Reunion (18 page)

Blue nodded to the people gawking at her from the tables nearby, and sat down. Another ship had put in, taking the
Enchantment’s
place, its lights adding to the waterfront’s inviting glow. She felt a bit glow-y herself—the effect of the wine, the company at dinner, the prospect of the new house, everything.

“Well, it was a really nice time.”

“Excellent. Let’s get you a drink.” Marcy signaled a waiter.

“Just one, then I’ll leave you guys to your beautiful, romantic evening.”

Stephen said, “Hey, congratulations on the house deal! It would be so great to live here. If you’re feeling generous …”

“She’s already paying for your transportation, your room, your food, and your martinis,” Marcy said. “Now you want a house, too?”

“Yeah, why not?” He laughed. “What I ought to do is find some work here.”

“As long as Marcy remembers where
she
works,” Blue said.

“I remember that there’s always vacation.”

The waiter came by and Blue asked for Chardonnay “Which would
you like?” the waiter asked, holding out a wine list. He looked frightened when Blue waved it off and said, “You pick.”

“She’s easy, really,” Marcy said, grinning her dismissal. “Now, tell me everything.”

Blue inhaled deeply, exhaled. Where to start? “Well… I wasn’t the only dinner guest. In fact, Mitch answered the door.”

“No shit.”

Blue shook her head.

“Who’s Mitch?” Stephen asked.

“Old friend,” Marcy said. “Did he
say
anything?”

“No, and he didn’t pass me a note, either,” she laughed. “He’s here with his girlfriend. And the neighbors were over too. We had lobster and conch fritters and salad—”

“None of which I give a damn about.”

“Really, I don’t have a lot to report. It was just nice to see the Forresters again.” Surprisingly nice, where Mitch was concerned. Not at all how she would have imagined it, if she’d been willing to indulge that sort of possibility.

“Not weird at all?”

She shook her head. “It was like a homecoming.” A homecoming where everyone suffered a peculiar amnesia about how they had parted. Was that what time could do, if you let it?

“Mitch is teaching literature in North Carolina … And this is cool: he has a biopic series he’s getting ready to make—”

“Of course he does.”

“It wasn’t like that at all,” Blue said. “It’s a great idea. Unfortunately, for him to have any real shot with it, he needs to film a lot sooner than he’d planned. So, I offered the use of our crew for this weekend.”

Marcy sat back and cocked her head, as if seeing Blue in a new light. “Now was that wise?”

Was it? She had no idea. Her habitual reticence was out of service. “No matter. He turned me down.”

Stephen said, “
That’s
what wasn’t wise. Is he clueless?”

Blue shrugged. “He seemed …”
reluctant
“committed to his existing
plan. I told him the offer stands.”
Call me if anything changes
, she’d said, standing with him on the front porch, awaiting the cab. She’d noticed his scent, like Irish Spring soap and a touch of chlorine, not familiar but pleasant.
I’m glad things turned out so well for you
, he said.
You seem happy.
She’d felt happy, standing there. Comfortable, the way she’d always felt around him.

The waiter came with Blue’s wine, waited for her to taste it, and was clearly relieved when she said it was good. “You made his night,” Marcy said as he left. She rubbed her bare forearms. “Stephen, doll, would you mind running for my sweater? I’m feeling a little chilly.”

“You bet,” he said, getting up right away.

When he was gone Blue said, “
That
wasn’t obvious.”

“He’s had four martinis. He won’t notice. Now, I gotta say it: What are you thinking? Is this one of those ‘no hard feelings’ moves, or is it, dare I ask, the start of a ‘second-chance’ bid?”

“I told you, he’s here with his girlfriend.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Who is smart and attractive, and really nice.”

“I’m sure.”

Blue shrugged, but couldn’t hide a smile as she sipped her wine. “Okay,” she said. “It could be both. I
don’t
have any hard feelings, not really, and I can think of worse things than a second chance. He still looks good, he’s kind, he seems passionate about his work. I feel like … I don’t know …” Like she didn’t have to worry about being
Blue.
Like he could be counted on to value her for her. Like she could tell him the parts of her story she’d held back, earlier, and he would understand. He had a son. He’d be sympathetic.

She said, “One of the neighbors told me the girlfriend is brand-new, so it wouldn’t be like I was a home wrecker.”

“But just think of the free publicity we could get if you were.”

“Peter would birth a cow,” Blue said. “Anyway, I have no expectations. For all I know, he might elope with Brenda tomorrow.”

“But you hope not.”

“I honestly don’t know what I hope.” She gazed out at the black
nighttime sky, the starry horizon that appeared to go on without end. Sirius was just visible, low among the glitter. In about a month, it would disappear from the northern hemisphere to bestow its power on yearners in the southern. Blue’s wish came to her in a word:
Ease.

She looked back at Marcy. “He seemed to be glad our paths crossed.”

“Nice,” Marcy said, smiling. “So maybe I should call you ‘Stella.’”

Blue had to think about this. “What, because we’re at Hot Tin Roof? Stella wasn’t in
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof;
that was Williams’s
Streetcar.”
Either way, she couldn’t see the connection.

“No, not Williams. McMillan.
Her
Stella went down to the islands and ‘got her groove back.’”

Blue laughed. “Ah, now I get it. I never read the book—or saw the movie, either. Maybe I should try to find one or the other while we’re here. Take a lesson.”

“Looks to me like you’re doing all right just following your instincts.”

“We’ll see.”

Stephen was returning. Blue stood up with her glass in hand. “I’ll take this with me. You two have a lovely night, and I’ll catch up with you when you’re back from the dive class tomorrow afternoon.”

“Stay out of trouble,” Marcy said.

“I’m going straight to my suite, don’t worry about me.”

When she’d navigated the labyrinth of hallways and was back in the suite, she left the lights off and opened the patio doors. The ocean, turquoise in daylight, was as black as the sky and dotted with its own stars, the colored lights of boats. Earlier tonight, Kira had told of a nighttime dive out at the reef. An hour-long sail to some remote spot, then into the water with masks, fins, and tanks, and only handheld spotlights to orient themselves. Kira had found the experience of following a tiny corridor of light while sea creatures swam out of sight all around her fascinating; Blue thought it terrifying.
This
was how she liked to appreciate the ocean: from a balcony, with a glass of wine in hand.

She pulled the elastic band from her hair and stood at the rail taking stock. A house. An unintended reunion. And maybe, maybe a second-chance

long shot that, if it paid out, might right a lot of wrongs in her life. Not all of them, but some. Right some wrongs, and make the future something to look forward to. She had no idea how she really felt about Mitch—too soon for that—nor could she say whether he felt anything at all about her. She did know that she liked the prospect of feeling really good about him, and that was enough for tonight.

hen his phone rang, Julian was assisting in the clinic tent, which this time meant letting a malnourished boy getting shrapnel removed from his legs play with an old point-and-shoot digital camera.

“Go ahead, take it,” Brandy said. “I’ve got this under control.”

He knew she did. He asked anyway, “You sure?”

“Yeah, go.” Her smile was impersonal, distracted. Already the separating had begun, even though he wouldn’t pack out for another week. That was the way of it, and he wasn’t sorry, not really. Only sorry he hadn’t connected better when they’d had the time.

He took the call. “Julian here.”

“Hi, J, it’s Dad.”

His father’s voice sounded odd. “Is Daniel all right?” he asked, walking toward the supply lockers where it was relatively quiet. Not another stroke. Or worse.

“Yes—everyone’s fine. It’s just that, well, there’s been a turn of events regarding
Lions.
Possibly. It’s like this …”

Julian listened.
This
was an unexpected opportunity—no, not just unexpected, remarkable. A lightning strike of good fortune, or almost.
If
his father could get his script in order right away.
If the
city would grant permission—which Blue was certain they would.
If
after they finished, the editing could be done quickly. “She’s offered us the use of her production lab to do it. We’ll have a much better chance of success this spring, so I’m thinking, let’s accept—if you think you can get here by this weekend.”

“Whoa
—this
weekend?”

“I know it’s short notice. Your grandmother said you’re leaving soon anyway, so I just thought—”

“Hold on. Blue Reynolds says this spring is ideal, but what does she know about it? She hosts a talk show.”

“She does a lot more than that, J. And English used to be her favorite subject.”

Like that made all the difference. “All right, say she does know. There’s always next spring. We’ll have most of the series done by—”

“Interest is at its height,” his father said. “Producers are looking for ways to capitalize on it right now. And while she hasn’t said it outright, you understand, there’s reason to think her production company may even have interest.”

“In literature.”

“In a smart, fresh biopic series. They’d have a lot of clout with PBS—or possibly one of the cable networks.”

“So you’d sell out?”

His father sighed. “Not at all. It wouldn’t hurt us to think a little bigger, though. She offered the use of her crew, their gear, everything.”

“Is this really how you want this gig to go? A rush job?”

“It’s worth a try. Time’s of the essence.”

Julian watched the activity in the room in front of him. A dozen doctors and nurses, a sea of dusty, grungy, dark-haired people whose eyes beseeched and accused, depending. Wasn’t it always?

“So I’d have to be there by
Saturday?”

“Where are you, exactly? Is it difficult to alter your travel plans?”

Julian rubbed his chin, which he’d shaved clean this morning. “I’m at a refugee camp outside Gereshk. It’s in Helmand.” Silence. “South-central Afghanistan.”

“I’m trying to place it. Has it been in the news?”

“Not likely. The camps aren’t exactly a hot topic.” One more reason for Julian to be here. Most of his work would go into a website and book project meant to raise money, and consciousness.

“In any event, I’d reimburse your plane ticket change fees. I have to
be back to work the following Monday, but like I say, Blue offered to let you do the editing at her studio in Chicago. I expect you’ll be eager to get home.”

Home. He made it sound so … common.

This altered plan was not an impossible one; he did have the time, the flexibility. Still, he said, “I don’t know. Doesn’t sound like they need me.” Like
his father
needed him, to be more accurate.

“Maybe they don’t, but I do. I know this changes things a bit, but I thought it would still be nice to work together.”

Would it? Julian was as unsure about that as he’d been after he’d agreed to do it. It
might
be nice. It
might
be a new sort of hassle that would put another tense decade between them. They had never teamed up for anything, not even a last-minute homework assignment.

When Julian didn’t reply right away, his father continued, “I’m willing to stick to our original plan if you prefer.”

Would he
stick to it? Would he, just on Julian’s say-so? The possibility made Julian weirdly uncomfortable, pleased and angry at once. Where had this understanding been, this generosity, when he’d wanted it so badly?

“I appreciate that,” he said. “It’s really your call, though, to do a rush job or not. I’m not even sure I can make the logistics work. Let me check into things and I’ll get back to you, all right?”

“Yes, absolutely. That sounds good. Let me know—as soon as possible, obviously.”

“Will do.”

“Great, okay. And … well, take care.” They hung up.

The child who had his camera was crying now. There was only so much that distraction could accomplish.

Pretending to still be occupied, Julian held his BlackBerry and acted as if he was engaged with it, pressing buttons, scrolling. What he saw on the small screen, however, was the reflection of fluorescent lights suspended overhead and, when he angled the screen, a pair of dark, conflicted eyes, the eyes of a fourteen-year-old boy whose mother was about to check into a psychiatric hospital. The eyes of an eighteen-year-old
young man whose father refused to accept his passion for photography. The eyes of a weary thirty-two-year-old who had seen more than his share of conflict and wanted to finally resolve his own.