Blue Jeans and Coffee Beans (3 page)

“Maris, you design denim. Fashion design. Not homes.”

“Fashion design. Interior design. It’s all about having an eye for it.”

“Wait. You said in exchange.” Eva sinks slowly into a chair across the table from her. “In exchange for what?”

Maris adjusts the veil, lifting it and letting it fall back again over her shoulders, remembering Eva wearing it the same way when they’d found it all those years ago in a vintage clothing boutique. She looks around the kitchen now, seeing the faded country-print wallpaper, the Formica countertops, the tiny homework cubby filled with dictionaries and cookbooks, pencils and measuring spoons. Nothing has changed. So can Eva see the same memory she is seeing? The one of two teenage girls finishing breakfast and heading out for a day of tanning, or crabbing on the rocks, or swimming out to the big rock? Right at this moment, it feels like she just arrived at her best friend’s home, the same way she did all those years ago, suitcase bulging with tank tops and shorts and flip-flops. Suddenly they are fifteen again, beginning another summer when Maris stays with Eva and her family at the beach for two sweet months. When a smile breaks out on Eva’s face, she knows her friend feels the same way.

“I need some time. There’s so much going on in my life right now with the estate, and now this with Scott. Really, it’s just overwhelming. Do you think there’s some empty little cottage here that I can rent for a few weeks? I’ll trade you my design skills for your realtor skills.”

“Seriously?”

As soon as she asks, Maris feels the magic, the sense of a peaceful dove fluttering from an unfurled scarf. This beach has a way of casting its spell right through the windows under the guise of sun and salt, the call of the gulls, the sound of the waves. “It’ll be like old times, one more time.”

“For how long?”

“I can extend my family leave, I’m sure. A few weeks. Maybe a month.” She stands then, spreads butter on a blueberry muffin and warms it in the microwave before turning back to Eva. “You game?”

Eva reaches an outstretched hand, her pinky poised in a hook, her steady, dark gaze time travelling back to their teens.

Maris reaches forward and hooks that pinky with hers, the silk tulle of the wedding veil brushing alongside her face.

Whispers, shadows. They are one and the same as far as Jason Barlow is concerned. Both have you turn at the hint of them. Both have you think someone is close by, watching. His life is their stomping ground, so much so that he begins answering them back if they get too close. Or if he can’t make out the words. If he can’t tell if it is the wind or Neil’s far-off voice. Sunlight through tree branches, or his brother’s soul visiting him.

Anything can spark them. Like now, driving past the still-empty guard shack. How many summer voices that sight can summon. “Don’t even start,” he says as he looks past the shack, steering down the old beach road. Abandoned homes have a knack for toying with voices and shadows, too. And he is on a crash course with one.

Jason drives past cedar-shingled colonials with windowed walls and porches facing ocean views. Tucked back from the road, small wood-sided bungalows with lattice-windowed front porches sit on refurbished stone foundations. His clients want all this, along with the swaying sea grasses, the sandy beach and gentle Long Island Sound waves, the swans in the marsh, the evenings on the old boardwalk. The cottages he renovates are all about architectural charm, and nothing about demons. As he pulls into the stone driveway of his family’s deserted beach home, it is just the opposite.

“It’s only for the weekend,” he tells himself, or some shadow sitting in the passenger seat.

Inside the cottage, time stands still, like a museum. Or hell, depending. The faded walls, the seaside paintings, the musty furniture and framed photographs arranged on end tables, all pay homage to a family life. He sets two grocery bags on the kitchen table and plugs in the refrigerator. Opening the window over the kitchen sink, he sees the sandy pails and cluster of small fishing nets leaning against the outside shower enclosure. At low tides, he and his brother climbed over the exposed rock jetty, plucking mussels and snails from the damp stone surfaces. They cracked open the bait with a big rock and tied it on to their crabbing lines on the jetty and in the creek.

When he looks at the outside shower again, the pails and nets are gone.

Jason opens the cold water faucet and splashes a handful on his face. It seems so far away. Crabbing, swimming, hanging out at Foley’s, rowing through the lagoon in summers that were endless, behind marsh grass that beckoned, beneath sunlight that nourished and starlit skies that calmed, forging friendships and memories. His fingers feel the long scar above his jawline. Whether he irritated it shaving or if changes in the weather bring it on, he can’t be sure. But today the scar feels tender.

When he turns back into the living room, glass on the fireplace mantle catches his eye, the sharp slivers glittering on its brick hearth. If it hadn’t all happened, he wouldn’t have tired of seeing Neil in every shadow last fall, wouldn’t have flung his glass of scotch at the brick fireplace. He gets the dustpan from the broom closet now, sweeps up the mess and hears his father’s voice complaining about the injustice of it all, of Neil not being with them anymore at the beach.

“Just shut up,” Jason says under his breath. “Shut up or I’ll leave.”

But he never stays away for long; it is the only place he can find Neil now.

He picks up the phone and gets his sister’s answering machine. “Paige, when you talk to Mom, tell her the house made it through the winter fine. But the outside window trim is peeling. I’ll get someone to repaint it.” He pauses a few seconds in case she might be rushing in, maybe running inside from the clothesline or from picking up her kids at day camp. Maybe she’ll grab up the phone and talk a little. “Take care now,” he finally says, holding the receiver tight to his ear a moment longer before disconnecting.

Then Jason Barlow walks out back to the barn like he did all those years ago with his father and Neil, the breeze carrying echoes of his father’s low voice detailing his masonry craft and the work his hands did, building stone walls and patios and foundations. He swings open the barn doors and low golden sunlight sweeps into the dusty space. An old ladder hangs horizontally on high wall hooks. He lifts it down and finds a few spattered paint scrapers hanging with the hammers and screwdrivers and trowels on a wooden pegboard. With about an hour of daylight left, he has enough time to begin.

.

Chapter Three

L
ights come on in the little shops outside, the morning gray with a lingering fog, its mist hovering low. It feels like Christmas, and Maris pictures twinkling lights strung along the storefronts and up the masts of the tall sailboats in the harbor. Elegant burgundy bows would hang from balsam wreaths, blowing in the snowy wind. Sitting in the diner’s window seat, her laptop opened on the table beside a plate of scrambled eggs and fresh coffee, the morning is easy and comfortable. Until she reaches for the velvet box, the one holding a solitaire diamond on a platinum band. Scott had tucked it right into her laptop case before mailing it all to her. In his note, he tells her she is right. She deserves to be engaged. And her world stops cold at the sight of the ring.

He wants her back, soon. He wants them married. He wants a honeymoon before she goes back to work at Saybrooks.

She reaches for her cell phone and dials his, leaving a voicemail. “The ring, Scott, it’s beautiful,” she begins as she straightens the loose band on her finger. “Well, we definitely have to talk. But I’m not sure when I’ll be back yet.” She looks at his note, at the list of things he wants, wants, wants. What about what she wants? Does she tell him that mornings spent pressing wallpaper samples against Eva’s walls and deciding on paint chips and having lunch outside on the deck all hold her back?

“It’s just that I’m helping Eva with a project, and I have to get Madison settled.”

How about what Madison wants? Does that count for anything? Does she mention all the driftwood the dog has stockpiled in a few days, carrying pieces back to the cottage from their walks along the high tide line, her tail finally swinging wide with happiness?

She is surprised at all she finds herself wanting here. Does she mention that coffee never tasted as sweet as it does on her front porch? And that she tucked tender seedlings into the flower boxes of the silver-shingled cottage she rented? Okay, it was on a whim, but still. The petunias reach skyward now, like nesting baby birds drinking in the nourishing late June sun. Sitting with her pastels and sketch pad, she’d sketched their deep azure color into her latest denim jacket design. And sleep. It comes so easy with a sea breeze moving in past the sheer curtains.

She pauses, thanks him again for the ring and disconnects. Then she slips the ring back into the velvet box, tucks it into her case along with the computer, grabs her check and walks up to the cash register. Customers sit at the counter stools; two cooks in white aprons work the kitchen, laughing and flipping bacon and eggs. This place is all about familiarity. She sets down her computer case when the waitress approaches, pulls her wallet from her purse, pays the tab and quickly leaves, feeling caught in a riptide between here and Chicago.

Jerry had wanted a boat all his life. He told everyone when he was a kid,
When I grow up, I’m getting a boat.
Then he did grow up and got married instead.
After we buy a house
, he told his wife,
maybe I’ll get a boat
. Then she got pregnant. Three times.
When the kids get older,
he said to his family.
Maybe they’d like to have a boat, do a little fishing. After college
, he would mention to Kyle,
once their tuition’s been paid
.

“You’ve got your boat,” Kyle told him years ago when he washed dishes at the diner. It isn’t necessary to die to go to heaven; Kyle Bradford finds heaven standing in front of the big stove, spatulas in hand, tending the eggs and bacon and home fries, sliding meals onto warm plates and turning the carousel for the next order. Cooking is his calling and his downfall, standing in the way of happiness and failure. A job at the diner can never support his family, so as much as he wants it, he can’t have his passion. “You’ve got a big shiny silver ship, with lots of friendly people on it,” Kyle told his boss back when he first worked there. That’s how much Kyle loves the diner, as much as Jerry would have loved a boat.

And that’s when Jerry changed the name of his diner to The Dockside. He added anchors and buoys to the décor and draped a big fishing net along one wall. Starfish and seashells dotted the net. At night, the new lanterns in the windows made the silver diner look like a ship out at sea.

Kyle glances over his shoulder as a woman leaves. Sometimes he wonders what life is like for his customers—if it is any better than his, when scrambling eggs and frying bacon to save his life, his wife is considering leaving him. He presses his arm to his damp forehead. When the diner door swings open a minute later, Kyle knows what this customer’s life is like. He saunters out from the kitchen, wiping his large hands on a dishtowel.

“Hey, Barlow,” he says as Jason takes a stool at the counter. “Haven’t seen you around lately. How’s it going, man?”

“Good. Busy, you know?” Jason asks. “How about yourself?”

“I’m hanging in there. Coffee?”

“To go, today. I’m pressed for time.” Jason sets his elbows on the counter, clasping his hands in front of his chin, his thumb reaching for his scar.

Kyle pours a steaming mug of black coffee and sets it in front of him along with a plain doughnut on a plate. “On the house. Let me tell the boss I’m taking five.” He heads back into the kitchen, returning with his own coffee, leaning against the counter across from Jason.

“Really, Kyle. I’m running late.” Jason starts to stand until Kyle waves him down.

“Take a minute. So how are you, Barlow? How’s the leg? Giving you any grief?”

“You ask me that every time I see you.”

“Listen. After what you’ve been through? Get used to it. I’ll always ask.”

“Okay, then. It’s fine, Kyle.” He breaks the doughnut and dunks a half into his coffee. “It’s fine.”

“Just checking. I was reading somewhere that the limb actually feels pain with changes in the weather.”

“It happens.”

“The article said something about fluctuations in air pressure and temperature bringing it on.”

“Okay, Doc. You’ve just about got my health covered today. You want to take my blood pressure while you’re at it?”

“Just saying.” Kyle sips his coffee.

“So, Jerry keeping you busy here again?”

“Yeah, cooking’s a good side gig. There was another layoff when they lost the submarine contract.”

“It’s tough, I know. Got any leads for work?”

Kyle shrugs. “Where you headed?”

“You won’t believe it.”

“Try me.”

“Gallaghers’.”

“Matt’s?”

“They’re back at Stony Point. Matt saw me scraping paint at my place. Stopped by and had a beer.”

“No shit. Where they living? They buy a place there?”

“Eva’s parents sold them the house, and I guess Eva took over her mother’s old realty too. Now they want to move the walls around.”

“Damn. Lauren wants to maybe rent a cottage there this summer. She’ll be surprised to hear about Eva.”

“It’s late in the season, but she might have something.” Jason finishes the last of his coffee. “I’m drawing up plans to redesign the porch.” He stands for his wallet and picks up a leather computer case set on the floor against the counter. “Hey Kyle, someone left their merchandise here.”

“Kyle,” Jerry calls out from the stoves. “Let’s go.”

Kyle glances toward the busy kitchen, then turns back to Jason.

“Go ahead,” Jason says, setting the case on the counter. “I’ll take care of it.”

Back at the stoves, Kyle grabs three eggs in one hand and opens them on the griddle. What he didn’t tell Jason is that Lauren wants time apart this summer. A few weeks away at the shore. That maybe they can better sort things out separately. This round of unemployment rattled her bad and he can’t stop worrying about how to bring her to her senses.

Jason opens the black leather case and finds a business card holder neatly tucked inside. Gold letters inscribe the word Saybrooks. His thumb slips out one of the cards.

“Well I’ll be God damned,” he says as he reads Maris’ name.

A customer sits at the counter beside him. “Someone you know?”

Jason looks at the card again. “Definitely. A friend I haven’t seen in years.”

Funny how one name can erase time so easily. Way back in the day, old man Foley added a back room to his local grocery for his grandson. The small store, with its screen door and creaking plank floors stocked bread, milk, juices and the like for the summer renters at Stony Point. Living quarters were above it, and in the back, on the second level, tacked on by a local handyman, was a good sized room with a jukebox, card table and a used restaurant booth, with an old pinball machine plugged in back in the corner. The kids wised up and pilfered a dorm-sized refrigerator to keep the beer cold. Still, the old man liked having his grandson hanging out at home, rather than God knows where, doing heaven knows what.

Not that he had reason to worry, because for the most part, nothing more than minor infractions ever went down in that back room.

All good things come to an end, though. The end of an era came when old man Foley sold the place. Though they had outgrown hanging out there, one last party gathered before it closed up.

Jason hasn’t seen Maris Carrington since that summer night.

“Someday,” she had said when they stood outside on the deck, Maris slowly spinning the ice in her glass.

“Someday, what?” He turned to watch her speak.

Springsteen’s
Glory Days
drifted out from the jukebox inside, and they heard Neil keeping time with his old drumsticks, rat-a-tat-tatting on the tabletop. Voices reached out to the darkness on the deck, blending with bars of summer music.

“Someday we’ll hear that song on the radio and we’ll remember all this, the voices, the sea air, picturing the good times in Foley’s. It’s like we’re actually living the memory, right now.”

“It’s a good summer memory, don’t you think?”

Maris sipped her drink. “It’s so weird that this is the last time we’ll be here.”

Jason almost hadn’t made it. He and Neil were using the side porch at their Stony Point home as an office for a small design and construction business they’d started. When a contractor needed plans for Monday morning, Jason worked until the fine blue lines and tiny print wavered in front of his tired eyes. Leaving the drafting table behind, he finally walked over to Foley’s, finding Maris on the deck.

“When do you start your job?” he asked, standing beside her while they leaned on the railing that night. A haze hung in the air, blurring the moon.

“Tuesday. In Boston. It’s pretty exciting. I’ll be cutting patterns and doing a little sketching.”

He mentioned the remodeling projects he and Neil were lining up for the fall. Finally the last jukebox song came on and he turned to Maris. “How about a dance, then?”

He took her into his arms on the deck, in the hazy moonlight, and they had their first and last dance of the summer together. He held her close, his fingers touching her hair, skimming her tanned skin. Her body felt soft against his and as she rested her head on his shoulder, he breathed in the night, the salt air. And when his hands reached around her neck on that August night, he kissed her, giving her one more memory to keep.