Hannah knew when she wasn’t wanted. “Well, I’d better go,” she said, standing. “Ow. I still think a chair would be more comfortable. What is it with people like you and Susan and your flexibility?”
Craig smiled a bit. “We’re younger than you.”
“Don’t rub it in.” Hannah walked back up the lawn to the front garden to gather her flowers.
Craig continued to stare out over the ocean. It looked intensely blue that afternoon. He didn’t blame his sister for conjecturing the reason for his single status. He was pretty sure most of his family wondered about his choice to live on his own, to roam, to take each day as it came. For that matter, he wondered, too, sometimes, more now than ever before, why he lived the way he lived. He wondered why he didn’t—why he couldn’t—make a commitment to a woman, to a job, to a place with four walls, a floor, and a roof.
Craig got up abruptly. He wanted to go swimming. He hoped the water was very cold.
17
Tilda was in Perkins Cove. It was crowded, of course, and Tilda felt torn between annoyance and tolerance for the tourists and day-trippers. She wanted the Cove to herself all year round. She knew she was being selfish but it was hard not to feel possessive of beauty and of a place that held so many good memories.
And Perkins Cove was chock-full of good memories for Tilda. She smiled to herself as she remembered the time she and Frank and the kids had been having lunch on the deck at Jackie’s, Too and a gigantic seagull had swooped down and grabbed her paper basket of fries in its beak. Tilda had screamed and Frank had roared with laughter and the kids had ducked under the table. A few minutes later another basket of fries had appeared, on the house.
There was the time, years after that, when she and Frank had come to Larchmere for a weekend in early November, just the two of them. The town was virtually abandoned and the roads were virtually empty. They had walked along Shore Road to the Cove, which was eerily, but not unpleasantly, quiet. The air was cold and damp, the sea was flat and silvery, the rocks a mottled gray. They had brought with them thermoses of hot chocolate and drank them while sitting huddled together on one of the wooden benches facing the water. It had been a perfect afternoon.
And then there was the time, one spring, just after an icy rain, when Frank had scrambled down onto the rocks to retrieve what he thought was a perfect snail shell, only to badly twist his ankle (that icy rain!) and discover that the snail shell was really only a battered old golf ball. He had had a good laugh at himself, in spite of having to hobble around for the rest of the weekend. That was typical of Frank. He was always ready to find the good in the bad, the humor in the adversity.
Yes, there were so, so many memories. And there were all the conversations and events she had forgotten, moments Frank might have remembered for her. His memory had always been better than hers. Why couldn’t a person retain every little detail of a life! But maybe that would drive a person mad. Maybe some degree of forgetting was necessary for living in the present and planning for the future. Maybe. But the fact remained that with Frank gone, gone too was a big part of Tilda’s past.
Tilda walked along, stepping aside for a double-wide stroller and then for three elderly ladies, walking arm in arm and wearing matching T-shirts (the shirts declared them to be members of the First Church of the Righteous in Villa, Maine; Tilda had no idea where that was and wondered if “righteous” people should be advertising their righteousness). She stopped outside a small, new shop and looked distractedly at the window display.
About a month before he died Frank had made her promise that she would find a good man after his death. He wanted her to be happy. He wanted her to get married again. So, after some protest, she had promised, just to make him happy. And now, the last thing she wanted was to keep the promise she had made to her dying husband. What kind of a person did that make her? She had lied for the sake of her own convenience.
Tilda turned from the store window she had been staring at, without having noticed much of anything inside besides a toy puffin and a rubber lobster, to see two young men, probably in their twenties, ambling along. The one on the right was in great shape and cocky about it, wearing a tight T-shirt and slouchy jeans, his hair cut close to his head and fixed there with product. His sunglasses looked expensive. Maybe they were knockoffs. Maybe they were the real thing. A lot of young people had a lot of money these days. His buddy, the guy on the left, was not quite as pumped or as pampered. He was a guy, Tilda thought, who was probably hoping for his friend’s castoffs. He had that manner of a sycophant.
How judgmental I’ve become! Tilda thought as the two came toward her. Suddenly, inexplicably shy, she turned to look back at the window display. As the two young men passed behind her, one of them laughed. It wasn’t a nice laugh. It was derisive. She knew it was the cockier of the two. She knew he had laughed at her, in her loose linen blouse and shorts down to her knees. Maybe she was being paranoid or overly sensitive. Maybe she wasn’t.
Tilda walked on. Outside the next T-shirt and souvenir shop stood a handsome, nicely dressed, middle-aged man. He’s waiting for his wife, no doubt, Tilda thought. He was just another bored husband on vacation, wondering when he could next catch a ball game on television. She began to smile to herself when she saw this man openly, overtly ogle a teenaged girl coming out of the shop. True, she was ogle-worthy, with her short shorts, long tanned legs, tight little T-shirt showing off a taught, tanned stomach, and long, shiny blond hair. But still! Did he have to be so blatant? He was old enough to be her father! Her older father!
Tilda watched as the girl wiggled off to join her friends, who were gathered around the Cove’s little monument. The man followed her with his eyes. Tilda wondered if the girl was aware of the effect she was having on this man. She decided that she was, indeed, aware. A moment later a middle-aged, very attractive woman came from the shop. She was wearing an outfit similar to that of the teenager. An enormous diamond glittered against her tanned chest. Another one glittered from her left hand. Her hair was expertly platinum. Her breasts looked store bought.
The woman slipped her arm through the man’s and together, they walked off toward MC Perkins Cove. Tilda stared after them in fascination. Did the woman know that her husband blatantly ogled younger women? Did she care? Had she given up caring? And why was the husband even bothering to ogle other women when his own wife was such a knockout, albeit a knockout off an assembly line?
Because the wife was not a teenager, that’s why! Tilda felt furious on behalf of the wife, unsuspecting or not, and on behalf of all middle-aged women, herself foremost, who were mocked by young men and betrayed by men their own age. She felt her whole body tingle with rage.
Why was it that the physical signs of aging on a man were so often seen as a positive, as indications of experience and wisdom, of acquired gentleness and kindness, while the physical signs of aging on a woman were so often seen as—as a failure somehow, as something grotesque? “What’s wrong with that woman?” Tilda imagined young people saying about her, that she could not—or would not—retain her firm chin and her smooth skin? Doesn’t she know that a woman is supposed to be young and beautiful and of some pleasure to us, the observers observing an object? Of what use is a woman past her physical prime? Oh, sure, she might still be good for maintaining a household or going to the office and earning a living. But could she please do all that while wearing a mask to hide her saggy jowls and a caftan to cover her bulging middle?
Calm down, Tilda told herself. You’re getting way too angry. Anger isn’t pretty. Frowning causes more wrinkles than smiling. Hadn’t her mother told her that? And God knows, Charlotte McQueen had known what she was talking about. She had fought the approach of aging like a soldier in combat fights off the armed enemy. And to a great extent, she had won. That is, until she had died.
And if only Frank hadn’t died, Tilda wouldn’t be single again at forty-seven! Almost fifty. It was easy, and unfair, to blame Frank. But it wasn’t entirely true that
if Frank were still alive she would be feeling sexually attractive in the eyes of the world. She imagined that every woman—or almost every woman—over the age of forty felt keenly the loss of her younger physical self, even if she was in a good and loving relationship. Because the bottom line was that love had little if anything to do with one’s self-image. It was strange but true. Frank had always heaped compliments on her; what’s more, he had meant them. But her husband’s love and sincerity had not been enough to prevent Tilda from looking in the mirror and criticizing the ruin she found there.
She tried to remember what, exactly, the British author Graham Swift had said in his wonderful novel called Last Orders. Something about “fading beauty” and how, depending on the viewer, it could be seen as a source of further affection. Tilda didn’t know about that. Love among the ruins indeed! Even Chaucer’s oft-married Widow of Bath bemoaned the loss of her youth and beauty, albeit without a trace of self-pity. With a few words she dismissed her former companions—“the devil go therwith”—and resumed the business of living. If only, Tilda thought, I could be more like the Widow of Bath, just without the gapped teeth!
She went into Swamp John’s, hoping to find distraction in expensive jewelry and crafts and immediately caught a glimpse of herself in a seashell-rimmed mirror. She was startled. I’m too thin, she thought. I’m starting to look scraggly and scrawny. And old. I’m starting to look old. I need a better face cream. I need some plumping. I need some ice cream. Tilda felt a rising panic and dashed back outside.
Ice cream. Yes. That was a good idea. Comfort food was a middle-aged woman’s best friend, or so it often seemed.
The little ice cream shop was crowded with customers, parents and children and grandparents, teenaged girls and boys. She got on line and was jostled by a woman to her left, laden with shopping bags, trying to leave the shop. Tilda tried to step out of her way and felt herself bump into someone. She turned. It was a man, holding a cup of ice cream in one hand. In the other he held a paper napkin.
“Oh! I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed.
The man smiled. “That’s quite all right. No harm done. That’s why I get my ice cream in a cup. No chance of losing it.”
He was taller than Tilda, maybe a bit over six feet, and slim. His hair was entirely gray and stylishly cut, close to his head. He wore nondescript summer slacks and a short-sleeved, crisply ironed shirt, tucked in. A pair of sunglasses, aviator frames, peeked out from his shirt pocket.
“I’m sorry,” Tilda said again. She felt more embarrassed than the encounter warranted. She didn’t know why.
The man smiled again, said, “Enjoy your afternoon,” and left the shop.
Tilda got her ice cream (she dared to get a cone) and carefully picked her way down onto a relatively smooth rock overlooking the water. The water was very still at that moment, and very blue. Slowly, her nerves began to calm. Before long she was no longer interested in criticizing every member of the male sex and no longer—for the moment, at least—inclined to rant and rave. An expanse of blue water could soothe just about any bad mood. Tilda felt the warmth of the rock beneath her and she felt almost at peace.
Finally, cone finished and her butt sore from sitting (the view was spectacular but the seat was hard), Tilda got up and carefully made her way back up to the parking lot. She tossed the crumpled napkin in a trash bin. She thought she heard her cell phone ringing and, head bowed over her bag, began to rummage. And she walked right into the back of a tall, slim man.
The man turned around.
“I’m so sorry!” Tilda cried. And when she recognized him, she said, “Again. I guess I’ve been a bit distracted all day….”
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” the man from the ice cream shop said. Tilda liked his smile. And his eyes were nice, very brown, with very long lashes for an adult male.
“How was your ice cream?” she asked.
“Butter pecan is always perfect,” he replied. “Yours?”
“Double fudge brownie. I’m a chocoholic. If you like interesting flavors you should try Goldenrod Kisses in York Beach.”
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind. My name is Dennis, by the way. Dennis Haass.”
“I’m Tilda McQueen O’Connell. I’m visiting my family. We have a house here. It’s my father’s house, officially.”
“Nice,” he said. “I’ve rented a small house for a month. It’s off Grey Road. I’ve already been here for a little over two weeks.”
“Oh. Where do you live? I mean, where’s home?”
“Mostly I live in Florida but I have a condo in Phoenix,” he said. “My son and his wife and kids live out there. I like to spend time with my grandchildren whenever I can.”
There was no mention of a wife. Nor was there mention of a girlfriend or fiancée, but why would there be? Besides, Tilda told herself, I don’t care about his romantic situation.
“I’ve been to Ogunquit before,” he said now, “but it was years ago. If you have a moment I’d appreciate a recommendation on some good restaurants.”
Tilda did have a moment. She named a few places, steering him away from the more touristy joints, which, she suspected, he wouldn’t care for, and the places that catered to the wild and crazy twenty-something crowd.
He thanked her and then cleared his throat. “So, you’re visiting with your husband?”
Tilda automatically began to twirl her wedding ring with her thumb. Of course he would think she was in Ogunquit with her husband. She could be accused of false advertising, couldn’t she? “No,” she said. “I’m a widow, actually.”
“I’m sorry.”
Tilda smiled vaguely. “Thank you. It’s been a little over two years now.”
“I’m sure it’s still difficult.”
“Yes,” she said.
There was a bit of an awkward pause. Tilda realized she had no idea of what to say next. She realized she had no idea of how to graciously take her leave.
And then Dennis said: “Forgive me if I’m out of line, but I wonder if you would like to meet me for dinner this evening.”
She was stunned. Had she just been asked out on a date? So, there was no girlfriend or fiancée? What the heck was she supposed to do now? She felt sweat gathering under her arms. “Um,” she said. “Um, no. I’m sorry, I have plans.”
Dennis smiled and shrugged. “Okay, that’s fine. Enjoy the rest of the day. And thanks for the recommendations.”
He turned and had walked a few yards before some odd impulse made Tilda call out. “Wait! Mr. Haass! Dennis!”
He stopped and turned. Tilda hurried forward to him.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m a little out of practice. Socially speaking, I mean. I am available for dinner this evening. If the offer is still open. Thanks.”
Dennis smiled. It was another genuine, nice smile and they made plans to meet at the Old Village Inn on Maine Street at seven o’clock. When he had walked off again, Tilda suddenly remembered the conversation she had had with Hannah on the beach, the conversation in which she had mentioned the phrase “conditions of affection.” She had told her sister she didn’t know how to create “conditions of affection.” But maybe, after all, she did know. She felt both immensely proud and terribly scared of what she had just done. She had just accepted a man’s—a stranger’s!—invitation to dinner.
What would everyone say? Was it possible to keep the date a secret? Suddenly, Tilda was in a paroxysm of confusion and embarrassment and fear and excitement. The ice cream in her stomach did a slow and not entirely pleasant dance and Tilda hurried to her car.
The Cape Neddick Lobster Pound, which was immediately across the road from the Cape Neddick Campground, was open for lunch. At the Pound, Craig’s old friend Chip Morrow was tending bar.
Back when they were teens, Craig and Chip had waited tables together at Mike’s Clam Shack, on Route 1 in Wells. Chip had never moved away. He was married to his high school sweetheart and had three kids. The oldest was already a
lmost twenty. Chip had not changed much in the years since he and Craig had first met. He was a little balder and a little heavier, but otherwise, he was still the same slightly wild, slightly lazy, entirely good-hearted guy he had always been. Chip was reliable in that way.
Craig shook hands with his old friend and ordered a beer and a turkey club. It was just noon. He was the only person at the bar; the tables in the big room behind him were only just beginning to fill. In the evening every table would be occupied, mostly by families from the campground.
“Word has it your father’s pretty serious about this woman Jennifer,” Chip said when Craig’s sandwich arrived.
“He might be,” Craig said. “I don’t really know.”
“Well, your brother’s been talking. Not that that’s much of a surprise. He’s always liked to hear himself talk.”
Craig smiled. “So, what’s he been saying?”
“That no one not a born McQueen is getting Larchmere. Making threats, nothing too specific. Being a blowhard.”
“That sounds like Adam.”
“What do you think about the house?” Chip asked.
Craig put down the sandwich he was about to bite. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you ever think about inheriting that big old place?”
“Me!” Craig laughed, a bit too loudly. “No way. Who wants that sort of responsibility? I’d probably only sell it, get it off my hands as quickly as I could. The upkeep alone could bankrupt a person. And the taxes? No, Larchmere isn’t for me.”
Besides, he thought, I don’t deserve it. Someone like me doesn’t deserve that sort of privilege.
Chip sighed. “It is a beautiful place, though. Wouldn’t mind that sort of house being in my family. Can see the ocean from your own front porch!”
“You can see the ocean from a fishing shack. The ocean is everywhere, Chip.”
The Family Beach House Page 12
