The Family Beach House (17 page)

Hannah, Tilda, Kat, Susan, and Adam were scattered about the sunroom, waiting out a passing thundershower. Adam was reading the financial news online. Kat was staring out at the heavily falling rain. Tilda and Susan were talking quietly.

Suddenly, Hannah tossed the local newspaper she had been glancing through onto a side table. “Hey,” she said, “I've got an idea. Let's go out to dinner tonight, maybe catch some live music. All of us here, and Craig, of course.”

“That sounds like a plan,” Susan said. “I'm sure Bill and Ruth could use a break from us clattering around the kitchen.”

“Good. How about we go to The Front Porch? I love that place. Everybody always seems to be having such a good time. The fun is catching.”

“Like a cold,” Adam muttered, eyes still on the screen of his laptop.

“What's The Front Porch?” Kat asked, turning from the window and its dreary view.

“It's a very popular restaurant and piano bar. You must have seen it on your way to Larchmere. It's right on the corner of Main and Beach Street. A big white building, smack in the center of town.”

Kat nodded. “Sure. Piano bars are fun. I haven't been to one in a long time, not since college, I think.”

“Me, neither,” Susan said. “Let's do it.”

“That place is far too loud,” Adam said.

“Not on the first floor, in the dining rooms. And the food is very good.”

Adam snapped shut his computer and sneered. “According to who? Look, piano bars are just excuses for a bunch of pathetic people to make asses of themselves singing show tunes off key. Why don't we go to Arrows? I'll call and see if we can get a reservation. That or MC Perkins Cove.”

Hannah laughed. “Arrows? You've got to be kidding me, Adam. Susan and I can't afford Arrows. We can barely afford MC after replacing our oven and our fridge last summer.”

“I'm with Hannah,” Tilda said. “I like The Front Porch. Susan does, too, and Kat should have the experience since she's going to be a regular in Ogunquit before long. Come on, Adam, be a sport. We promise we won't make you sing. It's not karaoke.”

Adam sighed as if grievously put upon. “Fine, we'll go to The Front Porch. But I am not paying for Craig.”

As if summoned—or maybe Adam had caught a glimpse of his brother, hence his comment—Craig appeared in the doorway of the sunroom. “I'm paying for my own dinner, thanks. I just did a job for Harold, the guy with the old farmhouse on Pine Road.”

“Just make sure you wear a clean shirt,” Adam said, without humor. “I'm not being seen in town with someone who looks like he's been on a construction site all day.”

“No worries,” Craig replied jauntily. “I'm on my way to the creek with my laundry right now.”

 

At the last minute, Kat claimed a bad headache and announced her intention to stay at Larchmere. It wasn't hard to see that she felt uncomfortable with her fiancé's family. Tilda could hardly blame her. Though he easily could have joined his siblings, Adam drove himself into town, leaving Hannah and Susan to ferry Tilda and Craig in their serviceable Subaru.

Tilda was wearing beige linen pants, a lime green T-shirt, and a light, beige cotton sweater. She had thought about draping a scarf around her neck—she had brought one to Larchmere, a gift from her children—but rejected the idea. She didn't have the flair for scarves her mother had had. Hannah wore chinos, and a classic Levi's jean jacket over a black T-shirt, and Susan had on an ankle-length, bright aqua summer dress with silver sandals and silver bangles around her wrist. With her tanned skin and dark hair Susan looked exotic, more obviously sexy than the other two women. Tilda thought that Craig looked jaunty in a French blue, Oxford style shirt, sleeves rolled up and open at the neck, worn out over jeans. Adam, who had never approved of his brother's sartorial choices, wore a white dress shirt under a navy blazer, gray dress slacks, and shiny black shoes.

Traffic stopped them in front of a new nightspot on Shore Road, a place called Accent. Hannah, Susan, and Craig were debating the relative benefits of some new computer technology. Tilda, seated behind Hannah, and not interested in the conversation, looked out the window. Accent was small but the open-air deck in front was packed with people in their twenties and thirties. Not a family joint, she noted, and just as she was about to turn away, she thought she spotted a familiar face at a table by the front railing. Tilda peered more closely and carefully. Oh, yes. It was Kat! She was leaning across the table, talking to a young, handsome man, someone clearly closer to her age than Adam was. In front of her on the table stood a frosty, bright pink cocktail. She watched as Kat tossed her long blond hair over her shoulder and laughed.

“Damn traffic!” Hannah complained. “Damn tourists!”

But Tilda didn't mind being stuck. She wanted to watch her brother's fiancée, who must have slipped out of Larchmere just seconds after they had gone. But how had she gotten into town? Cabs were virtually nonexistent in Ogunquit! Had someone arranged to pick her up? Transportation was only part of the mystery.

Tilda frowned. Did Kat want to be caught, if indeed she was doing something wrong, and it certainly looked like she was doing something wrong? When you claimed a sick headache, you stayed home. You didn't go out, dressed in a cleavage-bearing, figure-hugging mini-dress, and sit chatting and sipping a cocktail with a man not your fiancé! Tilda fought an urge to tap on Craig's arm, point in Kat's direction, be sure someone else witnessed the scene. But she fought that urge. Adam and Kat's relationship was none of her business. And for all Tilda knew, the guy with whom Kat was chatting was her cousin or an old, platonic friend who had called her cell, found out they were both in town, and arranged a reunion. It was unlikely, but it was possible. Wasn't it?

The car rolled forward, slowly. “Freakin' finally,” Hannah muttered. Tilda kept her mouth shut as they left Kat behind.

They met Adam in the restaurant. Tilda scanned his face for a sign that he had seen his fiancée on the deck at Accent, but Adam's expression was its usual slightly harried or annoyed one. If Adam were truly angry, everyone would know.

They were shown to their table (Adam complained about its location but there were no other tables available for at least a half hour) and Craig excused himself to visit the men's room.

He was making his way through the bar area and back to the table when a tall, slightly overweight woman in a low-cut floral top with pretty, long dark hair blocked his path. She was not unattractive. Craig smiled and made to move aside but the woman blocked him again.

“Excuse me,” Craig said. He wondered if she was a little drunk, maybe unsteady on her feet.

“You're Craig McQueen,” the woman said.

“Yeah,” he said. “I'm sorry, do I know you?”

The woman's eyes, which were fixed down on him, seemed to grow darker. “Think hard.”

For a moment, Craig continued to draw a blank. But then, as he looked at the woman, some tiny bit of recollection began to tickle at his brain, the vaguely familiar shape of her very dark eyes, and he said, “Mary.” And then, “Vermont. What was the name of that town? Yeah, Green River. Wow. It was a long time ago. How've you been?”

“You said you'd call me when you got back into town.”

Had he said that? He really didn't remember. It had to have been at least eight years since he had seen this woman. Mary. “I never did get back to Green River,” he said honestly.

“You had my number.” The woman's voice was tight, angry. “You could have called to tell me you weren't coming back.”

Why,
he thought,
would I have done that? I knew her for about two weeks and then we had a one-night stand.
No commitment, no promises. Other than the one he didn't remember making, the one about calling.

“I'm sorry,” he said. There was no point in arguing his case. He couldn't imagine why she had wanted to stop him and talk.

“You should be. You got me pregnant.”

Craig's mouth went dry. “We used condoms,” he said automatically. Had they? That was something else he couldn't quite remember. Was anyone in the bar listening to this horrible conversation?

The woman, Mary, laughed unpleasantly. “Well, they didn't work. I had to borrow money from my sister to have an abortion. I had no way to find you and no job, so there was no way I could have had the baby. I was a mess and it was all your fault!”

Could he believe her? He wasn't sure. He had hardly known her all those years ago. He hadn't even known her last name. Maybe she was lying now as a sort of revenge for his having left her. There was no way he would ever know for sure. He felt sick to his stomach. He felt ashamed.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I don't know what else to say.”

“There is nothing else to say. Except, screw you.”

And then she—Mary Something or Other—was gone into the crowd at the far end of the bar. Craig wondered if her boyfriend or husband was going to emerge next, to pop him in the nose. But an abortion as a result of a one-night stand was hardly the kind of thing a woman was likely to reveal to the new man in her life.

Craig couldn't move for a moment. He wanted to sneak off on his own but he knew that if he did Tilda would be upset with him. He didn't want to be responsible for disappointing another woman. He made his way back to the table and took a seat.

“Why the long face?” Adam asked. “Did you find out it's illegal to panhandle in downtown Ogunquit?”

“Something like that,” he said quietly, and picked up the menu the waiter had left for him.

They ordered from their waiter, a young gay man whose name was Rob and who told them he had come from New Jersey to work for the summer before starting college. After a wait that Adam declared far too long, the meals arrived. Adam sent his fish back, claiming it was overcooked. Maybe it was, Tilda thought. But maybe it wasn't. Adam liked people to know he was in the room. (Rob was professionally gracious about it.) Tilda enjoyed her pasta primavera. Craig, usually a voracious eater, left half of his meal on the plate. Hannah and Susan, who had each gotten the pork chop with mashed potatoes, announced themselves pleased.

Conversation during the meal was light and noncommittal. Tilda allowed herself to think that the night was, indeed, going to be declared a complete success. (Barring the strange absence of Kat.) In fact, it wasn't until coffee and dessert had been served (none for Adam, just coffee for Craig) that the tensions always flowing just under the surface of the relationship between Susan and Adam began to rise. Wine had been consumed, as had predinner cocktails.
I should have known,
Tilda thought.
Don't tempt fate with assumptions of happy endings. Especially not when alcohol is involved.

Susan had been tapping her coffee spoon against her cup for about thirty seconds when abruptly, and apropos of nothing they had been discussing, she turned to Adam. “You know,” she said, “I haven't forgotten that you blew off our wedding.”

Hannah's eyes widened in surprise and, Tilda thought, concern.

Adam shrugged. “I showed up at the reception.”

“But you missed the ceremony,” Susan pointed out. “The ceremony is the most important part of the celebration.”

Tilda agreed but this was not her argument. She sipped her coffee and took another bite of the crème brûlée.

Adam sighed. “Look, I had to work. I'm not going to apologize for my career. Some things just take precedence over others.”

“A few bucks take precedence over your sister's wedding?”

“Susan, it really doesn't—”

But Hannah's attempt at calming her wife was rejected.

“No, Hannah, he should take responsibility for his actions in this family. Really, Adam, it was very disrespectful, not only of your sister but also of our union.” Susan looked at the others for confirmation. “Am I right?” she asked.

Again, Tilda agreed with Susan but, fearing Adam's wrath being turned against her, only murmured something unintelligible. Hannah, also clearly unwilling to add to the argument, gave a quick nod. Craig, usually the first one to take the side of anyone fighting against Adam, was oddly silent and unresponsive. In fact, Tilda thought he seemed to be miles away, toying with his napkin, looking vaguely at nothing.

“Well,” Susan prodded, her voice raised, “am I?”

Tilda was increasingly uncomfortable with the situation. She wondered if she should finally say something to end the argument—but what?—when Adam's hand hit the table with a thud that made her coffee spoon rattle against her cup. Tilda shot a look around but no one at neighboring tables seemed to have noticed Adam's display of temper. Everyone but the McQueens seemed to be having a good time.

“Look,” Adam hissed, eyes fixed on Susan, “I've had enough of this. We are not having a scene in public. Everyone in this town knows the McQueens. They respect us. There's a certain decorum we keep. So keep your voice down.”

In one swift move, he drew his wallet from his back pocket, tossed some cash onto the table, and stood. He didn't say good-bye to the others.

Tilda watched him weave his way out of the main dining room, wondering how he reconciled slamming his hand on the table with not making a scene. She found herself hoping that Kat got back to the house before Adam did. It was odd to feel more loyalty to a virtual stranger than to her own brother, her own flesh and blood. It was upsetting.

Rob the waiter appeared (tactfully, he had stayed away from the table during the heated argument), and they paid the bill. Tilda put in an extra five dollars for Rob's tip (she had waited tables in college and knew how depressing and difficult the job could be) and she and Craig walked out to the car, followed a few minutes later by Hannah and Susan, who had stopped in the ladies' room before the drive home.