The Family Beach House (8 page)

“You're right.” Hannah stood and stretched. “Let's get going. I want to call my office when we get back to the house. Just to check in.”

It was on the drive back home to Larchmere that the thought first occurred to Tilda. She didn't know why she had not seen the parallel before. It was so obvious. Max de Winter had tried to make the death of his wife look like a boating accident. Tilda's own mother, Charlotte, had died in a boating accident. Or, at least, because of an accident that took place on a boat. Tilda refused to believe that her mother had been anywhere near as horrible and manipulative as the character of Rebecca, but…She wondered. Was Charlotte McQueen the abiding—the controlling?—spirit of Larchmere? And if she was, that meant that each of the McQueens' feelings about the house was to some extent colored by the relationship they had had with Charlotte.

Tilda shook her head. These were fanciful thoughts. They were pointless, really. But there was that gothic streak (good-humored Frank had said a morbid streak) again. Still, Tilda was curious. Was Charlotte McQueen indeed the presiding spirit of Larchmere?

Adam and Kat had gone up to Kennebunkport to have dinner with one of his colleagues who was vacationing there with his wife. He had not asked that the family watch his children. He had simply announced that he would not be around all evening. Ruth had made Cordelia and Cody hot dogs and beans for dinner. They had asked for seconds and then clamored for ice cream, which Ruth also gave them. Ice cream with chocolate sauce. Then, she settled them in front of the big, flat screen television in the living room and put on one of the loud and cartoonish animated movies they had brought with them. Situation dealt with, problem solved. If Adam wanted his kids to eat organic, then he should stay home and feed them himself.

Dinner then was Bill, Ruth, Craig, Tilda, Hannah, and Susan. Percy, as usual, was lumped on the sideboard, eyes wide. Susan had taken a turn in the kitchen and prepared for them a chicken dish flavored with lime and cilantro. (She had cooked a piece of plain chicken for Percy, who had accepted it as his due.) There was no further talk of Charlotte's memorial or party, except when Bill mentioned that Carol Whitehouse, the woman who had been with Charlotte in the sailboat on that fateful day, had called to say she could not be there for the events. Her daughter-in-law was in the hospital and Carol was going down to stay with her grandchildren in New Hampshire while her son went to work.

Tilda thought of the kind of grandmother Charlotte had been to her children. It had been pretty clear to everyone that Charlotte favored Jon over Jane, maybe because he was the firstborn, maybe because he was a boy. Whatever the reason, her mother's obvious preference for one child over another had bothered Tilda, though as far as she could tell, it had not affected Jane in a negative way. Charlotte McQueen had been good about buying gifts and sending cards on holidays. And she had been fairly tolerant of having Jon and Jane underfoot during their visits to Larchmere. But, and Tilda felt almost disloyal remembering this, she had not been very willing to visit the children in their South Portland home. She had never offered to babysit, even for a night. Tilda had never felt comfortable asking her.

Of course, Charlotte had never known Adam's children, as she had died before they were born. Would she have been closer to her son's progeny? It was impossible to know. And how would she have felt about Hannah and Susan's children, assuming they had any someday?

After putting the kids to bed, Ruth went to her room, claiming exhaustion. In fact, she was eager to get back to the book she had started reading earlier that day, a shamelessly sexy novel by a new young writer who claimed to have worked as a high-class call girl. Susan, who had brought along her laptop because she had a project deadline looming, went off to the room she was sharing with Hannah to work. Plus, although she would never admit it, not even to Hannah, she was a big fan of InStyle.com and wanted to check the Look of the Day.

Tilda, Hannah, and Craig were in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher and scrubbing pots, when Jennifer came by. Tilda was acutely aware of her own rather messy appearance after a long day in the sun and kitchen cleanup. Jennifer, in contrast, looked rested and fresh; her beige blouse was crisp and unwrinkled and her hair was neat. A quick and hopefully furtive glance at Jennifer's feet indicated that she had had a pedicure recently, maybe even earlier that day. Her gold tone sandals looked expensive. Tilda wondered if Jennifer owned a pair of baggy jeans or ratty sneakers. She chided herself for being snippy and jealous, even if it was just in her head. Thoughts were real, too, in their way.

Jennifer and Bill went into the library to play chess. Tilda had never mastered games and puzzles. She couldn't play chess, couldn't remember how to play checkers, didn't play cards. While she could handle a word search, crosswords left her stumped.

“I'm glad Dad has someone to play chess with,” Hannah was saying, bending down to replace a pot in its proper cabinet. “He never did find a chess partner after Mom died, did he?”

Craig shook his head. “Not that I know of. I do know he plays against himself but that has to get boring. I know that he and Bobby used to play poker. There was a whole group of guys who would play. They'd move from house to house, Larchmere one month, someone else's the next.”

“That's right,” Tilda said. “I remember now. Mom would put out chips and dip for the guys.”

Hannah looked to Craig. “The other wives put out sandwiches and cold slaw and Maine shrimp salad.”

“And desserts,” Craig said. “I remember Dad telling me that Teddy's wife made the best blueberry cobbler he'd ever tasted.”

“Even Bobby, who's not exactly Mr. Domestic, put out a good spread.”

Tilda frowned. “What are you saying? That Mom was cheap?”

“No. I'm saying that Mom didn't really care about Dad's poker nights. She didn't want all those men in the house. Obviously, she thought that chips and dip would deter them. But they came, anyway.”

“Because Dad would bring out the good scotch when she went up to bed!” Craig added. “He knew how to treat his guests, even if Mom didn't.”

Tilda felt uncomfortable. She knew that memory was unique to each individual, that time and psyche tended to distort what had occurred into what you wanted or needed to think had occurred. Siblings who grew up under the same roof each grew up in a different family. She knew that.

Still, it bothered her when Hannah and Craig said disparaging or critical things about their mother, even if for them, these disparaging or critical comments described the truth. But Tilda's truth about her mother was different. At least, it was partly different. Adam's truth was different, too.

“How about a nightcap?” Hannah suggested.

“Sounds good,” Craig said. “Let's go out onto the porch. It's chilly. I could make us Irish coffees?”

“Perfect!”

Tilda chose not to join her sister and brother. Instead, she went upstairs to her room and sat again at the chair she had drawn to the window the other evening. She could hear Hannah's voice, and Craig's, but just barely, as a murmur. Then, Craig laughed and Hannah hushed him.

She wondered if this was the first time she had really listened to her siblings talk about their mother. She felt as if so much of what she was hearing this week was new. Charlotte hadn't liked her father's poker games or his buddies. Why hadn't she known that? She was older than Hannah and Craig. She should have been more aware of family dynamics. She wondered if she was the only one who cherished good memories of Charlotte McQueen. She wondered what Adam would have added to that conversation in the kitchen.

Tilda sighed and decided that she didn't really want to know. She closed the window to block out the sound of her siblings' voices.

Thursday, July 19

Tilda was on the beach. It was a little later than she liked to walk but Jon had called that morning to say that the air conditioner that serviced most of the downstairs, the kitchen and living room at least, was on the fritz. He wanted permission to call the repair guy, which, he knew, would cost money. “I'd fix it myself if I could,” he had said, “but I'm not Dad.”

Nobody is Frank O'Connell,
Tilda thought now.
Not even Frank O'Connell is Frank O'Connell anymore.

She remembered how horrible it had been when Frank was finally gone and the simple yet devastating realization hit home—that never again would Frank's hand touch hers. The loss of his physical body and of their long habit of living together in all its physicality just struck her down. While he was dying their physical relationship had altered, of course, but his being entirely gone was a tremendous blow. No one told her how deep and meaningful the affection for the parts of a loved one's body could be, so that when the loved one was gone, you would ache to see just once more the shape of his fingernails, the pattern of hair on his wrist, the freckles on his nose, all the little things that made the loved one utterly and entirely unique. All of these peculiarities would be gone and it would hurt so badly at times, the missing.

“‘Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”'” Tilda said the words aloud. There was no one to hear but the seagulls. The line was from Edgar Allan Poe's most popular poem. Almost everybody knew “The Raven” but how many people knew, as the poem's narrator did, just how deep grief and loss could take you?

It was simply all over. Frank was dead. There were no ifs, ands, or buts, no second chances, no do-overs. If only she could say: No, I didn't like the way this turned out, it isn't fair, let's start again.

Tilda suddenly remembered something else she had read, something else that had stuck in her head. It was from
Kafka Was the Rage,
Anatole Broyard's memoir of his years in Greenwich Village. In one chapter he talked about the early death of a good friend. About receiving the bad news of his friend's illness, he had said: “We never believe such things until they're over.” Tilda had found that observation to be stunningly true, at least in her case. You knew it was going to happen. And then, it happened and you were surprised, as if you had had no clue.

But it was time to get over the surprise and the shock and the sadness. She didn't want, like Poe's narrator, to be mired in—to use Poe's own words—“Mournful and Never-ending Remembrance.” She was not interested in torturing herself by obsessing over her loss. She was not. But healing was hard. Moving on was a process fraught with controversy. She had graduated from the grief-counseling sessions, she had been to see a therapist, she had tried the antidepressants the doctor had given her, and she had flushed them down the toilet when nothing much changed.

What was the next step, then, in recovery? If only someone would tell her exactly what to do!

She scanned the sky over the beach before heading up to the parking lot. It was empty, except for two whirling, cawing seagulls.

She would call her son as soon as she got back to Larchmere. She hoped he had been able to book the repair guy. She hoped the bill wouldn't be outrageous. She was not good at arguing with repairmen. That had been Frank's job.

 

It was late morning, around eleven o'clock, and Tilda was in the sunroom. Lots of people found it the most pleasant room in the house, as, perhaps, it was meant to be. The floor was made of old, rescued pine boards, sanded and painted a gentle gray. The walls were white. A long, low table against the back wall had been painted robin's egg blue, as had the trim around the large windows. The furniture—a couch, several chairs, and two small occasional tables—were suited for life by the beach. The cushions were upholstered in heavy linen, striped navy and white. On the back wall and between the windows were hung simple watercolor prints depicting various kinds of seabirds. It was a restful, clean room.

Tilda was sitting on the couch, trying to focus on the novel in her hands. It was
The Sea, The Sea,
by Iris Murdoch. But even though the book was one of her favorites, and Iris Murdoch one of her favorite writers, her thoughts kept slipping away to dark places, to loss and loneliness and petty jealousy and the outrageous cost of air-conditioning repair bills. She sighed loudly, surprised that she had done so.

Hannah, who was seated on a chair, and who had been flipping through a local paper, looked up at her sister. “You okay?”

“Yes. Sorry.”

“In a bad mood?”

“Not bad, exactly. More like a grim mood.”

The sudden appearance of Adam and Kat prevented further conversation on the topic of Tilda's mood. Kat was wearing another halter top, this one a blue paisley print, and a pair of tight, white shorts. The day was cool (though the sunroom was warm) and Tilda had a not very nice urge to suggest that Kat put on a sweater and long pants, preferably something bulky. The sight of so much young, firm flesh made her feel grumpy. Poor Kat. She was innocent of everything but youth.

It seemed that Adam and Kat were in the middle of a conversation, because Adam now said, as he sat in the cushioned chair next to Hannah's, “Larchmere is a perfect party venue. It was practically designed for weddings.”

Tilda wasn't sure about that but she was sure—or almost sure—that her brother wanted to have his second wedding at Larchmere because it would be a good way to flaunt the family's prestige and his own wealth to the locals, as well as to his new bride and her family. It wasn't a nice thing to think about her brother, but the truth was that Tilda didn't much care for Adam. She never really had, and since his, in Tilda's opinion, senseless, utterly selfish divorce from Sarah, her dislike for her older brother had grown. Her own marriage had been strong and now that Frank was dead she found herself even more committed to the idea of a lifelong union. She did not want to be judgmental but when it came to Adam she found it hard not to be.

“We could have a tent, do the whole thing outdoors,” Adam went on. “And we could clear the furniture out of the living and dining rooms in case of rain. I know several excellent caterers. As for the flowers, I know this guy in Boston who does fabulously exotic stuff. Leave it all to me.”

Kat shot a shy and nervous glance at Tilda, who was staring at her book, pretending not to listen. “I'm sure it would be very nice, Adam,” she said, her tone tentative, “but I've always dreamed of a wedding in my hometown. You know, so my parents could invite some of our neighbors and my relatives who are too old now to travel and—”

“Framingham is a dump compared to Ogunquit, you know that, Kat.”

“Don't be mean, Adam,” Hannah said. “It is not a dump. Besides, I agree with Kat. A hometown wedding is a nice idea.”

Tilda looked up now; there was no point in pretending that the conversation was a private one. Kat looked tense, as if Hannah's support had made her uncomfortable.

Adam frowned. “It's not your wedding we're discussing.”

“It's okay,” Kat said suddenly. “If Adam really wants us to get married here, that's fine. Ogunquit isn't that far from home.”

“Our brother is Bridezilla,” Hannah commented sotto voce, though she was pretty sure Adam had heard.

Kat finally sat, and reached to the closest table for a magazine. It was an old copy of
Living.
She began to flip through it but Tilda doubted she was really interested in Christmas cookie recipes and directions on how to make your own wrapping paper. Was anybody interested in making her own wrapping paper, especially when you could get it in discount bulk at the supermarket?

Cordelia appeared in the doorway of the sunroom, Cody in tow. Ruth was just behind them, carrying a cup of coffee. “Dad?” Cordelia said.

“Hmmm.”

“Me and Cody want to go to the beach now.”

“Cody and I,” Ruth corrected.

“In a minute.” Adam tapped Kat's arm. “Cordelia will make a perfect flower girl. Cody will be ring bearer, of course.”

Kat opened her mouth as if to protest—What if, Tilda thought, she had her own nieces and nephews? What if she didn't want a lot of attendants?—when Cody wailed, “What's a ring bearer?”

Adam explained.

Cody stamped his foot. “I don't wanna be a stupid ring bearer. Everyone's gonna laugh at me.”

Adam stared sternly at his son. “You'll do as I say, young man.”

Cody's face went slack and his lips quivered. Cordelia said, dubiously, “A flower girl? Does that mean I have to wear one of those dorky gowns in some gross color?”

Ruth stepped past the children. “This is not the time, Adam,” she said quietly.

“I'll say when it's time to talk to my kids,” he replied angrily. “What do you know about being a parent?”

Ruth let him wait a moment before saying: “I know about common sense.”

Tilda looked at Kat. Her eyes were on the magazine page again and her cheeks were flushed. Tilda felt sorry for her. But she also felt that Kat should learn to speak up for herself before it was far too late.

Ruth turned back to the children. “Get your bathing suits, kids. I'll take you to the beach.”

 

Jennifer arrived for lunch at a little after one o'clock. Tilda had not known she was coming. She had brought with her—after checking first with Ruth, it turned out—a large bowl of crabmeat salad. Ruth had prepared salad greens and together the women assembled a platter of food and put it out on the kitchen bar top.

Cordelia and Cody had eaten sandwiches in the sunroom and were now watching a movie until someone would take them back to the beach. Tilda was hungry but she wanted to refuse Jennifer's offering of food. She wanted to go off alone. But she stayed in the kitchen, annoyed and guilty, and ate some of the crabmeat salad, which was very good, very crabby, with a pinch of Old Bay seasoning and not too much mayonnaise. She wanted to hate it. She fought against the desire for more.

“The crab salad is very good,” she blurted. “Thanks.”

Jennifer smiled. “It's my mother's recipe. It's very simple but it's a crowd pleaser.”

“Jennifer is a wonderful cook,” Bill said proudly.

Hannah, perched on a counter out of easy sight, made a face. Susan frowned at her.

“Well, I wouldn't say I'm a wonderful cook,” Jennifer demurred. “I do some things well.”

Adam and Kat came into the kitchen.

“Adam, do you want any salad?” Bill asked.

He looked disdainfully at the half-empty platter. “Kat and I already ate.”

The sudden puzzled—and hungry—look on Kat's face told Tilda that Adam was lying.

“Hey, nobody told me it was time for lunch! Hey, Jen. Nice to see you again.” Craig came loping into the kitchen, squeezed Jennifer's arm in passing, then reached for a plate. After taking a bite, he exclaimed, “Whoa! Excellent crab salad. Who made this?”

Adam rolled his eyes. Hannah made another face. This time Ruth caught them both and frowned, along with Susan. Tilda reached for her water glass. Bill was oblivious to the tensions.

The awkward meal was soon over. Ruth disappeared without an explanation. Jennifer left, empty bowl with her, claiming a meeting with a client in Cape Neddick.

When she had gone, Craig turned to his brother. “Really, dude, what would it cost you to be a human being? Just once. You stood there like there was a pole stuck—”

“So, what do you kids think of Jennifer?” Bill had returned from seeing his girlfriend out.

“She's great, Dad,” Craig said quickly, almost as if he were defying the others to contradict him.

“Yes, she is,” Bill said. “I'm a lucky man to have met her.”

There was a silence that Tilda—and probably others—found hugely uncomfortable. Susan looked grim.

Finally, Hannah spoke. “I wish you'd told me, told us, earlier about this…relationship, Dad.”

“Why?” Her father sounded perplexed.

“Well, no reason,” she said lamely. “Just that it would have been nice to know about something so important to you.”

“I'm sorry, honey. I certainly didn't mean to hurt your feelings.” Bill was genuinely contrite. He hated to cause his younger daughter any pain. Come to that, he didn't like to cause anyone pain, though in his business he had known some people who did.

“It's okay, Dad,” she said. “But promise that if something else big happens in your life you let me—us—know right away. Okay?”

“Sure,” he said. “It's a promise.”

“You are being cautious though, Dad, aren't you?” Tilda asked then. “How long have you known Jennifer?”

“Long enough.” Bill's tone brooked no argument. “We were on the zoning board together for a few years when she still lived in town. She's a lovely person. I might be old but I'm still a competent judge of character.”

“What were the circumstances of her divorce?” Tilda pressed. “I mean, did she initiate the divorce or did her husband? Was it a case of infidelity?”

Craig said dryly, “Enquiring minds want to know.”

“I don't see that Jennifer's divorce is any of your business, Tilda. Really, it's not even my business. What she's told me she's told me of her own free will. I simply don't press her for details.”

There didn't seem to be anything more to say, not at the moment. Hannah and Susan left to take a drive. Craig said he was meeting a friend in Old Orchard Beach. Tilda went off to try once again to do some reading. Kat, who had grabbed a carton of yogurt once Jennifer was gone, now dropped it in the recycling bin in the corner and went off.

Adam remained behind in the kitchen with his father. When Bill made to leave the room, Adam detained him. “Wait, Dad,” he said. “We need to talk. I'm not happy about this turn of events.”