The Summer Cottage

by Susan Kietzman

  The very best part of Labor Day weekend was the food. Each year, Claire asked her husband and children what they most wanted to eat, and she would prepare it. It was as comforting for her as it was for them, as making delicious meals helped quell the sadness that Claire always felt at this time of year. This summer was especially hard since Thomas would be going off to college in only a week’s time. She had put this thought out of her mind for most of the summer, but she could no longer deny it. Instead of openly mourning the loss of his childhood, the end of his time in the daily life of their family, Claire cooked and baked for him. She knew she should talk to him about his feelings about leaving home, but it was a conversation she struggled with initiating. She had no answers for his questions, and her emotions were as close to the surface as they had ever been. She was just as unsettled about this next step as she could tell he was. John had always been the one with the insight and understanding to talk to their children about larger issues in a way that would be beneficial to both parties.

  By Sunday late afternoon, everything on Claire’s and John’s lists was done. With dinner still a couple hours away, Claire suggested they all take a swim, and even Charlotte—who routinely bickered with her mother for sport—agreed, happy to be done and to rid her body of the sweat-soaked T-shirt that was sticking to her back. Bathing suits on and towels in hand, they crossed the road and headed down the right-of-way to the Sound.

  “If I didn’t know better,” Thomas said, “I’d say it looks like Charlotte is sweating.”

  “And if I didn’t know better,” Charlotte said, “I’d say that Thomas is not. Another year of watching Dad do all the work?”

  Thomas opened his mouth to reply, but John interjected. “You all worked tremendously hard, and I am grateful. The house has never looked better, so we can enjoy our last evening with our consciences as clean as the cottage.”

  “Bravo!” said Claire. “Who’s up for a swim to the raft?”

  “If it’s a race, no,” said Charlotte.

  “It’s not a race,” said John, looking at his wife. “Just a leisurely family swim.”

  Thomas strode toward the water and then dived under its surface, followed by Helen and Pammy. Charlotte, who had piled her hair on top of her head and secured it with an elastic and several bobby pins, walked into the water and launched herself off the bottom in the direction of her siblings, keeping her head dry. The four Thompson children swam toward the raft, knowing their parents would be along soon. When John swam with his wife, which was just once or twice a summer, she waited for him.

  Helen liked swimming with her sisters and brother because Thomas and Charlotte were too busy stroking toward the raft to pick on one another. Plus, swimming in the midst of a group of swimmers lowered what Helen called the Shark Odds. If she swam to the raft by herself, which she did at least three times a week during the summer, then she would be the target for the great white shark that had lost its way and swum into their quiet harbor in search of a snack. But if she swam with others, the shark might choose one of them instead of her to sate its voracious appetite. Thomas knew his youngest sister was unaccountably but most assuredly afraid of sharks and anything else that lurked beneath the surface, but he teased her about it only when the two of them were swimming alone.

  When all the Thompsons reached the raft, they climbed the ladder to its surface and then all lay on their backs, allowing the sun to warm their bodies and their heart rates to return to normal. Thomas sat up. “Cannonball contest!” he said.

  “Yeah, for you,” said Charlotte, eyes closed. “The rest of us have moved past the cannonball stage in our lives.”

  “What cannonball stage?” said Thomas. “I don’t think you even know how to do one.”

  Charlotte sat up and faced her brother. “Of course I know how to do a cannonball.”

  Thomas shook his head slowly. “I don’t know about anyone else here, but I’ve never seen you do one. Helen, have you seen Charlotte do a cannonball?”

  Helen looked at her brother and then at Charlotte. “I don’t think so,” she said. “But I’m quite sure she could!”

  “I’m not so sure, Helen,” said Thomas. “I mean, if she did a cannonball, she’d have to get her hair wet. And then what would Steve Johanson think of that?”

  “Shut up, Thomas.”

  “I can do a cannonball,” said Claire, standing.

  With raised eyebrows, Thomas watched his mother walk to the diving board, stride down its length, spring off the end, and then draw her knees into her chest and tuck her head before landing in the water on the small of her back, the perfect location for maximum splash. When she surfaced, she was grinning. Thomas clapped and then, looking at Helen, said, “I do believe you come by the cannonball genetically, Helen Thompson.”

  “Who do you think taught her?” called Claire from the water.

  “I was under the mistaken notion that I did,” said Thomas. “Well done, Mother.”

  John Thompson stood next. “And do you know who taught your mother?”

  “This is the strangest spectacle I’ve seen all summer,” said Charlotte to Pammy.

  John mimicked his wife’s movements and landed just as she had, sending a fountain of water into the air.

  “Who’s next?” asked Thomas.

  Pammy stood. “Can I do a can opener?”

  “Absolutely.” And it was perfectly executed, as was Helen’s cannonball afterward. Thomas turned to Charlotte. “What do you say, dry top? Are you in or are you a wimp?”

  “I don’t have to prove anything to you,” she said.

  “Wimp would be the answer to that question then.”

  Charlotte stood, removed the elastic and pins from her hair, and then shook it out. She gave her brother a look and then ran the length of the diving board, springing off the end and into the air, where she completed a forward flip before cannonballing into the water. When she surfaced, everyone was clapping. Thomas, the lone Thompson still on the raft, walked down the board and jumped as hard as he could on the end. He whooped a yell into the air and landed perfectly, creating the highest splash of all. As they all swam back to shore, they talked about cannonball prowess. Thomas announced that the Thompson family could skunk any other family in the neighborhood. And even though John Thompson downplayed competition as much as his wife played it up, he had to agree.

  They had lobster that night for dinner, an indulgence, an acknowledgement of their hard work. Everyone was unusually chatty, telling their best and worst moments of the summer and sharing stories that would be most appreciated by and humorous for family members. The children cleared the table after eating Claire’s chocolate meringue pie, and then quickly did the dishes. Charlotte had the last date of the summer with Steve Johanson, and Thomas told Eddie that he’d hang with him at the wall after a game of old maid with Helen and Pammy.

  Claire and John retreated to the porch, as usual. But Claire did not open her book when she sat down. She turned in her chair and looked at John. “I’m not ready to say good-bye to Thomas.”

  John took off his reading glasses and looked back at her. “I know. I’m not ready either. But he is.”

  Claire looked out through the screen at the sunset. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” said John. “He needs to move forward, Claire. We all will move forward too.”

  “Already I am thinking about next summer, when we will all be back here again as a family. Do you think it will happen? Will Thomas come back?”

  John picked up his book. His thoughts drifted to the relationship Thomas had had with the young, divorced woman and her daughter. It had meant, John knew, more to Thomas than he had confided. Whether or not he would come back to the cottage next summer would be determined by how quickly his heart mended. “We’ll see,” John said.

  CHAPTER 37

  2004

  Helen and Pammy were in the kitchen making potato salad and blueberry pies when Thomas pulled his Cadillac into the driveway. They quickly wash
ed their hands and then rushed out the back door to see him emerging from the car and stretching his arms over his head. Helen looked at her watch. “I can’t believe it,” she said. “You’re late!”

  Thomas looked at his watch and smiled at his sister.

  “Don’t tell us you lingered over your fast-food lunch,” said Pammy.

  “No,” said Thomas, hugging Helen and then Pammy. “The border was brutal this morning.”

  Barb got out of the car and approached her sisters-in-law. “And by brutal, he means that we had to wait fifteen minutes.”

  “I wait fifteen minutes for my Starbucks coffee in the morning,” said Pammy, hugging Barb.

  “How was the trip, really?” said Helen.

  “Fine,” said Barb. “We are so glad to be here. Sally and Peter have been talking about Todd and Ned for weeks.”

  “Are they here?” It was Peter, who had hopped out of the car, along with his sister, and was now standing next to his mother.

  Helen bent over and hugged them both. “They are indeed,” she said. “They told me to tell you that they would be done with their tennis match by four, and that they would love to go swimming right afterward.”

  With wide eyes, Peter turned to Barb. “Can we?” he said, shaking with excitement. “Can we go to the beach with Todd and Ned?”

  “Of course,” said Barb. She looked at her watch. “Let’s bring our things into the house and unpack. By the time you’ve used the bathroom and are into your suits, your cousins will be back from the tennis court.”

  Thomas popped open the trunk and started to unload: duffel bags, plastic containers filled with baked goods, a woven basket filled with sand toys, a canvas bag with sunscreen and beach towels, and a box holding twelve bottles of wine. He then reached into the backseat for his briefcase and laptop.

  “Wait a minute,” said Helen, spying the computer. “This is supposed to be vacation.”

  “And it is,” said Thomas. “But you can’t expect me to stay for a week and not at least occasionally check my e-mail.”

  There was the confirmation. Helen had been hopeful that Thomas and his family would stay for a full week, but Thomas had not said so, until now. “Okay,” she said, smiling at him. “But how about only very early in the morning when the day’s activities have yet to begin?”

  “Deal.”

  Helen grabbed a duffel bag and headed toward the cottage. “You and Barb are in your room, of course,” she said. “We can talk about the kids later.” Helen thought it would be fun if they slept on the porch with Todd and Ned, but she didn’t want to say anything in front of Peter and Sally, in case Barb or Thomas had other ideas. Helen was so thrilled that they were staying at the house instead of the motel at the end of the beach road; she didn’t want to make assumptions that might cause Thomas and Barb to second-guess their decision.

  “Where is everyone?” asked Thomas, walking toward the house with the other three duffel bags in his hands. Pammy followed with the box of wine, while Barb and the kids brought the bags filled with beach accessories to the garage.

  “Let’s see,” said Helen, opening the screen door to the kitchen. “We sent Charles to town for more charcoal. Charlotte is at the beach. And Pammy’s friend, Roger, should be arriving any time now.”

  Thomas held the door with his back for Pammy, and, lifting an eyebrow, said, “Roger?”

  Blushing, Pammy walked past her brother. “Yes, Roger.”

  “Helen and Charles’s friend?” Thomas followed them into the kitchen.

  “The very one,” said Helen.

  “Nice,” said Thomas, nodding his head in approval. “Tell me about him.”

  Pammy set the wine down on the counter. “I went to Helen’s for Christmas, and Helen had, conveniently, invited him. And we’ve been going back and forth ever since. He’s a good man, Thomas. He’s good to me.”

  “I can see that,” said Thomas, bending down to kiss his sister on the cheek. “You’re positively glowing.”

  “Ha!” said Helen. “See? I told you everyone can tell you’re in love.”

  Thomas started toward the dining room. “And Charlotte?” he called.

  “Alone,” said Helen.

  “Save that thought,” he said. “I’ll be down in a minute.” At the top of the stairs, Thomas put the duffel bags in his room and then walked the several feet of hallway that separated him from his mother and father’s room. Thomas could tell by the shoes on the floor and the magazines on the bedside table that Helen and Charles were sleeping there. He also noted the framed photograph of Claire and John Thompson, taken some thirty years ago at the picnic table when they were young and healthy, sitting on the bureau beside Helen’s toiletries bag. He walked to it, studied it for a moment, and then picked it up.

  Claire had passed away the previous October, peacefully, Helen said, in her sleep. Helen had known, the moment she let herself into the house the next morning. It was quiet, she told her brother and sisters on the phone later that day—the kind of quiet that fills the air before a freak storm or a car accident, a silence that portends dramatic change.

  And Helen had wept tears of acknowledgment and sadness as she sat on the bed and looked at the woman who had taught her to be confident and strong, the wife of the man who had modeled compassion and wisdom. Thomas and his family, Pammy, and Charlotte had arrived in town the next day, to help Helen with funeral arrangements and to bury Claire’s ashes next to John’s. It was then that Thomas knew he would go to the cottage the next summer.

  Thomas set the picture back down on the bureau and breathed in deeply, in an effort to extend the connection with his mother and to check his emotions. He turned around and found Helen standing in the hallway. He took a step toward her and wrapped his arms around her. “I haven’t thought about her as much as I should,” he said.

  “You will this week,” said Helen. “She’s everywhere here.”

  Thomas held his sister at arm’s length. “How are you doing?”

  She looked up at him. “I miss her, Thomas. I spent part of every day of my life for the last few years with her. I still catch myself reaching for the phone to call her. Here, especially, it’s hard to believe she’s gone.”

  Thomas hugged Helen again. “You were good to her, Helen.” He rested his head on top of hers.

  “She was good to me.”

  “She was better than we all gave her credit for. It’s amazing that it can take half a lifetime to recognize what’s right in front of you.”

  “I’m so glad you’re here, Thomas. I miss you, too.”

  “Not anymore,” said Thomas, leading her into the hallway, transitioning to banter. “You’ll see so much of me this week that you’ll get sick of the sight of me.”

  “Not a chance.”

  When Todd and Ned got back from the tennis court, victorious again, and Charles got back from town, they all went to the beach to find Charlotte. Helen had forgotten to tell Thomas about Charlotte’s chest, which was the first thing he remarked on when he saw her. “Wait,” he said, approaching her chair. “Are we missing something?”

  Charlotte stood and shook her head at Thomas. “That’s what I love about you, Thomas,” she said. “You always get right to the point.” They hugged, as did Barb and Charlotte. “We are, indeed, missing something.”

  “What about that sand castle?” Barb asked her children.

  Given permission, Sally and Peter, followed by Todd and Ned, each carrying one handle of the bag of toys, took off for the shallow end of the beach. Barb, Pammy, Helen, and Charles, then sat down in the beach chairs that Helen had set up that morning. Thomas sat next to Charlotte and looked at her expectantly. “Well?” he said.

  “I got rid of them,” Charlotte said. “I asked the same surgeon who put them in to take them out.”

  “Why?”

  “You liked them?”

  “No,” he said. “But I thought you did.”

  “Yeah, well, I thought I did too. But I actually got tired o
f people—in the end women mostly—looking at my chest.” Thomas laughed. “If you have a huge chest and you let the world see it,” Charlotte said, “the only kind of guy you are going to attract is the kind of guy who likes a huge chest. And that kind of guy, from my experience, doesn’t have a whole lot of other things going on. Great in the sack; not so great at meaningful conversation.”

  “So you’re into meaningful conversation now?”

  “I live for meaningful conversation,” said Charlotte, laughing. “And seriously? All the women hated me for it.”

  “We hated her for it, didn’t we, Pammy?” said Helen.

  “Totally. But I did like her boyfriend.” The three sisters all laughed at Pammy’s reference to Daniel Bammer, who Charlotte hadn’t thought about since she had broken up with him last summer.

  “I think you look wonderful,” said Barb, leaning forward in her chair to look at her sister-in-law.

  “Well, thank you,” said Charlotte. “I feel a lot better, too. God, they were heavy.”

  “What does Steve think?” asked Pammy, airing a question she might not have asked if she and Charlotte were alone.

  “Are we talking about Steve Johanson?” asked Thomas. “Tell me you are dating Steve Johanson.”

  “I see Steve Johanson when he comes to California. And I will probably see him here this weekend. It’s not a big deal,” said Charlotte.

  “Do you have meaningful conversation?” asked Thomas, grinning.

  “Afterward,” said Charlotte, smiling back at her brother, “yes.”

  Charles stood. “Who wants to go to the raft?”