A Wedding on the Beach

by Holly Chamberlin

  “Mind if I join you?”

  Marta startled, looked up, and managed a smile. “Of course not.”

  Chuck lowered himself to the rock next to the one on which Marta was perched. “Another beautiful day,” he commented.

  “Yes,” Marta agreed.

  “You’re pregnant, aren’t you?”

  Marta looked at her friend with wide eyes. “How did you know?” she demanded. “I’m not showing yet.”

  “You are,” he said, “but not in the way you think.”

  “That’s the problem with doctors. You can’t hide anything from them.”

  “It’s not the doctor in me that saw,” Chuck pointed out. “It’s the friend.”

  Suddenly, Marta found herself confessing all, from how she felt about the unwanted pregnancy to the awful scene with Mike the night before.

  “I really screwed up by keeping my unhappiness to myself for so long and then by springing it on Mike the way I did,” she said when she had finished. “It’s going to cost him to keep a smile on his face for the rest of the week. He’s not like me. He’s not able to dissemble when it comes to his feelings.”

  “Don’t take this as an insult, because that’s not how it’s meant, but I’ve always felt that women are better dissemblers than men. They’ve been trained from an early age not to make trouble and to get what they want in roundabout ways, the more direct ways available to men not being available to them. Not that every woman paid attention to those lessons,” Chuck added, “and good for those who didn’t or who had the luck not to be bound by them.”

  Marta thought about that for a moment. When did a girl—or a woman—finally realize that she had the right to be angry and to tell the world about it? Too late. Too late.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything to Mike,” she went on archly. “Maybe I just should have sucked up my unhappiness like I’ve always been able to do when times are tough and just got on with things.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Chuck said. “You were right to tell Mike how you feel, though it would have been wiser to do so before now. But when are human beings ever wise? Anyway, things will probably be awkward between you two for a while. No doubt you’ll both have to put in some hard labor. Pardon the pun.”

  “I know,” Marta said. “The really scary thing is we’ve never been in this sort of a situation before. Compared to this our conflicts have always been of an insignificant nature. I just hope . . . I just hope we can work through this.”

  “Do you still love Mike?” Chuck asked after a moment.

  “Yes,” Marta said unhesitatingly. “But is love always enough?”

  “It had better be,” he answered wryly, “or we’re all in trouble.”

  “How are you doing?” Marta asked. “You told us that you’re handling the diagnosis well, and I’m sure you are, but . . .”

  Chuck smiled. “But yeah, in spite of being Mr. Resilient there are moments when I think I’m going to collapse in sheer despair and never get up. Those moments pass but while they’re happening, they have the feeling of an eternity.”

  “I’ve always hated that old saying, ‘This too shall pass.’ And then what? Maybe something worse will come in its place. And even if something good is to come, how do I survive the here and now? How exactly do I do that?”

  “Giving real comfort to someone in distress is pretty much impossible, which doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try. Of course, we should,” Chuck said firmly. “It’s our duty.”

  Marta sighed. “But most times it might be better to keep our mouths shut when we go about offering comfort. A gesture, a small gift, a favor, or even a touch might be all that’s required, rather than platitudes and ill-judged advice.”

  “I’ll take a handful of Necco wafers over a bit of clichéd advice any day.”

  Marta shuddered. “I seriously don’t know how you can eat those things!”

  A family group appeared not far to the left of where Chuck and Marta sat. They began to settle down, the father spreading out the blanket and opening a chair for the mother, who had a baby strapped to her chest. A girl of about eight helped smooth out wrinkles in the blanket and busily arranged the family’s beach bags to her liking. A boy of about five dashed off toward the water’s edge. His mother, baby in tow, hurried after him.

  “You know,” Chuck said, his gaze turned out over the water, “when Dean and I got engaged we had a grand plan for our lives. We’d get married. We’d have two, maybe three kids. We’d fill the house with love and laughter. Our kids would grow into caring, intelligent, and successful adults, and Dean and I would grow old together, surrounded by the younger generations we had helped along the way. Picture-perfect. No crisis larger than the grocery store being out of someone’s favorite yogurt or the neighbor’s dog throwing up in the pool.” Chuck turned briefly to Marta and smiled. “That happened a few weeks ago.”

  “Your plan sounds like a good one,” Marta said. And she thought: Just like what Mike and I planned. Just like what we did. And now we’ll be adding another element to that love and laughter . . . Why can’t I see the situation as a positive? “And now?” she asked her friend.

  Chuck sighed. “Since my diagnosis neither of us has mentioned having another child. It’s as if the ideal life we planned to build has just slipped away into memory. All we seem to talk about now is how to prepare for the future of my illness. It’s as if this disease has stepped in the way of everything else and I understand that’s probably normal. But how long will this way of thinking go on?”

  Marta honestly didn’t know what to say, but she didn’t think that Chuck expected she would have an answer to his question.

  “More kids means more work for Dean,” he went on, “and that seemed okay when I was in robust health and could be of help at nights and on weekends. But if Dean has to care for me as well . . . I’m saddling him with caretaking responsibilities he never anticipated he’d have to deal with, at least not for a very long time.”

  “I don’t know Dean all that well,” Marta said, “but I strongly suspect he’s up to the challenges your illness will present.”

  “But what about children?” Chuck pressed. “Is it fair to bring more children into a home with one parent losing his grip?”

  Marta put her hand on Chuck’s knee. “You’re not losing your grip, Chuck, don’t say that. And you and Dean are fantastic people. Any child would be seriously lucky to be included in your family, illness or no illness.”

  Chuck smiled. “Old friends never really see the truth about each other, the pedestrian truth those who only know us in the here and now are aware of. You and I remember each other as youths, and all young people are innocents, guiltless, wonderful. Even know-it-all, starry-eyed eighteen-year-old youths are lovely.”

  “You’re right, of course,” Marta agreed. “We were youths judging youths. The inexperienced encountering the inexperienced. Of course, we all fell in love with one another. How could it have been otherwise?”

  Marta thought for a moment before going on. “Remember what you said to me a few minutes ago about being right to have told Mike exactly how I feel? And how I should have told him sooner? Chuck, you need to talk to Dean. Now that the families and your close friends know about the Parkinson’s—or will know soon—there’s no reason to tiptoe around any aspect of what might lie ahead. And the key word there is might. None of us know exactly what will happen, good or bad.” Marta wondered. Maybe this fourth child would turn out to be a blessing in disguise. She had to keep an open mind about this baby. She had to.

  Chuck grimaced. “The last time I tried to talk about more kids I broke down crying. I think I really scared Dean. Crying is so downright ugly.”

  “Even when babies do it?”

  “Then it’s just heartbreaking.” Chuck shook his head. “Seriously, every time Thomas cries I feel as if I’d do anything, anything to make things better for him. The last thing I want is to rush through these early months, but in some ways I can’t wait until he
can tell us with words just what it is he needs and wants.”

  “He’ll be telling you long before the words come,” Marta promised. “Just keep paying attention. For the moment, you have to remember that babies have so few ways of communicating. Crying is easy and available. Most times they’re not in pain or even any real discomfort, just trying to say, hey, I’m here.”

  “I know that intellectually, but my heart refuses to accept that Thomas’s tears are anything other than sheer existential angst and unbearable physical pain wrapped up in one unendurable bundle.” Chuck sighed. “Thank God for Dean. Where’s my professional distance when it comes to my son?”

  “Don’t worry about it, Chuck,” Marta said. “You’re doing a fine job as a father. No one would think otherwise.”

  The two friends sat in companionable silence, listening to the happy cries of the brother and sister racing to and from the ocean’s edge with pails of water; watching the small group of surfers in the distance; enjoying in spite of their personal troubles the warmth of the June sun.

  “You know,” Chuck said after a while, “all my life I wanted to be a doctor. When I was a kid I had one of those old doctor bags filled with plastic instruments and pill cases. I loved giving our dogs checkups, though my sisters weren’t always thrilled when I came at them with the stethoscope!” Chuck shrugged. “At some point my career is going to have to take a different shape, thanks to the Parkinson’s. I don’t want to be self-pitying, but sometimes I do want to stamp my feet and ask, Why me? And the answer to that is: Why not me? Am I so special I should live a charmed life? And the answer to that is no, I’m no more special than the next person.” Chuck turned to Marta and smiled. “In spite of what my mother always told me.”

  Marta laughed. “How did she take the news of your illness? And your father?”

  “Mom assured me that I only had to say the word and she would move in with me and Dean and take care of everything. Dad grumbled and patted my shoulder and nodded. In short, each acted in typical fashion. For which I was hugely grateful, by the way.”

  “And your sisters?” Marta asked.

  Chuck winced. “They wept and wailed and then proceeded to smother me with hugs and kisses and to stuff me with food. According to my family, food and plenty of it cures all that ails you. They think bad cholesterol is a myth and low-fat anything the work of the Devil. So do I, but don’t tell my patients.”

  “Sounds nice in a way, all that being fussed over.” Marta knew that her parents loved her, but they had never been particularly demonstrative people. Neither had Marta.

  Chuck nodded. “Nice and suffocating. But I shouldn’t complain. One should never complain about being loved, even if the manner in which one is loved is at times, well, suffocating.”

  Or not quite what you need when you need it, Marta thought. But human beings did their best. At least, the best of them did and Mike was indeed one of the best. She believed that Mike loved her. More, she felt that Mike loved her. “I really do love that man,” she said suddenly.

  “I know you do. And he loves you. Thanks for listening to my stuff,” Chuck added. “Especially with all you have on your mind.”

  “You too,” Marta said. “You won’t say anything to the others about my being pregnant, will you?”

  “Of course not. But I don’t like to keep secrets from Dean.”

  Marta smiled. “You can tell Dean. I’ll have to come clean with the others before long, but not before the wedding. I don’t want anything else getting in the way of Bess’s focus. I’ve never seen a bride-to-be more invested in everything going right without becoming a Bridezilla in the process.”

  “Bess is far too sweet-natured to become a monster of any sort,” Chuck stated. “I hope that’s one of the things Nathan loves and respects about her. Too many men in the past have taken advantage of that sweet nature. Anyway, I should get back to the house. Dean will be worrying.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Marta said. She doubted Mike would be worrying. Not this morning.

  Marta and Chuck each rose from their perch and turned back toward Driftwood House.

  “Maybe Bess is on to something by taking that drunken pact we made in college so seriously,” Chuck said. “Best friends forever. Where would I be without you guys?”

  Marta smiled. “Ditto.”

  Chapter 72

  “Pass me that knife, Bess?”

  Bess did so and was rewarded with a kiss on the cheek and a word of thanks.

  Allison was in the kitchen with the bride and groom, perched on a stool at the island, sipping a cup of tea, but mostly watching Bess and Nathan interact. There was no doubt about it. The pair was in love. But while being in their presence might have sent Allison spiraling into depression only a month ago, now it only produced a twinge of discomfort and a much larger sense of good and sympathetic feeling.

  “Anyone know where Marta has got to?” Bess asked. She was slicing tomatoes while Nathan was expertly chopping celery.

  “No,” Allison replied. She wondered if Marta had guessed that she and Mike had been overheard. And if Allison had heard them, it was likely that Bess had as well, Nathan, too. Chuck and Dean had probably been spared. Lucky them. Allison had decided not to mention what she had heard to Bess. And when Bess said nothing more on the subject, Allison assumed that she, too, had decided to stay out of Mike and Marta’s private affairs.

  Nathan scooped the mound of finely chopped celery into a stainless-steel bowl. “Ready to be added to the chicken salad,” he said. “I’m going to run to the farm stand out on Beach Plum Lane. They have the homemade gingerbread Bess likes so much.”

  After another kiss, Nathan was gone and Bess now turned to shredding the poached chicken. She claimed not to be a good cook, but Allison thought she did just fine. Her own culinary skills had lain dormant for so long. She didn’t like to make a meal for one. Would she ever again enjoy cooking for another person?

  Allison thought again of the pact they had all sworn the night before graduation and of how so often through the years she had forgotten about it, at least consciously. She wondered what Chris would say about the pact now if one of them were to remind him. Was he still suffering all on his own? Had he finally turned to friends of the more recent past for comfort? Allison truly hoped that Chris would reach out to Chuck at some point. That friendship, at least, should not be left to die.

  “Penny for your thoughts?” Bess asked, wiping her hands on a towel.

  “You might not be glad you asked,” Allison told her. “The truth is, I had mixed feelings about coming to this reunion—and to your wedding. I wasn’t sure I could face everyone’s pity and questions. I wanted to celebrate your happiness, but I wasn’t sure I had the generosity of spirit not to be a drag.”

  Bess shook her head. “You shouldn’t have worried. None of us expected you to be jolly.”

  “Still, I want to thank you for being so unfailingly kind. I know I haven’t always been the most pleasant houseguest—or the best of friends—but you’ve been the most generous hostess—and friend—there could be. You raise the art of loyalty to a new level, Bess. You always have.”

  Bess wiped tears from her cheeks and came around the island to hug Allison. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m so very glad you’re here.”

  When Bess had released her (and what a grip she had!), Allison went on. “I called you our anchor the other day and I mean that. You have our backs, even when we’re not sensitive enough to know you’re there. Bess, please believe that you can rely on my friendship more than ever as you enter this next exciting phase of your life.”

  Bess laughed. “By exciting do you mean tumultuous?”

  “Challenging. But also wonderful.” Allison grinned. “By the way, what’s your stand on Miracle Whip in chicken salad?”

  Bess shuddered. “No, thanks. It’s mayonnaise or nothing!”

  Chapter 73

  The house was empty but for Bess, who was putting the finishing touches on a fresh p
itcher of lemonade. It was a mindless task, though pleasant enough, and while she measured and stirred she thought about the raised voices she had heard the night before.

  Neither Mike nor Marta had said a word about what had gone on between them all day, and Allison had given no indication that she had heard anything unusual, so Bess had kept her own mouth closed. She did, however, tell Nathan, who, typically and probably wisely, had advised her to let the matter alone. “Husbands and wives argue,” he said. “It doesn’t mean the end of the world—or of the marriage.”

  Her cell phone alerted Bess to a call. Bess put down the long-handled spoon she had been using to mix the sugar into the lemonade. For a moment, she didn’t recognize the number on the phone’s screen. And then she did. It was Chris’s number. She stared at the screen for another second before accepting the call.

  “Hello?” she said.

  “Bess.”

  “Where are you?”

  Chris laughed nervously. “I’m not sure how you’ll feel about this, but I’m at a bed and breakfast in Kennebunkport.”

  Bess felt her head swim. As much as she had wanted to hear something like this from Chris, she had given up on the possibility entirely. “Oh,” she said. “Since when?”

  “Since last night. Look, I know this might sound . . . The thing is I was hoping it would still be okay if I come to the wedding. I understand if you’d rather I not,” he added quickly.

  He sounded sad and hesitant, as if he really didn’t have any idea of what Bess would say to his request. And for a moment, neither did Bess. Then she said, “Of course you’re still invited. Of course.” And then she wondered if she should have consulted the others first, especially Allison, who had so recently praised her loyalty. But she hadn’t. Too late.

  “Thank you,” Chris said feelingly. “It means a lot to me.”