Kaye had hoped she would be the one to read them a bedtime story on their first night at the shore house. She’d bought picture books especially. But when the moment came, she wasn’t brave enough to ask.
It was not quite dawn the following morning when Kaye began making plans to salvage the rest of the summer. Dinner the previous night had not gone as she’d imagined, and she knew that Stacy would pack up her family and leave if things didn’t change drastically. Kaye telephoned her son twice before bed and then again early this morning, past caring if she woke him up.
But he didn’t answer. And he hadn’t responded to her texts.
She’d spent a restless night, shocked at the turn of events, examining them from every angle. What caught her most off-guard was her daughter’s extreme reaction to Brad’s absence, but with the morning came perspective. After all, Kaye may have played a part in setting her daughter’s expectations. While Stacy may have had reason to be frustrated with her, Kaye could honestly say that she’d done her best to get in touch with Brad. She’d left messages—many of them—but he hadn’t returned any of her calls. And really, what else was there to do but leave messages?
Kaye reached for a loose thread on the chenille bedspread. As she worked it loose, her annoyance touched on her husband. He never understood the tension between Kaye and Stacy and he was no help now when Kaye tried to explain her side of it. All he said was “why did you tell her Brad was coming if he wasn’t?” When she refused to reply, he rose and dressed for his morning walk, leaving Kaye alone and no closer to a solution.
Outside, the sky lightened from a soft pink and the birds began to waken. For all Kaye knew, her daughter could be packing her suitcases at this very moment and Kaye’s chance would be lost.
Without a clear plan, or the hope of one, she slipped on her robe and made her way downstairs. In the kitchen, she spooned coffee into the filter, added water, and switched on the machine. By the time the coffee had finished brewing, she had a breakfast buffet arranged. A bowl of fresh strawberries from the organic market, fat and ripe and shockingly overpriced. A platter of sliced honeydew and clusters of purple grapes. And, best of all, an entire sheet of crumb buns from Mueller’s Bakery.
She’d just set a cold pitcher of cream out when she heard stirrings from the rooms upstairs; a door opening and a pair of little feet running down the hallway, Ryan’s deep voice calling after. Then giggling and another door slamming. When the kids were young, Kaye forbade them to slam doors—now she felt as though she’d miss the sound of it.
Stacy was the first one down, still in her robe, her hair swept into a loose ponytail. She stumbled into the kitchen to pour herself a cup of coffee. By way of reconciliation, Kaye restrained herself from reminding Stacy that caffeine wasn’t good for the baby.
“There’s milk in the refrigerator, for the kids. I bought almond milk for Connor,” Kaye offered. Maybe Stacy wanted a fresh start as much as she did? “If he still has the allergy.”
After sliding the carafe back into the machine, Stacy closed her eyes. Kaye watched her daughter’s chest rise as she inhaled, a deep breath that seemed to go on forever. Finally, Stacy opened her eyes as she exhaled. “Why do you do this, Mom?”
“Do what?”
“All this.” Stacy’s arm swept the kitchen. “The almond milk, the organic strawberries. Do you think all of this will somehow make up for lying to me about Brad coming?”
“Lying is such a strong word, Stacy. I don’t appreciate you using it. As for the rest, well, I thought you and the kids might like some breakfast. That’s all.”
“You know what, Mom?” Stacy paused, and this time it was Kaye who held her breath. “Never mind.” Stacy turned her attention back to her coffee. Kaye felt her daughter slipping away and didn’t know the words to bring her back.
“Morning, all.” Ryan entered, carrying a giggling Sophie over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, with Connor following closely behind. Kaye had always admired how effortlessly he interacted with his children. Chase was never like that. He didn’t know how to play with his children.
The boys were dressed casually in white T-shirts and loose-fitting cargo shorts with sunglasses on a string around their necks. Sophie was a bit more elegant, in a sundress, a floppy hat, her red purse, and a pair of Kaye’s satin evening gloves. So they weren’t leaving any time soon. That was a good start. A gift.
“What are your plans today?” Kaye asked Ryan. She’d get a straight answer from her son-in-law; sparring with her daughter was not always fruitful.
“The kids want to see the beach, so I thought I’d take them,” Ryan replied, cutting a slab from the sheet of pastry and setting it on a plate. He cut a smaller square for Connor. “This is awesome, bud. Wait till you taste it.”
“Not too much,” Stacy warned as she added fruit to the plate. “Pour them some milk too. Unless you want them wired all morning.”
“Aren’t you going with them?” Kaye asked Stacy.
“Stacy doesn’t like the ocean—never has. We happen to be one of the very few couples who didn’t spend their honeymoon lounging at a beach resort,” Ryan answered for her, as Stacy’s attention was on helping Sophie fill her plate. “You’re welcome to come with us if you want, Kaye?”
Kaye’s breath caught. Her daughter was still afraid of the ocean, even years later. Kaye had thought Stacy had forgotten…
“No, thank you.” Kaye’s breezy reply was forced. “I have things to take care of here.”
“Where’s Dad?” Stacy asked.
“He went for his walk already.”
“Maybe I’ll see if I can catch up with him. Do you know where he went?”
“He left early—by now he’ll be on his way to Johnson’s Marina to see the new boats. You can probably catch him there.”
Six
It had been Stacy’s intention to pack up the car and leave first thing this morning. Furious with her mother for lying, she was not at all interested in spending even one more day in her company. It was Ryan who’d changed her mind. He suggested that her mother was doing her best, that maybe she didn’t know any other way to get the family together. And because the end result made her father happy, maybe Kaye could be forgiven.
It was something to think about.
But Stacy couldn’t quite bring herself to forgive her mother’s manipulation, so she did what she always did when her mother drove her crazy. Stacy sought out her father.
She dressed quickly, pulling on a pair of maternity shorts and an oversized T-shirt. Before venturing downstairs, she grabbed one of Ryan’s flannel shirts because the fabric was soft and the smell was comforting. She made her way downstairs and was outside and across the back deck by the time the screen door slapped shut behind her, breathing in the crisp salty air as she walked down their street toward town. She took the shortcut through the empty lot beside their house, the same one she and Brad used when they were kids. She could still see a faintly worn path across the patchy grass. As she walked through the dewy grass, she could feel the moisture collect on the toes of her white canvas sneakers.
Dewberry Beach was a small town, less touristy than Belmar or Point Pleasant. Beach access was private and there wasn’t an arcade or a boardwalk to attract visitors, which is exactly how the residents preferred it. The houses in Dewberry Beach were a quirky jumble of sizes and styles—it wasn’t unusual to see ramshackle beach cottages sharing space with older Victorian homes. The walk into town was a familiar one, past cedar-shingled bungalows with rustic gardens behind white picket fences, some occupied already with lawn chairs and barbeques pulled out and arranged in the yard, and a few still waiting for their families to come. One or two of the homes she walked past displayed permits for construction, still not made whole after the hurricane that had changed everything.
In early October of 2012, forecasters noticed a tropical depression gathering strength off the coast of Jamaica. For five days residents of every state along the east coast watched the storm
’s progression as it picked up speed. When it finally hit the coast of New Jersey, it was ruthless, bringing howling winds and savage, pounding rain. In Dewberry Beach, storm surges sucked most of the beach into the sea, flattening sand dunes that had stood for decades and were meant to protect the town. Floodwaters five feet deep smothered the entire town, from the beach to the inlet bridge. Residents who’d followed the evacuation orders watched live reports on television, horrified, as entire homes were sucked into the sea, leaving no trace of life. Days later, when the governor allowed coastal residents to return to their homes, they were stunned. The hurricane had changed the entire coastline, carving out inlets in places where none had existed before and splintering miles of established boardwalk as if it were nothing.
But New Jersey residents are always, in equal measure, resilient and tough. Those who were able to set about the task of rebuilding. Those who couldn’t bear to sold what remained of their property and left. Her parents’ home was spared all but the flooding, and they were still very grateful.
Stacy walked for another block before leaving the sidewalk entirely and moving onto the road. At the shore, life was casual and almost no one bothered with the sidewalks on the side streets here, a welcome change from the bustle of the area in Morristown where she and her family lived. Dewberry Beach had an easy summer rhythm that she loved—pancake breakfasts at the firehouse, crabbing at the inlet pier, late afternoon strolls through town. Maybe it would be good for the kids to experience this kind of unscheduled time.
There were only two main streets in Dewberry Beach: Ocean Avenue, which ran parallel to the shore, connecting one beach town to the next like pearls in a necklace, and Bridge Street, which ran smack down the center of town, beginning at the inlet bridge and ending at the beach stairs. The official business district was on either side of this second street, five blocks total, where residents shopped and conducted the affairs of the day. Four churches, each a different denomination, stood on the corners of the main streets, and scattered between them was a florist, a cheese shop, a greengrocer’s, a deli, three small restaurants, an ice cream stand, and half a dozen gift shops that sold everything from postcards to floppy hats. And of course, the grandes dames of Dewberry Beach—Applegate’s Hardware and Mueller’s Bakery—stood regally in the center of town.
Tucked alongside Mueller’s was a tiny slip of a store, not more than five feet wide—a Dewberry Beach institution for as long as Stacy could remember. Knowing her father’s fondness for the morning newspapers, she started her search for him there instead of the boatyard. She waited for one lone car to pass before crossing the street. It would be some weeks yet before the streets were busy with minivans and SUVs carrying vacationers to their rented houses; for now, the town was quiet with residents still settling in.
The bell on the door jingled as Stacy opened it.
Inside, perched on a stool behind the counter, was Maeve Berdock. Maeve was a fixture at Dewberry Beach and had been running Ocean News since Stacy’s father was a child. She knew every kid’s name and was friendly with all their parents because most of them stopped by the newsstand for the city newspapers that Maeve stocked. When Stacy was a kid, it was customary for parents to give weekly allowance on Saturdays, but a week in summer was long and children were impatient so Maeve extended credit to any kid brave enough to ask. If you cleared your account by the next Saturday afternoon, she’d allow credit again. If you didn’t, she’d speak to your parents when they came by on Sunday morning to pick up their newspapers, and by then you’d have a whole new set of problems. Most kids knew better than to stiff Maeve Berdock.
“Morning, Miz. Berdock. How are you?”
Maeve ground the stub of her cigarette into a glass ashtray. The air inside the shop was dim, lit only from the open front door and a few dim florescent lights overhead. She narrowed her eyes behind black-rimmed glasses and focused her gaze. “Stacy Bennett, is that you?”
“It is.” Stacy walked the four steps from the front of the shop to the back, passing racks of newspapers and piles of candy bars as she went. “It’s good to see you again.”
“Honey, it’s good to see you too, all grown up. How’ve you been?”
“I’m fine, Miz. Berdock.” Stacy brought her fingertips to her belly. “Married now, with two children and one more on the way.”
“I’m glad to see it.” Maeve chortled. “You were always one of the quiet ones. So polite. Not like some of these other hooligans.” She shifted her position on the stool. “Your mother was in here just a few days ago, in fact. Mentioned you and your brother would be coming to visit. Shoulda seen how happy that made her.”
“My mother was here?” Stacy asked. It was usually her father who came for the papers.
“She was.” Maeve gestured to a wall of comic books. “Came in specially to get comics for her grandchildren. Asked me what the kids read now’days and I told her. Was I right? Did they like them?”
Stacy didn’t know anything about comic books. “I’m sure they will,” she said vaguely. “We arrived last night so we’re still settling in.”
“Well, you got time then. Specially considering you’re here for the summer,” Maeve said. “So what brings you in today?”
“Well, I came to say hello and also to see if you’ve seen my father. He’s out walking and I’m trying to catch up to him.”
“Hasn’t been here today, doll.” Maeve tapped another cigarette out of the pack. “Try next door.”
“Mueller’s?”
“Yep.”
Mueller’s Bakery was the hub of the wheel that kept Dewberry Beach residents connected. On weekend mornings, men were the first to arrive; they sat at creaky metal bistro tables, ordered strong drip coffee and fresh crullers, and discussed the week’s business. After them came women picking up the weekend’s orders, bribing young children with sugar cookies for good behavior. Next came kids flush with the week’s pocket money, anxious to spend it on sugary treats. Finally, just before closing, anyone looking for a good deal on day-olds.
Stacy pulled open the metal-framed glass door and stepped inside. The shop was busy, despite the early hour, and was filled with the scent of warm bread and coffee, with a soft hum of conversation threading the air, the occasional tap of silverware as it sliced a pastry, or a burst of laughter from a patron. Nothing about this place had changed since she was a kid. A black and white checkered floor led to a bank of curved glass cases. Displayed inside were trays of colorful Italian cookies, flaky Danish pastries, cupcakes, cannoli, brownies, and sugar cookies meant to be given away. On the back wall was a selection of bread: everything from challah for Shabbat to hard rolls for egg sandwiches, to French baguettes for party trays. To the side of all that, against the wall was a sideboard set with a coffee service, because the Mueller ladies had gotten tired of refilling coffee.
Her father rose from one of the tables and came to meet her. From the look of things he’d been there a while, chatting with friends. On the tabletop was a collection of plates dusted with powdered sugar and scattered with crumpled paper napkins, alongside sturdy coffee mugs half-filled and forgotten.
“Stacy?” His brow creased in confusion. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I came to join you on your walk.”
“How did you know I’d be at the bakery?”
“Mom told me.”
“She told you I’d be at Mueller’s?” His eyebrows lifted.
Stacy hesitated as the clues fell together with an almost audible thump. The abundance of vegetables at dinner the night before, the bottles of mineral water on the bar, the salads. The uneasy smile on her father’s face.
“She said you’d be at the boatyard, but I went to the newsstand instead. Miz. Berdock said to try here.” She let her father usher her out the door. On the sidewalk, she turned to face him. “You’re not allowed in here, are you?”
Her father grimaced as they fell into step together. “Your mother and I have yet to agree about the ext
ent of my recovery.”
“So you’re sneaking?”
“I’m choosing not to broadcast my visits,” he corrected. “Sometimes it’s easier to let your mother have her way. She means well, even if her methods are a bit heavy-handed.”
“Is it dangerous for you to eat that stuff?”
“It’s true that the doctors have encouraged a healthier diet, but my numbers are good and even the nutritionist says an occasional hard roll with real butter is fine.”
“Then why are you hiding? Why don’t you just stand up to her? Why is everyone so afraid of standing up to her?” Stacy fumed.
“It’s more complicated than that, Stacy.” They turned down the side street that led to the boatyard and walked in silence for a while. “Your mother and I spent summers here when we were kids, did you know that?”
Stacy was frustrated at the change of subject. Both she and Brad knew their parents met at Dewberry Beach when they were both about ten years old, running with the same pack of neighborhood kids every summer. They were friends for years and started dating the summer before Chase left for college. They married after his graduation.
“You know already that my summers were spent in the house we have now, because it used to belong to your grandparents. But your mother’s experiences were very different. Her family spent their entire two-week summer vacation packed into one room of a cinder-block hotel on the edge of town. The other kids knew your mother was a renter’s kid, and they weren’t always kind to her or to her sisters.” Chase drew a breath and slowly exhaled. “Kids can be so mean.”
Stacy didn’t know that. Details of her mother’s childhood had always been sparse.
They slowed to look at the fenced front yard of the flower shop. The owners had mixed honeysuckle with climbing roses and woven both vines between the wooden slats of the fence. The effect of the delicate yellow flowers against the sturdy red roses was unexpected and striking.
The Shore House: An emotional and uplifting page turner (Dewberry Beach Book 1) Page 8
