Blue Jeans and Coffee Beans (23 page)

He tallies up the scores. “Drinks are on me, at The Sand Bar,” he says. “I’m in last place, way over par.”

“What?” Maris asks. “There’s no way I didn’t lose. Let me see that card.”

Jason winks at her and puts it in his back pocket.

“It’s getting late, and Taylor’s home alone,” Eva says. “How about we finish this another time?”

“No problem.” Jason turns to Maris. “What about you? You game for a drink with me?” And he knows, right away from her eyes, that she is. Ever since Neil died, he is more tuned in to body language, to looks and gestures, sometimes more so than words. Maybe it is because the last he knew of Neil, alive, was a certain pressure of his brother’s body hitting his. And what you remember is what you had last. So he looks and pays attention now to more than what someone says.

Maris’ eyes give it away in the bar too, a glass of wine in front of her, when she tells him about Scott’s proposal and her reluctance to commit to him.

“Is that what was on your mind the other night when I found you here?”

“Part of it. There’s a job offer on the table, too, from a New York design house. Director of Women’s Denim, with my aesthetics shaping the line and bringing my vision to Italian counterparts. It’s a huge opportunity and means a big move, with the option of my own studio. And then there’s … ” She hesitates while Jason motions
no
as the waitress approaches again.

He looks back at Maris. “And then there’s what? Tell me, and maybe I can convince you to stay longer.”

“Maybe. Maybe you can.”

And so he watches, and looks, and sees the gold hoop earrings, and the denim cardigan she designed herself, and the long hair tucked behind her ear so that it frames her silhouette. He sees it all, more in her expression than in her words about everything from the long-ago loss of her mother to the gold pendant hanging from her neck. Her words are fluid, once they begin, moving her right along with them.

Not one single detail passes without his notice and he wonders if they needed this decade between them to get back to Foley’s deck all those years ago. She tells him about the day he found her here alone, about the lost home movie, and about an empty jewelry box and baby blanket she found in an attic box, about a second child and about her empty heart.

What he sees, too, that she isn’t even aware of, is the way her fingers occasionally touch her empty ring finger before moving to the gold chain around her neck. She fusses with the necklace as she tells him about the appointment scheduled with Tom Riley, her father’s attorney.

And he can’t take his eyes off of her. “Jesus, Maris,” he finally says. “You might have a sister out there somewhere.”

She nods. “That’s what I’m thinking, too.”

“And what did Scott say to all of this?”

“He told me to leave it alone. That long ago and faraway doesn’t matter,” Maris says quietly. “Does it?”

Jason’s gaze holds Maris’ across from him. What the hell is wrong with that guy? You can’t leave the past alone, she had to know, and so he reaches across the table and cups both her hands in his. “Do you know what happens if you leave the past alone?” He strokes her skin with his thumb as he considers how to put it into words. “I can tell you, from experience. It’ll chase you down, Maris. Remember what that night on the boardwalk did to me? With Kyle?”

“Do I ever.”

“That’s what the past does if you turn your back on it. It hides behind corners, all the time. And when you catch sight of it, it scares the hell out of you.” He pulls back then and finishes his drink. “Don’t leave it alone.”

“You scare me, the way you say that.”

“Believe me, I know, sweetheart. Try to take care of it, for your own sake.”

Maris doesn’t say anything then.

“Think about it, at least.” He stands to leave and extends his hand to hers, noticing that she doesn’t let go as they walk through the bar and he opens the door to the outside night.

Jason knows. Walking alone on the beach later, he knows his future will slip through his fingers if he doesn’t visit the past. He needs to settle an old debt, a personal one he owes only to himself. Neil’s voice comes in on the wind as he walks along the packed sand near the water. It weaves in the sound of the waves, in the sea breeze rippling the night.

But he heard his own voice tonight, too, with Maris’. Seven years is long enough. He needs to set Neil free, to let the tides release him beneath the pull of the moon. Maybe the same way Neil holds him back, maybe he holds Neil’s spirit back as well.

Standing at the water’s edge, he rolls his brother’s drumsticks between his hands, looking far out into the black sky. Then without any more thought, he reaches his arm back and for all he is worth, putting his whole body into it, he flings the sticks out to sea.

.

Chapter Twenty-One

S
he noticed him hanging back, wandering from one nearby craft tent to another while she finished up with a customer. “I’ve got the perfect place for this,” the woman was saying. She had bought one of the larger pieces Lauren recently painted. An expanse of boardwalk reached across the driftwood, the sea stretching out beyond the beach. Curls of white paint topped the waves, giving them a sense of motion, of rolling in. “Right on the mantle, where we’ll always see it. My husband will love it,” the customer said, so happy with such a small thing. That intrigued Lauren, the way paint dabbed on an old piece of weathered wood had such power to evoke feeling. She carefully wrapped it in tissue paper, glancing up at Kyle as she did. The sun was strong and warm, and his face perspired as he lingered, browsing the refurbished antique kitchenware at the tent beside hers.

Another customer walked up as Lauren put the wrapped driftwood into a bag. “Aren’t these interesting?” He picked up a piece shaped like a lighthouse, upon which she’d painted another lighthouse, waves breaking on the rocks below it. And she was glad for the distraction. Glad for a minute or two to wonder what Kyle could possibly want now. They were done; she’d broken up with him in no uncertain terms. At least on her part. The wedding was off. But he made everything about the talk doubtful, arguing it all.
You can’t be serious
, he’d said when she told him it was Neil.
He’s just playing you, Ell. He likes a good time
. And she shrugged off his words. Of course he’d slam Neil; Neil won.

“Do you have any with a cottage painted on it? A little white bungalow maybe?” the man asked. “I’m looking for a housewarming gift.”

Lauren scanned her few shelves. She used a tiny tent at these weekend craft shows and filled in the empty spaces between the driftwood with large seashells and a few hurricane lanterns. There were about twenty painted pieces on display, seagulls and beach umbrellas and sandcastles, but none with a cottage. “I can custom paint one for you. Do you have something specific in mind?”

“I do, but how about if I get you a photo to copy?” The man took her card and said he’d call when he had the picture. Still he looked at her other paintings, the stormy sea in particular. “How long would it take to paint?”

“When I see the photograph, I’d have a better idea. Call me and we’ll take it from there.”

She saw, all the while, Kyle moving closer. He looked impatient, the way he paced, and walked up to her before the other customer was even gone.

“Kyle.” She was still surprised to see him right there, his presence familiar and unexpected at the same time. She never thought he’d follow her around, looking for a way back.

“Ell,” he said, with a smile, she’d thought at first. But it wasn’t really. It was more of an ironic look, because he was shaking his head, too. “Hey,” he added. “How are you?”

“Well. I’m the same, I guess.” Two days had passed since he’d picked her up to go out to dinner, when they never made it further than sitting in his car parked at the curb of her parents’ house. Since she said she thought it better that he hear it right away, instead of having to drive her back home from somewhere when they’d be so upset. Two days since she told him she couldn’t marry him, that there was someone else. That there was Neil. Since she left her engagement ring on Kyle’s dashboard and walked away from his car back toward her house.

He stared at her for a long moment now, looked away, then back at her. “So you haven’t heard anything?”

“Heard what?” Lauren asked.

Two women approached, sisters or best friends, Lauren thought. She was getting better at reading her potential customers. “Sara Beth, look at this one,” one of the women said, picking up a smaller piece and admiring the sailboat scene painted on it. Kyle looked past them and caught her eye, motioning for her to move them along, he wanted to talk. She shrugged back at him and turned her attention to the women.

“Sorry, ladies,” he said, reaching over and taking the driftwood from their hands. “We’ve got an emergency going on, can you come back later?”

“Kyle,” Lauren interrupted. “Stop that.”

“Oh, it’s no problem,” one of the women said. “We’re just window shopping.”

When they moved on, Lauren glared at Kyle.

“Close up,” he said. “I have to talk to you. Now.”

“There’s nothing more to say,” Lauren argued. “And I’m trying to sell my work, if you don’t mind.”

“Your work can wait. I’m serious, Ell. Close up shop.”

And she knew, from the shaking breath he took to the sheen on his face to the way he didn’t look away this time, that he wouldn’t back down. She closed up her tent, grabbed her purse and followed him to the outskirts of the craft fair. This one was set up on a town green in Addison, forty miles from home, with lots of old maple trees shading the tents. He led her to a bench in a quiet spot and waited for her to sit.

“Kyle, really. You can’t keep stalking me like this. I am not going to change my mind about us. The wedding’s off.”

He just looked at her and shook his head. “I’m not stalking you. There’s been an accident, Ell.”

“What do you mean, an accident?”

“No one called you? Eva? Your mom?”

“No. What kind of accident?”

He hadn’t sat beside her, she noticed. Hadn’t really stopped pacing until now, standing right in front of her, his shirt damp with perspiration, the sun making him squint. And in that moment, she heard the hum of noise around them. Cars, and people’s voices. A few tents had radios playing, and a horse and buggy ride clip-clopped around The Green.

“Barlows,” he said. “They were in an accident.”

“What are you talking about? I just talked to Neil.”

“When?”

“This morning.”

“They were in an accident, Ell. Him and his brother.”

“Jason, too?”

“They were on Neil’s bike, it’s bad.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Jesus, it’s bad, Ell. Someone hit them, I guess.”

“No. No, no.”

Kyle nodded. “Matt called me. Jason’s hurt pretty serious. He might lose his leg, from what they can tell.”

“Oh my God. No way. And Neil? Kyle? What about Neil?”

He leaned forward and touched her leg, right above the knee. He just touched her, and she knew. That arm lifting, the hand reaching out, his fingers skimming her leg just for a second before he had to look away, then back at her. But it wasn’t the looking away that told her; it was the touch.

She looked past him then and saw the white tents dotting The Green filled with colorful paintings and dolls and framed photographs and knit sweaters and handmade jewelry, the people dressed in their summer clothes and sandals. She smelled cooking sausage and steaks from the food vendors and heard the horses, again, clopping past behind her, the buggy wheels turning gritty on the pavement. Life, life, life all around her. Its color and sound and scent. She was as alive now, in this moment, as she’d ever be.

But when she looked up at Kyle, it all stopped. She saw nothing beyond his expression, heard nothing at all. She only felt, on the small area of skin above her knee, the sensation of his touch bringing her the news. It could only come from him, of course, bringing him back to her somehow. The life all around her that faded from view with his touch, faded from existence, only slowly, slowly returned, a color at a time, a word at a time, a decision at a time, over the time of hours and days and years to come, over a wake and funeral that Neil’s own brother was too much a physical wreck to attend, a wake where no one, no one at all knew, except Kyle, of the minutes she’d spent with the departed, minutes that led to hours, hours that led her deeper into her painting, led her to knowing her self and to leaving another man she’d loved. That man, Kyle, stood beside her at that funeral, the man who never believed what she said she found with Neil, who never reduced what he had with her no matter what words she sent his way in the front seat of a car parked at the curb one Thursday evening while a neighbor mowed a lawn, while a woman jogged past, while she refused to believe Kyle’s insistence that it wasn’t Neil, but that Neil gave her the time to explore what she wanted to do besides being married, time that Kyle took away from her in his rush to be married and so Neil slowed the hands of time, then stopped them for a good long time. And didn’t they move again when Kyle managed to get her diamond back on her hand somehow, and they lived through the death that they thought they’d move past, but instead it became a part of them, the way it brought them back together.

Now, seven years later, it is all there, every bit of it returning to her. After Kyle’s day of standing behind the hot diner stoves, after Lauren’s hours on the beach with her children, after her waiting for him to show up for dinner at the cottage, after putting Evan and Hailey to bed without Kyle being there yet, after worrying that he’d gotten into an accident, after repeatedly calling the diner and getting no answer, then calling Taylor to babysit, after driving by their home looking for him, and passing The Sand Bar, after checking with Matt, after walking down the dark beach then, unsure where to turn next, after sitting in the sand, watching the moon rise, remembering Neil this first summer that she’s returned to Stony Point since his death, dealing with the feelings her memories bring back, the past seven years catch up. And the end of those seven years comes with Kyle finding her on the beach, explaining that he’d fallen asleep in the diner office, sat down on the small sofa for a minute and was gone, and with her asking him one simple question, asking “How can we get us back?” Seven years of recovering that started with his touch led to this night, this hour, this moment.

Kyle stands and wades barefoot ankle-deep into the water. She watches him bend and scoop up a dripping handful of salt water, burying his face in it before running his wet fingers back through his hair. When he splashes another handful of water on his neck and chest, she stands and walks into the water behind him. Kyle turns to her, leans forward and touches her arm, right above the wrist. He just touches her while she watches. That arm lifting, the hand reaching out, his fingers skimming her skin just for a second before he has to look away, then back at her. But it isn’t the looking away that tells her, or his words saying “All you had to do is ask, Ell.” It is the touch.

She watches him standing there, breathing. One deep breath after the other. And when he puts his finger beneath her chin and lifts her face to kiss her, she tastes the salt water on his face, feels his mouth, his rough cheek grazing hers, hears the waves lapping at their knees, smells the sea, sees a distant lighthouse beam sweep over the black water, feels the tears burn her eyes, listens to the engine of a boat far out at sea, feels the breeze lift off the water, moving a strand of hair, sees the boardwalk illuminated back on the beach behind them, hears his voice and feels his hands holding her face. Life, life, life all around her. Its color and sound and scent.