The Beach House (29 page)

“I know, but she always wants more. It’s never enough, and this stealing is a cry for help. Richard, we wouldn’t be responsible if we didn’t get her some help.”

There was a long silence as Richard tried to digest what she was saying, for some of it made sense. He adored his daughter, loved her more than anything in the world, but it was true that sometimes he didn’t understand her. He tried so hard to listen to her, to validate her, to allow her to be herself without judging her—all the things that he never had when he was a child—and yet she still seemed to be in such pain, and at moments like this he felt like a terrible parent, utterly helpless.

“I’ll think about it,” he said finally, looking up and meeting Carrie’s eyes.

“Thank you,” she said, and she reached across the table and squeezed his hand.

Sometimes it’s enough, she realized, just to be heard.

Jess was crouched outside the kitchen door, listening to every word. She hated Carrie at that moment, hated her father, wished she could turn the clock back to when her mother and father were married and everything made sense.

She quietly went back upstairs into the master bedroom and called her mother, and, as she dialed, the tears started to fall. Living here wasn’t what she’d expected, not now that Carrie had ruined it, and for the first time in a long while she wanted to be away from her father.

If he and Carrie were going to reject her, she was going to reject them first.

“Mommy?” Her tears were genuine when she heard her mother’s voice. “I want to be with you.”

Richard agreed to send Jessica to Nantucket. Perhaps it would do her good, he thought; get her away from the bad influences here. Jessica must have been influenced by a friend to steal, would never have thought of this herself, despite what Carrie thinks.

And a girl needs her mother, he had realized. He had thought this might be an ideal opportunity for Jess and Carrie to bond, and even though there were times when they seemed to get on amazingly, when Jess truly wanted to be with Carrie, ultimately she wasn’t her mother and never would be. Richard was almost grateful that Jessica asked to leave. He felt like he’d been on an emotional roller coaster ever since Jess had moved in. He needed a break, needed to think about something other than his troubled teenage daughter for a change. Let Daff deal with it for now.

Daff is ready for Jess, but worried about what’s going on in her daughter’s life. She has missed her, of course, but hasn’t pined for her in the way that other women she knows talk about pining for their children on the rare occasions they have some time off.

It is a fallacy, she thinks, that all mothers ache for their children when they are not with them. It is guilt that makes them say that, a fear that they are not good enough mothers if they are not thinking about their children twenty-four hours a day.

Daff thinks about Jess. Often. But she has also loved being seen as a woman, as an individual, as something other than a
mother.
She has loved that she has got to know new people, created a world out here in Nantucket where she is someone other than a dowdy suburban housewife and mom.

This evening she was a temptress, for God’s sake! Remember that kiss! She shivers, wishing it had led to more, but the spell was broken with Jess’s phone call. Even though she stayed, once she had finished talking to Richard, and asked Michael what was the matter, wanting to check he was okay, her mind was focused on Jess, and they had decided to call it a night, to talk about it another time.

There was also Mark Stephenson to think about and his strange offer. She didn’t want to consider it, knew it was underhanded, deceitful; she could never do that to Nan, or Michael. But it was such a lot of money—it would set her up for life, would afford her a freedom she has only been able to dream about since her divorce.

For working in real estate these days is hard. And getting harder. It wasn’t like the good old days when everything was overpriced and running out through the door, bidding wars were commonplace, realtors making a fortune.

Almost every middle-aged woman she knows in town, who decided to go back to work after raising her children, is a realtor. Every week it seems yet another one has joined the fray, got her license, turned up at one of the hundreds of open houses, each one of which now offers bigger and better lunches in a bid to attract the realtors.

There is so much inventory. The builders who thought the boom was going to last forever are still building the huge new houses, only now the houses are sitting for months, sometimes years, their prices dropping dramatically until the builders either go into foreclosure, or sell them at a loss.

It is getting harder and harder to survive as a realtor in her town. Even the people who are supposed to be the best—Marie Hathaway and her team, four stunning blondes who regularly take the back page of the local paper and are known for having the highest-end houses in town—aren’t doing so well. Once she has paid all her marketing expenses—those full-page ads and monthly flyers may be good for exposure but don’t come cheap—
and
paid her team, Daff has heard that what’s left in the pot isn’t nearly as much as Marie leads everyone to believe.

When Daff and Richard were married, she never worried about money. She did the odd job here and there—she was a professional organizer for a while, painted Christmas cards and had house sales—and what little money she earned was bonus money, a little extra to enable her to buy a cute pair of boots she saw, stay in a better class of hotel when they went away, buy Jess the latest pair of Uggs that she absolutely had to have because everyone in her class had them.

If she had a quiet period while she was married, it was just a quiet period. It didn’t hold the weight it holds now. For while Richard pays both alimony and child support, she has been left with the mortgage and the bills, and the little that Richard pays isn’t nearly enough to assuage her fears about her future.

Her dream is to have enough money to put some away every month, build up a nest egg so she knows she can relax, knows that she will always be okay.

She dreads being in a position where she may have to sell her house. This is the house Jess was born in, and where else would she go? To some extent she understands Nan, why she won’t leave Windermere, and yet it is worth millions. Nan may worry on a day-to-day basis, but she has a choice, and selling this house would make her a very wealthy woman.

Not to mention what it would do to Daff. Millions for Nan, and maybe a couple of hundred thousand for Daff, enough to set up the nest egg, enough to feel that she could breathe.

What if she talked to Nan, showed her perhaps just a different way of looking at things? Daff couldn’t, obviously, make Nan do something she doesn’t want to do, but she could perhaps steer Nan in a different direction, and would it really be so terrible to make Nan a wealthy woman?

She wouldn’t have to deal with drafty windows and disappearing shingles anymore. She could have a beautiful cottage on the beach, with more than enough money so she would never have to worry about anything ever again.

Daff continues to sip her tea, trying to convince herself that persuading Nan to sell the house would not be so awful after all.

Nan wakes up, cold and shivery. She pads out of bed and goes to the closet, dropping her wet nightgown in a puddle around her feet and pulling on a fresh, dry gown, instantly feeling warm.

She pushes the covers back on the other side of the bed, the side she still thinks of as Everett’s side, and as she climbs in her dream suddenly comes back to her.

How strange, she realizes. She had dreamed of Everett. When he died, she had dreamed of him often at first, the dreams so vivid, so real, she remained convinced he was somehow watching her from above, able to visit her only when she was asleep, to reassure her that both of them would be okay.

She hasn’t dreamed of him in years, but now she remembers the dream she had of him tonight. She had been visiting the Nantucket Lightship, curious to see it since it had been turned into, first, a luxury home, and now a luxury hotel.

In truth, Nan has read magazine articles about the lightship, has seen how beautifully it has been decorated, the wood paneling, the understated elegance of the formal living and dining rooms, but in her dream it was garish, with loud colors, nothing matching, bright oranges and greens, colors designed to agitate.

She wound her way through the bedrooms in her dream, knowing she was about to find something, just not sure what it would be, when she came across a smiling man, lying on a top bunk.

“Hello, Everett,” she said, feeling at once calm, safe, and not the slightest bit surprised to see him, even though this Everett looked nothing like her Everett. Despite that, she knew it was him.

“Hello, Nan,” he said, and he threw back the covers, inviting her to join him in the bunk, except it wasn’t lascivious, it wasn’t sexual, it was inviting her home, and she climbed in, surprised only that the sheets were not warm and dry, but grateful to have found Everett again. And then she woke up, in a cold sweat.

Now she finds she cannot go back to sleep. The dream has unsettled her and Jordana’s appearance has unsettled her, not because she knows anything about Jordana, but because she saw Michael out on the terrace, and senses that something big has happened, that changes are afoot and they are not necessarily good.

Isn’t it ironic, she thinks, just when you think your life is smooth and everything is exactly as you want it, a wrench is thrown in the works and everything changes again. Bee will be back with her father soon, those delicious little girls will be leaving, and in their place Daff’s daughter will be here.

And this Jordana, who is so clearly in love with Michael, is so clearly wrong for him. What is she doing here, and why is she here just as Daff and Michael seem to be getting so close?

It feels as if an ill wind has suddenly started to blow through the house. Try as she might, Nan can’t still herself enough to go back to sleep.

She lies in bed, thinking, until the sky starts to lighten outside her window, then she gets up, makes herself some tea, and walks down to the beach, breathing in the salty air and, finally, down there, starting to feel a sense of peace.

Daniel checks his piece of paper to make sure he has the number right, then pulls up into the narrow driveway next to the house. There are people here already—his is the third car there, and as he approaches the front door he can see into the living room where people are congregating, glasses of champagne in hand.

“Daniel! You made it!” Matt opens the door and ushers him in. “I’m so pleased you’re here. Come and meet everyone.” Daniel walks awkwardly into the living room, suddenly feeling apprehensive for there are only men in here, and, unlike when he went to the Maple Bar, this is the first time Daniel has ever been in an environment where everyone, including himself, is openly gay.

“I’m sorry I didn’t make it to Jack’s party,” Daniel says. “I heard it was good.”

“I’m sorry you didn’t make it too. It was fine. For me it was more about chatting up clients and making sure I stayed sober and didn’t say anything to upset anyone,” Matt says. “Champagne?”

“I’d love some.”

“Daniel, this is Keith.” A small man with trendy glasses smiles warmly and shakes Daniel’s hand.

“You must be new to the island,” he says.

“Relatively. I’m just here for part of the summer. I’m renting a room out in Sconset.”

“He’s in Nan Powell’s place.” Matt places a hand on Daniel’s back as he talks, and Daniel is surprised at how natural it feels, how nice. “Remember?”

“Oh God!” Keith’s eyes light up. “You have to meet my partner, Stephen. He’s been in love with that house for years.”

“Which house?” A much older man, with twinkling eyes and almost laughably preppy in pink chinos, a green polo and a blue cashmere cable sweater over his shoulders, strolls over.

“Nan Powell’s,” Keith says. “Daniel’s renting there for a few weeks.” He turns back to Daniel. “Stephen’s an architect and every time he’s been interviewed he says that the Powell house is the one he’d most like to get his hands on.”

“It’s a wonderful house,” Daniel says. “Is all your architecture residential?”

“Stephen specializes in authentic historic renovations,” Keith says, his chest visibly puffing up with pride. “Although he’s done some commercial work in town.”

“And Keith, as you see, specializes in being Stephen’s partner, spokesman and chief PR,” Matt explains, and the others laugh.

“Sorry, sorry.” Keith and Stephen exchange a look filled with fondness as Keith laughingly apologizes. “I’m just so proud of him. I’m going off to get a refill. Anyone else?” They shake their heads.

“Have you been inside the house?” Daniel asks. “Do you know Nan?”

“No and no,” Stephen says. “I’ve heard she’s a character.”

Matt interjects. “She is, but in the best possible way. I don’t think she’s nearly as eccentric as people believe. I think she’s cultivated this persona so she can get away with things.”

“I agree entirely.” Daniel nods. “She’s actually frighteningly normal.”

“Frightening being the operative word?”

“No.” Daniel laughs. “You should come over sometime and meet her. She adores visitors. Come and see the house.”

“I really would love that,” Stephen says, before Matt steers Daniel over to meet the rest of the people in the room.

“I apologize for Keith,” Matt whispers, as they walk. “They’ve been together forever and Keith still treats Stephen like a child sometimes, even though Keith’s twenty years younger.”

“How long have they been together?”

“I think this year is their eighteenth anniversary.”

This year would have been his sixth anniversary with Bee. How odd to think that he could have been Keith, could have been happily with someone for all those years, not having to pretend to be someone, or something, he is not.