The Last Beach Bungalow by Jennie Nash Page A

often I had wished that my mother hadn’t sold Gram’s cottage by the lake. I could swim all the way across that lake, from her dock to the dock of the boys’ camp on the other side. There were blueberries to pick on the old dirt road and thick novels on the shelf in the den, and even though it made no sense whatsoever to have a grand piano in a house in the woods, Gram had one. That house had a presence to it that, had I been older, I would have fought to keep. “I’m not writing about it,” I said. “That was a lie.”
    There was silence at the table, even from CJ, whose face was flushed with drink. Even he could tell that some line had been crossed.
    “You lied to me?” Vanessa said.
    Rick sat back in his chair and crossed his arms in front of his body. “So you’re saying that you went to that open house because you actually want a different house?”
    I shook my head. “I didn’t go looking for a different house,” I said. “It just happened.”
    “This is ridiculous,” Rick spat, and turned his body, slightly, toward the thick curtains on the window beside us.
    “I know you want our house to save me,” I said quietly, “to be a fortress against anything bad ever happening again, but I don’t think I believe a house can do that. I don’t think anything can do that.”
    No one said anything. CJ just kept staring at his glass of champagne, Vanessa was looking at Rick and Rick was looking out the window as if he were watching Tiger Woods teeing off the first green and didn’t want to miss a second of the swing.
    “Who said anything about being saved?” Rick asked.
    “You didn’t have to say it,” I said.
    “Guys,” Vanessa said. “Time out. This is supposed to be a party. Come on. Let’s finish our champagne.”
    We sipped our drinks, but the evening was clearly over.
    When we got home, I slipped out of my clothes, got into bed, turned away from Rick and quickly closed my eyes as if I couldn’t possibly stay awake another minute.

S UNDAY
    When I woke up, Rick was gone from the bed. He was showered and dressed and sitting at the kitchen counter reading the sports page.
    “Do you want some eggs?” I asked.
    “I already ate,” he said.
    I nodded and poked my head into Jackie’s room. She was leaning close to the mirrored closet doors and brushing mascara onto her eyelashes. “Do you want some eggs?”
    “Already ate,” she said. She glanced at my flannel pajamas. “Max will be here soon,” she said.
    It seemed too much trouble to make eggs just for myself. I put two slices of toast in the toaster and heated water for tea. I stood at the sink with my back to Rick and ate so fast it seemed like I wasn’t even chewing.
    “Mom?” Jackie said from her doorway. She was staring at my wild hair and my pajamas, “It’s eight forty-five.”
    I tossed my crusts in the garbage, dashed to the shower, threw on a black skirt and a white blouse, dried my hair and came out just as Max knocked on the door.
    Jackie let him in and introduced us. He held out his hand to shake mine, and I felt instantly nervous, which seemed utterly unfair. Wasn’t he supposed to be the one whose hands were sweaty?
    “Your church sounds interesting,” Rick said. “Jackie told us a little about it.”
    Max nodded. “It’s pretty cool.”
    “Have you been going there long?”
    “Pretty much all my life,” he said, “but I don’t go that often anymore because of swimming.”
    “Max swims butterfly,” Jackie said. “He’s going to nationals in the spring.”
    “Good for you,” Rick said.
    “Congratulations,” I added.
    “We better go,” Max said, glancing at Jackie. He reached out his hand first to Rick, then to me. “It was nice to meet you.”
    “Nice to meet you, too,” I said.
    As they walked out the door, I saw Jackie take his hand.
    I wanted to tell Rick that I was sorry I’d needled him at dinner last night, and I was sorry about what I felt about the bungalow, and sorry that I hadn’t