Page 63 of The Summer Club
But now here she was with Nate. On a deserted stretch of beach. Nestled into a magical little shack that felt like they were the last two people on earth. As they peeled away the remains of their clothes there was no sense of hesitation. Nate was wholly new to her, and yet so familiar. Andi felt safe. And desirable. And so damn good.
As Nate lay her gently down against the sand, he cupped her face in his hands.
“I can’t believe this. My whole life, I couldn’t get you to even look at me.”
Andi pressed the naked length of her body against him and wrapped her arms around his neck. “I’m looking at you now.”
Tish
The sea air has restored in her an energy she has not felt for a long time. Probably not for the last decade. Certainly, not since her recent cardiac diagnosis. She has kept that to herself, mixed as she feels about this. Telling Charley was part of the plan when she decided to come back here. At her advanced age, it really should not come as a shock to him; not everyone lived to be ninety. Her lifestyle and good health, until now, have kept her trotting the globe years beyond anyone’s expectations; her own included! Each time she looks in the mirror Tish is momentarily startled: who is that old woman staring back at her? She supposes she should be grateful for all the time she’s had, and not mourn how little her doctor says she has left. Telling Charley will complicate that; she loathes pity. She won’t stand for it. But most of all, she loves her son, and she does not want her aging heart to place any burden on his own.
The last time Tish visited the Cape she was twenty-nine. Now, when she smells the salt air and hears the roar of the surf, she is transported right back. When Morty was alive and well and they were young and happy. And Charley—well, Charley was just a little boy. When she wakes up and sees the sparkling bay waters outside her window at Mooncusser Cottage, Tish believes for a fleeting glorious moment that they are just the way they were then. That it is the summer of 1961 again and her life is a book barely begun, the pages of which she is certain hold a happy ending.
Oh, she has tried to avoid thinking of that summer since she’s returned. Morty has filled her dreams and the family has riddled her thoughts since she’s returned. But she always skirts the memory of that fateful day, the way she used to skirt the incoming tide: dancing about its frothy edges, but never letting it pull her in. But today is a beautiful day for walking and though she is slow and must focus, she is going to walk down to that beach, so help her God. Charley would not like it, so she does not call him. There is a reason she has a cane, despicable as she finds it. Today, she takes it in hand and rings the front desk. “I would like to arrange the same driver I had the other day: Jonathan,” she tells the girl at reception. “Tell him to put on his walking shoes.”
“Walking shoes?” the girl asks.
“Yes. Tell him it’s me—Tish Darling. He’ll understand.”
Tish has made friends with Jonathan, and she likes to think they have an understanding. What she requires of his services is simple enough; he is middle-aged and strong. He is patient. She has no doubt he will be up for her special request today.
An hour later, when Jonathan knocks at Mooncusser Cottage, she is ready. Tish dons a cashmere shawl, wide-leg white pants, and her Kate Spade leopard print lace-up sneakers. She hopes they will hold up for a walk on the beach.
“Good morning, Mrs. Darling,” Jonathan says, holding the door ajar for her. “Where to?”
As she hoped, Jonathan is game for anything. And she knows just where to go.
“I need to see the beach,” she tells him from the backseat.
Jonathan adjusts his rearview mirror. “Any one in particular? I am guessing we are looking to walk, not swim, today?”
“You are guessing correctly. But it needs to be private, Jonathan. I have something I need to think about.”
Jonathan considers this. “Lighthouse is less crowded, but there are many stairs.”
She knows that beach well. Morty used to love to beach-cast there. No, there is no heaven or earthly way she can manage the staircase there.
“Forest?”
“Nothing on the bay. It must be ocean-facing.” There is a reason for this and Jonathan does not ask. This is why she chose him.
“Very well,” he says, and puts the car in drive. He does not say where they are going, but Tish doesn’t worry. It will be the right one.
At the end of Ridgevale Road, the car turns right into a private neighborhood. In the 1950s, when Riptide was just their cozy, two-room beach shack, this neighborhood was just one expanse of beach grass and a smattering of small, rustic cottages like their own. Now the homes are valued in the tens of millions, tucked tight together, their American flags whipping audibly on their Atlantic-facing poles. “This is a private community,” Tish says.
But Jonathan already knows this. “Don’t you worry about that, Mrs. Darling,” he tells her. “I know someone.”
Sure enough, he does. Jonathan parks the town car in a vacant driveway of a sprawling two-story house perched at the edge of the barrier wall. It is quintessential Cape Cod, with weathered, gray shingles, a gabled roof, and porthole windows on both sides. When he opens the door, the smell of low tide fills her nostrils. “Will they mind?” Tish asks, nodding toward the house.
Jonathan shakes his head and takes her hand. “You have all the time you need.”
The house is right on the beach and, to her utter relief, the steps are manageable and few. With one hand in Jonathan’s and the other holding tight to her cane, Tish takes them one at a time until they reach sand. It shifts beneath her feet and she tilts to one side. “Ma’am?” Jonathan asks.
“This way,” Tish says, leading him one diminutive step at a time toward the water.
As they approach, the sand beneath her feet firms up and the going is more even and less worrying. Tish stops about five yards from the surf. There is a large piece of driftwood washed ashore, a makeshift bench. She stares out at the horizon line, where water meets sky. The sun is high and hot, the breeze still. Here, she thinks, closing her eyes to the bright warmth. Here is where she needs to do it.
“This is the spot,” she tells Jonathan.