But it was time to get over the surprise and the shock and the sadness. She didn’t want, like Poe’s narrator, to be mired in—to use Poe’s own words—“Mournful and Never-ending Remembrance.” She was not interested in torturing herself by obsessing over her loss. She was not. But healing was hard. Moving on was a process fraught with controversy. She had graduated from the grief-counseling sessions, she had been to see a therapist, she had tried the antidepressants the doctor had given her, and she had flushed them down the toilet when nothing much changed.
What was the next step, then, in recovery? If only someone would tell her exactly what to do!
She scanned the sky over the beach before heading up to the parking lot. It was empty, except for two whirling, cawing seagulls.
She would call her son as soon as she got back to Larchmere. She hoped he had been able to book the repair guy. She hoped the bill wouldn’t be outrageous. She was not good at arguing with repairmen. That had been Frank’s job.
It was late morning, around eleven o’clock, and Tilda was in the sunroom. Lots of people found it the most pleasant room in the house, as, perhaps, it was meant to be. The floor was made of old, rescued pine boards, sanded and painted a gentle gray. The walls were white. A long, low table against the back wall had been painted robin’s egg blue, as had the trim around the large windows. The furniture—a couch, several chairs, and two small occasional tables—were suited for life by the beach. The cushions were upholstered in heavy linen, striped navy and white. On the back wall and between the windows were hung simple watercolor prints depicting various kinds of seabirds. It was a restful, clean room.
Tilda was sitting on the couch, trying to focus on the novel in her hands. It was The Sea, The Sea, by Iris Murdoch. But even though the book was one of her favorites, and Iris Murdoch one of her favorite writers, her thoughts kept slipping away to dark places, to loss and loneliness and petty jealousy and the outrageous cost of air-conditioning repair bills. She sighed loudly, surprised that she had done so.
Hannah, who was seated on a chair, and who had been flipping through a local paper, looked up at her sister. “You okay?”
“Yes. Sorry.”
“In a bad mood?”
“Not bad, exactly. More like a grim mood.”
The sudden appearance of Adam and Kat prevented further conversation on the topic of Tilda’s mood. Kat was wearing another halter top, this one a blue paisley print, and a pair of tight, white shorts. The day was cool (though the sunroom was warm) and Tilda had a not very nice urge to suggest that Kat put on a sweater and long pants, preferably something bulky. The sight of so much young, firm flesh made her feel grumpy. Poor Kat. She was innocent of everything but youth.
It seemed that Adam and Kat were in the middle of a conversation, because Adam now said, as he sat in the cushioned chair next to Hannah’s, “Larchmere is a perfect party venue. It was practically designed for weddings.”
Tilda wasn’t sure about that but she was sure—or almost sure—that her brother wanted to have his second wedding at Larchmere because it would be a good way to flaunt the family’s prestige and his own wealth to the locals, as well as to his new bride and her family. It wasn’t a nice thing to think about her brother, but the truth was that Tilda didn’t much care for Adam. She never really had, and since his, in Tilda’s opinion, senseless, utterly selfish divorce from Sarah, her dislike for her older brother had grown. Her own marriage had been strong and now that Frank was dead she found herself even more committed to the idea of a lifelong union. She did not want to be judgmental but when it came to Adam she found it hard not to be.
“We could have a tent, do the whole thing outdoors,” Adam went on. “And we could clear the furniture out of the living and dining rooms in case of rain. I know several excellent caterers. As for the flowers, I know this guy in Boston who does fabulously exotic stuff. Leave it all to me.”
Kat shot a shy and nervous glance at Tilda, who was staring at her book, pretending not to listen. “I’m sure it would be very nice, Adam,” she said, her tone tentative, “but I’ve always dreamed of a wedding in my hometown. You know, so my parents could invite some of our neighbors and my relatives who are too old now to travel and—”
“Framingham is a dump compared to Ogunquit, you know that, Kat.”
“Don’t be mean, Adam,” Hannah said. “It is not a dump. Besides, I agree with Kat. A hometown wedding is a nice idea.”
Tilda looked up now; there was no point in pretending that the conversation was a private one. Kat looked tense, as if Hannah’s support had made her uncomfortable.
Adam frowned. “It’s not your wedding we’re discussing.”
“It’s okay,” Kat said suddenly. “If Adam really wants us to get married here, that’s fine. Ogunquit isn’t that far from home.”
“Our brother is Bridezilla,” Hannah commented sotto voce, though she was pretty sure Adam had heard.
Kat finally sat, and reached to the closest table for a magazine. It was an old copy of Living. She began to flip through it but Tilda doubted she was really interested in Christmas cookie recipes and directions on how to make your own wrapping paper. Was anybody interested in making her own wrapping paper, especially when you could get it in discount bulk at the supermarket?
Cordelia appeared in the doorway of the sunroom, Cody in tow. Ruth was just behind them, carrying a cup of coffee. “Dad?” Cordelia said.
“Hmmm.”
“Me and Cody want to go to the beach now.”
“Cody and I,” Ruth corrected.
“In a minute.” Adam tapped Kat’s arm. “Cordelia will make a perfect flower girl. Cody will be ring bearer, of course.”
Kat opened her mouth as if to protest—What if, Tilda thought, she had her own nieces and nephews? What if she didn’t want a lot of attendants?—when Cody wailed, “What’s a ring bearer?”
Adam explained.
Cody stamped his foot. “I don’t wanna be a stupid ring bearer. Everyone’s gonna laugh at me.”
Adam stared sternly at his son. “You’ll do as I say, young man.”
Cody’s face went slack and his lips quivered. Cordelia said, dubiously, “A flower girl? Does that mean I have to wear one of those dorky gowns in some gross color?”
Ruth stepped past the children. “This is not the time, Adam,” she said quietly.
“I’ll say when it’s time to talk to my kids,” he replied angrily. “What do you know about being a parent?”
Ruth let him wait a moment before saying: “I know about common sense.”
Tilda looked at Kat. Her eyes were on the magazine page again and her cheeks were flushed. Tilda felt sorry for her. But she also felt that Kat should learn to speak up for herself before it was far too late.
Ruth turned back to the children. “Get your bathing suits, kids. I’ll take you to the beach.”
Jennifer arrived for lunch at a little after one o’clock. Tilda had not known she was coming. She had brought with her—after checking first with Ruth, it turned out—a large bowl of crabmeat salad. Ruth had prepared salad greens and together the women assembled a platter of food and put it out on the kitchen bar top.
Cordelia and Cody had eaten sandwiches in the sunroom and were now watching a movie until someone would take them back to the beach. Tilda was hungry but she wanted to refuse Jennifer’s offering of food. She wanted to go off alone. But she stayed in the kitchen, annoyed and guilty, and ate some of the crabmeat salad, which was very good, very crabby, with a pinch of Old Bay seasoning and not too much mayonnaise. She wanted to hate it. She fought against the desire for more.
“The crab salad is very good,” she blurted. “Thanks.”
Jennifer smiled. “It’s my mother’s recipe. It’s very simple but it’s a crowd pleaser.”
“Jennifer is a wonderful cook,” Bill said proudly.
Hannah, perched on a counter out of easy sight, made a face. Susan frowned at her.
“Well, I wouldn’t say
I’m a wonderful cook,” Jennifer demurred. “I do some things well.”
Adam and Kat came into the kitchen.
“Adam, do you want any salad?” Bill asked.
He looked disdainfully at the half-empty platter. “Kat and I already ate.”
The sudden puzzled—and hungry—look on Kat’s face told Tilda that Adam was lying.
“Hey, nobody told me it was time for lunch! Hey, Jen. Nice to see you again.” Craig came loping into the kitchen, squeezed Jennifer’s arm in passing, then reached for a plate. After taking a bite, he exclaimed, “Whoa! Excellent crab salad. Who made this?”
Adam rolled his eyes. Hannah made another face. This time Ruth caught them both and frowned, along with Susan. Tilda reached for her water glass. Bill was oblivious to the tensions.
The awkward meal was soon over. Ruth disappeared without an explanation. Jennifer left, empty bowl with her, claiming a meeting with a client in Cape Neddick.
When she had gone, Craig turned to his brother. “Really, dude, what would it cost you to be a human being? Just once. You stood there like there was a pole stuck—”
“So, what do you kids think of Jennifer?” Bill had returned from seeing his girlfriend out.
“She’s great, Dad,” Craig said quickly, almost as if he were defying the others to contradict him.
“Yes, she is,” Bill said. “I’m a lucky man to have met her.”
There was a silence that Tilda—and probably others—found hugely uncomfortable. Susan looked grim.
Finally, Hannah spoke. “I wish you’d told me, told us, earlier about this…relationship, Dad.”
“Why?” Her father sounded perplexed.
“Well, no reason,” she said lamely. “Just that it would have been nice to know about something so important to you.”
“I’m sorry, honey. I certainly didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.” Bill was genuinely contrite. He hated to cause his younger daughter any pain. Come to that, he didn’t like to cause anyone pain, though in his business he had known some people who did.
“It’s okay, Dad,” she said. “But promise that if something else big happens in your life you let me—us—know right away. Okay?”
“Sure,” he said. “It’s a promise.”
“You are being cautious though, Dad, aren’t you?” Tilda asked then. “How long have you known Jennifer?”
“Long enough.” Bill’s tone brooked no argument. “We were on the zoning board together for a few years when she still lived in town. She’s a lovely person. I might be old but I’m still a competent judge of character.”
“What were the circumstances of her divorce?” Tilda pressed. “I mean, did she initiate the divorce or did her husband? Was it a case of infidelity?”
Craig said dryly, “Enquiring minds want to know.”
“I don’t see that Jennifer’s divorce is any of your business, Tilda. Really, it’s not even my business. What she’s told me she’s told me of her own free will. I simply don’t press her for details.”
There didn’t seem to be anything more to say, not at the moment. Hannah and Susan left to take a drive. Craig said he was meeting a friend in Old Orchard Beach. Tilda went off to try once again to do some reading. Kat, who had grabbed a carton of yogurt once Jennifer was gone, now dropped it in the recycling bin in the corner and went off.
Adam remained behind in the kitchen with his father. When Bill made to leave the room, Adam detained him. “Wait, Dad,” he said. “We need to talk. I’m not happy about this turn of events.”
Bill frowned. “Excuse me? What turn of events?”
“This relationship of yours with this Jennifer person. Dad, she’s twenty-three years your junior.”
Bill looked closely at his older son. “And you’re dating a woman significantly younger than you,” he said. “Don’t tell me age is the issue here. What’s really upsetting you about my relationship with Jennifer?”
Adam hesitated. Of course, the age difference was not the real issue. The real issue was the threat a potential wife posed regarding the inheritance of Larchmere. But he couldn’t come right out and say that, not yet, anyway. Not unless he had to.
“It’s a small town, Dad. Everybody talks. I don’t want you to look like a fool, a laughingstock.”
Bill felt himself flush. He couldn’t remember the last time one of his children had angered him. He was always disappointed by Craig, but not angered. “I could say the same about you,” he told his older son. “But I won’t. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” He turned again to leave the room.
“She doesn’t care about you, Dad,” Adam said loudly. To hell with diplomacy. He was a man of no patience, anyway. There were bigger things at stake here than his father’s feelings. There was Larchmere. There was Adam’s financial future. “She just wants your money,” he said, unable or perhaps unwilling to conceal the contempt in his voice. “She wants Larchmere. And you’re too foolish to see that.”
Bill stopped and slowly turned back. “You’ve just added insult to injury,” he said. “This conversation is over.” And then he did leave the room.
12
That night the McQueens hosted a casual dinner party on the front lawn. In addition to Jennifer, Bobby, and the Vickes, Bill had invited the local librarian, Nancy, and her partner, Glenda; the guy who owned the landscape company that kept Larchmere perfectly groomed (he came with a wife and two teenaged sons); the owner of a small but influential gallery on Route 1 (he, too, came with a wife); and a scattering of other people with whom he and Ruth had become friendly over the years. Percy had been secured in Ruth’s bedroom with a good supply of water and treats so that he wouldn’t be annoyed by people drifting in and out of the house.
It was a cool evening so Tilda had worn a heavy cotton sweater, navy, over a white, man-tailored blouse, jeans, and navy sneakers. Heels of any sort were a ridiculous choice for a lawn party, but Tilda noted that Kat was wearing purple kitten-heeled sandals. They would be ruined by the end of the evening, the heels scraped and stained with grass and mud. She wondered briefly if she should offer Kat a pair of sneakers or flats, but then rejected the idea. None of her footwear could be called fashionable and she just knew that Kat would reject the offer on that basis alone. More rejection, Tilda did not need.
She was standing a bit apart from the guests, who were still arriving or milling about, feeling a bit like the lady of the manor and enjoying it. Suddenly, she felt a soft little whisper of movement and looked down to see a garden snake slithering past her, almost but not quite brushing the toe of her sneaker. The little fellow made it safely under the hostas, which ran rampant along one side of the house. She smiled. At least tonight he wouldn’t be an owl’s midnight snack.
While life in Ogunquit was not exactly life in the backwoods, it had its share of rural features. Wild turkeys roamed the wooded areas, the strutting male and the female shepherding her brood. On occasion coyotes, the bane of local cats and small wildlife, could be heard barking, and of course there were deer, herds of them, that would destroy any kitchen garden they could get into. Hedgehogs routinely ate flowers off their stems and black bear had been known to prowl around a house in the dead of night, looking for a snack. Wild ducks made way too much noise during mating season, the males furiously chasing each other in flight while the bored-looking female waited in a pond for one of her suitors to return. For a while an owl had made its nest in a tree close to Larchmere; several times Tilda had seen the beautiful bird in daylight, swooping low over the driveway, which, she thought, was unusual as owls were known to be nocturnal hunters, not often seen in the day.
And crows! There seemed to be a preponderance of crows in Ogunquit—a murder was right! For weeks on end it sounded to Tilda as if the birds were killing each other, their shrieks becoming moans and screams as they wheeled in the sky. More annoyingly, if the lids on the trash cans weren’t properly set down, the crows would toss the lids aside and wreck havoc with the contents. While Tilda had never actual
ly seen crows tossing lids, she had witnessed them sitting atop an open can, tearing through plastic bags with determination, and she had no doubt that those big, glossy black birds could do anything they set their minds—or their stomachs—to. She would take the tiny, pretty piping plovers any day, even though in an effort to secure their breeding grounds and nests local environmentalists had succeeded in getting the Fourth of July fireworks display cancelled for several years in a row. It would do the tiny birds no good to be trod upon in the dark by revelers, quite possibly on the far side of inebriation, strolling the beach.
And the peepers! Tilda loved the sound of peepers, those tiny, inch-long male tree frogs whose chorus in mating season could drown out the sound of a television behind closed windows. When the peepers began their song, spring was not far behind. And the deep croak of the solitary bullfrog was another sure indicator of warm weather before long.
The sudden appearance of her older brother interrupted her pleasant musings. “I can’t stand that guy,” Adam said, his voice thick with distaste.
“What guy?”
Adam nodded in the direction of the grills. “Bobby. I don’t know what Dad sees in him. And the idea of Aunt Ruth consorting with him makes me green around the gills. But she’s a whacko so what can you expect.”
Tilda was shocked. “Ruth is not a whacko. And Bobby is a great guy, Adam. Mom loved him, too.”
Adam looked down at his sister as if she were crazy. “No, she didn’t. Mom hated the sight of him. For Dad’s sake she tolerated him being around, but barely.”
This was disturbing news, shocking really. Her mother had hated her father’s best friend? Why had she not seen that? Maybe Adam was lying. But why would he lie?
“Bobby is like an uncle to me,” she said, her tone defiant.
The Family Beach House Page 9