She’d broken into a slow smile as I spoke. Now she stood up, leaning over to kiss my cheek. “Thanks, Mom,” she said. “That is totally cool.”
She left the room, heading up the stairs again, and I could hear the little beeps as she dialed her cell phone, calling Tanner to tell him the good news.
EPILOGUE
Lucy
“She’s never going to fall,” Ethan said, glancing over his shoulder at Abby, who was balanced on one ski behind the boat. She looked relaxed, almost bored, as she cut across the water, and Ethan might have sounded like he was griping, but he was smiling with pride. He’d told me that he’d taught his daughter to ski when she was ten. Now, at twenty-seven, skiing was as easy to her as walking.
I was holding Abby’s daughter, eighteen-month-old Clare, on my lap. “See Mommy?” I leaned down to say in her ear.
“Mommy ski!” Clare said, pointing at her mother.
“Yes, she sure is,” I said.
“We’ll get her down.” Ethan’s tone was malevolent, and he turned the steering wheel so that Abby would have to cross the wake of a much larger boat. I could hear her laughter over the sound of the motor as she realized what her father was doing.
“Your grandpop’s a meanie,” I said to Clare.
“Pop Pop’s a meanie!” Clare said.
Ethan was anything but mean. He’d been my brother-in-law since January when he and Julie got married, and he was a doll. I was staying with the two of them for a few weeks this summer, and he and Abby and I had gone skiing nearly every day since my arrival.
As for me and men, though, I thought I was finished with them. My life was too full to add a man to the mix. Between my students, the ZydaChicks, my women’s support group and my ever-expanding family, I really had no room for anything or anyone else.
Abby rode the wake of the larger boat like a champion mogul skier, elegantly rising and falling over the rolling water. But then she raised her hand and waved at us, letting us know that she was willing to give Ethan or me a turn.
Ethan slowed the boat and Abby dropped smoothly into the water as we circled around to pick her up. She climbed the ladder into the boat, her body long limbed and tan, and she gently shook her short wet hair in front of Clare’s face, tickling the little girl’s nose and making her giggle.
“You go, Luce,” Ethan said to me.
I handed Clare to her mother, climbed over the side of the boat and jumped into the water. Abby tossed the skis down to me and, as usual, I struggled to put them on. I was pitiful at every aspect of skiing: putting on the skis, getting back into the boat, and most significantly, staying up for longer than a few seconds. All the stops and starts probably drove Ethan and Abby crazy, but they never complained and I loved every minute of the adventure—especially knowing that I was in water that was way over my head, and I was one-hundred-percent certain that I was not going to drown.
Maria
Something I figured out long ago was that life rarely turns out the way you expect it to. How could I have predicted that, at eighty-two years of age, I would find myself planting geraniums in the Chapmans’ window boxes? For that matter, how could I have predicted that my daughter, Julie, would one day be a Chapman?
By the time Julie and Ethan were married, I think we’d all gotten over the astonishing fact that we were embracing the son of Isabel’s killer, and we welcomed him into the family. No one had suffered more than Ethan during the past couple of years. He’d lost his entire nuclear family and learned a terrible truth about the father he’d idolized. I came to admire his life-embracing attitude and his resiliency. He was one of us—a survivor.
Julie and Ethan divided their time between Julie’s house in Westfield and this old bungalow in Bay Head Shores. I hadn’t wanted to come here at first. The thought turned my stomach, but I didn’t keep my discomfort to myself. I’d discovered that you can still learn things when you’re an old lady. Maybe you couldn’t change the core of your personality—that ingrained identity deep inside you—but you could change how you dealt with the world. The way I’d changed was that I didn’t keep things to myself anymore. If I had a gripe or a sorrow or a joy, I would call one of my girls and share it with her. That’s why, when Julie first suggested I spend time with them at Ethan’s house, I told her how hard that would be for me. Julie listened to everything I had to say on the subject and then said they would love to have me, but she understood my concerns and the decision was ultimately mine to make. Given the choice between staying home in Westfield while my family built new summertime traditions without me, or facing my fears and becoming a contributing part of their future, I chose the latter. It hadn’t been as hard as I’d expected. The world looked different from Ethan’s backyard than it did from ours. I spent as much time with them as I could—when I could get away from Micky D’s, of course.
Julie
It was so peaceful on the sunporch. I had my computer on my lap and a cup of coffee on the table next to me. I could hear the snipping of the pruning shears as my mother worked on the window boxes and planters in the front yard. I was writing what I expected to be the last book in the Granny Fran series. Fran Gallagher was eighty-four now, and it was time for her to retire. I planned to leave the impression that she’d be called in occasionally to help her younger, greener colleagues solve their crimes, but really, it was time for her to move to Florida, find a nice old fellow to pal around with and rest on her laurels.
My fans wouldn’t be happy with me for ending my series, but I was ready to move on to something new and different. I longed to write a story with a little more meat on its bones. I wanted to delve into life’s experiences, both the good and the bad. I wanted to write books filled with heartache and love, evil and goodness, death and rebirth—all those highs and lows that made up reality. Some of my readers would follow me along that path; others would mourn the loss of the lighthearted escape reading I’d given them for so many years. But I would be writing what felt right for me now, and I couldn’t wait to get started.
I looked up from my work as I pondered the scene in which Fran realizes she is tired of solving other people’s mysteries. The canal was calm, the tide slack as a sailboat made its quiet way toward the river. Across the water from where I sat, a handful of African-American men were fishing. Were any of them related to the Lewises? I would never know.
I went to see Wanda Lewis in the fall. She was Wanda Jackson now, and she had four sons and countless grandchildren, but no amount of family could make up for the loss of her brother. She had not welcomed me, and I didn’t stay long. I didn’t blame her for the chilly reception, but one thing I’d come to understand was that I couldn’t undo the past. I could only try to learn from it.
The sound of a motor disturbed the quiet morning, and I looked up to see Ethan steering his boat toward the dock from the direction of the bay. Ethan, Lucy, Abby and baby Clare went out nearly every morning while I wrote. Once they came inside, I would put my work away. I was trying to learn to balance my time between work and play. I was not very good at it yet, but I was improving.
Everyone got out of the boat, but only Ethan walked toward the house. Abby and Lucy took Clare into the open side of the dock, holding her hands as they walked with her down the slope into the water that had once held such fear for my younger sister.
Ethan opened the door to the porch and came inside, taking off his sunglasses.
“How’s Granny Fran doing?” he asked. His hair and his bathing suit were wet. I knew he’d had fun this morning.
“She’s on her last legs,” I told him.
He bent over to kiss me and I could smell the saltwater on his skin. “And how’s Granny Julie?” he asked.
As if on cue, Kira Sellers Stroh, who’d been sleeping peacefully in her Portacrib on the other side of the porch, began to whimper.
“Granny Julie couldn’t be any happier,” I said.
This year had certainly been full of surprises. Shannon did go to Colorado with Tanner,
but she was there less than twenty-four hours when she called to tell me she was coming home.
“We got to his house and all his friends were there waiting to meet me,” she said, when I picked her up at the airport. “They were really nice, Mom, but the youngest one was twenty-five, and I thought, ‘What am I doing here? What am I doing with this old guy I barely know?’”
Ethan walked over to the Portacrib and lifted Kira into his arms. He kissed her temple and rocked her a little, cooing to her.
“Is Shannon napping?” he asked.
“Uh-huh.” Shannon had been up with the Kira most of the night. The baby had been born at exactly midnight on the twenty-first of December and she’d been a night owl ever since.
I moved my laptop to the floor and Ethan lowered Kira into my arms, then sat down next to me. I snuggled the baby against my chest. I liked it when she was half-awake like this, in that gurgling, not-quite-ready-to-eat state, easily placated by a little cuddling. I pressed my lips to her thick hair and inhaled the scent of baby shampoo. She was a beautiful child, with her mother’s—and her great-aunt Isabel’s—dark eyes, dark hair, and double rows of jet-black eyelashes. She and Shannon lived with us, and although Tanner sent money every month, I contributed as well. Shannon still gave cello lessons at the music store and would be entering the music program at Drew University in the fall, commuting from home. She had a hard road ahead of her. I’d given up analyzing whether I was helping her too much or too little. I was just trying to follow my heart.
Ethan leaned his head against my shoulder, rubbing Kira’s back as we watched Abby, Lucy and Clare splashing and laughing in the dock. Then Lucy hoisted Clare onto her shoulders for the walk up the slope. From upstairs, I could hear the sound of water running and knew that Shannon was up, and the front screen door squeaked open as my mother came inside. In a moment, everyone would be on the porch.
I covered Ethan’s hand where it rested on Kira’s back. “Is this how you thought your life would turn out?” I asked him.
“Are you kidding?” he said. “I couldn’t have dreamed up anything this good.”
I laughed, then returned my attention to the granddaughter in my arms. I wondered what sort of challenge Kira would present to Shannon when she became a teenager. I could imagine Shannon struggling to hold on to her child, trying to rein her in to keep her safe.
And I would be there to help her let go.
QUESTIONS FOR YOUR READING GROUP
Julie carries the responsibility for Isabel’s death throughout her life. How does that impact her and her relationships over the years?
Julie refers to her family’s inability to discuss Isabel as “the elephant in the room.” Do you have experience with “the elephant in the room” in your family or circle of friends? How does that impact your relationships?
Were you more like the adventurous Julie as a child or the fearful Lucy? How did that affect you growing up? How and why did those qualities change in you—if they did?
In part, The Bay at Midnight is about sisters. Discuss Julie and Lucy’s relationship. How do you think Isabel would have fitted in had she lived?
Why do you think Shannon turned to Lucy with her problems instead of to Julie? Is there anything Julie could have done differently to be her daughter’s confidante? Does this situation resonate for you as you think about your own teenage years or your relationships with your own children?
What parallels did you see between the generations: Maria and her parents, Julie, Lucy and Isabel and their parents, Shannon and Julie?
Julie is caught between the teachings of her religion and her own nature. How does this impact her and the choices she makes? Can you relate to her conflict?
Why do you think Ross wanted to reconnect with Maria?
What do you think motivated Julie to maintain a friendship with Wanda and George in spite of her parents’ objections?
Which character garnered the most sympathy from you and why?
How did your feelings about Julie, Lucy and Maria change throughout the story?
The Bay at Midnight is written in the first person from three points of view—Julie’s, Lucy’s and Maria’s. How might the story have been different if it had been written entirely from Julie’s point of view?
Q&A ON The Bay at Midnight
What inspired you to write this story?
This story actually began with the setting. Until I was eighteen, my family owned a small bungalow on a canal in Point Pleasant, New Jersey. I’ve always felt nostalgic about my longago summer home. Since I knew I would never own it again, I decided the only way to enjoy it would be to write about it.
As always, I wanted to explore the relationships between people, particularly Maria and her two daughters, Julie and Lucy. The murder of the third daughter, Isabel, flowed from my thoughts about the family. The setting, with its early sixties innocence, seemed perfect for a mystery. I had so many real details in my memory from living there—floating on tubes down the canal to the bay, crabbing in our dock, getting caught in the fog from the mosquito truck, and one heartrending disappearance of a child—that the book was both easy and fun to write.
You often write about secrets in your novels. What intrigues you about the dynamics of a relationship in which something is hidden?
Before writing full-time, I was a psychotherapist who frequently worked with families. I became aware of the damage a family’s secrets could do its members. Children and young adults intuitively sense when there’s something “amiss” in their family, and they often act out in response to that discomfiting intuition. In my fiction, I like to explore the ramifications of keeping secrets, both before and after they’re revealed.
The Bay at Midnight shows a single event’s legacy on three generations of women—Maria; her daughters, Julie and Lucy; and her granddaughter, Shannon. What did you want to explore in each of these women’s lives?
I wanted to look at how Isabel’s murder coloured each of their lives as the years passed. It was only as I began writing the story that I saw the link between the three mother-daughter dyads: Maria and her mother, Maria and her daughters, and Julie and Shannon. Each mother tried to protect her daughter from the inevitability of growing up, with all the difficult choices and learning experiences that entails. And each of them failed.
You’ve written many novels. Is there one book in your history as a writer that stands out as a favourite?
Actually, this one. I felt deeply connected to the setting for reasons I’ve already mentioned, but writing in the first person also connected me to the characters in a way I hadn’t previously experienced. I missed the characters once I typed “The End,” so I think that’s a good sign!
WHY I WRITE…
I always wanted to be a writer and wrote many small, terrible books as a pre-teen. But I also had a strong desire to be a social worker, having read a book as a teenager about the different ways social workers could help people. By the time I was ready for college, becoming a successful writer seemed like a pipe dream, so I received both my bachelor’s and master’s degrees in social work. Then a funny thing happened. I was at a doctor’s appointment, and the receptionist told me the doctor was running very late. There were no magazines in the office, but I had a pen and a pad…and I had an idea that had been rolling around in my head for more than a decade. I began writing and couldn’t stop. At first, I thought of my writing as a hobby, but after about four years I had a completed novel. A year later, I had my first contract. I continued working as both a social worker and a writer for several more years until I decided to write full time. I love writing. It’s hard to imagine a better career, and I have plenty more stories to tell.
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY
Once a medical social worker, Diane Chamberlain is the award-winning author of twelve novels that explore the complexities of human relationships—between men and women, brothers and sisters, parents and children. Diane lives in northern Virginia.
Q&A ON WRITING
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sp; What do you love the most about being a writer?
It’s so rewarding to be able to touch thousands of people with my stories. I love hearing that a reader lost a night of sleep because she couldn’t put down one of my books! That’s the best compliment I can receive.
Where do you go for inspiration?
When I begin to think about writing a new book, I see story possibilities everywhere. My mind and imagination are suddenly open to all the universe has to offer. I devour newspapers and magazines, watch movies, go to art museums, talk to people and even listen in on conversations in restaurants (not intentionally—I just can’t help myself when I’m in story-gathering mode!). The story that ultimately arises from all of this is a composite of so many different ideas that I can rarely recall the initial inspiration.
What one piece of advice would you give to a writer wanting to start a career?
First, study the craft of writing. I have read many manuscripts in which the idea is brilliant, but the writing is so poor that I know it stands no chance of ever being published, which is heartbreaking. Read as much as you can so that you understand how stories are told. What draws you in? What keeps you interested? Take a class and share your writing with others to get feedback. Finally, get out and live your life so you have experiences to write about. Writers often tend to be introverts who like to closet themselves away, but we really do need the stimulation of being part of the world in order to understand people and the situations they get themselves into.