Introduction

2024 IPPY Awards Bronze Winner in Northeast Fiction
2024 National Indie Excellence Awards Winner in Regional Fiction: Northeast

“In painterly prose, [Keating] wraps a tale of intertwined relationships and the bonds of family and friendship into the landscape of Montauk....[Her novel] shows the human side of the complexities of preserving land and the prospect of coastal retreat.” —The East End Beacon

“An intelligent, psychologically astute, and beautifully written tale about the relationship of man and nature with not one predictable or cliched sentence or situation in sight.” —Baum on Books, NPR

“In vivid, memorable prose, Keating evokes the beauty and fragility of Montauk and its residents. The work speaks to the pressing issues of our time, especially the loss of wild places.” —Tucson Festival of Books

The Stark Beauty of Last Things is set in Montauk, the far reaches of the famed Hamptons, an area under looming threat from a warming climate and overdevelopment. Now outsider Clancy, a thirty-six-year-old claims adjuster scarred by his orphan childhood, has inherited an unexpected legacy: the power to decide the fate of Montauk’s last parcel of undeveloped land.

Everyone in town has a stake in the outcome, among them Julienne, an environmentalist and painter fighting to save the landscape that inspires her art; Theresa, a bartender whose trailer park home is jeopardized by coastal erosion; and Molly and Billy, who are struggling to hold onto their property against pressure to sell. When a forest fire breaks out, Clancy comes under suspicion for arson, complicating his efforts to navigate competing agendas for the best uses of the land and to find the healing and home he has always longed for.

Told from multiple points of view, The Stark Beauty of Last Things explores our connection to nature—and what we stand to lose when that connection is severed.

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Excerpt

CHAPTER 1: Clancy

Clancy Frederics thought he knew everything he needed to know about the Hamptons—mainly that it was not the kind of place that he belonged. But so far, everything was a bit different from what he expected. After two hours of highway sprawl there was suddenly a sharp bend in the road, an expanse of intense green, a small white church. The light was fading from the sky, bronzing a brick post office, glazing a glass-fronted penny candy shop. Pillows of clouds drifted high over a field and caught the reflected light. He passed vineyards and farm stands and swooped around a blue gem of a pond, where a swan dipped to kiss its reflection. After the 100-plus miles of 21st century ruin that was Long Island, this oasis seemed false, the world turned upside-down.

As he pulled up at the Sandpiper restaurant on Napeague Bay outside the hamlet of Montauk, a sudden gust whipped off the bay, teasing the carefully coiffed heads of arriving partygoers. The breeze swirled the skirts of the women, who batted them down with one hand while clutching their purses with the other, laughing as they hurried to the door.

Clancy stepped from his car, arrested by the freshness of the air and the sharp briny tang that teased his memory from long ago. The air was alive with specks of sand dust and pollen. It smelled of salt and something dry – dune grass, or perhaps goldenrod. As he headed to the door, his footsteps crunched in a way that took a second to register: crushed clamshells.

The party was a fundraiser for a documentary on combating coastal erosion, newly severe at Montauk’s downtown beach. It was at his friend Bruce’s invitation that Clancy had rented a car and driven three hours from the city to get here. He was that desperate. Maybe he’d feel a stirring of interest – in a woman, in anything. The invitation was a sign: Fish or cut bait. Looking for signs was a habit left over from childhood, when he believed they were messages from his parents in heaven. In times of difficulty he found himself searching for markers and omens, guidance about what he should do.

Now this. The façade of the restaurant glowed with a pink luminescence, the artsy lighting conveying a tone of understated elegance. The restaurant door, however, wouldn’t give. He pushed harder; the door widened just enough for him to squeeze through the crush of party goers, brushing up against tanned skin, silky garments, cascading hair. He gave his name to a slender woman, chic in a black, and made his way to the bar.

He gulped a beer as he watched the movement of people, women like birds of bright plumage in their cocktail dresses, clustered under fairy lights ensnared in glittery fishnets suspended from the room’s cathedral ceiling. The lights swayed as the doors opened and closed, twinkling like undulating constellations above the guests’ heads. He fidgeted with his tie, calmed by the knot snug against his throat, and kept an eye out for Bruce. Bruce was a journalist for You’re Hot! Magazine. Clancy was an insurance claims adjuster. Despite their dissimilarities, he and Bruce had become close. Or, Clancy knew, as close as he allowed himself to get. It was as if he had inherited a kid brother, the family that he, an orphan with no siblings, had never had. When Clancy’s girlfriend Irene moved out the previous month, Bruce, who lived in the same apartment building in Astoria, had cooked him fiery chili and tried to fix him up with various women. It hadn’t helped, but Clancy had to love him for it.

The alcohol had begun its slow calming magic when Clancy felt a hard slap, clinking his glass against his teeth. Bruce was his usual insouciant self, wearing a black shirt with garish swirls. Clancy, as always, was in chinos and carefully ironed denim shirt.

“Like it?” Bruce shoved a sleeve under Clancy’s nose. The swirls consisted of words, upside down, sideways. “It says ‘fuck you’ in 20 different languages.”

Clancy laughed and shook his head.

A woman appeared from behind Bruce and slid an arm under his. “This,” Bruce said, “is Dominique. She made all the arrangements.”

“Hey.” Dominique lightly touched Clancy’s hand with her fingers. She was really Donna, Clancy knew, an aspiring actress working as an assistant to the filmmaker. She was quite tall, dressed in tight black Capri’s and a white-sequined halter that showed off glistening shoulders. Her hair was cut severely short, and she had large Bambi eyes. Clancy found her terrifying.

“So,” Bruce said, sizing up their mutual lack of interest, “why don’t I introduce you around?”

He led Clancy to a raised table in the back where the small documentary crew was settled. Everyone said hi and went back to their conversation, buzzing about the Army Corps project. From what Clancy could gather, the project involved an artificial dune created of a heaping pile of sand bags. Apparently the Corps had excavated and damaged the natural dune, provoking outrage, and a recent act of sabotage: the bags slashed open, expelling coarse yellow sand.

Clancy downed his beer and felt the alcohol drift to all the edges of his body, all the nooks and crannies. He was only minimally conscious of the conversation, of Bruce’s efforts to draw him in. An auburn-haired beauty offered him champagne from a tray of flutes, which he declined. With her shimmery green gown and wavy hair she was like a mermaid flowing through dark and light shadows as she glided through the crowd. Around him people grouped and regrouped, like country dancers coming together, pulling apart, and puckering up: Kiss kiss kiss.

These partygoers were so young, so on. Clancy put his glass to his lips only to remember it was empty. He had to pace himself, to maintain the floating sensation, the pleasant distance. He snagged passing hors d’oeuvres, fending off self-pity. He’d resolved when he was young that he would never feel sorry for himself, and for the most part he’d succeeded. But Irene’s departure had left him shaken, hollow in a way he hadn’t felt since his parents’ death. Lately he’d found himself drawn to his balcony, mesmerized by the movement of cars on Astoria Boulevard, craving the rush of air.

He excused himself and began a slow circuit around the restaurant, noting the polished wainscoting, the exquisite floral arrangements in large earthen vases set in recessed niches in the walls. Places like this used to make him feel out of his depth. But he had discovered that he had the ability to escape notice, to radiate no heat.

He amused himself with guessing professions, all Hampton clichés: hedge fund manager, art dealer, oyster shucker. There would be construction workers and surfers, politicians and town workers, school teachers and landscapers, Bruce said. The short-order cook was a volunteer fireman; the postal worker led a Scout troop. Montauk, unlike the rest of the glitzy Hamptons, was that kind of town. Realtor he decided, of an older woman in a silver sheath, as a tall young woman with a broad smiling face and long, white-blond braid approached with a tray of scallops.

Silver Sheath pincered a napkin with two fingers of the hand holding her drink while lifting a scallop skewer with the other. “These storms are only going to get more frequent,” she said to a woman in red, who arched away from the drippy sauce.

“A manufactured dune? Please.” Woman in Red shook the ice cubes in her glass. “It’s not about saving the beach; it’s about protecting the motels.”

A man in a blue blazer turned to the women. “The sandbag barrier will gain us time until we can retreat from the coast.”

“Retreat?” A burly man pushed past Clancy. “Where are the businesses supposed to go? Sacrifice for the good of the community? I’ll do that after I see you give up your house.”

There was a crash, the sound of glass breaking, a second of shocked silence.

“What the —?” The man in the blazer was holding up his hand, dripping with liquid.

People sprang forward to pull the burly man away as the film crew rushed over, camera bobbing. Shattered glass glistened in the wet. The blond who had been serving the scallops reappeared with a broom and paper towels.

Clancy knelt and began scooping up shards. “What was all that about?” He took the dustpan from her hands.

“I’m not sure.” She patted at the floor with a paper towel, her voice breathy with excitement. “That’s the Town Supervisor whose drink got knocked out of his hand.”

Clancy followed her to the kitchen with the loaded dustpan and handed over the wadded up glass and paper towels to one of the workers. The red-headed beauty with her silver tray of flutes slid past without eye contact. He’d once known a little girl with hair that unusual deep auburn. She hadn’t liked him.

“Thanks for your help,” the blond smiled as he held the door for her to maneuver back out with a freshly loaded tray. People were heading to the back of the room. He joined the flow to a long table on which a curious array of objects was displayed: a lumpy ceramic bowl, an old edition of a wildlife book, and a large painting that made him feel as if he were pitched forward toward a ferocious sea that, oddly, was depicted from behind a barbed-wire fence.

“What do you think?” a voice asked. He turned to see the woman who had checked him in at the door. Her corkscrew-curly black hair was backlit, as if electrified.

“It’s gorgeous, but … disturbing somehow. You?”

“Well, I was quite disturbed when I painted it!” she laughed. “That fence was the bane of my existence.”

“You’re the artist? The fence isn’t metaphoric, then?”

“It’s a long story.” She made a dismissive gesture.

“Tell me more?”

She cocked her head, regarding him a moment, then stuck out her hand. “Julienne Bishop, landscape painter and owner of Bishops by the Sea.” Her grip was strong.

He imitated her mock formality, giving her hand an emphatic shake. “Clancy Frederics, insurance claims adjuster. So, what’s Bishops by the Sea, a gallery?”

“A little motel out in Montauk.”

“Montauk.” The word spiked a jolt of pleasure. It conjured up a man called Otto, who had, for a brief time, been his Big Brother. The father of the auburn-haired girl. Bruce’s invitation had brought back a memory of the time Otto had taken him deep sea fishing. “I think I was there once.”

“Can’t have been Montauk, or you’d know for sure.” He noticed the dimple in her right cheek, and, as she raised her glass, a wire-thin wedding band.

“I was very young, but I remember being happy.” Happy memories from his childhood were rare, but this he would not mention.

“Well it’s changed, but still wonderful. Visit — it’s only a few miles farther east.”

“And the fence?” he gestured to the painting.

She pulled on a curl as if it were taffy. “One day I headed to the beach across from our motel and discovered a fence blocking access. The ownership of the land had changed, and the corporation that bought it had the fence erected. They wanted to build a half-dozen houses. Lucky for us, the parcel is restricted by old deeds. Unlucky for us, we and our neighbors had to sue to uphold our access rights. It cost us a fortune, but we won. You can see how the fence invaded my life.”

Clancy recalled clinging to a chain-linked fence, shaking it with urgency to get into a playground on the other side. Which foster home was that? He remembered rust marks, the smell of metal, on his skin.

“So, what does a claims adjuster do, exactly?”

The auburn beauty approached again, and this time Clancy removed two flutes, handing one to Julienne. “I investigate claims and determine if people should get a payout, and how much.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

Usually when he told people what he did, they changed the subject. “Actually, yes.” He liked the predictability and control. He enjoyed visiting homes and offices and making assessments, Okaying the checks that brought new rugs, new roofs, peace of mind. Even so, he knew more than to bore anyone with the details.

“Julienne!” A woman with an overturned bowl of bright white hair rushed over.

Julienne put her hand on the woman’s arm, as if to lower the volume. “Clancy Frederics, Grace Morgan. Grace is president of our local environmental group.”

“SOS—Save Our Space,” Grace shouted.

“We need to preserve our rural character or we’ll end up like the rest of Long Island,” Julienne explained. From the flush on her face he saw how much this mattered to her.

Grace Morgan leaned in to Julienne and began to whisper. Clancy took the hint. “I’ll leave you to talk.” He wandered back to the objects on display and lifted the card in front of Julienne’s painting: “Trepidation.” Under a bid for $300, he wrote $400. The idea of owning a painting of Montauk appealed to him. He crossed off the $400 and wrote $500 just as someone announced that the auction would start in five minutes.

Clancy tucked himself against the wall to watch. The auction went quickly, starting with the bids on the lesser items. As the winners were announced he felt increasingly keyed up, as if his fate might hinge on whether he won Julienne Bishop’s painting.

The name, when called, was not his. The winning bid was $3,000, way out of his league. The flutes came his way again, but the champagne had no taste. The inside of his mouth had gone numb. He had tipped over the magic line. A foul mood was stealing over him. He had not won Julienne’s painting: A sign. He should leave now, to be alone when the mood got too awful to bear.

Just then the air conditioning cut off to a chorus of groans. “Sorry folks,” a man said. “The summer of brownouts. Should be back on in a jiffy.”

Definitely a sign to leave. Clancy realized he didn’t know where he and Bruce were staying. He circled the restaurant, palms beginning to sweat. There was no sign of Bruce. Clancy spotted people passing through a side door, and followed them outside.

Beyond the little patio was a bay dotted with small boats. In the distance, lights from a few houses traced the shoreline; the sky was swept with stars as if by a paintbrush dipped in glitter. A soft wind caressed his skin, and the moist humid air caught his breath in an unexpected way; he suddenly felt like crying.

Bruce was leaning up against the railing, talking with a woman.

“This is Faye,” Bruce pulled her to him.

They chatted, and then Clancy asked Bruce for the address where they were staying.

“Shit, I don’t know – you’ll have to find Dominique.”

Clancy didn’t want to find Dominique. He didn’t want to go back to an unfamiliar house, to share a room with Bruce, giddy with sexual conquest. His dark mood thickened; he imagined himself on the highway, heading into the night, accelerating so fast he was flying.

He spotted Dominique coming out of the ladies room. She grabbed his arm. “It’s too damn hot. Everyone’s going down to the beach! Let’s get Bruce.”

“Thanks, but—.” There was a light tap on his back. Julienne Bishop.

“Coming along?”

Suddenly, a trip to the beach sounded like fun.

In a whirl, the group swooped out of the restaurant. “We’re carpooling,” Julienne said to Clancy. “Ride with me. I have a beach sticker.”

Hers was a small SUV. “I haven’t gone for a midnight swim in ages,” she said as they pulled out.

“Swim?” A walk, Clancy had assumed, maybe a bonfire.

“It’s a full moon; we’ll be able to see.”

They drove several miles along a long straight road hemmed by low pines. “This is the Napeague isthmus, the umbilical cord connecting Montauk to the rest of the Hamptons.”

“How close is the ocean?”

Julienne gestured toward an expanse of dunes that became visible as they emerged from the tunnel of pines. “At one point in geological time Montauk was an island. With the next hurricane who knows, the ocean and bay could meet again.”

The road forked, and a moment later she turned into a State park. A handful of other cars were pulling into the lot, the dozen or so partygoers tumbling out.

They giggled past the park office and the lines of tents and trailers and down a passageway through the dunes, which opened onto a wide expanse of beach. The full moon made a swath of shimmering white light on the water.

“Let’s do it!” someone shouted, and everyone was suddenly racing, kicking up sand.

Clancy sprinted after Julienne, his feet fighting the soft sand, arms flailing. At the water he bent over, laughing. Everyone was shedding clothes, flinging themselves into the surf, shrieking.

“I’m not a strong swimmer,” Clancy admitted.

“It’s really calm.” Julienne was out of her shift in a second, a quick flash of skin illuminated, and then she was diving in. The moon shone on the water, the low rolling tumbles, the susurrating waves that rose up in the dark and, with a low boom, became froth at his feet.

Clancy followed. The water stung his legs, sent shock waves to his groin, the water so cold he covered his crotch with his hands. A swell came toward him. For a moment he froze, and then he ran into it clumsily, hurrying to dive under before it knocked him around. Its power thrummed over him, and then he was above the surface, his mouth full of salt water, spitting and laughing.

The water churned with bodies. A few people were floating just beyond the breaking waves; others were body-surfing toward shore. Exhilaration ripped through him. He leapt up with each wave, threw himself backward onto them, dove under them. He was buoyant in the salt water, the moon and stars an infinity overhead as he lay on his back and floated.

“Big one!” someone yelled. He looked up to see a black mass bearing down. His exhilaration turned to terror and he was flailing toward the wave, trying to swim under it but being pulled as the wave sucked everything into itself. He tried to dive under, but was too late. The wave smashed down and hurled him over and over, spun like a weightless bit of seaweed. Then he was being swept along at horrendous speed, sand scouring his body. He couldn’t get his breath, and he knew he was going to die. He fought to come to the surface, gasping for air. Another wave slammed him back underneath, and he was again dragged along the sand, shells scraping his skin, lungs bursting.

Someone was calling his name. Someone was slapping him, rolling him over. His stomach heaved and a burst of water spewed from his mouth. He sputtered, came to. The face of someone he liked but couldn’t immediately remember came into focus. Julienne.

“Jesus, Clancy, you scared the shit out of me.” It was Bruce’s voice, but Clancy could see only a blur of legs.

“Are you O.K.?” Julienne’s voice sounded shaky.

“I think so,” he croaked. His throat hurt. Faces were leaning over him. He was suddenly conscious of his nakedness. “Could you get my clothes?”

“That was a wicked wave,” Julienne said. “I’m really sorry.”

Clancy tried to sit up, hands over his groin. Julienne, oblivious to his embarrassment, kept talking, apologizing.

Finally Bruce brought his clothes and helped him stand. Clancy fumbled trying to get his pants on. His chest was sore, his wrist throbbing. He felt arms hoisting him up from behind and carrying him back to the parking lot, like a holy man surrounded by pilgrims. At the top of the passageway he was finally released.

“You’re banged up,” Julienne said. “My motel’s close by. Let me put you up.”

“Good idea.” Bruce’s arm was draped over Faye’s shoulder. Without him, Bruce could have their room to himself.

Clancy turned to Julienne. “That would be great, thanks.”

Julienne said “Stay put,” and went to bring her car around. Everyone drifted off, calling out their good-nights.

As he waited he turned to look back at the ocean. The moon was partially obscured now by clouds, the ocean inscrutable. His terror was receding. As he stood listening to the lapping of the water, the calming breath of the ocean, his earlier exhilaration gradually returned. He felt gratitude. Gratitude to be alive. Gratitude that he wanted to be alive.

He hadn’t known he was capable of feeling such joy. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

From the author:

1. Nature itself plays a big role in this novel. How did you see the forces of nature play out in the various storylines and in what happens with the characters?

2. In The Stark Beauty of Last Things, the main female characters—Julienne, Theresa, and Molly—are each trying to save their homes, whether the threat is environmental, economic, or both. To what extent did you feel sympathy for all three women?

3. How does the author use metaphor to describe the way Julienne and Clancy each view the other? What was the basis of Clancy’s attraction to Julienne? Did you expect Clancy and Julienne to have a romantic relationship?

4. Over the course of the novel, Clancy goes from intense dislike of Theresa to feeling sympathy for her. What do you think is the reason for his change of heart? Did you expect Clancy and Theresa to have a romantic relationship?

5. Are there places that are special to you in the way Montauk is special to the characters in The Stark Beauty of Last Things? What makes these places special?

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