The Family Beach House

by Holly Chamberlin

  The Family Beach House

  Books by Holly Chamberlin

  LIVING SINGLE

  THE SUMMER OF US

  BABYLAND

  BACK IN THE GAME

  THE FRIENDS WE KEEP

  TUSCAN HOLIDAY

  ONE WEEK IN DECEMBER

  THE FAMILY BEACH HOUSE

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  The Family Beach House

  Holly Chamberlin

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  As always, for Stephen

  And this time, also for Joseph C. Donner

  Acknowledgments

  My sincere thanks to John Scognamiglio for his support, creativity, and good humor.

  Welcome to our home, Cyrus Smith. Thanks to Dr. Jeffrey Robbins for his care of our kitties. And welcome to the family, Newman and Mr. Bean.

  Thanks to all of our good friends in Ogunquit, Cape Neddick, and Portland, Maine.

  Special thanks to Kit and Carrie for valuable insights, deviled eggs, good advice, and happy times.

  This book is in memory of Callie Ryan-Boyd. She was quite a gal.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Epilogue

  A Reading Group Guide

  Discussion Questions

  Prologue

  The Present

  Craig McQueen breathed deeply. It was a mid-morning in July and the air was warm but fresh, not humid or close. He had been walking Ogunquit Beach for over an hour, back and forth, stopping to pick up stones and bits of sea glass that caught his attention (only green; he had never found blue), stopping to watch seagulls whirling over the gentle waves. He loved seagulls. He liked their audacity. The tide was going out, leaving seashells on the damp sand—snails’ shells, some occupied, some abandoned; broken razor clam shells; and the shells of surf clams, some as long as eight inches, the clams locals collected for chowder.

  The beach was busy and would continue to teem with people—families, young people, leathery skinned sun addicts, day-trippers, and those on weeklong vacations—until around five o’clock, when cool showers and fruity cocktails and dinner and ice cream beckoned. Craig didn’t mind the crowds. No one in particular owned Nature. And he wasn’t a possessive person in any sense.

  Craig’s eyes scanned the gentle curve of the beach. The Abenaki Native Americans had it right when they named this place Ogunquit, or “beautiful place by the sea.” Supposedly they had summered here in pre-colonial times. Now, hundreds of years later, Ogunquit Beach was considered one of the top ten most beautiful beaches in the United States. Some things never changed, and in this case, Craig thought, it was a good thing.

  In the ten years that Craig had lived in Ogunquit year round certain things had, of course, changed—gift and trinket shops had come and gone, as had several restaurants—but, like the beach, other institutions such as Barnacle Billy’s remained, their lush, perfectly tended gardens one of the main attractions in Perkins Cove. Reliably, Lex Romane and Joe Riillo were still playing jazz and blues in restaurants and at birthdays and weddings. And down in York Beach, kids were still enjoying the Wild Kingdom Zoo and Amusement Park and the carousel and arcade. Ogunquit’s annual Patriots’ Day celebration was still alive and well, as was Christmas by the Sea, the mid-December event that marked the official start of the holiday season for residents.

  Weeks, months, years. Ten of them. It was hard to believe it had been that long since his family had gathered at Larchmere for the memorial of Charlotte McQueen’s death. Charlotte—matriarch, wife of Bill and mother to Adam, Tilda, Hannah, and Craig.

  What a strange time that had been! Within two weeks a full-scale drama—could it be called a melodrama?—had unfolded. It was complete with arch villain—that would be his older brother, Adam—and damsel in distress, who would be his sister Tilda, or maybe, thinking more about it, his sister Hannah, Craig supposed.

  The thing that had started it all was the stunning news of his father’s new romance. Then had followed the panic over the future of Larchmere, the beloved family beach house. Added to this were the private conflicts that, by the weeks’ end, had resolved for better or worse, depending on whose opinion you asked.

  If you asked Craig, he would say that things had worked out just fine. At least they had for him. He knew he had never been in serious contention for ownership of the family house, for Larchmere, and that had in some way made him a spectator to the main events, though he had had his own existential crisis to handle. Existential crisis—was that what it had been? Yes, he thought that it had. He had confronted his place in the world and had grappled with the question of how to live his life meaningfully. It was a big question deserving, but rarely getting, a lot of thought.

  A childish scream of glee erupted to his right and Craig sidestepped a toddler tumbling toward the water, his harried mother right behind him. Craig smiled. He looked at his watch, the one his father had left him when he died the year before, the one Bill had received from his own father so many years ago. The face was round and the band, replaced many times over the years, was brown leather. It was the first watch Craig had ever worn. He liked the way it felt on his wrist. He liked that it once had belonged to his father and grandfather. It made him feel connected to something good, something stable and continuous.

  The watch told him that it was eleven o’clock, almost time for lunch. Craig, realizing that he was starved, turned back toward Larchmere, toward home, where Nigel and the other beloved members of his family would be waiting.

  1

  Ten Years Earlier

  Sunday, July 15

  Tilda McQueen O’Connell had gotten to Ogunquit, and to the house, Larchmere, well before noon. She had left South Portland around ten-thirty, hoping to avoid commuter traffic (which was never very bad going south, anyway), made a stop at a farm stand for blueberries, and gotten to the house just as her father was leaving for a golf game with his old friend and personal lawyer, Teddy Vickes.

  Tilda had noted that her father, Bill McQueen, looked hale and hardy, wearing his favorite blue Oxford shirt and that goofy hat he loved. And he had seemed in a particularly good humor. He had even laughed about the inevitability of his losing to Teddy. Not that Bill was, by nature, a grim or dour man. It was just that Tilda had not seen him quite so upbeat in a long time. It was a bit interesting, given the fact that the family was gathering at Larchmere in the next few days to mark the tenth anniversary of Charlotte McQueen’s passing. Well, she would take her father’s good mood as a positive sign. He ha
d been widowed for ten years. There was no point in prolonged and unnecessary mourning.

  If only she could convince herself of that. Frank, her husband, had been gone for a little over two years now, but the fact, the shock, of his loss still seemed so fresh.

  Tilda put her travel bags in her room, the one she had always shared with Frank, and did what she always did upon arriving at Larchmere. She went for a stroll around the house and grounds, noting the familiar and the new, and remembering.

  Tilda McQueen O’Connell was built like her mother, Charlotte. She was tall—five feet, nine inches when she wasn’t slouching, which she lately had a tendency to do—and thin. Also like her mother, and like her older brother, Adam, her hair was dark brown and her eyes hazel or green, depending on the light and what color blouse she was wearing. She wore her hair in a short, stylish cut that softened her longish face. She used very little makeup and her taste in jewelry was simple and classic. Most of it had come from Frank, including the little emerald studs that made her eyes look very, very green.

  That day she was wearing a cream-colored linen blouse she had gotten on sale at Marshalls years ago, and olive-colored chinos that were at least six years old. Tilda couldn’t remember the last time she had shopped anywhere but at discount stores and outlets. It wasn’t that she was overly penny-pinching or seriously in lack of funds. It was just that she saw no reason to pay full price when there was an option not to. For that matter, she also could hardly remember the last time she had shopped just for fun. Retail therapy had lost its appeal about the time of Frank’s diagnosis.

  Poor Frank. He had never understood why Tilda had stopped wearing skirts a few years back. If you had long, slim legs, he would say, why would you want to cover them? Tilda had no good answer to that. But wearing only pants eliminated one little daily decision, so expediency had won out over vanity. Maybe it was an age thing. Tilda was forty-seven—some would say “only” forty-seven—but sometimes she felt much, much older. Even before Frank had gotten sick she had started to feel—redundant.

  Tilda walked down the steps of the front porch and viewed the large, well-kept lawn. The air was warm but fresh. A vibrantly yellow butterfly fluttered past and darted into the stand of tall, graceful, ornamental grasses her mother had loved so much. Tilda breathed deeply. She was happy to be “home.” Now, more than ever, Larchmere felt like her refuge, her safe haven. She wished she could spend the entire summer there, and as a high school English teacher she might have been able to but her sister, Hannah, had helped Tilda to get a part-time job as a freelance proofreader at the ad agency where she worked. The summer job would help make ends meet and it would also, maybe more importantly, keep her from feeling too lonely. Frank was gone and the kids, now college-aged, spent more and more time out of the house, as was to be expected. In fact, for the first time ever both Jon and Jane were spending the summer at home in South Portland where each had a job. In past summers they had lived at Larchmere with their mother, grandfather, grandmother, and aunt, waiting tables at local restaurants when they were old enough and spending free time with friends. This summer, Tilda was experiencing her own, unique version of empty nest syndrome.

  Tilda walked in the direction of the gazebo. She remembered a particular hot summer night, not long after her wedding, when she and Frank had taken refuge there while a passing thunderstorm drenched and cooled the air. The storm was magnificent. Frank’s arms were strong and loving, his kisses warm. She had wished the rain would go on forever.

  But rain wasn’t always welcome. The summer before, Tilda remembered as she walked on past the gazebo, had been abysmally rainy, the wettest southern Maine had experienced in many years. Farmers had lost entire crops, business owners had suffered, tourists had grumbled, and locals had gone mad—figuratively and literally. But this summer, Tilda thought, at least so far, was truly perfect in comparison. There had been lots of sunny days, a normal amount of rain to nourish the crops and flowers, and a romantic amount of morning fog over the water on more humid days.

  Because it was July, Ogunquit and the surrounding areas were decorated with masses of orange day lilies (also called tiger lilies) and vibrant red day lilies. Wild daisies, clover, Queen Anne’s lace, and buttercups filled the fields and lined the roadsides. Cattails were wildly growing at the edge of marshes and valerian, with its powerful scent, was invading any empty space it could find a hold.

  Nature was certainly prolific, not only in its flora but in its fauna, too. Tilda remembered a spring afternoon, a long time ago, when the entire front lawn of Larchmere had been covered with robins, some busily searching for food, others standing immobile, seeming to stare into space. There had to have been a hundred of them. It was as if someone—the Robin King?—had called a meeting or a convention. Where had they all come from? Why had they gathered that particular afternoon? And why on Larchmere’s lawn? It was weird and disturbing, all those feathered creatures, a flock of robins, not seen before or since.

  Tilda now approached the enormous pine on which she once had seen perched a great blue heron, a massive blue gray bird swaying in the wind at the very top of the tree. The bird had a cry like a harsh croak, not pleasant to humans, and built its bulky stick nests in trees or bushes. Not far from Larchmere she had once seen a rookery of twenty-three nests. It was an impressive sight. How did birds make such strong, beautiful nests, with no hands and fingers and opposable thumbs? Tilda shook her head. And humans thought they were so special.

  Stepping carefully, Tilda made her way into the woods that edged the back of the lawn behind Larchmere. She was about to pay her first visit in years to the fairy house. She wasn’t sure why she wanted to see it. For a moment she felt lost, unsure of where the house stood. It was the only fairy house she knew of on this bit of land. On Mackworth Island and Monhegan Island and at the Coastal Maine Botanical Gardens in Booth Bay there were colonies of fairy houses, magical places that compelled you to speak in a hush and watch carefully for signs of fairy dust.

  The first fairy house Tilda had ever seen was on the grounds of her aunt’s friends Kit Ryan and Carrie Boyd, just over the town line of Cape Neddick. She had been a child, maybe about six or seven, and had been immediately enchanted. She had totally believed that fairies—who were, of course, real—made their homes in the little fantastical constructions of twigs and moss and stones.

  When Jane was about five, Tilda had helped her to build her own fairy house with twigs and moss and interesting little rocks and shells they had collected on the beach. Each evening, when Jane had gone to bed, Frank would sneak out and leave little plastic fairies, tinier plastic animals, and even notes from the fairies, written in green ink, on miniscule pieces of paper, in and around the house for Jane to find in the morning. When was it that Jane had finally stopped believing that fairies, the kind in her storybooks, the kind with tiny translucent wings and curly toed booties, weren’t real? Tilda thought it had been around the time that puberty reared its ugly head and life lost a certain sort of magic and became all too prosaic.

  Larchmere’s fairy house had been neglected since Frank got too ill to maintain it. Why he had continued to care for it after Jane had lost interest was anyone’s guess. Tilda thought that maybe it was his way of holding on to his little girl. But maybe she was wrong. She had never asked him why he still cared about the fairy house. She wished that she had.

  There it was, or, what remained of it. She looked down at the house in ruins. The roof, a large piece of bark, was on the ground, in pieces. A curious animal had long since carried off the last little plastic figurine. The bright white shells were now only broken, dirty bits. Tilda felt ineffably sad. She turned and walked quickly back to the open and sunny front lawn.

  The fairy house was gone. Frank was gone, too, though thoughts of her husband were never far from Tilda’s mind. Frank O’Connell had been the physical opposite of his wife, only about five feet, eight inches and always struggling with an extra ten or fifteen pounds. He had been an econo
mics major in college and had gone on to become the small business specialist at Portland’s main branch of a large bank. It was a job he loved, helping people with a dream and a passion get started and eventually achieve results.

  At work Frank had liked to dress nattily in classic cut suits and vibrant ties and shiny Oxford style shoes, but on the weekends, and whenever he and Tilda and the kids were in Ogunquit, he had liked to wear knee-length cargo shorts, big T-shirts, and Boston Red Sox baseball caps, of which he had a large collection. Tilda routinely begged him to retire the rattier hats but Frank always refused. A hat was serviceable until it came out of the wash in two pieces. That was pretty much the only issue about which Frank was stubborn. He was a sweetheart of a guy, easygoing, everyone who met him agreed. He was genuine and fun and quite simply, likeable. In fact, Tilda thought, there was nothing wrong with her husband, except for the fact that he was dead.

  Tilda blinked hard, as if to will away the dark thoughts. And then she heard the crunch of tires on gravel. Her sister Hannah’s car, a Subaru Outback much like her own, was just pulling into the long driveway. Good. She was glad for a distraction as the melancholy she had been holding at bay all day was threatening to settle like a sticky, black lump in her chest, something that might choke her.