A Wedding on the Beach

by Holly Chamberlin

  Bess shook her head. Nonsense. It was never too late to embrace the sort of change she had chosen. It couldn’t be. She turned away from the window and went out to the kitchen, where she found Dean and Thomas. Thomas was in his high chair. “Ba ba ba ba,” he was saying, a big smile on his face.

  “Where’s Chuck?” Bess asked. “I thought everyone was out.”

  Dean took a bite of an apple and chewed it before answering. “He went down to the outlets in Kittery again.”

  “Your face looks like a thundercloud,” Bess observed.

  “It’s nothing,” Dean replied quickly. “Well, yeah, it’s something. I wanted to go to a workshop today at a branch of the local historical society and Chuck knew it, but he either forgot my plan or he decided his was more important. After all, I’m just the stay-at-home daddy. My needs aren’t half as important as . . .” Dean winced. “I’m sorry. I hate when one person in a couple complains about the other one to a mutual friend.”

  “You know, if it’s not too late for you to make the workshop I could watch Thomas.” Bess looked at the baby. He was now rubbing his fat little fingers over a section of a brightly colored, multi-textured cloth. “He’s just going to sit there playing with that thing, right?”

  Dean laughed. “Thanks, Bess, but I’m not shifting my responsibility onto your shoulders because I’m pissed at Chuck. The time I get to spend with my son is always important; it’s hardly as if I’m suffering. No, I’ll take it up with Chuck later. That’s what happens in a relationship with this particular balance of duties. It’s easy for the one who’s out in the world to overlook the needs of the one who works from home.”

  “I’m sure Chuck doesn’t mean anything by his negligence,” Bess said worriedly.

  Dean smiled. “Hey, don’t look so freaked out! It’s not the end of the world—or of our marriage! Negotiation never ends. Blame is the death knell of a relationship so you just keep on talking and tweaking.”

  “Sometimes I feel I have absolutely no idea what it really means to be married,” Bess admitted.

  “You don’t. Well, not much. No one does until they’re neck-deep in the relationship.” Dean smiled again. “It’s part of the excitement.”

  “I’m not really much on that sort of excitement,” Bess mumbled.

  Dean suddenly shot a look at his son. “He needs to be changed,” he said. “Or he will in about a minute.”

  “How do you know?” Bess asked.

  “See the way his nose is scrunched? That’s the signal. I’m off.”

  Dean, baby in tow, headed for his room. Bess poured a glass of cold water and thought about what he had said. Negotiation never ends. You just keep on talking and tweaking. It didn’t sound so terribly difficult, Bess thought, not if she called on her native courage and optimism. Quand-même. She would be okay. She would figure out this marriage thing and everything would be all right.

  Bess rinsed her glass and put it in the drainer next to the sink. Everything would be all right.

  Chapter 29

  Why did people have to be slobs? It was a question that could plague Marta when she let it. Like the puddle of juice on the counter next to the sink. How hard would it have been for whoever had spilled the juice to reach for a paper towel and wipe it up? Laziness. That’s what it was, Marta thought grimly, as she mopped up the spill. Sheer laziness. And a disregard for others. In fact, she wouldn’t be surprised to learn it was Mike who had neglected to clean up after himself this morning. Some things never changed.

  When Marta had first met Mike MacIntosh he was living off-campus, a bit of a tear about who kept wildly irregular hours and who seemed perfectly content to wallow in slovenly domestic conditions. Every few months, when he was having trouble making the rent, he would find himself an unsuspecting roommate but said roommate never lasted for long. For a short time, Marta had taken it upon herself to stuff his dirty clothes into the laundry bag, to squirt disinfectant into the toilet, to scrub sticky rings left by the bottom of soda and beer cans off the counter. Mike never asked for her help with the housekeeping and Marta didn’t enjoy playing unpaid maid, but as long as she was going to be spending time in Mike’s hovel she might as well make it tolerably clean. The turning point came when one morning, while straightening the sheets, Marta had found a desiccated mouse behind the bed, after which she had refused to spend the night in Mike’s apartment ever again.

  Mike’s habits changed once they were out of college and living together in a place of their own. Marta saw to that and perhaps not surprisingly, Mike seemed to enjoy living in a clean and orderly environment. It meant he no longer had to waste half an hour each morning scrounging around for something clean to wear. It meant that the food he ingested wasn’t riddled with mold, and that the toothbrushes in his medicine cabinet weren’t encrusted with highly questionable goo. Mike had proved trainable, though Marta knew that if she loosened the leash even a little he would very quickly slide back into his native slovenly state. Hence, no doubt, the spilled juice she had just wiped up.

  Marta put her hand to her head and took a deep breath. It was wrong to blame Mike for the spill. And even if he was responsible, it was hardly a crime not to clean up after one’s self. And she shouldn’t forget that even if her husband was a slob by nature, he was genuinely appreciative of her dedication to the running of the household and of her ability to do so seemingly without effort. “Beauty, brains, and an endless tolerance for me and my annoying habits,” he would say to anyone who would listen. “How did I get so lucky in a wife?”

  Marta dropped her hand from her head. But was that an innocent compliment or a condescending one?

  Bess came bouncing into the kitchen. Well, not exactly bouncing, but with that jaunty step that sometimes drove Marta crazy.

  “I am dying for a cup of tea,” Bess declared, and she opened a cabinet and peered inside. After a moment she turned, holding a small yellow box. “This hasn’t been opened. I thought you loved ginger tea.”

  “Oh, I went off that a while ago,” Marta said more dismissively than she had meant to. In fact, almost since the moment she thought she might be pregnant her stomach had revolted at the thought of her once-favorite tea.

  “I wish you had told me,” Bess said. “There are six other varieties here, but if none of them appeal I’ll have my assistant send a few others down from this great tea shop in Portland.”

  Marta felt her temper rise. “Stop fussing,” she scolded. “Look, I’m sorry, Bess. I’m in a bit of a bad mood. I got a call from Sam this morning.” She had not gotten a call from Sam. She was lying. “She was whining for permission to go with some friends to a concert in Philly next weekend. I said no. Of course,” Marta said, hurrying on, burying herself ever deeper into the untruth, “then she wanted to speak to Mike. I told her to call him but to expect the same answer.”

  “And did he say no?” Bess asked.

  Marta smiled a bit queasily. What if Bess asked Mike about the nonexistent call? “He was sitting right by me when Sam called,” she went on. “I had explained my position when Sam and I had finished talking and so when Sam called Mike a few minutes later he was well prepped to refuse her permission.”

  Bess smiled. “Sneaky.”

  Marta shrugged. “Welcome to parenthood.” For some reason, she thought, it now involved lying.

  “I don’t know how you do it,” Bess said. “A twenty-four/seven job.”

  “Sometimes,” Marta said quietly, “neither do I.”

  * * *

  It was about a quarter after seven. Mike was in the bedroom speaking with one of his colleagues. Nathan was in the den, doing the same. The others were seated around the living room. Notably, Dean’s naked feet were resting in Chuck’s lap.

  “What did Dean do to deserve a foot rub?” Allison asked.

  “I took unfair advantage of him earlier,” Chuck explained. “I promised I’d take Thomas so that he could catch a workshop at the historical society and I totally spaced. So now I’m doing
penance.”

  “A little more on the left arch, please,” Dean directed.

  Marta laughed. “If I had a nickel for every time that Mike accidentally on purpose left me in the lurch with the kids I’d be dining out at Harry’s Bar in Venice once a month.”

  “But you forgive him, right?” Bess asked worriedly.

  “Of course, I forgive him. But sometimes I make him earn that forgiveness. I mean, no one likes to be taken advantage of, even accidentally on purpose.”

  “I’ve forgiven Chuck for this latest little incident,” Dean announced. “I’m nothing if not magnanimous in my ability to forgive and forget. Especially when there’s a foot rub involved.”

  “Still, what’s that old saw,” Chuck said, “you always hurt the one you love?”

  Dean frowned. “I think it’s more, ‘every man kills the thing he most loves.’ And I think it was said memorably, if not in those exact words, by Oscar Wilde.”

  “What was it he said about truth?” Allison asked. “‘The truth is rarely pure and never simple.’”

  “Now there’s a guy I’d love to have dinner with,” Chuck said enthusiastically. “To hell with politicians and statesmen. Give me Oscar Wilde any day.”

  “Even though his life ended tragically?” Marta asked. “And largely as the result of his own choices, however innocently made?” The same could be said for so many of us, she thought.

  Chuck nodded seriously. “Especially because it did. He was a brave man, and all brave people are to some degree foolish. It comes with the territory.”

  Marta thought about that. “Well,” she said after a moment, “I wouldn’t mind having dinner with Queen Elizabeth the first. Now there was a woman to be reckoned with. Though I’d seriously prefer not to have to eat some of those disgusting dishes so popular among the elite in Tudor times. Calf’s head with oysters? Ugh.”

  “I’d like to sit down with Pippi Longstocking,” Bess announced.

  “You do know that Pippi Longstocking wasn’t—isn’t—real?” Chuck said gently.

  “I know. But if you can talk about sharing a meal with someone who’s been dead for hundreds of years, then I can talk about having a milk shake with a character in a book.”

  “Why a milk shake?” Allison asked.

  “Don’t you think Pippi would like milk shakes?” Bess asked. “I mean, where does she get her superhuman strength from? Her diet must be hugely full of protein.”

  “I can’t say I know much, if anything, about Ms. Longstocking,” Dean admitted. “I’ve never read the book.”

  “You haven’t?” Bess said. “It’s not only one book, there are lots of books. And movies, too. But maybe because you’re male no one suggested you read stories about a girl, even one as awesome as Pippi Longstocking.”

  Dean bowed his head. “I hereby promise to introduce Thomas to your fictional friend as soon as he’s old enough to read.”

  “Good. You won’t regret it. Her father is a buccaneer captain, you know. There’s lots of stuff about adventures on the high seas.”

  Nathan came out from the den. “Ready, guys?” he asked.

  “As soon as Mike shows,” Dean answered, removing his feet from Chuck’s lap and reaching for his sandals.

  Mike appeared a moment later. He was wearing a blue shirt open at the neck and a pair of jeans. His thick dark hair, still damp from a shower, was swept off his forehead. The same old Mike, but Marta went weak at the knees. It took every bit of responsible adulthood in her not to rush at him. Hormones? Or something more—like love?

  “Sorry I kept you waiting,” Mike said to Nathan, Chuck, and Dean. He went over to Marta and planted a kiss on her forehead. Marta reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze, glad for his nearness. That would have to do.

  “We’ll take good care of the baby,” Bess promised when the men had said their farewells and headed toward the front door.

  “Yes,” Marta called after them. “We will.”

  Chapter 30

  When the men had gone, Allison opened another bottle of wine and brought it to the large central coffee table in the living area. Marta had drawn her armchair closer to the table—and the cheese, crackers, fruit, and nuts laid out upon it. Bess was curled up in another of the comfortable armchairs. Allison chose to sit at one end of the love seat.

  “Three middle-aged ladies in for a cozy night of gossip,” Marta commented. “Is that what we are?”

  “Not middle-aged, surely!” Bess protested. “But gossip is okay as long as it’s not nasty.” She turned to Allison. “Do you ever run into Chris?”

  “No,” Allison replied. She wasn’t surprised the conversation had so quickly landed on this topic. And she wasn’t upset that it had, either. “I go out of my way to avoid places I’m likely to see him. I suspect he does the same. Honestly, I dread the idea of coming across him waiting for a light on a street corner or on line at the grocery store. I don’t know how I could handle such a shock. I really don’t.”

  Bess shook her head. “This is just awful.”

  “So, what’s going on with the condo?” Marta asked, selecting a piece of a locally made cheese.

  “It’s under contract—and empty. I couldn’t bear to stay until the closing date so I moved into a rental a few months ago and put most of my possessions in storage with the childhood stuff I mentioned. I’m living with less material goods around me than ever in my life,” she said with a small laugh. “The emptiness around me reflects the emptiness inside me.”

  “That doesn’t sound very healthy,” Marta said briskly.

  “Maybe not, but it’s the truth. If you don’t want an honest answer, then don’t ask the question.”

  Marta raised her glass of seltzer in acknowledgment.

  “Allison,” Bess asked after a moment, “I’ve been wondering if the infertility issue got too much for you guys to handle. I’ve read that the emotional aspects can be really destructive to a marriage, and I—”

  “Bess,” Marta said firmly. “Don’t.”

  Allison sighed. “No, it’s all right.” And she remembered the question she had asked herself the other day on the beach. How much longer could she remain silent, plagued by these loud and insistent memories, bound by that promise she had made to Chris?

  “For better or worse,” Allison whispered as if to herself. “Not much longer.”

  “What did you say?” Bess asked.

  It was time. “All right,” Allison said, looking from one to the other of her friends. “You might as well know the whole story.” So, she told them. How after years of ART she finally got pregnant. How her doctor suggested she consider a few days of bed rest. How she decided to finish an important assignment before taking a few days off at home.

  “Chris wasn’t happy about my finishing the job, but it wasn’t as if I’d been told in no uncertain terms not to leave my bed for the remainder of the pregnancy or I’d risk losing the child,” she explained. “I’d been given no warnings, just advice, which I fully planned to follow once the job was completed.”

  Allison paused. Her friends sat quietly, their eyes on her.

  “It’s funny,” Allison finally said, “but the accident itself didn’t feel like such a big deal. I knew I’d been hit, of course—the airbag deploying was only one obvious clue—but I didn’t black out or even feel much physical discomfort. Later, at the hospital, it was discovered that two of my ribs had been fractured and my collarbone broken by the airbag. I looked like one massive bruise for weeks.” Allison paused. “And I’d lost the baby. Or, if you prefer, the pregnancy had been terminated.”

  “Terminated is an ugly word,” Bess muttered.

  “I’m sorry,” Marta said. Her voice was rough.

  “Chris couldn’t forgive me for taking such a risk with our child. He said that if I hadn’t gotten into my car that morning I never would have miscarried.”

  “He couldn’t have known that,” Marta said angrily. “No one could have. You could have miscarried while watch
ing TV with your feet up!”

  “I know. But you can understand Chris’s feelings, can’t you? No one could fault me for watching TV with my feet up. But I could be faulted for . . .”

  “Allison,” Bess said, shaking her head, “don’t! Just don’t.”

  “Anyway, about a month after the accident he told me he was filing for divorce and he moved back into his parents’ home.”

  “What a shit,” Marta murmured.

  “You don’t know the whole story,” Allison corrected. “See, I came to believe—no, I came to know—that a large part of the reason Chris wanted a child so badly was because he needed to replace Robby, the brother he lost in childhood. Chris is obsessed with the brother he lost when he was so young. He’s so unhappy.”

  “I remember Chris mentioning his brother’s death from a rare cancer once or twice back when we were in college, but I had no idea he was so broken up about it,” Marta confessed.

  “Me, neither,” Bess said. “And I didn’t like to ask for details. A child’s death isn’t a subject you just bring up casually.”

  “I think Chris talked to Chuck about Robby a few times,” Allison told them, “but not openly enough for it to do any good.”

  “I wish I had known,” Bess said. “Maybe I could have done something to help.”

  “Like what?” Marta said. “Get over your obsession, Chris, before it wrecks your marriage? No, I doubt there was anything any of us could have done.” Marta looked to Allison. “What about Chris’s parents? Where are they in all this?”

  “Chris’s parents were as good to me as they could be when Chris left, but their loyalty rightly lies with their son. His mother did tell me she also believes Chris’s obsession was behind the collapse of our marriage. But what can she do about it other than apologize for the role she feels she played in allowing the obsession to take hold in the first place?”