The Beach House

by Jane Green

  ‘Nan!’ she scolds. ‘You’re so thin. You haven’t been looking after yourself.’

  Nan laughs. ‘Oh I have, and I’ve been busy looking after everyone else. I missed you.’

  She pulls back and suddenly holds Sarah at arm’s length, looking her slowly up and down with a knowing gleam in her eye. ‘Never mind me being thin,’ she says, a smile spreading on her face. ‘Is there something you want to tell me?’

  Sarah’s mouth drops open in disbelief. ‘How do you know?’ she sputters. ‘How can you possibly tell? I’m only six weeks!’

  Nan raises an eyebrow. ‘You know some people say I’m a witch.’ ‘Nan winks at her before kissing Sarah on the forehead and taking her hand. ‘What lovely news. A baby. I can’t think of anything nicer.’

  ‘I know, it’s so exciting.’ Sarah grins. ‘But we’re not supposed to be telling anyone until twelve weeks.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.’

  ‘Where is everyone?’ Sarah asks. ‘How’s Michael? And the tenants? Any romances I ought to know about?’

  Nan laughs. ‘Oh my goodness, Sarah. I don’t even know where to start. Let’s go inside and make some tea.’

  The cars and bicycles are all there, other than the truck Daniel has taken to Bee’s, so Michael can’t be far.

  Daff finds him, eventually, down at the beach, bobbing in the whaler that he is painstakingly oiling. He doesn’t see Daff as she strips her shorts off, quickly and quietly, wading into the water in her bathing suit without a sound, swimming noiselessly out to the boat.

  Michael looks up to see Daff swimming, her hair slicked back, seal-like as she glides towards the boat. He feels an instant mix of desire, warmth, pain, confusion. He can’t avoid her here, so he puts the oil and rag down, extending a hand to help her onto the boat, silently handing her a towel to dry herself off.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Daff blurts out, breathless both from nerves and from the swim. ‘Whatever it is I’ve done, I’m sorry. I would never do anything to hurt you, not intentionally, but clearly I have. I want you to know that whatever I have to do to make it better, I will do.’

  ‘It’s not what you’ve done to me,’ Michael says quietly, not looking at her. ‘It’s what you’ve done to my mother.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  Michael finally looks up and meets her eyes. ‘I heard you,’ he says. ‘I heard you and Mark Stephenson. I heard about the dirty little deal you have with him, the fact that you’ll get money from persuading my mother to sell him the house, except –’ he laughs bitterly – ‘I also heard the part about him reneging because you didn’t fulfil your part of the bargain by getting him the house cheap.’

  ‘Oh Michael.’ Daff hangs her head in shame. ‘I am so, so sorry you heard that. Listen to me.’ She stands in front of him and takes his hands. ‘Mark Stephenson offered me a percentage the night of that party. I never said yes to it, although for a while, I’ll admit, I was tempted. I kept thinking I wouldn’t have to worry about child support running out, I wouldn’t have to lie awake every night worrying about money, about putting Jess through college. Then I realized I couldn’t do it.’

  ‘It didn’t sound like that from what I overheard,’ Michael says.

  ‘I know. Because I was about to tell Mark Stephenson I didn’t want his money, didn’t want anything to do with it because it all felt too dirty, and because I didn’t want to lie to you, or Nan, or start this relationship with a betrayal. Before I had the opportunity to tell him I didn’t want the money, he said he wasn’t paying me anyway, and I was so stunned by how unethical he was, I couldn’t even speak.’

  There is a long silence as Michael digests what she is saying.

  ‘Do you swear you weren’t going to take the money?’

  ‘I swear to you,’ Daff says. ‘I couldn’t do it, and I wouldn’t do it. And…’ She takes a deep breath. ‘This means too much to me for me to fuck it up. I never ever expected to find this, but you’re the best man I’ve ever met. There’s no way I’d do something that stupid.’

  Another silence. Daff looks away. When she looks back it is to see Michael grin. ‘You thought about it, though.’

  ‘Yes.’ Daff feels a pang of relief. She knows from his grin it will be okay. ‘I did.’

  ‘I suppose I can forgive you.’ He slides the strap of her bathing suit off her shoulder as he puts his arms around her and pulls her close, burying his nose in her neck, inhaling deeply, loving the feel of her, the smell of her, the taste of her. ‘You’re only human after all.’

  As the pair of them sink to the deck of the boat, the water laps gently around them and the seagulls cry overhead.

  ‘I love this house.’ Stephen pauses at the bay window in Nan’s room and looks out at the water, turning to smile at Nan. ‘I have spent years sailing past and looking at it from the outside. It’s just as beautiful on the inside.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Nan says. ‘It has been a warm and happy home for us for many years.’

  ‘I’ve heard about the parties that used to be held here,’ Stephen says as he turns back to gaze at the lawn. ‘What a shame people don’t throw parties like that any more.’

  ‘Well,’ she says, ‘perhaps if you buy Windermere you can hold those parties again.’

  Keith’s eyes light up. ‘Oh we do love a good party.’ He moves next to his partner to admire the view.

  ‘We do too.’ Nan muses, ‘I do think when we leave we ought to go out with a bang, don’t you think? A party on the lawn? A band? A wonderful supper?’

  ‘Oh God.’ Keith shivers with delight. ‘Even the word “supper” makes me think of Cary Grant and Grace Kelly. This is the perfect house for a party like that… we could do white tie, or a black and white ball like Truman Capote! Oh Nan! Oh Stephen! Think of the parties we could throw!’

  Nan laughs delightedly and turns her head slightly to whisper to Daniel, ‘Thank you for bringing them here. I can’t think of anyone I’d rather see living here.’

  ‘Do you mean that?’ Daniel whispers back as he looks across the room and catches Matt’s eye.

  ‘I do,’ she says. ‘I love Stephen’s portfolio. I love that he brought it along, to show me that he really does want to restore Windermere. And Keith is a gas! I think they’re the perfect people to inject new life into the old girl.’

  ‘They’re so much better than that Mark Stephenson,’ Nan says to Michael and Daff when they are back downstairs and Daniel and Matt are walking Stephen and Keith round the garden. ‘What a dreadful man he was.’

  ‘You did know, then?’ Daff is amazed. ‘I was worried you were taken in by him.’

  ‘Not for a second. I knew he’d tear down this house immediately, and frankly I expected it. I mind that far less than him lying about it, trying to tell me that he wanted to raise his family here because he thought I’d sell it to him for less.’

  ‘Have you told him you won’t sell it to him?’ Michael is worried.

  ‘No, darling, of course not. I wanted Stephen and Keith to see the house properly first, and let’s just wait for them to make an offer. I must say I’m still keen to do a private deal – those realtor fees are extortionate – sorry, Daff.’

  Daff shrugs and looks away, catching Michael’s eye as she does so, the pair of them exchanging a small smile.

  ‘We love it,’ Keith says, his eyes filling up as he wipes a tear away. ‘I think we’d be incredibly happy here, and Stephen already has wonderful ideas for restoring her.’

  Nan smiles. ‘How funny, I have always thought of Windermere as a her, too. The grand old lady on the bluff.’

  ‘Rather like you,’ Keith says, ‘if you don’t mind me saying so.’

  ‘Not at all. Far better grand than mad,’ she says with a wink.

  ‘I love her!’ Keith mouths silently to Matt, who mouths back, ‘Told you!’

  ‘Perhaps you and I could go somewhere quiet and talk business?’ Stephen says softly.

  ‘Of cours
e.’ Nan stands up and allows herself to be escorted out of the room. ‘Let’s go into the study.’

  ‘Five million?’ Michael looks confused. ‘But you wanted ten from Mark Stephenson. That sounds like far less than the house is worth.’

  ‘But he wants less than half the land!’ Nan says. ‘He wants the house, and three acres. Says the rest is too unmanageable for him. We could build another house, right here! It couldn’t be more perfect!’

  ‘Wow!’ Daff starts to smile as she turns to Michael. ‘That really does sound perfect.’

  ‘We could even build two houses,’ Nan says, her excitement barely contained. ‘One for me, and one for you two – well, three, including Jess.’

  Daff blushes. ‘Us two? No… we’re…’ She looks at Michael, embarrassed, for she would never dare think that far into the future, would never dare say something that would expose her that much, make her that vulnerable.

  Michael takes her hand and grins at Nan. ‘What a splendid idea,’ he says, and Daff feels stars of joy explode inside her.

  ‘Now the question is,’ Nan says, with a small devilish frown, ‘how do we tell Mr Stephenson that the house is not his after all?’

  ‘Oh let me!’ Daff says. ‘Please let me! I’ll enjoy every second of it.’

  Michael sits in the waiting room, flicking through a boating magazine as Daff goes into Mark Stephenson’s office, where the walls are so thin Michael can hear every word.

  ‘I thought it only fair to come here in person,’ Daff says quietly, ‘to inform you that Mrs Powell has had an offer on the house that she has decided to accept.’

  There is a silence, then an explosion. ‘What?’

  Daff starts to repeat herself until Mark Stephenson interrupts.

  ‘I heard you! What do you mean, she’s had another offer? What the hell are you playing at? You can’t just accept another offer without coming back to me first!’

  ‘Do we have anything in writing?’ Daff plays dumb.

  ‘No we damned well don’t, but we had an agreement.’

  ‘We did? I thought our agreement was off.’

  ‘No, it’s not off!’ Mark Stephenson yells. ‘Get me that house, and of course I’ll pay you! What’s the offer for? How much do I need to pay?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Daff coos. ‘I’m afraid the deal is now off the table. I only came here as a courtesy, not as a negotiating tactic.’

  His voice turns menacing. ‘You listen here. There’s no such thing as fucking courtesy in this kind of deal. You tell me right now how much I need to pay, or I swear to you…’

  ‘You’ll swear to her what?’ Michael appears in the doorway, just as Daff is starting to worry.

  ‘Oh!’ Mark Stephenson’s expression changes instantly, affecting a charm he quite clearly doesn’t have. ‘Michael.’ He extends a hand which Michael ignores. ‘I had no idea you were here.’

  ‘Clearly,’ Michael says wryly.

  ‘I was just making the point that this is no way to do business,’ Mark Stephenson says. ‘I understand that your mother has an offer on the table, and I’d like to come up with a competitive offer. Whatever it is, I’ll top it by… half a million.’

  Michael shakes his head. ‘No. I don’t think so.’

  ‘Well, how much is the offer? I can go up if I have to.’

  ‘No,’ Michael says firmly. ‘I don’t think you understand. Some things, and some people, cannot be bought. My mother is one of them. Come on, Daff, we’re done here.’

  Taking her arm, he leads her out of the room.

  Summer 2008

  Bee wakes up, as she does every day, just before 5.30 a.m. In the old days, living in Westport, married to Daniel, waking up was always a struggle for her – she’d lie in bed trying to sleep her life away, until one of the girls woke her up, and bleary-eyed she would be forced to get up, stumble downstairs and blindly reach for the coffee as she made breakfast for the girls.

  Now it is an effort to sleep past five. She awakens every morning filled with energy, jumping out of bed, padding across the floor, stepping onto the deck outside her bedroom to watch the early morning sun, listen to the crickets, the soft silence, and gaze at the boats bobbing lazily on the water in the distance.

  She runs downstairs, pours herself some coffee and sits outside on the doorstep, sipping slowly as Albert, a stray kitten that seems to have adopted them, winds himself around her ankles, mewing for breakfast, before jumping on her lap and purring contentedly as she absent-mindedly rubs him under the chin.

  Every morning, as she sits here, she is filled with bursts of joy, a happiness she didn’t know she would ever find, for she always looked for it in the wrong places.

  For years she thought a man would bring her happiness. When she married Daniel, she expected to finally find it, but it is only now, now that she is truly on her own, with her girls, doing work she adores, that she knows what happiness is.

  She and the girls are still in the house on Quidnet, but it has been a year since they moved in, a year of testing the waters, finding out whether Nantucket is a place they could live, rather than just stay until they find their footing again.

  A year later, Bee knows Nantucket is home.

  When her dad died, it was a huge scandal. There had already been gossip about Everett Powell returning but a tenacious journalist had followed it up and got the story, and for a few weeks Bee had the unpleasant experience of being at the centre of a news story that felt like it had no end.

  The New York Post got hold of it, running the story for days, photographers and journalists camped outside her house to get pictures of her and the girls. The local papers all tried to woo her into talking, as a new-found member of island royalty, but she didn’t speak.

  Eventually they all left her alone, moved on to the next story, and other than a few stares when she went to do her shopping, she was able to live her life. In some ways, she was relieved the story came out. Arthur Worth wrote to her, and she went to his house, staying for hours to listen to stories about her father as a young man, putting together the pieces of the puzzle that made up her father’s life.

  There have been others. Many others. People who had known her father, who had loved him, who were shocked by the story but eager to get to know Bee, help her put her history together, find out who she really is.

  Now she is writing a book. Part memoir, part biography, she is writing about her life: growing up thinking her family was perfect, marrying a man with whom she thought she could mirror her parents’ marriage, then discovering everything she thought was true and real was in fact a sham.

  She is writing about the Powell family. How they reached the island, how they came to be such an important part of Nantucket’s history. And she is writing about her father. His life, his marriage to Nan, the trouble that led to him faking a suicide; how life came full circle, finally bringing him home.

  She misses him still, but writing this book has brought him to life again. She feels him around her, supporting her, loving her, gently encouraging her and leading her to people and places she is convinced she would not have found had he not been somewhere, watching over her.

  After a few minutes of feeling the early morning sun wash over her, Bee takes her coffee to her computer in her bedroom, and opens her notebook, reviewing what she wrote yesterday, what she has to write today.

  She still doesn’t think of herself as a writer, yet over the past year she has had three short stories published, one in the back of the New York Times magazine. Just a few weeks ago she sent a synopsis of her book and three sample chapters to one of the big New York agents, fully expecting never to hear from them.

  Three days later the agent called her, said she loved it, could they meet.

  Now she has an agent, and as soon as the book is finished they are sending it out to the publishing houses. Bee still can’t quite believe it. She celebrated with the girls when she found out: champagne for Bee, sparkling apple cider for the girls, as they danced around th
e deck, cheering.

  Today will be a difficult day to write. Some days it comes so easily, like writing on auto-pilot, the words flowing from her fingers, her mind so calm it is as if the book is writing itself. Other days it is like squeezing blood from a stone.

  Bee has learned the secret – the magic tool that separates the true writers from the people who merely dream of being writers, who have a wonderful idea but never get started, or get started but never finish. She has learned the secret of discipline, of ploughing through even when it feels like she has nothing to say; of writing even though she doesn’t know what to write; of writing even when there are days, like today, when she is fighting the excitement of the party tonight – the farewell bash at Windermere, for Nan is moving out of the house next week.

  Bee has come to love Nan, to think of her as a second mother. She has taken to dropping in to Windermere almost daily, often with the girls, who now, unsurprisingly, call Nan ‘Nanna’, since Nan is more of a grandmother to them than Bee’s own mother.

  Bee had never quite understood what family meant. She had always ached for a large family, had grown up feeling she was missing something. What she has come to understand since her father passed away is that the people with whom you surround yourself, the people you love, become your family. Whether there are blood ties or not.

  Nan is now her family. And Michael, who she thinks of as her brother, and Daff, and Jess. These people, who she didn’t know a year ago, are now part of the fabric of her life, have helped her settle down on this island that is already more of a home than anywhere else she has ever lived.

  There is more to it. For the first time in her life, Bee is comfortable in her skin. No longer buttoned up, playing the part of the successful suburban housewife in her pink and green capri pants, her sparkly gold and diamond jewellery, her hair perfectly blown out twice a week at Peter Coppola, lunching with girlfriends at V or Zest, or swinging into school in her Lexus wagon to collect the girls.