A Wedding on the Beach

by Holly Chamberlin

  Allison smiled. “I’m grateful,” she admitted. “I suspect that if I had a big role to play I might ruin your celebration by being a sobbing mess.”

  “I got you a special posy to carry, only slightly different from Marta’s bouquet. Now, let’s go down to dinner.” Bess linked her arm through Allison’s and Allison thought she felt her friend recoil from the boniness of Allison’s arm through her lightweight blouse.

  But maybe that was her imagination.

  Chapter 10

  Bess was pleased to note that Allison was wearing her wedding ring. It must be a sign of hope, a sign that all was not necessarily lost, a sign that . . .

  Or maybe it was just habit. Interestingly, on their way downstairs to dinner Allison had asked to take a close look at Bess’s engagement ring. Her enthusiasm had seemed genuine if a bit much, as had been her praise of Driftwood House. Poor Allison, Bess thought.

  Now they were gathered at the large table in the dining area. The windows were open and an ocean breeze wafted through.

  “The hostess with the most-est,” Mike said, patting his stomach. “But where’s the barbeque sauce?”

  Bess began to rise. “I could run out and—”

  “No!” her friends chorused. “I was only kidding,” Mike added. “You’ve provided us with a fantastic Welcome-to-Maine spread.”

  That had been the point. Bess had ordered fish and chips from a popular local restaurant. It was a simple meal that could go horribly wrong if you didn’t have the right equipment at home for frying, but the Harbor House Clam Shack always nailed it. The fish was sweet and flaky, and the fries were crisp on the outside and tender within. Another night there would be lobsters for dinner, and one morning they would visit a restaurant where Nathan could order Lobster Benedict, one of his all-time favorite indulgences (he had several), and Mike, whose taste in food was distinctly basic, could be happy with the blueberry pancakes. (If the blueberries came from out of state—it was a bit early for the Maine season—Mike wouldn’t be the wiser.) One of the keys to a successful party, Bess had learned early on, was food and plenty of it.

  Though there was always one person at an event who for some reason couldn’t be tempted by the delicacies provided. Tonight, it was Allison; she barely touched her meal, though she had drunk two glasses of red wine in rapid succession, resulting in her cheeks flushing and an artificial spark appearing in her eyes.

  “So,” Bess announced. “I have a surprise for everyone. Remember when we had that fondue party back in senior year?”

  Mike frowned. “Yeah, it took months for that burn on my wrist to heal. I’ve never understood the point of fondue. I like to eat my dinner without the risk of being engulfed in flames while doing so.”

  “The cheese sauce was good,” Marta commented. “What was in that, anyway?”

  “Gruyère and sherry,” Bess told her. “Very cheap sherry.”

  “The meat was pretty much inedible,” Allison said, one of her first verbal contributions of the evening. “It was like the proverbial shoe leather.”

  “Well, we’re having a fondue party two nights before the wedding,” Bess went on, undeterred.

  “Do you have asbestos gloves?” Mike inquired.

  “Come on, it’ll be fun. And I’ve bought really good sherry and the meat will be an excellent cut, I promise.”

  Several conversations began to take place at once. Bess focused a bit of her attention on each, pleased with how things were going. Mike was thrilled with the truffles from Harbor Candy. Marta had pronounced the bed in their room perfect for a back sore from a long car ride. Allison seemed happy with everything, if not with her dinner.

  “I was reading an article in the New York Times the other day about that new museum being built in Detroit,” Bess heard Nathan say to Mike. “It’s supposed to be revolutionary in the way it will show contemporary art in relation to the Old Masters.”

  Mike nodded. “I read that article, too. I thought Chris’s father’s firm might be one of the architects, but there was no mention of them. I mean, Montague and Montague has a strong reputation in buildings related to the arts. Allison?”

  Bess’s stomach flipped.

  Allison looked up from her plate. “I don’t know what the firm is up to these days,” she replied flatly. “You’d have to ask Chris.”

  “No need to do that,” Mike said quickly. “It doesn’t really matter. Just wondering.”

  Allison put her fork across her plate. “It’s okay,” she said. “You can talk about him. He does still exist.”

  “I’m sorry,” Nathan said. “I shouldn’t have brought it up in the first place. I wasn’t thinking.”

  Bess felt a bit sick. “Really, Allison, we’re all—”

  “Please!” Allison cried. “Please stop apologizing. All of you.” Allison shook her head. “I’m sorry.” Then she laughed. “Now I’m doing it, apologizing. Can we please just all stop saying how sorry we are for being human and move on? Do you enjoy the travel aspect of your job, Nathan?” Allison asked, turning deliberately to her host.

  “I do,” Nathan said promptly. “I’ve made friends in Stockholm, and Sweden is a beautiful country.”

  “I can’t wait to go there with Nathan,” Bess said. “While he works, I’ll play tourist. Did you know that Stockholm is actually made up of fourteen islands?”

  “I’m afraid I know little of that part of the world,” Mike admitted. “Sweden is on the Baltic Sea, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Bess told him. “And there’s so much history! You can take sightseeing ferries to the different islands. The Old Town—it’s called the Gamia Stan—is one of the best preserved medieval city centers in all of Europe.”

  “And don’t forget the ABBA Museum,” Marta said.

  Bess laughed. “Like I would! But I’m really psyched to visit the sites of the Viking settlements. Ancient history is so . . . It’s so . . .”

  “Ancient?” Nathan suggested with a smile.

  “You know what I mean. We just don’t have much of it in the US. What remains of native cultures here is so sparse. Such a shame.”

  “What’s the food like in Sweden?” Mike asked.

  Marta raised an eyebrow. “The most important question for Mike.”

  “Their cinnamon buns are the best in the world, hands down,” Nathan declared.

  “And he says there’s lingonberry jam served with just about every dish,” Bess added, “including meatballs.”

  “And let’s not forget anchovies and herrings grilled and pickled,” Nathan went on. “It’s hearty fare and good for you.”

  Mike wrinkled his nose. “I’m not sure how I feel about the herrings,” he admitted. “But I’m all for meatballs. By the way, what’s for dessert tonight?”

  “Strawberry shortcakes,” Bess told him. “Pretty American I think.”

  “Fantastic,” Mike enthused. “I love strawberry shortcake!”

  Marta gave her husband a meaningful look. “Are you planning on a run tomorrow morning?” she asked.

  “You know,” Mike replied, his eyes wide, “I realized just before we sat down to dinner that I forgot to pack my running shoes!”

  “You did forget,” Marta told him. “I packed them for you.”

  Mike looked dejected. “I guess I am going for a run tomorrow.”

  “Aren’t you going to thank me for having your heart health in mind?” Marta asked with a broad smile.

  “Yeah,” Mike mumbled. “Thanks. You’re such a devoted wife.”

  Everyone but Allison laughed at this dry remark.

  “I’ll go with you,” Nathan offered suddenly. “Sometimes having a buddy along makes working out easier.”

  “I don’t know about easier,” Mike said, snagging a final fry from his plate before Marta could protest. “More tolerable, maybe. Thanks, Nathan.”

  Suddenly, Allison folded her napkin and stood up from the table. “I don’t know what it is about flying that wears me out so,” she said, stifling a
yawn as if to prove her exhaustion.

  Bess smiled sympathetically. “Plus, you had that long drive from Boston. I wish you had let me pick you up.”

  “I didn’t want you to.” Allison’s abrupt response was met with silence. “Good night,” she said.

  When she was gone, to a chorus of softly spoken farewells, Mike shook his head. “I could strangle Chris,” he said. “Look what he’s done to her.”

  “We’ll never know all that went on between Allison and Chris, so we can’t judge or point the finger and say this one or that one is to blame,” Marta argued. “The fact is that what had been a good marriage for a long time ended. And that’s sad. But we should be celebrating Bess and Nathan’s union. Always look forward. It’s sound advice, and you can thank my mother for it.”

  Bess shook her head. “We’re never really free of the past.”

  “True,” Nathan replied, “but we don’t have to stare over our shoulder at it.”

  “Okay, so don’t stare,” Mike said. “But you’d better at least take a quick look. Forewarned is forearmed. Know the past and you have a pretty good chance at guessing what might be coming at you in the future.”

  Bess stood. “Time for dessert,” she announced. Marta joined her in helping to clear the table. And as they brought empty plates to the kitchen and returned with the strawberry shortcakes, Bess found herself wondering if Allison missed the routine aspects of married life, the daily duties freely undertaken, the little sacrifices happily made, the sweet liberties one was allowed to take with each other, like halfheartedly scolding one’s spouse for gaining weight. She must, Bess thought, as she placed a dessert in front of Nathan. Allison must miss it all so much.

  Chapter 11

  Mike and Nathan were on the back porch. Marta heard the low murmur of masculine voices and the occasional laugh, subdued in deference to those already in bed. Or those, like Marta, who were still preparing for bed, hanging up the blouse and pair of pants she had been wearing, placing underwear and ankle socks in a laundry bag. She had already washed her face and brushed her teeth and gotten into her cozy lightweight flannel nightgown.

  Marta removed her earrings (she always wore a pair of small gold studs); her wedding rings had already been carefully stowed in the little padded jewelry pouch she used while traveling. She had noticed at dinner that Allison was wearing her wedding ring. It was a dangerous thing, Marta thought, to cling to a past that hadn’t moved along with you into the present. Always look forward, but be sure to understand what you’ve left behind.

  What a tall order for any mere mortal!

  Marta checked to see that there was a box of tissues within reach of the bed. Of course, there was. This was Bess’s house, at least for the next two weeks. Marta was sure that Allison was finding her own room as well supplied as she and Mike had found theirs.

  Poor Allison. Marta wanted to help, but she believed that sometimes it was best not to inquire too closely about a person’s unhappiness; sometimes unhappiness needed to be guarded. This philosophy got complicated when the unhappy person was a child. But Allison was no one’s child, not any longer. Who was there to take care of Allison now that both her parents and her husband were gone? Self-sufficiency was all well and good, but how far could it be asked to go?

  Marta decided that she would watch and wait. She would take her cues from Allison and act accordingly. Leave it to Bess to stumble in where she might not be wanted or needed.

  No doubt Chuck would agree with Marta’s decision regarding Allison. He and Dean were due to arrive the next day. They would be full of the determined energy of all first-time parents. The very thought made Marta yawn. Did she have what it took to be a Super Mom all over again? All those years ago she had chosen to be the dominant, hands-on parent, allowing Mike to sleep through the night so that he could go off to work in the morning rested and refreshed. She had chosen to be the one who took the children to the doctor at the slightest sign of illness; the one who religiously attended every play, concert, soccer game, and parent/teacher meeting. But near-sleepless nights and seemingly endless days took their toll when one was forty-two, more so than they did when one was thirty-five, the age Marta had been when Troy was born.

  Suddenly, Marta was visited by an image of her mother tucking Troy into bed. What would Estelle Kennedy think if she knew her daughter didn’t want the baby she had just conceived? Marta felt like a small child, caught out attempting something naughty. She shook her head clear of the thought, only to find another slightly embarrassing thought creeping in.

  For some unaccountable reason, Marta, a three-time mother, had mistaken this pregnancy for symptoms of perimenopause. Only after almost a week had gone by did she decide to take an at-home pregnancy test. It was positive. But she was not a person prone to panic. She disdained that sort of person. Calmly, she made an appointment to see her ob-gyn.

  The ob-gyn confirmed the pregnancy. She spoke to Marta for some time about the risks inherent in a later-in-life pregnancy; she gave Marta pamphlets about tests for Down syndrome, neonatal nutrition, and exercise. “Congratulations,” Dr. Smith said finally. “You can book your next appointment on the way out.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Marta said. She shook the doctor’s hand. She made another appointment.

  But once in her car, she had put her head on the steering wheel in despair. “Shit,” she said. And then again, this time louder: “Shit.”

  She reached home without incident. Mike arrived at his usual time, just before seven. When the kids were in bed or at least pretending to be, Marta was finally alone with her husband. Now was the time to tell him that he was going to be a father again, but she could not open her mouth. Being silent didn’t erase the fact that she was carrying the tiny beginnings of a new life. But she could not open her mouth.

  That night she lay in bed and realized that never in her adult life had she acted so childishly. An adult might ask: Don’t I have a right to act childishly once in a blue moon? But the answer to that question was always no. You might have a right to feel a certain way in a certain situation—hurt, angry, annoyed—and even that was debatable, Marta thought, but you didn’t have a right to act on those feelings. Not as a responsible adult. And you couldn’t check in and out of being a responsible adult, not if you wanted to maintain any degree of self-respect in the eyes of others. In your own eyes.

  She said nothing the next day. The silence wasn’t a decision. It was a state of inertia.

  She said nothing the day after that.

  On the fourth day, the words finally just came out. Mike was elated and Marta knew immediately that she would have to lie to him, pretend that she, too, was happy to welcome a fourth child. So, she had said things she had not meant, told him she was thrilled about the pregnancy, determined to suck up her distress as a responsible adult should do.

  But faking it was taking its toll. She had never lied to Mike about anything of importance and only resorted to white lies for his benefit, like when he made his infamous meatloaf for dinner each year on her birthday. It was horrid; none of the kids could tolerate even a bite, but Marta ate it with a smile. True, there was that one old secret she had never told anyone, that she never, ever would tell anyone. But there was only that one.

  Marta glanced toward the window. She hoped Mike lingered over the whiskey and conversation. She wanted to be dead to the world by the time he came to bed. She wanted to be utterly and blissfully alone. Like in the days before she had fallen in love with Mike. Like in the days when she was truly Marta Kennedy, a daughter, yes, but only a daughter, not a wife and a mother as well. There had been a freedom in that, one Marta barely remembered; there was a person she barely recognized deep inside herself, buried under layers of service to others, service that had largely shaped who she was today—a habit of service she had enjoyed and relied on to define herself. The question now was, did she still need this habit, at least, to the extent that she had?

  It would be nice if only for a very brief ti
me to be a child again, not to care about anyone or anything but her own contentment. A child’s love was selfish; a child loved her parents for what they did for her. It took years of learning before love began to mean something unselfish, or at least partly so, to understand that to be healthy, love had to be about giving as well as about taking.

  Marta got into bed. She was annoyed with herself. She was not a child. She was an adult.

  Chapter 12

  Allison sat in one of the comfortable armchairs in the living area, pretending to be interested in one of the many wedding-related magazines to be found around the house. Here was an article about how to incorporate stepchildren into your wedding party. Lots of ink was spilled on how to ensure stepchildren felt comfortable at family celebrations. Was as much ink spilled on how to ensure adopted children felt as comfortable?

  When Allison was eighteen her parents told her that if she decided to locate her birth parents they would support her decision, but she had never had any interest in doing so. Now, however, being an orphan (if also an adult), about to be divorced from her one and only love, Allison thought it might—just might—prove helpful to uncover her roots. She might discover a stronger sense of belonging in the world. She might discover another loving family to replace the one she had lost.

  Allison tossed the wedding magazine onto one of the little tables that dotted the room. But what if what she found instead were badly damaged people, a mother who had been a teenaged runaway forced into a life of prostitution, or a father who had been a drug addict? What if she discovered that both were long dead? What if she discovered that while both were alive, neither wanted anything to do with a mistake made long ago? What if her birth mother couldn’t identify her birth father? What if, in the end, Allison was left feeling more isolated than ever? What if, what if! No decision carefully undertaken after the age of about thirty was without its share of what-ifs.