Sand Sharks (2 page)

After Jonna’s death up there in Virginia, he offered to go through the house with Dwight and to help move everything of sentimental
or monetary value back down here so that we could get a better sense of what might be important to Cal someday and what could
be disposed of now. This was the first chance they’d had to go up and even now it was only because of that training seminar
up in Charlottesville.

Dwight planned to help Will load the truck, list the house with a real estate agent, go to the seminar on Monday and Tuesday,
then pick Cal up on his way home on Wednesday, the day before I was due to get back.

Cal understood that the house and most of the furniture had to go, and he was enough a child of the age to be interested in
how much money might wind up in his college fund when everything was sold. At least that’s what we hoped.

“Peanut butter or chicken salad?” I asked him now as I opened a loaf of whole-wheat bread to pack a lunch for them.

He frowned at the carrots and apples I’d pulled from the refrigerator. “Dad and I always stop at McDonald’s,” he said, referring
to the times he and Dwight had driven back and forth to Shaysville whenever it was Dwight’s weekend to have him.

“This is better for you guys,” I said lightly, mindful of my new nutritional responsibilities to a growing boy.

Dwight entered the kitchen, freshly shaved, and carrying his duffel bag. “Ready to hit the road, buddy?”

He set the bag by the back door and went over to pour himself a final cup of coffee.

Cal immediately took advantage of his turned back and said, “Can we stop for lunch in Greensboro, Dad? Like we always do?”

“Sure thing,” Dwight said, completely oblivious to what was going on here. “Uncle Will’s never said no to a cheeseburger.”

“Fine,” I said and shoved the stuff back into the refrigerator. I did not slam the refrigerator door and I did not stomp out
of the room.

“Something wrong?” asked Dwight, who had followed me into our bedroom.

“Not a thing,” I snapped. “I love being overruled in front of Cal.”

“Huh?”

“I told Cal I was packing y’all a healthy lunch and then you came in and said you’d stop for greasy cheeseburgers and french
fries.”

“I did? Sorry, shug. You should have said something.”

“Right. And make myself the evil no-fun stepmother again? Thanks but no thanks.” I headed for our bathroom to take a shower.

“Oh, come on, Deb’rah. What’s the big deal? An occasional cheeseburger’s not going to kill him.”

I paused in the doorway and made a show of looking at the clock. “You’d better go if you’re going to meet Will.”

“Deb’rah?”

I ignored his outstretched hand and slammed the door between us, half-hoping he’d follow, but before I had fully shucked off
my robe and gown, his truck roared past the window.

And no, dammit, I was
not
crying.

But man was formed for society; and, as is demonstrated by writers on this subject, is neither capable of living alone, nor
indeed has the courage to do it.

—Sir William Blackstone (1723–1780)

I
stood in the shower, water sluicing down my body, and lathered shampoo into my hair. I was so furious with Dwight, it’s a
wonder the water didn’t sizzle as soon as it touched my skin.

Hadn’t we agreed to present a united front? For six months I had bent over backwards, trying to make up to his son for the
mother he’d lost, trying to be consistent and fair and walk the line between understanding his loss and giving order and security
to his life, and this was the thanks I got? Why did Dwight automatically assume I was in the wrong when I knew damn well I
wasn’t? Everybody says that junk food and poor eating habits make for obese kids. Did he want Cal to grow up fat and unhealthy?
And just as importantly, was Dwight going to let Cal do an end run around me every time I made a ruling that he didn’t like?

I sighed, finished rinsing the shampoo from my hair, and turned off the water to towel myself dry. I had one stepson.

One.

My mother had acquired eight when she married Daddy. How on earth did she wind up winning their love while asserting her authority?

“
She didn’t,
” the preacher who lives in the back of my head reminded me.
“Not right away anyhow.”

I sighed again. It had taken her years with some of the older boys, but they had all come around in the end. I just wasn’t
sure I had her stamina and patience.

Well, the hell with it. If Dwight wanted to go storming off like that, I wasn’t going to sit around here feeling sorry for
myself.

Today was only Saturday, but there was nothing to keep me home. Although the summer conference of district court judges would
not officially start until Monday, I was on the Education Committee and we planned to get together Sunday evening to begin
brainstorming for the fall conference program. But hey! It was June, the hotel was right on Wrightsville Beach, and I had
a new red maillot that didn’t look too shabby on me. I called the hotel, and when they told me I could check in that afternoon,
that’s all I needed to hear.

I printed out the files I would need, then quickly packed and whistled for Bandit.

Daddy had volunteered to keep Cal’s dog while we were away, so I drove through the back lanes of the farm to the homeplace
with Bandit on the seat beside me. Paws on the dashboard, he peered through the windshield as if he knew he was in for a great
weekend.

Daddy was sitting on the top step of the wide and shady front porch when I got there. The porch catches every bit of breeze
but the air was dead still today and felt as if it’d already reached the predicted high of ninety when I opened the door of
my air-conditioned car. Daddy scorns air-conditioning and our muggy heat seldom bothers him.

As always, his keen blue eyes were shaded by the straw panama that he wears from the first warm days of spring till the first
cool days of autumn. His blue shirt was faded and his chinos were frayed at the ankle, part of the I-ain’t-nothin’-but-a-pore-ol’-dirt-farmer
look that he adopted during his bootlegging days and has never seen the need to change, no matter how many nice shirts and
pants his daughters-in-law and I give him. (Maidie, his longtime housekeeper, just rolls her eyes and puts everything through
the washer a time or two with bleach before he’ll wear something new without nagging.) His long legs stretched down till his
worn brogans rested on the lowest step.

Ladybelle, a dignified seven-year-old redbone coonhound, lay on the dirt near his feet, and Bandit was all over her in bouncy
excitement the minute I let him out of the car.

Daddy stood up and shook his head at so much canine energy on such a hot day. “He don’t seem to’ve calmed down much since
he come, has he?”

“That’s the terrier in him,” I said. “He’s getting better at home. You sure he’s not going to be too much trouble? Andrew
said he’d pen him in with his beagles if you don’t want to be bothered with another house dog.”

“Naw, he won’t be no bother. He
is
housebroke, ain’t he?”

“He wouldn’t be a house dog if he wasn’t.”

“Well, then, he’ll be just fine. Ladybelle’ll let him know if he gets out of line with her.”

“Thanks, Daddy,” I said, standing on tiptoe to kiss his wrinkled cheek. “Dwight and Cal should be back Wednesday and they’ll
be over to pick him up then. I’ll get home on Thursday. Maidie has our phone numbers if anything comes up.”

Daddy’s aversion to telephones was formed back when long-distance phone calls cost real money, and no matter how cheap they
are these days, he’s never going to change.

“Ain’t nothing gonna come up worth a phone call,” he told me firmly.

Minutes later I was meandering through a maze of back-country roads that would take me over to I-40. Despite all the new developments
that had obliterated so many of the county’s small farms, there were still fields of tobacco along the way. Here in the middle
of June, few of the tops were showing any pink tuberoses yet. I passed a four- or five-acre stand of corn where a red tractor
was giving the plants a side-dressing of soda. And there were still parcels of unsold fallow land where tall oaks and maples
were in full leaf, where honeysuckle competed with deep green curtains of kudzu that fell in graceful loops from power wires
to drape all the weaker trees. Goldenrod, daisies, and bright orange daylilies brightened the ditch banks.

Once I hit I-40, heading southeast, the wide green dividers bloomed with beds of delicate pink poppies and eye-popping red
cannas. Grass and trees and bushes were so lush and green that the line about being “knee-deep in June” kept looping through
my head. Robert Frost? Eugene Field? I often wish I had paid more attention to poetry in my college lit courses. Someone once
described poetry committed to memory as “a jewel in the pocket.”

My pockets have holes in them and most of the jewels have fallen out.

I-40 came to an end about ninety miles later where the highway splits. To the right is the town of Wilmington proper with
its meandering boardwalk along the Cape Fear River, its many seafood restaurants, the courthouse, and street after street
lined with live oaks and antebellum mansions with black-and-gold historical plaques affixed to the front.

The left fork of the highway leads over to Wrightsville Beach, past a dozen or more strip malls, shopping centers, and upscale
gated communities until you reach the high-rise hotels and densely packed beach houses that line the wide beaches of sugar-soft
sand.

I turned in at the conference hotel and maneuvered past the cars loading and unloading to park near the entrance.

As I pulled my roller bag across the polished marble floor to the reception desk, I heard someone call, “Well, hey there,
girl!”

I turned to see Chelsea Ann Pierce, a colleague based in Raleigh, and her sister, Rosemary Emerson, who’s married to a Durham
judge. Chelsea Ann’s a generously built easygoing blonde with an infectious laugh. Rosemary’s the older prototype, with darker
hair and a cynical sense of humor that cracks us all up.

I get my share of gooey, inspirational God-loves-you-and-so-do-all-the-women-you-know emails from various friends and relatives
and those I usually delete without reading, but I never automatically delete the jokes and funny pictures or off-the-wall
news items that Rosemary sends. She’s never yet duplicated anything that’s been circling through the ether for years, and
it’s always something that makes me laugh out loud and then forward to a PI friend in California with a similarly warped outlook
on life.

“Three minds with the same thought?” I asked, even though they were in clam diggers and bright cotton shirts. “Ya’ll figure
to get a little beach time in first, too?”

Chelsea Ann shook her head. “Nope, we’re off to check out the consignment shops.” She recently sold the big suburban house
that was part of her divorce settlement and bought a condo in Raleigh’s Cameron Village. “I need a narrow table for my new
entry hall and the Ivy Cottage is supposed to have the best selection of used furniture around. Want to come? We’ll wait for
you to check in.”

I shook my head and gestured toward the nearly deserted beach that lay beyond the clear glass walls. “Y’all go ahead. I haven’t
been in salt water all season and I’m dying to get out there. I’m free for supper though. Want to meet at Jonah’s? Six-thirty?”

My hotel room on the fifth floor came with the standard king-sized bed, a decent-sized desk for my laptop, and a mirrored
alcove that surrounded a Jacuzzi big enough for two. French doors opened onto a minuscule balcony that held two of those ubiquitous
white plastic club chairs that seem to have taken over the world. It overlooked the beach and pool area, and my view of turquoise
water was spectacular.

I immediately opened the glass doors and stepped outside. The ocean’s warm briny fragrance carried with it a faint whiff of
chlorine from the pool and three hot tubs directly in front of the terrace that lay below my balcony. Too hot to sit out today
though. Not when I could be down there. I didn’t bother to unpack anything except my bathing suit, beach jacket, floppy hat,
and flip-flops. After slathering myself with sunscreen till I felt like a turkey getting ready for the roasting pan, I took
the elevator down to the pool level. There were piles of thick white towels by the door and I grabbed a couple as I went past.
The heat hit me in the face again as soon as I opened the outer door but a light breeze was blowing off the water and gulls
were kiting on the currents overhead. A line of pelicans swooped past so low that they almost skimmed the tops of the waves.
Although the pool was drawing a fair crowd, the beach was practically empty, and the lifeguard appeared to be playing a game
on his cell phone. I saw no one I knew on my stretch of creamy beige sand as I spread out the towels, took off my jacket,
and lay down on my back with my hat over my face to let the sun bake my body.

“
Summertime and the livin’ is easy,
” my inner pragmatist sang as he spread his own towel.

Until I felt the tension draining out of my joints and muscles, I didn’t realize how much stress I’d been under these last
five months, adjusting both to marriage and to having Cal with us full-time. This would be the longest I’d been away from
both of them since January, but there on the hot sand, I finally admitted to myself just how much I had been looking forward
to this week.

No personal demands, no stepmother tightropes to walk. Only the give and take of professional life, and I wasn’t going to
feel guilty about enjoying it or let my anger with Dwight ruin it for me.

Or so I told myself, because lying on my towel, I was beginning to feel thoroughly miserable.

“
Just as you should,
” scolded the preacher from the shade of his beach umbrella.
“You know good and well that Dwight was clueless. If anyone needed to be jumped on, it was Cal.”