Saturday Evening
They stand on the back patio, the last of the day’s sun stretching across the Atlantic. Though the view is magnificent, Bess’s stomach roils and churns. Her insides are nothing but roller-coaster drops. The excessive winds don’t help.
“Cissy,” she says. “We can’t stay here.”
Vanished. Cliff House has disappeared.
The building itself remains, for the moment anyway, but gone is the lawn where Bess got married, where so many before her wed, including Cissy and her grandmother Ruby. Ruby’s vegetable garden has also evaporated, as well as the public walking path behind it.
Gone also is the pool, once set in the grass, a rectangle of blue with a single white border around it. Gone is the volleyball court Cissy ambitiously installed though it was the one sport the family never played.
The outdoor shower, the flagpole, the bike and board shed: gone, gone, and gone. Even their remarkable privet hedge, tended to for generations and photographed for magazines and tourist brochures, is dead and brown in the back. How could it all look okay from the road?
“This isn’t safe,” Bess says.
If she walked ten feet forward, she’d reach the end of the patio, where steel edging is exposed. A cell phone dropped in that very spot would fall several stories onto the rocks below. As the wind howls through her, Bess wonders if she’s in danger of tumbling over the cliff herself. The gusts are strong that far up on Baxter Road. Within minutes she has sand in her teeth and on her skin.
Bess’s throat prickles and it has little to do with the sand she’s inhaled. She understands Cissy’s reluctance to let go. It’s about the house, yes, but also their family. In the early twentieth century, Bess’s great-grandmother Sarah Young longed for a home their brood might retreat to in the summers. Her husband, Philip, was an MIT-educated scientist who devised a way to process reclaimed rubber. His invention built a fortune and it built his wife the house of her dreams.
Sconset, seven miles from Nantucket Town, has never been the most fashionable part of the island. Back then it was riddled with artists and seamen and new-money types like the Youngs. But Sarah adored it on sight, even more so when she and Philip made the one-mile trek up Baxter Road. With a single glance at the unadorned bluff, she envisioned lawn parties and orchestras and ragtime performers playing into the night. Her family would grow up there, Sarah decided. Whatever happened in the months before or after, each year would be anchored by a summer spent at Cliff House.
Bess’s heart breaks to see it end up like this.
“We have to leave,” she says, shimmying off the encroaching nostalgia. It’s time to get practical. “Dad mentioned he sent over some empty boxes? Let’s start packing. It’s funny, I never realized I was afraid of heights.”
“Bessie, I acknowledge it seems a little … dicey?”
Bess turns toward her mom, mouth agape.
“If by dicey you mean lethal, then I agree. Your plumbing is sticking out of the bluff!”
“Yes, well, we’ve had a streak of bad luck between Hurricane Sandy and then those ghastly winter storms,” Cissy says. “We still had half a pool at Christmastime! But there’s no immediate threat.”
“Have you looked?” Bess says, pointing. “Right there?”
“The weather has stabilized and the veranda is quite expansive … I can stay on for at least a little while.”
“No. Not happening.” Bess waves her hands around, as if trying to make the situation disappear. “I’m not losing my mother to erosion. ‘Here lies Caroline Packard Codman. Expired of stubbornness and not knowing when to quit.’”
“I recognize the need to relocate at some point. But in three days they’re voting to approve—”
“Or not approve,” Bess reminds her.
“Fine. On Tuesday they’re weighing in on the revetments.”
“And that makes a difference because…?”
“Revetments work brilliantly on Martha’s Vineyard! Heck, the entire Jersey shore is one massive beach nourishment project. Once the revetment plan goes into place, I can focus on my own predicament. It’s not about me, you know. Despite what Chappy Mayhew claims.”
Bess ogles the bluff. Either her eyes are playing tricks or rocks are right then rolling down onto the beach. Bess goes to steady herself on a railing but reconsiders. Who knows what kind of house of cards they’re dealing with? One wrong move and, well, Bess won’t have to worry about her imminent divorce anymore, or the problems that follow.
With an exhale, Bess takes several steps back.
“Why are you staying here?” she asks. “You can fight this same battle from somewhere else.”
“This is my home, Bess.”
“I get that, but…”
“Beyond that, I have my reasons.” Cissy sniffs. “Listen, after the meeting, I’ll pack up. Promise.”
“You promise? Real promise? Or Cissy squidgy, room-for-movement promise?”
“Very droll. I promise. Come Tuesday, I’ll move.”
“Okay good.” Bess’s shoulders slacken.
“Cliff House and I will both move.”
Cissy turns on her heel and brushes past Bess, cutting a mean path toward the outdoor bar.
“Excuse me?” Bess says as she whips around. “You’ll both move?”
“I’m thinking we can push it back about seventy yards?”
“Push what back?” Bess asks, growing panicky once more.
“Cliff House, silly. We have a lot of front yard to work with.”
“What?!”
“I need to get the engineers back,” Cissy continues. “The golf club’s granted an easement.”
“So you’re just going to…” Bess stutters. “Relocate the entire house?”
“It worked for Sankaty Head.”
“A lighthouse is a tad easier to move than a five-thousand-square-foot home.”
“You’d be surprised.”
Cissy vanishes beneath the bar and resurfaces with a bottle and a glass. Like a rerun of your favorite show, she makes herself a vodka rocks. The backdrop is disorienting in its sameness. Here stands Cissy Codman on the patio at Cliff House, stirring drinks and mixing schemes. Bess can almost overlook the gawping Atlantic a few yards away.
“I can’t believe that’s where I got married,” Bess says, and points to the clouds.
A headache is coming on.
“That was a great day,” Cissy replies, beaming.
“Was it?”
“I can’t wait to have weddings here again. I offered Cliff House to your cousin for her wedding.” Cissy frowns. “But Flick turned me down. The Yacht Club, of all places. It’s like she’s taunting me.”
“Flick is not taunting you.”
With the mere mention of Felicia, Bess feels the undeniable creep of dread. Her cousin’s wedding is on Memorial Day—a week from Monday. Will Bess have to stay on-island until then? “Play through,” as it were? She has her shifts covered, but the time off is supposed to be for another reason altogether, a reason that does not include unexpected trips to Nantucket. Forget the time involved in going back and forth between two coasts, Bess is not exactly flush with cash. Divorces will do that to you. Especially ones like hers.
Bess shakes her head.
“Cis, no bride in her right mind would get married here.”
“Cliff House has hosted countless weddings,” Cissy says. “And the side yard is plenty big for the one Felicia is planning. She’s only having fifty guests!”
“Don’t take it personally. I’m sure Flick doesn’t want to tussle with liability insurance or sorority sisters falling to their deaths.”
“All of her friends are investment bankers and lawyers,” Cissy says with a shrug. “A few less of them wouldn’t hurt.”
“Hilarious.”
Bess tiptoes up beside her mom and puts a gentle arm around her shoulders.
“You have to admit, Cissy. This place isn’t exactly event-ready.”
“Oh, I know,” she says, and forces a laugh. “I might be a little foolhardy at times but I’m no fool. Mark my words, though. Once we get the new measures in place and push the house closer to the road, Cliff House will be guest-ready once more.”
Cissy turns to lock eyes with Bess. Tears gather on her lashes.
“A hundred years,” Cissy says, voice quavering. “Next summer Cliff House turns one hundred years old.”
“Wow, I didn’t realize. But 1914.” Bess pictures the bronze plaque by the door. “The math is there.”
“I have a marvelous party planned.” At once Cissy’s eyes brighten and grow. “Just wait. We’ll host a soirée to beat any this house has ever known. And there’ve been hundreds on this property. A thousand. I’ll die before I let them take that from us.”
“Okay, Mom.” Bess has to bite her lip to prevent her own tears from forming. “I’ll book my flights for the Centennial this week.”
Cissy sighs and sets down her glass. She crosses her arms and surveys her daughter head to toe.
“You are beautiful,” she says. “Out here. The light, the sea, the air. Cliff House, it makes everyone lovelier.”
“Now you’re just getting sentimental.…”
“No. Really.” She smiles. “Your skin looks kissed by the moonlight. Your hair is tangled and lovely and wild.”
“Tangled hair. Got it.”
“That’s a compliment and you know it. It’s so much more relaxed and free than when you stepped off the plane. No one’s hair should be that straight or that dark. You’re working too hard at it, my girl.”
Bess smiles back, taking the praise where she can get it. At least she’s faking it well enough to be called beautiful when really Bess feels like a heap of food trash on a humid day.
“I’m working too hard at it?” Bess says. “This coming from a woman trying to save an entire shoreline!”
“I’m going to do it. Don’t doubt me for an instant.”
“You’re the very last person I’d doubt.”
Bess walks over to the fridge beneath the bar, where she finds an already opened bottle of Chardonnay. A week or a year old, there’s no way to tell. At Cliff House you really never know what you’re getting.
“But Cissy?” Bess says, and pops out the cork. “Can we make a deal?”
“I don’t make deals. I prefer to get my way.”
“Noted. But hear me out. I’ll let you stay until your meeting on Tuesday.”
“I didn’t realize you were in charge.”
“But after that…” Bess says.
She sniffs the wine and her belly rumbles. What the hell; Bess pours herself a glass.
“Immediately after the meeting,” she continues, “you’re moving out. Within twenty-four hours because I need specifics from you. ‘After’ is way too vague.”
Bess takes a sip of wine and holds it in her mouth for a second before spitting it into a rosebush. Something isn’t right. The taste makes her want to puke. She dumps the rest while Cissy quite literally looks the other way. It’s one of the great things about Cliff House. You don’t have to bring your nice shoes, or your manners.
“Fine. Whatever.” Cissy slaps at the air.
“So as of Wednesday morning,” Bess says, “it’s good-bye Cliff House and back to … Boston, I guess.”
“Boston is not my home,” Cissy says.
“Then you can move to town. Or Tom Nevers. Anywhere that’s not here. I don’t like worrying about you. It makes me uncomfortable.”
“Oh, Bess, you can’t worry. And yes of course I’ll take up temporary residence in town. I can’t be physically in the house when they’re moving it, can I? Though it does sound like fun.”
“But, Cis, why are you here now? You’ve said you have your reasons. What are they?”
“I want to show that I’m committed. Determined. Like a true Sconseter.”
“No one would question your commitment. You probably need to be committed but your dedication is unflagging.”
“Har har,” Cissy says. “My daughter is a doctor and comedienne both. How did I get so lucky? Elisabeth, if you want to stay in town, do it! I won’t be the least bit offended. The Bradlees have plenty of room and they won’t be here for days. I’ll give you the key right now.”
“Mom, I…”
“It’s okay.” Cissy places a hand on Bess’s. “Your dad gave up on Cliff House long ago and I’ve managed splendidly on my own. We can pack during the day and at night you can stay at your cousins’ place. Honestly, sweet girl, it’s fine. Do whatever you need to do.”
Bess closes her eyes. Do whatever you need to do. Typical Cissy Codman. The Chinese finger trap of moms. If only Bess didn’t love her so damned much.