Page 2 of The Summer Club

“Well, it’s not. But none of that is why I called.” Hugh paused. “You may want to adjust your seat belt.”

“Why?” Hugh was a rabid complainer and dramatist. But this sounded concerningly different. “Did something happen?”

“Oh, it’s about to. Tish is coming.”

Tish, their paternal grandmother. Who pretty much never made an appearance unless someone died or was born. Who owned the summer house, but hated vacations. And the beach. And often, it seemed, her own family.

“No way!” Then, “How’s Mom?”

Hugh let out his breath. “Three gin and tonics in.”

“Oh, God.” Their mother did not drink.

“So we’ll see you soon?”

Andi groaned. The call ended. She merged into the fast lane.

Hugh wasn’t wrong. This was big news.

Their father’s mother, Tish, was no grandmother beyond her calligraphed branch on the Darling family tree. For a short time she had permitted the children to call her “Grand-Mère,” with the appropriate French accent, but even that could not stick. Standing at all of four foot eleven and weighing no more than ninety pounds (as Hugh liked to say, including all her diamonds), Tish was a life force. Despite the scarcity of her involvement in her grandchildren’s lives, she maintained a chilling air of import and ability to inflict trepidation, especially when it came to their otherwise unflappable mother, Cora. The two women had never warmed to each other. It was just how it was.

As such, the Darling grandchildren had rather untraditional memories of their grandmother. She drank dirty martinis. She did not bake cookies, nor did she wipe noses. According to her, birthday parties were savage events best reserved for those under the requisite height to ride a roller coaster, and come Christmas her only nod to family festivities was a card from faraway places like St. Barts or the Maldives. In their father’s own words, Tish was an accomplished and cultured woman who’d provided everything her only son could ever need. Except hugs.

In that vein, Tish had not been to the beach house in decades. Though she’d been invited to the wedding, the family wasn’t holding out much hope. At best, those who welcomed the idea, notwithstanding Cora, expected a brief appearance followed by a lavish gift and swift departure. What she was doing there, three weeks in advance of the big day, was an outright mystery.

As she tried to pass cars on the narrow two-lane highway, Andi glanced down. She was not dressed for Tish. Though no one in the family ever really was, except maybe Hugh and Martin. A quick look at the passenger seat confirmed that Molly was still sleeping. Should she rouse her? Molly had only met Tish twice in her life, but had somehow been left with a rather favorable opinion of her great-grandmother. And the feeling seemed mutual. While Tish had never approved of her ex-husband, George (“a simpleton”), she had looked favorably upon infant Molly at her first meeting. When Andi had carried Molly into the living room, Tish had inspected the baby from the safe distance of a wingback chair. Then, after tossing a withering look at their mother, Cora, she remarked, “See that glint in her eye? Finally, some hope.”

Andi groaned. She hadn’t even told Tish about her divorce.

Indeed, the divorce had not been decided upon in haste. If anything, Andi and George had clung to the frayed edges of their marriage too long. They’d tried therapy; for two years they went. They’d committed to weekly date nights, even though the sitter cost a fortune and it was hard to muster forced smiles and small talk over linguine at La Fortuna. At her best friend’s suggestion, Andi tried going back to church. She’d always been what her mother called a Christmas Catholic. But even though she found some comfort in those Sunday mornings, George had not, and Andi felt like impostors standing among the other seemingly united families at coffee hour. As a final attempt to reconnect, they’d left Molly with friends one long autumn weekend and driven the winding leafy roads to Lake Champlain, Vermont. The foliage had given its all that year; the mountains were resplendent in bright shades of coral and red and yellow. But after three days in the most picturesque inn, even the perfect weather and pumpkin-laden streets of Burlington couldn’t save them. Outside of Molly, there was nothing to talk about. They’d decided on the drive home to call it quits. Despite knowing they’d tried, it still felt as endings do: sad and uncertain. Andi was still trying to figure out a new beginning.

But that was for another day. Today she was going to the summer house to celebrate her sister, Sydney. With one hundred and fifty guests heading up the Mid-Cape Highway in the next few weeks, Sydney’s new beginning was just about to unfold. Whether Andi was ready for it or not.

By the time Andi swung her old Volvo into the driveway, everyone had arrived and taken the good spots. She was hot and tired from the traffic-filled drive. And she could really use a shower. As she unfolded herself from the front seat the front door flew open.

“Here they are!” Her father stepped out on the front porch looking at them like they were the best things he’d seen all day. He threw open his arms just as Molly hurried into them. “Who is this beautiful young lady?” Charley Darling was a people person and, while it was a line any other person might use, Andi knew he meant it. He held Molly at arm’s length as she bashfully allowed herself to be looked at. Andi made a happy mental note of this fact: at the perilous age of fourteen, Molly didn’t like anyone looking at her. She didn’t even like Andi to breathe in her presence.

Now Andi watched in awe as Molly allowed herself to be pulled in for a second hug. “So glad you’re here, sweetheart! Now the real fun can begin.” He beamed as Andi walked up to him.

“Hey, Dad.” Andi inhaled her father’s familiar and comforting scent and a wave of nostalgia washed over her. She was five years old again and he was soothing a skinned knee. If only it were true, that her father could make it all better.

“How are we doing?” he asked, looking over his glasses at her in earnest. Since the divorce he’d worried about her, she knew. It was another fallout of divorce; feeling like those you loved also shared the burden.

“I’m fine, Dad.”

“Good. There’s a whole lot of wedding hoopla going on in there,” he said, nodding toward the front door. “I was thinking it might be a good time to head down to the pier.”

Andi laughed. “Fishing? Is that the new cure-all for single divorcées at family weddings? Or is that the cure for a son avoiding the arrival of his mother?”

Her father shrugged. “Tomato, to-mah-to.” He forced a smile but Andi felt bad for him; he’d had too many years of trying to balance the force field between his mother and his wife. The man was tired. “Come inside and say hi to your mother! Let’s get you girls settled.”

The second she opened the door, almost four decades of memories swept over her. Riptide had the scent of her childhood: the not-unpleasant smell of a closed-up cottage about to be aired out for another summer, the scent of sunscreens spilled, and the faint whiff of salt air that had worked its way through every crack in every wooden surface, couch cushion, and old book contained within the walls. Simply put, Riptide smelled like summer. Andi dropped her bags and looked around. Nothing changed here. The chintz curtains in the kitchen. The sun-bleached chestnut floorboards. The bookcases lined with dog-eared paperbacks and dotted with driftwood and sea glass.

“You’re here!” Her mother, Cora, hurried from the kitchen and pulled them both into deep hugs. As always, she smelled like a mix of the French lavender soap she favored and whatever delicious buttery confection she was cooking. Cora was an incredible cook, and despite the lobster roll she’d just had, Andi found her mouth was watering.

“Is that…?”

Cora glanced over her shoulder at the red Dutch oven simmering on the stove. “Yes. Your favorite.”

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