23. Keaton Conspiracy Theorist
The Old Homes Tour was a gigantic success, to say the least. And, around the table tonight, I can’t help but think of my grandparents—people I never knew, but who through their memories and notebooks, through the stories I have heard about them, I feel like I am getting to know better and better, so much so that I feel sort of homesick for them. I can’t turn back the clock, I can’t make them reappear. But, as crazy as it seems, that’s my greatest wish right now. My whole Beaufort crew is here. Violet and her husband, Arlene, Betty, Suzanne and her husband Wade, Amy, Alex, Jimmy, and Clayton. Harris and, of course, Bowen. It strikes me how much I wish my mom and dad were here. And, if I’m wishing for things, I wish I could have known Betty’s and Arlene’s late husbands, who I have heard so many stories about. But, otherwise, the night is perfect.
Everyone is laughing as Violet is saying, “And then Becks comes out with this hideous Jell-O mold—the absolute peak of seventies cooking but the antithesis of everything she stood for—loaded with candles and plops it in front of Townsend. And he says, ‘Now, see. That’s a proper birthday cake.’?”
Her husband picks up a mother-of-pearl dessert fork. “Let me tell you, eating fruit-filled Jell-O with these antique forks felt wrong on so many levels.”
“Do you remember the fondue night?” Arlene asks, giggling into her napkin.
They all laugh again. “Keaton,” Suzanne says, “your grandmother always included us in her parties when we were home from college and in our early twenties. But, let me tell you: Rebecca Saint James was not a fondue type of girl.”
“So what kind of girl was she?” I ask.
“Townsend and Becks were a movie couple,” Violet interrupts.
Suzanne nods. “Yes. They were Bogie and Bacall. This larger-than-life pair of beautiful people who seemed to have a love story that surpassed anything we’d ever known.”
I smile at Harris, and he smiles back at me. It’s nice to hear these things about them.
“Everyone wanted to be like Becks,” Arlene continues. “So proper but also so warm. So effortless but so beautiful. The way she walked through the world was magnificent.”
“No one questioned why Townsend hung on her every word, her every movement,” Dr. Scott, Violet’s husband, adds. “Everyone who’d ever met Becks was just a little bit in love with her.”
Betty shakes her head. “None of us could have imagined they would have come to such a tragic end. It didn’t seem fair. It still doesn’t. They were our golden couple.”
I’m surprised when Harris says, “I’ve read all those articles. What do you think happened to them? A car crash, really?”
My five protectors—Bowen, Violet, Betty, Suzanne, and Arlene—all swivel to look at me. It’s almost comical. “Oh, I’m dying to know,” I say.
“I never bought that it was a random car crash,” Suzanne says, wincing. “I’m sorry. I hate to be a conspiracy theorist. But while I know the curve of Sunset Lane is sharp on that end and you could easily drive right into the water with one wrong move—especially when the tide is as high as it was that night—I still can’t believe the car was found but literally no trace of Becks and Townsend.”
Harris and I look at each other. “The newspapers made it seem like their bodies were in the car,” Harris says.
The thought makes me shiver.
They all turn to Dr. Scott—I guess for a scientific perspective. He winces. “Don’t make me say what could have happened to their bodies. It’s needlessly gruesome.”
Bowen squeezes my knee.
Betty crosses her arms. “There is no way. I know all sorts of things live out in that waterway but there is no way they could just get eaten without a trace. I’m sorry.”
“And Becks always wore her seat belt,” Arlene adds.
“Wouldn’t that make it worse?” Harris says. “Harder to get out of the car?”
“The seat belt wasn’t buckled,” Suzanne says. “We went to look at the car. We tried to find them; the whole town formed a search party. Neither seat belt was buckled. So they must have gotten out of the car somehow.”
Dr. Scott closes his eyes, opens them, and says, “But, Suzanne, you have to remember: when it’s pitch dark outside, especially when you’re out on the water, it’s hard to tell which way is up and which way down. So even if they got out and tried to swim…”
My stomach sinks.
“Well, I’m with Betty,” Arlene says. “I always thought they would have found something. A shoe. Townsend’s glasses. Something.”
“Yeah, but this was 1976,” Bowen chimes in. “Search and rescue wasn’t quite like it is now. It was pretty easy to dispose of a body in the ocean and know it would never be found.”
He takes a bite of his dessert and, fork in his mouth, stops cold. It’s like all the air has been sucked out of the room and all the eyes around the table are on him.
“Holy shit,” Harris whispers. “You think they were murdered?”
“No! No!” Bowen amends, his mouth full. “It was an analogy. I was just saying…” He trails off, and Harris says, “What about the rest of the table?”
Everyone is silent, which is the only answer I need.
“Oh, you know small towns,” Violet says, breaking the silence. “We can’t let scandals like these die. So, instead of just accepting that they’re at peace somewhere, we continue to theorize.”
“Right. But what would make you think that?” Harris asks.
Suzanne gets brave first. “Your mother told the police she was afraid they had been murdered. That Becks knew something she shouldn’t have known.”
“What?” Dr. Scott scoffs. “Becks was so clean-cut and wholesome. What could she have possibly known that would have gotten her killed? This is Beaufort, for heaven’s sake. It’s pretty much the same sleepy town now as it was then.”
Arlene adds quietly, “My mom, her best friend Patricia, confided in me once that she thought Virginia might have been right, that Becks had confronted a suspected murderer about his crimes right before they disappeared.”
Violet rolls her eyes. “That is ridiculous. Don’t spread that gossip.”
My heart races with the idea that maybe they could have been murdered. I think of that blood-tinged samurai sword. “Poor Mom and Uncle Lon,” I say, suddenly understanding them both so much more. How could they possibly have come back to this place when it holds so much heartache and, if Mom really believed her parents were murdered, so much fear? I wouldn’t be able to face it either.
I feel like my entire childhood is being washed away—every moment of annoyance when my mom wasn’t able to move forward, every time she couldn’t show up to be the mother I wanted her to be, every time she couldn’t talk about my grandparents, is being replaced with this deep, poignant empathy. “They must be so haunted.”
I feel chilled to my bones, but I also decide that Becks would not be proud of the vibe at my first dinner party. So I stand up to clear the dishes. As much as I’ve wanted to solve this mystery, now that we’re talking about it, I’m ready for this conversation to be over. Then what Violet says soothes me: “At least they were together in the end. Either of them living in a world without the other would have been inconceivable. So at least they never had to face that reality.”
I nod. “Well, that’s the silver lining, I guess. So let’s finish our non-Jell-O dessert, have another drink, and make the most of the night while we still can.” Still standing, I raise my glass. “To Becks and Townsend, wherever they are.”
“To Becks and Townsend,” the table repeats.
“All I know, my darling, is that Rebecca Saint James would be awfully proud of her granddaughter right now,” Arlene says. “You have thrown one heck of a dinner party!” She obviously understands I’m trying to change the subject.
“And, Keaton,” Arlene adds. “The Old Homes Tour committee was always such a big deal to our mothers that we felt like we had to follow in their footsteps. We were always really sad that your mother wasn’t a part of it.” She is tearing up.
Betty takes over for her. “If there is anything that Becks would have loved more than her daughter being a part of her Old Homes Tour, it’s that her granddaughter is.” She raises her glass to me, and, still standing, I raise mine to her and take another sip, feeling like my chest might burst with pride. I had worried that the things Becks loved—her traditions, her committees, her parties—are fading away. But now that I am here I can make sure they continue. I love the idea of this one small thing keeping Becks’s memory alive.
“In that case,” I say, “you’re stuck with me. Even if I’m back in New York, every June I’ll be here with all of you.”
That’s all it takes for the joyous tone of the evening to return.
Later, after the ladies have left, I wonder if I will ever have a love like Becks and Townsend’s. Harris has gone to get Anderson and walk Salt while Bowen and I take care of the dishes, which is very kind of him. And, as I fill the sink with soap and water, I’m shocked to realize that his true intention might have been to give me time alone with Bowen, which is not only thoughtful but also a vote of confidence I hadn’t expected. As I lower each crystal goblet into the water, Bowen wraps his arms around my waist and kisses my neck. “Are we finally, really alone at last?”
Butterflies stir in my stomach. I have dreamt of the lengthy kisses we’ve been able to steal turning into something more. “I think we might be.” I turn around and kiss him, wrapping my wrists around his neck, soap bubbles dripping on the floor behind him.
“Can the dishes wait?” he whispers, never taking his lips off mine.
I nod, and he reaches behind me to turn off the tap. I separate from him long enough to grab the last piece of crystal to put in the sink. I am imagining what happens next, finally touching the skin under that shirt, testing out this connection I feel so clearly between us. Bowen takes a step back, and I hear the door fly open. “Keat!” Harris yells, shaking a notebook in his hands. “Have you read this?”
I don’t know if it’s the adrenaline that shoots through me or my wet hands, but, either way, the glass slips out of my soapy fingers. I watch it fall, as if in slow motion. Bowen lunges for it, but it’s too late. The glass lands, not on the floor, but on my bare foot. I see the blood spurt out of the top before I feel the pain.