She saw Dennis now across the room, neat and trim in his navy blazer and tan pants, a glass of wine in each hand. He had stopped to study a painting from the permanent collection, one that Frank had hated. Tilda couldn’t remember the name of the artist or of the painting. She wondered why.
Tilda looked away from Dennis and saw her coming. It was Louise Sherman, a longtime local resident no one much cared for, a rather aggressively gossipy woman who owned several small and very successful family restaurants in Ogunquit and Wells.
There was no escaping her. The crowd was too thick for Tilda to easily slip away. In a moment Louise was up against her. She put her hand heavily on Tilda’s forearm and closed her bony fingers around it. She was painfully thin, something her choice of clothing accentuated rather than hid, and was doused in a heavy, cloying perfume. Tilda found Louise Sherman macabre. She fought the urge to shiver in disgust.
“So,” Louise said by way of greeting, “what’s going on with your father and that fashionable girl from away?”
“Hello, Louise.”
“I think her name is Genevieve or Jocelyn or—”
“Jennifer,” Tilda corrected. “What do you mean about what’s going on?”
“Are they serious? Are they going to get married? I remember when she first came to Ogunquit, years ago. That was with her first husband. They’re divorced now—well, of course you know that. She lost the house in the divorce, or maybe they sold it, I don’t know. The husband, ex-husband I should say, isn’t around anymore. I heard she has some sort of condo in Portland. Or maybe it was Portsmouth. I—”
“Portland,” Tilda said, and wondered why she had bothered to continue this awful conversation.
“Well, I wonder what his plans are for Larchmere. I mean, if he marries her, you and your brothers and sister might very well be out of a summer home. If I were a McQueen I’d be in a state about it all! The thought of losing that big, gorgeous house to a—”
“Excuse me,” Tilda blurted, finally done with this horrible woman. “I must be going.” She wrenched her arm from Louise’s death grip and forced her way through the crowd of revelers. In the smaller gallery she now saw Dennis and hurried to his side.
“What’s wrong?” he asked immediately, handing her the glass of wine he had fetched. “I’m sorry I abandoned you. The line was long and I got waylaid….”
“Nothing is wrong,” Tilda said. “Just some horrid woman. It was nothing.”
“All right.”
Tilda took a sip of white wine. She was suddenly, painfully aware of the eyes of other guests upon her, questioning, probing. Who was this strange man she was with, this newcomer? Was he her date, a boyfriend, something more? She was not being paranoid. She knew all about life in a small town. She had felt relatively safe and secure in the dimly lit rooms of the Old Village Inn. But here, in this bright and open space, she knew she was a center of attention and it bothered her.
“I’m kind of rattled by this evening,” she said now to Dennis. “That woman…I think I had better just go home. I’m sorry.”
Dennis managed to look disappointed and understanding at the same time. “Of course,” he said.
Tilda put her hand lightly on his arm for a moment. “You came to Ogunquit to enjoy a vacation. I’m sorry. You don’t need to be dragged into a stranger’s drama.”
“I am enjoying my vacation,” he insisted. “Don’t apologize, please. And to be honest, you don’t feel like so much of a stranger.”
Actually, Dennis didn’t feel like much of a stranger to Tilda, either, but she was not prepared to admit that. Dennis following, they wove their way through the crowd and out into the golden evening sun.
23
Sunday, July 22
Tilda was still out of sorts the morning after the party at the Ogunquit Museum. That awful Louise Sherman! But by the time she got down to the beach and began to walk along the waterline, sneakers in hand and pant legs rolled up, she felt calmer. Better. The water was very cool. She found a piece of a sand dollar (she had never found a whole one, except on a visit to South Carolina) and put it in her pocket.
About a quarter of the way to Wells, Tilda stopped to chat with a local man named Wade Wilder. He was a retired contractor who loved to fish, which was what he was doing now, as he did every morning. The interesting thing about Wade was that he hated to eat fish. He was a strict meat and potatoes kind of guy. So he either threw his catch back into the ocean or gave it to a friend or passerby.
“Anything today?” Tilda asked, looking up at Wade’s friendly face. He was very tall, probably, Tilda thought, close to six feet five inches, and very thin.
Wade smiled down at her. “Nope. Not yet, anyway.”
“How’s Molly’s mother doing?” Molly was Wade’s wife. Her mother, who was well into her eighties, lived with them. Lately, Tilda had heard, she had been failing.
“Not so good,” Wade said with a shake of his head. “Had to put the old girl in a nursing home just yesterday. Broke Molly’s heart but it was time.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Tilda said. “I hope she’ll be happy there. Well, at least all right.”
“Not much choice about it now. I’ll tell her you said hello, if you like.”
Tilda said that yes, she would like it if Wade gave her greetings to his mother-in-law, and she resumed her walk, leaving Wade to catch and release to his heart’s content.
Wade’s story made her think. Presumably, her father, Bill, would die before his younger sister, Ruth. Maybe. If Tilda inherited Larchmere, there was a good chance that in time she would become her aunt’s primary caregiver. Then again, even if she didn’t inherit Larchmere, as the oldest niece it might very well become her duty to care for an aged Ruth. Adam certainly wouldn’t. There was no question there.
The idea had never occurred to her. Of course, she would never abandon her aunt but it might be difficult to care for her from South Portland if Ruth insisted on staying at Larchmere…. Tilda cringed. She felt guilty for even considering her aunt as a problem to be solved. Besides, knowing Ruth, she would probably live to a fine old age and quite independently, too.
Not like Frank. Near the end he had announced, several times, that he had had a good run. It would bother Tilda that he could think that way. After all, he was dying before he could see his children graduate from college. He was dying before he could have a midlife crisis, before he could lose his hair, before he could need bifocals! Never had the indignities of middle age seemed so precious to her.
But to her objections he would answer, how many guys could say that they had married their dream girl, had two great kids, worked at a job they enjoyed, owned their own home…? Tilda had blocked out Frank’s rationalizations. She had argued with him, too.
“But you’ll never get to see your grandchildren,” she had said. “We won’t get to grow old together.”
“Those things are lousy, Tilda,” he had admitted, “especially the fact that I don’t get to grow old with my best friend. But what’s it going to get me to dwell on what I can’t have? I don’t have the time to be miserable and angry. I just don’t. I want to die with some peace of mind, with some dignity. So, please, let me do that.”
Those conversations had been coming back to Tilda a lot lately. For Frank, dying with dignity had meant dying without kicking and screaming. It had meant going gently into that good night, refusing to rage against the dying of the light, Dylan Thomas be damned.
Maybe because of what she had experienced with Frank, Tilda was no longer afraid of death and dying. At least, she didn’t think that she was, not in the way she had been before Frank’s illness and death. She wondered if this lack of fear was a good thing or a bad thing. She wondered if it was a sign of resignation, of giving up on life, or a sign of maturity.
What was it, exactly, that most people feared about dying? Tilda often thought about that. Was it the process itself that scared them, the anticipation of pain and discomfort, the mental anguish of knowing
that your time was up and that you had not accomplished half of what you had intended to accomplish? Was it the anticipation of the emotional trauma involved in taking leave of loved ones? Was it the anticipation of the grief surrounding the loss of favorite habits and haunts, of the changing seasons, of holidays, even of the first satisfying sip of coffee in the morning?
No doubt for some the fear of dying involved a spiritual concern regarding the afterlife. What if there was no afterlife and you had spent your entire life banking on the belief that there was something better and happier after death? What if there was an afterlife and you had spent your entire life banking on the belief that there was nothing after death, no reward and no retribution?
Big questions for which Tilda had no answers. Maybe nobody had the answers.
On the way back to the parking lot, and walking higher up on the beach in the softer sand, she passed behind Wade. He would be there for hours and he would be back the next day and the one after that. She wondered if Wade was afraid of dying and almost immediately thought that he was probably not afraid of anything.
Before slipping into the driver’s seat of her car, Tilda performed her own daily ritual and scanned the summer sky. But there was nothing.
“There’s Sarah’s car. Down by the turn.”
“You can see that it’s her car?” Tilda asked, squinting and making out only a glint of metal. They were on the front porch of Larchmere. “Boy, your eyesight is good.”
Craig shrugged. “Guess I take after Dad.”
Sarah Wilder McQueen, driving a Honda Odyssey, pulled up the drive a few minutes later. She was there for the memorial service. Tilda and Craig knew that but neither was sure that Adam did. Yet. Their brother’s divorce had been acrimonious, though Sarah’s conduct throughout had been an awful lot more mature than Adam’s. Which was interesting, given the fact that she was the one being left for a mistress who, shortly after the divorce was made final, disappeared from the picture. No one but Adam knew what had happened to her and no one wanted to ask.
Sarah parked her car, got out with her travel bags, and with a wave, walked toward Tilda and Craig. Over time she had lost some of her sharpness and urban chic but was still an attractive woman, now forty-five. Compared to her ex-husband’s young fiancée, some might judge her a bit old and worn. Not that Sarah was the sort of person to dwell on the importance of appearance. Her only remaining vanity was a visit to her hair stylist every two months for a color touch-up. Gray hair was the one concession to age that she would not make.
For all of Kat’s physical perfection, Craig thought, watching his former sister-in-law, Sarah was the sexier woman. Difference attracted Craig, not the standard. Uniqueness, a real individuality, those were attractive qualities in people. Like Sarah’s recent habit of wearing colorful, oversized beads (several strands at once) and consciously dorky glasses. The beads and glasses suited her.
Sarah greeted Tilda and Craig and together, the three went into the house. “So,” she said softly, “what’s Adam’s fiancée like? I’ve heard a bit from the kids but I’d love to know your opinions.”
“See for yourself,” Craig murmured.
Kat and Adam were coming from the living room. Both stopped short at the sight of Adam’s ex-wife standing in the front hall. Tilda realized that Kat must have recognized Sarah from photographs. Neither said a word.
Sarah stepped forward, hand extended. “Hello, Adam,” she said, but she turned toward Kat. “And you must be Kat. It’s nice to meet you.”
Poor Kat. She looked completely baffled by the situation. Sarah kept her hand extended and a smile on her face until finally, Kat extended her own hand and blurted, “Your children are very nice.”
The brief, awkward handshake over, Sarah said, “Yes, I know,” and stepped back to join Tilda and Craig.
“Why don’t I take your bags to the cottage,” Craig said. “You can get settled and come back to the house for something to eat.”
Sarah thought his suggestion a good one and together they left the house, her bags in tow. Tilda noticed Kat slip away upstairs. Adam looked apoplectic.
“What is she doing here?” he hissed.
“Ruth invited her.”
“What the hell for?”
Tilda sighed. “Just because you divorced Sarah there’s no reason for the rest of the McQueens to ignore her. She’s still a part of this family, Adam. You made her a part when you married her and had the children.”
Adam frowned. Tilda wondered if he thought a frown made him look important. “I’m going to have a word with your aunt about this.”
No doubt you will, Tilda thought. But it won’t do you any good. She went off to the kitchen. Sarah liked tea. Tilda thought she would put out a selection of tea bags and local honey. She didn’t mean to eavesdrop. But after a moment or two she heard two voices in the hall, Adam and Sarah. She had not expected Sarah back at the house so quickly.
“Look, Adam,” she was saying, “I just talked to Cordelia. The kids want to stay with me in the guest cottage.”
“Absolutely not. That’s ridiculous.”
“No, it’s not ridiculous. Cordelia said they feel—uncomfortable.”
“Are you saying they don’t like Kat?” Tilda, in the kitchen, flinched.
“Keep your voice down, Adam. What I’m saying is that the situation isn’t ideal for them.”
“No way. The kids are mine this weekend, Sarah. That’s the law. You want to take it up with a judge, be my guest.”
Sarah paused before answering. Tilda imagined her sighing in frustration. “Don’t be an ass, Adam. You know I don’t want any more legal wrangling. But Cordelia and Cody are unhappy being with you and Kat. And I’m not saying anything bad about your fiancée. She seems like a very nice young woman. But they would rather stay with me in the cottage. You’ll still spend time with them. I’m not spiriting them away to Argentina. We’ll just be in the backyard.”
“What made you say Argentina?”
“Nothing. I don’t know. I saw a PBS special the other night. Come on, Adam, let the kids stay with me in the cottage.”
“All right.” His tone was begrudging. “But I’m making note of this occasion. I deserve time with my children. I have rights.”
“Yes. Thanks. Now I’ll go and get them packed up.”
Tilda heard Sarah’s footsteps, retreating. She prayed that Adam would not come into the kitchen. He would know for sure that she had overheard his capitulation and he would be angry. Her prayer was answered. A moment later, she heard the front door slam.
24
Tilda and Dennis were spending the afternoon in Kennebunkport. Tilda was glad to be away from Ogunquit for a while, and the prying—or simply curious—eyes of her longtime neighbors. Small towns provided a strong sense of community. They also, at times, were stifling.
She had chosen to wear a pair of off-white chinos and a fitted black linen blouse that had once belonged to her mother. She had found the blouse among her mother’s wardrobe and, though Tilda rarely wore black, had saved it for herself. She had not worn it until now. She wasn’t sure why she was wearing it.
Susan, upon seeing her sister-in-law preparing to leave the house, had asked her to wait a moment. She had run up to her room and returned promptly with a multistrand bead necklace in lime green. “Put this on,” she ordered. “It will really make your eyes pop and it’s a perfect contrast to the black.” Tilda had protested, saying that she wasn’t used to wearing that sort of jewelry, by which she meant anything costume and funky. But Susan had insisted and Tilda was glad about it. Dennis had complimented her the moment she had fetched him at his house. He said she looked vibrant.
They had stopped at a quaint, old cemetery (it was not hard to find one in New England) and were wandering along the crooked aisles of battered and worn headstones. The grass had been recently mowed and at a few of the newer graves (still a half or full century old) there were small vases of flowers.
“I find it hearteni
ng,” Dennis said, “to see how people so wanted to remember their loved ones. There’s something soothing about these old cemeteries.” Dennis turned to her. “I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No, no, I agree actually,” Tilda said. “Maybe it’s the fact that they’re so old…. We’re so removed from the people buried here…and yet, we’re so connected. All these years later, and that baby there, Constance Morrison, is known to us somehow. She lived for only a month but almost two hundred years later we’re bearing witness to her life.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what we’re doing, bearing witness.”
Tilda smiled at Dennis. She was amazed to find that she could talk about important, even personal things with a man who was virtually a stranger. The experience made her feel a bit hopeful, even happy.
“Are you a superstitious man?” she asked then.
“I don’t think that I am, though I don’t make it a point to walk under ladders. Why?”
“Well,” she said, “it’s funny, but not long before Frank got sick I suddenly found myself thinking, totally out of the blue, that my life was too good, almost perfect, and that something bad was bound to happen.”
Dennis nodded. “I suspect lots of people have experienced that kind of moment. Most adults know that nothing lasts forever. I’m not sure I’d call that being superstitious.”
“Maybe not,” she said. “I know that until that moment I’d never considered myself a superstitious person. Well, Frank would have argued otherwise! Anyway, I got the bad feeling one day while I was walking the path around Back Cove in Portland. I was kind of daydreaming as I was walking, admiring all the colors of the marshy land and the herons among the grasses, and the ducks in the water close to the shore. The weather was perfect. I remember the air feeling very soft and fresh, and the sky being very clear. There were a few clouds but they were the light and puffy kind, nothing threatening. And then, bam, it hit me like a slap to the face. My life was too good, everything was too good, and it wasn’t going to last much longer.”
The Family Beach House Page 16
