Barefoot Beach (22 page)

“In my case, it was an act. Well, not entirely. I have to admit that the ten years with the child psychiatrist helped. And the nose job. But you were genuine, natural man bait.”

“Man bait? Me? That's crazy. I never—”

“I'm not saying you slept around, sweetie.” Margo shot her husband a calculating glance. He expelled a light snore and she continued. “But let's face it—you weren't a vestal virgin either.”

Oh, please—you could count on one hand the number of men I'd had sex with. Margo, on the other hand, and another other hand and at least one more hand, was into the double digits before she met Pete. It was part of her bohemian persona as a drama major, she'd proclaimed. Actually, when we were in our twenties it was part of most of our friends' personas. As long as you practiced safe sex and didn't mistake it for love, it was kind of a badge of honor that you could treat men the way they treated the women passing through their lives—not badly, but casually, compartmentally.

Five men, but no one really did it for me before Lon. No one after, either. He ruined me for anyone else, or so I thought until I laid eyes on Scott Goddard.

“Give the colonel the benefit of the doubt,” advised Margo, who hardly ever gave anyone that benefit. She raised her hand, taking an oath. “I guarantee, he's not after anyone but you.”

That's when Pete opened his eyes and gave me an appraising look. “Needed that nap,” he groaned. Then, overdramatically, I thought, he sat up, checked his watch, unfolded to upright, and stretched.

“So,” he said, “I don't know about you two, but all I had for dinner was a yogurt and a bag of baby carrots, and that was at five. I'm starved.”

Margo cocked her head in my direction, sending me a not-so-cryptic message as he slipped on his “Orioles—Go Birds!” T-shirt. Neon orange and black. You couldn't help but notice it and the man wearing it. Which was the point, according to Margo. In his prime, he'd been mobbed on the beach. Now he had to advertise.

“Anybody want anything? You, sweetheart?”

“I'm fine.” An ironic smile played around Margo's mouth. “I brought along a box of granola bars. Low-fat, high-fiber. It's in my bag. Help yourself.”

I knew she was testing him, baiting him.

“No, thanks. I don't want anything sweet. But how about you, Nora? Candy apple, funnel cake, taffy? I can stop at Benny's.” The shop that had been feeding Tuckahoe and the surrounding towns junk food for decades.

“I'm good,” I said.

He patted his wife's head. She showed me the whites of her eyes.

“I'll be back before the show starts.” And he was off.

“The annual hot dog run,” I said.

After twenty years, I knew the menu by heart: hot dogs all around and the biggest tub of french fries Frybaby sold. Ditto on the onion rings. Lon and Pete used to polish off the high-cholesterol stuff by themselves. No wonder my husband's arteries had been as clogged as the Lincoln Tunnel at rush hour.

“Yeah, but now Pete's a vegetarian. This year it's more an excuse to get away and call the girlfriend.” A shadow of pain, followed by disdain, skimmed her face. “Also, to press some older flesh. His fans await him. He just has to dig 'em up.”

We watched Pete detour to the most crowded patch on the sand and slowly thread his way through the blankets and chairs. “Wanna make a bet how long it takes before someone stops him and asks—”

She didn't get to finish her sentence as Pete got waylaid by a gray-bearded man in an O's ball cap.

“Hit number one. They usually say, ‘Aren't you . . . ?' They never used to ask, but he's been out of the spotlight so long, these days they double-check. Give them a minute and they'll be deep in a shallow conversation about the 1998 game between the Yankees and the Orioles where Pete made that once-in-a-lifetime catch off Rodrigo Ferez.” She waved off a sand fly. “Oh my God, can you believe this? He's signing the guy's stomach.”

Pete was indeed scrawling his autograph on an XX-large-T-shirt-covered potbelly.

She shook her head. “My husband carries a pen in his shorts pocket. Sad, isn't it?”

It was Pete who broke the news. Not immediately. First he mowed through the three ears of nonbuttered corn he'd brought back from his trip to the boardwalk. When finished, he pitched the bag holding the cobs into the trash can, which was at least ten feet away. A perfect shot, which prompted a smattering of applause from the neighboring blanket. Margo had endured enough.

“Pete Manolis, ladies and gentleman,” she announced, and flourished a very smooth hand toward her husband. “Let's hear it for the Greek Icon.”

“Hey.” He extended a bare foot and kicked her ankle. “Cool it. You're being ridiculous.”

“
I'm
being ridiculous? How many bellies did you sign? No, really. How many?”

She was smiling, maybe joking. Men get a certain fawn-in-the-high-beams look when they're dealing with the mysterious, fulminating volcanoes that are women on the rumble. They're not sure if it's laughter waiting to explode or something much worse. I saw Pete spin the wheel of reactions. He landed on playing along, but you could tell he wasn't sure if it was win or lose. The foot that had nudged his wife was now nervously stamping sand. Oh, he was really taking a chance.

“Three bellies, four shoulders, the back of a hand, and one very shapely tush.”

“The shapely tush, now that I believe,” Margo drawled.

“Marg, I'm joking. Come on. Lighten up.” He strolled around to kiss the back of her neck. She didn't shake him off. He was smart enough to change the subject. Or try to. “You'll never guess who I ran into on the boardwalk.”

“Kim Kardashian, and you just had to stop and sign her ass.”

Outrageous was Margo's specialty, but we all laughed and the dangerous moment passed.

“Scott Goddard at the Korn Krib. You know him, Nora.”

I nodded, working to keep my face expressionless.

“I haven't seen him since he quit the board of the vets' retirement home. Amazing guy,” Pete enthused.

Margo flicked me a “calm down” glance and took over. “Scott's back in Nora's ballroom class this year. And he's a good dancer. Right, Nora?”

“On his way,” I mumbled. Then offhandedly, though I was sure that Margo wouldn't buy the casual delivery, I added, “Maybe I'll stop by and say hi. You know where he's sitting?”

“About four rows almost directly behind us,” Pete said. “Plaid blanket. He was with someone at the Krib. I think. She was in line ahead of him, paid, and handed him the bucket.”

I scouted out the plaid blanket.

“Pretty?” Margo asked him, cutting to her version of the chase.

“I didn't see her face and he didn't introduce us. Redhead is all I know.”

“It's a recessive gene. She could be his sister. Or his daughter, here for the holiday. Lots of people come in for the Fourth,” Margo said for my benefit.

I saw only the back of the woman seated on the blanket and didn't recognize the hair. I was acquainted with the color, though, a heinous, carroty, do-it-yourself, whoops! dye job. But Scott seemed okay with it, with her. He was on his feet, hands moving, head nodding, chatting away. Hey, we'd only been out on one real date and it had ended awkwardly, canceling out the kisses, erasing any expectations, I thought with a twinge. I bit my lip as he reached down to grasp the redhead's hand. Okay, more than a twinge. A pang stabbed me. Damn if she didn't stumble against him getting to her feet. No, stronger than a pang. His hands were on her shoulders balancing her. A prick. That's what it was. That's
what he was. A quake of anger rocked me. All that lovey-dovey stuff with me? Feeding me mussels and dancing me down the garden path—what did it mean if less than a week later he had another woman pressed against his chest? Even Margo was shocked. Her tsk-tsk cut through the noise all around us.

So much for me dropping in on Scott Goddard's blanket for a hello.

Oblivious, Pete said, “I think I'll walk with you, Nora. I'd like to talk to him about getting back on the board. Three years have passed, so maybe he'll reconsider.”

“No, you don't. Sit,” Margo commanded, and flashed him a “don't ask” look.

A few minutes later some kind of answer sauntered our way, heading toward the water. Hot pink halter dress and matching pink flip-flops, neon orange hair cut short. Now—I sat spellbound at the approach—she passed directly in front of Margo, who fanned away a reeking cloud of cigarette smoke. In a voice that would have easily reached tenth-row orchestra, my friend said, “There are rules against smoking on the beach. There are fines. It really stinks up the place. I can't believe how some people can be so inconsiderate.”

Belinda aka Bunny Goddard, converted to redhead and skinnier than I remembered, glowered down at the source of the comment. She locked eyes with me for a split second, then nonchalantly flicked her ashes within a millimeter of Margo's painted toes. I swear I saw little sparks of fury shoot from my friend's bangs as she brushed them back from her forehead. Ominously, she began to shift to her feet. Which is when Pete, in a version of the quick saves that had inspired cheers in Camden Yards in his heyday, snatched his wife's hand and yanked her back into her chair. “Let it go,” he said.

But, of course, Margo had to have the last word. She growled, “Bitch,” after Bunny, then whirled on me. “Can you believe that chutzpah?”

I believed. Bunny wasn't short on nerve.

The three of us watched Bunny's progress as she turned, wound a path back to the plaid blanket, sashayed up to Scott, dropped her cigarette butt in the sand, then ground it out with the toe of her flip-flop. Scott bent to pick up the discarded inch of cigarette. The man who played by the rules. That's what I used to think anyway. I could read Margo's mind from the exasperated look she gave Pete—not me, Pete.
All men are liar
s.

As the first of the fireworks detonated over the ocean, Scott sat. Then Bunny lowered herself to the blanket beside him. Was she leaning against Scott's legs—one flesh and blood, one carbon-fiber composite? I said yes, but the light was fading, the silhouettes were low and jumbled, and Margo, viewing the same pantomime, said absolutely not.

“Ugh. The evil one rises from the crypt. I thought he buried a stake through her heart. Didn't you tell me she moved to Florida?”

“That's what he said.” But Bunnicula was baaaaack!

“Stop squinting, Nora. It's dark, so you won't see anything anyway. And your mind will play tricks. Jump to conclusions. I
said
don't look at them.” She reached over and, with a single finger, lifted my chin so I was forced to focus on a purple spiral soaring, then spraying a thousand amethyst sequins overhead.

For the next half hour I sat glum and quiet, occasionally turning to catch an indecipherable flash of Scott and Bunny when the sky lit up. At the finale, stars of spangles and stripes of iridescence unfurled the American flag against a black velvet sky, giving way to splurges of color that erupted against a fusillade of cannon booms. From the bandstand at the end of Margate Avenue, a rousing rendition of Sousa's “Stars and Stripes Forever” thundered over the beach. And I found myself silently weeping. Over the beauty of it, the meaning of it. How we had to fight to preserve it. And how many had paid so much over the centuries. Their lives. Their legs. It was partly about Scott Goddard, of course. Which Margo, as a woman and a friend, knew. She reached into the pocket of her hoodie and handed me a balled-up, probably used tissue.

After the lamplights on the boardwalk reset from dim to bright, and the crowd was lit sufficiently to make its way safely off the beach, the three of us stood and, in synch, Margo and I swiveled to check out the plaid blanket. Bunny was gone. But Scott was standing there, staring at the ocean, or at us, or at me. I couldn't tell. Margo put her hand protectively around my shoulder and hugged me to her. Her tone was bitter. “I don't care if he is a wounded warrior. Screw him.”

There was some kind of summer respiratory virus going around. It started with a sore throat that turned to a cold that became a cough. Nasty bug. Larissa was down with it, so I taught her Tuesday morning Zumba class, made up mostly of young mothers who for an extra seven bucks could park their kids in the playroom, which Sal had fitted out with cribs, toys, and sitters.

By the time I finished with the cooldown, I'd run myself and the moms ragged but exhilarated. For me, the mood lasted as long as it took to spot the message light winking in the heap of stuff in my cubby, grab my iPhone, and punch up Scott Goddard—damn, I'd missed his call—telling me he was so sorry but he wouldn't be able to make it to class that night. I remembered his warning me that he might cancel last minute, but still it smarted when he said he was working on a project that had turned out to be more complicated than he'd anticipated. He was up to his neck in it. His words. I'd seen the project leaning against his legs on the beach the night before and I imagined he was up to something. He signed off with, “I'll explain when we have time to talk. Apologies again, Nora. Send my best to the gang.”

The gang was down by three that evening: Larissa, Scott, and Tom Hepburn, who was home waiting for a return call from his doctor to see if his X-rays showed pneumonia. The atmosphere was subdued as everyone
squirted hand sanitizer after each change of partners. I ended class early when Morty Felcher spun himself into a coughing fit doing the Lindy Hop and Marsha was concerned he might have cracked a rib.

I got home to find the door to Jack's room open and my son on his laptop Skyping.

“Hey, Mom,” he called me in and over. “You're home early. I'm on with Jennifer.” When I blanked on that, he ducked away to whisper, “Sixteen's daughter. Older one.” He pulled me into the picture to introduce me.

I gave her a smile, which probably resembled the rictus on a death mask. She gave me back a flash of perfect teeth, and the hair toss that's reflexive with beautiful women. If the looks didn't seize your attention, that flipping of the hair, especially sun-streaked California blond, would hijack it.

“With Dirk coming in this weekend,” Jack said, “Jen figured she'd better clue me in about her dad. You know, like how being a scientist type, he's kind of dorky.”

Dorky Dr. Dirk DeHaven Donor Dude. Margo would relish that.

“I'm not going to pull out all the skeletons in the closet,” Jennifer said. “Whoa, look at your face, Jack. Your mom's going to think you've got an ax murderer as an ancestor. Hey, every family's got their secrets, right? I'll let Dad tell you about”—she faltered here—“whatever he's ready to share, whenever.”

I laughed lightly, dutifully, then said into the camera, “Well, I've got some reading to do. Have a good talk, you two.” We finished with the standard amenities, and when I left, Jack jumped up to close the door behind me. In the hall, I heard the scrape of his chair, then laughter, hers and his.

The next few days were spent wondering,
What are we in for here?
My son was obviously nervous and euphoric simultaneously. He was whistling pretty much nonstop when he was home. The same song over and over. Lon had been a big Beatles fan and Jack was weaned on the
Abbey
Road
album. Now he was stuck like a phonograph needle on scratched vinyl playing “Here Comes the Sun.”

He was happy—I got that. But how subliminal was his choice of tunes? Was this his theme for the Donor Dude's visit? “Here Comes the
Son
”?

Meet this afternoon to talk?

The text came in from Scott Thursday morning while I was loading the dishwasher. I stood for a mesmerized moment, snapped out of it, and typed,
Sorry. Teaching classes this afternoon.
I caught myself before I hit send and deleted “sorry” because women say sorry too often for things they shouldn't be and really aren't sorry for. I substituted the active, confident “Busy.” Which was true.

Larissa was still down for the count with the virus hanging around her vocal cords so she couldn't bark, “Move, move, move. Lift the legs. Ach,
lenivaya
!” Which meant “lazy” in Russian and became a catchphrase among her masochistic devotees.
“Lenivaya!”
they'd shout at one another as they danced, laughing.

I was scheduled to teach her Zumba Toning class, a wipeout hour of cross-body workout with weights. That was at one. At three, I'd get a respite, her Golden Zumba class for the senior set. Low-level, low-impact, it provided a decent cardio workout and revved up the metabolism.

I could have fit the colonel in at two. Why was I postponing? Why didn't I meet him and get it over with? A few minutes of ending it and we could pick up where we'd left off a few years before. Just dancing.

There's a sacrament in the Catholic Church for penance and reconciliation, and my instinct said that's what Scott Goddard was setting me up for. First he'd report reconciliation—as in he and Belinda were back together. Then he'd ask for forgiveness for leading me on. I'd hand out
penance, two Our Fathers and two Hail Marys, absolve him of his sins, and send him home to work out the details of his deal with the devil.

Except I wasn't in the mood to hear confession. Or maybe he just wanted to let me know he was dropping the Tuesday night class. I didn't want to hear that either.

A trill signaled his next incoming:
Understood. We'll catch up soon.

I let him have the last word and was grateful for the distraction of Larissa's two classes so I didn't have to think about my past, present, and lack of future with Scott. Home by four thirty, exhausted, I rummaged through the bookshelf in the great room and picked up one of the two copies of the book Emine and Margo had each given me for Christmas. I finally decided I needed to read
Embrace Your Fabulous You
. I probably should have read it on New Year's Eve instead of drinking a split of champagne solo with my Lean Cuisine and falling asleep right after
Jeopardy!

It was a gorgeous afternoon. I hit the deck, stretched out on the lounge chair, my ancient boom box on the table beside me playing my favorite tapes, while I slogged through the chapters entitled “Why Me and What Next?,” “Self Sabotaging: How to Stop It,” and “My Body Beautiful.” I'd just turned the page to “My Magnificent Brain” when I thought I heard the doorbell gonging through Sarah Vaughan's “Tenderly.” I muted the music and tuned in to the crunch of bushes parting and the crackle of twigs from the path that ran along the side of the house. Before my magnificent brain was able to register a visitor, he materialized.

“Nora?”

He might have shouted, “Surprise!” and thrown confetti for the way my pulse bounced with astonishment at seeing him. Scott Goddard had one foot planted on the bottom step of my deck and was leaning toward me, scanning my face.

“You okay? I didn't mean to scare you.”

“You didn't,” I lied. “You just surprised me.”

“I rang the bell. A few times. No answer, so I figured you weren't
home. And then I thought as long as I was here, I'd get a look at the beach view you raved about. When I heard music coming from this direction, not Jack's kind either, I made enough noise so you'd hear me—well, you'd hear
someone
—coming.” He gestured toward the path with his water bottle. “That pyracantha could use a good trimming. And you might want to have someone clear out the underbrush. It's smothering your impatiens.”

The first curl of a smile dared to form at the corners of his mouth. “Now, if you were the enemy, I would have approached in stealth mode. But we're friends.” He paused the unscrolling of the smile. “We
are
still friends, right?”

The sun had caught him in a blinding spotlight. I let him bake in it for a moment. “That depends,” I said.

“On?”

“On your definition of ‘friends.'”

He thought about that for a moment. “Fair enough. Sounds like we're due for a talk.”

Another talk. The recent ones had featured reports that had shaken up my life. These days, I seemed to have my own personal CNN, news twenty-four/seven. But Scott was another story. One I might not have wanted to, but needed to, hear out.

He darted a glance to the second floor, scouting for spies, I supposed. “We could walk on the beach . . .”

The sun was waning. A high-wind forecast for evening was already stirring. The stretch of sand fronting the private homes on Surf Avenue, from Mooncussers Rock to the gull rookery, was rarely crammed, but now it was almost deserted. Every slice of summer day here offered pleasure, but this hour was one of the most delicious.

Scott looked at me, hat in hand, a Greek fisherman's cap that he'd swept off politely when he first saw me and now nervously fingered around the braid.

“Sure,” I said.

He slapped on his white cap and followed me down the steps and onto the narrow path. When we were on level sand, we walked side by side. He wanted to talk, he'd told me, but for a while we ambled in silence, just letting the scene happen around us.

Finally, Scott said, “I heard Belinda ran into you on the beach the other night.”

I let that statement steep for a minute like green tea, and pulled it just before it turned bitter. “Not exactly ran into,” I said. “We didn't say hello. She stopped just long enough to piss off my friend Margo.”

He licked perspiration from his upper lip. “Pete Manolis's wife, right. Belinda doesn't like her. She thinks Margo's got a smart mouth.”

I wasn't about to give Bunny's assessment a pass. “Margo's smart in a good way.” I defended my friend.

He nodded. “Belinda didn't mention seeing you two until I was driving her to the airport this morning. That's when I started adding things up. Did Pete tell you we bumped into each other on the boardwalk? Yeah, of course he did. And then I find out you saw Belinda on the beach. I was concerned you may have put two and two together and come up with six.”

“She outed you.” My laugh was weak.

“Wrong. I haven't been hiding anything. There's nothing to hide.” He stooped to pick up a sand dollar, brushed it off, and pocketed it. He was marking time, I thought, measuring out his words before he let them go. Once said, never unsaid. “It may be too late, Nora, but you should know the truth.”

I crossed my arms in the universal signal of self-defense.

He was a soldier; he soldiered on. “You know my mother-in-law, late, ex, whatever, died a couple of years ago. Nice lady. Belinda's an only child and she inherited everything, including the house. It was on the market for a long time and it finally sold last month. Belinda came up from
Florida to clear it out. She asked me to help, and the truth is, I try to keep the peace. It's easier and I have the kids to consider.”

I knew about considering kids.

“In fact, my daughter drove in from Baltimore to lend a hand. She's good with her mother, but in small doses. So Liz stayed with me. Belinda slept at the old house.” A factoid inserted for my benefit, I thought. “The three of us were supposed to go to the fireworks together. Then Liz opted out last minute. But we were already set up on the beach, so . . .”

“Yes, you looked pretty chummy on that blanket, you and Bunny.”
Oh, what the hell? Did I really have anything to lose?

“What?” He stopped, I stopped, and he spun to face me. “Nora, I don't know what you think you saw, but nothing ‘chummy' happened. I don't do chummy with Belinda.”

It
had
been dark. I
hadn't
been sure.

He went on. “Not that I wouldn't put it past her to try to make you jealous. You've been a thorn in her side since the day you two met. Which is understandable, given your, well, assets.”

Or maybe Bunny was a mind reader, I thought as Sister Loretta nudged a cloud of guilt down from the pearly gates. It drifted off almost immediately.