Summer Beach Reads 5-Book Bundle: Beachcombers, Heat Wave, Moon Shell Beach, Summer House, Summer Breeze (57 page)

Margaret’s bedroom had been ransacked by the children. The boys had crammed Margaret’s shoes upside down on her stuffed animals’ heads—they
did
look funny. Her pink duvet was balled up against the wall and the construction paper from her child’s desk had been scattered around the room. Carley would have Margaret help her tidy it.

Cisco’s room was perfection. The boys knew better than to enter Cisco’s room—she was
twelve
. Sometimes, on special days, Cisco allowed Margaret in her room, but Margaret thought the sun shone out of Cisco’s belly button, she treated Cisco’s possessions like religious icons. She could spend hours trying on Cisco’s shoes and sweaters and walking solemnly around the house in them, and she always put them away carefully, because the items were precious.

The master bedroom was tidy, too. Without Gus there to drop his clothes on the floor, his change on the dresser, his books and magazines on the tables, everything was easier to keep neat. At Christmas at her parents’, in a burst of “I’m getting on with my life!” optimism, Carley had treated herself to a new bedspread and matching curtains in a floral pattern that Gus would have hated. Now the room looked luscious, but so feminine. So solitary.

There were three other rooms on the second floor of this spacious old ark. Two of the rooms were kept as guest rooms. One was a playroom, a lifesaver on snowy or rainy days. The children had left it in what Carley liked to consider a creative disorder. Doll carriages and cradles and toy stoves and refrigerators had been upended and piled together to make some kind of ersatz vehicle, no doubt a space ship.

There was also the attic. From its half-moon windows, views of Nantucket Sound glistened and sparkled into the far horizon, compelling the imagination out to foreign fantasies. Antique settees, fabulous old opera cloaks, boxes of china, oil paintings of some rather ugly ancestors, and other souvenirs the Winsteds hadn’t yet decided to have valued, filled the large room, giving it a sense of otherworldliness. The kids loved playing up here. It was a Shangri-La for the imagination.

And it was chock full of all sorts of good stuff for a tag sale.

• • • • •

Sunday morning, Carley brushed Margaret’s hair till it shone like black silk. She allowed her to choose one of her favorite, frilliest dresses. Cisco’s outfit, for once, did not involve either tights or leotard, but rather a plain skirt and top. The older Winsteds always dressed for church and Sunday dinner, and Carley followed their lead. She wore a loose brown cashmere dress, high heels, and family heirloom gold jewelry Annabel had entrusted to her over the years. Out of her regular jeans and tee, she felt like an imposter or a changeling.

After church, Carley and her daughters stood with Annabel and Russell on the sidewalk, chatting with the rector and other members of the congregation. Carley knew her in-laws liked this, liked showing off their pretty, polite little granddaughters. Then, in the weak winter sunshine, they all walked over to the older Winsteds’ house for Sunday dinner. Russell immediately went to the den to watch a news program. The females gathered in the kitchen. Annabel had put a small turkey in to roast early that morning, and the room was warm with delicious odors.

“How can I help?” Carley asked Annabel.

“Just heat up the veggies,” Annabel told her. “I’ll make the gravy.”

“I’ll set the dining room table,” Cisco said cheerfully, tilting her
head to be sure Carley noticed how helpful she was. Carley smiled, and she
was
proud of her daughter, but she would never understand why it was Cisco loved doing chores at her grandparents’ and complained miserably about doing them at home.

Margaret was babbling, as usual. “Robin’s dad built her a
tree-house
! Really, it’s for Robin’s older brother, and we have to wait till Robin’s mother comes out to stand by the ladder when we climb up, but that’s silly, because we are
very
careful climbing—”

“Margaret,” Cisco said bossily, “you need to fold the napkins while I put the silverware around.”

“Okay.” Cheerfully, Margaret skipped into the dining room. She loved folding napkins.

“Russell,” Annabel called melodically. “Could you open the wine?” She marshaled her troops. “Everything’s ready. I’ll have Russell help me carry in the turkey. The platter is heavy. You can each take a bowl of vegetables.”

“This is like Thanksgiving, Nana!” Margaret cried as they gathered around the table laden with Brussels sprouts, sweet potatoes, and mashed potatoes and gravy, the girls’ favorite food.

“Well, every day is Thanksgiving, I think, when our family is all here together,” Annabel said quietly, and a shadow fell over the table as they all looked at the empty chair where Gus once had sat.

Russell broke the spell. “Tell me, everyone! Who wants white meat?”

Conversations at Annabel and Russell’s house were always lively. They invited the children to talk about the news of their school—what was the school play this year?
Peter Pan?
Fabulous! Had they heard about the foghorn? Cormorants had pooped all over the fog sensor, so the foghorn thought it was perpetually foggy and the horn sounded constantly, even on sunny days. Cisco and Margaret almost fell off their chairs laughing.

Carley ate and chatted and felt calmed. It was as if she could actually feel the spin of her molecules slow. She loved the way Annabel’s face glowed whenever she looked at Cisco or Margaret.
Annabel adored her granddaughters. She doted on them. The house, old and weathered, showed signs of Annabel’s love and attention: she had painted the dining room trim and woodwork herself, just last year. On the old mahogany sideboard, among the heirloom silver, Annabel had set a vase of green holly. The cranberry sauce they ate with their turkey had been made by Annabel last fall. And on the far wall, among valuable if dreary oil portraits of Winsted ancestors, Annabel had hung a large photograph of her granddaughters swimming at Jetties Beach, laughing, gleaming in the sunshine like the treasures they were to Annabel.

The girls. They were what mattered. She needed to keep them safe.

She cleared her throat. “The girls and I are going to hold a tag sale.”

Annabel’s fork halted halfway to her mouth. “Really.”

“In your yard?” Russell asked.

“And inside the garage. On the drive.”

“Carley, I’m not so sure—” Annabel began.

In her excitement, Margaret interrupted her. “I’m going to sell my old Legos, I never play with them anymore, and the little toy barn with the animals, the silly little pig and cow and the horse and the—”

Carley put her hand gently on Margaret’s leg. “No wiggling at the table, please.”

“Are you selling …” Russell began, frowning. “How can I put this? Are you selling family items?” His voice was raspy, a sign of his emotional state.

“None of the real heirlooms, Russell,” Carley hastened to assure him. “I wouldn’t do that. Most of it will be the sort of thing Gus and I acquired during our marriage. All the baby stuff, for example, car seats and clothing, which is always needed. And,” she continued bravely, her heart thumping in her chest, “I’m going to sell some of Gus’s stuff.”

Both her in-laws were silent.

Perkily, Carley continued, “Honestly, Gus collected so many gadgets. I think there’s some kind of electronic weather monitoring device in every room of the house. He’s even got—he even had—a mirror in the shower that electronically reported the weather. And the electronic putting machine and his electronic language translator—for thirty different languages!” For a moment, a terrible sadness overwhelmed her to think that Gus might once have dreamed of traveling to thirty different countries. But this was not the time for sorrow.

“And
my
things, too!” Carley chirped on. “My maternity clothing. Sweaters and other unfortunate gifts from years ago that I’ve put away and never used. And perhaps one of the tea sets, when Gus and I were married, we got at least four different tea sets, which is ridiculous, no one gives teas anymore—” She was chattering like a monkey. She forced herself to stop and take a breath.

Annabel touched her napkin to her lips. She laid her napkin in her lap and folded her hands over it. “Carley. I understand how grief can derail your logical thought processes, but really, my dear, this idea of a tag sale is just all wrong. It is not
appropriate
for a Winsted to hold a tag sale.”

Carley struggled to keep her voice level and mild. “Annabel, I’m afraid it is terribly appropriate for
this
Winsted to hold a tag sale. I won’t sell anything of importance to the family. But we do have so much
stuff
. And we can use the money. I apologize for discussing financial matters at the dinner table. I know you like to talk about more pleasant things.” She looked steadily at Annabel, smiling.

Annabel looked steadily back, not smiling.

Carley turned to Margaret. “Sweetie, would you like more mashed potatoes?”

Margaret nodded enthusiastically. As her mother spooned them onto the plate—making a “pond” in the middle for the gravy—Margaret chirped, “And Mommy’s going to make cakes and cookies for the tag sale, and I’m going to help her!”

Russell could not resist his granddaughter’s excitement. “Well, then, I’ll have to stop by and purchase something.”

“Oh, Granddad,” Margaret laughed. “You know we would always give you and Nana our cakes for free!”

Everyone at the table laughed, too. In the face of such sweetness, Annabel backed away from the subject of the tag sale, asking both girls about school. But when she glanced at Carley, her eyes were dark as thunder.

• • • • •

Monday, as soon as the girls were off to school, Carley climbed the narrow stairs and opened the door to the attic. She could tell, instantly, that something had changed. Things had been moved around. There was a very slight smell … of tobacco? She shook her head. Couldn’t be.

Still, she closed her eyes and let her nose lead her. Past the drop-leaf table with the broken leg. Past the cardboard wardrobes of clothing old enough to be called vintage. Past one of the boudoir chairs … There. In the corner was a kind of nest. Cushions and pillows were piled around Cisco’s CD player and a pile of CDs.

Carley smiled. Cisco and her friend had been up here in their own private aerie, listening to music, discussing life, love, and boys. Cisco had a new friend these days, a sloe-eyed girl called Polo who had just moved to the island. Polo was shy, but polite. She didn’t seem to talk much, but Carley had heard her and Cisco giggling, and that gave Carley great hope that when Cisco finally realized she was not going to be a ballerina, she wouldn’t be devastated. Polo had no interest in ballet.

So, good. Carley liked that about the house, how it provided hiding spots and private nooks for conversation.

She turned to search out the other boudoir chair, and her foot hit something. She looked down.

There on the wide old floorboards was an object of heavy glass, so wrong here in this place that for a moment her mind wouldn’t make sense of it. Then she did make sense of it.

A glass ashtray. Full of cigarette butts.

Suddenly she was so angry she could have slammed her fist into the wall.

She and Gus had warned and
warned
the girls about the connection between smoking and cancer. They watched
Thank You for Smoking
together on a DVD. Cisco knew better than to smoke!

And to smoke up here in the attic! She might as well light matches in the middle of a haystack. All this old dry stuff, newspapers, books, photo albums, hats with feathers …

“Cisco, you
idiot
!” Her hands shook as she bent down to pick up the ashtray. She wanted to throw it hard against the wall. Instead, she carried it down to the kitchen and plunked it in the middle of the table: Exhibit A. When Cisco got home from school, Carley would have the evidence ready. She needed to decide on a suitable punishment. It really was a serious offense, smoking in the attic! How could Cisco, usually so intelligent, do something so stupid?

The smoking wasn’t so very awful, Carley decided as she paced the room. All kids tried it sooner or later. It was almost a rite of passage. But to smoke in the attic! She didn’t want Annabel or Russ to find out about this. As much as they adored their granddaughter, they were emotionally, symbolically, personally attached to their houses. They would freak out.

She couldn’t focus on the tag sale now. She was too upset. She concentrated her energy on routine tasks: laundry, vacuuming, mopping the kitchen floor. She could do all this without thinking, which allowed her mind to rampage around the problem. She needed to find the right way to react to this. It had been a long time since she’d had a real confrontation with Cisco. She could tell that her older daughter was changing—her period had started just last month, and she was beginning to develop breasts, which had Cisco
nearly ill with embarrassment. Carley wanted to handle this just right.

“Hi, Mom!” Cisco banged in through the back door as she always did, dropping her backpack on a kitchen chair and heading directly for the refrigerator. Another issue—diet soda—was an ongoing problem for Carley, who didn’t want to buy the empty calories for her children, but who felt sympathy for Cisco, who begged and pleaded for them. They’d compromised. Cisco could have one a day.

Cisco’s new friend Polo came in, curvy and smug, exuding a lazy sensuality. Polo had breasts, for sure. Carley told herself she ought to be thankful for Cisco’s new friend—Polo was anything but anorectic.

Carley stared at them, feeling like a witch with a hairy wart growing on the end of her nose, gnashing her teeth and rubbing her hands together as she prepared to roast a child. Yet her children’s safety was her responsibility and being a parent meant setting limits.

“Hello, Mrs. Winsted,” Polo purred.

“Hello, Polo.” Carley was sitting at the head of the table. “Cisco, Polo, sit down. We need to talk.”

The girls exchanged glances. Cisco handed Polo a can of soda. The girls sat down as far away from Carley as they could get.