass bad checks.”

“That's true.” Hannah didn't say that only the night before, at the Nubble Lighthouse, her brother had seemed on the verge of expressing discontent with his wayward lifestyle. But maybe that was something she had imagined.

“Well,” Ruth said, “I don't want to go on defending your brother to you. You'll feel about him what you feel, no matter what I say.”

“Probably. By the way, what made you say that about Kat's being emotionally young?”

“Oh, nothing. Just that I explained about the corks.”

“Ruth, you didn't!”

“I did,” Ruth said. “She didn't seem to understand.”

“You're incorrigible.” Hannah was unable to restrain a smile.

“I think I saw your missing book in the living room.”

“Nice change of subject. But thanks.”

Hannah left the library and Ruth went back to her dusting. Percy stretched, yawned, put a paw over his eyes, and went back to sleep.

Tilda stood staring at the ruins of the fairy house. The ruins themselves were ruins. They were ruins of ruins. If she had not known there had been a fairy house at the site, she would not have been able to recognize the few remains as such.

She was in one of the black moods—worse than the gray moods—that occasionally descended and enveloped her. They didn't come as frequently as they had in the months just after Frank's death. But they still came, often out of the blue. Black moods out of the blue.

Time passed, she thought now, staring down at the dirt and bits of old, brown leaves, and everything fell into ruins. Relationships, civilizations, lives. A random breeze made its way through the trees and Tilda shivered. Maybe the breeze foretold rain. Frank had loved rainy days. He had never found them depressing.

Frank. With one brief and unmemorable exception, he was the only man with whom she ever had had sex. That was not a complaint. Their sex life had been good. But, now single again, it did seem like a bit of a burdensome fact, her relative lack of sexual experience. But it wasn't her biggest concern by far. In her experience, admittedly not vast, sex took care of itself. It was the heart that needed coaching and support. But not when you were young. Then, the heart seemed to know exactly what to do.

She had been a little bit younger than Jon was now when she met Frank. She had been a little bit older than Jane. Her children were in possession of a youth they entirely took for granted, as did most young people. At any moment either of them might meet a soul mate, someone with whom they would spend the rest of their hopefully long lives. Or, they might meet the first of several soul mates. It could happen. This afternoon, tomorrow, the day after could mark the start of an entirely new and unexpected life path.

So, then, could the same thing happen for her? Or was she too old, had she had her big chance, was she being selfish, hoping or reaching for another great love at her age? She was almost half a century old.

Tilda kicked at a clump of dirt. It was all well and good for celebrities of a certain age to date gorgeous men in their twenties and thirties, but what about a forty-seven-year-old schoolteacher who had not been on a date in over twenty years? Well, unless she counted dinner and a drive to Kennebunkport and the party at the museum with Dennis as dates, and Tilda wasn't really sure that she did. What was she supposed to do with her decidedly unglamorous self? Should she get Botox injections? Did she even have the money for Botox? And wasn't it actually a poison? Was she desperate enough to inject poison into her face just to get a date? Was she supposed to be?

Should she join a gym to firm up the flab that had mysteriously replaced muscle? Should she get a new haircut? Maybe try a new color, some highlights? What about a new personality, one less prone to black moods? A new wardrobe? But she liked her clothes, mostly! An eyelift, a tummy tuck, a butt lift? It was exhausting, this attempt to reenter the world of single men and women, this attempt to stave off old age and yes, death. Exhausting and in the end, futile.

Of course, she thought again of Dennis. Dennis seemed to find her company welcome, but did he find her attractive, too? Or was he just being nice to a clumsy, middle-aged woman? Was she just a pity project? He hadn't yet kissed her. But neither had she kissed him. There was a reason for that.

She liked Dennis. He was smart and funny and kind and she enjoyed spending time with him. But she didn't have intense feelings for him, in spite of his good qualities, and in spite of the fact that he was, by any normal standards, handsome. She wondered if his age had anything to do with her lack of sexual interest. Maybe. But she was reluctant to admit that she found the fact of his age, of his being fifteen years older than her, disconcerting. No, more than disconcerting. Unappealing?

But why should she feel this way? Jennifer was in love with a man twenty-three years her senior. She seemed very happy. But Jennifer—as far as Tilda knew—had not nursed a dying husband. Was that it? Tilda wondered. Did she, too, now associate age with death and dying and decay?

Suddenly, her own prejudice appalled her. She was the first to accuse older men with younger girlfriends—her father included?—of discriminating against women their own age. And here she was mentally rejecting the idea of forming a long-term relationship with an older man because he was statistically more likely than a younger man to get sick and die and make her life messy and difficult.

It was all too ridiculous, Tilda thought, this “moving on” business. She gave the clump of dirt one last kick, turned, and walked rapidly back to the house.

 

Hannah and Susan had driven to the outlets in Kittery. Hannah, Susan informed her, needed some new T-shirts, which they could pick up cheap at Old Navy. (Hannah tended to spill things on her clothes, so there was no point in paying full price.) Susan had a discount card for the Zales jewelry store and wanted to “just take a look.” That meant, of course, that by the end of the day she would have a new piece of jewelry, nothing too expensive, just a little something nice. Maybe a small gold charm with a tiny diamond accent. She was collecting charms with the intention of someday creating an individualized bracelet.

Also, Susan reminded Hannah, their friends Moire and Colleen, already mothers of a little boy, were pregnant with a second child. The baby shower was in two weeks and Susan wanted to buy something special, a keepsake gift, in addition to the package of onesies and the wee pairs of socks she had already purchased. Maybe an engraved rattle or a silver-plated “ceremonial” cup. Maybe a silver teething ring or a little box made of fine china. There were a few stores in Kittery that sold such things.

Susan wanted to get the baby's gift first, so they went into the Lenox outlet. Susan, a professional shopper, immediately began to examine the items for sale. Hannah, who didn't much enjoy shopping, watched the other people in the store. There was an older couple, maybe in their seventies, vacationers, Hannah thought, looking around desultorily, probably killing time until the early-bird special at a local, family-style seafood restaurant. There was a man about her own age, wandering aimlessly, clearly befuddled by the choices of pretty objects for sale. Maybe, Hannah thought, he was looking for an anniversary gift for his wife. The man hailed a salesperson, who expertly took him in hand. And then, through the front door came a man, woman, and two small children. The man was clutching the hands of the two children, practically dragging them along behind him. The woman, who looked pale and haggard, was heavily pregnant.

Hannah tried not to stare but it was hard. How, she wondered, was this woman even walking! She was massive! Her back must be a sheet of pain. Her feet must be in agony. Her hands, Hannah noticed, were red and swollen.

One of the children—they were both girls—began to howl. The father yanked on her arm. The mother flinched and put her hand to her head.
She probably has a headache,
Hannah thought,
and she isn't even allowed to take an aspirin!
Pregnant women weren't supposed to take drugs of any sort unless prescribed. How ridiculous! How did they stand it!

The howling went on until the father dragged the little girls back out of the store. The woman looked around at the elegant picture frames and stacks of holiday-themed table settings and displays of delicate figurines. She looked, Hannah thought, helpless. And then she, too, left the store.

“You were watching that woman.”

Hannah was startled. She had not heard Susan come up to her.

“Yes,” she admitted. “She looked so…miserable.”

Susan put her arm through Hannah's. “I know this is lousy timing,” she said. “I'm sorry. But is it my safety you're worried about? Is it my health?”

“What?”

“Is that what's holding you back from agreeing to start our family? Are you worried about my health through all the procedures and then the pregnancy and then the birth?”

“God, Susan,” Hannah said, “of course I worry about your safety. No medical procedure is without some risk. Ruth once said that the only minor surgery is surgery done on someone else. And pregnancy is no picnic and childbirth…”

“So, that's the big reason? Concern that I might get really sick or die?”

Hannah shook her head. “No. No, it's not that. I mean, oh boy, of course I'm concerned about you but—”

“I'm sorry.” Susan withdrew her arm from Hannah's. “I knew this wasn't the time or the place.”

“That's all right.”

Susan went back to examining the selection of baby presents. Hannah trailed after her. How could she admit to Susan that her biggest fear was that she would repeat the same mistakes her mother made with her? How could she admit to her fear that no matter how hard she tried to be different she would treat her own children with nonchalance, even, to some extent, negligence?

Susan would grow to hate her. Of course she would hate her for not being a loving enough parent to their children. She would have every right to leave the marriage and take the children with her. Hannah would have destroyed everything.

Suddenly, a horrible, horrifying thought occurred to her. What if she was afraid to admit her fear of being like Charlotte because she might be cured of, or talked out of, the fear? Maybe, deep down, she didn't want to be talked out of it because maybe, deep down, she really didn't want to have children of her own!

She took a deep breath. She was panicking, overreacting. She was being a drama queen though only in her head, which was embarrassing enough. She had to get out of that place, walk it off, something.

“I'll meet you in Old Navy,” Hannah said abruptly, and she hurried off.

 

“Here, let me help you with that.”

They were in the Cove. Bobby was unloading his boat. Craig reached down for the heavy trap Bobby hoisted up to him. He was aware of a small boy on the dock, in shorts and a buzz cut, watching them with fascination. There was, Craig knew, a certain mystery to lobstermen and their craft.

“Thanks,” Bobby said. “I'm not as young as I used to be.”

“Who is? Still, you're in better shape than a lot of guys I know who are my age.”

Bobby climbed up out of the boat and onto the wooden dock. “Clean living, Craig, clean living. Work hard, eat right, cause no harm, do good when you can, drink the finest whiskey you can afford. No magic to it.”

“You ever live anywhere else but Ogunquit?” Craig asked. “Just wondering.”

“Nope. Lived here all my life. Never wanted to live anyplace else. Why would I?”

“You never wanted to travel? See other countries?”

“I read the magazines and watch the television shows. I'm what you might call an armchair traveler. No desire to get on a plane. I went to New York City once. That was enough.”

Craig grinned. “What took you to New York?”

“Rather not say.”

“Fair enough.” Craig paused and then said, “I guess I got the rambling bug somehow. I just can't seem to stop moving.”

Bobby, who never wore sunglasses, squinted up at Craig. “Voltaire—you know him? He said that a man should cultivate his own garden. Guess I'm with him on that.”

Craig nodded. He would have to think about that.

“Well,” Bobby said, “I best be getting on. Lobsters don't sell themselves.”

Craig said good-bye to his father's old friend and walked up through the parking lot to stand at the top of the rocky slope that led to the water. The sun was very strong—he didn't know how Bobby could open his eyes without sunglasses, let alone set out to sea. He thought about what Bobby had said.

A man should cultivate his own garden. A man should take care of his own concerns, and family, and responsibilities. A man should learn his own mind. Voltaire might have meant all of that or something else entirely. He would have to go back and read the work. He was pretty sure there was a selection of Voltaire back at the house, and it probably included
Candide.
But for now, he asked himself where his own garden was to be found. The answer was easy. It was Larchmere.

Until this visit, the notion that Larchmere might someday cease to be “home” had never once occurred to Craig. Now, with that idea pending, he was beginning to realize just how important Larchmere was to him and, maybe more importantly, to whatever sense of self he retained. Who you are is where you are. Or something like that. Maybe, who you are, or a big part of it, is where you are from.

The reality was that he had never been content anywhere else but Larchmere. Time and again he had told himself that he didn't want to settle anywhere, that he was happy wandering aimlessly across New England, that Larchmere was merely a place to which he returned, briefly, on occasion.

But that made Larchmere a touchstone. And touchstones were important. So, for Craig McQueen, was the real truth, or a big part of it, that no place could possibly match the attraction of Larchmere? Was his fate inextricably wound up with the fate of the big old house and lands?

The thought was powerful and disconcerting. He didn't want to deal with it just yet. He walked away from the water and back to his old red van.