Tell Me a Story by Cassandra King Conroy

Author:Cassandra King Conroy
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2019-10-28T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

It’s a Maine Thing

A few years after Megan’s wedding, Pat’s daughter Melissa would have a much simpler and quieter ceremony in the backyard of her mother’s house in Atlanta. Although it was an incredibly sweet and lovely affair, when the family reminisces about Melissa and Jay Shermata’s wedding, the comments are always the same: It was the hottest day any of us can remember, with one of the highest temperatures ever recorded in Atlanta. At the outdoor reception, their beautiful, three-tiered wedding cake melted into a puddle, and so did the guests.

When Pat and I returned to Fripp, he sat me down for a heart-to-heart. “Helen Keller,” he said wearily, “this ain’t working for me. And you’re too stubborn to admit it, but it’s not working for you either. The summers are killing me. We’ve got to get out of here.”

He had a point. When you live on the beach, everybody’s your friend. After Pat and I had been together a couple of years, we’d start in the spring bracing ourselves for the upcoming summer, which we called Camp Fripp. And once the school year ended and relatives headed our way, that was exactly what our house felt like, a summer camp. Pat and I spent most of the summer cooking, washing sheets and beach towels, and sweeping sand off the floors. Every night we collapsed in exhaustion, worn out.

Pat came up with a way to celebrate the departure of our visitors, which he first did as a lark then later as entertainment for the grandkids. After the first couple of summers of constant visitors, Pat made up a victory dance when the last one was out the door. Big as he was, he was light on his feet and he cavorted, twirled, and jumped up and down singing “Oh Freee-dom!” He bent over at the waist with his arms above his head and genuflected to a sympathetic god who’d led us out of visitor bondage to the promised land of peace and quiet. It was the perfect release from the stress of endless entertaining.

“Pat Conroy,” I said when he suggested that we escape, “that may be the best idea you’ve ever had. So here’s what I think. Let’s tell the kids they need to come the first part of the summer—all of them, together. Get it over with! We’ll visit with them during their stay, then we’ll hit the road running. And we’ll stay gone until after Labor Day weekend.”

“Perfect,” Pat agreed. “But we’d better not tell them where we’re going. They might follow us.”

That’s how we ended up discovering Brooklin, Maine, and Highlands, North Carolina, as our summer destinations. Not only did getting away save our sanity (and probably our marriage and writing careers as well), it was the way I became better acquainted with some of Pat’s closest friends, who would become lifelong friends to me as well.

* * *

I don’t recall exactly when Pat first took me to Charleston to visit his friends Anne Rivers Siddons and her husband, Heyward, but it was a happy day for me.

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