Wednesday Afternoon
“I realize this is aggressively ill-conceived,” Bess says, pedaling over rocks and debris. “But I didn’t know where else to go.”
As she loses her balance, Bess launches herself off the bike, pretending her plummet to the ground is by design. Evan stares at her and she blushes. Bess is an insecure cyclist, a sad state for even a part-time Nantucketer.
“Geez, when did Sconset get so busy?” she says, babbling, as Evan tries to puzzle out why she’s there and how come she can’t ride a bike. “It’s almost as bad as in town. Is there a single road on this island that isn’t packed with cars?”
Evan continues to say nothing.
“So, tell me, is this the biggest intrusion possible?” Bess drops her bike into the dirt. Good riddance. “Am I going to get you fired? Or are you basically in charge?”
Bess stops the runaway train that is her mouth and studies Evan’s face. He stands still before her: oh so tall, oh so handsome, and oh so smirky as he tries to find a plausible excuse for her presence.
“So that’s a yes?” Bess says. “Noted. And yet I remain undeterred.”
He’s probably thinking about Brandon and the hookers, isn’t he? Damn it, why’d she tell him? There was no good reason, only bad potential outcomes.
“Anyhow, I’ll see you—”
“It’s not an intrusion,” Evan answers at last. “I’m the boss and, as you can see, the guys are gone so we’re done for the day. Thus, despite your best efforts, you’re not a pain in the ass.”
“Thanks a heap. And, by the by, you could’ve told me that five minutes ago, and saved me all the jabbering.”
“I’ve learned to let the women in your family get everything out first. Helps a fella find his bearings, know what he’s dealing with.”
“The women in my family?” Bess rolls her eyes. “Don’t throw me in with Cissy, please. Grandma Ruby I’ll take. So, do you have a minute?”
“For you I have lots of minutes.” Evan nods toward his truck. “Wanna help me load up? I can compensate you with cold beer.”
“Sure, why not? I’ve spent my entire day moving crap. I’m already in the groove.”
Bess leans down for the industrial fan on the ground beside Evan. After hoisting it up onto her right hip, she follows him toward the oversize silver truck parked at the bottom of the drive.
“So what’s Cissy up to this time?” Evan asks, unlatching his tool belt.
“Refusing to budge,” Bess responds as she grits her teeth.
This fan is a heavier load than she should’ve taken on.
“Not budging,” Evan repeats. “Hasn’t that been her deal all along?”
“Sadly, yes.” Bess moves the fan from her right hip to her left. “But it’s different this time because she promised to leave after the vote and then the vote happened and—surprise!—no move.”
“Is it really a surprise, though?” Evan asks, catching Bess’s eyes over his shoulder.
“You don’t understand. She’s gone beyond general, Cissy Codman, run-of-the-mill hardheadedness.”
“I presume the two of you have discussed the hazards of staying,” Evan says, and tosses his tools into the flatbed of his truck.
“Yes, we’ve reviewed the likelihood of death and/or dismemberment. But Cis claims that come Memorial Day every house on her stretch of road will have cars in front of it. Two doors down there’s only a dining room left and apparently the entire family camps out there, like soldiers, all summer long.”
“A convincing argument,” Evan jokes.
“No kidding. She won’t listen to me at all.” She drops the fan. “I don’t even know what’s happening in her head anymore. This morning she mumbled something about geotubes and then went for a jog. I mean, God!”
Bess pounds at the side of his truck.
“Oops.” She pats the car. “Sorry.”
“I’ll bill ya for that later,” he says with wink.
Evan lunges into the truck bed and then pulls Bess up behind him. He clears a place for her atop a lumpy gray bag.
As Bess settles onto the makeshift seat, she presses her hands along the bag, which is weighted down by … something. The whole deal is reminiscent of a body bag. Not that Bess has ever seen one in person. Not yet anyway.
“Lacrosse equipment,” Evan says to Bess’s quizzical face. “I’m coaching some rug rats in town.”
“Oh. Cute.”
Evan pops open a small, red cooler and hands her a beer.
“So lay it on me,” he says. “Tell me the gory details.”
“I’m at such a loss. Cissy’s the official problem child of the family but up until now it’s been fun, part of the gag, the wonky fabric in our family quilt. She’s always been reasonable, in the end, but the reasonableness ship has sailed. It’s crashed, actually. Lost at sea. Meanwhile the rest of my family is useless. Christ.” Bess exhales. “What even is a geotube?”
“It’s essentially a large, sand-filled jute bag that looks like a burrito.”
“Another erosion-control measure?” she asks. “Just like the oh-so-successful seawall?”
“Yep, though geotubes are supposedly better because, unlike concrete or stone, the sand is compatible with the existing beach. They say it’s less detrimental to the downdraft beaches, too, and, best of all, isn’t an eyesore like a hard armor structure would be.” Evan sighs. “It’s what your mother would argue, in any case.”
“She would argue that, wouldn’t she?” Bess says. “I can see why she’d be excited about geotubes, in theory, but let’s be real. Isn’t it too late for Cliff House?”
Evan nods sadly.
“I’m afraid it is.”
“I don’t get it,” Bess says, picking at the label of her Grey Lady Ale. “Cissy’s no dummy. She must know Baxter Road is history. Why can’t she just cut her losses and leave? She’s always blathering on about good New England sensibility. This isn’t sensible at all.”
“Come on, Lizzy C. Cliff House has been in your family for generations. It’s not just a house. It’s a lifetime.”
“Yeah but what’s a lifetime but memories and photographs? She can keep those!”
“I suppose,” he says. “But memories are so much more vivid when you’re in the spot they happened instead of relying on your brain to paint the picture.”
“Gee thanks, that’s not depressing at all.”
“You know how it is,” he says, and gestures to the view. “When was the last time you thought about this place?”
“Hussey House,” Bess says with a smile. “Or what once was Hussey House, since you’ve demolished it with your greedy, money-grubbing schemes.”
“I am a greedy bastard, aren’t I? Imagine, wanting to eat and put gas in my car.”
“Must be nice!”
“Bottom line, if you don’t have the anchor, what is your memory but a ghost?”
Bess shrugs and then peels the label all the way off her bottle.
“To be honest,” Evan says, “I’ll be sad to see Cliff House go, too. I have my own set of memories, ya know.”
“I’m sure you do. We both do. Some better than others.”
Evan finishes off his beer. As he grabs a second, Bess watches two seagulls dive at each other, then flap away.
“I’ve never told you this,” Evan says. “But my great-aunt used to work at Cliff House.”
“What?” Bess says, spine straightening in surprise. “She did?”
“Yep. My grandfather’s sister.”
“When was this?”
“Ages ago. In the forties. She married later in life, but before that was a maid at Cliff House. My aunt said Ruby was a real firecracker.”
“Really?” Bess laughs and sets down her beer. “Grandma Ruby? I find that hard to believe. She was a bit of a groundbreaker, a feminist in her way. But very much in her way. Stone-faced, stoic. ‘Firecracker’ is not a word I’d use. Cissy’s a firecracker. Ruby was … an aircraft carrier. A battleship gliding into the harbor.”
Then again, Bess frequently teased her grandmother about her very Bostonian, “low-heeler” persona. Ruby always answered with a tee-hee and a sip of gin, and so Bess took her grandmother for the very best of sports. In retrospect maybe it was because she knew otherwise.
“According to Aunt Jeanne,” Evan says, “Ruby and her brothers palled around with a bevy of good-time girls and boys. Constantly getting into scrapes and shenanigans and forever winning sporting events at the club.”
“Are you serious?” Bess says, laughing again. “Ruby complained about Cissy’s athletic, rough-and-tumble nature. I never guessed Grandma was at all sporty.”
“She was an amazing tennis player, apparently.”
“That’s incredible.”
“My aunt might’ve been the help, but she adored the ‘young ones at the big house.’” Evan thinks for a moment. “Although there was some European girl she didn’t care for. Anyway, it all sounded like a constant party. Until the war happened, of course. Then all bets were off.”
“Wow,” Bess says, staring down at the flatbed and the nails discarded in the grooves. “It’s weird how people change.” She looks up. “Good thing I’m my predictable, same self.”
“The same!” Evan says with a cough. “I can think of five ways right now that you’re a completely different girl than the one who walked the stage at Nantucket High.”
“Oh yeah? Name one.”
“You haven’t touched that beer.”
He taps the open, full bottle sitting beside Bess’s foot. The man, he is not wrong.
“You could match me chug for chug back in the day,” he says.
“Ah. Yes. Drinking skills. One of my finer qualities. At least as determined by weaselly local teens.”
“Hey!” Evan yelps. There’s a hint of disappointment in his deep brown eyes. “I knew you had a bias against townies. That’s why you won’t drink my beer.”
“No,” Bess says, and picks it back up. “It’s not that.”
She studies the bottle. In holding it, she knows the beer is already warm.
“What is it then?” Evan asks. “You a wine type now? Spend your weekends in Napa?”
“Uh, no. I’ve been to Napa three times. I do like my wine but I like beer just as much. So, no. It’s not that.”
Bess peeks at her watch. It’s five thirty, or two thirty back in the Bay. She wonders if someone is trying to contact her. Right now someone could be calling her name.
“Bess?”
“If you want to know the truth,” she says, “the God’s honest truth is that I’m neither a wine girl nor a beer one, at least not right now. The type of girl I am is pregnant. A pregnant girl who doesn’t know what the hell to do.”