Reunion Beach

by Elin Hilderbrand

  “I’m so glad you called,” Bill says. “The house feels too big now that she’s gone.”

  “But now Pick is staying with you,” Kate says. She finds she’s relieved that Pick has shown up—as long as Lorraine is safely on the West Coast—so that there’s someone to keep an eye on Bill.

  They rumble down Barrett Farm Road through the open landscape until they come upon a line of parked cars and Kate hears music. She climbs out of the Cadillac in her bare feet. She’s wearing a paisley beach cover-up, which is the only thing in her closet that looks even vaguely exotic. If Kate travels back a hundred years—okay, forty—she’s a teenager being naughty, sneaking out of All’s Fair while her parents sleep and hopping in the back of Trip Belknap’s Studebaker, heading to a fire just like this one, populated with boys who do not yet know they’ll soon be heading off to war.

  Tonight, instead of defying her parents, Kate is defying her children.

  Young people only. Bah!

  KATE IS NEARLY TO the beach when she sees a young couple huddled together, obviously trying to make a clandestine escape.

  “Blair?” Kate says. Blair is with . . . Joey Whalen. Surprise, surprise.

  “Mom?” Blair says. Her face has always been easy to read and her expression now is one of sheer horror. She’s been caught. With Joey.

  Joey doesn’t look caught, however. Joey is too smooth to ever look caught. “Hey Mrs. Levin, Mr. Levin, Mr. Crimmins,” he says. He spins around and flings his arm open like a game-show host, as though the beach and the fire and the assembled crowd and even the ocean beyond are their grand prize. “Welcome!”

  Blair and Joey, together—is that such a bad thing? Kate wonders. Joey Whalen is much better suited to Blair’s temperament than Angus ever was.

  Joey and Blair dutifully escort the old people with their brittle bones down onto the sand.

  Blair takes Kate’s elbow. “What are you doing here, Mom?”

  Kate wants to say, You are hardly one to be asking questions. But instead, she smiles. “I came to party,” she says, and this sounds so absurd, they both laugh. “Would you fetch me a drink, please, dear, and let your brother and sisters know I’m here.”

  “There’s nothing to drink except keg beer,” Blair says.

  “That’s fine,” Kate says. “I’ll have a beer.”

  “You will?”

  “I will.”

  Blair returns with a foamy beer in a plastic cup and clearly she has also made the announcement because soon, Kate is surrounded by her children—Tiger and Magee, who look happier and more relaxed than Kate has seen them in years; Kirby, who Kate expects to be angry but who instead, throws her arms around her mother in what appears to be glee; Jessie and an incredibly handsome, upright young man whom Kate recognizes as Pick Crimmins.

  The song changes and a cry goes up. The kids form a circle and start dancing. This, Kate knows, is her cue to exit, but suddenly David is on one side of her and Bill Crimmins is on the other and they, too, are part of the circle.

  The lyrics announce the obvious: We are family!

  Kirby dances in the middle of the circle and everyone cheers her on. She is replaced by Jessie and Jessie is replaced by Magee.

  Magee can really dance. How did Kate not know this?

  Magee heads straight for Kate with her arms outstretched.

  “Your turn, darling,” David says, placing an encouraging hand on her back.

  My turn? Kate thinks. Surely not. Exalta would never in a million years have been caught in the middle of a circle dancing to a disco song.

  It takes only a second for Kate to realize that she isn’t Exalta. She is Kate Nichols Foley Levin, the new matriarch of this gathered family. She is in charge now and she will make her own decisions.

  Kate passes off her cup to David and dances through the sand to the center of the circle. Her family cheers.

  That’s right, she thinks. She may be old, but she still has some surprises left.

  About Elin Hilderbrand

  Elin Hilderbrand by Nina Subin

  ELIN HILDERBRAND lives on Nantucket, has three children, and is the author of twenty-seven novels, including Summer of ’69.

  Elin met Dottie in the spring of 2017 at the annual Post and Courier luncheon in Charleston and Elin says, “It was love at first sight.” The two authors proceeded to meet on Nantucket every chance they got and they texted and emailed nonstop. They dreamed of doing a joint cooking show called “Cook the Books,” where they would invite a third author on to make a signature dish for each episode. They also talked about a cookbook called “The Southern Belle and the Gray Lady.” Elin’s summer of 2020 novel, 28 Summers, is dedicated to Dottie and Dottie makes a cameo appearance in Elin’s summer of 2021 novel, Golden Girl. “I will never again have a writer friend like Dottie,” Elin says. “Those of you who knew her understand what I mean, and those of you who didn’t will just have to trust me. After Dottie, God broke the mold.”

  Also by Elin Hilderbrand

  Stand-Alone Novels

  Golden Girl

  28 Summers

  Summer of ’69

  The Perfect Couple

  The Identicals

  Here’s to Us

  The Rumor

  The Matchmaker

  Beautiful Day

  Summerland

  Silver Girl

  The Island

  The Castaway

  A Summer Affair

  Barefoot

  The Love Season

  The Blue Bistro

  Summer People

  Nantucket Nights

  The Beach Club

  Paradise Series

  Trouble in Paradise

  What Happens in Paradise

  Winters in Paradise

  Winter Series

  Winter Solstice

  Winter Storms

  Winter Stroll

  Winter Street

  Postcards from Heaven

  Dorothea Benton Frank and Adriana Trigiani by the Virginia Dispatch

  Adriana Trigiani

  Introduction

  When you love a friend, you can’t imagine your life without him. He’s the person you call when something makes you laugh, or something awful just ruined your day. If you’re lucky, that friend understands the complexities and challenges of what you do for a living. He can relate to the frustrations and setbacks that go with the job. He will celebrate with you when things go well. He will be the one to gently suggest that in success, it’s important to keep your wits about you, and in failure, to do the same because both extremes have their traps. The loneliness of solitude, pressure of deadlines, and the fear dance at four a.m. that the words won’t come in time are a few of the pitfalls of the writing life.

  When we’re talking about two friends who write for a living, mutual support and understanding are important while availability is essential. The daily conversation on the phone can be a lifeline. It seems only a writer can shore another writer.

  Pat Conroy was that friend for Dorothea Benton Frank, and she for him. They talked an awful lot in their years of friendship before he died on March 4, 2016. He did not leave her behind though; the bond remained strong even after his death because in his fashion, in his own particular and original way, he kept in touch. He sent postcards from heaven.

  Chapter 1

  To: Dorothea Benton Frank

  From: Pat Conroy

  Hey Dot. Settling in here. Good thing I like wide open spaces with plenty of sky. Bliss is everything they said it was and more. I used to believe serenity was for monks but turns out it’s for everybody, including writers. I like the zen. No characters roiling around in my head. No sitting at a desk with my body in a chair for hours on end, every muscle tensed like a freaked-out Halloween cat, no book tour hoopla, and zero exhaustion from distant cousins guessing who they might be in my latest novel. Just peace. Serenity is completely satisfying.

  How are you holding up? You’re in that frenzy before pub, right? To be fair,
it seemed you were always in a frenzy before pub. Give it a rest if you can. Books have a way of finding themselves in the hands of the right readers. Don’t push. We are not Fuller Brush salesmen. Everybody needs a brush, but not everyone will like our books.

  I’ve been visiting Cassandra in her dreams. It’s almost as good as being there. I could visit you in your dreams but you scare too easy.

  Love ya, Pat

  * * *

  To: DBF

  From: PC

  It’s true that your grief and my absence from your life keeps the connection between us intact. I believe I can alleviate some of the pain and confusion on your end with these postcards. I know what you’re thinking, postcards, not great. Instagram is the new postcard I guess: messages from people you know having fun in places without you.

  I wish I could come up with a better way to communicate. I miss our long phone chats, especially the ones after dinner. Our emailing was fun, too. This reaching out to the living by the dead resembles a bad Wi-Fi connection. There are moments of perfect reception followed by nothing. Intermittent communication, they call it. You sure do seem a long way away from your old friend.

  Love ya, Pat

  * * *

  To: DBF

  From: PC

  Dot, you called my name. The message got through!

  I’d like to help.

  I see the problem. Full disclosure: I can’t render an opinion about your latest book jacket because I am no longer there, and on this side, cover art doesn’t come up for discussion. I caught a brief glimmer of you shuffling through the art boards opining, “Oh Pat,” followed by your head hitting your writing desk like an anvil, which led to a lot of weeping. Yours. Thanks for taking my name in vain.

  There’s only one thing to do since histrionics do not become you. Call your agent and tell her, in your sweetest drawl, that you can’t possibly approve the cover art. Tell her nicely that your opus is more complicated than a photograph of a woman with her back to the reader, sitting on the beach wearing a one-piece bathing suit, gripping a sun hat by the brim with one hand and clutching a mai tai with the other. Tell them to lose the cocktail. You can live with the rest. Say it casually, as though you’re checking on the royalty rate in Bulgaria. No screaming, no crying, and do not attempt rage. If you do, I guarantee that you won’t get what you want. The trick is: when they remove the mai tai from the cover art, suddenly the artist will not like it. He or she will create anew. New lady. New beach. New hat. You’ll love the new approach. But if you want a new cover, keep your cool. Stay in the lane marked reasonable because you’re a terrible actress. Really. No acting. Don’t go into that field.

  Love ya, Pat

  * * *

  To: DBF

  From: PC

  I feel like shit about that last postcard. You would have been a fine actress. You have the portraiture of, I don’t know, Greer Garson by way of Margot Kidder. Hard to think of great actresses from the 1970s unless you get into Goldie Hawn and Liza Minnelli territory. Nothing wrong with either, very talented, but when I think of you, I go back to Hollywood’s Golden Age and, no, I don’t mean Shelley Winters in The Poseidon Adventure.

  I gotta tell you I’m still laughing at when you said you woke up on the morning of your 57th birthday and looked in the mirror and screamed Shelley! Now, that was funny. You don’t look like Shelley Winters, nothing wrong with her, by the way, you look like you, which is fine by me. Cassandra and I always said you were an Irish beauty. Fresh faced. Blue-eyed. Pie-eyed.

  Love ya, Pat

  * * *

  To: DBF

  From: PC

  I stepped in it again with that last postcard. I did not mean to disparage the great Irish, including you and me, with the offhanded drinking comment. Pie-eyed, you know what I mean. More to the point, and a better description of you: you’re wide-eyed, eager, curious, and adventurous. But let’s face it, we know a lad and a lass or two from the Emerald Isle who enjoy their spirits. Anyhow, I meant no offense.

  My initials are PC, which is everybody’s shorthand for politically correct, which I almost never am, even though I wish I were, or had been, when I was alive if only to flaunt my moral superiority, which, by admission, would mean I never had it in the first place. Moral superiority, that is. I should have done the right thing more often, but who knew at the time that slights and hurts are racked up over a lifetime like parking tickets?

  Would like to know what you made for dinner. Something tells me pork chops. Is Peter home or is he off on a business trip? The kids? I am sure they are thriving. They could care less about your old pal Conroy. Who could blame them? If they did, they’d be living in the past. Don’t live in the past.

  Love ya, Pat

  * * *

  To: DBF

  From: PC

  I didn’t mean to tell you how to raise your children or give you spiritual advice in general, including the ancient don’t live in the past nonsense. Live however the hell you want, because the truth is, eternity is just more of the same with one caveat. Nothing hurts. Not even my feelings, which is slightly odd because I have empathy for you; it remains on this side, but I don’t need it for myself from you, or any of my friends or family. How bizarre is that? They say that’s what it means to be divine—to shore up others, without regard to self. That’s saintly, don’t you think? It’s either saintly, or just the surrender of will by a person who has learned to get along in a big family.

  I’ve met a couple of saints but they are deadly dull. They parse their words as if each one had a calorie count and they were permanent residents at a Fat Farm. When they’re not talking, they just sort of stare at you with big eyes. The statues of their visages in cathedrals look much better than the real thing. They don’t seem too interested in leading our group forward, or even pulling us together in a common cause. They are of zero help when it comes to finding out what’s in store for us here. I don’t expect you to unpack their behavior (even though you were raised Catholic, as was I). They are aloof, which is as they were on earth. They were comfortable on pedestals.

  I can’t explain this place with any specificity. Life is confusing on earth, whereas on this side, there is a constant flow of understanding. It’s like a river, but that’s bad writing. It’s not like I’m swept away here, or pulled under, we just are. We accept everything in the name of adaptation and transfiguration (a fancy word for mystical glow) whether the saints fraternize with us or not. Knowing you, there will be some fraternizing.

  Love ya, Pat

  * * *

  To: DBF

  From: PC

  I have been thinking about the American South and the things I miss about it. After my wife, children, the marshes, and blue herons of South Carolina’s Lowcountry, I rank covered dish suppers high on the list. There was nothing like them. I used to help roll the brown butcher paper on the tables in the church basement before the ladies set out the buffet. The covered dish suppers were fairly similar across the various denominations, the only difference: the Catholics always put candles on the tables whereas the Methodists placed flowers.

  I liked the parade of the platters. The ladies of the congregation would arrive with their casseroles with a look of superiority tinged with the smug afterglow of daytime sex. (I didn’t recognize it then but could easily spot it now.) The point is this. You’ve never seen such self-confidence. The women carried their Tupperware and 8 × 10 sheet pans down the steps into the church basement as if they were the crown jewels. Each woman believed her offering for the buffet was the best. There was a sense of self-confidence on the part of these gals that you could cut with a knife. Or was it arrogance? Who knows, until they place the pans on the table, and in short order, the ladies realize that most of the women didn’t follow the sign-up sheet.

  So, there are eight chop suey casseroles, several platters of deviled eggs, and way too many Texas sheet cakes. There’s nothing green, no one made a salad, so the buffet looks autumnal brown and yellow, but who cares,
everybody’s hungry and nobody is interested in the loaves of cornbread or the fishes. (Who’s the cheater who brought a bucket of Long John Silver fish instead of cooking?) Nobody’s telling and nobody cares. Every dish that was placed on the buffet was made and served with love (except for the bucket from the drive-thru, and you could argue, even that was given with a generous heart).

  Love everybody was the lesson, no matter what they brung.

  That’s what I miss the most about life back home. You can get along without the ocean, sand, and sun, but you would be hard-pressed to thrive without people who love you. In the South, they build people who know how to love. You get it, Dot. You always do.

  Love ya, Pat

  * * *

  To: DBF

  From: PC

  Forgive me for the last couple of postcards. I imagine I’m trying to explain the place I am so you might feel better about dying someday. You always said you never wanted to die, and I didn’t either, but it’s what comes eventually to anyone that is born, so it’s wise to get used to the concept sooner than later. Some things about death as perceived by the living remain true. You hear about death mostly at funerals, and I know you heard these comments at mine, so I’ll run a few by you in the hopes that the truth from me will give you some comfort.

  He’s in a better place.

  That’s partly true. Better in many ways, okay. But the place part, let me explain. This is not so much a place as it is a state. It’s an ongoing feeling of peace, the same feeling you get when you’ve turned a book in on time and you know it’s pretty good, maybe great, and the relief washes over you, after which comes the pride, in a job well done. You know the book is good and you’re not even slightly tempted to call every snob you know and let them know that you hit your deadline and they can kiss your ass. There’s none of that here. You finally know what it feels like not to care what anyone thinks. The afterlife is satisfaction followed by a nap. A soothing nap.