Bess sighed and looked out over the perfectly tended lawn. At the foot of the yard was the blighted tree, beautiful in its grotesqueness. Beyond that lay the pale sand and the shimmering sea. Why was life so fraught, she wondered? Why was the meaning of life—and it had to have a meaning—so incomprehensible? Way better minds than Bess’s had wrestled with the big existential questions and as far as Bess knew, none of those minds had come up with any really satisfactory answers. There was no way she, whose idea of a brain teaser was a word search, was going to be able to do any better.
“Bess?” Chuck asked. “Where are you?”
She turned to him and smiled. “Nowhere. I mean, right here.”
“It looked as if your head was in the clouds.”
“Nope, I’m totally earthbound. Do you want some chocolate ice cream? There’s plenty in the freezer.”
Chuck laughed. “No, thanks. I had three bowls last night. But I should put these flowers in water.” He rose and went inside.
Bess remained where she was seated. Maybe, she thought, if she stared at the shimmering sea, the cloudless sky, and the blighted tree long enough, the meaning of Life would come to her. She smiled at the notion.
Chapter 53
The call was from Sam. Marta frowned. It was likely Sam had gotten into another squabble with Leo and, unable to reach her father on the phone, had resorted to the lesser parent. Mom wouldn’t be half as sympathetic as Dad would be, but she would do in a pinch.
“Hi,” Marta said, leaning against the railing on the back porch. “What’s wrong?”
“What makes you think something is wrong?” Sam said defensively.
“So, you’ve just called to chat?”
There was a moment of silence before Sam said, “Well, no. Actually, there’s something I need your advice on.”
Marta frowned. The last time her daughter had come to her for advice it had been about a pair of expensive sneakers her father had promised her. Should she pick the ones with the silver stripe or the ones with the purple stripe? Marta, annoyed that Mike had promised their daughter the ridiculously overpriced sneakers in the first place, had literally rolled her eyes. Sam had gone off in a huff.
“I’m not sure what to do,” Sam went on. “You know Tara, right?” Somewhere, in the deep recesses of her mind, Marta recalled Sam mentioning the name, but it had to have been at least a year ago. And then the memory surfaced. “The girl who meets her aunt in the city once a month to have lunch at a trendy restaurant and then go shopping,” she said.
“I knew you’d remember. Anyway, at the start of the summer she got a job working the checkout at Target. And last week she told me that she’s been stealing from her cash register! I don’t know how she’s gotten away with it so far. I mean, don’t managers count the money at the end of the day or something?”
“They do,” Marta confirmed. “But no one seems to have noticed any money missing?”
“I guess not. But Tara can’t go on stealing forever. She’s going to get caught and I told her that, but she just laughs it off like it’s no big deal. I don’t know what’s going on, Mom. It’s not like she needs the money; I don’t even know why she’s working when her allowance is so big. Do you think she wants to be found out or something? There’s no way she can really think she’s going to get away with taking such a big risk. It’s crazy!”
“It’s—” Before Marta could finish her comment, Sam was rushing on.
“Do I tell her parents? Not to rat her out but so that someone stops her before she gets in seriously big trouble. Do I warn her I’m going to tell on her if she doesn’t promise to stop? But what if she lies to me and says she isn’t stealing anymore, but she really is still stealing and I find out and then I actually have to tell someone about what’s going on because I’ve already threatened I would? And why did she tell me this in the first place? Why not just keep it a secret?”
Sam was silent for a full thirty seconds; Marta assumed her daughter might have run out of steam and that it was safe for her to ask a few questions. Did Sam know if Tara had told anyone else about her stealing from her job? As far as Sam knew, had Tara ever stolen before now? Had something upsetting happened in Tara’s family life? Was there a boy? Was there a girl? Had either broken her heart or was either a known bad influence? Did Sam know if Tara was involved in any other unsavory matters?
Sam answered these questions. She didn’t know. No. Not that she knew of. There had been a boy, but that was over months ago. If by unsavory her mother meant drugs or drinking, no. Tara was a serious athlete, totally against putting anything unhealthy in her body.
Armed with this information—which didn’t in fact tell her much—Marta thought hard for a moment and then formulated her next question. “Is it possible she’s lying to you about her stealing?” she asked. “When you told me about the trips to the city with her aunt last year, didn’t you also mention something someone had told you about Tara playing a practical joke on a girl back in middle school? Making the girl believe she was terminally ill and needing help doing her homework and carrying her books? And that when the truth finally came out Tara didn’t even apologize? I’m not saying that once a liar always a liar, but maybe in this case . . .”
“OMG,” Sam cried, “how could I have been so stupid? You’re totally right, Tara did prank some poor girl back in middle school. So maybe she’s been lying to me all along, just riling me up! But why me?”
“Don’t waste time trying to guess her motives,” Marta advised. “And we don’t know for sure she is putting you on but given her past, I’d advise you to let the matter drop. Next time she brags about her criminal life, say something like, ‘That’s your choice, it has nothing to do with me,’ and walk away. Okay?”
“Thanks, Mom,” Sam said sincerely. “That’s exactly what I’ll do. You know,” she went on, “I can’t talk about this sort of stuff to anyone else but you. Dad’s great, but he’d probably only see the facts and not all the emotional stuff that makes the facts not so straightforward. I know he’d tell me to go to Tara’s boss because when you know someone is committing a crime you have a civic and an ethical obligation to report them. Which might be the right thing to do technically speaking and all, but it would never have occurred to Dad to ask all the questions you asked me.” Sam laughed. “Why aren’t you a criminal lawyer, Mom? Or an investigator or something.”
Marta laughed, but the words hit a nerve. “In my next life,” she said.
“I hope that when I have kids I can be half as good as you are at solving crises.”
“When you have kids?” Marta blurted.
“Yeah. What?”
“It’s just . . . Nothing.” It was just that maybe she hadn’t been doing such a bad job of parenting her daughter as she thought she had.
“Uh, it’s totally normal for someone to want kids,” Sam pointed out in a classic teenaged tone of patience sorely tried. “Wait. Are you guys having a good time?”
Marta was surprised Sam had thought to ask. “Yeah,” she said. “The house is beautiful, the weather is great, and Bess is the perfect hostess.”
“Cool. I gotta go. Thanks again, Mom. Don’t forget to take a lot of pictures at the wedding. I’m dying to see what Bess wears.”
And she was gone.
Looking out over the blue Atlantic, Marta felt a glimmer of hope. Her daughter didn’t see her as useless. She valued what strengths Marta could bring to making a difficult decision. There was a possibility that Sam might turn out to be an ally of sorts through this upcoming adventure of the pregnancy, not against her father but for her mother. Only time would tell.
Chapter 54
Allison was sitting on the bed with her legs stretched out before her. She had just gotten off the phone with her assistant. Greg had reported that the first meeting with their latest client had gone well. He was sending Allison a detailed report of what had been discussed and decided at the meeting.
She was glad she had done that small service
for Greg. It felt good to lend a hand to a young person, as several established professionals had done for her when she was starting out. Mentoring might be something she could begin to take seriously, and it might be something that could happen close to home.
For instance, why hadn’t she gotten to know Marta’s children better? Was it because she had been so focused on her own childless situation? She knew so little of Sam, Leo, and Troy. What sort of things made Sam laugh? Was Leo still competing in chess tournaments? What did Troy want to be when he grew up?
Allison vowed to make a change going forward. If Mike and Marta were okay with her reaching out to the children with gestures of friendship, then she would do exactly that. Maybe Sam would be interested in visiting her for a few days during a school break; she could show her the sights of Chicago, bring her along on one of her more interesting photo assignments, go shopping at some of the more exciting boutiques.
And she would make an effort to visit the MacIntosh family more often, something that would be easier if she moved back to the east coast, but not impossible to do from Chicago. She would make an effort to know Thomas, too, and if possible to offer concrete help should Chuck and Dean need it as the Parkinson’s progressed.
Allison opened her laptop to check her e-mail. And there, at the top of the list, was a message from Agnes Montague. There was nothing in the subject line. Allison felt her stomach sink and realized she felt afraid. But what could Agnes possibly have to say in an e-mail that could be so horrible? If something terrible had happened to Chris she would have called.
With a deep breath, Allison opened the e-mail.
Allison—I thought you would want to see this. You were an integral part of supporting Chris in his career and I know he always appreciated your dedication. Agnes
Agnes had attached a link to an article from the Chicago Tribune about the firm of Montague and Montague having won a lucrative and prestigious design contest. Allison knew it was a goal Chris and his father had been actively pursuing for almost five years. There was a quote from Jonathan Montague; in it he praised his son for bringing a forward vision to the firm.
Allison startled as another e-mail from Agnes appeared in the in-box. Again, there was nothing in the subject line.
I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed you would be happy for Chris after what he put you through.
But there had been no need for Agnes to apologize. Allison realized that she was happy for Chris. Truly happy. And she hoped the losses in his personal life hadn’t ruined the pleasure of a win in his professional life. Chris’s demons had caused him to treat her badly, but that did not negate his value as a person with skills and talents. It did not.
Only days earlier she had spoken cruelly of Chris, mocked his excitement at being interviewed by the reporter all those years ago. It had been uncharitable and unproductive. She had no further need or desire to act so meanly.
Allison thought carefully for a few minutes; then she sent Agnes a reply.
Thank you for sharing the article with me and please don’t apologize. I am happy for Chris; I know what winning that job meant to him and I hope he’s able to truly enjoy this achievement. I also hope that you and Jonathan are well. I’m in Maine for the wedding of a dear friend from college days.
Allison hesitated. She didn’t know if what she was about to say was the truth.
We all wish Chris was here to be part of the festivities.
Sincerely and with affection, Allison
Chapter 55
Bess was at her desk in the den, reading an online magazine. It wasn’t a particularly good magazine but like most people, Bess occasionally found herself falling into the pit that was the Internet. Why? Because it was there.
Still, the interview she was reading wasn’t too awful. She vaguely recognized the name of the actor who was currently making headlines because he and his wife had managed to stay married for twenty years.
Randy leans forward in his seat and folds his long, expressive hands on his knees. “Marriage is probably the most intricate of relationships,” he says earnestly. “At the same time that it’s about being totally comfortable with each other it’s also about knowing how to tiptoe around the other’s sensitivities.” Randy pauses now and pushes his enviably wavy hair back from his forehead. “Put that way,” he goes on, “it sounds exhausting, but it does become second nature. Mostly. For couples who are lucky, I suppose. I’m sure there are plenty of well-meaning, loving people who never manage to learn how to strike that balance, and all the other balances a good marriage demands. Merry and I have been blessed.”
Bess turned off her computer. Randy Luther might be a fairly obnoxious B-list celebrity, Bess thought, but he sounded like he knew what marriage was really about. Unless his publicist had given him a script to memorize. The point was that there were moments lately when Bess was frightened of discovering that she might not be one of those people who could be properly married. It had to be true that some people just weren’t meant for marriage. Better for those people if they knew themselves well enough not to get married in the first place. But knowing oneself fully was a tall order, one no person (probably) ever got entirely right.
And mostly, Bess knew, a person only discovered her strengths and weaknesses through trial and error. You might think you were capable of climbing a particular mountain and only when you were halfway up and hanging on by one hand might you realize that you were patently not capable of climbing to the top of that mountain. Or, you might be absolutely sure that you could never, ever design an app that would make you millions, and then discover, when you had decided, what the heck, I’ll give it a try, that you were suddenly able to retire at the age of thirty-one.
So, what would it be for her? Would she discover only months after the wedding that she made a lousy wife? Or would she realize that she could handle the role blindfolded and backward?
Abruptly, Bess got up from her desk and went in search of her friends. She found Marta and Allison on the back porch. The two women had just come from the beach.
“It’s hot as Hades down there,” Marta said, stretched out in a chair. “At least you can feel a breeze up here on the porch. Which is weird. You’d think the air would be warmer farther away from the water.”
Allison produced a handheld fan from her beach bag. “One of the best purchases I ever made,” she declared, waving it before her face. “And no batteries to replace. I got suckered into buying a battery-powered fan one of my Instagram peeps was touting. She swore it was the best thing since sliced bread, so silly me, I bought one, and it never worked. I got my money back but still. It just goes to show you can’t necessarily trust your social media so-called friends.”
“Which is why I don’t have any,” Marta remarked.
“I think,” Bess said, “that we’re unusual in this day and age of a ‘surfeit of connectivity’—I came across that phrase recently—in the way we stick to a more old-fashioned standard of genuine closeness. Instead of having lots of friends we have a close bond with a select few who’ve seen us through thick and thin.”
When neither Allison nor Marta commented, Bess went on. “What I mean is, each of us has a circle of colleagues and acquaintances we deal with on a daily basis, and even some people we might consider good friends, but when it comes to the people we really care about, it’s the old college gang, isn’t it? Okay, last year the reunion didn’t come off because of too many scheduling conflicts, though I still don’t understand how . . .” Bess shook her head. “Never mind. But in ordinary circumstances it would never occur to any of us to forgo a reunion for whatever reason, short of a life-threatening disaster.”
“You were pretty upset about Chuck missing our reunion a few years back because it conflicted with a conference he wanted to attend,” Allison said.
“I wasn’t mad at him,” Bess added quickly. “I was just disappointed. The reunion wasn’t the same without Chuck, and the fact that he canceled at the last minute.... But you guys,” sh
e went on, “you and Allison, would never let anything not super important stand in the way of one of our reunions. I think women feel the bonds of friendships as more binding than men do.”
Marta looked to Allison before she said, “That might or might not be true. Still, I’ll admit that once or twice I’ve gone to a reunion reluctantly. There was this one summer our local community college was offering a three-week course on the art of block printing and I considered signing up. Okay, the reunion plans weren’t the only thing that stopped me but . . .” Marta shrugged. “I love you guys, but sometimes I need more than what you can give me. But you must feel the same way, right?”
“I do,” Allison admitted. “And I think it’s perfectly normal. For instance, the year we all went to Puerto Rico, Chris and I had the opportunity to visit newer friends in London. Jeff and Amy had been given use of a lovely flat in Mayfair and there was plenty of room for two couples. We really wanted to join them, but we felt compelled to meet up with ‘the old gang.’ And we did have a good time in the end.”
Bess took a deep and steadying breath. “I don’t know what to say,” she admitted. “I had no idea that . . . that you didn’t care.”
“It’s not about not caring,” Allison said quickly. “It’s just about, well, about growth. Meeting new people and learning how to build new friendships.”
“You haven’t ever been tempted to skip our reunion?” Marta asked Bess.
“No,” Bess said. “Never.”
“Well,” Allison said, her tone conciliatory, “every group needs an emotional focal point, someone to keep all the members connected. Bess is our emotional focal point. Our team captain. Our anchor.”
A Wedding on the Beach Page 23
