She slowed as she approached the point where Front Street veered off to the left and eased into Cottage, trying to remember who’d lived in which house when she was a girl, wondering who lived in them now. She pulled to the side of the road to let a panel truck pass, then crept along the curb a few more feet until she was almost directly in front of the gray-shingled house in which she’d grown up. A new sign out front proclaimed it to be THE ISAIAH WAKEFIELD HOUSE, CIRCA 1796—a sign obviously added by the new owners. The Blanchards? Something like that. Maggie’s mother, Ellen Wakefield Lloyd, wouldn’t have seen the need to advertise the provenance of her family’s home. Just about everyone in town knew who’d built the house and when.
Maggie took it all in: not just the house but every tree and shrub. She’d hoped to get a peek of the backyard, since Liddy had told her the new people had built an addition, but a row of arborvitaes acted as a barrier between the front and back. They’d had to go to the historical society with their construction plans, Liddy’d said, and since she was on the architectural review board, she knew exactly what had been done (master bedroom, bath, closet, and sitting room on the second floor, and a family room, powder room, and expanded kitchen on the first) and how much they’d had to pay for all the work (close to $200,000—“But,” Liddy’d confided, “you didn’t hear that from me”). Maggie’s curiosity got the best of her, and she got out of the car, feet crunching the dried fallen leaves on the sidewalk, and she tried unsuccessfully to peer around the green wall.
The front door opened and a child of eight or so came out, ran down the steps, and grabbed his bike from where it lay on the lawn before speeding off toward the center of town. Afraid she’d be caught craning her neck like a nosy neighbor, Maggie set off toward the end of the street.
When she was growing up, June and Jerry Gribbin had lived directly next door, a childless couple who decorated their home for every holiday. Mr. Gribbin had taught music at the academy, and Mrs. Gribbin had given piano lessons in their front parlor. While Maggie hadn’t wanted to play the piano—Sarah had—she’d secretly loved hearing the music floating through the open parlor windows, and she’d fallen asleep many nights to the sound of “Für Elise” or songs her sister identified for her, Mozart’s “Fantasia” in D minor and Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata.”
Maggie wondered who lived there now and if there was still a baby grand piano in the parlor.
Two houses past the Gribbins’, Cottage Street came to an abrupt end and gave way to gravel that served as the parking lot for the beach. It had always been strictly “swim at your own risk”—which of course everyone did—but now Maggie noticed there was a lifeguard stand at the exact midpoint of the beach. She slipped off her shoes and walked through the coarse, pebbly sand for a closer look. She dropped her shoes and bag near the base, then climbed up to the lifeguard’s seat. She sat leaning forward, resting her arms on her thighs, gusts of sea air blowing her hair across her face. At low tide, the harbor was calm, the whitecaps that flowed onto the shore languid, almost timid, though she knew the right circumstances could bring waves that flung angrily onto the beach and withdrew in a huffy snit. But today it was lovely, the sky a perfect early-autumn blue, the view clear all the way to the peninsula across the water. Between the harbor and Buzzards Bay, Shelby Island rose up like Bali Ha’i on days when the mist was thick. Such was late September along the Massachusetts coast below the arm of the Cape.
Maggie hopped down from the stand and headed for the water’s edge, walked past the wrack line, and stepped over fat clumps of seaweed, broken shells, pieces of driftwood, and part of a shoe that had washed ashore. She paused to pick up a smooth piece of sea glass and rubbed it between her thumb and index finger before slipping it into the pocket of her denim skirt. Testing the water with her right foot and finding it chilly, she withdrew to a point the waves couldn’t reach. At the end of the beach was the jetty, a random pile of rocks. She made her way carefully to the end and sat on the largest boulder, which marked the end of the jetty where once upon a time, she and Liddy and Emma had met to exchange gossip and discuss their social lives. She lost track of time in the flood of memories of the girl she had been and the faces of the people she’d loved. Liddy with her long skirts and long braid, a hippie before they’d ever heard the word. Emma, the minister’s daughter, the peacemaker, who never rolled her skirts up above her knees and who always did the right thing. And of course there’d been the countless hours she’d sat there with Brett, the golden boy who could have had any girl in school but who’d only ever had eyes for Maggie. Beautiful Brett, the absolute love of Maggie’s life, who’d shared her dreams and later a secret she’d never gotten over, one she’d never shared with even her closest friends. The secret that had driven them apart.
She wasn’t going to think about that now—didn’t want to think about him at all. She wanted to have a fun weekend and enjoy her time with her oldest and dearest friends. The last thing she wanted was to dwell on something that had, in the end, brought her nothing but pain and regret.
She picked her way back along the rocks to the sand and the lifeguard stand, where she retrieved her shoes and her bag. However mixed her feelings might be, she was still glad to be back in this town, on this street where she’d grown up, this beach she knew so well, immersed in the life she’d once lived here. She was grateful for the opportunity to come home, and she was going to enjoy every minute of her stay. Starting now.
Determined to make it so, she turned her back on the water, brushed the sand from her feet before sliding them into her shoes, and retraced the steps to her car, whistling “You Should Be Dancing.”
Time to get the party started.
Liddy’s deck overlooked the magnificent gardens she’d spent the past thirty years perfecting with perennial beds that swirled around rose bushes and set the stage for the tall backdrop of the last of the summer’s delphiniums, monkshood, cannas, lilies, and hollyhocks. A riot of colorful annuals spilled from pretty pots on the deck and on the railings. A round table surrounded by four very comfy chairs was placed on the right side of the deck, and three lounges occupied almost all the left. Liddy had prepared a tableful of goodies—a baked brie, an artfully designed platter of crudités with a spicy dip, and a plate upon which a hefty slab of smoked bluefish rested on a bed of kale. For Maggie, it was sheer heaven to be sitting there on a beautiful late-September evening, inhaling the scent of the sweet autumn clematis that wound its way around the rails, and enjoying the company of her two oldest and dearest friends and the warmth of Liddy’s hospitality, which was nothing short of fabulous.
“Refill, Mags?” Liddy held up the pitcher of margaritas.
“Oh, no. No. I shouldn’t. I couldn’t. Really,” Maggie deadpanned and held up her glass. “Duh.”
Liddy laughed and poured.
“Emma?”
“Oh, please. Yes.” Emma turned, her glass in hand. “No one makes a better margarita.”
“Thank you. Feel free to ring my doorbell anytime, day or night, and I’ll be happy to whip up a batch.” Liddy emptied the pitcher’s remaining contents into her own glass, then set the pitcher on the table. The fingers of her left hand shuffled through her long, thick, salt-and-pepper hair, which flowed halfway down her back in one glorious wave. On some women, the color—or lack thereof—might have been aging, but Maggie thought on Liddy it was just right. Liddy’d always been all about honesty in everything, and that extended to how she presented herself to the world. On her last visit, Maggie had asked her when she was going to break down and color her hair, and Liddy had laughed. “Never. What you see is what you get. Besides, I don’t have time for the upkeep. How often do you have your roots touched up?” she’d asked Maggie, who’d had to admit she had a standing appointment every six weeks.
“No time for that,” Liddy’d declared. “Besides, I’m like Popeye in that old cartoon. ‘I yam what I yam.’”
Maggie’d rolled her eyes and laughed, but she never brought it u
p again. She had to concede the look suited Liddy, who was taller than Maggie but who outweighed her by a good twenty-five pounds. Hers was a natural, comfortable look that sometimes still bordered on aging hippie, depending on what she was wearing, all of which went hand in glove with her mellow but tell-it-like-it-is personality. Tonight it was a long knit dress with three-quarter-length sleeves and knee-high slits. And it was orange belted with a wide swath of navy blue. Secretly, Maggie felt just a teensy bit frumpy, having chosen to wear conservative black pants, a teal tunic, and a plaid scarf around her neck. The closest she came to cool at that moment might have been the gold fringe earrings that dangled almost to her shoulders. Natalie had bought them for her birthday at the newest, hippest boutique on the Main Line. Liddy definitely took the prize for most colorful character, and always had.
Liddy regarded the empty pitcher. “I should go in and make more.”
“In a few. Sit back and enjoy the night. You’ve been fussing since I got here. Your guest room looks like it belongs in a five-star hotel. It’s absolutely luxurious.” Maggie had arrived around four in the afternoon and had been led to Liddy’s new guest suite. As promised, there was a new bed, new linens, totally new decor, and a newly redesigned bath. Flowers on the bedside table and fluffy white towels in a tall stack on the vanity. Maggie had rarely been treated so royally, and she’d said so.
“I do have a reputation to maintain. Besides, I couldn’t have you wishing you’d booked a room at the inn CeCe Engle opened.” Liddy’s nose wrinkled. “I’d be plenty pissed off, I assure you.”
“CeCe opened an inn?” Maggie hadn’t heard this tidbit before. “Are we talking about the same CeCe Engle, the world’s most unpleasant, unfriendly, nastiest gossip?”
“Not to mention the most slovenly and lazy person in Wyndham Beach. Well, from our class, anyway,” Emma tossed in her two cents. Emma, who was the antithesis of slovenly, smoothed out the skirt of her denim shirtwaist dress. Always the lady, Emma dressed for every occasion—clothing, jewelry, nails, hair, all perfect before she ventured out of her house. She’s always been that way, Maggie recalled. Emma had been the girl who showed up for the third-grade end-of-school picnic in neatly pressed white linen shorts and a tailored blouse—tucked in, of course—when everyone else was in cutoff jeans and T-shirts. Petite and pretty with a turned-up nose, wide blue eyes, and dark hair cut short in the same pixie style she’d sported all her life, Emma was always perfectly turned out.
“CeCe bought the old Ives place and has been working like a madwoman for the past year to pretty it up so it would be ready for reunion weekend,” Liddy explained. “I understand only two couples have booked a room with her.”
“I never thought I’d see the day when CeCe would consciously choose to do something that would require real exertion on her part. Does she know how hard innkeeping is?” Maggie took a sip of her drink before placing it on the table in front of her.
“If she doesn’t, she soon will. I think this weekend is her virgin run,” Emma said. “I ran into her at the post office a few days ago, and all she could talk about was getting the place perfect and who was staying with her.”
“I wonder why she decided to open an inn,” Maggie said. “She was never very industrious, and I never thought she liked people all that much. Maybe she’s changed.”
“Not that I can see.” Liddy turned to Emma. “You?”
Emma shook her head. “Same old CeCe.”
“I don’t wish her ill, certainly, but I don’t see that venture being very successful. The woman hardly has the temperament to deal with the public.” Liddy paused before changing the subject. “Emma, should we share the latest about our police chief with Maggie?”
Maggie shot straight up in her chair in protest. “No, you should not. I don’t want to know what he’s doing, where he’s living, who he’s sleeping with, or who he’s married to. Period.”
“Oh, but Mags . . . ,” Emma protested.
“No, I’m serious. I’m not interested. I don’t want to know.” Maggie clapped her hands over her ears. “All that with Brett happened a long time ago. I’ve moved way past it, and so has he. So should you. Can we please put it to rest?”
“Consider it done.” Liddy exchanged a sly look with Emma. “But speaking of things being put to rest, did you see the list of deceased classmates I sent out?”
Maggie nodded. “I had no idea we’d lost so many over the past few years.”
“Well, ’tis the season, I suppose.” Emma swirled the remains of her margarita around in the bottom of her glass. “We’re not getting any younger.”
“Still, it seemed like a lot,” Maggie said thoughtfully. “I had no idea Colleen Thompson had been sick. If I had, I’d have called her or at the very least sent a note.”
“She hadn’t been sick for long,” Liddy told her. “It seemed like one day she had some testing done and the next week she was gone.”
Maggie smiled sadly, remembering the girl they’d christened Tree, short for Treetop, because by sixth grade she’d towered over everyone, including most of the teachers. “Remember how the gym teachers and coaches all tried to get her to play basketball but she hated it? She wanted to play field hockey.”
“At which she sucked.” Emma added a second helping of brie to her plate. “God rest her soul. They had a lovely service for her at my father’s church. He gave a stirring sermon.”
“Your father always delivers the best sermons, Em. He was wonderful at my mother’s memorial. So comforting,” Maggie said, and Liddy nodded in agreement. “But I thought he stepped down as pastor.”
“He did,” Emma told her, “but her parents wanted him to do the service for Colleen, since the family had been members of the church for so long. You know my brother, Dan, is the pastor now, right? He took over when Dad retired.”
Maggie nodded. “I do.”
They fell silent, Maggie not only thinking of her mother but remembering other class members they’d lost over the years before Emma said, “I think we’re at the age where we can expect to hear about more friends passing on.”
“You make us sound ancient. I’m not ready to think of myself as old. We’re not old.” Maggie frowned as she slid some fish onto a cracker. “Lid, what’s in the sauce for the fish?”
“Sour cream, a little mayo, some lemon juice. Chopped fresh dill. I think that’s it.”
“It’s delicious.”
“Thanks. It’s my mom’s recipe.”
Emma crunched a slice of red pepper. “Dying is a fact of life. We’re all aware of that. I didn’t expect to be a widow by my fiftieth birthday, and Maggie, I’ll bet you thought you and Art had all the time in the world.” She spoke softly, as always. The times when Maggie’d heard her raise her voice or lose her temper had been rare.
Before Maggie could respond, Liddy said pointedly, “And I never expected to bury a child.”
Maggie reached over and squeezed Liddy’s hands, which were folded together on the tabletop. Liddy’s daughter Jessica’s suicide three years ago had shocked everyone who had known her.
“I think a change of subject is in order right about now,” Emma said, but Liddy shook her head.
“Not talking about it doesn’t make it go away. For reasons I still don’t understand, the fact remains that Jessie chose to end her life, and not a day passes when I wonder what I’d missed. There must have been signs I overlooked, things she’d said that should have tipped me off that she was in pain. How could I have not known?” Tears formed in the corners of Liddy’s eyes. “What kind of a mother doesn’t know her child is hurting so badly she’d rather die than continue to live?”
“Honey, you can only see what people choose to show you. For whatever reason, Jessie chose not to share.” Maggie continued to hold on to Liddy’s hands. “We’ll probably never know what was going on, what she was thinking. Why she didn’t confide in anyone. But we do know that you were a great mom to her. She adored you. You know that.”
“
She never acted depressed or troubled,” Liddy continued on as if she hadn’t heard Maggie’s remarks. “She had days when she was down, like everyone does. I never thought there was something deeper going on. I’ve gone over and over every day I can remember for the weeks leading up to it, and I still don’t see anything that should have set off an alarm that something was seriously wrong. She did seem to be a bit melancholy that last week, but not to the point where I was concerned. I knew she’d stopped dating Rob, and I thought maybe she was sad because he’d broken up with her. But afterward, he told me she’d broken up with him without any clear explanation.” Her glass protested with a ping when she set it on the glass-topped table with a little too much force, and her voice cracked. “What did I miss?”
“Our kids don’t share everything with us. Very often, they tell us what they think we want to hear.” Maggie released her friend’s hands. “There are things neither of my girls told me when they were growing up, things that made my hair stand on end when I heard about them later, which I did mostly by accident. Even now, I only know what they want me to know. I had no idea Gracie and Zach were having problems until she told me he’d moved out, and that was weeks after he’d gone. Frankly, I still don’t understand why they divorced. And Natalie.” Maggie rolled her eyes. “She didn’t tell us she was pregnant until she was almost four months, and Jon had already walked out on her.”
An Invincible Summer (Wyndham Beach) Page 2
