The Beach House (14 page)

Although she asked for this divorce, although she was the one who asked Richard to leave, she didn’t expect him to find happiness so quickly. From all accounts it won’t be long before they are living together.When Jess talks about her, Daff listens and murmurs validation of whatever it is Jess is saying. “She’s so annoying,” Jess will say, and Daff will say, “I understand it must be annoying for you at times.”

“She’s taken my daddy away from me,” Jess will cry, during those times when she’s overwhelmed and tearful. “I know it’s hard,” Daff will murmur, rubbing her back. “But no one can take your daddy away, he loves you more than anything and nothing’s ever going to change that.”

“So where was he at the baseball game last week?” Jess looks up at her mother. “Where was he at the school concert? If he loved me so much why wasn’t he there?”

“He has work,” Daff says, but she wonders the same thing.

How is it she is the one doing everything—she washes Jess’s clothes, makes sure her homework is done on time, packs her snacks, shows up for all the school events, the plays, the class performances, the baseball games, the ballet workshops, liaises with her friends’ parents, never misses a single beat—yet she is the one Jess hates most of the time?

Why is it her father, who may spend time with her every other weekend but doesn’t do any of the day-to-day stuff that moves Jess through her life, doesn’t appear at any of the events because he’s too busy working, wouldn’t know Jess’s teacher if she sidled up to him at a singles bar . . . why is it he can do no wrong?

This is when she resents him. She is working so hard, doing so much, while Richard does so little, and still Jess has him on a pedestal.

Daff sighs and goes into the kitchen. Once upon a time she would have knocked on Jess’s door to see if there was anything she needed, but Blue October is already pounding from her room, so Daff opens the fridge and pours herself a glass of wine.

Daniel is surviving on a mixture of fear and adrenaline. He has promised Dr. Posner he will explore this further, not rock the boat just yet, wait until he and Bee are with Dr. Posner to tell her, if, in fact, that is the route he chooses, but now that his secret is finally out, now that he has told someone, he wants to stop living this lie immediately, wants to be able to be who he really is.

Every night when he parks his Land Rover next to Bee’s Mercedes wagon in the garage, walks in the mudroom door of their beautiful center-hall colonial, puts his briefcase down, walks through into their huge kitchen where the girls are curled up on the sofa at one end, watching
Hannah Montana
on the HDTV flat screen that sits above the stone fireplace, he feels his heart pound, and he doesn’t know how much longer he can pretend.

He is not sleeping at night. He lies awake for hours, sometimes looking at Bee, wondering how he can tell her, what words he will use, so scared of the pain he will cause her. He loves her. He just doesn’t love her the way he needs to love her. But she is his partner and the thought of hurting her, causing her pain, is almost unbearable.

Bee is so strong, but he can see this destroying her. And what about her friends? The close circle of friends Bee has found while he is at work, the people they hang out with at barbecues in the summer, meet in town for riotous dinners at Zest. Not that any of the men are necessarily his type—Daniel has always felt more comfortable with the wives—but he has tried to fit in, has done a pretty good job, he thinks, even making sure he knows the latest sports news before they get together so he can pretend to be interested.

And everyone is interested in property, so they all find common ground. Most of the husbands work in finance, but all of them want to invest in real estate, build houses, do what Daniel is doing, and they all know everything about the real estate in the town, spending Sundays going to Open Houses and inspecting layouts and finishes, scouring the local paper and memorizing the property transfers by heart. Real estate, Daniel has decided, is porn for married people.

“How about that house on Old Hill Road?” one will say. “Can you believe it’s on for five million?”

“Well, the one on Hillspoint sold for six,” someone will chip in.

“But that has water views,” another will add.

“Only if you’re standing on tiptoe on the roof,” Daniel will say, and they all laugh.

“You know the developer bought that for three? What do you think that cost, Daniel? Three fifty a foot?”

“Maybe four,” Daniel will say with a shrug. “The finishes are good.”

How will he face these people, these men who drink beer, love sports, drive Escalades and Wrangler Jeeps? How will he ever be able to show his face in this town again once they find out he’s gay?

And they will find out. In a small town such as this, dramas don’t happen too often, and when they do, everyone wants to know everything. He knows of several divorces already, husbands leaving wives for the babysitters or secretaries, but this? A husband or wife leaving because they’ve come out of the closet? He doesn’t know anyone in Westport who has gone through this.

He can’t run away, can’t move to another area, start afresh. He can’t stray from his girls, because, whatever happens, he is determined to be in their lives almost as much as he is now.

Those nights he lies awake in bed, he fantasizes about his perfect life. He sees himself in a condo, maybe in one of those cool loft-like developments in South Norwalk. Or in a small house by the beach, maybe on Mill Cove, although there are no cars allowed on the tiny island and it must be a nightmare to get groceries up there in winter when it’s snowing.

But imagine how the girls would love a house on the beach! Imagine waking up, throwing open the doors in your living room and stepping out onto sand! Imagine turning over in bed and seeing the person you love, being able to reach out and stroke his arm, smiling to yourself as he sleeps, tracing the outline of his hard, smooth chest.

These are the fantasies Daniel has suppressed his whole life. The fantasies that have been chasing him for years, trying to sneak their way in, only ever able to hit a home run when he is asleep, when his subconscious welcomes them, when he wakes up unbearably turned on, having dreamed he was with a man. Always with a man. Just a dream, he would tell himself, guilt and shame hitting at the same time as the memory of the dream. Doesn’t mean anything.

Except now he knows it does.

They are off to Nantucket in two weeks. The house they looked at when they were there for the weekend was just as lovely as it appeared in the pictures: a gray shingled cottage overlooking both Lake Quidnet and the bay, and Bee was so excited, the realtor so enthusiastic, Daniel found, despite the dread, he couldn’t say no.

There
was
something magical about Nantucket, Bee’s father was right, and while Daniel was there, strolling through the village with Bee, he had started to relax, to think that perhaps things would be okay, perhaps they would find a way through the mess that had become their marriage, for they were still friends. Best friends.

And now it is done. The check for the holiday—a small fortune, but worth it, Bee had said—was sent last week, the contracts had been signed, and a series of e-mails between the landlords and Bee were still flying back and forth.

Try to do your shopping off-island, they had recommended— far cheaper! They sent instructions as to how to get the oversand permits if they were driving a car that could go on the beach. Bring your own beach towels, they reminded her.

Getting out of it isn’t an option, but how can he go to Nantucket for what he knows Bee is hoping will reinvigorate the romance in their life, given what he has finally been able to admit to himself?

Just last night Bee put down the magazine she was reading in bed and turned to him with a smile.

“I feel really good about this summer,” she said, putting out a hand and taking his, squeezing it with affection. “I think it’s a new start for us. Thank you for taking this house, for doing something that I know you weren’t sure about, but that I truly believe will make us happy.”

Daniel nodded mutely, swallowing the lump of fear in his throat.

“Wasn’t it wonderful, being in Nantucket that weekend?” Bee snuggled into him and as a reflex Daniel put his arm around her. Feeling nothing.

“Mmm,” he said, non-committally.

“I do love you, you know,” she said, looking up at him.

“I love you too,” he said, and this was easier, because it was true.

“ ’Night.” She pecked him on the lips, rolled over, and reached out to switch off her bedside light.

Daniel felt relief wash over him.

“ ’Night,” he said, and went back to his book.

No one sleeps together anymore, Bee told herself, when she was forced to think about it. On the days when she and her friends got together for coffee, or lunch, or had play dates with the kids, if ever the subject of sex came up, all of them would laugh and say, “Sex? Who has time for sex? Who even wants to have sex anymore?”

They would joke that they were running out of excuses to give their husbands, that the headache excuse was far too old and boring, and that they were constantly having to come up with new ones.

“My husband thinks my period lasts two weeks of every month,” Jenny had said recently with a grin and they had all roared with laughter.

“After I had my second baby I told my husband my gynecologist had advised me not to have sex for a year,” said someone else. “And he believed me!”

Maybe she wouldn’t want sex, Bee thought, if Daniel wanted it all the time. Maybe the only reason she misses it so much, misses the intimacy, the warmth, the closeness, is because he refuses. Isn’t it human nature to always want what we cannot have?

No one is having sex, she tells herself when nagging doubts, horrible thoughts that she refuses to permit, try to make their way into her head. We have young children, we are exhausted, all we want to do when we climb into bed is sleep.

And she tries very hard not to think about the fact that it is Daniel’s refusal, not hers. The one time she contributed to one of those joking conversations, she realized it wasn’t normal.

“I know!” she’d added. “Daniel does this thing where he’ll stay in the shower until he thinks I’m asleep so he doesn’t have to have sex with me!” And she’d looked around for laughter, and seen only sympathy and slight embarrassment.

She didn’t bring it up again.

“I think you have to spend some to make some,” Sarah tells Nan, standing over the large cardboard box and cutting it open to reveal packages of crisp white sheets. “And it really wasn’t expensive, ” she adds. “All things considered. And you didn’t have enough sheets for the bedrooms you want to rent, so we had to do it. Oh, they had a special on towels too, so I ordered four sets of white towels.”

“You think of everything,” Nan says with a smile, ripping open the packaging and cooing over the softness of the towels. “And while Andrew Moseley would probably have a heart attack, I couldn’t agree more. We can’t have our tenants sleeping on anything other than the best.”

“Speaking of tenants, I think we’re nearly ready to post our ad.”

“Oh I’m so pleased!” Nan claps her hands together. “I can cycle into town later and post the ad on the message board.”

Sarah pauses. “I think we should put it online too,” she says. “On Craigslist and some of the other online boards. Those are the best ways these days.”

“I think you’re absolutely right,” Nan says. “Come upstairs and see what I did to the blue room this morning.”

Both Nan and Sarah have spent every day transforming the house. Old faded rugs have been rolled up and put in the shed, and Sarah has sanded and waxed the wooden floors of the bedrooms, as her brother Max re-grouted tiles in the bathrooms, painted walls bright white and cornflower blue.

They have shopped together online, Nan going over to Sarah’s house to access her computer, marveling at what can be found, stunned that you just point and click, and two days later magnificent things arrive on your doorstep.

They have labeled each bedroom by color. The blue room has, naturally, blue walls, pretty blue and white toile curtain panels, with matching bedspread, valance and pillow, and a jug of fresh hydrangeas on the old washstand. A blue and white checked quilt that Sarah had lying around is thrown haphazardly over the little loveseat in the bay window.

The green room is white, with a green and white vine design on the fabric of the panels and bed. A bowl of viburnum stands on the chest of drawers that had been stained and burned, but Nan had reluctantly agreed to paint it and it is now a muted and pretty antique white.

There is a red room, a white room and a patriotic room—the stars and stripes of the flag echoed in both the bedspreads and a flag that Sarah found, framed, at a tag sale. But the biggest changes are in the rest of the house.

White canvas slipcovers have been thrown over the sofas and armchairs in the living room, blue and white pillows piled on top, giving the room a freshness and a lightness it hasn’t seen in years.

The coffee rings on the tables, the burn marks, have been covered with stacks of books. Beautiful vases Sarah has found are filled with fresh flowers. All the fusty, dusty rugs have been replaced with simple seagrass rugs, cut and bound from offcuts going cheap at a carpet store on the Cape that was going out of business.

The dining table has been sanded down, stained and waxed, and Max re-grouted the subway tile in the kitchen, so all is gleaming and white.

“It will be a bed and breakfast,” Nan announces as she pulls the mask off her face, switching the electric sander off just as she finishes the last corner of the kitchen table.

“Don’t you have to talk to Planning and Zoning about that?” Sarah looks up from where she is sealing the counters, worried.