Richard had wondered aloud if it would be prudent to call in a nanny or bring a grief counselor to the house, leaving Flossy outraged. No, they did not need outside help. Clem just needed time. And them! But she knew he did not believe her, even if he allowed her to think that he did. Clem’s loss had paralyzed them all. Flossy was her mother. She had always figured things out. But this grief—it was something even she could not wrap her arms around.
But after that first endless month, when the funeral services had been arranged and endured, when the neighbors’ food deliveries eventually ebbed and the phone stopped ringing, settling into the gray solitude that blanketed them all in the aftermath, Clementine seemed to shed her grief. Well, maybe shed wasn’t the correct term, Flossy thought. Not like a snake undergoing a natural process. Discarded. A decision Clem seemed to have made. Whether conscious or reactive, Flossy couldn’t say. But she could pinpoint the day it happened: Flossy had tiptoed down the steep craftsman staircase to begin what had become her morning routine of pouring orange juice into plastic sippy cups and whisking eggs, when she came upon a kitchen already lit and humming with activity. There was Clem, not in her rumpled blue bathrobe but dressed and showered, standing at the kitchen stove watching pancakes bubble in the skillet. Coffee was percolating. The table was set. She turned to look at her mother. “We need to get a Christmas tree,” she said.
It had brought Flossy both relief and sadness. Finally they could pack their suitcases and bid the torturous pull-out couch good-bye. But there was something else: right before Clem had sensed her mother standing in the doorway that morning, Flossy noticed something that caused her heart to heave. She caught it in the split second before Clem looked up and rearranged her expression, before she stretched her lips into an almost-convincing smile and greeted her mother, as if it were any other day before. They would survive, but it was still with them. It would always be with them.
The after—as Flossy had named it, causing Richard to shake his head and mumble that it was like the bad title of an even more badly written book—had introduced them to a Clem none of them quite recognized, despite the fact that she appeared mostly the same. She kept her house in the same manner; toys were strewn across area rugs and picked up for company before being strewn again. The children’s backpacks were organized for school each morning, and their teeth were brushed. Maddy suddenly refused to wear any shirt except a button-down, just like her daddy. George returned to the town soccer field that his father used to coach him on. Clem attended parent-teacher conferences and PTA meetings with consistency, if not zeal. Dinners were made and served with the same practiced regularity as her Sunday phone calls home, during which Flossy would inquire, “How are you, sweetheart?”
And Clem would reply, breezily, “Mom. I’m fine.”
Fine. Flossy had never met a more useless word.
But maybe Clem was telling a version of the truth. After all, they had not only survived that first Christmas without Ben, they had almost enjoyed it. Even if it was fueled by that splendid case of port that Samuel had brought and promptly opened, though it was barely eight o’clock in the morning. There had been laughter as presents were passed and torn into, despite the lone gift box labeled DAD, in red crayon, which remained unopened beneath the tree. Flossy could never bring herself to ask what was in that box. But she admired the measures Clem took to keep Ben present for the children: recalling silly stories about their father and tucking photos of him in every corner of the house. Even going the extra step to sign his name on their birthday cards that spring, though that one had given Flossy some pause.
Now, two Julys later, Clem was returning to the summer house. It would not be the same, but they would make new memories this year. Happy memories! If only she could get this house in shape to do it. There was so much work to be done, and although some of it was indeed for Richard’s upcoming seventy-fifth birthday, there was the other reason—the reason she and Richard had agreed not to tell the children until after vacation.
For as many years as Flossy had known her husband, they’d spent part or most of their summers in this house on Sea Spray Road. Initially, she’d been a guest of Richard’s when his parents were still alive, and she’d come up to spend a few nights with his family at the shore. Later, when they married and began to have little ones of their own, the house was handed down to them. For the Merrill family, it had provided a summer haven and escape akin to something in a Norman Rockwell painting. How many watermelons had been consumed on the back deck, whose railing the kids leaned over to see who could spit their seeds the farthest? How many bottles of sunscreen had been spilled and applied on that deck? Some of the beach towels in the pantry closet off the kitchen were as old as their memories of summering at the shingled cottage. Flossy couldn’t bear to throw them out, so she washed and folded them at the end of each season and tucked them away, each year a little more faded than the last. They’d lived in this house. They’d loved in this house.
Which is why it was such a difficult decision to sell it. Richard had posed the idea a few years before, when the kids had started coming up less and less. There were summer camps and athletic camps. They went away with other families. They were too busy, too far away, or, in Flossy’s opinion, too disinterested in the house that had once kept them all together. The one who did keep popping by was their neighbor, who’d made polite inquiries to show his interest in the home and his wish to buy it if and when they were ever ready. They’d declined, of course. They had children and grandchildren. There were summers to be shared. But the house needed some work; and each winter it became more of a hassle to winterize and more of a worry, with storms like Hurricane Sandy. They were getting older, wanting to take care of themselves, and they were finding the house was yet another thing to look after and fret over.
They put out feelers to the kids: did they have any interest in taking over the house? Initially, Flossy was sure they’d fight over it. How surprised, and taken aback, she’d been when Sam commented matter-of-factly that he and Evan were just too far away in DC for it to be of any real use for them. Paige was too entrenched in her new practice, and then David lost his job; it wasn’t realistic for them. And Clem—well, none of them wanted to burden her with anything else after the year she’d endured. Flossy was still wondering if Clem would truly be able to keep her own house in Boston. Another was simply out of the question. To her dismay, the kids had seemed flippant about the whole matter, and the final straw was when Sam suggested they lease it out to summer tourists. As if it were just any other vacation rental and not their great-grandparents’ seaside cottage that had seen several generations of Merrills happily through salty, sun-drenched summers.
So, last summer, after she and Richard had found themselves sitting alone in the Adirondack chairs for the whole of August, Maurice had popped by for a glass of wine with his annual inquiry about the house, and they finally admitted that maybe . . . perhaps . . . they were ready to sell—as hard as it would be. But they would not tell the kids until after their week together. Finally, they would all be here, under one roof, and Flossy was determined that they’d make the most of this last precious vacation at the shore.
The clock in the sitting room chimed, and it was then Flossy noticed Joe, the painter, standing in the kitchen doorway, as if waiting for her to finish her worries. “Mrs. Merrill? I have the White Dove sample ready, if you want to take a look.”
“Joe.” She set down her Frugal Gourmet cookbook. “You’ve been painting for us through three children and four grandkids. I wish you would just call me Flossy.”
Joe Collins had been a mere boy the first time Flossy and Richard had hired his father to freshen up the summer house. Now, since Joe Sr. had passed, Joe Jr. owned the family business. He was handsome in the rugged way of his father, and possessed the same unassuming nature that left his expression neutral no matter what chaos was taking place beneath the rungs of his metal ladder. Flossy often wondered at the things he must have seen and h
eard over the years.
She followed him into the living room. “I love it,” she said, pausing in front of the bay window to inspect the trim.
“Very well.”
“It’s not a bright white. Or a winter white. More of an ocean-cap white, if you know what I mean.” She pressed her hands together. “Perfect for the coast.”
Joe let out a breath. This was his third trip here to sample whites. She hadn’t believed him when he told her there were more than a thousand different shades of it.
“So I’ll order eight cans of the Dove?” he asked, pulling out a small notepad from his back pocket. His pencil waited above the paper, and it gave Flossy pause.
“Eight?”
Joe raised one eyebrow, but his tone remained level. “Yes, for the upstairs and downstairs—windows, doors, baseboards, and moldings. Two coats each.”
“Huh.” Eight sounded like a lot of White Dove. Flossy took a step back and squinted at the sample. Did she detect a little gray in it?
Joe cleared his throat, pencil still poised. “Mrs. Merrill?”
Just then the phone rang. “I’m sorry, Joe. Can I think about this one more day?”
“You can think about it as many days as you want, but each day means I order the paint a day later.”
The phone rang again.
“Which delays the job another day.”
Flossy studied the trim again. Yes, she definitely saw gray. But she really needed Joe to get started. The party was only a week away. This was the last summer the family had in the house!
The phone kept ringing. Someone needed to answer the phone. Where was Richard? It could be Vesta bakery; she’d left them a detailed message about the lemon tarts. “I’m sorry, I must get that!”
Joe tucked the notepad back in his pocket. “Another day, then.”
By the time she reached the phone, it was silent. Whoever it had been did not leave a message. No matter. Just another missed call, just another missed day of paint. Honestly, why wasn’t Clem there yet?
Flossy stood at the kitchen counter, her arms crossed. She watched Joe’s white truck roll out of the driveway and wondered what shade of white that was. On the stovetop the lobster pot’s lid clattered noisily, announcing full boil. She glared at the now empty drive outside the window, then at the useless clock on the wall. She flipped off the stove’s burner and left the lobsters clicking senselessly in the sink.
Sam
No doubt about it, Paige looked like shit. She had never been one to fuss about looks, but that was largely because, like the rest of the Merrill clan, she’d been blessed in that department and didn’t have to. Flaxen-haired and blue-eyed, except for Clem, who had somehow inherited flecks of sea-glass green in hers, the Merrill children had been both bright and pleasing to look at, thanks to the long-limbed and fair-complexioned Scandinavian ancestry on Richard’s side. The particular twinkle in Sam’s eyes went beyond the humorless Swedes, however.
“What do you think is going on with Paige?” he asked Evan as he stood in front of the dresser mirror. It was only eight o’clock in the morning, and he wanted to squeeze in a run before the family started herding everyone together for their traditional first day at the beach. “She seems more tightly wound than usual, if that’s possible. And did you see the look she gave me when I asked where David was?”
“Be nice.” Evan was propped up in bed, reading a novel Flossy had left on his pillow—something Sam could never remember her doing for him. His dark limbs stretched out against the ivory bedding only highlighted the ropes and curves of his muscled physique. Sam grinned in the mirror at his husband’s reflection. How had he gotten so lucky?
Evan lowered his book. “Why don’t you just ask her?” Then, seeing the exasperated look on Sam’s face, he said, “First day of vacation tradition: Paige wants us to go to East Beach with the kids.”
Paige wants was all Sam heard. He was used to his older sister’s silent direction of family plans; he supposed her commandeering nature served her well in her veterinary practice. Last night after she’d arrived, she’d regaled them with accounts of her OR schedule, from lineups of canine femoral surgeries and soft tissue repairs to commonplace spays: all told over full plates of dinner, no less. Followed by a full report of Ned’s lacrosse camp and Emma’s summer enrichment classes. All triumphs!—as confirmed by Richard’s beatific expression at the far end of the dinner table. At one point Paige asked Emma to recount a debate she’d participated in at school. Shyly, his niece had offered a few scant details about the topic, her focus remaining on her dinner.
“Go on,” Paige had said, her eyes lighting up. “Tell them your closing argument!” Sam had recognized the pained flicker in the teen’s averted gaze.
“Did you see the way Em slunk off before dessert was even served? Paige is smothering the kid.”
Evan cocked his head thoughtfully. “She’s a teenager, Sam. How comfortable were you around your parents at that age? Though I’d have killed for that child’s complexion.”
But Sam wasn’t listening. He checked his phone once more before turning it off. There had already been two messages from Adya, his assistant, that morning. He’d returned her call from the bathroom with the shower running, so Evan wouldn’t hear. “Unplugging” was a pledge he was trying to keep this week. He was initially relieved to hear that Adya just needed his approval on a schedule change for an overseas call. Until he realized it would be at eleven o’clock that night.
“I’m going down for breakfast,” he said, slipping the phone into his pocket. “Want anything?”
Evan shook his head, not glancing up from his book this time. “Flossy set out fruit and bagels. I think she’s waiting for everyone else to wake up before she gets the bacon and eggs going.”
Sam sighed. He’d have to make it a long run. The menu at their annual summer gathering ranked high on the list of indulgences he and Evan rarely allowed themselves: lobster, buttered corn, and greasy, stick-to-your-ribs breakfasts. If they were at home, in their airy DuPont Circle apartment, they would be juicing.
He rummaged through his duffel bag in search of his running shoes. Damn it, had he forgotten his sneakers? He’d have to borrow Evan’s, which were a half size too big. He found Evan’s Brooks in his suitcase. It was then that he noticed the checkered gift bag from the trendy baby store on Wisconsin Avenue, where they’d registered. He glanced over at Evan, who was still reading. When he reached inside, he knew already that it was the pair of baby slippers: fluffy pink, with tiny bunny ears and whiskers sewn across each toe. The very slippers he’d given Evan when they found out that Tania, the doe-eyed sixteen-year-old with the lizard tattoo from Austin, Texas, had chosen them. And that the baby was a girl.
Sam rolled the bag up and tucked it gently back in Evan’s suitcase, his heart heavy in his chest.
Downstairs, the house was quiet. Richard sat outside at the picnic table with the morning paper. There was no sign of Clem, or, surprisingly, of her little ones, by whom he was used to being awakened at some ungodly predawn hour. They’d arrived late last night, Clem sailing wordlessly through the front door with Maddy tucked neatly against her shoulder, already fast asleep. Sam had barely had a chance to ruffle George’s hair before they’d all made a beeline upstairs for the night. He’d have to corner her later.
“What’s cooking?”
The screen door jerked open. It was Paige, her cheeks flushed and her skin dewy with sweat. Sam eyed her running shorts. “Cup of coffee?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No, thanks, already had two. Before my five miles.” She stopped in the middle of the kitchen and bent, stretching her hamstrings. “I forgot how much harder it is to run in the sand. You still running?” she asked, peering up at him.
Sam moved around her and went to the fridge in search of the fruit platter Evan had mentioned. “Left my sneakers in DC.”
Paige grunted, balancing on one leg and pulling the other up behind her. “What’s your time these days?”
Sam nodded at the clock. “It’s eight thirty, Paige.”
She narrowed her eyes, saying nothing. Then, “I’m down to a sub seven. In case you find your sneakers.” Before he could respond she was already trotting up the stairs.
“Go shower,” he called after her. “You stink.”
* * *
Outside, the morning was blindingly bright in the way that only a seaside morning could be, the sun already shimmering off the sandy bluff at the backyard’s edge. Sam squinted, lowering himself into one of the teak chairs beside his father. He scanned the yard where they had played as kids; the spot where they’d held epic whiffle ball games and barbecues. Now all he could wonder was: who mowed the grass? Richard was in decent shape for a man his age, but surely he wasn’t up to maneuvering the ancient push mower kept in the shed.
“How’d you sleep?” Sam asked his father.
Richard Merrill lowered his paper and appraised his middle child over his glasses lovingly. It was good to have them all under one roof again. Each year he became more aware of how uncertain time was—this past year most of all.
“I slept like a man of the sea.” It was his father’s standard reply when at the cottage. No matter everyone’s age or ailments, the brisk salt air wafting up over the dunes was a legendary inducer of slumber. Even as restive infants, Sam’s nieces and nephews had been lulled to sleep through the nights whenever they visited the summer house. Sam recalled David remarking with marvel that they should consider moving to the coast when they’d visited the first summer after Ned was born. Richard had smiled knowingly then, too.
The Summer House Page 3