The Family Beach House

by Holly Chamberlin

  “Damn traffic!” Hannah complained. “Damn tourists!”

  But Tilda didn’t mind being stuck. She wanted to watch her brother’s fiancée, who must have slipped out of Larchmere just seconds after they had gone. But how had she gotten into town? Cabs were virtually nonexistent in Ogunquit! Had someone arranged to pick her up? Transportation was only part of the mystery.

  Tilda frowned. Did Kat want to be caught, if indeed she was doing something wrong, and it certainly looked like she was doing something wrong? When you claimed a sick headache, you stayed home. You didn’t go out, dressed in a cleavage-bearing, figure-hugging mini-dress, and sit chatting and sipping a cocktail with a man not your fiancé! Tilda fought an urge to tap on Craig’s arm, point in Kat’s direction, be sure someone else witnessed the scene. But she fought that urge. Adam and Kat’s relationship was none of her business. And for all Tilda knew, the guy with whom Kat was chatting was her cousin or an old, platonic friend who had called her cell, found out they were both in town, and arranged a reunion. It was unlikely, but it was possible. Wasn’t it?

  The car rolled forward, slowly. “Freakin’ finally,” Hannah muttered. Tilda kept her mouth shut as they left Kat behind.

  They met Adam in the restaurant. Tilda scanned his face for a sign that he had seen his fiancée on the deck at Accent, but Adam’s expression was its usual slightly harried or annoyed one. If Adam were truly angry, everyone would know.

  They were shown to their table (Adam complained about its location but there were no other tables available for at least a half hour) and Craig excused himself to visit the men’s room.

  He was making his way through the bar area and back to the table when a tall, slightly overweight woman in a low-cut floral top with pretty, long dark hair blocked his path. She was not unattractive. Craig smiled and made to move aside but the woman blocked him again.

  “Excuse me,” Craig said. He wondered if she was a little drunk, maybe unsteady on her feet.

  “You’re Craig McQueen,” the woman said.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

  The woman’s eyes, which were fixed down on him, seemed to grow darker. “Think hard.”

  For a moment, Craig continued to draw a blank. But then, as he looked at the woman, some tiny bit of recollection began to tickle at his brain, the vaguely familiar shape of her very dark eyes, and he said, “Mary.” And then, “Vermont. What was the name of that town? Yeah, Green River. Wow. It was a long time ago. How’ve you been?”

  “You said you’d call me when you got back into town.”

  Had he said that? He really didn’t remember. It had to have been at least eight years since he had seen this woman. Mary. “I never did get back to Green River,” he said honestly.

  “You had my number.” The woman’s voice was tight, angry. “You could have called to tell me you weren’t coming back.”

  Why, he thought, would I have done that? I knew her for about two weeks and then we had a one-night stand. No commitment, no promises. Other than the one he didn’t remember making, the one about calling.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. There was no point in arguing his case. He couldn’t imagine why she had wanted to stop him and talk.

  “You should be. You got me pregnant.”

  Craig’s mouth went dry. “We used condoms,” he said automatically. Had they? That was something else he couldn’t quite remember. Was anyone in the bar listening to this horrible conversation?

  The woman, Mary, laughed unpleasantly. “Well, they didn’t work. I had to borrow money from my sister to have an abortion. I had no way to find you and no job, so there was no way I could have had the baby. I was a mess and it was all your fault!”

  Could he believe her? He wasn’t sure. He had hardly known her all those years ago. He hadn’t even known her last name. Maybe she was lying now as a sort of revenge for his having left her. There was no way he would ever know for sure. He felt sick to his stomach. He felt ashamed.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know what else to say.”

  “There is nothing else to say. Except, screw you.”

  And then she—Mary Something or Other—was gone into the crowd at the far end of the bar. Craig wondered if her boyfriend or husband was going to emerge next, to pop him in the nose. But an abortion as a result of a one-night stand was hardly the kind of thing a woman was likely to reveal to the new man in her life.

  Craig couldn’t move for a moment. He wanted to sneak off on his own but he knew that if he did Tilda would be upset with him. He didn’t want to be responsible for disappointing another woman. He made his way back to the table and took a seat.

  “Why the long face?” Adam asked. “Did you find out it’s illegal to panhandle in downtown Ogunquit?”

  “Something like that,” he said quietly, and picked up the menu the waiter had left for him.

  They ordered from their waiter, a young gay man whose name was Rob and who told them he had come from New Jersey to work for the summer before starting college. After a wait that Adam declared far too long, the meals arrived. Adam sent his fish back, claiming it was overcooked. Maybe it was, Tilda thought. But maybe it wasn’t. Adam liked people to know he was in the room. (Rob was professionally gracious about it.) Tilda enjoyed her pasta primavera. Craig, usually a voracious eater, left half of his meal on the plate. Hannah and Susan, who had each gotten the pork chop with mashed potatoes, announced themselves pleased.

  Conversation during the meal was light and noncommittal. Tilda allowed herself to think that the night was, indeed, going to be declared a complete success. (Barring the strange absence of Kat.) In fact, it wasn’t until coffee and dessert had been served (none for Adam, just coffee for Craig) that the tensions always flowing just under the surface of the relationship between Susan and Adam began to rise. Wine had been consumed, as had predinner cocktails. I should have known, Tilda thought. Don’t tempt fate with assumptions of happy endings. Especially not when alcohol is involved.

  Susan had been tapping her coffee spoon against her cup for about thirty seconds when abruptly, and apropos of nothing they had been discussing, she turned to Adam. “You know,” she said, “I haven’t forgotten that you blew off our wedding.”

  Hannah’s eyes widened in surprise and, Tilda thought, concern.

  Adam shrugged. “I showed up at the reception.”

  “But you missed the ceremony,” Susan pointed out. “The ceremony is the most important part of the celebration.”

  Tilda agreed but this was not her argument. She sipped her coffee and took another bite of the crème brûlée.

  Adam sighed. “Look, I had to work. I’m not going to apologize for my career. Some things just take precedence over others.”

  “A few bucks take precedence over your sister’s wedding?”

  “Susan, it really doesn’t—”

  But Hannah’s attempt at calming her wife was rejected.

  “No, Hannah, he should take responsibility for his actions in this family. Really, Adam, it was very disrespectful, not only of your sister but also of our union.” Susan looked at the others for confirmation. “Am I right?” she asked.

  Again, Tilda agreed with Susan but, fearing Adam’s wrath being turned against her, only murmured something unintelligible. Hannah, also clearly unwilling to add to the argument, gave a quick nod. Craig, usually the first one to take the side of anyone fighting against Adam, was oddly silent and unresponsive. In fact, Tilda thought he seemed to be miles away, toying with his napkin, looking vaguely at nothing.

  “Well,” Susan prodded, her voice raised, “am I?”

  Tilda was increasingly uncomfortable with the situation. She wondered if she should finally say something to end the argument—but what?—when Adam’s hand hit the table with a thud that made her coffee spoon rattle against her cup. Tilda shot a look around but no one at neighboring tables seemed to have noticed Adam’s display of temper. Everyone but the McQueens seemed to be having
a good time.

  “Look,” Adam hissed, eyes fixed on Susan, “I’ve had enough of this. We are not having a scene in public. Everyone in this town knows the McQueens. They respect us. There’s a certain decorum we keep. So keep your voice down.”

  In one swift move, he drew his wallet from his back pocket, tossed some cash onto the table, and stood. He didn’t say good-bye to the others.

  Tilda watched him weave his way out of the main dining room, wondering how he reconciled slamming his hand on the table with not making a scene. She found herself hoping that Kat got back to the house before Adam did. It was odd to feel more loyalty to a virtual stranger than to her own brother, her own flesh and blood. It was upsetting.

  Rob the waiter appeared (tactfully, he had stayed away from the table during the heated argument), and they paid the bill. Tilda put in an extra five dollars for Rob’s tip (she had waited tables in college and knew how depressing and difficult the job could be) and she and Craig walked out to the car, followed a few minutes later by Hannah and Susan, who had stopped in the ladies’ room before the drive home.

  Hannah took Susan’s hand. “Well, that was a bad idea,” she said. “What was I thinking?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to let fly at Adam like that. I guess my anger’s just been building.”

  “Oh, Adam can take it. It’s my fault, really. I feel like such a fool. Why did I suggest we all hang out together like normal people?”

  “Only Adam causes problems,” Susan rightly pointed out. “Tilda and Craig aren’t troublemakers.”

  “No. But what was up with Craig tonight? When he came back from the men’s room he looked like he’d seen a ghost or something. He hardly said a word after that.”

  “Ssshh. They’ll hear us.”

  Hannah and Susan and Craig and Tilda climbed into the car and drove back to Larchmere in weary silence.

  28

  Tuesday, July 24

  There was another newly or about to be wed couple on the beach that morning. This bride, older than the other Tilda had seen, and fashionably slight, wore a slinky ice blue satin sheath. Her groom, also middle-aged, wore a navy suit, expertly cut. Tilda guessed that they had money. The photographer, whose hair was a flamboyant orange, was calling out directions to the couple. They moved and posed as if professional models. Tilda wondered if people took lessons in posing for their wedding pictures. People took dancing lessons for the wedding reception. Why not lessons in assuring beautiful photographs?

  She began her walk to the Wells town line, and left the couple and their photographer behind. Since when, she wondered, had Ogunquit become a wedding destination? She thought that it probably always had been a wedding destination but that, given her relatively new status as widow, she was now hyper aware of the presence of summer brides.

  Tilda had been thinking a lot about weddings and marriage and, in particular, about wives. There was a Hebrew proverb that said, “Whosoever findeth a wife findeth a good thing.” She had been thinking a lot about that.

  What did it really mean to be a wife in today’s culture, in the United States in the early twenty-first century? Did the role of “wife” have any validity? Well, so much had changed, and mostly for the better. Now both Hannah and Susan could be a wife, a legally recognized entity with rights and responsibilities and public standing. But Tilda wondered if marriage itself was really necessary any longer.

  No. Well, maybe for some it was, those who followed a religious system that required—or strongly urged—women to marry. But for those for whom marriage was not an economic or religious necessity, was it still preferable to the other options? It seemed that it might be. Marriage brought with it social privileges. It shouldn’t still be that way but it was. Marriage meant respectability. No matter what the sordid or boring truth was behind the closed door of the married couple’s home, the fact that they were legally married conferred upon them greater status than that afforded to single people.

  Married people were offered discounts on everything from car insurance to vacation packages. Single people, no matter what the reason for their single state, were considered less stable and mature and successful than married people. Two was better than one. It was ridiculous and unfair but that was the way it was.

  When she was married, when Frank was alive, Tilda had never once given any thought to the plight of the single person—widowed, divorced, living alone by choice or by chance. She hadn’t passed judgments; she just never had given the position of the single person a thought. She was a bit ashamed of that now, ashamed of her lack of concern or interest in everyone “else” or “other.” Had she been one of those self-satisfied, even smug people, who simply failed to empathize with those in a situation not her own? She was afraid that she might have been.

  At the Wells town line, Tilda turned and began the walk back to the parking lot. Along the way she ran into Nancy Brown, Ogunquit’s librarian. She and her partner, Glenda, had been at the recent party at Larchmere.

  “Oh, did you see the bride?” she cried, rushing up to Tilda and grabbing her arm. “The one in the pale blue dress?”

  “Yes,” Tilda said. “I did.”

  “Oh, isn’t she exquisite! I honestly don’t think I’ve ever seen a more beautiful bride in my entire life. I really don’t!”

  Tilda extricated her arm from Nancy’s grip and forced a smile. “Yes,” she said, “she is lovely. But I really must be getting home now. Give my love to Glenda.”

  Nancy continued on toward Wells and Tilda walked rapidly back to her car, eager to be at Larchmere. The bride and groom were gone. Just before getting behind the wheel she scanned the sky. Nothing.

  Tilda was sitting at the kitchen bar drinking a cup of tea and leafing through a catalogue of out-of-print books. With a pen she was marking off books she might like to buy. It would all depend, in the end, on money. Still, it was fun to dream about owning rare first editions and peculiar books long out of print. She made a mental note to visit Cunningham Books when she got back to Portland, a wonderful bookshop at Longfellow Square that sold old and rare books.

  Footsteps—the sound of high heels—alerted her to the fact that someone had come into the kitchen. Tilda turned.

  Kat stopped midstride. “Oh. Hi,” she said. “I’m just getting something to drink.”

  Tilda thought Kat sounded embarrassed, almost guilty, for being in the kitchen when someone else was there. As if she were invading McQueen territory.

  “Sure, of course,” Tilda said. “There’s some iced tea in a pitcher in the fridge if you’d like. Ruth made it earlier.”

  “I’ll just have water. But thanks.”

  Kat went to the sink, where there was a water filter, and poured a glass.

  “So,” Tilda ventured, “how long have you and Adam known each other?” If Kat is going to be my sister-in-law, she thought, I really should try to know more about her. I don’t even know if she has brothers or sisters.

  Kat smiled and took a seat at the bar. Tilda thought she might be grateful for Tilda’s interest in her life.

  “We met at a networking event about a year ago,” she said. “He didn’t call me for a while and I was pretty upset, because I really liked him. But when he did call we started seeing each other all the time. And after a few months he proposed. I couldn’t believe my luck. I still can’t!”

  Well, Tilda thought, here was a woman who seemed to be marrying not for economic or religious reasons. Here was a woman who was marrying for love. “It’s a lovely ring,” she said. It was lovely, if a bit ostentatious for Tilda’s taste.

  Kat held out her left hand and admired the platinum and diamond monster on it. “I know. I absolutely love it. There are three carats total. All my friends are jealous, even the ones who are already married.”

  Adam had to make a statement, Tilda thought, had to be the biggest and the best. Well, if it made him happy to conquer, or, at least, to think he had conquered, then so be it. Tilda’s mind flashed again on the young m
an with whom Kat had been having cocktails the night of the Front Porch expedition and wondered if Adam had, indeed, really conquered in this case.

  “I’m sure the ring is insured,” Tilda said, and then wondered why. Adam’s insurance was none of her business.

  “Oh, yeah. Adam won’t tell me what it’s worth, exactly, but I know it has to be a lot!”

  Tilda only nodded, not knowing what else to add to the subject of the ring.

  “We’re going to have a family, you know,” Kat said suddenly. “Adam promised we’d start trying to get pregnant just after the wedding.”

  “Oh,” Tilda said. She was taken aback. The idea that Adam might want more children had never occurred to her. She had just assumed he was marrying again for the trophy aspect of it. She tried to sound enthusiastic and believing. “That’s very nice,” she said.

  Would Kat be one of those sexy pregnant women who showed their belly in skintight tops, one of those women who continued to wear heels well into the third trimester? Of course she would. Tilda felt oddly jealous, again. During her pregnancies she had taken to wearing Frank’s shirts over stretch maternity pants. They were comfortable and concealing. She had not looked sexy.

  “Yeah,” Kat was saying. “I’ve always really wanted kids—I’m an only child—but I really wanted to have a career first, you know? But when I have my first baby, that’s it, I’m done, I’m staying home.”

  “And Adam understands what you want?” The question was out before Tilda realized that it probably shouldn’t have been asked.

  Kat looked surprised at the question. “Sure. I think so. I mean, I talked to him about it.”

  “Oh. Then he must know what you’re expecting. That’s good.” Again, Tilda had meant to sound reassuring but was afraid she had failed. Kat’s face was registering big doubt.

  “Yes,” she said, her eyes flickering away from Tilda. “I’m sure he understands.” There was a moment of silence and then Kat said, “Well, I should be going.”

  She left the kitchen in a hurry, brushing past Hannah, who was on her way in. Hannah looked at her sister inquiringly.