The Family Beach House (21 page)

“At least you have your father. But let's get back to the point. Look, Hannah, if we do have a family, I really don't want us to engage in a dynamic of nastiness and fighting and judgment and dissension and—”

“Okay, okay, I get it.” Hannah put down the spoon and empty yogurt container. She felt hurt but chastened, too. This coming together of two people who had grown up in very different households was tough. She wondered if the adjustments and negotiations would ever come to a peaceful end. She hoped that they did. “We'll make our own rules,” she said. “New rules, and new guidelines. I promise.”

Susan gave her a long, enquiring look. “We'll see,” she said finally. “Maybe we shouldn't make any more promises to each other just yet.” She took the yogurt container to the recycling bin, put the spoon in the dishwasher, and left the kitchen.

Hannah sat very still. She had heard Susan say “if” they ever had a family. And she knew what Susan had really meant by those last words. She meant that she, Hannah, should stop making new promises until she fulfilled the ones she had already made. Susan, her wife, didn't trust her. Hannah thought she might be sick right then and there. She was destroying her marriage by her hesitation, by her inability to confront and conquer her demon.

She continued to sit very still for a long time, until the nausea passed.

Thursday, July 26

It was around eight-thirty in the morning. Predictably, Tilda was taking a walk on the beach. Bill had gone for a half round of golf with Teddy. Hannah was sleeping in and Susan was online, in their bedroom, keeping up with the case of one of her more difficult clients. Ruth was out, no one knew where. Percy was sunning himself—he liked to get an early start—in the sunroom. Craig, too, was gone somewhere in his old red van. Sarah and Cordelia and Cody were playing a game of catch on the back lawn. Kat was on the front porch, busily sending text messages to people unknown and drinking iced coffee.

Adam was alone in the kitchen when he heard the front door open, then shut, and high-heeled footsteps approaching.

“Oh,” Jennifer said when she walked into the room. “Good morning. Is Bill around?”

Adam took a long sip of coffee before answering. “No.”

Jennifer adjusted the shoulder strap of her tan leather briefcase. “Please tell him that I was here,” she said, and she turned to go.

Adam banged his empty cup onto the bar top. “This isn't going to happen, you know.” He spoke loudly. He meant to sound menacing.

Jennifer knew that she should just keep on walking but an old fighting spirit made her turn back. “What's not going to happen?” she said.

“The little invasion you've planned into the life of the McQueens. Your little scheme to take over Larchmere.”

For a brief moment Jennifer wondered if Adam was mentally ill. “What?” she said.

Adam took a step closer to her. “If you insist upon hanging around our father, I will make your life hell. I have the means to do it. Do you understand me?”

Jennifer clutched the strap of her briefcase more tightly. She had no idea of what to say. She felt threatened. She wondered if they were the only two people in the house. She had seen Kat on the porch but she would be no help if Adam attempted to harm her physically.

Adam's voice was a roar. “I said, do you understand me?”

Jennifer, now terrified, found herself nodding.

The front door opened, then closed. “I'm back!” It was Bill, returning from his golf game.

Adam left the room quickly and quietly, brushing against Jennifer hard enough for her to stumble. He avoided his father by slipping into the living room until Bill had passed the open door on his way to the kitchen. Then, Adam left the house.

Bill came into the kitchen and propped his golf bag against a wall. “Hi, Jennifer,” he said. “What a nice surprise to find you here.”

“Bill,” she said, her voice trembling, “something's come up. I'm afraid I have to go away for a while.”

 

Tilda was just back from the beach. She went immediately to the kitchen for a glass of water. Hannah was there, leaning against the sink. Susan stood next to her. Ruth stood by the fridge. Her expression was grim. Bill was sitting at the table, his hands on his lap. He was very still.

“Dad,” Tilda said, alarmed. “Are you okay?”

Bill's voice was flat. “Jennifer is gone to Portland.”

“Oh. Why? When will she be back?”

Her father looked down at his hands. “She told me she got a call from an important client about a job in the city. She said she had to go. She said she probably won't make it back for the memorial service.”

Tilda felt her face go hot. She avoided meeting her aunt's eyes. Jennifer's excuse for leaving Larchmere was so clearly a lie, Tilda was sure that her father, an intelligent man, had not believed it, either. What had happened? When had it happened? “Oh, Dad, I'm so sorry,” she managed to say, finally. “I'm sure she'd rather be here, with you…. You know how work can be….”

Bill gave his daughter a weak smile, got up, and left the kitchen.

“What happened?” Tilda asked, looking now from Ruth to Hannah to Susan.

“I'm not quite sure,” Ruth replied. Her voice was tight. “I got back from the store—we were low on milk again—and found your father sitting right where he was a moment ago. Jennifer had just left.”

So,
Tilda thought,
whatever had happened to finally drive Jennifer away from Larchmere had happened this morning.
Who had been home? Had someone said something awful to her? Had it all just been too much, the McQueens and their difficult personalities?

Her poor father! He had looked heartbroken. Tilda thought again of how she had snapped at Jennifer when she had asked about the day spa. She felt guilty. She was pretty sure that her behavior since first meeting her father's girlfriend had contributed to Jennifer's feeling unwelcome. And she had not had the chance to apologize to her. “I think it's partly my fault that she's gone,” she said now to Ruth and Hannah and Susan. “I'm sorry. I feel very badly.”

Hannah felt a bit badly, too, but she was not about to admit that. She was more concerned about the possibility that Jennifer's love for her father wasn't really as strong as he believed. She wondered if Jennifer was just bailing on him the moment things got rough. She would try her best to comfort her father. She owed him that much.

Craig came into the kitchen then, followed a moment later by Adam.

“What's wrong with Dad?” Craig said. “We just passed him in the front hall. The poor guy looks like he got sucker punched.”

When neither Ruth nor Hannah nor Susan spoke, Tilda told her brothers about Jennifer's sudden defection.

“Ouch.” Craig winced. “Poor Dad. That doesn't bode well for their future.”

“Well,” Adam said, “I, for one, am glad she's gone. Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

“His command of the English language is so fine and subtle, isn't it?” Craig said.

Ruth took a step forward. “We all know that excuse about an important client was just a lie,” she said. She was angry now. “Jennifer left because none of you—none of you except Craig and Susan—made her feel at all welcome. Adam, you were downright rude to her. I don't blame her one bit for leaving though I'm sorry for your father.” Ruth took a deep breath. It wasn't entirely the kids' fault that Jennifer had left. Her brother could be a weak man. “And,” she said, “Bill should have seen what was going on and shielded Jennifer from all the crap Adam tossed at her. And from the hostility you girls betrayed.”

No one said anything. Adam looked bored. Tilda and Hannah looked guilty and worried at the same time. Susan looked as if she might cry. Craig looked embarrassed. He was not used to praise, no matter how faint. He felt he could have done more to make Jennifer feel welcome. At least he should have made Adam shut up.

Ruth sighed and reached for her black linen Kate Spade tote bag, which was sitting on the bar top. “I'll be back later,” she said.

“Where are you going?” Tilda asked, wondering for a moment if her aunt was going to drive up to Portland and bring Jennifer back to Larchmere with her.

“To see Bobby.”

Not long after Ruth's departure, Jon and Jane pulled into the driveway at Larchmere. Tilda was happy to see them but at the same time she was very aware that she was not as desperate for their company as she had been only days earlier. This surprised her. She wondered if it was because of Dennis's recent companionship. Probably. Maybe.

Jon got out of the car and waved to his mother. He was looking more like his father every day, husky though not fat, his eyes the same cow brown, his hair the same light brown. For Tilda, the transformation was both wonderful and painful to witness. She supposed, she hoped, that the painful part would lessen over time. Time healed all wounds. Time made the unusual usual and the new, old. Or so it was said.

Time had not made Frank's changing appearance easier to bear. At least, it hadn't for Tilda. When it was first clear that he had lost a significant amount of weight as a result of the illness, drugs, and other treatments, Frank had joked that he was in the best shape of his life. Then, after a beat, he would add: “Except for the cancer.” No one had really found it funny, least of all Tilda, but everyone, Tilda included, would laugh or share a falsely happy, conspiratorial smile.

After a few months of continued weight loss Frank stopped making this joke. It was no longer possible for anyone to pretend that it was funny. The face of illness was never amusing. In
The Historian,
a novel by Elizabeth Kostova, a character looks down on the face of his beloved mentor. The mentor is, in a manner, dying. He had become “the unbearable beloved.” Tilda knew exactly what that meant.

Jane followed her brother up onto the porch. Unlike Jon, she closely resembled her mother. She was as tall and slim as Tilda and shared her longish face. Unlike her mother, though, she wore her dark brown hair to her shoulders, and her eyes were a very definite, unambiguous green.

Jane smiled and gave Tilda a hug. “You look good, Mom. Better than you have for a while. You're not slouching.”

“Maybe it's the fresh ocean air.” Tilda felt sheepish. Maybe it was the fresh ocean air. Or maybe it was the fact that a man, a nice, handsome man, was paying attention to her. But she couldn't tell that to her daughter. For now, maybe for always, Dennis Haass would remain a secret. That is, unless one of the locals gabbed and she would deal with that when and if it happened.

“Maybe,” Jane said. “Well, whatever you're doing, do more of it. Where's Craig?”

“I don't know. Craig is his own man.”

Together the three went into the house and headed straight for the kitchen. Though Jon and Jane were quite capable of getting themselves something to eat, Tilda put out a snack of grapes, a round of goat cheese, and crackers. Jon reached for a bottle of water and Jane opted for cranberry juice.

Tilda told them about their grandfather's romance. She also told them that Jennifer had been suddenly called back to Portland on business.

“Grandpa's the man,” Jon said with a grin. “Dude.”

“So, when is she going to be back?” Jane asked. “I'm dying to meet her.”

Tilda felt her face flush. “I'm not sure, exactly. The client in Portland is an important one or something.”

Jane eyed her mother, who had always been a terrible liar. “What's wrong? Why did she really leave?”

Tilda was embarrassed. “Ruth thinks she didn't feel particularly…welcome. She also thinks it's our fault. Mine and Hannah's and Adam's, I mean. I do feel terrible. It was just so…surprising to learn that Dad was involved. We all could have been nicer.”

“Is she hot?”

“Jon!”

“Answer the question, Mom,” Jane said.

“Well, yes,” she admitted. “She is hot. Attractive, I mean.”

“I bet Uncle Craig was nice to her.”

“Yes, he was.”

Jane sighed. “It's your generation of women. You're all so prejudiced.”

“Prejudiced!”

“If Jennifer was ugly or fat you wouldn't have minded so much that she was dating Grandpa.”

“I'm prejudiced against attractive women?” Of course, she was. “That's crazy,” she said.

“Yes, you are prejudiced. Women can be their own worst enemies. Women are all too ready to turn against each other. It all comes down to jealousy.”

Jon guzzled the last of his water and grabbed a fistful of grapes. “I'm out of here,” he said. “I'll be down at the beach for a while if anyone needs me.”

Her brother loped off and Jane set to the food.

It was not a generational thing, Tilda wanted to tell her daughter. It was a middle-aged thing, the anger over the loss of your looks. And the anger at yourself for being so upset about something that should be trivial! Sagging chin? Who cared when there was world hunger to remedy! Flabby middle? How could that really matter when global warming was destroying the planet! Jane would know all about it when she was forty-seven. Or maybe she wouldn't. Maybe she would escape the insanity. (Sarah seemed to have. So did Ruth.) Maybe she would figure out what an incredible waste of time it was to lacerate your fading appearance and to feel jealous of other women who were more physically attractive. Maybe she would be comfortable in her body. Tilda hoped that she would.

“I'm going to see if Craig's around,” Jane said, startling her mother from her thoughts. “Thanks for the snack.”

Jane picked up her plate but Tilda said, “I'll clean up.” Jane smiled and Tilda watched her daughter leave the kitchen. She so prayed for her happiness.

 

Tilda knocked on the front door though she knew it was never locked. It was later that day and she had gone to Bobby's house on an errand for Ruth. In her left hand she carried a shopping bag filled with “used” books Ruth had bought for her friend. It was well known that Bobby was a great reader. Tilda had peeked at some of the titles. There was a pristine copy of
Run to the Mountain: The Journals of Thomas Merton.
There was a hardcover copy of
Harold Bloom's Shakespeare: The Invention of the Human.
And there was an old paperback copy of Joseph Heller's
Catch-22.

Bobby opened the door and nodded. Tilda followed him inside.

“Kids get in okay?” he asked.

Tilda set the bag on the kitchen table. “Yes. Jon's already at the beach and the last I saw Jane she was following Craig around like a puppy dog.”

Bobby smiled. His house was miniscule compared to Larchmere and neat as a pin. The kitchen contained no fancy appliances and most of the furniture had come from his parents' house. The floors and countertops were immaculate. Bobby was someone who still beat his throw rugs with a stick. Books were stacked floor to ceiling along one wall of the living room. There was no dust.

Tilda wondered when Bobby had the time to read all that he did, and to work as hard as he did. She suspected that he was far more disciplined than most people.

“You know that Jennifer went back to Portland,” she said now, suddenly feeling the urgent need to confess.

Bobby took a pitcher of iced tea from the fridge and set it on the kitchen table, next to the bag of books. “Ruth told me.”

“I feel really bad about not making her feel more welcome. It was nothing about her. She seems very nice. It was all about me. My fears. My insecurities.”

Bobby put two glasses on the table and poured them both a drink. “I'm sure she understands she did nothing wrong.”

“I hope so. And I so hope we—Hannah, Adam, and I—haven't put her off Dad entirely. Craig, of course, was nice to her. I wanted to apologize to her but she was gone before I had the chance.”

They sat at the table. After a moment, Bobby said: “Things will work out if they're meant to.”

“Yes,” Tilda said. But she wasn't sure she believed that. So, she and Frank had not been meant to grow old together? Who had ordained such a horrible thing?

It was as if Bobby had read her mind. He looked at her and then up at a framed print on the kitchen wall. It was a copy of a van Gogh painting. “You don't know this, Matilda,” he said, “but I lost my wife. It was a car accident that did it. Your aunt and your father are the only ones outside of my family who know the truth. And now, you know. And some old-timers, who remember when it happened. But they don't talk about it. There's no point in talking.” Bobby looked back at her. His gaze was steady.

Tilda felt tears prick at her eyes but rapidly blinked them away. “I'm so sorry, Bobby,” she said.

“It was a long time ago.”

“What was her name?”

“Janet.”

“It's a pretty name.”

“I want you to listen to something, Matilda.” Bobby began to quote something, a prayer or a mantra, Tilda thought. The words were vaguely familiar.

“That's beautiful, Bobby,” Tilda said, truthfully. “Who wrote it?”

“A thirteenth-century woman. Dame Julian of Norwich.”

“Of course. I thought it sounded familiar. I must have come across it in college, medieval literature or history. But I'd almost completely forgotten it.”

“It's deceptively simple, that prayer. It bears repeating. It might do you some good. Or not.”

“Thanks, Bobby,” she said. “I'll try to keep it in mind. Really.”

Tilda got up from the table and Bobby followed her to the front door.

“Thank your aunt for the books,” he said.

Tilda promised that she would and got into her car. She was profoundly grateful for Bobby's presence in her life.

 

Hannah was in the library. She was paging through an old family photograph album. This one chronicled about two years of the McQueens' life. Adam looked about ten, which meant that Tilda was about seven, Hannah about four. Yes, and there was Craig, appearing about midway through the book as an infant. But after that…Hannah paged to the end of the album. There were very few pictures of Craig. There weren't all that many of Hannah, either, at least not compared to those of Tilda and Adam. But maybe that was normal, just the way things went in large families. The thrill of yet another new baby simply wore off. The first baby is a miracle. The second baby makes a cute sidekick. The third child was extraneous. The fourth child was redundant.

Still, Hannah remembered a happy childhood. Look, the photographs proved something. There she was smiling, laughing, blowing out birthday candles, soaring down a slide in the playground. She certainly didn't look emotionally deprived or neglected. And maybe she really hadn't been, not in the early years. Maybe her perception of her mother's relative indifference to her third child had come only later, when Hannah's awareness of herself as a real person, an individual, took hold. Adolescence. Yes, that was probably about the time that things changed in her relationship with her mother. At least, that was when she became aware that her relationship with her mother was not what it could have been. It was not what Hannah needed or wanted it to be.

Was that why she had loved babysitting? Had babysitting given her an opportunity, no matter how limited, to give to another child what she, herself, had wanted so badly? Maybe. She thought now about what Susan had said about her own close family, how they never fought, how they hugged and kissed when they met and departed, how they loved their parents. Maybe truly happy families were real, after all.

Hannah looked up to see Craig enter the library. She noted immediately that his shirt was tucked into his pants and that he was wearing a belt. In place of his usual worn leather sandals (which he wore until Thanksgiving or so) he was wearing decent brown loafers with socks.
Where the hell did he get the loafers?
she wondered. They were easily circa 1980.

“Where have you been?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Nowhere special.”

She didn't believe him. “You're lying. Or being elusive.”

“I don't lie. Not when I don't absolutely have to. Not when it's not a social obligation.”

“Okay. But you're up to something, that's clear.”

“You have a suspicious mind, Hannah Banana.”

He went over to a section of the large bookcases and began to scan the rows of books.

“What are you looking for?”

“Nothing.”

“Mr. Evasive today!”

“Sorry. I was wondering if we had a—a book about bees.”

Another lie. “I have no idea. But if you come over here I'll show you a very cute picture of you when you were just a few months old.”

“Strolling down memory lane?” he asked, joining her.

“More like stumbling. Look.”

Craig bent to look over his sister's shoulder. It was a picture of Tilda, age seven, sitting on a couch, and holding baby Craig on her lap. She was smiling into the camera. His eyes shifted to the facing page of the album. There was a similar picture, though in this one it was Hannah holding her new brother.

“Let me see something,” he said. He flipped back through the earlier pages, and then forward, to the end of the book.

“What are you looking for?” Hannah asked.

“There's not one picture of me with Mom,” he said.

“Oh.”

“Not that I'm surprised.” Craig straightened up. “Well,” he said, “guess I better get out of these clothes. I promised myself I'd clean out the garage today.”

“Okay,” Hannah said. Craig left the library. She felt awful for her brother. Charlotte had not been particularly fond of her younger daughter, but she really had virtually ignored her younger son. And Hannah had had to go and remind Craig of that! Hannah shut the photo album and put it away.