The Family Beach House Read Online Free PDF Page B

withdrawing from friends and family.
    She was as prepared as it was possible to be, which meant that when Frank finally died she was hardly prepared at all.
    On the AARP Web site (she had turned everywhere for help) she had been told that grief, like life, doesn’t proceed in an orderly fashion. “Mourning,” they had said, “cannot happen without your participation.” Too bad, she had thought. Because mourning was exhausting and surprising, no matter how prepared you thought you were.
    She was tired now. She got up from her seat by the window and crawled into the bed. She still slept on the right side though she could have slept on the left or diagonally, or right in the middle of the bed if she chose. But she didn’t choose.

4
    Monday, July 16
    It was early, not quite seven in the morning, and the air was just beginning to warm. Tilda stood gazing out over the water. The beach was almost entirely empty. A few runners, a few solitary strollers, a few hobby fishermen, and Tilda, who had walked Ogunquit Beach more times than she could ever count.
    She began now to walk in the direction of Wells, her eyes fixed to the sand in search of the ever elusive, whole sand dollar. She knew people who had found them, albeit very small ones, on Ogunquit Beach. She just had never found one herself.
    â€œHello, Tilda McQueen O’Connell!”
    Tilda looked up and smiled. “Tessa Vickes!” It was Teddy’s wife, another early morning walker. She was walking from Wells, down close to the waterline. She was wearing a cotton-candy pink sweatshirt and her thick, beautiful white hair was tied back in a simple braid.
    â€œBeautiful day!” Tessa shouted as she continued to walk.
    â€œYes, it is!” Tilda waved and walked on, as well.
    Tessa and Teddy had been married for almost fifty years. Tilda thought they were adorable together, still affectionate and clearly happy. She had never heard mention of children or grandchildren. Maybe Tessa and Teddy had not had a family. Maybe a child had died. Tilda knew she could ask her aunt about this but she didn’t want to. There was something almost sacred about a couple’s past, especially the past of a couple who had been together for so long.
    Not that Tilda would ever experience such a long marriage, though she knew she should be grateful—and she was—for the twenty-odd years she and Frank had enjoyed. Those twenty-odd, almost perfect years…
    Increasingly, Tilda found herself wondering about nostalgia, or, more specifically, about romanticizing her past with Frank. She wondered if the process was inevitable and necessary and if so, she wondered if it had already begun. Was nostalgia destructive if it became extreme? She thought that it might be. Still, at this point, a little over two years after Frank’s death, she could barely remember ever arguing with him and what conflict she did remember had no emotional weight.
    Like the time a few years back when he had invited his out-of-work cousin, Ben, to stay with them until he got back on his feet—without first asking his wife. Frank had apologized profusely, claiming he had been guilted into making the offer by his aunt. Whatever the reason behind Frank’s offer, the reality was that Cousin Ben was entirely ungrateful. He never offered to help with meals, or to clean the bathroom he used. He came home at all hours and more than once he went out while forgetting to lock the front door behind him. Frank had talked to him several times but to no avail. Cousin Ben was with them for almost five months until a friend offered him a better free deal, after which time they had found a few items missing, including a pearl necklace Tilda’s mother had given her for her twenty-first birthday.
    God, she had been furious with Frank, but now the entire episode seemed unreal, a false memory, meaningless, something that might have happened to strangers.
    Tilda passed a group of about