The House on Fripp Island
Praise for
THE HOUSE ON FRIPP ISLAND
“Kauffman’s keen, atmospheric follow-up to The Gunners explores class, friendship, and dark family secrets . . . Inevitably, events spiral to a shocking conclusion. Kauffman’s characters leap off the page . . . Readers will devour this suspenseful summer drama.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Rebecca Kauffman has long been one of my favorite writers, and The House on Fripp Island is her best novel yet. The story of two very different families brought together for an unlikely vacation that takes a dangerous turn, Kauffman’s latest is a rare and gripping combination of gloriously observed prose and three hundred pages of pure suspense. I loved it.”
—Julie Buntin, author of Marlena
“A novel full of secrets set in a stunning beach house is my definition of a perfect summer read. I was stunned by the twists and turns of Rebecca Kauffman’s masterful novel, The House on Fripp Island. Bring plenty of sunscreen when you take this book to the beach . . . you’ll be reading all day long.”
—Amanda Eyre Ward, author of The Jetsetters
“A sharp, modern story about the wilderness of family life.”
—Adrienne Celt, author of Invitation to a Bonfire and The Daughters
THE HOUSE ON FRIPP ISLAND
ALSO BY REBECCA KAUFFMAN
The Gunners
Another Place You’ve Never Been
The
HOUSE on FRIPP ISLAND
Rebecca Kauffman
First published in Great Britain in 2020 by
Serpent’s Tail,
an imprint of Profile Books Ltd
29 Cloth Fair
London
EC1A 7JQ
www.serpentstail.com
First published in the United States in 2020 by
Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company
Copyright © 2020 by Rebecca Kauffman
Conversation with the author and Reading Group Guide copyright © 2020 by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company
“Street Haunting” by Virginia Woolf from The Death of the Moth and Other Essays. Copyright © 1942 by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company. Copyright © renewed 1970 by Marjorie T. Parsons, Executrix. Reprinted by permission of the Society of Authors as the Literary Representative of the Estate of Virginia Woolf and Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. All rights reserved.
Book design by Chloe Foster
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, Elcograf S.p.A.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978 1 78816 5204
eISBN 978 1 78283 7022
In loving memory of my grandmothers,
Mary & Evelyn
The possibilities of pleasure seemed that morning so enormous and so various that to have only a moth’s part in life, and a day moth’s at that, appeared a hard fate, and his zest in enjoying his meagre opportunities to the full, pathetic. He flew vigorously to one corner of his compartment, and, after waiting there a second, flew across to the other. What remained for him but to fly to a third corner and then to a fourth? That was all he could do, in spite of the size of the downs, the width of the sky, the far-off smoke of houses, and the romantic voice, now and then, of a steamer out at sea. What he could do he did.
—VIRGINIA WOOLF, “Street Haunting”
CONTENTS
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
A Conversation with Rebecca Kauffman
Reading Group Guide Questions for Discussion
PROLOGUE
Two decades have passed since the summer my family drove through many miles of remote marshland to reach Fripp Island. Land that smelled of wet dog and wet duffel bag, air as thick and hot as wool. Pro-life billboards with magnified ultrasounds and 1-800 numbers in blood-spatter red. Spanish moss that hung in oversized shrouds from every limb of every giant Southern live oak and bald cypress and swayed in the breeze like gangling drunken dancers. Silent and forsaken land. We went twenty miles without seeing another car on the highway.
We crossed a bridge to enter Fripp Island, a luscious, jungled little thumbprint of land that contains every shade of green you could imagine, from almost-yellow to almost-black. We had to stop the car because an alligator was in the road before us. It was the first alligator I had ever seen and much uglier than I would have expected, its hide dull, dark, and textured, as warty as a toad. Fat thighs. It sauntered across the road like it owned the island. The birds there didn’t really sing, I noticed. They clicked and buzzed and occasionally they screamed.
Several days later, I was dead.
My body was recovered by a young surfer named Blade Caldwell and two of his friends. The coroner officially ruled it Death by Accidental Drowning. My family acknowledged that I was not a strong swimmer and there was a powerful riptide, so no one had reason to suspect that the coroner was wrong. Everyone cried and spoke loving sentiments about me.
In the moment before I passed through the screen that separates the living from the dead, I can recall that something like giddy, euphoric laughter fluttered briefly within me, because the idea of being killed—being murdered, that is—struck me as so bizarre that it was downright comical. Then water entered my lungs as hard and fast as a ninety-mile-an-hour fastball to the chest, and I was enraged by the circumstances that had brought me to this place. But before I could linger on that, oopsie-daisy now, here I go. My mind loosened and skittered across a few beautiful memories that touched me and surprised me, and then it was over. No bright white light. Just a painless little snap as I penetrated the screen.
Twenty years later, I’m still skimming through and around and around the same old places, sniffing about, watching from behind the screen that separates the living from the dead. The dead don’t care much for one another, I can assure you of that, we’re just a sort of sleazy and unappealing reflection of each other; no fun to be had between us, no comfort to be shared. And to the living, of course, we are formless and imperceptible. Our touch has no imprint and our presence cannot be detected, no matter how relentlessly or lovingly we might stalk a living person and attempt to foist our dead self upon them. We can actually slip into a living body, did you know that?, be swept up by its movements and carry along with it, feel the banging of that heart as though it were our own. But even still, even then, the living will carry on, oblivious to our habitation. So around and around I go, taking up temporary residence within the people I once knew and attempting to recall the facts and feelings of life.
THE HOUSE ON FRIPP ISLAND
1
HOURS BEFORE THE GUESTS were scheduled to arrive, the banquet staff vacuumed up olive pits and croutons smashed into the burgundy carpet of the executive ballroom. They flattened starchy white cloths over tables, assembled the chocolate fountain, and did a test run to make sure all eight tiers were properly attached. They distributed garland and potted poinsettias throughout the room, polished glassware, and folded napkins into stars. When the room was finally ready for service, they slipped outside and stood behind the dumpster, smoking cigarettes in the snow. The dumpster steamed with fresh garbage from the kitchen: coffee grounds and shrimp shells. They passed around a tube of wintergreen Life Savers and watched as the first guests pulled up to the valet station. The driver was wearing a stupid-looking oversized elf hat, and he tossed the contents of a red Solo cup into the snow before passing his keys to the valet.
The Raslowe & Associates employee Christmas party was in full swing by seven o’clock that evening. Open bar. It had been a good year.
Midway through the festivities, Scott Daly was named the winner of the big-ticket raffle, and he dragged his wife, Lisa, onstage with him to accept the award. She was several inches taller than him. He wore a navy blazer, expensive-looking jeans with artificial fading, and Italian loafers. His thick, wavy hair was skunk-like, mostly black with a dramatic white chunk shooting out right at the part; his face was jammed full of teeth. Lisa’s dyed red hair gleamed a bit oddly under the fluorescent lighting.
Scott had an arm around Lisa’s waist when he reached the stage to retrieve the envelope from the head of HR, who had announced all the raffle winners. Scott took the envelope, then raised and tipped his gin and tonic to the crowd. He was met with blank faces, bored, disapproving, disappointed faces, and some lifeless applause. “Whatever,” he murmured. Lisa’s pale face shimmered with sad exhilaration.
As the two of them made their way back to their table, the CEO of the company took over the mic to offer a robust little spiel about how well the company had performed that year.
At their table, Lisa didn’t hear a word of the speech. She was looking over the contents of the envelope her husband had just received. A small embossed card read: All Expenses Paid. Four days and nights at Fripp Island Resort. Redeemable through the next calendar year. A brochure accompanied the card and featured many photographs of the island, as well as a map. The island was situated just off the coast of South Carolina, midway between Charleston and Savannah. A golf course occupied a portion of the island, which was three miles from end to end. Several bars and restaurants and crab shacks were advertised in the brochure. Photographs showed bright blue birds with yellow heads, palmettos, a fawn drinking from a fountain on the golf course, an expansive white beach, a footprint in sand.
Scott leaned toward Lisa. “Place looks neat, doesn’t it? Figured we’d invite the Ramones.”
Lisa’s upper lip curled, an involuntary flicker of objection.
Scott whispered, “I know you and Shirley aren’t close, but there’s nothing wrong with her. And JP’s always a great time, loves golf. And the kids actually get along.”
That was true. The Ramone kids shared interests with and were close in age to Scott and Lisa’s fourteen-year-old Rae and eleven-year-old Kimmy. And Scott was right, there was nothing so very wrong with Shirley, it was just . . . nothing was quite right about her either.
“Mm.” Lisa grunted querulously as she looked back at the brochure. She slowly emitted a soundless burp and adjusted her posture. She was no longer comfortable in her dress. Beside her, Scott resumed the joke he had been telling several minutes ago, just before his name was announced as the raffle winner. He waggled his head around to make sure he had the attention of everyone at the table before delivering the punch line. “Get it?” He snorted wetly, eyes circling the table for confirmation. “You get it?”
Lisa patted the top of Scott’s hand, a gesture intended to reassure him of the joke’s success and discourage him from telling any more. As she paged through the brochure for Fripp Island a second time, she felt a fresh wave of agitation that Scott had already decided who would accompany them on this vacation without consulting her. Furthermore, it occurred to her, she hadn’t a clue how many raffle tickets Scott had purchased for that drawing. For all Lisa knew, he might’ve spent more on raffle tickets than they would’ve put toward an actual vacation. It would be like him to do such a thing, honestly, scoop up all the tickets, any opportunity to win. Oh well, this really wasn’t her concern. Scott had provided Lisa with a very comfortable life—she hadn’t held a job since she was nineteen years old, for crying out loud—and he rarely griped about the way she spent money. Lisa sipped her martini and drew an olive from the stainless-steel cocktail skewer with her lips. She’d be a good sport, she decided. It was only four days, after all.
Fortunately for Lisa, though, the Ramones had already solidified their vacation plans for the entire year and didn’t have a day to spare. This was also the case with Scott’s sister Nan and her husband, whom they asked next. Lisa’s cousin Frank and his wife had a newborn, so they didn’t want to fly, and they lived too far away to drive. Scott’s friend Liam’s wife was going through some weird anxiety stuff, so they couldn’t commit. Lisa and Scott were on good terms with his parents but couldn’t quite see their way to spending that much time with them under one roof. Lisa’s mother was recovering from surgery to remove a tumor from her throat, so she was in no condition to travel. They considered going with just their kids, but Scott pointed out that “all expenses paid” included alcohol, and the house had five bedrooms, so it would be a terrible waste not to find others to accompany them.
Lisa was the one who eventually suggested her best friend from childhood, Poppy, and her family. Poppy and her husband, John, lived outside Wheeling, West Virginia, where the two had grown up and where Lisa’s mother, Carol, still lived.
Next-door neighbors and both only children, Lisa and Poppy had become fast friends at an early age. Both families’ homes had an open-door policy to the other, and it wasn’t uncommon for them to have sleepovers several nights of the week. They shared adventures, secrets, wardrobes, gossip, homework, inside jokes, broken hearts—years upon years of life. Shortly after graduating from high school, Lisa left the area and she and Poppy kept in touch, but not closely, seeing each other only once every year or two when Lisa’s family was in Wheeling to visit her mother. On these visits with the whole families, there were always other dynamics to manage, and the time together was hurried and high-strung. Between visits, Lisa and Poppy managed to speak on the phone every few months, but these calls were always interrupted prematurely by a kid in crisis or someone at the door. They never seemed to get to the stuff that mattered. There was shared history and love between them, and they could still laugh at the same stupid shit, but it was impossible to feel as close as they once had, now that they only conversed in fragments and could rarely complete a thought, much less bare a soul.
In the past year, however, the two had reconnected powerfully following Lisa’s mother’s diagnosis. Poppy still considered Carol a dear family friend, given all the time spent and meals consumed in her home as a child. So when Poppy received word of Carol’s illness, she took on the role of surrogate daughter, since she was local and Lisa was not: transporting and accompanying Carol to appointments, taking notes on the results of her scans, arranging her medications in the weekly pill case, delivering quiches and cakes. During these months, Lisa and Poppy spoke often. Lisa was deeply appreciative and touched by Poppy’s help with her mother’s care. Poppy insisted it was no trouble—she welcomed the opportunity to help and wouldn’t accept a dime from Lisa for the gas, meals, or time.
Scott was at the kitchen table, typing something on his laptop, when Lisa suggested inviting Poppy and her family to Fripp Island as a gesture of gratitude. He didn’t look up from his computer when he said, “The Fords?,” as though they knew more than one Poppy.
Lisa said, “It’s the least I can offer after everything Poppy’s done for Mom. And anyhow, I’d love to be able to connect with their family, I’ve been saying so for years. The kids would get along fine, they always have in the past. Alexis is the same age as Kimmy, remember? And Ryan’s got to be seventeen, headed to college in the fall. Who knows if he’d even want to come. Rae will obviously be fine with or without a buddy. She’ll spend the whole week with her nose in a book either way.”