“I think I saw your missing book in the living room.”
“Nice change of subject. But thanks.”
Hannah left the library and Ruth went back to her dusting. Percy stretched, yawned, put a paw over his eyes, and went back to sleep.
26
Tilda stood staring at the ruins of the fairy house. The ruins themselves were ruins. They were ruins of ruins. If she had not known there had been a fairy house at the site, she would not have been able to recognize the few remains as such.
She was in one of the black moods—worse than the gray moods—that occasionally descended and enveloped her. They didn’t come as frequently as they had in the months just after Frank’s death. But they still came, often out of the blue. Black moods out of the blue.
Time passed, she thought now, staring down at the dirt and bits of old, brown leaves, and everything fell into ruins. Relationships, civilizations, lives. A random breeze made its way through the trees and Tilda shivered. Maybe the breeze foretold rain. Frank had loved rainy days. He had never found them depressing.
Frank. With one brief and unmemorable exception, he was the only man with whom she ever had had sex. That was not a complaint. Their sex life had been good. But, now single again, it did seem like a bit of a burdensome fact, her relative lack of sexual experience. But it wasn’t her biggest concern by far. In her experience, admittedly not vast, sex took care of itself. It was the heart that needed coaching and support. But not when you were young. Then, the heart seemed to know exactly what to do.
She had been a little bit younger than Jon was now when she met Frank. She had been a little bit older than Jane. Her children were in possession of a youth they entirely took for granted, as did most young people. At any moment either of them might meet a soul mate, someone with whom they would spend the rest of their hopefully long lives. Or, they might meet the first of several soul mates. It could happen. This afternoon, tomorrow, the day after could mark the start of an entirely new and unexpected life path.
So, then, could the same thing happen for her? Or was she too old, had she had her big chance, was she being selfish, hoping or reaching for another great love at her age? She was almost half a century old.
Tilda kicked at a clump of dirt. It was all well and good for celebrities of a certain age to date gorgeous men in their twenties and thirties, but what about a forty-seven-year-old schoolteacher who had not been on a date in over twenty years? Well, unless she counted dinner and a drive to Kennebunkport and the party at the museum with Dennis as dates, and Tilda wasn’t really sure that she did. What was she supposed to do with her decidedly unglamorous self? Should she get Botox injections? Did she even have the money for Botox? And wasn’t it actually a poison? Was she desperate enough to inject poison into her face just to get a date? Was she supposed to be?
Should she join a gym to firm up the flab that had mysteriously replaced muscle? Should she get a new haircut? Maybe try a new color, some highlights? What about a new personality, one less prone to black moods? A new wardrobe? But she liked her clothes, mostly! An eyelift, a tummy tuck, a butt lift? It was exhausting, this attempt to reenter the world of single men and women, this attempt to stave off old age and yes, death. Exhausting and in the end, futile.
Of course, she thought again of Dennis. Dennis seemed to find her company welcome, but did he find her attractive, too? Or was he just being nice to a clumsy, middle-aged woman? Was she just a pity project? He hadn’t yet kissed her. But neither had she kissed him. There was a reason for that.
She liked Dennis. He was smart and funny and kind and she enjoyed spending time with him. But she didn’t have intense feelings for him, in spite of his good qualities, and in spite of the fact that he was, by any normal standards, handsome. She wondered if his age had anything to do with her lack of sexual interest. Maybe. But she was reluctant to admit that she found the fact of his age, of his being fifteen years older than her, disconcerting. No, more than disconcerting. Unappealing?
But why should she feel this way? Jennifer was in love with a man twenty-three years her senior. She seemed very happy. But Jennifer—as far as Tilda knew—had not nursed a dying husband. Was that it? Tilda wondered. Did she, too, now associate age with death and dying and decay?
Suddenly, her own prejudice appalled her. She was the first to accuse older men with younger girlfriends—her father included?—of discriminating against women their own age. And here she was mentally rejecting the idea of forming a long-term relationship with an older man because he was statistically more likely than a younger man to get sick and die and make her life messy and difficult.
It was all too ridiculous, Tilda thought, this “moving on” business. She gave the clump of dirt one last kick, turned, and walked rapidly back to the house.
Hannah and Susan had driven to the outlets in Kittery. Hannah, Susan informed her, needed some new T-shirts, which they could pick up cheap at Old Navy. (Hannah tended to spill things on her clothes, so there was no point in paying full price.) Susan had a discount card for the Zales jewelry store and wanted to “just take a look.” That meant, of course, that by the end of the day she would have a new piece of jewelry, nothing too expensive, just a little something nice. Maybe a small gold charm with a tiny diamond accent. She was collecting charms with the intention of someday creating an individualized bracelet.
Also, Susan reminded Hannah, their friends Moire and Colleen, already mothers of a little boy, were pregnant with a second child. The baby shower was in two weeks and Susan wanted to buy something special, a keepsake gift, in addition to the package of onesies and the wee pairs of socks she had already purchased. Maybe an engraved rattle or a silver-plated “ceremonial” cup. Maybe a silver teething ring or a little box made of fine china. There were a few stores in Kittery that sold such things.
Susan wanted to get the baby’s gift first, so they went into the Lenox outlet. Susan, a professional shopper, immediately began to examine the items for sale. Hannah, who didn’t much enjoy shopping, watched the other people in the store. There was an older couple, maybe in their seventies, vacationers, Hannah thought, looking around desultorily, probably killing time until the early-bird special at a local, family-style seafood restaurant. There was a man about her own age, wandering aimlessly, clearly befuddled by the choices of pretty objects for sale. Maybe, Hannah thought, he was looking for an anniversary gift for his wife. The man hailed a salesperson, who expertly took him in hand. And then, through the front door came a man, woman, and two small children. The man was clutching the hands of the two children, practically dragging them along behind him. The woman, who looked pale and haggard, was heavily pregnant.
Hannah tried not to stare but it was hard. How, she wondered, was this woman even walking! She was massive! Her back must be a sheet of pain. Her feet must be in agony. Her hands, Hannah noticed, were red and swollen.
One of the children—they were both girls—began to howl. The father yanked on her arm. The mother flinched and put her hand to her head. She probably has a headache, Hannah thought, and she isn’t even allowed to take an aspirin! Pregnant women weren’t supposed to take drugs of any sort unless prescribed. How ridiculous! How did they stand it!
The howling went on until the father dragged the little girls back out of the store. The woman looked around at the elegant picture frames and stacks of holiday-themed table settings and displays of delicate figurines. She looked, Hannah thought, helpless. And then she, too, left the store.
“You were watching that woman.”
Hannah was startled. She had not heard Susan come up to her.
“Yes,” she admitted. “She looked so…miserable.”
Susan put her arm through Hannah’s. “I know this is lousy timing,” she said. “I’m sorry. But is it my safety you’re worried about? Is it my health?”
“What?”
“Is that what’s holding you back from agreeing to start our family? Are you worried about my health through all the procedures and then the p
regnancy and then the birth?”
“God, Susan,” Hannah said, “of course I worry about your safety. No medical procedure is without some risk. Ruth once said that the only minor surgery is surgery done on someone else. And pregnancy is no picnic and childbirth…”
“So, that’s the big reason? Concern that I might get really sick or die?”
Hannah shook her head. “No. No, it’s not that. I mean, oh boy, of course I’m concerned about you but—”
“I’m sorry.” Susan withdrew her arm from Hannah’s. “I knew this wasn’t the time or the place.”
“That’s all right.”
Susan went back to examining the selection of baby presents. Hannah trailed after her. How could she admit to Susan that her biggest fear was that she would repeat the same mistakes her mother made with her? How could she admit to her fear that no matter how hard she tried to be different she would treat her own children with nonchalance, even, to some extent, negligence?
Susan would grow to hate her. Of course she would hate her for not being a loving enough parent to their children. She would have every right to leave the marriage and take the children with her. Hannah would have destroyed everything.
Suddenly, a horrible, horrifying thought occurred to her. What if she was afraid to admit her fear of being like Charlotte because she might be cured of, or talked out of, the fear? Maybe, deep down, she didn’t want to be talked out of it because maybe, deep down, she really didn’t want to have children of her own!
She took a deep breath. She was panicking, overreacting. She was being a drama queen though only in her head, which was embarrassing enough. She had to get out of that place, walk it off, something.
“I’ll meet you in Old Navy,” Hannah said abruptly, and she hurried off.
“Here, let me help you with that.”
They were in the Cove. Bobby was unloading his boat. Craig reached down for the heavy trap Bobby hoisted up to him. He was aware of a small boy on the dock, in shorts and a buzz cut, watching them with fascination. There was, Craig knew, a certain mystery to lobstermen and their craft.
“Thanks,” Bobby said. “I’m not as young as I used to be.”
“Who is? Still, you’re in better shape than a lot of guys I know who are my age.”
Bobby climbed up out of the boat and onto the wooden dock. “Clean living, Craig, clean living. Work hard, eat right, cause no harm, do good when you can, drink the finest whiskey you can afford. No magic to it.”
“You ever live anywhere else but Ogunquit?” Craig asked. “Just wondering.”
“Nope. Lived here all my life. Never wanted to live anyplace else. Why would I?”
“You never wanted to travel? See other countries?”
“I read the magazines and watch the television shows. I’m what you might call an armchair traveler. No desire to get on a plane. I went to New York City once. That was enough.”
Craig grinned. “What took you to New York?”
“Rather not say.”
“Fair enough.” Craig paused and then said, “I guess I got the rambling bug somehow. I just can’t seem to stop moving.”
Bobby, who never wore sunglasses, squinted up at Craig. “Voltaire—you know him? He said that a man should cultivate his own garden. Guess I’m with him on that.”
Craig nodded. He would have to think about that.
“Well,” Bobby said, “I best be getting on. Lobsters don’t sell themselves.”
Craig said good-bye to his father’s old friend and walked up through the parking lot to stand at the top of the rocky slope that led to the water. The sun was very strong—he didn’t know how Bobby could open his eyes without sunglasses, let alone set out to sea. He thought about what Bobby had said.
A man should cultivate his own garden. A man should take care of his own concerns, and family, and responsibilities. A man should learn his own mind. Voltaire might have meant all of that or something else entirely. He would have to go back and read the work. He was pretty sure there was a selection of Voltaire back at the house, and it probably included Candide. But for now, he asked himself where his own garden was to be found. The answer was easy. It was Larchmere.
Until this visit, the notion that Larchmere might someday cease to be “home” had never once occurred to Craig. Now, with that idea pending, he was beginning to realize just how important Larchmere was to him and, maybe more importantly, to whatever sense of self he retained. Who you are is where you are. Or something like that. Maybe, who you are, or a big part of it, is where you are from.
The reality was that he had never been content anywhere else but Larchmere. Time and again he had told himself that he didn’t want to settle anywhere, that he was happy wandering aimlessly across New England, that Larchmere was merely a place to which he returned, briefly, on occasion.
But that made Larchmere a touchstone. And touchstones were important. So, for Craig McQueen, was the real truth, or a big part of it, that no place could possibly match the attraction of Larchmere? Was his fate inextricably wound up with the fate of the big old house and lands?
The thought was powerful and disconcerting. He didn’t want to deal with it just yet. He walked away from the water and back to his old red van.
27
Hannah, Tilda, Kat, Susan, and Adam were scattered about the sunroom, waiting out a passing thundershower. Adam was reading the financial news online. Kat was staring out at the heavily falling rain. Tilda and Susan were talking quietly.
Suddenly, Hannah tossed the local newspaper she had been glancing through onto a side table. “Hey,” she said, “I’ve got an idea. Let’s go out to dinner tonight, maybe catch some live music. All of us here, and Craig, of course.”
“That sounds like a plan,” Susan said. “I’m sure Bill and Ruth could use a break from us clattering around the kitchen.”
“Good. How about we go to The Front Porch? I love that place. Everybody always seems to be having such a good time. The fun is catching.”
“Like a cold,” Adam muttered, eyes still on the screen of his laptop.
“What’s The Front Porch?” Kat asked, turning from the window and its dreary view.
“It’s a very popular restaurant and piano bar. You must have seen it on your way to Larchmere. It’s right on the corner of Main and Beach Street. A big white building, smack in the center of town.”
Kat nodded. “Sure. Piano bars are fun. I haven’t been to one in a long time, not since college, I think.”
“Me, neither,” Susan said. “Let’s do it.”
“That place is far too loud,” Adam said.
“Not on the first floor, in the dining rooms. And the food is very good.”
Adam snapped shut his computer and sneered. “According to who? Look, piano bars are just excuses for a bunch of pathetic people to make asses of themselves singing show tunes off key. Why don’t we go to Arrows? I’ll call and see if we can get a reservation. That or MC Perkins Cove.”
Hannah laughed. “Arrows? You’ve got to be kidding me, Adam. Susan and I can’t afford Arrows. We can barely afford MC after replacing our oven and our fridge last summer.”
“I’m with Hannah,” Tilda said. “I like The Front Porch. Susan does, too, and Kat should have the experience since she’s going to be a regular in Ogunquit before long. Come on, Adam, be a sport. We promise we won’t make you sing. It’s not karaoke.”
Adam sighed as if grievously put upon. “Fine, we’ll go to The Front Porch. But I am not paying for Craig.”
As if summoned—or maybe Adam had caught a glimpse of his brother, hence his comment—Craig appeared in the doorway of the sunroom. “I’m paying for my own dinner, thanks. I just did a job for Harold, the guy with the old farmhouse on Pine Road.”
“Just make sure you wear a clean shirt,” Adam said, without humor. “I’m not being seen in town with someone who looks like he’s been on a construction site all day.”
“No worries,” Craig replied jauntily. “I’m on m
y way to the creek with my laundry right now.”
At the last minute, Kat claimed a bad headache and announced her intention to stay at Larchmere. It wasn’t hard to see that she felt uncomfortable with her fiancé’s family. Tilda could hardly blame her. Though he easily could have joined his siblings, Adam drove himself into town, leaving Hannah and Susan to ferry Tilda and Craig in their serviceable Subaru.
Tilda was wearing beige linen pants, a lime green T-shirt, and a light, beige cotton sweater. She had thought about draping a scarf around her neck—she had brought one to Larchmere, a gift from her children—but rejected the idea. She didn’t have the flair for scarves her mother had had. Hannah wore chinos, and a classic Levi’s jean jacket over a black T-shirt, and Susan had on an ankle-length, bright aqua summer dress with silver sandals and silver bangles around her wrist. With her tanned skin and dark hair Susan looked exotic, more obviously sexy than the other two women. Tilda thought that Craig looked jaunty in a French blue, Oxford style shirt, sleeves rolled up and open at the neck, worn out over jeans. Adam, who had never approved of his brother’s sartorial choices, wore a white dress shirt under a navy blazer, gray dress slacks, and shiny black shoes.
Traffic stopped them in front of a new nightspot on Shore Road, a place called Accent. Hannah, Susan, and Craig were debating the relative benefits of some new computer technology. Tilda, seated behind Hannah, and not interested in the conversation, looked out the window. Accent was small but the open-air deck in front was packed with people in their twenties and thirties. Not a family joint, she noted, and just as she was about to turn away, she thought she spotted a familiar face at a table by the front railing. Tilda peered more closely and carefully. Oh, yes. It was Kat! She was leaning across the table, talking to a young, handsome man, someone clearly closer to her age than Adam was. In front of her on the table stood a frosty, bright pink cocktail. She watched as Kat tossed her long blond hair over her shoulder and laughed.
The Family Beach House Page 18