Beachcombers (5 page)

The red enamel colander and the salad spinner were on top of the refrigerator, and just inside the pantry door hung their mother's apron. It said Kiss the Cook and their mother had given it to herself for Christmas, laughing as she showed it off. That had been the Christmas Abbie was fifteen. Whenever Abbie came in from a school event or the beach at dinnertime, her mother would be wearing that apron as she prepared dinner. She'd tap her apron and arch her eyebrow.

"Oh, Mom, you are such a dork," Abbie would say, and she'd huff over, rolling her eyes, to peck a kiss on her mother's cheek before stomping out of the room.

Now Abbie touched the apron, allowing the memory to flood back. She wished she had been nicer about kissing her mother.

And there by the far wall, on the low shelf with the cookbooks, was a large white oyster shell she'd found at the beach at Pocomo, the last time the sisters had gone beachcombing. Abbie picked it up and held it in her hand. She'd wanted, after their mother's death, to keep up the tradition of the Beachcombers Club, but the first time she'd forced her younger sisters to go to the beach to search for prizes, they had all ended up sobbing in helpless wrenching grief. She marshaled them out to beachcomb the next year, but their hearts weren't in it; the beach held no magic--it just wasn't the same with their mother gone. They never tried it again.

Anyway, as the girls grew older, they lost the time and interest for beachcombing. Months passed, and then years, and the gripping sorrow eased into an ache, and then into something more like the memory of an ache. Their father had changed after his wife died. He'd retreated deep inside himself, and he seldom talked about their mother or shared his own grief with his daughters. But on Danielle's birthday, he always took the girls out to dinner, and he always proposed a toast. Abbie could remember lifting her juice glass, saying, "Here's to Mom. Happy Birthday, wherever you are." It was her father who coined the phrase. The girls knew it was exactly what their mother would have liked them to say. It was what she had believed.

Perhaps once a year, every year, Abbie pestered her busy sisters into giving up an hour from their social lives to go down to the beach together, and two years ago, just before she left for her au pair job, she marshaled them into a trip. They were all in their twenties then; Emma was just home for a week, Lily had finished her junior year of college. They were in their adult lives, but Abbie could be forceful when she got really bossy, so they all went. No one found anything terribly unusual. Abbie won the prize with the oyster shell, a big one with a creamy interior around a spot of deep abalone blue. When she was a girl, she'd used these shells as carriages for her small troll dolls. That summer she'd put it on the trophy shelf and forgot it almost immediately.

And here it was, a little dustier than before. So much time had passed, so many things had changed, yet here, Abbie thought, was this ordinary shell, sitting on the shelf like an ivory platter full of memories.

She touched the shell with her fingertip, then went to the sink to wash the lettuce.

7

Marina

A
s she put the bluefish in the refrigerator, Marina discovered she was smiling. Jim Fox was really attractive, and the electricity that sparked between them had her blood buzzing.

He was up at his house now, talking with his daughters. She'd been very aware of their presence when she was setting up her little outdoor nest. Their laughter made her smile, even though an awareness of loss plunged through her whenever she overheard any two women laughing together.

She sank onto the couch and put her head in her hands.

Six months ago, Marina had started her period on her fortieth birthday. The moment she woke she wanted to break into a howl of sorrow, but she choked it back as she rose from bed and rushed into the shower. Recently Gerry had been cool, abrupt, even irritated when she talked about her infertility. Their marriage was in one of those distant phases all marriages went through, probably because of problems at the office. Today she and Gerry both had crowded schedules. She needed to ignore her private life and concentrate on her accounts.

Sometimes she and Gerry drove to work in the same car, but he had a meeting elsewhere in the city today, so they drove separately. She was glad, really. She needed to talk to a friend. Christie was busy with a new baby, so she put on her headset and punched in Dara's number.

Dara sounded groggy. "Marina. What's up?"

"Dara, my period started today."

"Oh, hell. Oh, Marina, fucking damn. I'm sorry. How are you?"

"Not so great. And work is a rat's nest, which actually is not a bad thing. It will keep me from brooding."

"Good for you, Marina. Positive attitude. Move forward. How are you celebrating your birthday?"

"Oh, forget my birthday." Marina sped up and passed an ancient Toyota dawdling in front of her. Dara's chipper attitude irritated Marina. She needed someone to help her mourn, to help her mark this occasion. Dara remained silent on the other end of the line. "Gerry hasn't planned a surprise party for me, has he?"

Dara laughed. "And I would tell you if he had?"

"Because I'm not in the mood for a party. I think I'd just like to get hammered. I'd like to sit down with you and drink tequila and wail."

"No Gerry?"

"No. We haven't been very close lately. Anyway, he's sick of me blubbering around."

"Well, honey, if that's what you really want to do, let's do it. Shall we meet at Hoolihan's?"

"Great. No, wait. I'd better ask Gerry if we have plans. I mean, it is my great-big fat fortieth. I'm sure he has something planned. I'm here. Talk to you later."

"Marina? Listen, honey--I just want to tell you ... I think you're going to be just fine. I think you're a tremendously strong person."

"Thanks, Dar'. I love you, too." Marina clicked off.

Later, she would remember her final words to Dara, and they would crash a world of humiliation down on her heart. How had she ever been so blind?

How had she ever been a friend anyone could so easily betray?

There
was
a surprise fortieth birthday party, thrown at Dara's house. It was a mob scene, with champagne and every other kind of liquor flowing like Niagara Falls, and music pumped up by a DJ and people dancing and getting properly smashed and yelling out all sorts of inappropriate things. In the midst of such revelry, Marina hardly saw Gerry or Dara. She got good and hammered, and she thought her husband had, too, so when Dara insisted they sleep at her place because they were too wasted to go home, Marina accepted gratefully.

Saturday morning she awoke in Dara's guest room with a dry mouth and a bad headache. She expected to see Gerry snoring in bed next to her, but she was alone. She pulled on a robe of Dara's over her naked body and shuffled down the hall to the kitchen, toward the smell of coffee.

Gerry and Dara weren't kissing or embracing or even touching. They were sitting on opposite sides of the kitchen table, quietly talking.

Yet something about the way they were leaning toward each other slapped Marina wide awake.

She said, "What's going on?"

Their heads snapped toward her in identical rhythm.

"Marina. You're awake." Dara stood up, poured a cup of coffee, and put it on the table.

Marina sat down. She took a sip of coffee--it was strong and rich. Dara was a good cook.

She looked at Gerry, whose mouth was pulled tight the way it always got during an argument, especially when he was in the wrong.

Slowly, Marina said, "I'm not going to like this, am I?"

"I don't know," Gerry countered. "You might like it a lot, if you stop to think about it. I want a divorce, Marina."

She stared at him. They'd been married for ten years. They must have made love a million times. She knew everything about him, how stupid he looked when he was flapping around the office in a tantrum because of something at work, how tender he could be when they were alone together. He was handsome, and he worked hard at it, exercising at a gym, spending lots of time buying clothes and moussing his hair, he was even considering having a face-lift because he needed to keep his image young and fresh. She knew how his older brother's success as a physician overshadowed Gerry, how his parents scarcely
saw
their younger son because of the blinding light of their older son's brilliance. She'd held Gerry in her arms as he wept bitterly after they spent Christmas with his parents. Her love for him had been the motivation, really, for the fury with which she attacked her own part in their business. She had wanted to protect him.

True, they weren't getting along very well recently. Their time and conversations together revolved around work. He was probably sick of her relentless failures to get pregnant, and for her own part, Marina had to admit she hadn't felt close to him for a long time. Still. To bring up divorce like this, in front of Dara--what was he thinking?

"Gee," she said snidely, "nice of you to wait till I had my birthday party to tell me."

From the other side of the table, Dara spoke up. "Marina. There's something else."

Marina turned toward her friend. Christie and Dara had been the first to know when she'd gotten her period, the first to know when she'd lost her virginity, the first to know when she'd fallen in love with Gerry. Marina had been Dara's go-to person during her two marriages and grisly divorces. Dara was a beauty, apple-cheeked and bosomy, sensual and seductive.

Oh.

Gerry had found comfort with Dara. Which was why Gerry was talking in front of Dara.

"You and Gerry," Marina said flatly.

Dara nodded. "Yes." She raised her chin defiantly. "And Marina, I'm not going to apologize. You're not in love with Gerry anymore. I know that."

"Really. Did I ever say that?" Marina demanded.

Dara blushed. "Marina. There's something else."

"Good God," Marina cursed. "What more could there possibly be?"

Dara's eyes flew to meet Gerry's. Her face became radiant. Her smile was absolutely Mona Lisa.

It felt like a knife slicing through her entire torso. The pain made her breathless. "You're pregnant."

"With my child," Gerry added, unable to keep the pride from his voice.

It was almost dazzling, how quickly Marina's life changed after that. Of course, Gerry and Dara, in their eager selfish joy, had already plotted the path. With Dara's money, Gerry bought out Marina's half of the business. Gerry had already spoken to an agent who had a buyer lined up for Marina and Gerry's condo. With no children or financial issues, the legalities of the divorce were dealt with in a flash.

Suddenly, within a matter of weeks, Marina lost her husband, her work, her home, and one of her very best friends. Most of her current friends were Gerry and Dara's friends, too. They strained to be supportive to Marina without insulting Gerry or Dara, and that just made it difficult for everyone. Marina had to let them go.

Her parents had retired to sunny Arizona. Over the phone, they offered her love and understanding, but they were just a little bit
I-told-you-so.
They'd never liked Gerry. She saw a couple of therapists, but their advice was what she expected: You have to go through this loss, you can't go around it. The Japanese sign for "crisis" also means "opportunity." Their words were not much help in the middle of the night. Cartons of ice cream and old black-and-white movies worked better.

Christie saved her life.

"You've got to get out of town," Christie advised her. "Here, you're just mired in misery like an old horse stuck in mud."

Marina had snorted out a laugh in the midst of her tears. "Thanks for the glamorous image. And where would I go?"

"Where do you
want
to go?" Christie countered.

Marina blew her nose and shook her head. "I don't know."

Christie bellowed at her sons, "I told you boys, not in the house!" She turned back to Marina. "Why not Nantucket? Summer's coming up. We had so much fun those summers, remember?"

Marina leaned back in her chair and thought about that. During college, she and Christie had gone east to work as waitresses in a huge swanky hotel. They didn't make much money, but they had free lodging, free nights, and a few free afternoon hours. They swam, partied, worked a bit, and returned to Kansas City as brown as nuts and grinning at themselves.

Marina protested, "Oh, Christie, we were
young
back then. I'm old and worn out and pathetic."

"You certainly will be if you don't move your ass," Christie insisted. "If you stay here indulging in self-pity. Think of it, Marina, the blue ocean, the salty air, the
freshness
of it all."

"I won't know anyone," Marina said.

"Well, isn't that the point?" Christie replied.

Now Marina found herself smiling. It was good, just to think of Christie and her practical optimism.

And Christie was right. Being here, away from
there
, was a kind of therapy. While out of sight was not completely out of mind, the reality of Gerry and Dara was not such an oppressive reality.

But she ached with loneliness. Leisure did not come easily to her. She'd worked hard to learn her trade, and she and Gerry had labored diligently and ceaselessly to build their business. She was accustomed to the sound of phones ringing, people chatting, footsteps hurrying past her office; she was used to the pressure of presentations and the dozens of little victories of accounts won and money made. She'd been such an excellent multitasker, scanning reports while she ran on her treadmill, dictating memos while she drove to a meeting, flirting with new business contacts during the intermission at a symphony.

Now, on this bright, airy island, she felt like a piece of flotsam lost at sea, without a compass or any way to communicate to others. The ocean expanded all around her. She was alone, as insignificant as a little cork bobbing on the surface.

But she wouldn't give up.

She grabbed up the newspaper and a pen, and began to circle anything that caught her eye. Noonday concerts at the Unitarian church. A comedy presented in the evening by the Theatre Workshop. She hadn't realized how many museums there were. The Nantucket Whaling Museum was right in town. So was the Maria Mitchell Science Library and Observatory. And the Coffin School. And someone was offering painting classes. Hm. She'd have to consider that. Gerry had always been the visual guy; but it might be fun to learn to do watercolors. She'd get a library card, too, and stock up on all the juicy novels she'd never had time to read.

And maybe she'd get to know Jim and his daughters better. Anything could happen, right?