She’d admit it: the birthday party was an excuse to get all her kids and grandkids back to the cottage—a feat that seemed increasingly impossible each year. Flossy reached into the depths of the refrigerator for her latest weapons: cold lobster from the night before, chilled chicken breasts, two sprigs of the Asian citrus rosemary that unbearable Judy Broadbent, from her library book club, had recommended she plant. Judy couldn’t pick a decent book to throw at someone, but she knew herbs. Flossy infused her vinaigrette with it and poured it over sliced summer melons. She assembled all the cheerful ingredients on the stainless-steel-topped kitchen island, stepped back, and sighed. Why didn’t her kids want to come home?
The excuses: Paige was short one vet in the clinic. Sam was traveling (a man who frequented the far corners of Asia couldn’t manage a drive three states north?). Clem, well—Clem was the only one who had a good reason. But even before Ben had died, there had been an endless stretch when either one or both of the kids were sick. Take your pick: stomach bug, croup, the dreadfully named hand-foot-and-mouth disease. As if Flossy had not ferried her own three children through decades of flu seasons—vaccine-free, mind you.
Christmas was the pits. Every holiday season Flossy loathed those insufferable commercials by Audi and Pottery Barn and the like—beaming families outfitted in fisherman sweaters spilling out of shiny cars at the grandparents’ Adirondack chalet. Who were those people? It didn’t matter. Flossy wished those very people would pull up in front of her house in their infuriating matching red scarves. Hell, Flossy wanted her family to be those people.
Her grandkids were already growing up so fast that in her more bitter moments she found herself wondering if she even still knew them. For Thanksgiving, Paige always ended up going to her in-laws’. Clem used to host, but Flossy and Richard had shared that day with Ben’s parents from Saratoga Springs, which wasn’t quite the same. That tasteless cornbread stuffing his mother insisted on serving? In the center of the table, no less, while Flossy’s own chestnut recipe had never once made it onto the menu. As for Samuel and Evan, they kept a social schedule that none of them, combined, could rival. They had promised to come home this past Thanksgiving, but Sam had given his regrets at the last minute, citing work commitments. Flossy shook her head. Young people let their careers rule their lives. And worse: all that nonsense about friends substituting as family!
Judy Broadbent seemed immune to such troubles. Her daughter, Caroline, had not only returned home the summer she graduated college to teach in the local preschool, but had also seen fit to marry a lovely doctor, who’d been only too happy to pack his bags and move into the house directly across the street from Judy’s stately saltbox in the historic district, where they rapidly produced three towheaded grandchildren in unjust succession. Judy had since canceled more tennis matches than she kept, never failing to regale Flossy with the details of how she spent her grandchild-rich afternoons: the intricate popsicle-stick sculptures they glued, the apples they’d picked in the local orchard, or the homemade pie they’d made together afterward in her newly remodeled kitchen. Judy never made a good pie.
How could Flossy compete with that? Her own children were more concerned with careers and friends. Flossy did not like this generation who shucked their parents like withered husks and turned their attention to sleek granite islands and hulking SUVs in order to better entertain their neighbors. She’d witnessed this sad trend among Clem’s friends when she and Richard had driven up to Boston for the kids’ birthday parties. There had been more adults than kids loitering around the yard, and since when did people serve signature cocktails at a child’s birthday? (Clem had gently reminded Flossy of the family album evidence of her smoking Virginia Slims in the background of her childhood birthday pictures. But everyone did back then.) And where were all the grandparents and elderly aunts and uncles? The family? Not watching from the comforts of a wingback chair in the corner, no! That spot was reserved for the hired entertainment. Let’s not even get her started on that racket. Three hundred dollars for a potbellied man in a safari suit toting a tarantula?
As for Paige, Flossy wasn’t sure if her eldest even had any real friends—a thought that gave her pause over her fruit bowl. But no matter, because family was flesh and bone. Family was everything.
At that moment one of her favorite family members, Emma, strolled in, her lovely face concealed by another book. Flossy should be glad it wasn’t some iDevice, she supposed, but the child had barely made conversation since arriving. At least Emma remained predictable and steadfast. Nothing like little Maddy, whose exuberant hug could melt you in the same beat that her fierce look could wilt you. Or Ned, who swept through the house like a Labrador retriever, all arms and legs and tongue-lolling energy that could knock you over as quickly as it sailed out. And George: sweet, serious George, with that freckled nose always wrinkled in consternation at his sister’s antics. Oh, how glad she was she’d managed to lure them all home this summer!
“Why don’t you help me make dinner? I want to hear all about the new classes you’ll be taking next fall,” Flossy told Emma. Tonight, she was making Clem’s summer favorite—chilled chicken and avocado salad—since last night’s lobster dinner had basically been a disaster.
Tonight would be different. Tonight she would get everyone to the table to eat, to talk, to laugh. Just as they’d done at the beach all afternoon. They had all dispersed the second they’d gotten back from the beach, but no matter. She’d get them all back for dinner.
Emma took her place beside Flossy at the island. She selected two avocados from the bowl and deftly sliced and pitted each, leaving the green flesh smooth.
“You’re a natural,” Flossy murmured.
“Thanks, Grammy. I do this at home all the time.”
Flossy wondered for a worried beat if this was because Paige was always working late. As for David, she still had no idea what was happening with his job search. She’d tried to inquire delicately, but that Paige was like a vault.
As Emma sliced and talked about a Mr. Fischer’s Spanish class (did no public school appreciate those melodious rolling r’s of the French language?), Flossy stole a peek at Ned, George, and Maddy outside on the deck. They’d gotten the SORRY! game off the living room shelf again, and she watched now as George unceremoniously dumped the contents of the game box. Pieces bounced and rolled across the deck boards. She wondered if this had anything to do with missing his father. “Boys, why don’t you locate your grandfather?” she called out to them. “He’d love a game of SORRY!”
Richard hated board games, especially SORRY!, but it would do him good. Where was he, anyway? She craned her neck to see out the kitchen window, searching the yard, but there was only Sam—on yet another maddening call—pacing the far edge of the yard near the beach path, which she’d seen Clem head down moments earlier.
She handed her granddaughter a lemon to squeeze. Emma frowned, hesitating before setting it down on the counter.
“What’s wrong?”
“Grammy, is it true what Uncle Sam said about this counter?”
Flossy eyed Sam, who was still on his phone, pacing the yard like a fenced-in thoroughbred. “What did Uncle Sam say?”
“He said this counter used to be an examination table from the county morgue”—she lowered her voice—“and that bodies were embalmed on it.”
Flossy’s knife slid through the honeydew melon she was slicing, nearly taking off the tip of her thumb. “Good Lord!”
In the next room, Joe cleared his throat.
Flossy glared out the window at Sam. What was the matter with him? “This countertop is a piece of local Watch Hill history. Your great grandfather salvaged it from the back kitchen of the old Snuffy’s restaurant. Not the coroner.”
Emma let out a breath. “Good. Because that would be pretty gross.”
Flossy could feel her eyelid begin to twitch. What if Clem had heard that nonsense? “When exactly did your uncle share that little tidbit with you?”
Emma shrugged. “Last summer.” Then she caught herself. “No, sorry. It would’ve been the summer before . . .” she corrected.
“Of course.” Flossy nodded sharply. Because none of them had come last summer, despite Flossy’s pleas.
Flossy set down her knife, strode to the deck, and pushed the screen door aside with a slap. “Samuel! Come take out the trash!” she barked.
Behind her, Emma ducked her chin and tried to contain her laugh.
Honestly. These children of hers.
The front door opened, and she was relieved to see Evan was back from the bakery, where he’d delivered the deposit for the party desserts. He held up a paper bag. “Blueberry muffins. Couldn’t resist.”
Flossy tried to contain her enthusiasm. “What a treat!” She’d been waiting for a private moment with Evan since everyone had arrived. With dinner preparations done and everyone else off entertaining themselves without so much as a thought as to who was making dinner, she had no qualms about stealing that moment. It was certainly due her.
“Emma, why don’t you go help the boys wrap up their board game? It’s almost dinner time.” Flossy handed her the bag of muffins. “Here, take these outside for you and the boys to split. Let us know what you think.”
“But aren’t we eating dinner soon?”
Shoot. She wasn’t about to ruin another dinner. Oh, what the hell. “Just sample them,” she instructed.
Emma shrugged. “Okay, Gram.”
She turned to Evan. “Darling, help me pour drinks?”
Flossy pretended to toss the salad as Evan pulled dinner glasses from the cupboard. Such a striking young man he was. But there was a sadness that pulled on his spine that she could see from across the room. “I made chicken salad for dinner. I was going to serve it over lettuce, but I just remembered I have this gorgeous loaf of sourdough. Want to try a bite?” She stopped when she looked up and saw the expression on Evan’s face.
“Oh, honey. What can I do for you? It’s not a sandwich, is it?”
He shook his head wistfully. “I’m not hungry. But maybe Sam is.”
Flossy went over and patted his cheek. “Samuel is a grown man; he can get his own damn sandwich. Come sit a minute. My knee hurts.”
It didn’t, but since it seemed to be the only topic all three of her kids could agree on since arriving, she may as well get some mileage out of it.
“Why didn’t you say so?” he said, taking her arm and guiding her into the living room. “I would’ve made dinner.”
“Which is why I said nothing.” She lowered herself onto the once vanilla-colored couch, which was now more a shade of wet sand. “Look at this furniture. Why on earth did I let Clem talk us into decorating the summer house in these pale blues and whites?” The colors conjured the sky and sea that rolled just a few hundred feet below the bluff in their backyard, but over the years the cotton had frayed and the children had spilled, and Flossy had begun to fantasize about having all of it reupholstered in a utilitarian color called something like “Swamp.” But that would only put Richard over the edge. Just like their youngest, he loathed change. “So, what do you think?”
Evan sat across from her on the couch, meeting her gaze. “About the upholstery?”
She smiled sadly. Flossy could lie to her own children, but not to Evan.
“What’re you up to, Flo?” He was the only one she allowed to call her that.
She leaned in. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of the children, but I wanted to tell you face-to-face how sorry Richard and I are about Texas.” Texas. A place, not a name that could begin to sum up all that her boys had endured down there.
Evan looked down at his bare feet.
“What happened?” she asked.
“It just wasn’t our baby,” he said softly.
Flossy felt the tears pricking her eyes, and she willed them away. All any of them knew, from the short group message that Samuel had sent over Memorial Day weekend, was that they’d come home from Texas with an empty baby carrier. The young mother had changed her mind.
Flossy wasted no time in imagining the worst: that this naïve teen had done so because Evan and Samuel were gay—a thought that drew ire up inside her as thick and viscous as crude oil. But Richard had cautioned her not to jump to such conclusions. Wasn’t it commonplace for a mother to decide to keep the child after giving birth? Could they really blame her if that were the case? These were questions Richard had raised with his usual maddening logic. Flossy didn’t care what questions he posed. She wanted answers.
Flossy reached out to Evan. His upper arm was strong and thick, like ship rope, through his linen shirt. “Your baby is still out there—of that I am sure.”
Evan smiled sadly. “I hope so. There’s another mother, Mara. She’s in the process of considering prospective families, but she called us back to meet with her again last week. We’re hoping to hear a decision from her very soon.”
Flossy sat back, stunned and relieved. “Why didn’t you boys tell me? That’s wonderful!”
“We didn’t want to get everyone’s hopes up, after what happened the last time. Besides, Mara hasn’t made a decision yet.”
This was the best news Flossy had heard in a long time. “I’m going to pray for you.”
Evan raised his eyebrows. “You going to church somewhere I don’t know about, Flo?”
It was a family joke. The family had long belonged to the local Protestant church at home in Connecticut, and attended sporadically, usually when they gathered for the holidays. But even then, on Easter or Christmas, Flossy remained home, stationed at the stove. “I don’t need anyone to tell me what to be thankful for or how many sins have been forgiven on my behalf,” she’d say. “We’ve got enough blessings and sinners under this roof already, and I am intimately acquainted with each and every one.”
Now, Flossy waved her hand at him. “Pray, meditate, kick sand. Just know I’m on you boys’ side.”
The screen door jerked open, and Emma poked her head in. “Grammy? The little kids are hungry.”
Together they rifled through cabinets for plates and napkins. Emma retrieved silverware from the drawer. Richard appeared from his mysterious jaunt with a bag from the market. What would he say when she told him what Evan had said? She didn’t dare get her hopes up too much; Evan was right. But oh! This Mara! She’d be a fool not to pick these two boys—a damned fool.
“Just in time for dinner!” Richard mused cheerily, pulling out a bottle of chardonnay.
Just in time, she thought to herself as she put the finishing touches on the food. How like them all to appear whenever a meal was about to be dropped on the table. As if on cue, David came through the front door.
“Good bike ride?” Evan asked. Flossy was pleased to see the color in David’s cheeks when he smiled. The visit was already agreeing with him.
“Smells good in here,” David said. “Need a hand?”
Richard handed him the bottle of wine to uncork.
Flossy watched out of the corner of her eye as Evan went out to the deck and sat down with the kids. He ruffled George’s hair gently, and the little boy leaned in to his uncle without taking his eyes off the game board. She glanced away. “Here, Richard, take these glasses outside, will you?” Obligingly, he carried the tray of drinks outside, leaving her to collect herself as she surveyed the landscape of her family. Samuel, still on his call, began making his way across the yard. They were here, all of them together at the summer house, just as she’d wanted. And yet a sense of unrest still fluttered within.
Beyond them, the row of brown hedges stirred in the ocean breeze. Just looking at them made the base of Flossy’s head throb. Once small and manicured, they’d created a natural border around the deck, when the kids were young. But since then, they’d filled out in all the wrong places, despite her attempts to shear them every spring. One was dying, smack dab in the middle, and its brown skeletal frame was a blight directly in her line of vision to the edge
of her yard and the stretch of ocean beyond. She’d only asked Richard a hundred times to remove them that summer, but first he couldn’t find the trimmers, and when he did they weren’t sharp enough, which led to a trip to the hardware store. They’d since realized the hedge was dying, and she’d decided he should just go ahead and dig it out, roots and all. But then his back was acting up, and she didn’t want him injuring himself, especially before his birthday party. So Sam had agreed to trim them when he arrived. But still, there they were. Those goddamned hedges.
Clem
Sunday was the kind of beach day one spent the long winter months daydreaming about, and the whole family was parked across the sand in various states of repose. Evan was buried in sand up to his neck, as George and Maddy raced back and forth to the water’s edge with buckets of water. Only his hands stuck out, at an awkward angle where one imagined his waist must be under all that sand. He kept wrinkling his nose and asking George to wipe the sand off it for him.
The Summer House Page 6