As for her parents, Beatrice still wasn’t sure. Her father had ceded his father’s house to her and her mom for the entire summer and beyond. Her mom had told her they’d stay through the school year, that Beatrice would go to the public high school in Orleans—at least for the next year.
Her father had been coming up every other weekend, renting a cottage in North Truro instead of staying with them. He brought presents for her mother—bouquets of hydrangeas, fancy chocolates, expensive sea salts, once, a whole bag full of spices and rubs from the Atlantic Spice Company—and he didn’t bring his laptop, giving Beatrice his entire attention and hours of his time. One weekend, they’d ridden their bikes all the way from Wellfleet to Orleans and back again; once, they’d spent an entire afternoon on the beach. When Beatrice asked her father, “Are you and Mom getting divorced?” he’d said, “It’s not what I want. But it’s not up to me.” When Beatrice asked her mom, her mom said, “Can we talk about this later? I have to get to work.” Her mother had a job now, cooking at the restaurant that Diana owned, and Diana herself was spending a lot of time at their house. She’d shown Beatrice how to turn an old book into a birdhouse using balsa wood and glue; Beatrice had shown her how to preserve insects in resin. Beatrice had met Diana’s husband, who was, it turned out, the caretaker for the house, and he was teaching Beatrice how to surf cast. It would have been the perfect summer, minus the uncertainty, and the unhappy looks she saw her dad sending in her mom’s direction, and the way her mom’s shoulders would stiffen every time Beatrice’s father touched her, or said her name.
“Hey!”
Beatrice turned at the sound of a voice calling across the water, and saw a guy, maybe a few years older than she was, paddling toward her. Beatrice angled her board until they were floating, side by side, facing the beach, where a volleyball game was in progress. Beatrice could hear the smack of palms against leather, the good-natured trash talk as a girl leapt up high and spiked the ball down on the sand.
“Great day for it,” said the guy. He wore dark-blue board shorts and a red Red Sox cap.
Beatrice nodded. “It’s perfect,” she said.
“You here on vacation?” the guy asked.
“I actually live here,” Beatrice said.
“Lucky you,” said the guy, his eyes widened in approval.
“That’s right,” she said. Her tone was friendly, but her expression was thoughtful and even a little sad. “Lucky me.” A motorboat zoomed past them. Beatrice gripped the base of her board with her feet, letting her body sway with the motion, instead of resisting. “We used to just come for the summers. But this year we’re going to be washashores.”
The guy considered. “I’ll bet it gets lonely out here in the winter.”
Beatrice gave a little shrug. “I don’t mind being by myself. And we’ve got lots of company. My uncle Danny and his husband were here for a few weeks. And my mom’s best friend lives right up there.” With her paddle, she pointed at a little cottage, shingled in silvery cedar, perched high on the dune. “She’s got two nieces about my age, and they come up on the weekends, so I’ve got some friends.”
“Sweet,” said the guy.
“Sweet,” Beatrice agreed. “My mom’s friend owns a restaurant in P-town. My mom cooks. I bus tables on the weekends.”
“What’s it called?”
“The Abbey. Ever been?”
“I know I’ve walked past it.”
“You should go,” Beatrice told him. “Get the crabmeat-stuffed cod. It’s the best thing my mom makes.”
“Sounds great. I love seafood.” The guy turned his paddle in his hands, gathering himself. “You, uh, want to come to the beach for a while and hang out?”
Beatrice thought it over, balanced lightly on her board, swaying with the waves that advanced and retreated beneath her.
“Maybe later,” she said. “But right now, I’m just getting started.” She gave him a little wave before she turned her board, bracing her feet, digging her paddle deeply into the water, propelling herself out toward the fullness of the sun.
Acknowledgments
Writing a novel is an adventure. Even after all these books, and all these years, every time still feels like the first time when I head into undiscovered country with only my imagination to guide me. Writing a book during a pandemic presents a special set of challenges. I am very grateful to everyone on my publishing team for all their help and support through these difficult days.