Home for the Summer

by Holly Chamberlin

  “You’d better get cracking, Mom. This menu is huge. I’m going to have a crab roll and onion rings.” Bella looked to Jack. “My mother loves onion rings.”

  Jack laughed. “I’m aware.”

  They placed their order and took a table on the expanse of green lawn overlooking the ocean. “The view here is awesome,” Bella said. “I don’t know why anyone who lives in Maine would ever want to go away for vacation. I mean, unless it was to some place totally different, like . . .” Bella smiled a bit. “I was going to say like Jamaica.”

  Frieda felt her stomach drop, but before she could say anything—what? —Jack spoke.

  “Or the Arctic,” he said promptly. “Or, I don’t know, the jungles of South America.”

  Bella laughed. “Yeah. Except I bet the Arctic isn’t so different from winters in Maine.”

  “I concede your point.”

  Two women passed by carrying trays piled high with boiled lobsters and corn on the cob. One of the women was wearing a T-shirt on which were printed the words ARRESTED DEVELOPMENT.

  “My wife used to like that show,” Jack said, nodding toward the woman. “She loved the Tobias Fünke character. I never really got into it myself. I don’t hate it or anything, but I usually found something else to do when she watched it.”

  “I like it, too,” Bella said. “So does Ariel. So did Ariel. It was one of the few shows we agreed on. Usually our taste in TV shows is completely different. Was completely different. It’s hard to remember to use the past tense.”

  “I think it’s okay to use the present tense,” Jack said. “I mean, just because a person is dead doesn’t mean she’s different from who she was when she was alive. Or something like that.”

  Bella laughed. “I’m always thinking about that sort of stuff.”

  Frieda refrained from adding her own thoughts. Bella and Jack didn’t seem to need her conversational assistance. It was enough if she simply watched and listened.

  “Number twenty-six please. Number twenty-six.”

  “That’s us,” Frieda said.

  The three fetched their trays, returned to their table, and settled to their meals.

  “So, you’re going to be a senior this fall?” Jack asked.

  Bella finished swallowing a bite of her crab roll. “Yeah.”

  “I remember senior year as being really fun,” Jack said. “It seemed there were always parties and barbeques and outings.” He shrugged. “Well, I was popular. Maybe it wasn’t so much fun for unpopular kids.”

  “I’m not really interested in the parties and stuff,” Bella said; her tone, Frieda noted, was not belligerent or self-pitying. “I’m kind of worried about getting my grades up again. I let them slip last year. I have to think about getting some serious money from a decent college.”

  “Don’t worry about the money,” Frieda told her. “Just focus on the schoolwork.”

  “My wife was a teacher.” Jack looked to Bella. “Maybe you knew that. She absolutely loved teaching. Even when she had a really difficult student or hundreds of papers to grade during exam week she didn’t complain. Not many people are lucky enough to really love what they do.”

  Bella looked from her mother to Jack. “I’m sorry about your wife,” she said. “I don’t think I ever met her, but I know Grandma really liked her.”

  Jack nodded. “Thanks. And I’m sorry about your father and sister.”

  “Thanks. Here,” Bella said, pushing the paper carton of onion rings to the middle of the table. “You guys can have some.”

  “Do you like working at Wainscoting and Windowseats?” Jack asked. “Here, have a French fry.”

  “Yeah,” Bella said. “I mean, at first I thought it would be boring selling stuff like wallpaper and rolls of fabric, but I like it. Phil’s great, so that helps.”

  “What is wainscoting, anyway?” Jack asked with a frown.

  Bella laughed. “I had to ask Phil the same thing when I started. It’s basically wood or some other material on the inside of a wall. Think about pictures you’ve seen of homes in Colonial times, with wood paneling halfway up the wall.”

  “I probably should have known that,” Jack said. “Oh, well, the old brain isn’t what it used to be.”

  “I think my grandmother’s brain gets sharper as she gets older,” Bella said. “At least, it seems that way to me.”

  “Maybe you’ve just gotten better at recognizing her intelligence. No insult to Ruby Braithwaite’s brainpower,” Jack added hastily.

  “You might be right,” Bella said after a moment. “What do you think, Mom?”

  Frieda laughed. “Let’s just say I’ve never felt I could go up against my mother in a battle of wits. Maybe it’s all the reading she does.”

  “You do a lot of reading, too, Mom,” Bella pointed out. Then she turned to Jack. “My sister was a huge reader. I like to read, but there are plenty of things I’d usually rather be doing.”

  “Like what?” Jack asked.

  “Eating!”

  Frieda felt as if her heart would burst with happiness. Even if nothing ever came of her relationship with Jack, this moment at The Razor Clam, the early-evening sun warm, the breeze cool, Bella devouring her crab roll and sharing her onion rings, Jack wolfing down his fried clams and sharing his French fries, would always stand in her memory as a success of the best sort.

  “Anyone want a mussel?” she asked.

  Bella frowned. “Gross.”

  Jack grimaced. “Ew.”

  Frieda smiled. “Good. All for me.”

  Chapter 71

  Bella steered her bike around a large puddle. And while she was paying attention to the road—especially after that close call not too long ago—she was also thinking about dinner at The Razor Clam the night before. Yeah, she had been a bit nervous—though not as nervous as her mother, who at one point had looked like she was going to faint—but the meeting had turned out okay. Jack hadn’t been at all touchy-feely with her mother (something Bella had been dreading) and he had asked Bella questions as if she had a brain. She had been afraid he would be one of those guys who thought all teenaged girls were idiots or one of those creeps who were intimidated by women who were even half as smart as they were. But when her mother had corrected him when he said the fourth president of the United States was James Monroe and not James Madison he had been totally cool with it. He had even laughed at himself for not knowing such a basic fact of history, not that Bella had known it, either. Her father had been like that, not macho or boastful.

  Bella turned onto Valley Road and cycled up to the cottage where Clara and her housemates were spending the summer. She had thought the cottage sort of charming when she first saw it, but now she realized it was pretty decrepit. It couldn’t be good for a depressed person to live in a home with peeling paint, jammed windows, and a big tear in the shade of the living room window.

  With a sigh Bella climbed the broken stairs. I’m here for Clara’s sake, she thought as she rang the bell. When no one came to the door Bella tried the handle. The door was unlocked and she went inside. “Hello,” she called. When no one answered she walked back to Clara’s room. Her door stood half opened. “Clara,” Bella said. “It’s me.”

  She went into the room to find Clara lying on the bed among crumpled sheets. Her eyes were bloodshot. Even from across the room Bella could tell that Clara’s breath was foul. Maybe it was the drugs that made her breath smell bad; all drugs, even ones that were good for you, could have weird side effects. Her hair was greasy and there was dirt under her fingernails, with which she was scratching her arm.

  “Did you get bitten?” Bella asked. “I dodged a wasp this morning.”

  “No,” Clara said dully. “I’m just itchy.”

  Or maybe, Bella thought, there were bugs in the room, bedbugs or carpet beetles or even fleas. “What have you been up to?” she asked. Maybe it was another silly question, but she didn’t know what else to say.

  Clara scratched at her other arm. “Han
ging with my new friends,” she said.

  “What new friends?”

  “You wouldn’t know them. You probably wouldn’t even like them.”

  She’s right, Bella thought. I probably wouldn’t. “Let’s go do something, Clara,” she said. “It’s a beautiful day, and besides, it’s boring always sitting around here.”

  “I’m tired.” As if to prove it Clara yawned widely.

  “Fresh air can really wake you up. We could take a walk. It’s not too hot and there’s a breeze.”

  Suddenly Clara sat up and leaned back on her hands. “I need money,” she said. “Can you give me some money?”

  “Why do you need money?” Bella was afraid that she knew the answer to this question, but she wanted to hear Clara’s reply.

  Clara snorted. “I just need it, okay? Don’t be so nosy.”

  “I don’t have any money,” Bella said. It was not strictly the truth; she never left the house without a few dollars in cash. But the money was for emergencies. It was not for buying illegal substances. Or for junk food after smoking dope, she thought. What an idiot I was.

  Clara’s expression darkened. “Liar,” she spit.

  “I’m not a liar,” Bella stated firmly. “And even if I did have money I wouldn’t give it to you.”

  “I’d pay you back; I swear.”

  Bella shook her head. “No.”

  “Then give back that pill I gave you,” Clara demanded, sitting up fully. “I know you didn’t take it.” She laughed nastily. “You wouldn’t have the nerve.”

  “I flushed it down the toilet.” And it isn’t a matter of nerve, Bella thought. It’s a matter of self-respect.

  “No, you didn’t!” Clara now rose to her feet and came toward Bella, her fists clenched. “I need that pill, Bella. I need to sell it.”

  Bella took a step back. She was afraid that Clara might hit her. And she wondered what Clara might do if she couldn’t get the money she wanted. People did awful things for drugs, like sell themselves sexually. No, Bella thought, not Clara. Not when she claimed to be so in love with Marc. But drugs made people desperate. They made people strangers to themselves. All the experts said so. Still, Bella couldn’t bring herself to hand over the few dollars in her bag. “I told you,” she said, swallowing her fear, refusing to back farther away. “I flushed it down the toilet. And I have no money to give you.”

  Suddenly Clara seemed to lose interest. She turned, sank into the room’s one chair, and leaned her head against its high back.

  What am I doing? Bella thought, watching Clara as her eyes began to close. I’m totally out of my depth. I should tell an adult what’s going on, someone who can step in and . . . But she felt so terribly embarrassed about her own drug use, which she would probably have to admit if she brought an adult into the situation. She remembered Colleen had told her that teens recovering from the loss of a parent only want to do what makes them feel better and most often that meant immature behavior like doing drugs or self-harming or overeating. And Bella was guilty of immature behavior, no doubt about that.

  No. She didn’t want to cause her mother or grandmother further worry. She would keep Clara’s situation to herself, at least for now. At least until . . .

  “Look, Clara,” she said. “Maybe if you eat something you’ll feel better.”

  Clara’s eyes popped open for a moment. “I’m not hungry,” she mumbled.

  Bella sighed. “You’ve got to stop using heroin, Clara. And taking those pills and smoking pot. I know it won’t be easy, but I can help you find treatment. There are all sorts of services out there. You won’t be alone.”

  “Nothing wrong . . .” Clara’s eyes closed again.

  Bella opened her mouth to say something like Call me if you need me, but the words failed to come out. It probably didn’t matter anyway. Clara had begun to snore. Bella shook her head and left the room. When she was almost to the front door of the cottage one of Clara’s housemates emerged from the kitchen.

  “Look,” she said loudly. “I’ve seen you here before. You’re Clara’s friend, right?”

  Bella genuinely didn’t know how to reply.

  “Well,” the girl went on, “maybe you can get her to clean up her act. She’s going to lose her job if she doesn’t. She’s missed two shifts this week and the boss isn’t happy.”

  “I’m not sure . . . I’ll see what I can do.” Bella turned away and continued toward the door.

  “And maybe you can also get her to fork over the money she owes me and the other girls. She hasn’t put in her share of the grocery money for the past two weeks. And she’s been using our personal stuff. She took my umbrella the other day and lost it.”

  Without turning around, Bella nodded and opened the front door of the cottage, grateful for the fresh air. More, she was grateful for the freedom.

  Chapter 72

  Jack lived in a charming A-frame house at the very end of Addison Way. Frieda was pretty sure she had never been on Addison Way before. Funny, she thought as she rang the doorbell. You could almost always find something new in something otherwise so familiar. Yorktide, it seemed, still had its surprises.

  Frieda had called Jack that morning to ask if she could stop by on her way to meet with the manager of a local community arts education center to discuss doing some promotional writing for them. She had a large jar of Ruby’s famous homemade tomato sauce with his name on it.

  Jack opened the door with a smile and invited her in. “Got to love a good homemade tomato sauce,” he said, accepting Frieda’s offering. “I’m not the world’s greatest cook—okay, I’m one of the worst—but I appreciate good food. In spite of what I said earlier about Velveeta.”

  “Then you’ll love this,” Frieda promised him. “I don’t know what Mom does to make it so delicious.”

  “I know you’re on your way to a meeting, but can you stay for a cup of coffee?” Jack asked. “It will only take a few minutes to make.”

  Frieda nodded. “Sure, thanks.”

  “Feel free to wander around while I’m in the kitchen.”

  Jack went off to make the coffee and Frieda took him up on his suggestion. The living room, just off the front hall, was large and cozy. A fireplace with a stone surround was its dominant feature; two cushy armchairs were drawn up in front of it and Frieda couldn’t help but imagine Jack and Veronica sitting there, having an after-dinner coffee. The image brought a smile to her face. She moved to the dining room, where there was a large Mission-style table, chairs, and breakfront. She wondered if Jack hosted dinner parties now that he was living on his own. Probably not, she thought. Not if he couldn’t cook. She wondered if Veronica had enjoyed having their friends and family over for holiday meals, if she had carefully ironed linen napkins and chosen candles in colors that suggested the season, if she had brought the main course to the table with a flourish.

  Beyond the dining room was a home office. Frieda was struck by the neatness of the one desk. Two tall bookcases held books of all sizes, CDs, DVDs, a few small watercolor paintings propped on wooden stands, and a sort of tabletop grandfather clock. Next to the clock was a formal wedding portrait in a plain silver frame.

  Unconsciously Frieda twisted her wedding ring as she looked steadily at the photograph. Veronica wore a gown reminiscent of those worn in the early 1960s, but with a few contemporary touches. Her bouquet was comprised of peach and yellow flowers. She wore no veil or headdress. Her smile was almost blissful. Jack looked handsome—if a bit uncomfortable—in a dark tuxedo, his hand protectively under his new wife’s elbow.

  “She agonized over picking that dress.”

  Frieda turned around to find Jack standing at the doorway to the office, two cups of coffee in hand. “She didn’t want to settle for any old run-of-the-mill thing,” he went on, coming farther into the room. “She wanted to be madly in love with it.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Frieda said, accepting the cup Jack offered her. “It suits her. The ivory color looks beautiful with her
peaches and cream complexion and fair hair.”

  Jack nodded. “It did suit her, but I wouldn’t have cared if she showed up to the church in an old sweatshirt, as long as she showed up.”

  “I know what you mean,” Frieda said, looking back to the photograph. “I think a lot of what we do when we plan a wedding isn’t really for us—the bride and groom—as much as it is for family and friends. My mother was never pushy or interfering until I started to plan my wedding. Then she had some very strong opinions indeed!”

  Jack laughed. “So, did you agonize over your dress?”

  “Of course. And Aaron would shake his head and wonder why I didn’t just wear something already in my closet.”

  “With a few exceptions the average male just doesn’t understand anything about fashion, especially the strong emotions it stirs up and the messages it sends to the world.”

  Frieda laughed. “You guys should count yourselves lucky.”

  They stood there for a moment quietly, until Jack asked, “Do you keep your wedding portrait on display?”

  “I do. It’s . . .” Frieda hesitated. The portrait stood on her night table. “It’s in my bedroom,” she said. Well, she thought, that is the truth, if not the whole truth. Surely she could be forgiven such a small transgression.

  “I used to have it in the living room,” Jack told her. “But when I started to date about a year after Veronica’s death I realized it would be unfair to any woman I might bring here to be, well, to be confronted with it.” Jack paused before going on. “Veronica donated her dress. When she knew she was dying and would never have a daughter to pass it on to she found an organization that provides wedding gowns and prom dresses and interview attire for women in tight circumstances.”

  “That was a wonderful thing for her to do,” Frieda said earnestly. “An admirable thing.”

  “I agree. Hey, on another note entirely, I think the meeting with Bella was a success. At least, I hope it was.”

  “Oh yes,” Frieda said. “An unqualified success. I couldn’t have hoped for better. Frankly, I was surprised she talked so openly about her father and sister.”