The Beach House (15 page)

“Probably, but I won’t. It won’t be official, but how could I possibly have people living in the bedrooms and not give them breakfast at least? I won’t advertise as such, and I know we’ve put coffee machines in each of their bedrooms, but, my dear, I’d feel guilty if I didn’t feed them. And just imagine what fun it will be, all my tenants sitting around the kitchen table. It will be like old times.”

“I don’t know that everyone will necessarily want breakfast,” Sarah says. “You may not even want them sitting around the table. You may not like them.”

“Ha! True!” barks Nan with a grin. “But I’m usually pretty good at sizing people up and I won’t let anyone in that I don’t like.”

“But if we advertise online, you won’t be able to meet them. You’ll just have to take them in good faith.”

“I can tell on the phone,” Nan says. “Did I ever tell you about George?”

“George?” Sarah shakes her head.

Nan sighs and sits down, lighting up a cigarette with a dreamy smile. “George was the first man I fell in love with after Everett died.”

“He was? How come you never mentioned him!” Sarah sits down opposite, wishing she still smoked.

“Sometimes I think it’s easier not to think about the what if’s,” Nan says sadly. “What if I had agreed to move to London with him, leave Windermere? What if I had known he would meet someone else a few months later and marry her?” She sighs.

“But I met him on the phone,” she continues. “He was an old school friend of Everett’s, from Middlesex, and he phoned to pay his respects when he was summering on the island one year. Well, I knew from the minute he said hello that I would fall in love with this man, and do you know, he came up to the house for a drink that night, and I did! I swear, I took one look and fell head over heels in love.”

“And?”

Nan smiles at the memory. “And we spent a blissful summer together. I was in such a fog after Everett died, and didn’t think I would ever find anyone, wasn’t looking to find anyone, and then lovely George came into my life, and even though it wasn’t forever, it made me see that I could be happy again, that Everett’s death wasn’t the end of the world by any stretch. Although by that time I was still struggling to get out of the mess Everett left me in.”

“I don’t understand.” Sarah shakes her head. “If you were happy together why didn’t it last?”

“George was my bridge from grief to living again. I think I knew that it was this perfect bubble that wouldn’t continue, and then he got a job in London. Goodness, it sounded so glamorous, but Michael was so little and I didn’t want to uproot him or disrupt his life any further, and we promised we’d stay in touch.” Nan stubs out her cigarette before continuing.

“I did think he’d come back for me, though,” she says wistfully. “And then I received an invitation to his wedding. Millicent Booth Eden was her name. I sent a lovely crystal decanter, although it may have smashed by the time it crossed the Atlantic, and then we lost touch.”

“Haven’t you ever thought of finding him again?” Sarah says excitedly. “You could probably Google him. You can find anyone. I spend hours Googling people I went to school with, old boyfriends, anyone I can think of.”

“Maybe you could,” Nan says with a smile, snapping back into the present. “George Forbes. From Boston originally, last heard of in London.”

“God, wouldn’t it be lovely if we found him and he was—I don’t know, divorced or widowed or something, and he came back and you fell in love and lived happily ever after.”

Nan smiles widely. “My sweet Sarah, don’t you know that I’m going to live happily ever after anyway?”

Later that afternoon Nan cycles into town, a sheaf of papers tucked into her basket. They have photocopied pictures of the house, pictures of the rooms, the magnificent view from each of the windows.

Rooms to rent for summer in beautiful old Sconset home with water views and direct access to beach. Own bed and bath. Breakfast available on request. Unique opportunity!

She parks her bike on Main Street and pins one of her ads to the board, standing for a while to read about what’s going on in town. Yoga at the children’s beach, she notices, thinking that perhaps she ought to do something to stretch these old bones.

“Nan?” She turns to see Patricia Griffin, another old-timer, rounding the corner and pausing when she spies Nan.

“Hello, Pat.” She smiles. “How are you? How’s Buckley?”

“Oh you know,” Patricia says. “Life goes on as usual. What’s this I hear about you having furniture sales?”

“Just an idea,” Nan says. “Out with the old and in with the new.”

“I heard the developers were circling like vultures.” Patricia laughs.

“They were a bit. Not that I’m selling.”

“Good. It would be a shame to see your house torn down. Did you hear what happened to the Oldinghams?”

“Up at Madaket? No, what happened?”

“Their neighbor persuaded them to sell him their house, offered them a price they couldn’t say no to, apparently, but he vowed he was going to preserve it, he said he wanted an extra house for his children to stay in and he was going to create a compound.”

“And did he?”

“The minute they closed, the bulldozers were in tearing the house down. Three huge mansions are going up now.”

“And what about the Oldinghams?”

“Gone back to the Cape, but isn’t it awful?”

“Well, they won’t be getting their hands on my house if I have anything to do with it.”

Patricia smiles, then catches sight of the board. “What’s this? You’re renting rooms?”

“I am.” Nan stands proud. “It’s too quiet for me these days. I thought what fun to fill the house with people, and I need something to keep me busy.”

“What a good idea,” Patricia says. “Lovely to see you, Nan. We ought to get together. Maybe you’ll finally come and join the gardening club.” And with that she hurries off home to inform her husband that it’s true, Nan Powell is clearly having financial trouble after all.

This afternoon, Daniel does something he has secretly, guiltily, wanted to do for years. His meeting was canceled, and he walked out of the offIce, his cheeks burning, as if his colleagues could look through his eyes and see into his soul, see where he was really going.

He has known about the Maple Bar for years. It’s a gay café and bar in New Haven. He has always been drawn to it, as he has been to so many gay cafés and bars, but has never dared do anything other than drive by, looking wistfully at the blacked-out windows.

He has memorized the address, terrified of even having a gay bar appear on his Google history. He hadn’t used the word gay. Had just put in maple and New Haven, then adding tree after the address came up, figuring he could come up with some story about researching maple trees in the unlikely event this would ever be discovered.

He has done this before, on his computer at home. He has become an expert in wiping out his cache, his history, his cookies, but still has a lingering fear that somehow someone would be able to see that occasionally, when the temptation has grown too great, he has stumbled upon gay sites, has looked at pictures, read stories with desire burning in his eyes.

He puts the address in his GPS, and drives on auto-pilot, not sure of what he will do once he gets there, sure only that he has to go, has to see whether this is real, whether he truly does want this thing that he is about to blow his life up for.

The bar is dark, and quiet. A few men sit or stand by the bar, a handful of others are grouped around a pool table. Music plays, and Daniel walks to the bar, sits down to stop his legs shaking, and immerses himself in the bar menu to avoid making eye contact.

“Hi there.” He looks up into the face of a friendly barman. “Hot out there today, huh?”

Daniel smiles. “I’ve been in an air-conditioned car all afternoon so it hasn’t been so bad.”

“What can I get you?”

“I’ll have a Sam Adams.”

“Coming right up.”

He takes a sip and turns three-quarters on his stool, noticing that in the shadows of the room there is more activity. A couple stand against the wall, making out roughly, before walking through a doorway at the back.

Daniel watches, can’t tear his eyes away, his heart pounding with fear. And excitement.

“Wanna play?” A young, dark-haired man catches his eye and offers a pool cue, and Daniel shrugs.

“I’m not much of a pool player,” he says.

“Me neither,” says the man with a grin, sitting down on the stool next to Daniel. “I’m Mike.”

“Daniel.” They shake hands, and Mike orders a drink. He isn’t fey, or feminine, or butch. He doesn’t have leather chaps, or pierced ears, or a limp handshake. He is a regular guy, jeans and a T-shirt, a friendly smile, short back and sides. He looks exactly like every other guy Daniel knows, and finally he starts to relax.

“So . . .” Daniel says awkwardly. “Are you . . . a regular?”

“You mean, do I come here often?” Mike laughs. “I guess. I live near and, let’s face it, there aren’t exactly dozens of gay bars around here. I haven’t seen you before. Are you here on business?”

“Not exactly. I’ve known about this place for years but I’ve never . . . I just haven’t gotten around to checking it out.”

Mike takes a swig of his beer then smiles. “Married, right?”

Daniel looks down guiltily at his finger. He thought he had taken the ring off. He had.

“I can always tell,” Mike says. “You have the look. Married, with kids I’d say, and very unfamiliar with this.”

“You’re good,” Daniel says eventually with a shrug. “That’s exactly right.”

“We get a lot of marrieds in here,” Mike says. “Usually this is their secret life, the wives have no idea that they’re into men, but I don’t think that’s the case with you.”

“My wife has no idea I’m . . . into men.” The words sound so unfamiliar tripping off his tongue.

“But you look tortured. You want to tell her, right?”

“What are you?” Daniel is amazed. “A psychiatrist or a mind reader?”

“I can be anything you want me to be,” Mike says with a raised eyebrow, and Daniel suddenly realizes that he is flirting with him, and that this might not be as safe as he had assumed.

As Daniel leaves the bar, his mind is lost in thought. Once he’d understood that the flirting was harmless fun, he opened up to Mike, made a second confession, and each time he tells his story, says the words “I’m gay,” it feels more and more natural, more and more right.

“Wanna go into the back room?” Mike had said, after they had been talking for an hour, and Daniel had hesitated. He had wanted to, more than anything in the world, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t be unfaithful to Bee, couldn’t do this to her, nor to himself. It was bad enough that he was unfaithful in his mind. The physical act would be too overwhelming for him right now.

It had taken every ounce of strength he had to say no.

Even now, as he walks to his car, he is tempted, over and over, to turn around, walk back in, allow Mike to take his hand and lead him into the back room.

He makes it to the car, and makes it to the highway, and even though he fights the urge to turn around at every single exit, he finally manages to make it home.

It just doesn’t feel like home anymore.

Lizzie and Stella are staying at a friend’s house, and Bee, who never has a night away from the girls, is setting the table in the dining room for dinner.

She wants tonight to be special, a precursor to their trip, and because she’s a disastrous cook herself she stopped at Garelick & Herb earlier and picked up stuffed chicken breasts, wild rice, various salads—all Daniel’s favorites.

The iPod is plugged in, the music is romantic, and although Bee feels a little self-conscious—the two of them will be slightly lost at their eighteenth-century French refectory table in their formal red dining room—eating in the kitchen as they always do means they’ll sit without talking much, Daniel may start reading the papers halfway through, and the meal will be over in ten minutes.

Bee wants to relax tonight. No children . . . No excuse . . . She wants to light candles, sip wine, and talk to her husband. Really talk to him. She wants to reconnect with him, like they did in Nantucket. She wants it to be romantic. She wants him to remember why they’re together, why they got married. What it means to be in love, for whatever else is going on, she is quite sure he loves her, he just needs help to show it.

“So do you think we ought to book something before we go? I was looking through this magazine and we could charter a boat, go out for a picnic.”

“Sure,” Daniel says, forcing down another mouthful of chicken, his throat having closed up because he doesn’t know how he’s going to do this.

“Daniel, for God’s sake,” Bee says with a sigh, placing her knife and fork down with a clatter. “Could you show a bit of enthusiasm? You agreed to take this house in Nantucket and now you don’t seem to want to go, which, quite frankly, is ruining it for me.”

“It’s not that I’m not enthusiastic.” Daniel lays his own knife and fork down and closes his eyes for a few seconds. He opens them to see Bee looking at him quizzically.

“What is it?” she asks, her voice almost a whisper. “There’s something wrong, isn’t there? Is it . . . me? Is this it? You want to leave?”

She has never asked him that before. Perhaps she has been too scared of the answer, and Daniel, up until very recently, had never thought that this would be the way it happens.

As he looks up and finally meets her eyes, he sees she wants him to say “No, no. Don’t be silly. Of course not.”

But he can’t. Not now. This is it, he realizes. His window of opportunity, which feels frightening, and unreal, but if he doesn’t take it now, he doesn’t know how he can carry on living such a huge lie, a lie that seems to be growing bigger and bigger with every passing hour.