A Wedding on the Beach

by Holly Chamberlin

  Allison felt an unpleasant tingling run through her. “I don’t know,” she said, “and I don’t want to know.”

  “You should know,” Marta said firmly. “Ask your lawyer. You need to be fully informed. Is she refusing to answer your questions?”

  “No, of course not,” Allison replied irritably. “She’s always giving me information, too much information. I can’t keep track of it all.”

  “What do you think Chris is going to do with the gifts you’ve given him over the years?” Bess asked.

  “Bess, for God’s sake, what a thing to bring up!” Marta shook her head. “Sometimes you have no sense at all!”

  “I don’t know,” Allison said shakily. She thought of the eighteenth-century Italian brass drawing instrument set she had given Chris for his thirty-fifth birthday; she had bought it online from an antique dealer in Paris. She thought of the cuff links made of genuine Roman glass and silver she had given Chris for their seventh anniversary; he had worn those cuff links often. Maybe he no longer wore them at all.

  “Did you two ever consider adoption?” Bess asked.

  Allison sighed. Bess could win an award for bluntness.

  “I’ve wondered about that so often,” Bess went on, “but never had the nerve to ask. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked it now, but . . .”

  “It’s okay,” Allison said. “It’s a good question, and the answer is that I considered adoption. How could I not? It’s an integral part of my identity. But Chris felt otherwise.”

  “So many men do,” Marta said grimly. “Something about having another man’s child under their roof, a cuckoo in the nest. It’s a stupid macho thing.”

  “That wasn’t Chris’s objection,” Allison argued. “I think it had something to do with keeping a bit of Robby’s Montague DNA alive, even though adoption would have been so much easier on me. Chris wasn’t the one who had to endure the transvaginal ultrasounds and endless blood tests, or the one who had to be taking the fertility meds and dealing with the side effects.” Allison shook her head. “I don’t think Chris meant to, but he insulted me by rejecting the idea of adoption. He made me feel like damaged goods.”

  The screen door slid open again and Chuck rejoined them. “Hope I’m not intruding,” he said.

  Bess smiled. “Never.”

  “I’ve been wondering if it might be a good idea for me to search for my birth parents,” Allison told her friends. “But Massachusetts is a closed adoption state, or at least it was. I have no idea what hoops I’d have to jump through to find answers.”

  Bess clasped her hands to her chest. “You so should!”

  Marta, with a critical glance at Bess, frowned. “I wouldn’t advise doing something so risky in your state of mind,” she said. “What does your therapist say about the idea?”

  “I don’t have to ask my therapist for permission to do something I want to do!” Allison replied testily.

  “I didn’t say ask for permission.” Marta’s tone was neutral. “Advice is more what I was thinking. Seeking out your birth parents is not exactly a little thing.”

  “I know, I know. Sorry.”

  “No, I’m sorry,” Marta said quickly. “I’m being a downer. If locating your birth parents is something you really want to do you should do it with the support of your friends. You don’t need our grim cautions.”

  “Did you ever mention the idea to Chris?” Chuck asked.

  “I did. Not long after the start of our relationship my parents gave me a little bit of information about my birth mother. She was the one who had named me Allison. I mentioned to Chris that one day I might decide to search for my birth parents and he said he thought it would be a big mistake. He never really said why and I never pressed him for his reasons because I didn’t really want to find my birth parents then, anyway.”

  Marta shook her head. “Chris and his control issues! He was afraid that if you found your birth parents there’d be two more people demanding your time. Bad enough you already had two adoptive parents on hand to steal you away.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly, Marta,” Bess scolded. “I’m sure Chris was just being protective of Allison. There’s no guarantee of a happy ending when you go in search of the mother and father who gave you up.”

  “I wonder,” Chuck said. “It’s kind of a far-fetched idea but . . . I wonder if Chris somehow unconsciously confused his anger at his parents for abandoning Robby with anger at Allison’s birth parents for abandoning her. Maybe he felt that Allison’s birth parents didn’t deserve to know their daughter. Maybe . . .” Chuck laughed self-consciously. “Okay, maybe that’s all a lot of nonsense.”

  “I don’t think so, given what we now know about Chris’s obsession with Robby,” Marta said musingly. “But I guess we’ll never be certain. What do you think, Allison?”

  “Hurts sustained in childhood can fester and warp the mind. That’s not news. So maybe Chuck is on to something.” Allison smiled ruefully. “But like Marta said, we’ll probably never know for sure.”

  Chuck rubbed his hands together. “All this heavy emotional lifting has given me an appetite. Any of that corn salad left, Bess?”

  As Bess hurried inside and Marta and Chuck got into a debate about celery of all things—if cooked, did it really constitute a daily serving of vegetables?—Allison wondered how Chris would feel if he knew she had broken her promise of silence, a promise made under duress but still a promise. At that moment, she didn’t much care.

  “I think I’ll have some of that corn salad, too,” she said, rising from her chair. “I’ll go help Bess.”

  Chapter 37

  “What do you think about it all, Mike?”

  Bess knew Mike wasn’t comfortable talking about touchy-feely stuff, but Mike was smart and he was tough. Her questions wouldn’t do him any real damage.

  “About what all?” he asked, beginning to fiddle with the salt cellar. And Mike was an avoider. A lot of men were.

  “About Allison and Chris, of course.”

  “Oh,” he said. “That. I can’t believe Chris could be so cruel as to leave Allison in her time of need. She’s so . . . She’s so vulnerable.”

  Bess—like Marta—knew that Mike had always seen Allison as weaker than she in fact was, the delicate, pretty blond girl in need of a savior. Bess wasn’t sure that Allison was aware of this prejudice, or, if she was, how she felt about it.

  “Yes,” Bess said. “But what do you think about Chris’s being so upset with Allison for not doing what he wanted her to do, which was to abandon the project she was working on at the time?”

  Mike looked decidedly uncomfortable. He picked up the pepper shaker and shook it. “I don’t really know what happened,” he pointed out. “I mean, I don’t like to . . .” Mike rubbed the back of his neck with his other hand. “Look, I’ve been through three pregnancies with Marta and I have to admit there were times when I wanted her to do less or to do something differently. Like the time she was five months pregnant with Sam and got invited to a bachelorette party at an amusement park. She swore she wouldn’t go on the roller coaster and I believed her, but I spent the entire afternoon in a state of near panic.” Mike smiled ruefully. “I never quite learned how to stop worrying, even through the second and third pregnancies. But Marta’s body is her own, and it’s her right to act as she pleases. There were times when I failed to trust her and it was wrong of me.”

  Bess recalled Mike saying something the other night about how he shouldn’t have allowed Marta to go on vacation with the gang while she was pregnant. Marta had not been pleased. “I’m sure she understood that your motives were good,” Bess said. At least, she hoped that Marta had understood.

  “Yeah,” Mike said. Then he shook his head. “I’d do anything to protect my children. Any halfway decent father would. I suspect Chris felt guilty after the miscarriage, even if he didn’t admit as much to Allison.”

  “But why would he feel guilty?” Bess asked. “He had nothing to do with the accident.”
<
br />   “He was the father. Parents feel guilty about everything, Bess, even about the things we can’t control. I guarantee Chris beat himself up pretty badly about what happened, even as he was blaming Allison.” Mike sighed. “If only he’d reached out to someone, me or Chuck, anyone. I’m not saying we could have worked a miracle and talked Chris out of a divorce, but I know we could have helped. I know it.”

  Poor Mike, Bess thought. Of course, he couldn’t know that. But in his effort to get a handle on the tragedy Mike needed to believe that there was a way in which he could have helped avert it. Men like Mike needed to fix things. That was okay, except when they couldn’t fix something, or find a solution to a loved one’s problem, or make an irritation go away. Then they felt really, really bad.

  “It’s so terribly complicated,” she said neutrally.

  “I’ve got a question for you,” Mike said suddenly. “Define this famous soul mate for me. I mean, all those years you talked about this mysterious figure, what did you really mean? This isn’t a challenge,” Mike added hurriedly. “I’m genuinely curious.”

  Bess wondered why he was asking this question now. Prompted by the upcoming wedding? Allison’s divorce? Or maybe by some point of tension in his marriage to Marta?

  “I guess what I mean is someone with whom you feel totally comfortable and safe,” she said. “Someone who likes you for your quirks, not in spite of them. Sometimes you get fooled—at least, I got fooled—into thinking, okay, he’s my soul mate, but then you see that no, he’s not, and that’s fine. Better to be alone than with the wrong person.” Bess sighed. “I’m sorry, Mike. It’s really hard to articulate. You just know when you know.”

  Mike looked thoughtful; a moment later, he nodded. “Well, then, Marta is my soul mate, no doubt about it.” Then he half smiled. “I just hope she feels the same way about me.”

  “I know she does,” Bess assured him. But did she? It was difficult to know what Marta thought or how she felt about the more esoteric aspects of life. That Marta loved Mike and was devoted to him, Bess had no doubt. But love and devotion were practical matters in many ways; at least, Bess had been taught that they usually were in a marriage. They didn’t necessarily have anything to do with Romantic Ideals like Soul Mates and One True Loves.

  “Hey, is there any more of that blueberry pie left?” Mike asked brightly.

  Clearly, he was through talking about the intricacies of romantic relationships. “One slice,” Bess told him, going over to the fridge to fetch it. “I’ll pick up a few more pies when I’m out later.”

  “Blueberries are good for you,” Mike said, greedily eyeing the generous slice of pie Bess placed on the counter. “Antioxidants.”

  Bess patted her friend on the shoulder and handed him a fork. “Enjoy,” she said. Silently, she added: And be quick about it. You don’t want Marta catching you eating between meals.

  The gnarled old tree beckoned to Bess as she made her way down toward to beach. She stopped to observe it once again. The bark was worn away in places, revealing the mottled wood underneath. In other places the bark was peeling, creating what to Bess was a slightly fanciful appearance. No doubt about it, there was something compelling about this old, dead tree. Bess wondered how many winters it had survived, how many springs it had enjoyed, how many people had sat under the canopy of its branches in full bloom.

  Time passed. Things changed. So did people. What it would take, Bess wondered, for Nathan to leave her? Would he walk away if she made a bad mistake like Allison had made? No, Bess corrected. Allison had not made a bad mistake. Something bad had happened to her. She was not to blame, even though Chris was convinced that she was.

  Bess considered. Once she and Nathan were married, would she have to hide her less than perfect self from him? He already knew she had a habit of eating half a banana and leaving the other half to rot instead of putting it into the fridge, and that she wasn’t the most careful recycler, and that she was a committed people-pleaser, sometimes to her detriment. But what if as the years passed she developed a tendency toward chronic crankiness (it seemed impossible, but you never knew), or what if her mind narrowed as a result of her being the victim of a violent crime and she became the reverse of the open-minded, big-hearted person Nathan had fallen in love with and married? You couldn’t hide things like negative personality changes or newly acquired character flaws. One day Nathan might look closely at his wife and realize he no longer loved her, that in fact he no longer knew her. Then he would want to leave. He would need to leave. And where would Bess be then?

  Bess folded her arms across her chest in an unconscious gesture of self-protection. How could a marriage ever work without full disclosure? How could it work with full disclosure? Did anyone know the answer to those questions?

  Bess knew the basics of Nathan’s past. That he had married at the age of twenty-three. That Maggie, his wife, had died young of cancer. That they had not had children.

  Nathan knew the basics of Bess’s past. That she had never been married. That she had never wanted children. That she had spent many years at a stretch being single.

  There was not much more to tell, Bess realized, certainly nothing that would upset Nathan if he were to find out. She had no criminal record. She had never even shoplifted a candy bar as a kid. She had never knowingly cheated anyone in business. She gave money to the homeless women she encountered on the streets of downtown Portland. Some of the homeless men frightened her. She felt bad about that but not bad enough to have conquered her fear. But would Nathan think less of her if she admitted she was afraid of the homeless men?

  “What have you been doing out here on your own?” Marta asked.

  Bess cried out. “You almost gave me a heart attack! For a second I thought this gnarled old tree was talking to me!”

  Marta raised an eyebrow.

  “Sorry we startled you,” Allison said.

  “It’s okay.” Bess took a deep breath and smiled. “I’m glad you’re here. I’ve been thinking about all sorts of things and making myself slightly crazy.”

  “Be specific,” Marta suggested.

  “Okay. For one, I don’t know if Nathan’s first wife was ever pregnant. If she was, she must have had either a miscarriage or an abortion because there was no child. Which was it?”

  “Did it occur to you to ask Nathan if his wife was ever pregnant?” Marta said.

  “Of course, but I don’t want to upset him.”

  Marta laughed. “The hell with upsetting him. You have a right to know.”

  “I’m not so sure she does,” Allison argued. “It really has no bearing on Bess in the here and now.”

  Marta shrugged. “You have a point there. But I understand Bess’s curiosity.”

  “Remember,” Allison pointed out, “curiosity killed the cat.”

  “Poor cat,” Marta noted. “Only doing what a cat is meant to do. Killed for fulfilling his nature.” And then she put her hand to her heart. “Sheesh! Look, in the tree! Speak of the devil . . .”

  Bess turned. A large gray cat was perched in the twisted, peeling branches of the tree, staring at them with unblinking yellow eyes.

  “How did I not see him before?” Bess murmured. A shiver ran through her.

  “Maybe he just materialized,” Allison whispered. “Maybe he’s the genius loci. He’s certainly magnificent.”

  “Yeah, and I’m the Wicked Witch of the West,” Marta remarked. “It’s just a stray or maybe a neighbor’s pet.”

  “I think we should leave him alone,” Bess said, beginning to back away. “What if he’s vicious?”

  “He’s not vicious,” Allison stated firmly, taking a step closer to the tree.

  “Well, we’ll leave you to get your eyes scratched out,” Marta said, taking Bess’s arm and pulling her along toward the beach.

  Bess took one last glance over her shoulder as she followed Marta. Allison and the cat were staring at each other. Odd. Allison had never been interested in animals.

&nbs
p; “Come on, Lazy Bones!” Marta urged.

  Bess stepped up her pace.

  Chapter 38

  After a half hour Bess had gone back to the house to tackle some chore or other, leaving Marta on her own, sitting on the sand, her knees drawn up to her chest, her arms wrapped around her legs. Marta loved the beach. She wondered why she didn’t make it a priority to spend more time at the shore. She wouldn’t have to take along the children. Sam would prefer to be with her friends, Leo wasn’t big on the outdoors, and Troy always enjoyed spending time alone with his father.

  It was something to think about, carving out time for herself.

  Marta squinted. Down by the water’s edge, Chuck and Dean were walking hand in hand. The happy couple. Marta had been surprised when Chuck had announced he was getting married. He had seemed the least likely to settle down, having no history of long-term relationships. But just before his wedding he had explained to Marta what had decided him on a life partnership. In Dean, Chuck had found a person of good character, amiable personality, physical attractiveness, and most importantly, someone who wanted a family as much as Chuck did. Marta believed that you could dearly love someone who wasn’t your grand passion, and maybe that made for a better marriage in the end. Who could say?

  Marta’s knees were feeling stiff. She straightened her legs; the sand was pleasingly warm on her calves and she dug her feet in deep. And she wondered, If her marriage were to end before she had reached a very old age, would she be tempted to marry again? She didn’t think it was likely. Mike and Marriage were almost entirely bound up in each other, the reality of Mike, the ideal of Marriage. But people did remarry when they were old, after divorce or the death of a longtime spouse. And when they were not so old, like Nathan. Why? For companionship alone? What relation did that sort of late-in-life marriage have to the sort of marriage Marta shared with Mike, in which the most important function of the union was to provide a safe and nurturing environment in which to raise children? How likely was it that a parenting marriage could morph into a truly successful marriage of a different kind once the kids were gone? Were parents ever truly able to rediscover each other as individuals, as the people they had been pre-parenthood?