Her own parents had never been close with the O’Connells. They had little in common and met only once or twice a year at some celebratory occasion, like Jon’s or Jane’s birthday or Thanksgiving or, very rarely, at a July Fourth barbeque at Larchmere. Tilda had always thought the O’Connells, Margaret and John, found Larchmere too grand, maybe even intimidating. Maybe it was Charlotte they found “above their station,” maybe Bill, too. Tilda had done her best to make her in-laws feel welcome at Larchmere but her best, she was afraid, had not been quite enough.
“There you are.”
Tilda turned toward the door. She had not heard it open.
“You’re being missed out front,” Hannah said. “Tessa Vickes wants to talk to you about her book group. She’s a little tipsy though, so don’t expect much literary insight.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“Are you okay? You were thinking of Frank, weren’t you?”
Tilda smiled halfheartedly. “Guilty as charged. I’m sorry.”
“First, stop saying you’re sorry. Second, come back outside. Maybe you should get a little tipsy, too. You’ve got that melancholy look on your face again.”
“Alcohol will make me feel sadder than I already do. Plus, I haven’t eaten much all day. I’d probably fall down.”
Hannah sighed, feigning exasperation. “Well, all right, there’s strawberry shortcake.”
Tilda felt enormous and sudden relief that she had this person in her life, that this person, with her good heart and her tousled red hair, loved her. “Thanks, Hannah,” she said, though words were inadequate to express what she felt. “I’m really glad you’re my sister.”
“Oh, come on.” Hannah grabbed Tilda’s arm and tugged her toward the door. “I hate when people get all sentimental on me. Besides, Tessa is waiting. You need to talk to her before she falls to the ground!”
15
Friday, July 20
It was the morning after the barbeque. Though tired from staying up too late the night before, Hannah had come with Tilda for a walk on the beach. She felt she needed some exercise after all she had eaten at the party. Frank had been the Grillmeister, no doubt, but Bobby wasn’t shabby, either. She defied anyone to pass up one of his burgers. (There had been hot dogs, too, in addition to the chowder and lobster and steamers and corn and strawberry shortcake. And beer.)
All morning, and prompted by her reading in the Book of Common Prayer in Larchmere’s library, Tilda had been thinking about her colleague Bea Harris. Bea taught geometry, had one young daughter, and was recently divorced. According to Bea, the whole mess was her husband’s doing. He had cheated. He had used money from their joint account to take his mistress on vacations. He had broken Bea’s heart and her spirit. Bea claimed that she had it much harder than Tilda, who had “only” had to deal with death, not with betrayal.
“Let me ask your opinion,” Tilda said to her sister. They had walked about a quarter mile down the beach in silence, until now. It was almost nine-thirty (they had come out late in deference to Hannah) and the beach was filling with people lugging chairs and coolers and Boogie Boards and kites. “Who do you think suffers most—someone who’s lost a loved one to another person or someone who’s lost a loved one to death?”
Hannah raised her eyebrows. “That’s a big question. I’m not sure I can say. On some levels all loss is equal, I suppose. All loss is hard to bear. What do you think?”
“I think,” Tilda said, “that you can qualify or quantify loss only theoretically. I don’t think that loss as experienced can, or should, be qualified or quantified.”
Hannah nodded.
“I think that the intensity of a particular loss can be determined only by the person experiencing the loss,” Tilda went on. “I’m sure that for particular people the loss of a grandparent might be far harder to bear than the loss of a parent. It all depends on the individual and her circumstances.”
“I guess I’d have to agree,” Hannah said now. “But what brought up this happy topic?”
Tilda told her about Bea. Hannah agreed that the woman had no right to judge the size or the weight of Tilda’s loss or to compare it to her own. But to be charitable, and Tilda always tried to be, Bea’s words had probably come from a deep and dark chasm of pain. There was a very good chance that Bea had not really intended to wound her friend; there was a very good chance that someday she would regret speaking as she had. Emotional pain made one do and say terribly hurtful things. It was to be expected and understood and even, if possible, forgiven.
“Chances are you didn’t want your husband to die,” Tilda said now, musingly. “Chances are you didn’t want him to go away. I won’t say that I don’t feel angry with Frank and at—at the universe, I guess, for allowing this to happen, for allowing Frank to die at the time and in the way he did. But I’m not angry with Frank—or the universe—in the same way I would be if he’d left me for another woman because of some ridiculous midlife crisis.”
Hannah laughed. “The person experiencing the midlife crisis wouldn’t call it ridiculous. It’s probably all too real and awful for him, or for her. Why else would an otherwise sane and reasonable person disrupt his or her life so entirely, which is usually what people suffering a midlife crisis do? Look at all those cheating, adulterous male politicians who have been in the news these past few years. Every one of them made a public fool of himself. Which is why we laugh at them at the same time we’re praying like mad that it will never happen to us.”
“You’ll never have a midlife crisis, Hannah,” Tilda said. “You’re too smart and levelheaded.”
Was she really? Wasn’t she having a midlife crisis at that very extended moment—debating whether to start a family or to—to what? To run away? “Let’s hope so,” she said with false cheer in her voice.
They walked a bit farther in silence, each occupied with her thoughts.
“I don’t know how to ‘create the conditions for affection,’” Tilda said suddenly. “I read that phrase recently, in a book, in a novel by Alexander McCall Smith. Do you know him? Of course you do. Everybody does. It’s a good phrase. It struck me very forcefully. With Frank, it was so easy, right from the start. Our relationship came so naturally. I didn’t have to create anything. Neither did he. It took almost no effort to fall in love, to get married.”
“Maybe that can happen again,” Hannah said. “Maybe another relationship can come naturally. If you, what was the phrase—‘create the conditions for affection’—which I take means to be open to other people. To be open to possibilities, to be imaginative.”
“But can you really be open when it’s a choice? I mean, can you force yourself to be open to others? It sounds very hard. I stumbled onto Frank all those years ago. And I was so young. Now…now I have to decide to be willing to stumble onto someone. That’s very different, isn’t it? You don’t intend to stumble. You just do.”
“I don’t know.” Hannah shrugged. “People seem to be stumbling on purpose all the time if you believe the claims of eHarmony and Match.com and all those other dating sites.”
“I can’t meet someone online,” Tilda said firmly. “It seems so…I don’t know. It’s just not me.”
“You are so old-fashioned. How do you do it? How do you survive in the twenty-first century?”
“I do just fine, thank you,” Tilda said. “I use the Internet. I do my banking online. I just have—preferences—for getting to know people.”
“Well, all I know is that you can’t go on like some, I don’t know, some medieval widow who shuts herself up in a convent for the rest of her days. You have to live your life.”
“Why?” Tilda countered. “No, really. Why can’t I just—I don’t know, endure life?”
“You’re right,” Hannah said. “You could choose to endure life rather than to live it, but how self-pitying is that? And doesn’t it seem like a crime against—I don’t know, life itself—to choose the path of least resistance? Life isn’t one of those novels where it’s no
ble and romantic to waste away, to pine for the man lost at sea or whatever. Not for me, anyway. And I don’t think it was for Frank, either. Not the Frank I knew as my brother-in-law. And as my friend. The last thing he would want is for you to be a martyr to his cause.”
A martyr to Frank’s cause! That doesn’t sound very appealing, Tilda thought. That sounded like something the narrator of “The Raven” would do, martyr himself to the cause of his dead loved one. She did not want to be a martyr!
“Let me ask you something,” she said now. “When you met Susan, did it feel right immediately? Did it feel natural to be together, right from the start?”
“Well, you have to remember we’d been set up by a mutual acquaintance,” Hannah said. “At least someone thought we’d be compatible, so we had a pretty good shot of success going in. So, yeah, there was definitely immediate attraction. I don’t know about ‘natural,’ though. I was a nervous wreck. Can you be natural and nervous at the same time?”
“Sure. Of course. I remember the very first time I saw Frank. I hadn’t met him yet, but just the sight of him across the classroom made me want to throw up.”
Hannah laughed. “Well, there’s the basis for a good relationship! Vomit!”
“Very funny. You know what I mean. I was just immediately attracted and immediately felt all funny inside.”
“I know,” Hannah conceded. “If you don’t care, you can’t be nervous. Well, on that note, I have to get back to the house. Mother Nature—Ms. Natural herself—is calling.”
They hurried back to the parking lot and Tilda’s car. Just before Tilda got into the driver’s seat, she scanned the horizon. Nothing.
16
It was later in the day and Hannah and Susan had driven down to the beach. Hannah was wearing a large brimmed hat, one of those hats with some sort of magic sun protection woven right in. It had cost her a small fortune but she was not eager to get skin cancer. Red-haired people, she had read, were much more likely to get skin cancer than people with other hair colorings. Susan’s head was bare. Her skin had been bronzing since May, in spite of her using sunscreen. She looked fantastic. Hannah was just a little bit jealous. It felt weird to be jealous of your spouse so she tried not to notice the appreciative stares sent Susan’s way.
It was just after noon and the beach was crowded. They walked to the right, around the bend of land where the ocean became the Ogunquit River, and settled on a blanket, their backs to the dunes.
Off to the right was a family with, it seemed to Hannah, every accoutrement you could possible buy for “fun in the sun.” Mom was sitting in a super-duper portable chair made of canvas; on one side was a cup holder, and on the other was a sort of tray for food or magazines or books. She wore a hat with an elongated visor and flap that covered the back of her neck. (Hannah preferred her own hat.)
The boy, maybe about nine years old, had a Boogie Board (which was pretty useless on this part of the beach; there were no substantial waves on the river), a water shooter (with which he soaked his father, who was reclining in his own super-duper portable lounge, every few minutes), an inflatable raft (in purple and neon green), and a disc that made a screeching noise when he flung it (though there was no one interested in catching and returning it).
The older girl, maybe about eleven, was trying in vain (there was no wind) to launch a huge kite in the shape of a butterfly. It was pink and purple. She had set up her own umbrella (pink) and blanket (purple) several feet away from the rest of her family. She was wearing wraparound sunglasses better suited to a lifeguard and a bikini (pink, naturally) that Hannah would blush to wear out of the dressing room.
The baby of the family, a girl about three, was wearing floats around her upper arms, an inflatable tube around her middle, and jelly shoes. (Okay, Hannah thought. You can’t fault her parents for protecting their baby.) Dad was hooked in to his iPhone. Mom’s nose (covered in zinc oxide) was in a book. Beside Dad sat an enormous cooler, the biggest cooler on wheels Hannah had ever seen.
Hannah turned to Susan. “Remember when you were a kid and all you brought to the beach was a pail and shovel? Maybe swim fins or a play scuba mask. What’s with all the stuff people lug to the beach these days? Aren’t the sand and sun and water enough?”
“You sound like an old curmudgeon.”
“I am an old curmudgeon.”
“They seem like a nice enough family.”
Hannah frowned. “How can you tell?”
“I don’t know,” Susan said. “I just can.”
“What about the bikini on the girl? That’s uncalled for. It’s unseemly.”
“Unseemly?” Susan looked at Hannah with puzzlement. “What’s with you today? Anyway, all adolescent girls dress more provocatively than they used to. I’m not saying it’s right or wrong. I’m just saying it needs to be recognized and managed. By the parents, not by you.”
Hannah shrugged. She could have her opinion. When—if—she ever had a daughter there was no way in hell she would be wearing a bikini before the age of…well, eighteen might be pushing things a bit, but her point would be made.
“I would love to have a boy and a girl,” Susan said then. “One of each. That would be perfect.”
“You are so traditional!”
Susan shrugged. “So? And I’d like them to be pretty close in age. I think there’s a better chance of their growing up to be good friends that way. Look at my family. We’re all eighteen months to two years or so apart. And we’re all friends.”
“Yeah, but look,” Hannah said, nodding toward the family to their right. “That mother has a babysitter right in her own family.” Not that the eleven-year-old looked like the most responsible kid around. Or the smartest. Now she was trying to jump rope on the shifting sand. “The older sister or brother can help out with the younger kids. That seems like a pretty good deal.”
“Oh, I’m sure it can be, if that’s what you want. But not for me.” Susan turned to face Hannah. “I’m already thirty-four, Hannah. I don’t want to be giving birth into my forties. Not if I can help it.”
Hannah felt the guilt again. She knew she was putting a strain on the relationship by prevaricating. She had been up front about her love of children. She had said she was open to the possibility of a family. She did not want to be judged as a liar. And she did not want to lose her marriage.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry I’m still hesitating about this. About starting a family.”
Susan turned to her but Hannah couldn’t see her eyes behind her dark glasses. “I know it’s a tough decision. I just wish you’d talk to me about what exactly is holding you back.”
“I know,” Hannah said. “I’m trying.”
Susan turned back to face the water. “John. Or James. Maybe Stephen.”
“What?”
“The names I’d consider for a boy. Nothing oddball. For a girl, maybe Elizabeth. Or Margaret, after my aunt. Something classic. Catherine is nice.”
“I wonder what Kat’s real name is.”
“Kat. I asked her.”
“Oh.” Hannah shifted, trying to get comfortable on the blanket. “I’ve got to remember to bring a beach chair next time. My back is killing me. I’m too old to be sitting crossed-legged on the sand.”
“You’re not too old for anything. Except maybe miniskirts. Really, Hannah, why do you talk as if you’re about to toddle off to the nursing home?”
“Sorry. I don’t know.” She didn’t know, not really. She did know that old people shouldn’t be talking about starting a family. Oh, crap, Hannah thought. Am I trying to sabotage this whole family thing? Am I trying to convince myself that I’m too old to take on that sort of responsibility? No. That wasn’t it at all. Her hesitation was not about being too old. It was about being too Charlotte.
“Race you to the water?” Hannah said suddenly.
Susan grinned. “Loser buys winner a present?”
Hannah leapt to her feet. “You’re on!”
It was
late that afternoon. Hannah (who had won the race and chosen a bag of nonpareilles from Harbor Candy as her treat) had come out to the front garden to clip flowers for the house. The hydrangeas were fat and vividly purple and would look wonderful in the squat blue glass vase Susan had given Ruth last Christmas. Hollyhocks—magenta, orange, pink—were stunning but too tall for an inside display. At least, Hannah couldn’t see what to do with them, but she wasn’t the most creative person. A handful of black-eyed Susans would look fun in the kitchen (anyone could see that!), and maybe a white rose in a slim vase for the sunroom.
Before she began to clip the flowers she spotted her younger brother sitting cross-legged on the lawn, staring out over the ocean. She immediately assumed he wanted to be alone, but she found herself approaching him anyway.
“Wouldn’t a chair be more comfortable?”
Craig looked over his shoulder, then back out to sea. “I’m fine.”
Hannah dropped down next to him. “What are you doing?”
“Thinking.”
“About what?”
“The meaning of my life. And no, I’m not joking.”
“Since when are you so ruminative?”
“I’ve always been ruminative. Though I’m not sure I’ve ever used that particular word—ruminative—to describe myself. I’ve always been thoughtful. Full of thought if not always attentive to the needs of others.”
“Is that why you haven’t gotten married, because you can’t be properly attentive to someone else’s needs?”
Craig was visibly taken aback.
“I didn’t mean that as an insult,” Hannah said quickly. “I think it’s smart to know your limitations. It’s smart to admit to your own flaws and faults.”
“And strengths,” Craig said. “Let’s not forget my strengths, vague as they may be. But that’s not why I haven’t gotten married.” He hesitated to go on. He really didn’t want to have this conversation, not now, maybe not ever.
The Family Beach House Page 11
