“Cliff House has hosted countless weddings,” Cissy says. “And the side yard is plenty big for the one Felicia is planning. She’s only having fifty guests!”
“Don’t take it personally. I’m sure Flick doesn’t want to tussle with liability insurance or sorority sisters falling to their deaths.”
“All of her friends are investment bankers and lawyers,” Cissy says with a shrug. “A few less of them wouldn’t hurt.”
“Hilarious.”
Bess tiptoes up beside her mom and puts a gentle arm around her shoulders.
“You have to admit, Cissy. This place isn’t exactly event-ready.”
“Oh, I know,” she says, and forces a laugh. “I might be a little foolhardy at times but I’m no fool. Mark my words, though. Once we get the new measures in place and push the house closer to the road, Cliff House will be guest-ready once more.”
Cissy turns to lock eyes with Bess. Tears gather on her lashes.
“A hundred years,” Cissy says, voice quavering. “Next summer Cliff House turns one hundred years old.”
“Wow, I didn’t realize. But 1914.” Bess pictures the bronze plaque by the door. “The math is there.”
“I have a marvelous party planned.” At once Cissy’s eyes brighten and grow. “Just wait. We’ll host a soirée to beat any this house has ever known. And there’ve been hundreds on this property. A thousand. I’ll die before I let them take that from us.”
“Okay, Mom.” Bess has to bite her lip to prevent her own tears from forming. “I’ll book my flights for the Centennial this week.”
Cissy sighs and sets down her glass. She crosses her arms and surveys her daughter head to toe.
“You are beautiful,” she says. “Out here. The light, the sea, the air. Cliff House, it makes everyone lovelier.”
“Now you’re just getting sentimental.…”
“No. Really.” She smiles. “Your skin looks kissed by the moonlight. Your hair is tangled and lovely and wild.”
“Tangled hair. Got it.”
“That’s a compliment and you know it. It’s so much more relaxed and free than when you stepped off the plane. No one’s hair should be that straight or that dark. You’re working too hard at it, my girl.”
Bess smiles back, taking the praise where she can get it. At least she’s faking it well enough to be called beautiful when really Bess feels like a heap of food trash on a humid day.
“I’m working too hard at it?” Bess says. “This coming from a woman trying to save an entire shoreline!”
“I’m going to do it. Don’t doubt me for an instant.”
“You’re the very last person I’d doubt.”
Bess walks over to the fridge beneath the bar, where she finds an already opened bottle of Chardonnay. A week or a year old, there’s no way to tell. At Cliff House you really never know what you’re getting.
“But Cissy?” Bess says, and pops out the cork. “Can we make a deal?”
“I don’t make deals. I prefer to get my way.”
“Noted. But hear me out. I’ll let you stay until your meeting on Tuesday.”
“I didn’t realize you were in charge.”
“But after that…” Bess says.
She sniffs the wine and her belly rumbles. What the hell; Bess pours herself a glass.
“Immediately after the meeting,” she continues, “you’re moving out. Within twenty-four hours because I need specifics from you. ‘After’ is way too vague.”
Bess takes a sip of wine and holds it in her mouth for a second before spitting it into a rosebush. Something isn’t right. The taste makes her want to puke. She dumps the rest while Cissy quite literally looks the other way. It’s one of the great things about Cliff House. You don’t have to bring your nice shoes, or your manners.
“Fine. Whatever.” Cissy slaps at the air.
“So as of Wednesday morning,” Bess says, “it’s good-bye Cliff House and back to … Boston, I guess.”
“Boston is not my home,” Cissy says.
“Then you can move to town. Or Tom Nevers. Anywhere that’s not here. I don’t like worrying about you. It makes me uncomfortable.”
“Oh, Bess, you can’t worry. And yes of course I’ll take up temporary residence in town. I can’t be physically in the house when they’re moving it, can I? Though it does sound like fun.”
“But, Cis, why are you here now? You’ve said you have your reasons. What are they?”
“I want to show that I’m committed. Determined. Like a true Sconseter.”
“No one would question your commitment. You probably need to be committed but your dedication is unflagging.”
“Har har,” Cissy says. “My daughter is a doctor and comedienne both. How did I get so lucky? Elisabeth, if you want to stay in town, do it! I won’t be the least bit offended. The Bradlees have plenty of room and they won’t be here for days. I’ll give you the key right now.”
“Mom, I…”
“It’s okay.” Cissy places a hand on Bess’s. “Your dad gave up on Cliff House long ago and I’ve managed splendidly on my own. We can pack during the day and at night you can stay at your cousins’ place. Honestly, sweet girl, it’s fine. Do whatever you need to do.”
Bess closes her eyes. Do whatever you need to do. Typical Cissy Codman. The Chinese finger trap of moms. If only Bess didn’t love her so damned much.
5
Sunday Morning
Sleep is a tough pursuit in a house about to slide down a bluff.
It’s always been too drafty, that home, or too stuffy and warm. Central air was never contemplated, and so the family made do with ceiling fans and coastal breezes. But now, with each of these “breezes,” Bess swears the house shifts, that she can hear the plink of patio bricks. When dawn at last noses its way through the shutters, Bess says a quick thank-you to the heavens, genuinely surprised to have survived the night.
“Good morning, Cis,” she says, strolling into the dining room.
It’s just before six and her mother has been up for at least an hour. Bess’s dad used to joke that when the kids were newborns, Cissy woke them up in the wee hours instead of the other way around. “I like to keep busy,” she’d say, in her own defense.
“Morning, love…”
“Whoa,” Bess says, craning, peering over the flood of cardboard in the room. Cissy is standing but Bess can only see the top of her face, that curly and wild hair. “Dad wasn’t kidding. He did send over a ‘few’ boxes. It looks like a recycling facility in here.”
“What he sent were movers,” Cissy says. “Which I refused. But they graciously left behind their supplies.”
“Well, this is a mess,” Bess says as she kicks a path through the room. Most of the boxes are gallingly weightless.
She leans in to give her mother a kiss.
“Should I ask them to come back?” Bess asks. “The movers? This is a pretty big job for a couple of unskilled gals.”
Bess thinks of the rest of the home. Five thousand square feet filled with nearly a century’s accumulation of knickknacks and personal effects. It’d been decades since Cliff House opened and closed with the seasons. This is a year-round place now.
“Who are you calling unskilled?” Cissy balks. “I was on the committee to move the lighthouse, you know.”