She went into her room and closed the door behind her. Her beloved Larchmere! Before Grandpa Will had bought the house, it had been, as far as anyone knew, without a name. But Grandpa Will had decided to call the house Larchmere for, Tilda supposed, the number of larches, a type of pine, rimming the back edge of the property. She knew that “mere” meant a small, standing body of water, but as far as she knew there hadn’t been such a thing on the land since before her grandfather’s time. Another meaning for “mere”—and she had looked it up as a child—was boundary. That made a bit more sense. The larch pines themselves formed a sort of boundary, and she knew of the remains of an old stone wall in their depths.
The house, built largely of stone, was composed of two floors and a large basement in which Charlotte had installed a small gym and a finished laundry room. On the first floor were the kitchen, a powder room (added by Bill and Charlotte), the dining room, the library, the living room, and a screened-in sunroom (also an addition by Bill and Charlotte). Charlotte, a devotee of the sun, had opened up walls wherever possible and added windows, eager to make the big old house as bright and open as it could be. There was a stone fireplace in the living room, used often in winter, and an iron, wood-burning stove in the library, which gave off a tremendous heat. Across the entire front of the house and around one side ran a covered porch, decorated with wicker chairs and love seats, painted white, and small tables of varying heights. When Charlotte was alive there had also been an ornate, thronelike wicker rocker, hers especially, but after her death, it had been relegated to the basement. Tilda was not sure why, or who had made the decision to remove this very personal piece of furniture from the family’s sight. Maybe her father had not been able to bear the sight of anyone but his wife in it.
On the second floor of the house were the master bedroom and bathroom, facing the front lawn, off which sat a small but lovely deck; a second full bathroom; and four bedrooms of varying size. To accommodate extra guests, the library had a big, brown leather sleeper couch. Craig, used to sleeping in his van, on other people’s beds—indeed, on any horizontal surface he could find—often bunked down in the library, leaving one of the upstairs bedrooms empty. As he was an avid reader, like Tilda, his retreat to the library made a certain sense.
Ruth’s bedroom was, interestingly, as she had had a choice, the smallest of the four, and decorated (some would say crammed) with exotica from her travels. There was a swath of watered blue silk, hung from a rod on the wall, that she had picked up in England. On the floor was an antique patterned rug from Iran. On her dresser sat an intricately carved jade box from China, in which she kept her most precious jewelry. Her many handbags were stored floor to ceiling on custom-made shelves. Tilda remembered these details from a permitted visit years earlier. Ruth kept her door locked, though a cat door had been cut out near its base for Percy, her gray and white, five-year-old longhair, to come and go as he pleased.
Tilda sat heavily on the edge of the bed now. Ruth’s comment, that she thought her father’s relationship was serious, was weighing on her. Serious meant marriage, especially for a man of Bill’s generation and disposition. Marriage meant that what was mine was yours and vice versa. Larchmere was Bill’s. Would it someday also be Jennifer Fournier’s?
Tilda put her head in her hands. She knew she was being dramatic, imagining the worst possible thing that could happen. But she couldn’t help herself. With her father romantically involved it felt as if the very foundations of her life were compromised. Larchmere might soon pass out of the family McQueen. And what would happen to her then?
She simply couldn’t imagine Larchmere not being home. She simply could not.
The McQueens met for dinner that evening in the dining room, the only somewhat formal room in the house and only used when family or friends were staying at Larchmere. Charlotte had enjoyed collecting fine china, which she displayed in a tall and unusually deep cabinet she had bought at an antique shop in Kennebunkport. She had also enjoyed collecting expensive linen table settings—cloths, runners, placemats, and napkins. These were kept in a large, low credenza, on top of which was displayed a Murano glass bowl Charlotte had purchased while traveling in Italy with an expensive tour group one summer. It had never occurred to Tilda to ask her father for a tablecloth, or vintage milk glass creamer and sugar bowl set, or the set of sterling silver napkin rings her mother had bought in a SoHo gallery in New York, as a memento of her mother. Tilda’s own home furnishings were of a much simpler and less fine sort and she felt that her mother’s possessions would be very out of place in her own relatively humble South Portland home.
The family gathered around one end of the oval-shaped dining room table, Bill and Ruth, Hannah and Susan, and Tilda. Percy kept a close eye on the meal from the top of the credenza. If it bothered anyone that a very furry cat chose to be in the vicinity of food, no one had the nerve to complain about this to Ruth. (If Charlotte were alive, however, Percy would have long since been banished from the dining room.)
“Look at us,” Hannah said. “We could be a print ad for L.L. Bean.” It was true. Hannah was wearing chinos, white boat sneakers without the laces, and a coral colored, lightweight cotton sweater. Susan wore a chino skirt, blue boat sneakers, and a striped linen big shirt tied at the waist. Tilda had changed into fairly new, tan chinos and a lemon yellow cardigan over a matching T-shirt. Bill wore a blue Oxford cloth button-down shirt tucked into pressed chinos. Only Ruth looked urban and out of place, in black linen slacks and a crisp, tailored, very white blouse with the starched collar turned up. Around her neck she wore a bold silver disc on a black silk cord. Her flats were also black silk. She could have been off for luncheon at MOMA in New York City.
Ruth reminded them—not that anyone had forgotten—that Adam, his new fiancée, and his children were due to arrive the next day.
“I’m dying to meet Adam’s fiancée,” Tilda said. “I can’t imagine what she’ll be like.”
Hannah laughed. “Oh, can’t you? I’ve got a pretty good idea. At least, I know she’ll be a whole lot younger than Adam.”
“There’s nothing necessarily wrong with that,” Ruth commented, with a look at her brother. Bill, busily eating, did not seem very interested in the women’s speculations.
“Of course not,” Susan agreed. “But it won’t be easy on Sarah if Adam marries someone much younger.”
Ruth, who had remained close to her nephew’s ex-wife, shook her head. “I wouldn’t worry about Sarah, if I were you. She’s not the sort who’s easily thrown by such trivia.”
“But,” Tilda said, “she will be concerned about what kind of person is going to be her children’s stepmother.”
Ruth nodded. “Of course, as well she should be. Still, she won’t be able to prevent Adam from marrying whomever he pleases.”
Hannah, who was feeling impatient with the talk of Adam’s soon-to-be wife, took it upon herself to move on to the topic she and her sister really wanted to discuss. “So, Dad,” she said, with false casualness, “speaking of relationships, Ruth tells us that you’re seeing someone. Romantically, I mean.”
Bill looked up from his plate and blushed. His embarrassment embarrassed Tilda. But he didn’t seem in the least bit ashamed, and that angered her. Her anger, irrational, further embarrassed her. She reached for her wineglass.
“Well, as a matter of fact I am,” he said.
Now that the subject had been introduced, Hannah didn’t know what else to say. She looked helplessly to her sister. Tilda shook her head. Plenty of thoughts were racing in her mind but none of them was able to emerge as a coherent comment or question.
Susan, who was sitting next to Bill—Ruth was at the head of the table—patted his hand. “Well,” she said, “I think it’s great, Bill. We look forward to meeting her.”
“She’ll be here for the memorial, but you’ll meet her before that. We see each other pretty often, whenever her business allows.”
Tilda was stunned. Her father’s girlfri
end would be attending Charlotte McQueen’s memorial? Ruth was right; this relationship was, indeed, serious. She wondered if Jennifer Fournier enjoyed sailing and then thought: What a bizarre thing to wonder about!
Because Charlotte McQueen had died in a sailing accident. She had been out with a friend and had stumbled over a coil of rope that perhaps should not have been where it was. She had fallen and hit her head and that had been that. She was dead instantly. It was a death vaguely romantic and without obvious mess, something, Hannah thought, befitting the rather snobbish Charlotte. Aware of its harsh character, she, thus far, had only shared her opinion with Susan.
“We’re all very happy for you, Bill,” Susan was saying now. “Aren’t we?”
“Yes,” Ruth said emphatically. “We are.”
Reluctantly, Tilda and Hannah murmured their assent.
Tilda was sitting at the window of her bedroom. The lights were off in the room, which meant that she could see the designs of the trees in the dark outside, branches long and clawing, trunks black against the blue night. She couldn’t sleep. She was worried about the uncertain future of her beloved Larchmere. She was worried about her own uncertain future.
What would happen to her if her father remarried and the family home ceased to be the family home? It scared her to think of the house being lost to a stranger. But it also scared her to think about the possibility of her father leaving Larchmere to all four McQueen children. There would be absolute chaos! It would be impossible to negotiate with Adam, who always had to be right, and as for Craig, he would just take off and leave the others to pay his share of the upkeep. Tilda loved her younger brother but she wasn’t blind to his faults. As for Hannah…Well, Tilda suddenly realized she had absolutely no idea how her sister felt about the possibility of inheriting Larchmere. Hannah and Bill were very close. There was no reason her sister could not be considered a possible sole heir.
And if Hannah were to inherit Larchmere, would she cherish and protect it the way Tilda knew it deserved? Again, she had absolutely no idea. They had never talked about the house and what it meant to them. They had simply taken it for granted.
An owl hooted. Tilda thought he sounded melancholy. She hugged herself tightly. Was there nothing upon which she could rely? Death took loved ones away. It had stolen her mother and her husband. Time and distance could loosen emotional ties. And now, what if her father remarried and as a result, even Larchmere, her beloved home, was stolen from her?
Life was loss. She knew that. And she had been as prepared as anyone could be for the impending death of a loved one. She had read books and articles in magazines and online. She had bought a copy of Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’s classic book, On Death and Dying, and dutifully read it through.
She knew all about the five stages of grief. First there would be denial. That would be followed by anger, and then by bargaining. Next would come depression and finally, at long last, there would come acceptance.
She also knew that the stages of grief were not distinct. She knew that they sometimes overlapped and nipped at each other’s heels. She was prepared to feel numb. She was prepared for the deep yearnings for Frank that would threaten to overwhelm her. She was prepared for the bouts of awful sadness, for the tears, for the withdrawing from friends and family.
She was as prepared as it was possible to be, which meant that when Frank finally died she was hardly prepared at all.
On the AARP Web site (she had turned everywhere for help) she had been told that grief, like life, doesn’t proceed in an orderly fashion. “Mourning,” they had said, “cannot happen without your participation.” Too bad, she had thought. Because mourning was exhausting and surprising, no matter how prepared you thought you were.
She was tired now. She got up from her seat by the window and crawled into the bed. She still slept on the right side though she could have slept on the left or diagonally, or right in the middle of the bed if she chose. But she didn’t choose.
4
Monday, July 16
It was early, not quite seven in the morning, and the air was just beginning to warm. Tilda stood gazing out over the water. The beach was almost entirely empty. A few runners, a few solitary strollers, a few hobby fishermen, and Tilda, who had walked Ogunquit Beach more times than she could ever count.
She began now to walk in the direction of Wells, her eyes fixed to the sand in search of the ever elusive, whole sand dollar. She knew people who had found them, albeit very small ones, on Ogunquit Beach. She just had never found one herself.
“Hello, Tilda McQueen O’Connell!”
Tilda looked up and smiled. “Tessa Vickes!” It was Teddy’s wife, another early morning walker. She was walking from Wells, down close to the waterline. She was wearing a cotton-candy pink sweatshirt and her thick, beautiful white hair was tied back in a simple braid.
“Beautiful day!” Tessa shouted as she continued to walk.
“Yes, it is!” Tilda waved and walked on, as well.
Tessa and Teddy had been married for almost fifty years. Tilda thought they were adorable together, still affectionate and clearly happy. She had never heard mention of children or grandchildren. Maybe Tessa and Teddy had not had a family. Maybe a child had died. Tilda knew she could ask her aunt about this but she didn’t want to. There was something almost sacred about a couple’s past, especially the past of a couple who had been together for so long.
Not that Tilda would ever experience such a long marriage, though she knew she should be grateful—and she was—for the twenty-odd years she and Frank had enjoyed. Those twenty-odd, almost perfect years…
Increasingly, Tilda found herself wondering about nostalgia, or, more specifically, about romanticizing her past with Frank. She wondered if the process was inevitable and necessary and if so, she wondered if it had already begun. Was nostalgia destructive if it became extreme? She thought that it might be. Still, at this point, a little over two years after Frank’s death, she could barely remember ever arguing with him and what conflict she did remember had no emotional weight.
Like the time a few years back when he had invited his out-of-work cousin, Ben, to stay with them until he got back on his feet—without first asking his wife. Frank had apologized profusely, claiming he had been guilted into making the offer by his aunt. Whatever the reason behind Frank’s offer, the reality was that Cousin Ben was entirely ungrateful. He never offered to help with meals, or to clean the bathroom he used. He came home at all hours and more than once he went out while forgetting to lock the front door behind him. Frank had talked to him several times but to no avail. Cousin Ben was with them for almost five months until a friend offered him a better free deal, after which time they had found a few items missing, including a pearl necklace Tilda’s mother had given her for her twenty-first birthday.
God, she had been furious with Frank, but now the entire episode seemed unreal, a false memory, meaningless, something that might have happened to strangers.
Tilda passed a group of about seven or eight snowy white and gray seagulls, sitting perfectly still on the sand, looking in the direction of the morning tide. They looked like seven or eight Aladdin’s lamps. The thought amused her.
Ogunquit Beach was always alive with animal life—piping plovers, terns, gulls, stranded seals, who were then, mercifully, rescued and rehabilitated by wildlife experts. On occasion, Tilda had even seen an eagle gliding high over the low grassy dunes. But though she searched the sky each time she went down to the beach, she had not seen another eagle since a month before Frank’s death.
Tilda heard mad screeching behind her and turned to see the Aladdin’s lamps take flight. One had probably spotted a potential meal and the race was on. She turned and continued her walk.
In all the mysteries and ghost stories she had read, contact with the other world seemed to come so easily to the characters. But real people, too, claimed they had communicated with the spirits of the dead and Tilda saw no reason not to believe them. Who was she
to say that only what was visible was real? There were more things in heaven and earth than were dreamt of in man’s philosophy. Of course, there were cranks among those who swore they had had supernatural experiences. But there were cranks everywhere. You just had to choose to believe and to proceed carefully.
So it made sense that after Frank’s passing she half thought that somehow she would be able to contact him, or that he would be able to contact her. Maybe, she thought, they would be able to have actual conversations of a sort. Soon after he died she began to look for signs of otherworldly communication but, to her dismay, found none. But she kept her mind open to possibilities. She talked to Frank in her head and out loud, when she was alone, but it was as if she was talking only to herself. Frank was not hearing her and she was not hearing him. His ghost or his spirit, if such a thing existed—and Tilda believed that it did, though she couldn’t say how, exactly—was gone. Tilda was alone, with only the memories.
The silence was deafening. Tilda’s soul was stagnant. Of course, she had considered seeking the help of a medium or a psychic. They were in every town. There was one right in Portland’s Old Port. But she just didn’t trust herself to make an informed decision about who was genuine and who was a fake. She continued to believe, but cautiously.
Then, early in the spring, on the second anniversary of Frank’s death and a few months before her mother’s memorial, Tilda had made a decision. She decided to believe that Frank would send an eagle to her. It would be his message that it was okay to move on, that it was time to stop mourning and to begin living. He would send it when the time was right. The eagle would be Frank’s blessing.
It was a comforting notion. But, Tilda being Tilda, she began to wonder what would happen if Frank failed to send her that blessing. What if she never did see another eagle over Ogunquit Beach? What then? Would she be doomed to live in darkness and sorrow for the rest of her life? Was that what Frank would want?
The Family Beach House Page 3
