“Gerta won’t be able to help,” Mrs. Ivey said. “They went out of business.”
“You can’t be serious. When did that happen?”
“Last summer, I think. Maybe the winter before? With all the development on the vacant lots, there was too much demand for them to handle on their own. They didn’t hire anyone because they liked the personal touch.” Mrs. Ivey sighed. “It wasn’t long before the developers lost patience, and in came the rented trucks and day workers with substandard plants and estimates so low that she couldn’t compete. The developers loved it—they didn’t care if the plantings died in a year or the sod burned in the sun because it wasn’t watered. They put her out of business.”
“That’s terrible.” Kaye couldn’t imagine Dewberry Beach without Gerta. “Where are they now?”
“I don’t know and believe me, I’ve asked. My own yard needs attention and I’d rather not do business with those New York people… not that I have a choice.” She scowled. “When I call them, they don’t come, not even for an estimate. After they drove Gerta and Corrie away, they raised their prices and are very picky about what jobs they take.”
“Picky? How so?”
“They only work with builders on the big jobs, mostly the new development near the inlet.”
One of the volunteers from the community center emerged from the house carrying a box. She noticed Kaye in the side yard and strode toward her, a purposeful look on her face.
Mrs. Ivey noticed too. She touched Kaye’s arm gently. “Well, I’ll let you get back to work. Dinner’s at six and I’ll make up a bed for you. I know your family comes soon, but it will be nice for us to catch up until then. I hope you don’t mind indulging me.”
She left before Kaye could refuse.
It took three days to reassemble the shore house into something recognizable. A full day to clear the house of everything they’d bought for rental families: furniture, board games, linens, and cookware. Another for a crew of five to clean the house, erasing all memory of other tenants. And an entire day to set Kaye’s house back to the way it was. The physical work, unloading the truck from the storage unit and unpacking the boxes was only a morning’s work for the crew she hired. When they left, and she was alone with her things, she took her time. She poured herself a glass of wine, flicked on the radio, tuned the dial to an old serial program, and let the memories come.
Hours later, when every painted shell and potholder was in place, Kaye finally allowed herself to rest. She wandered the rooms with an open heart. The house looked exactly the same as it had before the tragedy. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine the rustle of the morning newspaper coming from Chase’s chair in the den, the clatter of silverware in the kitchen as Stacy and Brad sneaked another slice from the sheet of crumb buns.
When she was finished, she retired to her own bed knowing that Chase would join her in a few days. That night she slept more soundly than she had in the previous three years.
Early the next morning, Kaye brewed herself a pot of coffee and brought it to the back deck, her favorite place to greet the day. There, she allowed her mind to drift back to Chase’s heart attack and the destruction it had left in its wake. The last three years had been the worst of her life, and despite her best efforts, she hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that it wasn’t over—to believe that her husband of thirty-five years and the love of her life had actually recovered and would be fine. Truthfully, it was the unexpectedness of it that haunted her; the idea that she could do everything right and still be faced with tragedy. She didn’t believe the doctors, no matter how much she tried. Her more generous self might allow that they’d done their best, but she didn’t really believe that either. Despite annual check-ups and following their advice on diet and exercise, the unimaginable happened and Kaye had no faith in their ability to predict his future now.
So for the past three years, she’d been bracing herself for a second attack. The one he wouldn’t recover from. She knew it was coming.
It occurred to her, months after his collapse, that she should ask God’s forgiveness for the things she’d said to Him, especially during those first few nights. The nights her husband lay in the ICU, his future unsure and Kaye overcome with panic. But it wasn’t God who had exploited business connections and strained friendships to locate the best cardiologist in the tri-state. It wasn’t God who had telephoned that very doctor at home and badgered him until he agreed to consult on Chase’s case, driving to Princeton General in the dead of night. And it wasn’t God who had located the rehab facility, the nutritionists, the acupuncturist, or the yoga center, made appointments at each one and forced Chase to keep them.
That was all her.
So she would deal with Saint Peter when the time came for her reckoning. She had a few things to say to him anyway.
But right now, she was too busy caring for her family.
Across the lake, an egret unfurled his wings, rising from his place on a log and lifting himself into the sky, soundless but for a soft whooshing as he crossed the water. As the first rays of the morning sun ascended the horizon, the air warmed. Mosquitos would come soon. Another thing to add to her list—she’d call the bug man as soon as the office opened, to spray the yard before the kids arrived, making sure that whatever spray he used wouldn’t affect the fireflies. Stacy used to love the fireflies, used to run after them, convinced they were real fairies who had come to visit. Kaye wondered if Stacy would remember that, or if Stacy’s daughter Sophie would think the same thing. She hoped so.
Kaye drew the memories of the early days of the shore house close to her, wrapping them around her like a warm blanket. Before Chase’s father sold him the property, she and Chase had come to visit for the summer, first as newlyweds, then when the children were born—all of them bouncing around in that big house. Chase’s mother Amara had welcomed them every year with genuine warmth and hospitality that Kaye always tried to emulate, even decades later. Amara was unflappable and utterly welcoming. It hadn’t mattered to her if Stacy came down to the shore house with a classmate in tow, or if visiting slipped Brad’s mind entirely. When the kids were younger and went out to play, Kaye would worry where they were, until Amara reminded her that the entire town was just six blocks across, starting with the inlet bridge to the west and ending at the ocean to the east, and that it was very difficult to get lost. She often reminded Kaye that when Chase was a boy, he was gone all day. The only way she knew which house he was visiting was by the twisted pile of bicycles casually dropped in the front yard. After that, Kaye learned to keep her worries to herself. She preferred having her family close, even if Amara might think it was silly.
Kaye allowed herself a final sip of coffee before returning her attention to the present. Now, with the house ready and her things in place, the season could officially begin. It had become a tradition, over the years, for summer families to host an informal cookout within a few weeks of their arrival, to reconnect with friends and neighbors and settle into the routine of the summer. It was a lovely tradition and Kaye always looked forward to it. This year, she hoped their party would include everyone: Chase, Stacy and her family—Ryan, Connor, and Sophie—and Brad, Kaye’s son. It would be a sort of reset on their life, a new beginning. Kaye hoped it would serve as a reminder of what was important and what could fall away.
Tomorrow, Kaye would begin the chore of stocking the kitchen. There would be trips to the cheese shop for the brie Stacy liked—and sharp cheddar for Brad—maybe a few bags of Dutch pretzels for the pantry. It was still a bit too early to place an order with Mueller’s Bakery for Saturday, so she added that task to her growing list. Her grandchildren would love the crumb buns—everyone did. Chase and Stacy were partial to black and whites, Ryan to almond croissants, cupcakes for the kids; Kaye would buy all of it. She would need to go to the weekend farmers’ market for vegetables because those were the freshest. Kaye imagined walking hand in hand with her grandchildren to the farmers’ tents later that
summer and filling a basket with anything they wanted. The corn would be ready in July, the first tomatoes at the end of June.
Kaye felt her mood lift as she planned. She’d almost accepted the notion that they might never return to the shore house, and yet here she was. If things went according to plan, the entire family would be together again, with Chase getting there first, sometime tomorrow afternoon. Though the trip was a bit more than an hour by car, Kaye didn’t like the idea of Chase driving himself. She’d hired his physical therapist, Derrick, to drive him from Princeton to Dewberry Beach and had tried to find a private nurse to look in on him during the summer, but he’d refused, reminding Kaye that the doctors had released him until a November follow-up appointment. It worried her, being so far from his cardiologists, but she had finally agreed, though reluctantly. The kids would arrive shortly after Chase. The bedrooms had already been prepared for their arrival, with fresh linens on the beds and sachets tucked underneath the pillows. Lavender for Stacy and Ryan, eucalyptus for Brad, lemon for Connor, and rose for Sophie. She’d spent a ridiculous amount of time at Dewberry Beach Gifts selecting the scents, but it made her happy to do so.
She planned to take her grandchildren to Applegate’s Hardware where they would select a plastic bucket and an assortment of toys for the sand, along with their very own beach towel, a tradition started when Stacy and Brad were their age. After whole days spent crabbing at the pier, or swimming at the local pool, or racing plastic boats on the salt pond, Kaye imagined the family coming together for dinners outside on the deck. New memories would be made and a whole new generation of Bennetts would come to love the shore as much as Kaye did.
Feeling the cool salty air on her skin as the breeze shifted, Kaye turned her attention to the pond just beyond the fence, watching the grass stir as a dragonfly emerged.
Yes, it would be a wonderful summer.
Kaye took her empty coffee mug inside and retrieved her fancy new cell phone from the pocket of one of Chase’s old cardigans. For years she’d carried an old flip-phone, usually forgotten in her purse or left on the charger, until the day she had been needed and couldn’t be reached. She’d been swimming laps in the pool that Saturday morning, her phone stowed securely in her locker and her mind on something mundane. After her swim, she’d luxuriated in a long, hot shower using the fancy glycerin soap and lotion set she’d bought herself for her birthday the week before. A whole day had stretched before her with nothing to do, and she’d toyed with the idea of booking an hour-long massage. She’d reached for her phone to book the appointment and was surprised to see fifteen text messages, all marked urgent, and a dozen voice messages, pleading with her to return the call.
That was how she’d found out that her husband had collapsed at his desk, and that if the secretary hadn’t left her headset in the office by mistake, he would be gone.
To this day, the thought that jerked her from sleep and left her reeling and gasping for air was the fact that when her husband had needed her the most, she had been scheduling a massage. She’d had no feeling that he needed her, no sixth sense that the man she loved with every bit of her heart hovered, alone, between life and death.
Real life was nothing like the movies.
Kaye unlocked the phone and skimmed her contacts for her daughter’s cell number. She tapped the green phone icon at the bottom of her screen.
Then she listened to it ring.
Two
Seventy miles away, in the small condominium she shared with her husband and two children, Stacy Madigan stood at the counter in the small hours of the morning, slicing oranges for her son’s soccer team. She heard the chirp of her cell phone and, thinking it might be a weather update for Connor’s game, glanced at the screen. When she saw it was her mother calling, she let it roll to voicemail and returned to her work.
Her husband Ryan appeared in the kitchen just in time to catch the last ring. He was normally a night owl, so she was surprised to see him up and dressed, his hair still damp from a shower. He stumbled to the cabinet to retrieve his favorite MIT ALUMNI coffee mug.
“Why is your mother calling you?”
“I don’t know.”
He paused, holding the carafe over his mug. “Why didn’t you pick up?”
“Because my mother never calls to ‘chat.’ She calls to direct, organize, or interrogate. You remember I told you that my brother and I used to call her The General when we were growing up? The name still fits.”
The relationship Stacy had with her mother had always been a complicated one, threaded with expectations that Stacy had never quite been able to meet. Expectations her younger brother Brad didn’t seem to have. While Stacy’s father had disappeared, unapologetically, into his career in the city, her mother had raised two children essentially on her own. She’d found time to look after her family, volunteer at their school, entertain her husband’s clients, help out in the community, and had made it all appear effortless. Stacy, on the other hand, had always felt as if she was running three hours behind. Since she could never meet her mother’s expectations, eventually she stopped trying.
“‘The General?’” Ryan reached for an orange section and popped it into his mouth. “You sure you’re not exaggerating? I think your mother is delightful.”
It was one of the things that had attracted Stacy to Ryan in the first place: his inability to believe anyone had ulterior motives. His family, a rowdy Irish Catholic bunch from south Boston, was the same way. Seven brothers and sisters, every one of them loud and straight-talking. Ryan’s family, and the way they interacted, was what made Stacy want to have a big brood of her own. She imagined chaotic Christmases like the ones at his parents’ house, everyone teasing and talking over each other. It took some convincing, but Ryan finally agreed when Stacy offered to quit her job to stay at home with their children.
“First of all”—she frowned at him—“no one under sixty years old says ‘delightful,’ so I don’t know who you’ve been hanging out with.” She returned to her task of slicing oranges.
“And second?”
“‘Second’ what?” Stacy glanced up.
“You said ‘first of all.’ That implies a second thing. What’s the second thing?”
“No idea.” Stacy shrugged. At almost four months pregnant with their third child, she’d grown used to forgetting just about everything. For her, the first trimester was nausea and the second was senility.
Stacy glanced at the clock, then out the window at the gathering rainclouds. The last game of the regular season before school let out for the summer. She’d hoped for better weather. Blue skies and summer sunshine were late coming this year; most of May had been dreary and spattered with rain.
She laid her knife on the cutting board, then called down the hallway to her son’s room. “Connor, let’s get going. Archie and his mom will be here any minute to drive you to the game.”
Turning her attention back to the task at hand, she surveyed the contents of her kitchen and mentally ran through the list she’d been given. Three oversized plastic containers packed with freshly sliced oranges, zipped plastic bags stuffed with string cheese, two cases of juice pouches—all of it covered every available inch of counterspace. Near the front door was a case of bottled water for the players and a tub of oatmeal cookies for after the game. As she arranged the snacks inside the team’s logoed insulated bags, she felt a bit wistful for a simpler time, when packing a snack for her son’s activities meant throwing some apple slices and graham crackers into a pocket of his diaper bag. This required planning, shopping, and prep.
She crossed the living room with the first of the bags, pausing to look out the big picture windows that overlooked the arboretum. She and Ryan had chosen this apartment specifically for the view of the canopy in the arboretum as the seasons changed: branches tipped with snow in the winter, bright-green leaves emerging in the spring, and a blanket of vibrant oranges and yellows in the fall.
“You need me to pack anything?” Rya
n offered as he followed her to the kitchen.
“No, it’s all done.” She nudged the bag with her foot. “Can you bring this to the front door with the rest of the stuff please? Melissa will be here any minute to take the boys to the game. This is the last thing to go.”
Ryan walked over and surveyed the pile by the front door with a critical eye. “You have food enough here to supply a military campaign. How many days are the kids playing for?”
“Same as usual. About an hour.”
“Big production for an hour.” Ryan lifted the bag and carried it to the front door. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but when I was a kid, playing soccer meant bringing a ball to a vacant lot and kicking it around with a bunch of kids until a fight broke out. Then we went home.”
“When you were a kid, Lynn and Denise weren’t in charge of the snack schedule for a team of six-year-olds. At the beginning of the season, they decided it would be ‘fun’ if the home team supplied food for both teams and no one had the courage to stop them,” Stacy groused as she returned to the kitchen. “Two teams, twenty kids each, three snacks per game—a welcome snack before the game, some kind of protein at half-time, and something sweet at the end, to celebrate, whether they won or not.” She rinsed the knife and set it on the drainboard.
“That’s a lot of eating.”
The Shore House: An emotional and uplifting page turner (Dewberry Beach Book 1) Page 2