Home for the Summer

by Holly Chamberlin

  Still, it wasn’t as if Jack Tennant were occupying every moment of Frieda’s waking hours. There were other, more important matters claiming her attention. Like Bella. Like finding more writing and copyediting work. Like her father. All that day Frieda had found herself hoping her father would call. Hoping the phone would remain silent. Hoping her father would just go away again like he had all those years ago, so she wouldn’t have to deal with the very complicated feelings she had about him.

  “Daddy’s a free spirit,” Frieda’s mother would tell her in the weeks after her father’s defection. “Some people just can’t stay in any one place for long. It doesn’t make them bad people.”

  For a long time Frieda had accepted (if she hadn’t entirely believed) her mother’s interpretation of Steve Hitchens’s actions. But one day, when Frieda was a sophomore in high school, she could bear her mother’s equanimity no longer. They were living in a small apartment over a hardware store at the time. Frieda had come home from school to discover that a check her father had promised had failed to arrive. The jean jacket Frieda wanted, on sale only for another day, was now out of the question.

  “Did he call to say why the check hasn’t come?” Frieda had asked, her voice rising. “Did he give you a reason?”

  “He hasn’t called,” her mother had answered evenly. “Maybe he forgot he promised we’d have the check by the twentieth. Maybe the check got lost in the mail. I’m sure there’s a good reason for—”

  “Why do you always make excuses for him, Mom?” Frieda had demanded.

  “Not excuses, Frieda,” her mother corrected. “I’m just trying to explain him to you as best I can.”

  “It sounds like a bunch of excuses to me! Look, I never told you this, but back in middle school a girl called me trailer trash because my dad walked out on us and had had affairs with half of the women in town.”

  “I’m so sorry, Frieda,” her mother had said, reaching out for Frieda, who had stepped farther away. “I wish you had told me. I would have talked to the girl’s mother or to your teacher.”

  “Dad probably had affairs with them, too, and you just let him humiliate us! I hate you for that!”

  Frieda had stormed off to her room, slamming the door behind her. Hours later she emerged, suffering pangs of embarrassment and regret, to find her mother sitting in the darkened kitchen with a cup of tea untouched before her. Frieda had thrown her arms around her. “I’m so sorry, Mom,” she said through her tears. “I don’t hate you. I could never hate you. Please forgive me.”

  Of course her mother had forgiven her, and, maybe more important, she had admitted to making excuses for Steve Hitchens’s bad behavior. “It’s just that I don’t believe in feeding negative feelings,” she explained. “Sure, I could bad-mouth him at every chance. But I can’t see how that would be of any benefit to you. And frankly, it would cause me to be bitter and I don’t want to be bitter.”

  “Okay,” Frieda said. “But maybe from now on you could acknowledge even a little that what Dad did—what he does—isn’t cool. Just be honest about him. Don’t make excuses for him and don’t trash him. Just be honest.”

  With deliberation Frieda put the memory of that momentous evening aside as she pulled into the parking lot at Main Beach. She had agreed to meet Jack outside the souvenir shop at the top of the beach, and as she approached it, cooler bag of food and drinks over her shoulder, she saw him waiting for her.

  “Hello!” she called. Jack waved. Under his left arm he held a bright blue beach blanket; at his feet sat a large canvas bag. He was wearing a worn jean shirt over tan shorts; his sunglasses were classic aviators. Frieda thought he could be a model for what was best about summer in New England. Not that she would tell him that.

  “If you thought you were going to get a gourmet meal you were wrong,” Frieda said with a smile as she joined him. “I’ve got egg salad sandwiches, potato salad, and brownies. Oh, and genuine Maine root beer.”

  Jack put a hand to his heart. “You’ve made me a happy man. I’ve never really been big on Brie, French bread, and grapes when I could get my hands on a meal that’s largely mayonnaise.”

  Frieda laughed. “I’m glad my instincts were right. Too many faculty parties?”

  “Maybe. There are only so many times you can nibble on chunks of runny cheese and raw celery sticks before you go running for the Velveeta and potato chips.”

  “Keep your feelings about Velveeta and potato chips from Bella,” Frieda told him as they walked down to the sand. “She thinks they’re two of the official food groups.”

  “Well, since I haven’t officially met her—seeing her a few times over the years from a distance hardly counts—I think my opinions on junk food won’t do her any harm.”

  Frieda felt a twinge of discomfort. She probably should have introduced the two by now but . . . “Look,” she said. “Let’s sit here.”

  They settled at the spot Frieda had chosen, about a quarter of the way down the beach in the direction of Wells. “Now this is heaven,” Jack said as Frieda laid out the food.

  Frieda smiled. “I know. This is my favorite time to come to the beach. Just before sunset when most everyone has gone home.”

  “Even when you were a kid?” Jack asked.

  “Yeah. I mean, I loved hanging out on the beach during the day, too. But evening was always my favorite time.” Frieda laughed. “How spoiled am I? And you, too, for that matter. Growing up with access to a beautiful beach.”

  “Tell me one of your most vivid memories of your childhood in Yorktide,” Jack asked, opening two bottles of root beer and passing one to Frieda.

  “Actually,” she told him, “one of my most vivid memories doesn’t really have anything to do with Yorktide itself. When I was about thirteen my mother founded The Page Turners. In the beginning there were only three other women and they used to meet at one another’s homes in turn. I remember when they would meet at our house; at the time Mom and I were living in a cottage on Hamilton Lane. I’d sit in this small passage outside the living room and listen to the women talk about whatever book they had chosen to read. Sometimes the discussions got really heated. One time a member actually stormed off because she was the only one who thought Wuthering Heights was boring. I found it all so thrilling.” Frieda smiled. “I suppose the fact that I probably wasn’t supposed to be spying on the grown-ups was part of the thrill.”

  “Were you already an avid reader?” Jack asked.

  “Oh yes. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree. By that time I was reading at least a book a week that had nothing to do with what we had been assigned in school. Usually it was a big, fat novel. Okay, your turn. What’s one of your most vivid memories of growing up in Yorktide?”

  “Do you remember that big old crumbling barn in one of the fields just past the Gascoynes’ farm?” Jack asked.

  Frieda nodded. “Of course. The Haunted Barn. Everyone knew it was chock-full of ghosts, but no one could agree on who the ghosts had once been. Some people said a passing tramp had died there and it was his ghost who haunted the place. Others said the ghost was that of a little milkmaid who’d gotten kicked in the head by a cow.”

  “That’s the one. Well, the summer I was thirteen another kid dared me to spend the night alone in the barn. His name was Bobby something or other. His family used to rent a house close to the Cove for the month of July.”

  “Did you accept the dare?”

  Jack shrugged. “Of course. What else could I do, look like a weenie in front of my buddies? So I snuck out of the house, which wasn’t hard to do—my parents always went to bed before nine and were heavy sleepers—made my way to the barn, and waited.”

  “For ghosts?” Frieda asked.

  “For morning! I kept a flashlight on the entire night and sat there like a stone, scared out of my mind. I’d never given any credence to the whole supernatural thing before, but once I was alone in that old barn, boy, was I a believer. Of course nothing happened, and the minute the sun c
ame up I left. When I got home my mother had discovered my absence and was beside herself with worry and Dad was beside himself with anger. I got off pretty lightly, though. No video games for a week.”

  “How did you prove to the other kids that you’d done it?” Frieda asked. “This was way before the days of selfies. Did you bring a video camera?”

  “I didn’t own a video camera. I couldn’t actually prove that I’d made it through the night,” Jack admitted, “but I guess I told a good enough story, because no one doubted me.”

  “Whatever happened to that old barn?”

  “It fell down long ago,” Jack told her. “Luckily, no silly kids were inside at the time. Or ghosts, as far as I know. Frieda, this egg salad is killer.”

  “Good ole mayonnaise,” she told him.

  They ate in silence for a few minutes and during these few minutes Frieda worked up the nerve to ask a question that had been on her mind. It was normal to be curious, she told herself. And if the question was too personal Jack could always choose not to answer.

  “Jack?” she said. “Have you dated since Veronica’s death?”

  Jack wiped his hands on his napkin and took a swig of root beer before answering. “Yeah,” he said. “I went on a few first dates, but they came to nothing. And then I saw one woman for a few months before things ended.”

  Well, Frieda thought uneasily, you did want to know. “What happened?” she asked.

  Jack answered promptly. “She—her name was Margo—she said she couldn’t shake the feeling that I was thinking about my wife when we were together and not about her.”

  “And were you thinking about Veronica when you were with this woman?” Frieda asked.

  Jack smiled ruefully. “Yes, sometimes. I guess she could sense that my mind was occasionally elsewhere.”

  The conversation had taken on a depth Frieda hadn’t quite anticipated, but she didn’t want to back away now. “And when we’re together do you think of Veronica?” she asked. “I mean, when we’re not talking about her?”

  “Not often,” Jack said, “but sometimes. And you think about Aaron, don’t you?”

  Frieda nodded. “Yes, of course. Not often but sometimes.”

  “I know this sounds goofy, but time really does help prevent the memories from coming up at inopportune times. It helps prevent the tendency to contrast and compare.”

  “I believe that. But do you think the memories ever entirely stop popping up when they shouldn’t? Do you think you’ll ever look at another woman and not see or hear Veronica at your shoulder?”

  Jack shrugged. “I wish I had the definitive answer to that, but I don’t. Remembering isn’t a crime or a sin, Frieda. It’s how you handle the remembering that matters.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I guess that’s true. Jack? Would you ever consider marrying again?”

  Jack laughed. “I’m not decrepit yet! I like the company of a woman. I like being in love. I liked being a husband. So yeah, if the possibility of a good marriage to the right person comes along, you bet I’ll be open to it. And you?”

  “I can’t say,” Frieda admitted. It was too soon to be thinking about marrying. Too soon.

  “Fair enough. Mind if I finish off this potato salad?”

  “Not at all. Jack, this might be getting way too personal, so feel free to tell me to mind my own business.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” Jack said, scraping the last of the potato salad from the plastic container.

  “Did you and Veronica ever talk about your remarrying after she was gone?”

  “Yes,” Jack said. “When it was clear Veronica had only a few weeks at best she told me the thought of my being alone made her sad. She wanted me to promise I would never refuse love if it came my way.”

  Frieda felt tears come to her eyes.

  “Sometimes,” Jack went on, “I think that was the worst moment of my life, worse even than the moment I knew Veronica had died. I badly wanted to make her happy by promising I’d move on, but at the same time I wanted just as badly to tell her that I could never love anyone ever again. In the end, I was crying so hard all I could do was nod. I don’t know if she believed I’d made the promise or not, but neither of us mentioned it again. And ten days later she was gone.”

  “How sad, Jack,” Frieda said. “I’m so very sorry.”

  “The fact that we’d known for a while that it was unlikely Veronica would beat the cancer gave her time to think about my future,” Jack said. “After a while I came to believe she had really meant what she said about my not being alone. She was a very generous person in life. An honest person. Why would she be any different in death?”

  Yes, Frieda thought. For Veronica death was more than a moment. It was a conscious process, allowing her to think and to act under its influence. For Aaron . . . “Aaron and I never talked about death,” she told Jack, “with the exception of the time we bought life insurance, and that was enough of an upsetting experience for me. It made the idea of one of us dying far too real.” Frieda shook her head. “As if I could avoid the inevitable by ignoring it.”

  “Welcome to the human race,” Jack said. “Where denial is not just a river in Egypt. Man, this egg salad is killer. What’s your secret?”

  Frieda laughed. “No secret. You’re just an easy audience.”

  While Jack finished the food Frieda admired the evening sky, a palette of deepening pastels. They were virtually alone now and suddenly Frieda thought, I want Jack to kiss me. I want to kiss him. But it’s too soon. Too soon. “Maybe we should get going,” she said, reaching for the cooler bag.

  “Sure.” Jack got to his feet and brushed sand off his legs. “Did I mention that I loved the egg salad?”

  “Several times,” Frieda said. “But I’m always susceptible to flattery.”

  Chapter 34

  “Do you remember meeting my friend Connie?” Bella’s grandmother asked as she passed the plate of chicken breasts. “She manages the hospital’s gift shop.”

  Bella took the plate and nodded. “Yeah. She’s the one with ten grandchildren or something.”

  “That’s the one. Guess what she did? She dyed her hair green! I almost fell over when I saw her. It’s actually kind of pretty, once you get over the shock.”

  Bella managed a smile, not that she cared one way or the other about Connie’s hair. She was thinking about the little locked book she had found, the book she suspected was Ariel’s diary. She was tempted to ask her grandmother’s advice about opening it. Ruby Hitchens was pretty smart about things and right now Bella wasn’t in the mood to talk to her mother about anything important. Not since she had met up with that old school friend.

  No, Bella thought, mindlessly cutting into the chicken breast on her plate. I won’t say anything to Grandma about the diary. Because if she thought that opening the little book was wrong she might judge Bella harshly for even considering such an action. That would not be good. I need Grandma on my side, Bella decided. Especially now.

  “How is that girl you met on the Marginal Way? Clara, isn’t it?” her grandmother asked, passing the basket of bread.

  Bella took a piece of the bread and unconsciously tore it in half. “She’s okay,” she said. “Is Mom with that guy again tonight?”

  “If by ‘that guy’ you mean Jack, yes. They went to the beach for a picnic dinner.”

  A picnic dinner on the beach was a date, Bella thought. It was something you did with someone you felt romantic about. “Why haven’t I met him?”

  Her grandmother shrugged. “I don’t know. Do you want to meet him?”

  “No,” Bella lied. “Why should I?”

  “Bella? Are you going to eat that bread or utterly destroy it?”

  Bella looked down at her plate. The piece of bread she had taken from the basket was in shreds. “Sorry,” she said.

  “There’s plenty more. Eat some snap peas, please. They’re as sweet as candy.”

  Bella did as she was told, but she barely tasted the
peas. “Mom told me that my grandfather called her again,” she said after a moment.

  “Yes. He did.”

  “Why do you think he wants to talk to her all of a sudden?”

  “Maybe it’s not all of a sudden,” her grandmother pointed out. “Maybe he’s been thinking about reaching out for a long time.”

  “It’s strange I’ve never met him, isn’t it?” Bella said. “I mean, it’s not so strange that I’ve never met Dad’s parents because they live so far away. Not that we really know where Mom’s father lives.”

  “I suppose it is strange that you’ve never met your maternal grandfather, yes.”

  “Do you miss him?” Bella asked.

  “No,” her grandmother replied promptly. “I did for a while. But that was a long time ago.”

  Bella reached for another piece of bread from the basket and put it on her plate. “Do you hate him for what he did to you and my mother?”

  “Again, no. I was upset of course. Angry, sad, even embarrassed.” Her grandmother smiled a bit. “Nobody likes to be made a fool of. And for a while I could hardly believe that he had actually gone. I kept expecting him to show up for dinner as usual with that happy-go-lucky grin on his face. But he never did show up and I never did come to hate him.”

  “Do you think Mom hates him?” Bella asked.

  Her grandmother sighed. “I think that maybe at times she thought she hated him. But I don’t like to attribute such an ugly emotion to someone I love. And what do you feel about your grandfather, Bella? We’ve never talked about him much, have we?”

  Bella shrugged. “I don’t feel anything really. I mean, he doesn’t sound like a great guy. Not like Dad. But he never did anything to me, so . . .”

  “You could argue that he neglected you. That he failed in his duty as a grandparent.”

  “Maybe. But you don’t miss what you never had, right? Besides. . .” Bella swallowed hard. She really didn’t want to start crying. If she did she might never stop. “Ariel and I had you.”

  “You’ll always have me,” her grandmother said firmly.