A Wedding on the Beach

by Holly Chamberlin

  She was angry with Mike for not having taken the idea of a vasectomy more seriously. Then again, she was the one who had let him off the hook. They were both to blame for the pregnancy, but Marta was the one who felt like a fool.

  “Hey, Marta?” It was Mike, his voice startling her out of her reverie. “We’re going to meet up with Dean and Nathan and the baby. Are you coming?”

  “Yes,” she called back, snatching a pair of chinos and a cotton blouse from the closet. “I’m coming.”

  Chapter 18

  Allison had taken a long and leisurely drive along back roads in Kittery Point. The sightseeing was unbeatable. Charming, well-kept homes, many dating to the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries; little red schoolhouses neatly restored; big white churches—Baptist, Methodist, Congregationalist, Episcopal. Art galleries in old barns. Farms stands. Yard sales. She really did love New England; even in the dead of winter its appeal was strong. But there had never been any discussion about where she and Chris would live after college. Chicago. Close to Chris’s parents—and to his brother, Robby Montague, who was buried in the family’s plot in an old and well-known cemetery in a leafy suburb of the city.

  Chuck was in the kitchen making a cup of tea when Allison got back to Driftwood House. “There are no fewer than seven kinds of tea in this kitchen,” he said by way of greeting. “I’m surprised Bess hasn’t supplied seven kinds of honey, as well.”

  “She is determined to make this reunion special,” Allison agreed. She went to the fridge and removed a pitcher of lemonade.

  “Want to tell me anything?” Chuck asked when Allison had joined him at the kitchen island.

  “No,” she said quickly. “Yes, I don’t know. Don’t ask me, Chuck.”

  Chuck nodded. “Okay.”

  They sipped their tea and lemonade in companionable silence for a few minutes until Allison asked a rhetorical question. “Back in college,” she said, “did any of us have any real idea of who or what we would be in our forties?”

  “Of course, we didn’t,” Chuck answered, “and thank goodness for that. Who among us could go on living knowing exactly what the future held? In this one case, ignorance is bliss.”

  “I suppose you’re right. Chuck? Has being a father changed you?” Allison shook her head. “What a ridiculous question.”

  “Being a father is forcing me to be the best version of me there is,” Chuck said promptly. “It’s showing me how precious life really is. You’d think as a doctor I’d know that, but too often that truth gets buried under a barrage of facts and figures. And fatherhood is making me appreciate my parents in an entirely new way.” Chuck paused. “Is this too difficult for you to be hearing?” he asked. “After all the years you and Chris spent trying to get pregnant?”

  “No,” Allison told him truthfully. “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to know your answer. I don’t begrudge my friends their lives.”

  “Good. Begrudging is a waste of time and energy.”

  Chuck brought his empty teacup to the dishwasher and excused himself. “Nap time,” he said.

  A few minutes later Marta and Bess joined Allison, Marta from upstairs and Bess from the den. Bess took a bowl of green grapes from the fridge and poured herself a glass of water.

  “Men can be so insanely infuriating,” Marta stated.

  “And you’re making that observation why?” Allison asked.

  “I just got off the phone with one of the guys on my neighborhood watch committee. He floated a few ideas for changes to our community website and I found them badly presented. All I did was ask a few clarifying questions and he went immediately on the defensive, as if I was criticizing and not just trying to understand. So not helpful.”

  Allison nodded. “Men see every conversation as a contest. Someone wins, someone loses. Completely unproductive.”

  “Mars and Venus,” Marta added. “Never the twain shall meet.”

  Bess waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, come on. Men and women aren’t that different from each other.”

  “No matter the similarities,” Marta said, “the division of the sexes is real. Men made the rules and they’re still enforcing the ones they can get away with enforcing without being eviscerated in the media or hauled into court. They don’t want to give up any of the power base they created and in a way, you can’t blame them. Power is good.”

  “Yeah, okay, but our guys aren’t power-hungry men holding us down,” Bess argued. “And we’ve never fought along gender lines, not once.”

  “Yes, we have,” Allison said, feeling slightly guilty for revealing the secret. “We just never told you.”

  Bess looked stunned. “What do you mean?”

  Marta shot a look at Allison before speaking. “Do you remember back in college when Garth Simmons was accused of date rape?”

  “Of course, I remember. The scandal rocked the campus. No one could believe that Garth of all people could do such a thing.”

  “Why?” Marta challenged. “Because he was smart and good-looking and everyone from teachers to cleaning crews to students found him funny and charming?”

  Bess shrugged. “Well, yeah.”

  “Bess, you’re badly naïve. I knew a darker side of Garth and so did others. There was a complacency about him, an assumed superiority. At the time of this ‘incident’ he was only nineteen, but he was as full of self-importance as a power-hungry man of thirty-five.”

  “Garth? I can’t believe it.”

  “Believe it,” Allison said sternly.

  Marta went on. “When the woman who accused him—her first name was Sarah, but I suddenly can’t remember her last name; doesn’t that say it all about how we treat the victims!—anyway, when she reported him to the campus authorities, almost the entire school divided up along sex lines. Even Mike, Chris, and Chuck couldn’t believe that Garth was guilty. They were as in awe of him as most of the campus. Which is not to say that all women backed Sarah. There will always be the sort of women who find it expedient to cozy up to the enemy, hoping for a prize, like a convenient marriage to a billionaire.” Marta frowned. “I didn’t talk to our guys for weeks until they came around or pretended to. I’m ashamed to admit it, but by then I was so tired of being angry I was willing to ‘believe’ they’d had a change of heart.”

  “What about you, Allison?” Bess asked. “Did you refuse to talk to the guys, as well? Even to Chris?”

  Allison hesitated. “The rape,” she said finally, “happened a few months after I’d gone to the memorial rally for that poor young local teen who’d been killed by homophobic bullies in his own class. Chris had been so upset about my going. We were still in a state of partial reconciliation so I . . . I capitulated.” Again, she added silently. “I wanted to make things right between us. I’m ashamed to say I told Chris that I respected his opinion about what had happened between Garth and Sarah and that I wouldn’t argue with him any longer.”

  “But you still believed Sarah?” Marta pressed.

  “Yes,” said Allison. “I always believed her. I just failed to show that support when I gave in to Chris.”

  Bess shook her head. “How could I not have been aware of such controversy in our own group of friends?”

  “We kept it from you as best we could,” Allison explained. “We knew how upset you got whenever there was the slightest bit of dissension among us. Besides, at the time you were knee-deep in the theater department’s spring production of whatever musical they were mounting, some Gilbert and Sullivan thing. You were always running off to vintage shops or flea markets in search of old-fashioned corsets or stuffed sofas or whatever else it was you were in charge of finding.”

  “You’re right,” Bess admitted. “That was an incredibly busy time. I hardly slept for weeks, trying to keep up with my classes and not let the set designer down.” Bess paused for a moment. “But I do remember how the whole thing turned out, the date rape case I mean. The girl who accused Garth took her case to the police when the school didn�
�t take her claims seriously. I can’t remember if there was a trial, but he was thrown out of school, wasn’t he?”

  Marta nodded. “Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

  “But was he ever proved guilty?” Bess asked.

  “All I know is that there was sufficient evidence against him for the school to finally act,” Allison said. “And that’s what matters.”

  “But what if he was innocent?” Bess pressed. “What if it all came down to miscommunication, or what if the girl regretted having had sex with Garth and was trying to shift the blame for her own mistake onto him? Garth’s entire life is now tainted by that scandal and that seems unfair.”

  “As unfair as it would be if no one had believed the victim and she spent the rest of her life battling debilitating shame and anger?” Marta’s face was alarmingly red. “And why would a young woman choose to subject herself to the humiliation of going public with a claim of rape when it wasn’t true? Okay, yeah, one in a million women might be warped enough to claim to be a victim of a crime that never took place, but not Sarah—Metz! That was her name! I knew it would come to me. She was as levelheaded and as upright as they come.”

  “Besides,” Allison went on, “Garth’s daddy owns half of Manhattan. You can be sure Garth hasn’t suffered one iota due to that annoying little episode, as I’m sure he thinks of it now.”

  Bess shook her head. “I think I have to process all this.”

  “While you do that I’m going to drive to Goose Rocks Beach. Allison?”

  Allison declined Marta’s invitation and went upstairs to her room to rest. If Bess had to process what had happened in the past, so did Allison. Why had she always been so ready to sacrifice her own firm beliefs for the sake of harmony with Chris? Was love to blame? Fidelity? Loyalty? Well, then, all three could be bad for your soul when they compelled you to deny your instincts and your better nature. Lesson learned.

  Allison stretched out on the bed and folded her hands across her stomach. And she said a prayer that Sarah Metz was living a truly wonderful life.

  Chapter 19

  “How did sand get into my pockets when I haven’t even been to the beach today?” Nathan held his cargo shorts over the wastepaper basket and shook.

  Bess was barely aware of her fiancé. She was still wrapping her head around the fact that her friends had kept a secret from her. What else about the group did she not know, the reason for Allison’s divorce aside? What else had they hidden from her? Bess thought of the charms she was going to present to her friends the night of the wedding, special gifts she had chosen for the people she knew she could trust the most. Trust did not go hand in hand with secrets.

  Bess glanced around the room as if someone might be lurking behind the long curtains or under the four-poster bed. Of course, no one was there. But the dramatist in her had felt compelled to check.

  “What’s up?” Nathan asked, stepping into a fresh pair of chinos. “Why are you looking around like that?”

  “I feel an atmosphere,” she whispered. An image of the blighted tree came to her mind, that one stark reminder of imperfection at Driftwood House. “Something’s wrong.”

  “In this room?” Nathan asked, lowering his own voice.

  “No, in general.”

  Nathan put an arm into a linen shirt and then the other arm. “What do you mean, in general?”

  “I don’t know, exactly.”

  Nathan frowned. “You’re not helping me understand, Bess.”

  “Sorry,” Bess said. “Marta, for one. She seems—harder—than ever, ready to fight at a moment’s notice.”

  “Maybe she’s just missing her children. Didn’t you tell me she pretty much never leaves them for more than a few days at a time?”

  “Yeah,” she said, sinking onto the edge of the bed. “But I don’t know . . .”

  Nathan came to sit next to her. “I won’t say you’re imagining things,” he began, “because that would be condescending. But maybe you’re being a bit too sensitive. You’ve put a lot of pressure on yourself to make this reunion—and the wedding—perfect. Could the strain be causing you to sense trouble where there is none?”

  Bess shrugged. “It’s possible. I know I can be a bit—nosy. Everybody tells me so.”

  “Everybody loves and appreciates your big heart.” Nathan took her hand in his and squeezed it gently.

  Bess frowned. “Except when I’m interfering.”

  “Maybe you’re just picking up on Allison’s unhappiness,” Nathan suggested.

  Bess nodded. “Yes, I wish there was something I could do for her. . . .”

  “There is. Give her the space to grieve. She’ll talk when she wants to. And if she doesn’t, that’s her choice, too. Just love her.”

  Bess leaned into Nathan and kissed his cheek. “You’re very smart.”

  Nathan shrugged. “I’m all right for a guy, or so I’ve been told.”

  “Who told you?”

  “My mother, of course!”

  Bess laughed.

  “Ready? I’m starved. Maybe it’s the salt air. Whatever it is, I’ve been as hungry as the proverbial horse since I got here.”

  Bess and Nathan were greeted enthusiastically as they came into the dining area on the first floor.

  “There they are,” Dean announced, raising his glass of wine. “The couple of the moment.”

  “The beautiful bride,” Mike added.

  “And the handsome groom!” That was Allison; she was smiling.

  “Hear, hear!” Chuck said.

  “Mazel tov!” Marta added.

  Bess squeezed Nathan’s hand and she looked upon her friends with fondness. Nathan was right. She was probably being hypersensitive, imagining trouble where there was none.

  Chapter 20

  Mike was already sound asleep. Marta, sitting up in bed beside him, had tried to read, but thoughts of the conversations that had taken place at dinner kept intruding. Allison had mentioned that the lease on her studio was coming to an end; she feared a big hike in the rent. Bess told an amusing story about a client. Nathan shared a complaint about the airline he routinely used to travel to and from his office in Stockholm. Chuck asked Mike a general legal question; in turn, Mike asked Chuck to take a look at a mark on the palm of his hand. “You know I’m a heart specialist,” Chuck had pointed out while peering at Mike’s hand. “But you’re here,” Mike had replied. Chuck had proclaimed the mark harmless. Even Dean, though on a hiatus from work, had contributed an anecdote from a recent teachers’ conference he had attended.

  And what had Marta contributed? Nothing. She could have talked about what was going on with Sam or Leo or Troy, but she didn’t. Why? Marta thought about what her mother had told her regarding her old friend Olivine’s apotheosis. If Olivine could restructure her life . . .

  Marta rubbed her eyes with her fingertips. Chuck had his passion for medicine. Allison had her passion for art. Every one of her friends believed he or she was doing what he or she was meant to be doing. Of course, some people came late to their talents. Others exhausted one talent and then moved on to another. There were plenty of people who at the end of their lives could claim several careers and could boast of having successfully shouldered through a succession of challenging phases during which they mastered new skills and conquered hitherto unconquered territory. Why couldn’t she be one of those people? What was stopping her but for the usual things that stopped so many people from achieving their dreams—fear and a lack of self-confidence? She really couldn’t claim the more prosaic obstacles like time and money; sure, both were limited, but not to a debilitating extent like they were for some people.

  Marta adjusted the pillows behind her back, careful not to wake her husband. What had her younger self been thinking when she chose to forgo a career and be the stay-at-home parent in her family? Had she been so idealistic that she had simply ignored all thoughts of life post children in the house? Or, Marta wondered, had she blithely assumed that once her kids were raised and
on their own she could easily pick up where she had left off? Which was where? She had no career to which she could return. And how had she been so naïve—so willfully naïve—as to assume that she wouldn’t have to face what countless other women had to face, almost insurmountable obstacles to reentering the workforce in any meaningful and financially significant way? How could Marta Kennedy, always a top student, president of her high school’s student council, Phi Beta Kappa, how could she of all people have been so careless and disrespectful of her future? But it was human nature to put off until the next day or the day after that what one assumed could be put off without dire repercussion. The here and now, the present moment required so much focus and energy, who could be blamed for pushing aside the making of plans, especially when everyone knew that The Future, no matter how carefully mapped, was at root an unknown thing?

  Like any intelligent, self-aware person, Marta knew that one got nowhere by self-blaming, but in this case she found it impossible not to indulge in scolding her younger self. Who else could she blame for choices freely made? And they had been made freely.

  Marta glanced over at her husband. She recalled his surprise when she told him she had decided not to go to law school. “But you’re smarter than I am and a way better student,” he had argued. “And you’ve been talking about law school since we first met. I don’t understand.”

  Marta had explained that her focus had changed, that her goal had morphed into something she regarded as higher and better. Being a mother to their children. Full-time. Always. Every minute of day and night. Mike was surprised but pleased. They agreed upon a plan. He would earn the money and provide the health insurance for their family while she ran things at home—in Mike’s opinion, the far more difficult task. He had always been vocal about that opinion, too, eager to give Marta credit where credit was due and then some, grateful for her and proud of her.