“Cool!” the children chorused.
“What is his problem?” Susan muttered as they ushered Cordelia and Cody to the exit. “The kids are fine! He’s going to give them an eating disorder if he’s always so restrictive.”
“And let’s get chocolate sauce and sprinkles on top,” Hannah called ahead. She smiled at Susan. “An aunt is allowed to spoil.”
“It was very good of Hannah and Susan to take the kids to play miniature golf.”
Sarah and Craig were sitting side by side on the front porch. Only a moment earlier they had watched as a mother deer led her two Bambi-like young ones across the lawn and into the woods. One of the babies walked with a limp. Craig worried about its ability to survive on its own. Damaged children held a special place in his heart.
“They like kids,” Craig said. “And Hannah is killer at miniature golf.”
“But she’ll probably let them win.”
“Yeah. At least a few games. Susan beat her once last summer and Hannah was grumpy for days. It was pretty amusing.”
They sat in companionable silence for a while. The day was hot and still. Craig felt almost sleepy, though he wasn’t actually tired.
“What about that master’s degree you were going for?” he asked.
“Got it. Thanks for asking. Now let’s hope it gets me a better job.”
“I asked Adam about it but he didn’t seem to know.”
Sarah laughed. “That’s Adam. Out of sight, out of mind.”
“Doesn’t it bother you that—”
“That what?”
Craig wondered how to ask this question. “That he has so little interest in you?”
Sarah looked down at her lap for a moment. “It’s complicated. Yes, it bothers me. And no, it doesn’t.”
There was another few moments of silence before Craig said, “What made you marry my brother? Really, this is not a trick question. What was it?”
“Nothing made me marry him,” Sarah replied promptly. “No one forced me to marry Adam. I fell in love with him, short and sweet. And before you make a face or snort or do something equally disgusting and childish, let me assure you, Craig, that everyone has a lovable self. Even if it’s very small or sporadic, even if it’s occasional, everyone has a lovable self. Everyone. Even your brother.”
Craig wondered about that. Presumably his mother had had a lovable self. His father had married her. What was more, he had stayed married to her, though staying with Charlotte might have been more about fear or apathy than love. He would probably never know.
“So,” Sarah asked then, “why haven’t you settled down with a woman? It can’t be for lack of options.”
Why indeed! That was a loaded question. Lately he had begun to think that in his wanderings and refusal to settle down with anyone he was being ridiculously passive/aggressive, trying to punish his parents for the lack of love he felt as a child by continuing to disappoint them—as, of course, they expected he would. But he wasn’t entirely ready to admit that, certainly not to his former sister-in-law, whom he respected very much.
Craig shrugged. “You know what Sartre said. Hell is other people.”
Sarah eyed him keenly. “I don’t think you really believe that.”
“Well, maybe if I’d met someone like you.”
“Spare me.”
“Sorry. But it’s a bit of a sore subject with me lately.”
“Why lately?”
“I don’t know,” he said quickly. “No reason.”
“Of course you know. But that’s okay. You don’t have to talk about it.”
Craig smiled. “Did Adam ever get how smart you are?”
Sarah smiled back. “Yes. And when he did get it he divorced me.”
“He thrives on competition with men. With women, he needs to be king.”
“Yeah. He does seem to be a bit of a throwback in that way. Not like your father, anyway.”
“My father lets women dominate him. Well, until now. Jennifer doesn’t strike me as the sort to need dominion over anybody.”
“So, she’s not a Charlotte?” Sarah asked.
“Not that I can see. And Ruth likes her.”
“That’s a valuable stamp of approval. Ruth likes you, too. In fact, I think you’re her favorite McQueen.”
Craig felt embarrassed and disbelieving at the same time. “I don’t know about that,” he said.
“Why? Aren’t you worth a special place in someone’s heart?” When Craig didn’t answer, only stared straight ahead over the lawn, Sarah said, very softly, “I see.”
Ruth was in the kitchen unloading a bag of produce she had brought home from a local farm stand, when Adam accosted her.
“When was the last time Dad updated his will?” he said by way of greeting.
Ruth looked at the tomato she was holding. It was damn near perfect, and what a fragrance. She put it in a large white ceramic bowl with the other, less perfect, but probably equally as delicious, tomatoes.
“Hello, to you, too,” she said. “And I have no idea.”
“You must know where he keeps a copy. In the library? In his bedroom? Did he ever install a safe like I told him to?”
Ruth gave her nephew a look of mock horror. “You’re not going to go searching for it, are you?”
“Of course not. I’m sure Teddy has a copy filed safely away.”
“Then why do you care about your father’s copy? What’s this all about, Adam?” Ah, she thought, just look at these green beans! Lightly tossed with garlic and good olive oil and they’ll be heaven to eat. And these shallots are a work of art. How rosy they are!
Adam took a step closer to his aunt. “I want to know what Dad plans to do with the house.”
Ruth carefully folded and put away the reusable shopping bag before responding to her nephew. “First of all,” she said, facing him again, “it’s none of your business, nor is it any of mine. Second, even if I did know Bill’s plans, I wouldn’t tell you. I wouldn’t tell anyone.”
“It’s your duty, and mine, to protect the family’s interests,” Adam argued.
“You mean the family’s property, which, technically, isn’t the family’s at all, it’s Bill’s and Bill’s alone.”
“Not forever. Not for long. He’s seventy-three.”
Ruth leaned back against the sink. She was finding this conversation both inappropriate and amusing. “Our father died at eighty,” she said. “Our mother lived to be ninety-three.”
“That doesn’t necessarily mean that Dad will live to be that old.”
“Planning to kill him, are we?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Adam said, now sounding angry. “I just want to be sure he’s done the right thing.”
“Which is?”
“Which is leave Larchmere and its holdings to me, the eldest son, the only one with good financial sense and expertise.”
Ruth sighed. It was clear that he was deadly serious. He really and truly felt due the legacy his father and grandfather had worked so hard to establish, the legacy they had cherished.
“Adam,” she said, her tone neutral, “I don’t much like you. I never did and it’s a good bet I never will.” Ruth started to leave the room.
“Come back here,” Adam demanded from behind her. “I’m not finished!”
Oh, she thought, but I am.
33
It was later that afternoon, after Tilda’s visit to the yard sale, where she had found no books of interest to her. She was in the kitchen getting a snack when her cell phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number. It was the guy from the air-conditioning repair service. She had told Jon to have him call her about the price he had quoted. She seemed to recall that the last time the air conditioner had broken down the price for repair was a lot lower. She wondered if Jon had properly explained the problem.
Tilda told the repairman what, exactly, had gone wrong. At least, what Jon had told her had gone wrong. The repair guy quoted his original price. Tilda suggested that it
seemed rather high. This push and pull went on for several minutes.
“Look,” the guy finally said, with a big, put-upon sigh. “Just let me talk to your husband, all right?”
“My husband,” Tilda replied, shocked at being so dismissed, “is dead.”
There was another sigh, this one not quite so dramatic. “I’m sorry about your husband. But the job costs what it costs. You don’t want to pay, you can find somebody else.”
Tilda didn’t know what to do. She could ask Jon to call other repair services for quotes. Or she could do it herself. That could take time. She would probably have to deal with other dismissive, sexist men just like this one. “Oh, all right,” she blurted. “Fine.”
“Tell whoever is going to be home to have a check for me.”
The call ended. Tilda no longer wanted that snack. She gripped the bar top. Her face felt hot. She felt angry and, at the same time, vaguely sad and lost.
For a long time after Frank’s death Tilda had felt anonymous. It was the best word she could find to express how she felt. If the person who knew you best was gone, no longer there in the physical world to validate your existence by his own existence, then who were you, where were you to be found? What was your name? Who was there to recognize you?
And who was she now, a little more than two years since her husband’s death? Not the same Tilda McQueen she had been before her marriage. Not Mrs. O’Connell, Frank’s wife, the person she had been for over twenty years. And not quite the anonymous person she had been right after Frank’s death.
What—where—was her identity? She was a widow. It was a grim word that brought with it too many fiercely negative cultural associations. Throughout the history of the western world, at least throughout its literature, widows had been portrayed in a bad light. Her schooling had taught her that.
Take Chaucer’s Wife of Bath. For many women she was a figure of courage and individuality, but she was also a figure to mock, admittedly deceitful and manipulative, even emasculating. Black widows were killers of men, liars and cheats, sexually and morally depraved. Villains in movies had widow’s peaks, that telltale V-shaped hairline that, in folklore, predicted a wife would outlive her husband.
Widows and orphans were to be protected and pitied. Widows were to be married off to a reluctant brother-in-law. They were to be tucked away in attic bedrooms and expected to serve the resident family in exchange for the tiny airless room and meager board. Widows were a burden. Widows spent their evenings alone. Widowers were invited to dinner and served hearty meals and good brandy. Widows were to be taken advantage of by unscrupulous repairmen!
Tilda’s obsessively negative thoughts, which she had made no attempt to check, were interrupted by the sudden appearance of Jennifer in the kitchen. Tilda had not heard the front door open and close. Jennifer was wearing a milk-chocolate colored linen A-line dress, and darker brown sandals with heels. A large, sculptural brooch was pinned by her right shoulder. Her bag was from Coach. Tilda recognized it from the window of the Coach store in the Maine Mall. The bag, which was new this season, cost several hundreds of dollars. She could not afford it.
“Hi, Tilda,” Jennifer said. “What a beautiful afternoon.”
“Hi,” Tilda replied.
“How’s it going?”
“Fine.”
“I just stopped by to drop off a magazine for Bill. It’s about chess. There’s a good article in here I thought he might like to read.”
“Oh.”
There was a moment of awkward silence before Jennifer said, “I’ve been meaning to ask if you’ve been to the day spa in town, the one in the old, converted church on Maine Street. I was wondering about their massages. I’d really like to get one soon, it’s been ages.”
“I wouldn’t know about the massages,” Tilda said, turning to face the sink and thereby turning her back to her father’s girlfriend. “I don’t have the money to be going to spas.”
There was a moment of heavy silence and then Jennifer said, “Oh. I’m sorry. Well, I’ve got to be—”
Jennifer picked up her expensive bag and left. Tilda immediately felt like a jerk. She considered, just for a moment, going after her to apologize. She could say she was in a bad mood, that she had been snapping at everyone since breakfast, that it was her period or the onset of menopause. But that would be a lie.
Tilda sank into a chair at the little table in the breakfast nook. She felt ashamed. The ugly, embarrassing truth was that she was jealous of Jennifer Fournier. Her father’s girlfriend was beautiful and poised and had her own successful business (at least one that afforded her massages and bags from Coach!) and most significantly, she was romantically involved with a good man. That the man was Tilda’s father was almost beside the point.
Being jealous of Jennifer would get her nowhere. Tilda knew that. It wasn’t Jennifer’s fault that she was lonely and had less disposable cash to spend on herself. If she wanted a new life, then it was up to her to make one. To make new friends, which she did think she should do, people who had not known her as Frank’s wife. To earn more money if that was important to her, though she wasn’t really sure that it was. To find love—if that was, indeed, what she wanted. According to her father, that was what she needed.
Tilda got up from the table. She would have to call Jon and tell him where she kept the checkbook.
Craig had found the old wooden fanlight in the basement. He vaguely remembered his aunt having brought it home with her a few years before. He had no idea where she had gotten it. The glass was long gone but that was all right. Painted a bright white, he thought that it would look nice in the living room, maybe over the antique chair with the pale green plushy upholstery.
He had carried it out of the basement and around the back of the house to examine it in sunlight. First, it would need to be scraped, which, given its condition, would take some time, then primed and repainted. He didn’t know if it was worth the effort—if anyone really cared about the old piece—but it gave him another project, something to keep his hands busy while his mind was under siege.
There had been the fight with Adam, in which, to a certain extent, he had rightly been denounced as—though Adam had not used the term—a shirker. There had been the brief conversation with Bobby, the one they had had at the Cove, about life and location and meaning. And then there had been the talk he had had with Sarah, on the front porch, while Hannah and Susan were with the kids playing miniature golf. She had asked him if he felt undeserving or unworthy of a special place in someone’s heart. He had not answered. His silence had spoken for him.
Craig sighed and turned the old fanlight so that he could assess the damage to its other side. He would never forget the woman who had accosted him at The Front Porch and accused him of getting her pregnant and, in effect, of forcing her to have an abortion. He had forgotten her once but now he would always remember, even be haunted by her—and by the child he would never know. His child, if the woman could be believed, and somehow Craig had come to the conclusion that she could.
“What are you doing?” It was Bill. He had come around the back of the house and upon Craig with the old fanlight.
Craig thought he detected a note of suspicion in his father’s voice. He wondered if his father had a right to be suspicious of him. Had he ever given him a reason not to be?
“I thought I’d fix up this old fanlight,” he said.
“It belongs to your aunt.”
Craig wondered if his father thought he was going to sell it and make off with the money. “I know,” he said. “I thought it would look nice in the living room, over the green chair. After I fix it up.”
Bill looked at his youngest child for a moment. Craig waited. “Yes,” he finally said. “It would look nice there.”
He turned to go, where, he didn’t say.
“Dad?” Craig called.
Bill turned. “Yes?”
But Craig had no idea what to say or why he had called out to his father. “Nothing. S
orry.”
His father went off. Craig turned back to his project and his thoughts.
“What do you think this is?”
Tilda observed the wooden object Dennis was holding up. It was about two feet long, most of which was handle—she guessed—and at one end there was a bowl-shaped object attached, dotted liberally with small, round perforations. “I have absolutely no idea,” she said finally. “Some kind of sieve? Let’s ask the owner.”
They were in an antique shop along Route 1 in Wells. It was a big old barnlike structure, though Tilda wasn’t sure it had ever actually been a barn. She liked this particular shop because its collection was so eclectic and its prices were generally affordable.
Frank had hated to go antiquing. He thought the whole notion of browsing, for anything, was insane. Early in the marriage Tilda had dragged him along on a few expeditions but he had been so obviously miserable—and no fun to be with!—that afterward she had let him stay home. She had begged him to stay home.
It felt strange to be enjoying one of her favorite activities with a man other than Frank. It felt almost like cheating, though of course, it wasn’t.
She and Dennis, who was carrying the mysterious object, walked up to the central counter at which the owner presided. Their arms brushed against each other. Tilda wondered what it would be like to have sex with Dennis. She tried to imagine him naked. She tried to imagine herself naked with him. She shivered in embarrassment though nobody in the shop could read her thoughts. The thoughts were pleasant, even a little bit exciting. So what if he was in his sixties? Sixty was the new forty. Could sex be a part of her life again? For the first time since Frank’s death—and in an antique store of all places!—she could sense this as a real possibility.
“Excuse me,” Dennis was saying to the shop’s owner. He was a middle-aged man wearing a pair of oversized, heavy, black-framed glasses, behind which his eyes were huge and swimming. “We were wondering what this is meant to be?”
The owner cocked his head and seemed to be considering the object for some moments before he said, “What do you think it’s meant to be?”
The Family Beach House Page 22
