Postcards From Last Summer (45 page)

“Hawaii . . .” I gushed. “It must be beautiful.”

“I fell in love with those islands. Of course, I made the classic mainlander's mistake of thinking that I could live in paradise. My wife and I spent a year living with her parents in a one-room shack in Hana, this little one-shop town on the backside of the Haleakala Crater. The beach was magic, but the house was a dump. It's the way a lot of islanders live in Maui. The dream just doesn't match up with the reality.”

“But you're still surfing in tournaments?”

“Got my last one next week, then I'm done. When things fell apart with Theresa I moved back to Kahului, Maui's main city. But after the competition next week, I'm packing up and moving back to New York. Going back to school for my MBA so I can get a real job.”

“You're going to school?”

“Don't look so shocked. I got my bachelor's degree in Hawaii. I can read and write, Linds.” He cocked his head, curiously. “I have a mind, Linds. Are you saying you just loved me for my body?”

“No,
but . . .
well, what do you want to do with all that education? I mean, workwise?”

He explained that he'd be consulting with the sporting goods company Steve worked for. “They'd like to hire me full time for their water sports division, but I need to have the graduate degree first.”

“So you'd be working with Steve?” I asked, sensing that many conversations had transpired between my brother and Bear. When I got a chance, I was going to strangle my brother. “That's great. I know he missed you. We all did.”
I can't even say how much,
I wanted to add.

“I never stopped thinking about you, Lindsay. I'd start to do stupid things and I'd hear your voice, a blast of sanity, saying, ‘Oh, come on, you big jackass.' ”

“That must've pissed off your wife.”

“It was a short-lived marriage. My fault,” he said. “I never gave it my all.”

I had heard some of the early, predivorce details from Steve, but I wanted to hear everything all over again from Bear, in his own words. “I can't believe you're here.” I poked at the shoulder of his suit jacket. “And real. Solid.”

“Hey.” He rubbed his shoulder. “I gotta say, after all these years, in all my wildest fantasies, that was not how I imagined you'd touch me.”

“Well, give me time!” I laughed out loud, a rich, gutsy laugh that I thought I'd lost. “That's probably inappropriate for a wake.” I pressed my hands to my mouth. “I'm sorry. I've never thrown a funeral before and I think the stress is getting to me.”

Bear grinned—a wide smile that revealed two perfect front teeth. I had loved him when they were chipped; now, I felt my knees go weak at the sight of that grin.

“Oh, God, this is crazy,” I said aloud. “You're older, more mature. We both are. You're not the guy who left here eight years ago.”
The guy I fell in love with . . .

“I sure hope not,” he said, wincing. “I'd like to think I figured a few things out in that time. You know, mellowed and matured.” He tilted his head to the side, studying me carefully. “And you've changed, too, squirt.”

“There's less of me.”

“Not just that. The outside package is similar, but inside . . . more intricacies. And still that same big heart. You always did feel the weight of the world, and you were never afraid to knuckle down and take on some pain if it meant helping out a friend. You were like the anchor for all of us. You're the one holding the rope so that dozens of stir-crazy boats don't trail off into the abyss.”

“Really?” It was not the way I saw myself, especially not since I'd gone “underground” to take care of Ma, but it wasn't a terrible role. The anchor. A person to come home to.

And this time, this anchor was going to reel Bear in.

A
s she picked up some paper plates that had scattered in the wind, Tara had her intended target in her sites—one Ashley Sinay McCorkle, first-class bitch and troublemaker, hell-bent on raising a stink over the way Mary Grace had died. Ashley had been going around trashing Lindsay to anyone who would listen. A bad move.

In her work as a mediator, Tara patiently let people air their grievances. Today, however, Ashley had stepped over the line, and Tara was not going to stand for bad behavior. Time to sanction Miss Ashley.

“I'm telling you, I think someone should be investigating this,” Ashley was telling two of the neighbor ladies, who seemed uncomfortable with the conversation as they removed trays of spinach tarts from the oven. “I talked to that hospice lady and she told me that my mother-in-law was never given an IV. No fluids, no feeding tube. It's downright inhumane, that's what it is.”

Tara remembered that Lindsay had never taken a shine to Ashley, though she didn't recall why. Now, after five minutes of hearing the woman whine, it was all coming back to Tara. “Ashley,” Tara stashed the paper plates and stepped into the fray, “can you just take a chill pill on this thing?”

“So I'm supposed to sit back while someone murders my husband's mother?” Ashley said, her tone rising to a shrill pitch.

“Pipe down, there,” Elle said, coming in from the screened porch with Darcy. “No one was murdered.”

Darcy shook her head in dismay. “And this is not the most appropriate conversation for this day. This is supposed to be a celebration of Mrs. Mick's life, not a bitch session.”

“I'm just stating facts,” Ashley said, her beautiful pale eyes afire with fury. “Mary Grace was cut off from food and water in the last two days, and that's what killed her.”

“First of all,” Elle stepped forward, into Ashley's line of vision. Having spent a good deal of time with Mary Grace, she was the most informed on her medical condition. “I saw you talking with Calida, and she didn't really say that Mrs. Mick was cut off. Didn't she mention Mary Grace's living will, and her own end-of-life plan? Her wishes? Didn't I hear her mention that Mary Grace might not have even survived the procedure required to insert the feeding tube?”

“When someone is sick, they don't always make sense,” Ashley said. “You can't kill them just because it's part of their final wishes.”

“Ach!” Elle slapped her forehead. “Do the letters D.N.R. mean anything to you?”

“I know the difference between right and wrong,” Ashley said, folding her arms across her chest. A closed gesture, Tara had learned in her study of negotiation.

“Do you know that Mary Grace was diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer?” Elle went on. “Do you know she was receiving palliative treatment for pain? Do you know any of the facts?”

Ashley's eyes closed to slivers as she scowled at Elle. “Who the hell are you, anyway? You're not even in this family.”

“That's it.” Having lost patience, Tara snapped her finger at the offensive little twit. “Her name is Elle DuBois, and she's more a part of the McCorkle family than you will ever be, especially if you go on dredging up what's done and questioning Mrs. Mick's own requests for her life and death. Let me ask you, have you reviewed a copy of the will? Are you aware that she had a living will that designated Lindsay as her medical care proxy?”

“I don't care about the legal details,” Ashley said. “This is a moral issue.”

“Okay, Miss Morality,” Elle said, having recovered her bearings. “If you're the great moral gauge, tell me, where were you when Mrs. Mick needed a ride to a doctor's appointment? Were you here when she needed someone to wheel her down to the beach? How about when she wanted lunch or someone to read her the newspaper? Where were you?”

Ashley lifted her chin defiantly. “Just because I couldn't be here doesn't mean I don't care. I have two children to raise.”

“They're teenagers!” Tara said. “You could've hooked them up with Easy Mac and spent an afternoon down here, if you really wanted to.”

“You're not going to make me feel guilty because I wasn't here,” Ashley said. “You're just ganging up on me.”

“And you're beating up on our friend,” Darcy interjected. “Lindsay's been through a lot these past few months, and we're not going to let you make it worse.”

“So let it go,” Tara said.

“But I—”

“You heard her, drop it,” Elle added.

“Am I not entitled to my opinion?” Ashley asked, lifting her pretty chin pompously.

“Sure you are,” Tara said. “Just don't be sharing it with anyone else.”

Just then Lindsay bolted into the kitchen, her cheeks bright pink. “Oh, my God, did you guys know Bear is here?” She pointed out to the living room, bouncing up and down like an Olympic track runner before the race.

“I thought that guy looked familiar,” Elle said.

Tara smiled. At last, the reunion Lindsay had been waiting for. “Steve was supposed to tell you he was coming. With everything going on, I guess he forgot.”

Lindsay did a little happy dance, then paused and stepped back when she noticed Ashley. “You look like you've just seen a ghost.”

“More like the Hamptons mafia,” Ashley muttered. But when Lindsay waited for her to explain, Ashley just clamped her mouth shut, grabbed a tray of spinach puffs, and marched out into the dining room.

“What got into her?” Lindsay asked. “I've been avoiding her all day, but now she seems to be derailed from her campaign.”

Elle put an arm around Lindsay's shoulders as Tara and Darcy looked on, trying not to snicker. “Let's just say your friends took care of business,” Elle said with a mischievous wink.

A
lthough Darcy had never been inside Noah's apartment, she had seen the address often enough on production schedules to commit it to memory.

West Sixty-fifth, just off Columbus.

Lindsay had once mentioned that Noah's apartment was surprisingly comfortable, with a view of the Lincoln Center Plaza and “very livable” furniture inside. Although Darcy hadn't been able to reach Noah by phone, the stage manager at the theater had told her Noah had taken the night off, so she took the subway, the number one train straight from Penn Station to West Sixty-sixth, counting on him being at home.

Her hunch paid off, and he buzzed her up.

Her quick impression of the apartment was that it was cozy but disheveled, the tables and floors littered with newspapers and magazines, crumpled receipts and paper coffee cups. Noah's honey gold hair was wild, as if he'd been raking his fingers through it, searching for answers that didn't exist.

“Darcy . . .” His eyes burned bright and round without his usual glasses. He scratched the stubble under his chin, as if trying to deflect her interest. “I thought you were out in the Hamptons.”

“I thought
you'd
be in the Hamptons,” she said pointedly.

He frowned. “I couldn't do it,” he said, turning away.

“Don't tell me, let me say it. You aren't planning to go to Mary Grace's funeral.”

He went to the window, staring out at the lights of the city. “How did you know?” he said, then, “I forget, you know me so well.”

“Yes, I do. You're the reason I came back to Manhattan tonight.” She moved to the window behind him. She didn't touch him—it seemed wrong to go there now—but she remained a presence, his conscience, his connection to the rest of the world. Below them Lincoln Center was alive with color and light and opera patrons skirting past the fountain shimmering in the center of the plaza. When she was a kid her class had attended an opera at the Met, there in the center building with its colorful modern art, sweeping staircase, and majestic chandelier. Although she'd been prepped with the story of the
Marriage of Figaro
, Darcy remembered feeling somewhat lost, in need of a translator to get her through certain sections.
What are they saying? What does it mean?
She'd felt consumed with the emotion and yet lost at the same time.

She imagined that was how Noah felt every day, passionate and yet oddly disconnected. “You need to go to the funeral tomorrow, Noah. It's the right thing to do, for Lindsay, and for you.”

“I know, it seems uncaring, but I just can't face her, knowing the pain she must be feeling . . . and that I've probably contributed to it.”

“Don't flatter yourself,” Darcy said, only half joking. “Your share of the pain is just a smidge at this point. But by being there, you can help, Noah. You can't ignore her now.”

“I'm not ignoring her. I've sent my condolences, and really, why would she want a stiff like me at her Ma's funeral?”

“Because you're her friend.”

He cut her a look, as if she'd shocked him. “Actually, idiot that I am, that never occurred to me.”

“Well, you are. Forgetting about the dating and relationship stuff, Lindsay cares about you, and I know you want the best for her. You need to be there.”

He raked his fingers through his hair with a sigh. “I do. You're right, I do. How did I make such a mess of this? I was a terrible partner for Lindsay, and now I'm sealing the deal by acting like a royal ass.”

“Just be there tomorrow,” Darcy said. “You're a brilliant director, Noah, but right now, you're in need of some life direction. Let me help you.”

He lifted his eyes hesitantly. “Ever directed before?”

“No, but I'm very bossy, and I love to give orders.”

“Perfect,” he said. “Although you may not want to be seen with a schmuck like me. People talk, you know, and the media swarms around a rising celebrity like you. I'd hate for you to lose your chances with someone else. Someone better.”

“Finding someone to go out with is sort of like walking through a ballroom full of balloons in stiletto heels and trying not to pop the balloons.” The words flowed so easily, it took her a moment to realize that they were not her own, but a line from one of Noah's scripts.

“Brilliantly stated,” he said, his eyes glimmering with a hint of amusement.

“Yes, isn't it?” She tipped her head to the side and smiled, allowing the full rush of emotion for Noah to sweep through her. It was okay to like him now; okay to love him. “And you know what? I think I've finally gotten across that ballroom without popping a single balloon.”

He nodded, his hazel eyes awash with understanding and a touch of intrigue. “I'll see you tomorrow, then,” he said. “I'll be the one wearing black.”

She let herself laugh as she walked to the door. “Aren't you always?”