CHAPTER 6
CASSIE
On Thursday morning, Grandma and I finally get that tour of the Beacon Hotel, an experience that is paradoxically like stepping into a time capsule while also taking a time machine into the future. Mackenzie Cabot chose an aesthetic that somehow managed to preserve the original look of the Beacon while modernizing it. It’s amazing to see. She knocked down walls I never would’ve thought of knocking down, brightening the main building with natural light and adding a dozen more ocean-view rooms.
Even with all the changes, I’m still overcome with nostalgia. Everything I see triggers a new memory. In the lobby, as we ascend the grand staircase, I run my fingertips along the intricately carved banister and remember hearing Grandpa Wally boast, See this banister, kiddo? I sanded it all by myself. And your grandma, she helped me paint it.
When Mackenzie shows us how she managed to replicate many of the old brass fixtures in the bathrooms, Grandpa Wally’s excited voice is in my head, explaining, These nifty towel hooks? They were specifically designed for passenger ships. Ocean liners. Grandma saw them in a nautical magazine and said, Wallace, we need these for the Beacon!
His memory was so sharp, every detail etched into his brain. That’s probably what made it all the more heartbreaking when he started to forget everything in his later years. It was devastating to watch. He forgot our names first, the grandchildren. Then his own kids—my mom, her sister and brothers. Even Uncle Will, who’d been Grandpa’s firstborn and favorite, was eventually lost to the jumbled sea that had become Grandpa’s brain. And then, finally, he no longer recognized Grandma when she came to visit, and that’s when we knew it was over. Mentally, he was gone. Physically, it took another year for his body to catch up. Sometimes I think the dementia was worse than his actual death.
Mackenzie radiates pride as she takes us around, pointing out various upgrades. They redid the electrical. All new plumbing. Installed two elevators. Constructed an addition in the back, moving the restaurant so that half of it is now an outdoor patio that overlooks the sprawling pool grounds. We visit the spa, which is no longer housed on the third floor, but in a newly built adjoining building connected to the hotel via winding palm-lined paths, with a gorgeous white stone fountain in the center of the main path.
Whoa. This chick has sunk a lot of money into this. And she’s so young. Mackenzie can’t be older than twenty-two or twenty-three, yet somehow she owns a beachfront hotel in South Carolina. I think I know who I want to be when I grow up.
“You did a stunning job,” Grandma Lydia tells the young woman. “Simply exquisite.” My grandmother can be hard to read when she’s in public, but right now there’s no mistaking her pleasure, the deep glow of approval in her eyes.
Mackenzie releases a breath heavy with relief. “You have no idea how happy I am to hear that. I swear, every design change I made, I was so conscious of trying to stay true to your original vision.”
“You did, dear. This is…” Grandma looks around. We’ve ended our tour in the small café off the lobby. It used to be the gift shop, but Mackenzie moved that to another wing. “It’s perfect.”
A broad smile fills Mackenzie’s face. “Thank you. I’m so thrilled you like it.” She gestures behind us. “Can I get you two a coffee or anything?” she offers. Technically, the hotel isn’t open yet, but she told us the café has been up and running the past few weeks to accommodate the workers who are still making finishing touches on the place.
“A tea would be wonderful,” Grandma tells her.
“I’ll take a coffee,” I say. “Cream, no sugar. Thanks.”
Mackenzie nods and goes to the counter, where she exchanges words with the barista, a man in a navy-blue polo with THE BEACON stitched in gold thread over the left breast.
“This is amazing,” I whisper to Grandma as I lead her to a table outside.
The café offers a small patio with a smattering of tables. To our right is a white-painted staircase that leads down to a wide veranda with handmade rocking chairs, a cozy spot to sit and watch the waves.
Grandma adjusts her sunhat to better secure it to her head. She’s always been incredibly protective of her skin. Sun damage is no joke, Cassandra, I grew up hearing. It’s the one thing she and my mom agree on; Mom’s always harping about sunscreen and hats too. Although in my mother’s case, it’s less about getting cancer and more about maintaining youthful-looking skin. Appearance trumps everything in my mother’s world.
“Mackenzie is cool,” I admit, sitting down. “Oh, and I met her boyfriend on the boardwalk this weekend.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah. Joy and I ran into Tate. The guy who’s housesitting next door. He was with some of his friends, and one of them was Mackenzie’s boyfriend, Cooper.”
Grandma looks pleased. “That’s wonderful you’re making friends.”
“I mean, I wouldn’t say I’m making friends. I spoke to our neighbor on the boardwalk and consequently met his friends. That’s about it.” I chuckle at her. “Stop trying to force friendships on me. I’m good. I have Joy.”
“I know, but it would be nice if you could find yourself a nice big group to spend time with this summer.” She takes on a faraway tone. “When I was younger, all the young people in the Bay socialized together. There were about fifteen, twenty of us. We would take the boats out and spend hours on the water, or the girls would lie on the beach watching all the oiled-up boys play sports.” She chuckles. “There might have been plenty of alcohol involved too.”
I snicker, trying to picture my grandmother in a tiny bikini and oversized hat, cruising the Bay with a bunch of rowdy teenagers. But it’s impossible. Whenever I try to imagine Grandma at my age, my brain can’t compute. Same goes for my mother. It’s even harder to imagine her as young and carefree. I refuse to believe Mom was ever anything other than a haughty, designer-clad woman in her midforties.
As if on cue, my phone buzzes. Mom has the unsettling habit of always calling just as I’m thinking about her.
“Ugh. It’s Mom. I have to take this.” I glimpse Mackenzie heading toward us with a tray of beverages, so I stand up. “I’ll be right back.”
Grandma nods. “Tell her I said hello. Take your time.”
In the quiet lobby, I answer the call. “Hey, Mom,” I say, and then I brace myself. You never know which side of my mother’s personality you’re going to get on any given day. But I’m an old pro at dealing with her now, always prepared for whatever attack she throws my way. Sometimes, it’s instant criticism, or a huffy demand to explain why I committed one perceived crime or another. Other times she starts off sweet, complimentary even, encouraging you to lower your guard, and then bang! Goes in for the kill.
But I’m not a naïve little girl anymore. I know all my mother’s tricks and what tactic is required to deal with each one.
So when she says, “I’m hurt, sweetie! Why has it been three days since I’ve heard your lovely voice?” in that light, teasing tone, I know it’s a trap. She’s not hurt, she’s pissed. And she’s not teasing, which means I can’t counter with a joking response.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her, with just the proper amount of grovel in my voice. Too apologetic and she becomes suspicious. “You’re right. I should have called sooner. It’s been chaotic here.”
My strategy works. Nothing elates my mother more than hearing those two words: You’re right.
“I suppose your grandmother is keeping you very busy,” she says, which is her way of “forgiving” me for my sin.
And although it’s clearly an opening to shift the blame from me to her own mother, I’m not going to throw Grandma under the bus.
“Not really. We went shopping on the weekend, but mostly I’ve been catching up with Joy. How’s Boston?”
“The whole city? What kind of question is that?”
I smother a sigh and quickly switch tacks, letting out a fake laugh. “Ha, ha, you’re right, that was a stupid question. I’m so dumb sometimes. I just meant, how are you doing? Are you enjoying the city or are you looking forward to coming down—”
Abort!
I rue the question the second it slips out. Shit, maybe I’m off my game.
Sometimes it’s so hard to forget you’re not dealing with a normal human. Narcissists are a whole other breed.
Her bitterness practically permeates the line. “There is nothing I’d like to do less than spend time in that town.” She snorts humorlessly. “But we owe a duty to our family.”
It infuriates her that she can’t back out, I know that. But my two uncles and my aunt committed to making the trip to say goodbye to the Beacon, and if there’s one thing my mother can’t allow, it’s looking like the bad guy.
The ingratitude, though, is kind of incredible. The Beacon belonged to our family for decades. It’s the reason for all that wealth my mother sure enjoys taking advantage of. The least she can do is give it a proper farewell. It’s the Tanner family’s final hurrah. Like giving away a treasured ship and watching the new owners christen it with a champagne bottle before they sail away forever.
“I’m actually at the hotel right now,” I say, hoping to mollify her with one of her favorite topics: money. “The new owner poured buckets of money into it, and it has absolutely paid off. It’s gorgeous. I swear, you’re going to love it. We just finished the tour of the spa—all the products there were custom-made in Italy. An exclusive brand just for the Beacon.”
That piques her interest. “Well, that sounds promising!”
“Right?” Then, although I’d rather gnaw my own tongue off than speak the words, I know the script and force myself to speak it. “We should do a mother/daughter spa day,” I suggest, injecting as much fake enthusiasm into my voice as possible.
The silver lining when talking to narcissists is they assume everyone adores them and is dying to spend time with them, which means they rarely stop to wonder if you’re being disingenuous. In their minds, of course we want to hang out with them. Because they’re perfect and remarkable and a credit to all of humanity.
The worst part is, most people don’t see through their bullshit. At least not at first. I can’t even count how many times over the years I’d been told how wonderful my mother is. Or accused of being “too sensitive.” Of reading too much into her veiled—and sometimes not at all veiled—barbs. Oh, that Cassie, so insecure that she imagines disparaging subtext with every word.
Eventually, though, most people see the light. I still remember the first time Peyton had her epiphany after my mother took us out to dinner during a sleepover. We were thirteen and, wide-eyed and shaking her head, she announced, “I just realized—your mom is a real bitch.”
There is nothing more liberating than having your traumatic experiences validated like that.
“What a lovely idea!” Mom says in response to my suggestion. “Also, I just thought of it, but while you’re there you should ask for a tour of the fitness center too.”
My jaw tightens. I know where this is going.
“Yeah, we peeked into it,” I answer carefully. “It’s attached to the spa, but it’s closed off because none of the equipment has been delivered yet.”
“You should use the gym at the club, then. I saw on Joy’s Instagram that she’s been going there every morning. She’s looking very fit these days.”
I smother an inward scream. I hate that Mom follows my friends on social media. Joy even has a private account, but she confessed she would’ve felt like an asshole if she hadn’t accepted my mother’s request.
“Maybe she can give you some fitness tips,” Mom adds, because no conversation with my mother is complete without her advising me on all the ways I can better myself.
“Yeah, I’ll ask her,” I say obediently.
“Oh, and speaking of Instagram, I was on your page this morning too and saw the picture you posted. The one of you in the pink top and denim shorts? Those shorts were adorable!”
I wait for the next sniper’s bullet.
“But the top … you know I mean well when I say this, but maybe you should consider taking the photo down. That cropped style isn’t the most flattering on you, Cass. With your proportions, you know. Oh! We should also go shopping when I’m here, how does that sound? Maybe drive into Charleston?”
“Sounds great! I’d love that, actually. I always appreciate your opinion.”
There’s a short beat, and I know that in her judgmental, self-absorbed brain, she’s wondering, was that sarcasm?
But that would be too detrimental to her ego, so rather than question me, she does her trademark subject switcheroo. “Have you seen your father yet? And his nurse?”
I hold the phone away from my ear for a second and scream silent obscenities at it, making faces at the screen.
As is my luck, a passing man in work boots and a tool belt enters the lobby at that moment. He looks startled by my antics at first, then barks out a laugh before walking on.
I bring the phone back to my ear. “Not yet. I’m seeing them tomorrow for dinner.”
“He’s waited an entire week to see his child?” she says indignantly. “That’s selfish, even for Clayton.”
You wrote the book on selfish, lady.
Although for once, she’s not entirely wrong. I’ve been thinking the same thing since I arrived in Avalon Bay. So what if the twins go to day camp and Dad and Nia have work? They still eat dinner together every weeknight, do they not? Is it that difficult to invite me to join them?
On the other hand, when her husband’s bitter ex-wife refers to her as his nurse, maybe it’s understandable Nia doesn’t want that bitter woman’s daughter around her house. The nurse comments grate on me too, especially since it’s total nonsense. Nia was never Dad’s nurse. She was his physical therapist after he got in a car accident not long after his and Mom’s divorce. He required surgery for a torn bicep, and Nia was in charge of his rehab. That’s how they met and fell in love.
“Mom, I gotta go,” I say, done with this entire conversation. “Grandma’s waiting for me to drive her home.” In reality, Grandma’s deep in conversation with Mackenzie, the two of them leaning forward, animated about whatever they’re discussing.
“All right, sweetie. I’ll see you next month.”
“Can’t wait.”
I’m exhausted when I return to the table. Talking to Mom really does feel like I’ve just fought a war. Grandma eyes me with a flicker of concern. “Is everything all right?”
“All good,” I lie. Because that’s what I do. I plaster on sunny smiles and pretend the attacks on my appearance, my father, my entire life have zero effect on me.
“I was just telling your grandmother there’s a bonfire tonight at my place,” Mackenzie says, giving me a warm smile. “Having a few friends over. If you’d like to join?”
My first instinct is to beg off and say thank you but I’m busy. I’m so awkward around strangers. But then it occurs to me that Mackenzie’s boyfriend is friends with Tate. Which means Tate might be there. Which means maybe I can work up the nerve to … to what?
Ask him out, I guess.
Proposition him.
Rip my clothes off and order him to rock my world.
Okay, maybe not the last one. But I’ve been back in town for a week now, and Tate is the only guy I’ve met who makes my heart pound. I feel like I’d regret it if I didn’t at least try to stop babbling and ask him to hang out. And I suppose there’s no better time than tonight.