Beaconfield

by Bri R. Leclerc

  I nodded slowly. “That’s right. The funeral is planned for Saturday. I came a couple of days early to help you get the house ready for the reception.”

  “Oh, thank you. That’s so sweet of you, Marigold.” She grabbed both of my hands and kissed my knuckles.

  Ridge came back from the kitchen with a large glass of water. He sat down in a chair and chugged half the cup before settling into his seat.

  “I . . . I don’t remember calling you, honey.” She said without making eye contact. Her face was pale. She was rubbing the back of my hand with the pad of her thumb—probably more of a comfort for her than for me.

  “Yes, you called Mom to tell her about Grandad . . .” I said, trailing off.

  She started sobbing then, and it shocked me. I’d never seen Grandma tear up, let alone sob.

  I held her for a few minutes while the realization of her husband’s death washed over her. As her tears quieted, I patted her shoulder and waited for her to speak, not wanting to push her. After all, I’d known about his death for over a week and here she was, finding out for what seemed like the second time. She sniffled next to me.

  What’s wrong with her? Was she sick? Was this a moment of insanity? If it was, it didn’t explain why everyone in the town was also acting this way.

  Ridge and I looked at each other. He sat across the room in an old vintage chair. From this vantage point, I got a better look at him. His freckles that I remembered as a kid still decorated the bridge of his nose. His blue-green eyes still sparkled. The differences were his long legs that he extended out in front of him and the strong arms I noticed through his shirt.

  I shifted in my seat, suddenly uncomfortable about checking him out with my grieving grandmother sitting next to me. I was admiring his well-maintained hair when I caught Ridge looking at me too, and we both looked away quickly.

  My grandmother let out a deep breath. “Maybe it was the grief,” she finally said. “Maybe that’s why I don’t remember anything.”

  “Maybe,” I said, leaning back into the comfort of the couch. “Grandma?” I asked.

  “Yes, dear?”

  “Do you remember anything about today at all? Like just before we got here or even this morning?” I was curious to know if this was true amnesia, if she really had forgotten.

  She thought about it and then nodded. “I remember getting up and going down to the market. I spent some time in the garden . . .” She trailed off, thinking about her day.

  Interesting.

  “You were supposed to pick me up from the bus stop,” I started, to see if something could jog her memory.

  She looked at me and then gasped. “Oh, I called your mother and told her I was going to be late picking you up. I had an appointment at . . . at the funeral home . . .” She paused and stared down into her tea.

  “Okay,” I said, squeezing her hand. “That’s good! You remember something.”

  “That’s the last thing, though. I’d just gotten back from my appointment and then . . . nothing.” She spoke into her chest and then took a long sip of her tea.

  My grandmother turned to face me then, reaching out a hand to caress my cheek. Her blue eyes were soft. A feeling of nostalgia washed over me, and suddenly I felt like a younger version of myself, sitting in the living room with my grandmother and Ridge.

  If only Grandad was here.

  “I’m okay, Marigold. I think it was just the grief. Don’t worry about me.”

  I gave her a tight smile.

  “Look at you, my sweet girl.” She smiled, and I leaned into her hand, closing my eyes slightly at the comforting moment. “Is that my necklace?” she asked.

  I looked down and saw the necklace had made its way out from under my shirt.

  She reached out and grazed her fingertips across the multicolored stone. “I haven’t seen that in years.” Her eyes were wistful as she stared at it.

  “Oh, yeah,” I said, bringing my own hand to the stone. “Mom gave it to me for my eighteenth birthday last week. I really love it. It’s so beautiful.”

  “I always loved it, too. You know, it’s been in our family for years. My mom gave it to me, and her mother before that, all the way back to our aunt Elizabeth.” She smiled then, and I could see that she was thinking about the past, memories that seemed to make her happy.

  She put her mug on the table in front of her and slapped her knees. “Marigold, you two must be starving. Why don’t you bring your things upstairs and we’ll go to the diner, yeah?” Grandma started to stand up from the couch and brush the tears from her face. She walked to the mirror on the wall and combed her hands through her long gray hair. “Oh, I look a right mess,” she muttered to herself.

  I smirked and stood up as well. I kissed her on the cheek. “You look beautiful, Grandma. I’m happy to be here. I was just at the diner and I’m not really hungry right now. We should just go to bed.”

  I decided to omit the part about everyone acting like shells of themselves, in order to not upset my grandmother further.

  She turned and held my face softly in both her hands. She nodded at me. I looked into her eyes, they were identical to mine. She turned to Ridge. “It’s nice to see you, dear.”

  “You too, Mrs. Gentry.” He flashed her a perfect smile.

  “Please, I’ve told you hundreds of times, call me Ellis.” She gave him a soft smile.

  “Of course, Mrs. Gentry.” Ridge smiled tightly in response. He wrung his hands anxiously.

  My grandmother didn’t notice, smiling at him in earnest. “I’m glad you’re here, Marigold,” she whispered to me. She patted me lightly before making her way upstairs to bed.

  Once she was gone, Ridge got up from his chair and looked me over. “Are you all right?” he asked, making sure that my grandmother hadn’t hurt me in her state.

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” I waved him off and wrapped my arms around myself.

  “Really? Because I’m sure as hell not fine,” Ridge said with a sigh as he sat down next to me. “Did your grandmother attack you?”

  I pushed my hair back and showed Ridge my neck. “She grabbed at my neck. Are there any marks?”

  Ridge leaned closer to me, his fingertips touching my skin, and I felt goosebumps tingle to the surface as a breath escaped me. “You’re fine,” he said, leaning away, clearly oblivious to my attraction.

  I tried to shake it off, not wanting to embarrass myself. I wanted to sit with him and catch up. Just having him around made me feel nostalgic, as if I was a child again. I reached out and grabbed his hand. He squeezed it in return and then scooted closer to me on the couch. My heart leapt into my throat.

  “You’re right, I’m not okay. My grandmother just tried to attack me and she doesn’t remember it. Oh, and your mom doesn’t even know who you are and the rest of the town is acting like a bunch of zombies. Other than that, I’m good,” I said with a sarcastic thumbs-up.

  Ridge smirked and shook his head. “I don’t know about everyone else, but my mom has been under a lot of pressure lately. Maybe that’s why she acted that way . . .” he trailed off and then shrugged.

  “Is your service still out?” I asked. We pulled out our phones at the same time. Mine still didn’t have service.

  “Yeah, nothing,” he said, sliding his phone back into his pocket.

  We sat in silence for a few moments until I stood up. “I’m going to take care of these dishes and then hang out upstairs—I need to lie down. Do you mind staying a bit longer? I don’t want to be alone right now . . .” I sighed and gathered the cups.

  “Of course,” he said with a smile. “I’ll meet you upstairs.”

  I climbed the stairs slowly, looking at the pictures that hung on the walls. Most of them were pictures of the family members who’d lived here over the years. My grandfather had grown up in this house, so there were lots of memories here. There were pictures of him and Grandma, pictures of Mom, and near the top of the stairs were pictures of a younger me, smiling with my grandparents.


  At the top of the stairs, I took a left and walked to the end of the hall. I stood in front of my bedroom door for a moment. With a centering breath, I pushed opened the door.

  It was like I was twelve all over again. The room was exactly the same as I’d left it. I walked into the room and spun around, making sure to look at every angle. Ridge stood at one end of the room, and his presence felt comfortable and familiar.

  The walls were an ocean blue, but faded a bit now. The paint on the window on the far side of the room was more cracked than it had been years ago. I went to the window and looked out at the old maple tree that stood there. I remembered watching squirrels chase each other up and down the branches.

  The best thing about this room was the staircase up to the Widow’s Watch, a tower where I could look out onto the ocean and the lighthouse. I’d spent many nights up there.

  My patchwork quilt was still draped on the twin-size bed. I lay down and breathed in deep. The blanket was musty but still smelled of salt water and chamomile.

  Ridge was flipping through a notebook that sat on the small desk in front of the window. When he heard me behind him, he turned around and showed me the notebook.

  “Do you remember this?” he asked with a smirk.

  I sat up and glanced at what he had in his hands. I gasped slightly and jumped up from the bed. I grabbed the notebook from him, flipping through it on my own. I smiled at the terrible handwriting and the little pictures that littered the pages. “Our journal,” I said. I’d forgotten about this.

  When I spent the summers here, Ridge and I would trade the notebook back and forth and write each other notes about how our days were or tell each other stories. My grandad had always kept a journal, and he bought me one so that I could share his love of journaling. I must have been the last one to have it when my parents came to pick me up that final summer.

  I flipped to the last page where there was a note from Ridge.

  “Oh no, don’t read that!” he said, grabbing the notebook from me and snapping it shut.

  “Come on!” I whined.

  He was blushing. “No way, it’s embarrassing.”

  I laughed. “Why? What does it say?” I grabbed for the notebook, but he pulled it out of my reach.

  “Nothing, Mari,” he said.

  I grabbed at it again and this time I was able to pull it from his hands. I took my chance and ran with it. I dashed up the steps to the Widow’s Watch.

  Ridge followed close behind me, laughing.

  I got to the top of the steps and threw myself into one of the bench seats and flipped the book open. The note was from a twelve-year-old Ridge.

  July 23, 2013

  Today was a rough day. West hasn’t been feeling well lately and he keeps having bad dreams. He was screaming in his sleep all night last night. Mom was tired, so I sat with him. Now I’m tired.

  I wish that in times like that you could be with me, Mari. You make me feel so much better about everything. When you leave at the end of every summer, it’s like a piece of my heart leaves, too. I’m going to miss you, Mars.

  -Ridge

  I looked up and saw a much older Ridge standing in front of me, still blushing, with his fists on his hips as he smiled down at me.

  “I never read this,” I said, holding the book up to him. “That was the day I left.”

  He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck in embarrassment. “Well, now you’ve read it,” Ridge said, taking a seat next to me.

  “How long did you feel like this?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “You were my best friend, you know?”

  I smiled again. “You were my best friend, too.” I didn’t know what else to say, and it looked like Ridge didn’t either. I set the book aside and pulled my legs under me. I looked out the window, over the trees, across the field, and to the lighthouse. I let out my breath loudly.

  “What happened today?” I asked, staring down at my hands in my lap.

  Ridge placed a hand on my shoulder. “I think your grandmother will be fine. She’s normal now, right?”

  I nodded.

  He smiled and said, “She just lost her husband. There’s nothing to worry about. And you know Beaconfield has always been . . . strange.”

  “I guess you’re right.” I didn’t want to worry when I didn’t need to. I hadn’t seen her in years, and maybe it’d been the grief, like she’d said. I probably shouldn’t worry, but there was a part of me that just felt bad about the situation. These small towns on the coast of Maine were quirky and strange things happened when there wasn’t much to do. Dread sat heavy in my stomach. “And your mom?” I asked quietly.

  Ridge let out a deep sigh and leaned back into the bench. “I’m not too worried about her. It’s West I’m concerned about. He’s been really bad lately, so I come home to help her out with him. She has so much to worry about . . .”

  I nodded and watched Ridge pick at his fingernails. He’d always been so dedicated to his family. When their dad left them, Ridge had tried to fill his shoes by taking care of his brother and helping his mom at the diner. But he’d still made time for me and our friendship.

  “I’ll go to the house and check on him later,” Ridge continued.

  I nodded and changed the subject.

  We spent hours in the Widow’s Watch talking about what we’d been up to in the past six years. We told each other funny stories about our lives and laughed. It was like we were kids again and the only thing that had changed was Beaconfield.

  I threw open one of the windows and a cold gust of air blew in my face. It smelled of pine and seawater. I closed my eyes and listened to the waves hitting the rocks below. To my right was the lighthouse—Lavender Point Light. So aptly named with the field of lavender swaying at its base.

  When I was younger and would spend the summers with my grandparents here, I’d sit in the house’s cupola for hours. I’d watch the waves in the distance or look out at the lighthouse.

  The wind blew again, much colder than before, and it was accompanied by the same feeling of nausea that I’d felt on the road into Beaconfield. The roar of the waves seemed to grow louder. And if I listened hard enough, it sounded like someone was screaming in the distance.

  I had the feeling I was being watched. As I scanned the horizon, I felt my mind drifting…

  I sat in front of a gravestone. It was a typical rounded shape, but it was chipped on the top and sides from age. I moved closer to read the name carved into it, but it was indecipherable. A breeze blew past me, tossing my hair around my face and shoulders and making me shiver.

  A hand grabbed my ankle.

  I screamed and spun around. The hand had risen from the dirt of a grave and wrapped its decaying fingers around me. I tried to scramble away while whimpering.

  Another hand grabbed my wrist.

  Another grabbed my hair.

  I was being pulled in every direction by dead hands. I screamed and thrashed, trying to get away from them. A hand covered my mouth, muffling my scream.

  “Mari?”

  I jumped.

  Ridge’s voice was calling me from downstairs.

  I looked down at the phone in my hand, and a whole hour had passed.

  What happened?

  Quickly, I pulled the window shut and ran down to meet him, trying to leave the bad feelings behind me. But I couldn’t help but think they’d follow. I felt that darkness in my stomach swimming around, just waiting for something bad to happen and send me into a panic.

  I galloped down the stairs into my room. I looked around, but Ridge wasn’t there.

  “Ridge?” I yelled.

  “I’m downstairs, come down!” His voice filtered up the stairs and down the hallway.

  I smiled, thinking that his voice sounded just like I remembered, but older and deeper.

  I turned to my vanity and sat down. There were bags under my eyes and knots in my hair. My first couple hours in Beaconfield had already been stressful. I’d assumed it woul
d be, but we hadn’t even gone to the funeral yet.

  In the drawer I found my old hairbrush and a palette of cheap makeup—the kind with the neon lip glosses. I brushed my dark hair, pulling it through my waves. I used a bit of eye shadow on my lids and some blush on my cheekbones.

  I took one last look at myself in the mirror, then stood up from the chair and made my way downstairs. Rustling and muttered words were coming from the kitchen. I peeked around the corner and knocked on the doorframe.

  “Ridge?” I asked, standing in the living room.

  “No, no, not yet!” Ridge shouted.

  Still, I looked into the kitchen. When I rounded the corner into the kitchen, Ridge stood from his seat quickly. On my grandmother’s granite countertop, he had laid out a meal with two place settings. The food was a salad and a pasta dish. He’d lit two candles and had turned down the lights.

  Ridge was smiling at me. The soft light from the candles set a romantic glow under his face. My heart soared in my chest.

  “I realized that I didn’t let you eat at the diner earlier, so I figured we could eat now, together.” He glanced down at the counter, shyly, and pushed the curly hair off his forehead.

  “You did this for me?” I asked quietly as I stepped into the kitchen.

  “I figured we’re probably old enough to go on a real date by now.” He chuckled as he reached to serve my salad.

  Heat rose in my cheeks as I took a seat across from Ridge. I had a flashback to a much younger Ridge making food in this very kitchen for me and West. Most of the time, it’d been pancakes, because that’d been the only thing he’d perfected and the only thing that West would eat.

  For a moment, everything felt much more normal than it had been before.

  “Wow,” he blabbed. “You look great.”

  “Thanks,” I said as I claimed my seat. I knew my cheeks were probably beet red, but I didn’t care.

  “No, really, you look amazing.”

  I looked up at him then and saw the longing in his eyes, and his smile. Oh, his smile. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed him until I saw him looking at me like that. I felt myself being drawn toward him. It seemed that he felt the same because he put his hand on the counter and leaned across toward me.