Blue Jeans and Coffee Beans (7 page)

“I made my airline reservation. You’ll be busy packing, so I’ll get a ride to your cottage from the airport, okay? Then we’ll drive back together. Take my flight number down.”

Maris opens a drawer for a piece of paper and bumps into the dog. “Let me call you back, Scott. I can’t find a pen and Madison has to go out. She’s been inside all day.”

“I still can’t believe you got a dog.”

“I didn’t get a dog. She was my father’s. What else could I do? Abandon her?”

“No, but a dog won’t really work here. I thought your friends found a home for her.”

“They’re working on it.” She finds a pen in the third drawer and takes down the flight details. A dog won’t work. A garden won’t work. The touch of plants and cool dirt won’t work. Designing on the porch to the sound of breaking waves won’t work. There.

Here, her sketch pad overflows with new denim designs, all inspired by the sea, the cottage. Maybe she can have a potted garden on her townhouse balcony, a place where she can draw outdoors and feel the sun warm on her back. Madison sits in front of her, ears erect, eyes happy. When she hangs up with Scott, the dog follows her to the porch, dancing in place as Maris reaches for the leather leash hanging on a hook before deciding that she doesn’t need it at this hour.

Paige and Lauren never returned with the wine earlier. Wine or not, friends or not, all Lauren wanted to do was go home. But walking the beach road, Maris wishes she had that wine now to loosen Scott’s tension knotting her shoulders.

Along the beach, the Sound’s waves roll onto the shore. From the boardwalk, the sky, heavy with stars, subdues her. She remembers her mother’s long-ago touch. Or maybe she only remembers the video of it, lighting on her hair. But the thought of her mother lifting and stroking salty strands of her hair seems so real. The closeness of it has her reaching for her gold pendant as she looks out at the water.

Madison runs down the beach along the high tide line in search of driftwood. Maris follows, walking barefoot to the water’s edge when a figure emerges from the shadows on the beach. She knows by his gait that it is Jason.

“It’s not safe to be out alone at this hour,” he says as he nears her. He had put on a black sweatshirt over his tee.

“I’ve got my dog for protection.”

“What, this beast?” Madison trots behind him, tail swinging, her face filled with anticipation as she waits for him to toss the driftwood. “Madison, right?”

“And you have just discovered the key to her heart.”

Jason tosses the driftwood up the dark beach toward the boardwalk. “She’s a beautiful dog.” He stands beside Maris and they watch the German Shepherd lope after the driftwood. “Come on, I’ll walk you home. Unless you wanted to walk on the beach still?”

So he understands walks on the beach. And salt air therapy, curing what ails you. And lingering at the water’s edge listening for voices in the breeze. He even understands random games of Frisbee. “That’s okay, I’m ready to go.” She falls in step with him.

“Eva and Matt went all out today,” Jason says.

“They did. It was so good to see everyone. Too bad about Kyle and Lauren though. They hit a rough patch.”

“The economy’s not helping them. It sucks he’s laid off again.”

Maris notices his gait and wonders if he needs to rest.

“Is your leg okay, Jason? Do you want to sit for a while?”

“It’s better if I keep moving actually.”

A distant train whistle moves through the night. As they step onto the beach road, Madison catches up and walks beside Jason. Her nails click on the pavement and she holds her head high, driftwood clamped in her jaw.

“She’ll carry that all the way home,” Maris says.

Jason laughs. “She’s all right. Loves the beach just like the rest of us. Have you had her long?”

“She was my father’s dog. Eva and Matt are trying to find a home for her before I head back to Chicago.”

“You’ll miss her,” he says after a moment. “When are you leaving?”

They near her rented cottage. Not one detail, made softer by the light of evening and the thought of leaving, escapes Maris’ notice. Dim lamplight casts a glow on knotty pine paneling inside. On a porch table, pale lavender heather spills from a blue vase, the color of the morning Sound. The outside lamppost illuminates the stone walkway, shadowed with large pots of geraniums. “Next week. I’ll be driving back on Friday.”

The dog trots to the side of the cottage where she sets the driftwood down before returning to Jason’s side. He reaches down and strokes her head. “You’re a good dog, Maddy.”

Maris opens the porch door and lets the dog in ahead of her. “I hope I’ll see you before I leave?”

Jason watches her for a second. “You bet. Have a good night now.”

She goes inside and turns off the porch light, walking around the dog still standing at the front door watching Jason walk away.

.

Chapter Seven

S
top the presses,” Maris tells her assistant.

“What?” Lily asks. “But the fabric samples just arrived. And the trade shows are in a couple weeks.”

“I know. And I’m still going.” At Saybrooks, initial design to final production happens over eighteen months. So she is shy a few months and will have to sweat this one out. Her team will need to pull a few all-nighters to meet the deadline. “But I’m trashing the fall line and starting fresh.”

“Maris, wait. After we’ve already cut the patterns?”

Maris turns and looks into the living room. Sketches cover every surface. A zip-front jacquard denim jacket with notched sleeves and a collar turned up against a sea breeze. An ocean-blue colored cardigan with marled yarns. Bootcut jeans, the bell embellished with appliquéd leaves the color of sand touched by a sunset. A chenille jacket with princess seams and high lapels, the chenille color reminiscent of autumn’s beach hydrangeas, purples and blues fading to brown. A midnight-blue denim vest, detailed with time-lapsed shooting stars.

She couldn’t stop earlier this morning. Ideas flowed like the tide, never-ending. Her sketches are textured with pastels, highlighted with gel pens, detailed with ink, beach colors blended with watercolors.

“Lily, don’t worry,” she says into her cell. “I’m taking full responsibility for this. Just go ahead and scrap all the designs for the fall line. All of them.”

“But the Trend reports. The way we analyzed them, I thought we nailed the next look.”

“Oh I did now. Believe me. When I finish the basic conceptual development, I’ll get it to you right away. It’s got a new campaign name, too. Blue Jeans and Coffee Beans.”

One of the tenets of design is that it blends reality and illustrations. The aim of a designer is always to give the illusion of reality. To capture moments in time with each sketch, rather than posing figures. Everyone from the marketing team to the consumer has to see the fashion fitting into their lives.

She disconnects the call, takes off Scott’s diamond and sets it on the counter, then returns to her epic design madness filling the cottage. Funny how since she moved one step closer to commitment with Scott, she finds herself halfway across the country from him. She’s put on the diamond ring three times already today, taking it off after only minutes each time. Nothing seems to make that ring a permanent reality in her own mind.

And yet, in the sketches spilling off the end tables, lined along the couch cushions, propped against the wall and leaning on the fireplace mantle, she sees clearly the day, the moments her artwork captures. The reality that she can’t seem to get enough of. The sketched figures of her new fall line sit on a penciled boardwalk, toss driftwood down a long watercolored beach, skim stones over the pastelled Sound, catch Frisbees mid-air, ink strokes freezing the moment, and walk along the high tide line, sipping coffee side by side with old friends.

Jason hasn’t come this close to calling his doctor in more than a year. Nothing seems to be working today. He wonders if he’s developed an infection and feels his neck for fever. Maybe a virus is settling in. He took a walk. He wrapped his leg in a warm, soft towel. He removed the prosthesis and prosthetic sock, thinking maybe a nerve was being pinched, then put them back on a while later. Still the phantom pain hangs on. The last time it hurt like this, his doctor’s shot of morphine was all that worked.

But he’s trained himself since then and put those lessons to use now. First, distraction.

Scraping the trim around the barn door helps at first, but standing in one position only increases the pain. So he moves inside the barn and takes down old rusted tools hanging on one of the pegboards beneath the big stuffed moose head. If this is going to work, if the barn can be renovated into his architectural studio so he can stop working out of his condominium, the debris has to be cleaned out. A rickety lobster trap sits on the floor below the pegboard and he moves it to his workbench.

“Jason?”

“Yeah.” He leans his left arm on the lobster trap to pry open the jammed latch and the entire trap, dried out and fragile, caves in on itself. A thin nail slices his palm as the wood gives out. He gives his hand a shake.

Paige walks into the barn. “Wow. This definitely has potential.” Her gaze moves over the walls, the cluttered workbenches and dusty wooden shelves covered with masonry tools. “What do you suppose Dad did with this?” She touches a strung rope with clothespins randomly clipped on it.

“I don’t know.” Jason presses his palms together to stem the bleeding. One way to stop pain is to introduce a new one. “Maybe he hung his work gloves there when they got wet with mortar.”

“Huh.” She flicks a clothespin with her fingers. “Hey. The kids loved sleeping here last night. We all did.” Paige turns to him. “Are you coming down to the beach with us?”

He shakes his head.

“Why not? It’ll do you good to get some sun.”

He holds out his hand, the red gash already swelling. “I’ve got to take care of this.”

She takes his hand in hers. “How’d you do that?”

“Screwing around with a lobster trap.”

“You should go to the emergency clinic. It might need a couple of stitches.”

“Maybe.” He pulls his hand back and shakes out the sting again.

“Do you want Vinny to drive you?”

“No, I’ll be fine. I’ve got to stop back at my condo anyway. I’m backlogged with work.” He looks around the barn. “This old place is slowing me down.”

“Why don’t you hire someone to clean it out? They have companies that haul all this away.”

“No. It’s Dad’s stuff. I’m going through it myself.” He points to the wall shelves that he’s already cleaned and given a fresh coat of wax; Paige walks over to them, running her hand across the wood. “A small dumpster’s coming next week,” he adds. “I need somewhere to throw the trash.”

“Well that’ll help.” She turns back to him. “We’re leaving before dinner, grabbing a bite to eat on the way home. Will you be back here later?”

“Not today.”

“Oh. Okay then.” She walks the vast barn space. “Eva and Matt had a nice cookout yesterday. It was good seeing the whole gang. Maris, Kyle. You know.”

“Neil should have been there, too.”

“Don’t start blaming yourself again.” She stares at him for a long moment. “Is that what this is all about?”

“All what is about?”

“This.” She motions in a wide circle to the space around them. “Hiding out here in the barn.”

“I’m working.”

“No you’re not. You’re stewing.”

Jason looks at his hand, then back to his sister. “More of it came back to me yesterday.”

She sits in a wooden chair. “After all this time? What’d you see?”

Paige’s words seem lost in the barn, in the vast space of memories and echoes and images that fill it if he turns a certain way, or when the lighting shines low at the day’s end. When he hears Neil’s voice talking up some renovation plan using the white sand as the cottage canvas, the colors of the harbor boats brought in with paints, starfish cutouts in the eaves and an elevation looking out to sea.

“The reflection,” he says. “In the rearview mirror. Now I can’t get it out of my head.”

“That means something, when the memory comes back. Doesn’t it?”

“It means being back at this cottage is a mistake. I was doing fine until I decided to move the business here.” He looks up at the old rafters. “This is all a mistake.”

“Can’t they give you something to speed your memory?”

“No. I’ve got to do it myself.”

“But if you’re under a doctor’s care,” she persists. “Or therapy maybe.”

“Damn it, Paige.” Jason sweeps the old lobster trap onto the floor. “Just leave it alone already.”

“Okay. Okay, I get the message.” She holds up an open hand and backs away. “Well it was fun spending the holiday here, and we’ll be back in a couple weeks. I’ll have the kids stop in to say goodbye. Try to be nice to them, would you please? You’re their uncle.”

“Yeah.” He looks down at his hand, then reaches for a clean rag from a worktable, pressing it against the gash. If only it were that easy. Bandage it and let it heal. Medication, alcohol, exercise, time. They are all bullshit bandages. He’s tried them all, and yet when he walked on the beach alone late last night, he’d heard it in the waves. It sounded far away, just like then, that engine opened all the way, a ton of metal bearing down on them from a distance. He’s never forgotten that sound. But last night, a flash of the
image
finally returned when Kyle’s voice talking about the weather became Neil’s voice behind him on the bike. Memory triggers, his doctor calls them. Moments. Moments that bring it all back.

He kicks the broken lobster trap aside, his leg feeling better now. The same way one pain displaces another, one thought does the same thing. He turns to go inside and wash out the stinging cut on his hand, knowing that it was Maris Carrington beside him on the beach who had displaced the vision of the accident last night.