“Oh, Bess, the men only come for the parties,” she’d said. “The events. They don’t have the time or stamina for the day-to-day.”
“Bottom line,” Bess says, and squats to inspect the box beside her. “He’ll be here on Sunday.”
“Fantastic.”
Bess picks up a red scrapbook and tabs through some pages.
“This is from the dining room,” she says. “I was looking at it the other day.”
“You’re welcome to have it. Otherwise, it’s going in the trash.”
“You can’t throw this away. Grandma must’ve kept it for some reason.” Bess turns a few more pages. “Did you know someone named Harriet Rutter?”
“Sounds familiar. I think.”
Cissy checks the underside of a desk clock that hasn’t worked in years.
“She was some sort of writer, apparently,” Bess says. “Magazines, newspaper articles. Grandma Ruby kept everything the woman ever wrote, as far as I can tell.”
“Hmmm…” Cissy says, moving from desk clock to candlesticks to piano bench. “She might’ve been a friend of my mom’s from school or the club or something. Maybe she had a dalliance with Robert? I think there was a falling-out and I seem to remember the little brother was involved.”
“This Hattie person had quite the journalistic repertoire. Sports stories, makeup tips, opinion pieces about the war—Second World and Vietnam. Also, you’ll be pleased to know there are seventeen different types of dickies available for the adventurous dresser.”
“I really don’t know much about—”
Suddenly a slap of thunder shakes the house. Bess lets out a small cry and grips the sofa. Within seconds, rain begins battering the home.
“This weather!” Bess says.
Cissy casts a nervous glance toward the windows.
“It’s fine,” she says, unconvincingly.
Cissy yanks a strip of packing tape from its roll and bites it free. Ignoring the rain now assaulting the roof, Bess fishes the Book of Summer out from beneath Hattie Rutter’s bizarre amalgam of press clippings.
“Aw, hello book,” she says. “Not very summery today, are we?”
Bad news for Flick’s party, Bess thinks. That’s why Evan hasn’t texted back. Who goes on a boat in this weather?
“Bessie, are you helping over there?” Cissy asks. “Or are you snooping?”
“A bit of both. Cis, have you ever read this?” Bess asks, holding up the book. “In thirty years, I don’t think I’ve seen you open it once.”
“Of course I have. Here and there. It’s mostly just people talking about parties and hairdos. A nice keepsake but not particularly compelling.”
“What?! Come on, there’s so much more to it than that. Look! Here’s an entry about little Cis, dated June 6, 1964. Written by your mom … ‘We opened Cliff House today. About ten days late. Cissy had a Bobby Sox tournament. Her team lost two to one in the finals. The girls put forth a valiant effort, or so I’m told. I don’t know the first thing about it. Cis is quite aggrieved by the loss.’
“Bobby Sox!” Bess says, and glances up. “How precious!”
Cissy rolls her eyes.
“Pretty slow-paced if you ask me.”
“I’m delighted to learn you’ve had a long history of being aggrieved.”
“Please. Mother couldn’t tolerate any sort of ‘mood.’”
“And why would she?” Bess says, returning her eyes to the page. “You had Cliff House for that. ‘Our moods lifted the minute we arrived on-island. Right on time or days overdue, Cliff House gives me the same feeling every time. This is my forty-fifth summer at Cliff House, something north of four thousand days, but my stomach still somersaults with the thrill of it, the promise that our lives will change, if only for a season.
“‘The decades, the memories, only the best of these cling to the home, the bad spirited away on a swift ocean gale. Life’s not been perfect here, or anywhere, but no matter what’s happened, in spite of the business with Sam and all the variations of bad business before and after, my heart fills with unrepentant joy the moment the tires crunch on the shelled drive.
“‘Cliff House is a comfort. In the winter months you only need think: Well, summer’s not so far away. I can last until then. Whatever happens in the real world, Cliff House remains a permanent, never-changing promise. In this big house cemented on its bluff, we can return to the people we are supposed to be.’”
“I thought you wanted me to leave the house,” Cissy says, sniffling. “That doesn’t help.”
“Just hairdos and recipes, huh?”
Bess smacks the book shut.
“It’s funny,” she says. “That entry was made exactly twenty years, to the day, after D-day. I wonder why Grandma didn’t mention the date?”
“Why would she?”
“Well, it’s been twelve years since 9/11 and it’s still a pall over the day no matter what else is going on. One of my friends got induced on September tenth just to avoid her child having that birthday.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?”
The thunder crashes again. Lightning rips across the sky. When Bess looks up, she sees a tall man standing in the window bay.
“Motherfucking Christ!” Bess screams.
“Bess! What in God’s name?”
When Cissy spies the man, her face at once relaxes. She patters over to the French doors.
“It’s just my engineer,” Cissy says as she kicks open the door. “Hello, Mike. Sorry about the weather. I didn’t think it’d come down like this.”
A man in boots and a rain slicker stomps inside. He shakes himself off like a wet dog.
“Mike oversaw the relocation of Sankaty Head,” Cissy explains to Bess proudly, as if describing how her son hit a three-run homer. “He’s the best in the biz. Mike, this is my daughter Bess.”
“Hi, Bess,” he says in a half mumble. “Nice to meet you.”
“Mike is going to move Cliff House for us!” Cissy grins. “So, what’s the damage? How far back do we have to go and how much will it cost? Do you think a pool is feasible? I mean, eventually.”
“Cissy, no.”
“Fine.” Cissy flicks her hand at him. “No pool. But the other stuff we talked about…”
“I’m not moving this house.”
“Not you personally, but—”
“Cissy,” Mike says, sternly. He must have experience in Cissy-related matters. “You’re not listening.”
“I am listening! I’m a great listener! It’s one of my premier qualities.”
Bess scoffs from her corner of the room. Cissy doesn’t catch it, naturally.
“There’s no easy way to tell you this,” Mike says. “So I’ll just come out with it. I can’t move your house.”
“Then I’ll find someone else.”
“No one can.”
Cissy looks disoriented, like she’s in a Coyote and Roadrunner cartoon and someone’s tried to blast her with TNT. There are practically symbols circling above her head.
“What do you mean?” she says.
“The bluff is too far gone,” Mike explains. “The soil might as well be quicksand.”
“But you’re testing it in the rain! It’s not always like this!”
“Well, if it never rained again…”
“And the geotubes. Don’t forget about the geotubes! Did you read that they’re going to approve my measure?”