A Week at the Shore

by Barbara Delinsky

  Anne owns a breakfast place in the square that is the heart of Bay Bluff. Sunny Side Up, she calls it, apropos of her approach to life, and although I’ve never been there myself, to hear her tell, it’s the place to be.

  “I’m glad,” I say. “For a while there, he wasn’t getting out much.”

  “He walks down from the house, and, okay, sometimes he winds up at the Clam Shack or the bookstore, but they always point him back to me.” She laughs. “Once he came down in his pajamas, it was cute, really. When Joe—you know, from the jeans place, well, actually you don’t know because it opened after you left, but trust me, Joe is God’s gift to tourism because he carries things tourists don’t know they need until they need them—when Joe saw him on the sidewalk in his pajamas, he pulled him inside and dressed him in a shirt and shorts so he was looking pret-ty spiffy when he got to my place.”

  She seems amused. I am appalled. The Tom Aldiss we’d grown up with was a formal man who would never have left the house in his pajamas. He didn’t even come down to breakfast at home in his pajamas.

  “He has a favorite table,” Anne cruises on, “and he heads straight there. I mean, it used to be a problem if it was already taken, but by now pretty much everyone knows that it’s his, so they leave it open.” Half to herself, she says, “That could be dicey with summer people. Maybe I should put a RESERVED sign there. But the shop isn’t big, and he doesn’t come every day, so I hate to waste the space.” She returns to me. “He loves the new girl I hired—did I tell you about her? She’s been in town maybe a month, but it’s like she’s been here forever. Dad gets all quiet when he sees her. If someone else has taken his table, she calms him down, sets him up at the counter, and brings his coffee and his bacon and eggs and cinnamon toast. He doesn’t take his eyes off her.”

  “What about his hands?”

  “What?”

  “Sexual harassment.”

  “Right,” Joy whispers. Her school is big on discussing that.

  “Christ, Mallory,” Anne cries. “She’s barely twenty. He doesn’t touch her.”

  “God, I hope not. He was a judge. People know him. They remember that night.”

  “You remember that night,” my sister argues. “It’s all you have to measure life here by, but those of us who live here have moved on. No one talks about it. Trust me, there’s plenty else to discuss.”

  For me, as well. “Annie, about tonight. Do you think Jack was telling the truth?”

  She grunts. “Who knows. The guy has a major chip on his shoulder when it comes to our family, like we personally ruined his life or something.”

  “If Dad did have a gun that night—”

  “No, Mallory. He didn’t. If Dad stands for anything, it’s the truth.”

  “Right.” I roll my eyes. “The whole truth and nothing but.”

  “You and Margo can make fun of those words, but he lived and breathed them. If he said he didn’t have a gun that night, he didn’t have a gun. Jack has it in for us, is all. Okay, okay, his life changed that night. But so did ours.”

  “He lost his mother.”

  “Our parents broke up.”

  “At least we knew where they were,” I reason and am gratified when Anne concedes.

  “True. Not knowing what happened to her has to be bad. But at some point, you accept and move on. Jack spends hours on the beach near his boat. It’s like he wants to be ready in case he sees his mother in the waves—can you imagine, after twenty years? I feel sorry for the guy. He’s delusional. And he says Dad’s demented? Sheesh.”

  “Jack can’t be all that demented if he’s a successful veterinarian.”

  “Who told you he is?”

  “You. How else would I know about Jack?”

  “Margo,” Anne says. “She always liked him.”

  I sigh. “Annie, Margo is living very happily with her husband and sons in Chicago. I doubt she’s keeping up with Jack. By the way, the Sun Times loves her. Her blog is huge. Do you ever read it?”

  “No.”

  It is a period meant to end the discussion, and even though I want to pursue it—to pursue anything that might bridge the gap between my sisters—this isn’t the time. “Jack said Dad was referring to Elizabeth. Does he ever do that when he’s with you?”

  “No.”

  “What about the house? Jack said it needed work.”

  “I’m telling you, Mallory, Jack is as clueless as Dad. The house is fine. I have someone who does upkeep. He was in last week working on the plumbing, which, of course, good ole Jack Sab can’t see because no way would I let him in the house. My guy can do anything.” There is another murmur in the background, then Anne’s muffled, “You can,” before she tells me, “He’s a jack-of-all-trades, Dad would say.”

  The murmur had been male, and unless my inference is all wrong, the male Anne is with is her jack-of-all trades in the flesh. That thought, paired with her breathlessness at the start of my call, brings a more worrisome one. When it comes to men, my sister Anne has notoriously poor taste.

  Trying to tease, I say, “Okay, Annie, who’s there?”

  “No one.”

  “Bill,” comes the low voice, apparently with an ear to Anne’s phone as Joy’s ear is to mine.

  “Bill who?” I ask.

  “Houseman,” Anne says a little too innocently and adds, “Do you remember him?”

  “Billy Houseman?” How can I not? Billy Houseman had been bad news around town from the time we were kids. “Anne,” I warn.

  “He’s Bill now, new name, new leaf, new image. He’s a good guy, Mallory. But, hey, I gotta run.”

  “Home to check on Dad?”

  “Hint, hint,” Joy breathes.

  Anne says, “In a bit. Don’t be a worrywart. I’m on top of this. Plus, you’re not here, your choice. So don’t criticize me, okay?”

  She has a point there. But so do I. “I worry about you, Annie.”

  “I’m fine, okay? Try trusting me for a change?” Billy—Bill—says something, but I can’t make it out, and then Anne says, “Talk soon. Bye,” and ends the call.

  I stare at my phone, then at Joy. “Why is everyone hanging up on me tonight?”

  “Maybe because you’re not going along, so now you know what it’s like for me,” she charges. “People want you to say what they want to hear, and when you don’t, they forget being nice.” Her brashness withers, face grows worried. “What if he does something? You know. Papa. With a gun.” Her green eyes have gone forest-dark.

  “We don’t know that he has one.”

  “Your guy said he did. Is he more reliable than Anne?”

  “Most anyone is,” I remark and immediately feel guilt. “Anne means well. She just sees the world in a way that isn’t always realistic.”

  “And the guy?”

  “Jack was always honest.” Brutally so. Which is why he and I haven’t talked in twenty years. Our parting was brutally bad.

  “So if Papa has a gun,” my daughter says, “there could be trouble. We need to go there, Mom.”

  I go there all the time. Thundering waves are a soundtrack for every dream I have. The thought of physically going there, though, gives me heartburn.

  Setting off for the kitchen, I call, “When? This is not a good time to travel.”

  Joy is close behind. “Why not?”

  “You have finals, for one thing, and for another, I have work.” I run the sink faucet hot. Dinner had been takeout of a veggie quiche, whose melt-over had burned onto the rim of the pie plate in which I’d heated it. I’d left it soaking, knowing it would be a hassle to clean, but I’m suddenly in the mood to scrub.

  Joy leans into the counter, which means very close to me in our tiny kitchen. She is barely an inch shorter than my five-six, though her curls more than make up the difference. Those curls were damp when we settled in at the window, but air-drying, they’ve grown bigger by the minute. Seeming fragile beneath them, she says, “School finishes next week—”

  �
��—and your internship starts right after that.”

  “Scooping kitty litter in a cat café,” she drones.

  I glance her way in surprise. “I thought you wanted that job.”

  “I do, but it’s only a couple of hours a day, no pay—”

  “Of course, no pay, you’re only thirteen, and what about Willard?” Her piano teacher.

  “He’ll be away, too, remember? This is perfect, Mom. No school, no piano, no need for me to be at the cat café exactly next week. You cut back on bookings to spend time with me. Why don’t we spend it together with your family in Rhode Island?”

  I pump hard at the soap dispenser. “I’ve explained to you why we don’t.”

  “Conflicting loyalties, I know, you want to stay neutral. But how can we not do anything? He’s your father, and what if he does have a gun? I mean, Anne doesn’t see every little thing he does; she was out of the house just now, right? Besides, he could have bought one online and been home alone when it was delivered, so she wouldn’t know. Guns kill, Mom. He could kill himself or kill Anne or kill the housekeeper?”

  I shoot her a punishing look. She’s almost as bad as Anne sometimes—imagining things like what if I locked him in and there was a fire in the house?

  I work at a burnt-on piece of crust with the tough side of the sponge, needing suds but getting few. “Do you see how ineffective this dish detergent is?”

  That quickly, Joy is the appeaser. “But we’re doing a good thing here, Mom. See how compact the bottle is, no wasted plastic—and not tested on animals? If everyone on the planet signed on, the world would be a better place.”

  I send a dry thanks to the head of her school, who, since taking the job two years ago, had made The Environment as much a part of the curriculum as Singapore math and Robotics—and hey, I’m all for going green. I recycle. I refill my reusable water bottle. I pay bills online. There are times, though when being PC sucks.

  “Right,” I say and drop the sponge. After refilling the pie plate with hot water, I wipe my hands on the linen towel. Not paper. Linen.

  “What about Papa and his gun?” Joy asks, following me into the hall.

  At our closet laundry room, I open the dryer. “We don’t know that he has one.” I begin sorting still-warm clothes into a double basket, Joy’s on the left, mine on the right.

  “But what if he does? What if he takes it into town and starts shooting the place up? Or decides to kill your neighbor? What if he did kill Elizabeth—”

  “He did not.” I may have issues with my father. I may question his compliance with the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but. But I refuse to believe he is capable of murder.

  “But what if he has a gun now? What if he uses it?”

  “Don’t ask that. Don’t even think it.”

  Joy takes over the sorting, but she doesn’t back down—she rarely does, which is both her greatest strength and her worst curse, in part because she is logical enough to be annoying as hell. I should leave her to the job and walk away. But the truth is, I want her opinion.

  Actually, I need it. She’s all I have.

  “He’s your father,” she says now. “And Anne’s your sister. And that house is where you grew up. Not all the memories are bad, some are good—like hide-and-seek in your mother’s potting shed—so why can’t you focus on the good stuff?” She’s sounding younger as she drops the last of the items in the basket and turns wounded eyes on me. “I’ve never been there, Mom. It’s less than three hours away, and I’ve never been there? That’s embarrassing. And even if all of the above wasn’t true, it’s the beach? We love the beach.”

  Basket on hip, I head for her room. “We were in Jamaica in February and spent last Thanksgiving in Anguilla.” Our travel expenses were paid by the owners of the houses I photographed. “Those beaches are soft and warm. Beaches on the New England coast are neither.”

  “Those beaches were for work,” Joy argues as I dump her things on her pillow, where she’ll have to address them before she sleeps. “This would be a vacation.”

  “Going home will not be a vacation, Joy. Trust me on that.”

  “Okay, so let’s go for a weekend, just a weekend?”

  We could, I concede on the way to my room. I’ve considered that before, but always veto it when I start to hyperventilate. Okay. That’s an exaggeration. I’m not hyperventilating now. But the knots in my stomach are real. It’s an ingrained thing, a legacy of my childhood when I was always afraid I’d do something wrong, provoke Dad, piss someone off.

  And then there’s my mother. She’s been dead a while, but I imagine her up there looking down, watching, waiting, wondering what I’ll do, whether I’ll flip sides now that she’s gone. Maybe my father is doing the same thing in his judgmental way. Or not. I’ve often thought it would be nice if, in his diminished state of whatever, he mellowed. When I was growing up, it was his way or the highway.

  Margo chose the highway, me the median strip in an attempt to be neutral, because I want my family to love me. I want to have a relationship with my sisters once my father is gone, and that means finding common ground. Common ground is right here in New York. When they visit, I knock myself out planning fun things to do. That’s the thing about fun. Each round is a deposit in a memory bank that earns interest over time.

  At least, that’s the theory.

  But Joy isn’t into it. Having followed me into my bedroom, she is the dog with a bone. “He’s the only grandfather I have, and I’ve met him, like, three times? Is that fair? He could be dead this time next year. He could be dead this time next month.”

  I begin folding my clothes straight from the basket.

  “He could be dead this time next week, Mom.”

  She isn’t telling me anything I haven’t told myself a dozen times since I saw my father last. But if I go home now, Margo will never speak to me again. If I go home now, Anne will expect that I’ll always go home. If I go home now, I’ll be subjecting myself to the godawful insecurity that I’ve worked so hard to overcome. I’m a capable woman—a good photographer, a good mom. I’ve built a life in New York. I belong here. Just thinking of Bay Bluff has me walking a tightrope again.

  It isn’t your responsibility, is it? Jack Sabathian asked. Well, it is, Mallory. And for a minute, my conscience flickers. Where does conflict avoidance end and responsibility kick in?

  But that was Jack speaking. He couldn’t begin to understand my dilemma back then, and he certainly can’t today.

  Joy can. Giving her time to think about it, I go into the bathroom to wash my face. But suddenly hers is in the mirror with mine. Her skin is a little darker, her eyes green to my amber, her body leaner, though that could be her thirteen to my thirty-nine, or her love of kiwi versus my love of anything fried—like fried clams, of which the best, the best, were sizzled up fresh at the Clam Shack back home.

  “Mom,” she calls with impatience, because she can see my mind wandering again and wants it on her. All maturity is gone now. She is my little girl, the daughter I chose to have when it was arguably a selfish thing to do, the one I love more than life and whose mental well-being is key.

  “I want to go,” she insists, falling back on the one argument she knows will prick me. “My father is just a number, meaning no grandparents or aunts and uncles or cousins from him, so your family is all I have. I’m them—this hair, these eyes. And I love the beach. I want to go, Mom. Is scooping kitty poop really more important than that?”

  Chapter 3

  Rain can be a nightmare for me. It isn’t so bad when I’m photographing a high-rise condo, but when it comes to a freestanding home, curb appeal counts. Downpours can depress even the most elegant property, often in ways Photoshop can’t fix.

  I’m not working now, though, so rain is just fine. It’s good actually—keeps traffic from moving too fast. Cruising along to light classical, which Joy loves as much as I do, I have no problem when we hit a third major tie-up. Delaying our arrival is okay by me.


  The wipers aren’t as frantic now that we’ve slowed. They’re actually syncing with Handel’s “Water Music,” to which my daughter’s fingers were playing along until two minutes ago, when she stopped to check Waze. We’ve just crossed into Connecticut. The wail of an approaching ambulance confirms an accident ahead, and the app is pushing an alternate route.

  “Here, Mom—here it is—turn here,” Joy instructs with enough insistence to make me nostalgic for the days when she sat in the backseat preoccupied with a snack pack of Goldfish. “Follow that car.”

  When I don’t, she shoots me a baffled look that only deepens when I smile. But how not to? My daughter is a splash of color—totally, outrageously Joy, impatient face and all. Her hair is piled in an off-center topknot held by a turquoise scrunchie. Her tank top is red-and-white striped and cropped at the midriff, and her jean shorts have the kind of high waist the eighties loved. Ever the optimist, she’s wearing a bathing suit beneath.

  “Weather.com says it’ll be nice in Westerly,” she had announced shortly after dawn, wanting to leave then. When I vetoed that, we agreed on nine. Then I got a call from my favorite Sotheby’s broker, and by the time I was done with her edits, it was closer to noon.

  Trying to catch the spirit of vacation despite my own private storm, I’m wearing a tee shirt and shorts minus the swimsuit. My hair, a paler brown and less curly than Joy’s, is in a ponytail minus the scrunchie. My flip-flops are plain gray to her orange glitter.

  Joy has sunk back in her seat, staring at me hard.

  “What,” I say.

  “You don’t want to get there.”

  “Would I be going if I did not?” I ask, but I’m playing with words. Going home is one thing, wanting to go home another. This trip is largely a concession to my daughter, who is in a rush to reach Bay Bluff. I am not.

  I stay on I-95N. Not only does bad traffic put off what I don’t want to do, but it tells Joy that the drive isn’t quite the easy-peasy 137 miles she’s said a gazillion times of late.