She rested her bike against the gate and let herself onto the walkway. The windows were all open to the ocean breeze, but the house seemed quiet. With her heart in her throat, she pressed the doorbell. Suddenly this excursion seemed a bit rebellious, if not rude. It was unlike her to just show up at someone’s house, uninvited. It was not unlike her to stand up for herself, however. As she stood on the porch, Flossy wondered briefly what Ann Landers would say about this protocol predicament. Years ago, her mother had routinely clipped and mailed her the Dear Abby column when Flossy was a newlywed and her mother thought she should care about these things. Admittedly, she’d enjoyed reading them. Now, she imagined Abby frowning over her reading glasses. Weren’t concessions made at times of family need? Because Flossy needed this family gathering to go off without a hitch, and in that vein she needed that damned recipe. At the very least, she tried to reassure herself it was summer—a season of relaxing rules and hemlines. Flossy could argue she’d taken a little etiquette holiday.
A minute passed and Flossy realized the only sounds she heard were not the footsteps of someone in the house coming to answer the door, but only the curious songbirds in Judy’s lush shrubbery. She peered in the side window at the empty hall. How like Judy not to be home when Flossy finally got up the courage to go there. She jabbed the ringer again with her index finger. Nothing. Flossy glanced at her watch. By then, a precious hour of her day lay wasted, if she included the time it took to change out of her gardening clothes and apply a little lipstick just to come over here. What had she been thinking? She could’ve gone down to the beach with Clem and the little ones instead. She jabbed the doorbell button again, and when there was still only silence, she depressed it one last time—this time holding it down for several satisfying beats of irritation. Rrrrrrrring you, Judy!
She’d just turned on her heel and was halfway down the front steps when the door opened. Flossy startled.
“Flossy? Heavens, what’s the matter?” Judy was standing in the doorway, a mixed expression of surprise and consternation on her face. She was in crisp tennis whites, her muscled legs jutting out of the girlish skirt.
Flossy froze on the walkway. This was not how she’d imagined things. “You are home,” Flossy stammered.
Judy crossed her arms. “So I am.”
“Brilliant! I was just passing by and decided to pop in. I rang . . . perhaps you were out back in the garden?” Flossy hoped this would lend some reasonable explanation as to her laying on the doorbell like a complete lunatic. Though, as soon as the words were out of her lips, Flossy realized this made no sense whatsoever. If she’d really thought Judy was out back in the garden, Flossy could’ve walked out back to the garden. She’d been there enough times for her book club meetings. Alas. Somewhere Ann Landers was rolling over in her grave.
Judy did not expand upon her whereabouts. Nor did she invite Flossy inside. Very well, then, Flossy thought. “I came for the stuffed oyster recipe. Thought I’d save you the trouble,” she added for polite measure.
Judy didn’t even blink. It was like she was expecting this. “Didn’t I mention I was bringing it to the party?”
Flossy did blink. “The party? But my caterer needs the recipe in advance, of course.”
Judy smiled broadly, and it raised the hairs right up on Flossy’s neck. “No, silly. Not the recipe.”
Judy had never called Flossy silly. That was reserved for schoolgirls. Or girlfriends. “I’m making the recipe to bring to your party. You said Richard loves them, correct?”
Flossy could not speak. Judy was bringing her oysters to her catered party? This implied generosity was all an illusion! Not only was Judy not handing over the recipe she had come all the way over and humiliated herself in an attempt to get, but Judy was doing far worse. She was masking her refusal to share it with an offer to make it herself. Judy had a nerve of grandiose proportion.
“I couldn’t possibly allow you,” Flossy said coolly. “The caterer was planning for ten dozen oysters. Think of the work!” She didn’t add, think of the expense. Sandy, the caterer, had explicitly told her to plan on buying an entire bushel of local Watch Hills to feed the large crowd. Surely, that fact would shut Judy right up.
Judy cocked her head and Flossy imagined her calculating the one hundred-plus shellfish. It was preposterous. “It would be my pleasure.”
Flossy was speechless. No one offered to bring ten dozen anythings to someone’s party. Not to mention, how would Judy get them there? Serve them? No one was bringing platters of food. It was not that kind of party. Even Flossy’s good friend, Cora, would never have dreamed to offer up such a lavish dish. And if she had, Flossy wouldn’t have dreamed of letting her.
Flossy languished on the walkway trying to rationalize all this. She had to get back control of her own party. “Look, Judy, this is beyond generous, but Richard and I couldn’t possibly hear of it. Besides, it would embarrass Richard, and it is his birthday,” she reminded her. She waited a beat as this settled in the air between them. Judy seemed to be considering this. Richard was a man everyone liked, after all. He was the birthday boy.
With a wave of her hand, Judy stepped back in the doorway. “Nonsense. I insist.” Before Flossy could reply, she felt the assault of Judy’s gaze as it roamed up and down over her. “I just love what you’ve done with your hair this summer. So low maintenance and . . . simple.” She tossed Flossy one last beatific smile and then the door shut.
Flossy put a hand to her windblown hair and gasped. She’d been drawn and quartered in Judy Broadbent’s front yard. An entire bushel of Watch Hill oysters—shucked, stuffed and baked—would be delivered and presented to her party by Judy. She imagined the cost. She imagined the volume. But most of all, she imagined Judy circling the oyster-eaters like a shark, seizing credit with each empty half-shell returned to the platter. Clink.
Flossy stalked down the walkway and yanked her bike away from the picket fence. This time she threw her leg over the seat and pedaled off so quickly the tires spun out from beneath her in the crushed shells and she just saved herself before becoming one with the driveway. Flossy righted the bike and caught her breath. She’d failed. Ci Ci Le Blanc’s recipe remained in Judy’s cold, manicured grip.
Before pedaling away, she glared back over her shoulder at Judy’s. There it was: house, gardens, and sky. But she was so rattled it brought her little solace when she realized that she could not, in fact, see the ocean from here, as Judy always claimed.
Sam
Clem seemed fidgety, but Sam couldn’t judge. He had been unable to ease into the summer house as he’d always done in the past. The one place that brought him solace and in which he could escape the strains of work and life in DC was straining to work its usual magic. But the day’s weather was making an earnest effort.
Flossy had raced off on some mysterious errand, her face fully made up, which he’d made the mistake of commenting on. When he found Clem in the kitchen clutching a mug of coffee and staring out the window, he figured she’d have something wry to say about it. “Did you see Mom? She looks like she’s heading out to a parent-teacher conference.”
But Clem seemed not to hear. “Time to get ready for the beach,” she said, rising quickly from the table.
“Is that an invitation?”
She turned, as if surprised to see him. “What? Oh, sure. Everyone should come.” She breezed by him and set her coffee cup in the sink, before heading into the pantry. Her mug was still full.
“Where’s the fire?” he asked.
From inside the pantry, Clem tossed the cooler on the floor at his feet and he jumped back. “Sorry. Can you start sandwiches?” she asked.
If anyone had a right to distractedness, it was his little sister. But Sam couldn’t help but notice that beyond her high-alert mode of operation around the kids, she also seemed to have developed an itch beneath her skin. It was new. And unnerving.
He began pulling deli meat and fruit out of the fridge. “Who wants what?�
�� he asked her.
She had already moved outside to the porch and was collecting beach towels.
“George likes cheese, no condiments, crust cut off. Maddy likes cheese and salami, a dash of mustard, but only on one side of the bread or she won’t eat it.”
Sam shook his head. “Crust or no crust.”
“Crusts are fine for her. Oh, add cucumber,” she shouted through the screen door.
“To the sandwich?”
“No, just slice it. You can put them in one of those little glass snack containers I brought. Less waste, no chemicals.”
Sam rifled through the cabinet and pulled one out. “They weigh six pounds.”
Clem skirted the island, laden with towels. “They have no BPA or phthalates.”
Sam found a cucumber. “Peeled or skin on?”
“What?” She dumped the towels by the island. “Never mind, I’ll do it.”
Sam scoffed. “It’s fine, I can do it. Peels on or off?”
Christ. Since when did making sandwiches become a process of algorithms. “You realize we’ve only covered two kids’ sandwiches. And they’re both yours.” He winked at her, but she didn’t seem amused.
“Evan wouldn’t give me so much shit,” she said, scooping the towels up and sailing by him as Evan sauntered in. He set down his book and eyed them both suspiciously.
“What wouldn’t I do?”
“Millennial nutrition,” Sam sneered. “Peel the cucumbers. And don’t let the mustard touch the other side of the bread! Poison.”
“Still giving me shit!” Clem called out in a singsong voice from the stairs. They listened as she called to the kids, a thunderous rumble erupting overhead.
Evan was still wearing his reading glasses, which made Sam think of the two unopened books he’d brought sitting upstairs in his duffel bag. “We’re supposed to take the hedge trimmers in to the hardware store for your mom. I want to pick up the champagne for the party toast, too. I thought that could be our contribution?”
Sam had forgotten all about the clippers. “Sure, but Clem just said she wants to go to the beach. Want to?” They’d been in the summer house five days, and Sam knew he hadn’t exactly kept his promise about unplugging. Evan had been the one helping with dinners and playing games with the kids. Sam had only a few days left to do better. He wanted to do better. “I’ll make you a cucumber sandwich,” he added playfully.
“Sounds good, actually. We can run into town later.” Evan pulled up a stool and reached for the loaf of bread.
“No you don’t,” Sam said. He grabbed a fresh mug and poured Evan a cup of coffee, pushing it in front of his husband; a little caffeinated olive branch. “Just sit and keep me company. It’s my turn.”
Evan took a deep sip and appraised him over the rim of his mug. “Thanks, honey. What’s the occasion?” His tone was light, but still—it was deserved.
Sam set the butter knife down and looked at his husband. There were creases around his eyes from sleep, but his face was tanned and relaxed. Neither could be said for Sam, and he was running out of time to achieve either. There was so much he wanted to say to Evan, and yet every time he started, he returned to the day that Tania decided to keep the baby. To the week that followed, where Evan became unrecognizable, and Sam had had to step into a role he found both unfamiliar and uncomfortable. Until then, he hadn’t realized how much he depended of Evan. The loft had turned into a sort of ground zero, and everywhere Sam turned he was faced with evidence of Evan: the white French ramekins lining the kitchen cupboard that he spooned Evan’s yogurt into; the cashmere throws folded and neatly tucked into the linen closet, which he pulled out to cover his spouse with when he made it out of bed and onto the couch, only to fall asleep again; the hand-woven African basket where Evan stored fuzzy slippers for guests who visited, like a cottony embrace at the doorway. Evidence of Evan’s hands and heart were all over their loft, and Sam found himself turning to all of it during that week, awed and ashamed each time he found another. Where was he? In the art on the wall? No, that was Evan’s doing, too; Sam had only paid for the piece. And while he knew that his financial support was what funded much of their lifestyle, it was only that in the end—a style. The life—that was Evan. Now, standing at the kitchen island with crust-trimmed sandwiches between them he looked at his husband. “You and me. That’s the occasion.”
* * *
Flossy returned abruptly from her outing with lips pursed and in a silent steam, but there was no time to indulge her. Clem had rounded up the kids, sorted out swimsuits, and together they’d all assembled the usual slew of baggage and totes by the back door. As each person walked by, they grabbed one indiscriminately. Even Paige joined them, skipping her usual morning run. “You okay?” Sam asked her.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” she said irritably, throwing a towel over her shoulder. She paused to hold the door open while Sam wrestled with the lunch cooler. It was so stuffed the lid wouldn’t go on. “You coming or what?” When he didn’t answer right away, she let the screen door slap shut.
David, a boogie board under one arm and Maddy in the other, turned back and pushed it open with his foot. “Here you go, Sam!”
“Dude’s a saint,” Sam said under his breath to Evan.
* * *
The water was rough. “Must be the full moon,” Flossy said. Which caused Clem to glance back in the direction of the Weitzman house, Sam noticed. The little kids were shrieking and dancing back and forth, following the waves as they pounded the sand and then retreated. Ned had already dived in with one of the boards. David looked ready to follow.
“He’s pretty fit,” Sam said to Paige. She was stretched out in the beach chair next to him, and he’d decided to forgive her foul mood and try to be nice.
She barely glanced up. “Yeah, well he has time on his hands.”
Evan raised his eyebrows and shot him a look, and Sam’s stomach did a flip flop in reply. It wasn’t that he was enjoying giving his sister a hard time, but the fact that Evan had turned to him. It was an undercurrent, a secret language just between them that had always come so naturally before. Something he could not remember the last time they’d had. Sam reached across the hot sand and grabbed his hand. When Evan squeezed back, tears pricked.
After lunch was finished and a smattering of sandcastles stretched along the water’s edge in various states of erosion, the kids wanted to go for a walk. Clem had barely touched her food, but Sam noticed that she’d also given the kids a break, hovering less than usual. Maybe the vacation was starting to sink in for her, too. Her edginess, however, hadn’t left. One leg jigging in the sand, she kept throwing backward glances at the dunes. “What’s with you?” he asked, reaching over and laying a hand on her knee. “Do you need a pill?”
She went rigid, her expression with it. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Sam held up both hands playfully, but he knew he’d crossed some kind of line. “Easy, boy. I was just kidding.”
“Well, it’s not funny.” Before he could stop her she hopped up and strode down to the water’s edge.
Flossy was looking at him, book in her lap.
“What?”
Her mouth was a straight line. Never a good sign. “What do you think? Get your head out of the sand, Samuel.”
Evan smirked beside him. “Jesus, everyone’s sense of humor has gone out with the tide.”
“Why don’t you give your sisters a break. Take the kids for a walk.”
He could. He’d been leaning toward stretching out in the warm sand and closing his eyes for a while; there was no nap like a beach nap. But he felt bad, so he stood up.
Maddy and George were digging a moat around one of their castles. Ned appeared to be passed out on beach towel. Only Emma looked bored and ready to do something. “Come on, kids. Let’s go for a walk. We’ll see if we can find something to maim or cage.”
George raised both hands over his head and leaped to his feet. “Sharks!”
Sam stopped
beside Ned and nudged him with a sandy toe. “Come on, sleeping beauty.” Ned groaned, but he got up.
Clem was at his side in an instant. “Where are you taking them?”
Sam could see Flossy still watching him over her book. He sighed. “Just for a walk up the beach. Is that okay?”
She lifted one shoulder. “Okay. Just keep Maddy’s sun hat on. I don’t want her getting burned.”
“Got it.”
“And keep George out of the water. It’s too rough today.”
“Okay.”
She glanced back at the dunes again, and he wondered what had held her attention all morning. Her hair was tucked under her straw hat and for an instant, profiled against the white sand and flash of dune, the edges blurred and she could have been sixteen again. “Hey, sorry about what I said earlier,” he said. “How’re you holding up?”
Clem softened. “It’s fine. I’m just tired. Must be all this quality family time.” She tugged the brim of her hat down low, so he couldn’t quite make out her expression. But then, to his relief, she smiled.
Sam started after the kids. “Family vacation! It’s an oxymoron.”
The little ones bolted ahead and Ned lumbered after them. Sam was pleased when Evan fell into step beside him.
“What’s going on with you today?” Evan asked. The roar of the waves and the shouting from the kids almost drowned out the question, and for a moment Sam wasn’t sure he’d heard right.
“Going on?”
Evan bent to pick up a shell. He examined it, turning it over in his hand, and Sam saw a flash of purple and white as he tossed it back into a wave. “Yeah. You’re in an awfully generous mood.”
The Summer House Page 15
