Barefoot Beach (23 page)

“Listen,” Scott said, “the thing is, I was trained to impart information on a need-to-know basis. But I think I miscalculated this time. I should have laid this out for you earlier. Before . . . before that last dance.”

His blue eyes grew somber. “There's nothing between Belinda and me. Whatever it takes to make a relationship hasn't been there for years. Except for the legal connection—and that's ended—and the kids, of course, which never ends, there's been nothing. In either direction,” he said pointedly. “That's all behind me. I thought—I
hoped
—you and I were ahead.”

Okay, maybe only one Hail Mary and an act of charity.

“She's gone for good?” With vampire Bunniculas, you had to be sure
they wouldn't rise again to suck the life out of you if the occasion called for it.

“For good. The house is cleaned out, the settlement's signed, and”—he checked his watch—“she arrived in Orlando at noon. I probably won't see her again until Liz's wedding, and that's a year from September. Her fiancé's an Annapolis alum so it's a big wedding in the Naval Academy chapel.” And then, out of the wild blue yonder, Scott asked, “Wanna be my date?”

I flashed him a look to see if he was teasing. His eyes were twinkling. But maybe he was serious. Either way, I had to laugh.
Had
to, as in could not contain my laughter. Joke or genuine, the invitation deserved it, and with the release of all my bottled-up resentment and disappointment over Bunny on the beach, a crazy joy bubbled up and out. Scott reared back to watch me, one eyebrow raised, which struck me as hilarious, and I cracked up completely, which set him off, and we leaned against each other, laughing helplessly for at least a minute. After we quieted, he turned and nodded, ready to move on.

It was five o'clock, I could make out from his watch. The arsenic hour, we'd called it when Jack was a preschooler and got fussy. Everybody's sugar dips in late afternoon. But my dopamine, the happiness hormone, had to be off the charts, and I was suddenly starved. I had cheese in the fridge and crackers in the cupboard and an invitation of my own to issue. No wine tonight, though. The way I felt—way too reckless—wine was dangerous. I offered Scott lemonade, a simple gesture of hospitality. He accepted.

He took my hand as we walked back to the house and was reluctant to break the link as he settled in a chair on the deck. “I have to let you go so you can get the lemonade, right?” He was grinning. “Why don't we forget the lemonade?”

He was tugging me into his lap as Jack hollered from inside, “Mom, you home?” It sounded as if he was calling up from the bottom of the stairs. He must have spotted my handbag on the hall table.

Scott dropped my hand. “I'm on my way,” he said, up and out of his chair. I had to laugh—I'd never seen anyone go vertical faster.

“It's okay.” I decided my son would learn to deal. Finally something was nudging me to get back in the game.

“No need to rush,” I said to Scott (and maybe to me). “Really. Stay.”

He sat down, but gingerly, positioned to jump up and make a break for it if necessary.

“You sure you're okay with this?”

I answered by calling, “We're out here, Jack,” and plunked myself down in the chair next to Scott's.

The screen door slid open with a creak that told me it needed a shot of WD-40.

Credit to my son, he didn't lose his cool when he emerged to see the two of us seated side by side. I turned to show him my eyebrows raised in a classic “don't mess with me” expression, one I used sparingly and, like my hisper, made the point.

“Hey, Mom.” If he felt anything beyond mild surprise, he contained it. He bobbed an acknowledgment as he added, “Colonel.”

“Make it Scott,” my visitor said, establishing territory with familiarity.

“Sure. Scott. Just stopping by to grab my Coneheads apron. You want me to bring home a couple of gallons of rocky road?” he asked me. “We're almost out.”

“One gallon of rocky road. And one vanilla.” You never knew when someone vanilla might drop by.

Then Jack was gone with a wave. No scene. No attitude.

The next thing Scott said was generous, considering that the slam-bang of the window last week had been their introduction. “Good kid you have there.”

I thought of those men and women who at nineteen had given, or were prepared to give, limb or life for their country, and I said, “Good, yes. But still a kid.”

“I know what you mean. I've got one a year older. He's talking about joining the Marines. Maybe that will mature him. Nora . . .” Scott leaned in so I got a close-up of his dark, long, wasted-on-a-man eyelashes nervously flickering. “By any chance, would you happen to be free for dinner Saturday night? Or we could take in a movie. Cutting it close, I know, but I thought maybe . . .”

I wasn't about to go into Dirk DeHaven's upcoming visit, the reason for it, or why I felt I ought to be around and available on Saturday with no delay or excuses if Jack needed me. I wanted to be there for him if this meeting turned into a disappointment or, God forbid, a catastrophe. I'd already turned down a ticket to the Driftwood's first production of the season,
The Gin Game
, the two-actor drama starring Margo, so I could hang around the house, waiting to congratulate or, worst-case scenario, console my son.

Scott watched me grope for words. “You probably have a previous . . .”

“Commitment,” I finished, careful to avoid the word “date.” “I do. But some other time?”

He drew a single breath before asking me out for the following Saturday, a fund-raiser for the Veterans Food Pantry. “I'm vice commander of the post so I have to make a welcoming speech. They do kind of a USO show organized by the ladies' auxiliary. In the past they held it at the VFW hall, really casual, with ribs, fried chicken, my kind of food. But we had such a big turnout last year, this year's is being held at Upton Abbey, the new resort over in Pinella. The one with the casino. It's supposed to be five-star fancy. More your kind of place.”

Did I come off as five-star fancy? I told him I loved ribs.

“I think you'll like the crowd. It's a diverse group in terms of age, race, and background. Most of them have been stationed or posted overseas. So they're pretty interesting. We can always duck out early if you get bored.”

Did he think I was an elitist snob?

“I'm looking forward to meeting them,” I said. “And”—because no risk, no reward—“to being with you.”

“Me too.” His voice pitched up with surprise, perhaps at my boldness, then dropped to husky. “Very much, Nora.” An awkward silence was followed by a pat on my knee and him rising from the chair. “Okay, then. See you Tuesday in class. And slot me in for next weekend.”

“Consider yourself slotted.”

He bounded down the stairs back to the path. This time no crashing through the underbrush. He was right about stealth mode. When he didn't want to be heard, he wasn't. And when he wanted to be heard, he made sure he was.

Well, that was an interesting afternoon,
I told myself as I leaned back in the deck chair.
Now, don't start dreaming an hour with Scott into a lifetime with him, because you'll freak yourself out. Read your damn book. Embrace your fabulous you.

I got to the part about how women are their own worst enemies, holding on to their hurt, and how it doesn't have to be that way if you open yourself to opportunities. Like I needed a book to tell me this. I put it down to take in an especially glorious sunset, and dream a little.

It was Dr. Dirk DeHaven, Donor Dude's Delivery Day. And it was a dreary one. Not a respectable rain, but a laconic drizzle grayed the sky and washed everything a dull monotone. I was out early Saturday on the side path with my pruning shears, clipping away, when Jack found me.

Poor kid was desolate. “Can you believe this weather?” he said. “I mean, sunny for the whole last week and today it's a mess.” He took in the scene. “What are you doing out here?”

I'd decided that since I might have to sell the house, I'd best get it in order before I called in a Realtor to check it out. I didn't mention the Realtor idea to Jack. He had enough on his mind, and if I got a hit from the networking I planned on doing that morning, the last resort might never come to pass.

“Just trying to clear the path. It's wildly overgrown,” I said. “Better to work in a light rain than with the sun beating down.”

He nodded, backed off two steps, and, arms out, palms up, asked, “So, what do you think? Am I presentable?”

He was wearing an open-collar knit shirt with the Duke Blue Devils
D
embroidered in navy on its pocket. The chinos were recently purchased—I'd seen him ironing out the manufacturer's crease—and now I reached over to snip off the plastic thread that dangled its price tag.
His hair, even without the glint of sun, shone a streaky blond. My son. So handsome.

I knocked off the “so,” which would have made him squirm. “Handsome,” I said.

“Casual enough for crabs?”

“You're doing steamed crabs for lunch?” It was hard to imagine the doctor with a crust of Old Bay Seasoning lodged under those pristine fingernails.

“Yup. Dirk got hooked on them when he interned at Johns Hopkins. He even has them shipped from B'more to Frisco. San Francisco,” Jack corrected himself. “But he wants the real thing today. The whole nine yards. Beer. Paper on the table.”

Servers dumped the hot, crimson-shelled crustaceans leaking succulent juices on tables covered with sheets of tan butcher's paper that at the end of the feast looked like a battlefield strewn with the skeletons of the vanquished.

“I figured The Claw is authentic.”

A local dive, not yuppied up, the real thing. On second thought, maybe crabs weren't an odd choice. Maybe Dirk realized the diversionary potential of steamed crabs. All that shell cracking and picking sweet meat from crevices and prying it from tunnels would give the men a task to focus on if their conversation lagged. Plus he was a surgeon; maybe this was designed to show off his skills. In any event, they'd both have something to do with their hands. Jack's were in constant motion now, flexing, drumming against his thigh. He caught me noticing him cracking his knuckles.

“I'm nervous,” he admitted. His left eyelid was twitching. “Dumb, huh?”

“Understandable. It's a first meeting. No one knows what to expect.”
Or what to want,
I thought but didn't say. Or maybe they did, both of them, and it was only me who was in the dark.

“Yeah. Well, I guess I'm on my way. Ugh, look at that sky.”

Storm clouds were gathering. “You can't control the weather, buddy.”

“I know. But I wanted to walk the boardwalk. And downtown. See the stores. Maybe go to the lighthouse. The nature preserve. Stuff to keep him interested.”

“He's more interested in you than the scenery. And you can drive him around. Not through the Mews, but the other places.”

“I guess. Okay, I'm heading out. Love you.”

“Love you too. This is going to be good, Jack.” That's all I ever wanted for him. But this time, God forgive me, I didn't want it to be
too
good.

True to her word, the receptionist at the National Association of Dance Movement Therapists had fired off six job openings. I'd emailed my updated résumé with a sane-sounding cover letter to each of them. So far only one had responded, and that position was full-time, year-round, and way up in Pennsylvania. Plan B: for the rest of the morning, hunkering over my bedroom laptop, I sent emails to former colleagues telling them of my job search, renewing acquaintances with people I'd worked with or conferenced with over the years. “It's been much too long,” every message began. And ended, “Let's do lunch when I'm back in town, but in the meantime if you know or hear of anything, please keep me in mind.”

Early afternoon, I propelled myself through a series of mindless tasks, rearranging closets, folding laundry, Windexing all the downstairs glass. When I caught myself decrumbing the toaster tray I concluded it was absurd hanging around the house. I could be home from almost anywhere in Tuckahoe in under ten minutes. And maybe Margo was right that I coddled Jack.

“Overwater or overfeed any living being and you know what happens,” she'd said, hitching her neck toward the stringy orchid hanging its head in
my kitchen window. “Everything withers from too much attention. Except Pete Manolis. Now there's a specimen that can't get enough. In Jack's case, I'm not saying you should neglect him. I know what a lack of parental interest can produce: me. Not that I'm chopped liver, but that's in spite of Paulette and Bernie and at least partly because of a parade of loving nannies and high-priced shrinks. But you don't want to go to the other extreme, Nora. Don't turn Jack into a mama's boy. Back off. Give him a chance to stand on his own two feet. It's what you've got your degree in.”

So with the evening stretching empty ahead and no calls or texts from Jack, which I decided meant good news, I switched my cell phone ringer to the alarming
William Tell
Overture, notched up the volume to VERY LOUD, changed into sneakers, strapped on a Love Strong backpack, locked the door behind me, and trotted downtown, trying to get my heart pounding from something other than nerves.

Half an hour before, the weather had turned abruptly from a gloomy dampness to an atmosphere as crisp and pale yellow as a fine chablis. The sky above was a tender blue and the scent around me was flowery and freshly washed.

Usually the air-conditioned interior of Turquoise Café lured summer patrons inside, but on this suddenly exquisite day, the patio, with its bougainvillea-woven trellis and its cobblestones shaded by twin willows, made an alluring oasis. Three of its four tables were taken, and when Em saw me through the window, she lit up and pointed toward herself, then the patio, signaling me to claim the last one for us.

She was ready for a break, she told me, and unloaded her tray's clove-and-cinnamon chai and plate of
börek
, made with
yufka
, a hand-rolled dough thicker than phyllo and layered with spinach and cheese. Low on caffeine, light on sugar, this late-afternoon snack wouldn't ratchet up my jitter level. She sat down with a sigh and the newest entry from a menu of Merry stories.

Merry had been keeping a ginger cat stashed in her bedroom walk-in closet, a hideaway set up with food, water bowl, and litter box. Sarman's subsequent eviction had spurred a major tantrum and slammed doors.

Erol had taken the brunt of his sister's fury because he'd tattled. In retaliation, Merry had painted his toenails pink while he was sleeping.

Our mutual friend Margo also knew from retaliation. She was a maven at it. She'd banned Merry from the Driftwood until the girl pulled herself together. Once Merry apologized to the family, including Erol, she'd be welcomed back. On probation, though. She'd better watch her step. As a bonus, Margo—who sometimes amazed me with her generosity, and Em related this with an awed shake of the head—had taken in Sarman as a resident of the playhouse. She bought a case of cat food and Merry brought over the litter box with a vow to clean it twice a week. One crisis, if not averted, at least managed.

On our second round of chai, something warbled though Em's monologue to stop me mid-chew. A whistle. Jack's recently suspended whistle, more sprightly than ever. “Here Comes the Sun.” Had my head been screwed on straight, I wouldn't have been tempted to turn it and see my son walking in tandem with Sixteen past the patio toward the door. And maybe he wouldn't have seen me and called out, “Mom? That you? This is so cool.”

After we wound up pulling two more seats to the little bistro table and Em escaped to fetch coffee, there was the expected awkward silence, but only for a few seconds, because what I assumed was Dr. Dirk DeHaven's bedside manner, a twist of confidence and charm, seemed to transfer easily to social situations. He was sitting across from me, Jack between us. He leaned in.

“This is a nice surprise,” were his first words. “Jack wasn't sure you and I would get to meet this weekend. He said you thought you might be intruding. Let me assure you, you wouldn't have been. Aren't.”

I smiled my default smile, the one that said I had absolutely no idea
how to respond. The one that didn't involve my eyes or my brain, or so Margo had once observed. Now, that was who we needed here: Margo, who was a pro at making small talk and in character. I could see her doing “Mother Courage”: earthy, gutsy, and totally without fear.

“Jack's been looking forward to meeting you,” was all I could come up with.

“And I him.” The grammatically correct DD reached for the last
börek
. Ah, a privileged man. “I understand that Lon . . .” He paused, while I felt a furious flush rising.
Lon,
I thought. He called him Lon? As if this interloper had the right to address my late husband by his given name. “Jack's dad,” he amended, so of course I felt guilty for prejudging, “died when Jack was eleven. You've done a fine job raising him.”

“He's a good kid,” I said, as Em brought over their coffee, fresh tea for me, and cherry baklava, warm from the oven.

“I'm not a kid anymore, Mom.” Jack was drawing a smiley face with his finger on the teapot's steamy porcelain.

“To a mother, her kid is always a kid, Jack.” The Donor Dude had the temerity to wink at me. “But you
are
an impressive young man.”

Then the conversation fell into a black hole, and all hands reached for their cups.

After two or three sips Jack said, “Tell Mom what you do. About your work. He does heart surgery. Mostly on kids, right?”

I'd had a hard time taking my eyes off Dirk DeHaven from the moment he sat down across from me. Now I had an excuse to stare, as he explained in layman's terms the intricacies of his work with pediatric patients who'd been born with miswired circulatory systems. He rerouted veins and arteries and gave them normal lives and life spans. It sounded important,
he
sounded important, and I could sense Jack puffing up with pride next to me, but I was only half listening. My other half was calculating the role genes played in shaping looks and behavior.

The doctor resembled Jack less in person than in the emailed photo.
There must have been a time lag since he'd posed, because his hair had thinned and gone almost all white, so there was no longer a perfect color match, and the newly exposed scalp and a swaggy chin made his face longer, less Jack's strong square. The eyes were dead-on. But not the mouth, which Dirk wiped with care to remove a smear of cherry filling.

“Whatever you do,” Margo had said about meeting DD, “don't think about how weird it is that his semen got shot up your wazoo.”

“Yeah, thanks for reminding me not to think about it. And you should talk. You had plenty of strange men's little swimmers freestyling up your fallopian tubes. Well, at least until they crashed into your IUD.”

She ignored my insult. “There's a difference. You carried his
baby
.”

“Potential baby. When it became a real one, it became Lon's, not freaking Sixteen's.”

But maybe now he was here to claim what he thought
was
his.

“Mom, you okay?” Jack asked.

“Why?” Had I been glowering? “Just listening. It's all so fascinating, the advances in surgical techniques.”