The Family Beach House

by Holly Chamberlin

  “What could he and Dad possibly have in common? Talk about an odd couple. The guy reeks of fish.”

  “He does not!” Tilda cried. Then, embarrassed that she might have been overheard, she spoke in almost a whisper. “That’s a totally mean thing to say, Adam.”

  Adam shrugged. “I’m going to get another drink,” he said, and walked off in the direction of the bar that had been set up on the porch.

  “No, thanks,” Tilda muttered. “I’ll get my own.” She looked back to where the grills were set up and saw Bobby handing Jennifer a burger. She said something and he laughed heartily. It looked like Bobby approved of his friend’s new girlfriend. And if Bobby approved of her, maybe even liked her, Tilda thought, maybe Jennifer really was okay.

  Tilda turned away. Why did things have to change? She would have preferred not to know that her mother had disliked Bobby. She would have preferred that her father had never met Jennifer. She would have preferred that Frank be at the grills, presiding, like in the old days. Like in the wonderfully innocent old days.

  Bill McQueen was wearing that awful hat, the one he had bought after Charlotte’s death. Hannah thought it made him look kind of goofy, but in an endearing way. He was talking to Bobby, his old friend. At first glance they seemed an unlikely duo. Bill was tall and slim where Bobby was short and stocky, a virtual wall of muscle. Bill’s skin was relatively un-lined, and pale. Bobby’s face was a map of deep creases and the color of caramel. Bill had gone to college, then graduate school. Hannah knew for a fact that Bobby, though fantastically well-read, had dropped out of high school. Bill had made a living in an office, wearing a suit and tie. Bobby made his living in rough clothes, out on rough waters. Bill had had a family. As far as Hannah knew, Bobby had never even been married. Still, it was clear to Hannah that the men shared a deep bond. Maybe it was a case of opposites attracting. Maybe their mutual love for Ruth was the bond. She didn’t know and she supposed it didn’t matter.

  Hannah sipped her beer. What she did know was that she had an awful lot of wonderful memories of big summer parties on the lawn, and of more intimate winter parties around a decorated tree, and an awful lot of wonderful memories, too, of small, random, seemingly insignificant moments. There were the summer nights when she and sometimes Craig, too, had camped out in the gazebo, scaring themselves silly with ghost stories and gory tales of campers being eaten by bears and trampled by moose. They had never run back to the protection of the house, though. She and Craig had had guts, not like Adam and Tilda, who rarely, if ever, broke the rules or challenged themselves physically.

  Maybe, in the end, Adam and Tilda were the smarter ones, not taking chances. But boy, Hannah had had fun! Once she had attempted to build a tree house, all on her own, in the biggest oak on the property. It was a rudimentary structure when completed but she was very proud of it. Until the floor gave way and she came tumbling to earth with it. She broke her wrist and was in a cast for what seemed like forever to a ten-year-old. She remembered her mother being very, very angry about the incident. Her father had promised to help her build another tree house, when she was all mended, but somehow, that particular thrill had worn off.

  Bill caught her eye now and waved. She smiled and waved back.

  Hannah was aware of her father’s preference for her. She assumed that he tried to hide it, for the sake of his other children—he was a fair man—but it was obvious all the same. She was sure pretty much everyone knew that she was the favorite. And her father was the parent she had always loved best. She really had had no choice. She had never felt close with her mother, ever. Their relationship had been tepid from the start and had only grown cooler when Hannah had come out while in college.

  As Charlotte increasingly lost interest in her younger daughter, Bill, in contrast, began to show Hannah even more affection, as if to prove that he loved her unconditionally, as if to make up for her mother’s lack of concern.

  Charlotte had been perfectly, distantly polite to the girlfriends (not that there were many) Hannah had brought home on occasion, but after a while, Hannah had stopped bringing anyone home, friends or lovers. She had come to realize that being virtually ignored hurt more than being openly vilified. Someone had said that indifference, not hate, was the opposite of love. Hannah agreed.

  But things had changed after her mother’s death. Hannah had felt free to visit Larchmere more frequently. The house felt warmer, more welcoming, without her mother’s chilly, silently critical presence. And then she had met Susan, who immediately fit seamlessly into the McQueen family, which only made visits to Larchmere that much more appealing.

  Now Hannah watched as Susan crossed the yard, walking in her direction. She looked lovely that night, dressed in a lilac, ankle length, spaghetti-strap dress in some crinkly fabric. She wore flat, silver sandals and her hair was piled up in a messy, sexy twist. She was smiling.

  “Your dad looks like he’s having a good time,” she said when she joined Hannah.

  “Yeah.”

  “But you look distracted. What are you thinking about?”

  Hannah smiled. “Oh, nothing. Just how glad I am that you and I are here, at Larchmere, together.”

  Susan smiled back and squeezed Hannah’s hand. “I’m glad, too.”

  13

  “Kat seems entirely out of her element,” Craig commented to his sister. They were standing together on the lawn. Craig was on a break from grill duty. Hannah was on her third beer. “Of course, I have no idea what her natural element is, or where it is, for that matter. I just know that she looks like she wants to bolt.”

  “I know. And poor Cordelia. Look at her, she’s practically clinging to Kat but Kat hardly even seems to notice.”

  Maybe Kat didn’t like children all that much, Hannah wondered. Maybe she didn’t like Cordelia in particular, though the girl was pretty sweet. Or maybe the fact of Cordelia’s being Adam’s daughter disconcerted her. Whatever the reason, Hannah felt bad for the little girl.

  Teddy Vickes joined them. He had been Bill’s lawyer, and friend, for as long as Hannah could remember. He had to be in his eighties by now, though his mind seemed as sharp as ever. Teddy’s benign, friendly manner belied the fact that he was a tough and fair-minded and dedicated lawyer. His wife, Tessa, had made a career as a homemaker and seemed to enjoy taking a backseat to Teddy’s popularity. She seemed, Hannah thought, very proud of her husband. When not cleaning house (it was spotless) and cooking and baking (she was very good in the kitchen) Tessa volunteered at York Hospital in whatever capacity was needed, sometimes in the café, sometimes in the gift shop, on occasion in the wards themselves.

  “Hard to believe it’s been ten years since Charlotte passed,” Teddy said, with a shake of his totally bald head. “Seems like only yesterday.”

  Craig murmured something unintelligible. Hannah nodded.

  “I’ll never forget how she always wore a scarf around her neck or her shoulders, even on the hottest days. And I don’t think I ever saw the same scarf twice! I’ll bet she had hundreds of those things. Silk scarves, some flimsy material that was maybe chiffon, my wife would know, fur scarves in the winter. Charlotte loved her scarves.”

  “Yes,” Hannah said. “She did have a flair with clothes.” And if she had loved her children as much as she had loved her scarves, then maybe… Hannah knew she was being unfair to the memory of her mother—how could Charlotte fight back against the accusations?—but right then, she just didn’t care.

  Ruth joined their little group. She had just set out plates of cookies, brownies, and lemon squares, all made by Tessa Vickes, on a nearby table. Cody and his sister had been rooted there since Ruth appeared, burdened with goodies. It happened in a split second, as lots of accidents do. Cody, reaching for a cookie, put his hand a bit too close to the flame of one of the low, and supposedly “safe,” candles.

  “Ow!” Cody stared down at his finger and started to cry, which struck Craig, Hannah, and Ruth as the perfectly normal thing to do.

/>   Adam and Kat seemed to appear from nowhere. Kat yelped and put her hand to her mouth. Adam put his hands on his hips. “What were you doing, putting your finger so close to the flame? Haven’t I taught you better?”

  “It was an accident, Daddy!” Cordelia, ever the protective big sister, protested. “He didn’t mean to do it!”

  Kat still had her hand pressed to her mouth. Now she put it down and cried, “Oh, my God, what do we do? Is he going to be all right?”

  Jennifer, who had been hovering, watching, closer to Adam and the children than to Craig and the others, now stepped in. “Of course he’s going to be all right,” she said. “It’s only a tiny little burn. It probably won’t even blister. Come on, Cody, how about I take you inside and we put some cold water and a Band-Aid on that finger?” Jennifer reached out and Cody quickly, gratefully took her hand. They went off toward the house. Together, Adam and Kat drifted away, seemingly glad to let someone else solve their problem. Cordelia tagged behind her father, a cookie in one hand and a brownie in the other. It seemed that Adam had forgotten to reprimand her for eating sugar.

  Hannah and Craig shared a meaningful look. “Adam’s going to have to hire a nanny,” Hannah said. “That’s clear.”

  “Jen seems to be good with children, though.”

  Or she’s just sucking up to her boyfriend’s grandkids, Hannah thought. “Mmm,” she said.

  Ruth nodded. “She told me that she and her ex-husband had tried to have a baby but it just wasn’t going to happen. He refused to adopt. That was years ago.” Ruth, herself, had never wanted a family, but being of an empathetic nature, she thought she could begin to understand how the disappointment of not being able to have children could damage a person for a long, long time.

  “That’s too bad,” Craig said.

  “Yeah.” Hannah was beginning to get uncomfortable with the conversation. She wondered if Jennifer’s divorce had been one of the results of the failed attempt to have a family. She looked around for Susan, whom she had not seen in a while. She spotted her chatting with Nancy, the town’s librarian, across the lawn.

  “Excuse me,” she said to her brother and her aunt. She went to join her wife.

  As the sun faded and the evening grew darker and cooler, sweaters were fetched from cars and the house, candles were lit, and someone—probably Craig, Hannah thought—put on a selection of jazz music.

  An owl was hooting in the darkened trees and the lapping of the tide could just be heard if you listened hard enough. The gazebo was lit with strings of tiny lights and several small candles in glass holders were set on the table within. Much of the food was set out there. The corn on the cob was from New Jersey, as Maine corn came in best late in the summer. Tessa Vickes had brought the mammoth pot of fish chowder, which was, as usual on such occasions, the first to go. Just enough cream, big chunks of haddock and halibut, a perfect sprinkling of black pepper—the chowder was agreed to be excellent.

  Though not really party food—they were pretty messy as a rule—there were steamers, courtesy of one of Bobby’s friends, who dug them out of the water right in front of his house and sold them to a select few. Tilda considered the first steamers of the summer—not lobster—the real start of the season. Mainers ate lobster all year round. It was only those “from away” who considered lobster a warm weather indulgence.

  Tilda, who had settled in a chair with a plate on her lap, thought again of Frank’s traditional role at these McQueen family summer events. He really had been the grill guy extraordinaire. If it could be eaten, Frank could find a way to cook it on the grill. He had even mastered grilled desserts. Tilda missed his grilled fruit pizzas, but most of all she missed his specialty, the dessert he was happy to make whenever she asked for it, a grilled peach melba served with vanilla ice cream and homemade balsamic raspberry sauce. She knew that if she asked Bobby to follow Frank’s recipe he would make the dessert for her, but she never asked him to. It would feel too much like trying to substitute Frank. Frank could not be substituted.

  Tilda had loved when Frank would come to bed after a party smelling all smokey. He had always offered to take a shower first but she had always told him not to bother. There was definitely something sexy about a man and his grill. She even knew a woman whose husband had gotten a first date with her by building a grill in her backyard. Now, that was a very smart move.

  The big charcoal grill at their—at her—home in South Portland had stood unused, under its black leather cover, since a few months before Frank’s death when he had last had the strength to use it. His baseball style cap with the word “Grillmeister” on it, a gift from Jon, hung unworn in the hall closet.

  Tilda looked down at the untouched plate of food on her lap, and then over to where Bobby and Craig were sharing grill duty. Adam had never been one to enjoy getting his hands dirty or his clothes smelly. Her father, Bill, had abdicated to Frank years before. She wasn’t sure if Teddy even knew how to grill, what with Tessa being such a fantastic cook.

  Suddenly, Tilda felt overwhelmed by sadness. She got up, tossed her plate in one of the garbage bins Bill had provided on the lawn, and escaped into Larchmere.

  14

  The library was quiet, at the back of the house, away from the party out on the front lawn, but Tilda could still hear the distant din and hum of voices and music. Tilda loved Larchmere’s library. This room alone seemed to belong in an English country manor, not in a house near the beach. (For the first time Tilda wondered if the decor and atmosphere of the room had been her mother’s or her father’s decision.) A large, old, colorful but almost threadbare Asian rug covered much of the floor. The wall-to-wall bookshelves were stained a dark brown. The leather sleeper couch was also dark brown. Two high-backed armchairs, one, faded chintz, the other, faded green velvet, settled on either side of the wood-burning stove. A portrait of Larchmere hung over the stove, painted by a friend of her father’s long since dead. Black and white, framed photographs, sitting on a large wooden desk, showed Tilda’s grandparents, both sets, on their wedding days. Her parents’ wedding portrait was in her father’s room.

  Tilda turned on the lamp that stood on the desk. It had a brass stand and a green glass shade. She angled the shade so she could better see the books on the shelves to the right of the desk. She found what she had hoped to find. There was a Book of Common Prayer in Larchmere’s library, as well as a copy of the King James Bible, the Book of Mormon, and the Koran. Craig had contributed a copy of the I Ching back when he was in college and interested in such things. Tilda took down the Book of Common Prayer. Its red leather covers were clean and the edges straight. No one in the McQueen family could be considered overly religious. Somewhat interested in religions, yes, but not religious.

  A minister of the Unitarian Universalist Church had married Tilda and Frank. Frank’s parents had wanted them to be married in the Catholic Church, in which he had been raised. But Frank just didn’t feel deeply about the religion of his youth. Now, twenty some-odd years later, Tilda couldn’t recall the exact words of her own marriage ceremony. They had written their own vows but Tilda had not looked at her wedding book, where they were recorded, for years. Had there even been prayers, in the traditional sense?

  She opened the red leather book and found what she was looking for. She read in a soft voice, almost a whisper:

  “Matilda, will you have this man to be your husband; to live together in the covenant of marriage? Will you love him, comfort him, honor and keep him, in sickness and in health; and forsaking all others, be faithful to him as long as you both shall live?”

  There was another version of the vow, and Tilda read that, too.

  “In the Name of God, I, Matilda, take you, Francis, to be my husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until we are parted by death. This is my solemn vow.”

  If she had spoken those words, it seemed that she would be let off the hook, now
that Frank was gone. Why should she feel scared or nervous about meeting another man? Why should she feel guilty about marrying again? She had kept her marital commitment to stay with Frank until one of them died. He had died. She had not.

  Tilda closed the book and returned it to the shelf. She knew that the vows she and Frank had written had not mentioned illness or death. Love, of course, respect, and compassion. But nothing about dying.

  She turned and walked to the other side of the room, where her wedding portrait was displayed. Someone—her father, she assumed—had put it away when Frank died, probably in an effort to spare her more pain. Which, of course, was ridiculous. Out of sight did not always mean out of mind. Tilda had soon rescued it from a drawer in the desk and returned it to its usual place, propped on a shelf against some of the least read books in Larchmere’s library. (In her own home, the portrait hung in the living room, amid graduation photos of her kids, formal family Christmas portraits, and Hannah and Susan’s official wedding photo.)

  Tilda looked carefully at the photo in its silver frame. How young she had looked—how young she had been! And even skinnier than she was now! And Frank…She had never noticed it before but looking at the portrait now she thought that Frank looked absolutely terrified! The awful thought struck her that maybe he had been unsure of marrying her, hoping for a last-minute escape, a reprieve. Ridiculous. He had probably just been uncomfortable in his tuxedo, scared he would pop a button at a wrong moment, or spill red wine all over his starched white shirt.

  His parents were gone now, dead within a year of each other, victims of cancer, about three years before Frank got sick. They had been in their forties when Frank, their only child, was born, a late and a surprise baby, a cherished gift neither had realized they had wanted so dearly. Abundant and unconditional love had helped Frank become the happy person he was, the smile of joy to Tilda’s frown of worry. It was sad that such good and generous people, all three of them, had died such miserable deaths. But good didn’t mean lucky, or exemption from life’s harsher realities.