Slow Dancing on Price's Pier (2 page)

Jonathan nodded at his brother solemnly. “Cheers,” he said.

They lifted their glasses and threw their heads back.

 

 

The way Thea told the story to her daughter was this:
Your father is going to stay with Uncle Garret in Providence for a little while. No, it's not that he doesn't like us. He would just rather stay there than here right now.

The way Thea told the story to her mother was this:
Jonathan and I are taking a break. Because we are. No, I don't need you to move in with me—and I'm not going to live with you either. Well, partly because Irina and I don't speak Turkish. Don't worry. Everything's going to be fine.

The way Thea told the story to Jonathan's father Ken was this:
These things happen. Yes, I'm sorry too. I understand that this is going to change things for all of us. Thank you. That's very kind. I'll always love you guys too.

The way Thea told the story to herself was this:
He says it meant nothing, and I don't think he's lying: I don't think there's anything between them. I feel like she's just an illusion. Like there's two of us in the room—me and Jonathan—and we're fighting over a third person who doesn't even matter and isn't even there.

The way Thea told the story to her friend Dani was this:
I can't say I'm completely surprised. And what's strange about it is that I don't feel devastated. I should, but I don't. Is that wrong?

 

 

The first time Thea met the Sorensen boys was in the salt-crusted gloom beneath Price's Pier, where the shifting softness of beach sand rose up and met the dark, hard underside of the planks along the pier. Occasionally Thea would encounter a couple making out or some high schoolers smoking cigarettes or getting high. But mostly, no one knew how to get beneath the pier, and those who did were put off by the smell of dead fish and the decaying bodies of crabs.

She'd heard about the Sorensens before she saw them—the new neighbors who lived in the old Pinker place on the richest side of town. One of her girlfriends had made up a system for grading guys on their hotness: The Sorensen brothers were “totally rated R.”

In the safe anonymity of the hallways between classes, Thea watched for them. There was Jonathan, the tall, smart, older one—the one who always wore shoes instead of sneakers and who was in honors math. And there was the one in her grade, Garret, the one who played soccer. The one who allegedly left a hickey on Annie Reed's thigh. She listened to her girlfriends' gossip about the new kids with giddy speculation, but she had no information to contribute. Just a funny knot in the pit of her stomach, eagerness and fear at the same time.

Yet, when Thea finally met them—the legendary Sorensen brothers squatting low in the shadows beneath the old pier, their spines hunched and their heads bent in concentration—they didn't seem so adult and mysterious at all. Instead they seemed like little boys. In school they were royalty, practically men. But in the smelly shadows of the pier they were no different from any of the other boys. They were playing with little green army men—practically baby toys—with utter seriousness and concentration. Their words were furtive and rushed.

The crash of the tide climbing up the beach filled the cavern between the damp, smelly sand and the high pier, and it took a few minutes before she understood what it was they were doing. She saw a cigarette lighter winking gemstone blue in slatted sunlight. And the pile of army men, a lumped green heap, weapons and body parts melted down.

These Sorensen brothers were not the experienced and sexy vagabonds her girlfriends had so badly wanted them to be. They were just
boys
—boys playing with fire as kids were known to do. She wanted to see their toys melting, to watch their soldiers' bodies wilt and puddle like wax. So she simply stepped out of her hiding place and said, in the clearest and loudest voice she could, “Hello!”

She must have startled them. Because Jonathan jumped. The lighter went tumbling. And Garret spent the afternoon in the ER with a second-degree burn. Officially, Thea had scarred him before she'd even known his name.

 

 

The coffee shop was bustling, the summer throngs having arrived in Newport for the season. All along Ocean Drive, tall mansion windows had been thrown open to the cool easterly breeze coming in over the harbor. On Thames Street, where seventeenth-century homes huddled together, the sun baked the cobblestones and tempted tourists to wrap their sweaters around their waists. On Price's Pier, among the restaurants, boutiques, and bars that clustered in friendly bunches at the water's edge, some of the newcomers to the area were finding their way down the maze of narrow, shadowy alleyways that led to the Dancing Goat.

Thea stood at the counter, relishing a moment of temporary quiet in between morning rushes. At the moment, her only two customers were Hollis Cooper and Dean Gray. They sat together at a small chessboard in the corner, one that had been worn down by years of weekly matches at the coffee shop. They'd never claimed to like each other: as far as Thea could tell, one man had never said to the other, “How is your wife?” or “What are your kids up to these days?” And yet neither of them had ever missed a match. It was always the loser who got the bill. “I don't know why I keep coming here,” Hollis would often grumble. “Coffee used to be a quarter a cup when I was a kid. Not these five dollar an ounce mocha-latte-cchio-split things.”

Or Dean would complain, “Don't know why I bother with such bitter coffee if I have to doctor it up with so much sugar and cream.”

But Thea didn't mind their complaints, and when they showed up to play their weekly game of chess with each other, Hollis with the old wooden chess case tucked under his arm, she was glad to see them. People like Hollis and Dean were the reason Thea had fallen in love with the shop.

The Dancing Goat had never been meant for the tourist trade. Thea's parents had established the business back in the seventies—but not to cater to the blueblood families that still maintained their traditions of summering in Newport. Instead, the shop was intended to be a locals' place: no designer decor, no menus printed on recycled paper, no waiters to suck up and smile. Thea's parents had one main goal—to make good coffee at a good price. No frills, no fuss. And over time, as word began to spread, Newport's summer visitors began to think of the simple little coffee shop as a novelty—their hidden gem—and each man who visited told his friends about it as if he were the first to have discovered it and wandered inside.

Thea loved the shop—had loved it since she stood at her mother's elbow and learned to measure scoops of coffee beans. The clunky old cash register of her parents' generation held an honored space in her office, though it was no longer used. The smell of coffee would never come out of the curtains no matter how many times Thea washed them. Thea had inherited the coffee shop from her parents when they'd moved back to their home overseas—just like she'd inherited her house from them. But she'd never questioned her love for the place. The doors of the Dancing Goat were open to everyone—enemy, stranger, or friend.

 

 

“So here's what I'm thinking.”

Thea looked up from the rosette she was doodling in latte foam to find her daughter squinting at her with sly eyes. At ten years old, Irina's interest in making conversation never waned. She'd made a niche for herself talking up espresso drinks, many that she'd never even had. With her slightly too-big teeth and perpetually too-short jeans, her specialty was convincing middle-aged men to buy “one for the road.”

“This better be good,” Thea said.

Irina crossed her skinny arms, one hip leaning against the counter in a parody of a woman twice her age. Her brown hair fell to her shoulders, straight and ashy as Jonathan's would have been if he'd ever worn it long. “Here's my idea. We call up Grandma Sue and tell her she doesn't need to watch me today. And I stay home by myself while you go to the roasters. Okay?”

“I don't think so,” Thea said. She took a quick sip of her latte. “Grandma Sue's going to be here in a minute.”

“But why can't I stay by myself?”

“Your grandma Sue wants to see you. Don't you want to see her?”

Irina's “Yes” was begrudging.

I want to see her too,
Thea thought.

For her entire adult life, Sue had been a second mother to her. In the emergency room on the first day that Thea had met the Sorensens, Sue had put her arm around Thea's shoulders, walked her to the snack machine for a candy bar, and told her that it wasn't her fault—Jonathan and Garret shouldn't have been playing with a lighter in the first place. When Thea was fifteen Sue took her aside to explain how to use a tampon so she could go in the ocean with “the boys.” And even when Jonathan had announced that he and Thea were getting married, Sue had never voiced her initial disapproval, though she had every reason to worry that they'd married too hastily and too young.

But now that she and Jonathan were separating, her relationship with Sue was in real jeopardy. The Sorensens were the closest family she had since her own parents had moved back to their home country shortly after her high school graduation. If and when Thea signed on the dotted line to divorce her husband, would she divorce his family too? Could a woman get visitation rights to see her in-laws?

Irina screeched when Sue pushed through the coffee shop door, and she ran to give her grandmother an awkward tomboy's hug. Sue was dressed beautifully—as always: a blue boatneck sweater, freshly pressed capris, and pearls at her ears and throat. Her thinning blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail.

Thea met her in the center of the room. This was normally the point when Sue leaned in, kissed her on the cheek. Instead, she just nodded and held tight to Irina's hand. “Hello.”

“Sue! How are you? Can I get you something to drink? Iced tea?”

“No, I'm fine thanks. Just fine. How's things?”

“Not terrible,” Thea said. “Thanks.”

Sue nodded. A moment passed. “Well . . .”

“Are you okay with keeping her for dinner?”

“Oh, that's no problem. Not a problem at all.”

Thea smiled. She wasn't sure what else to say. Years of Sunday shopping trips and drinking white wine spritzers into the wee hours of the morning with this woman—and she couldn't think of a thing to say.

“Well, we've got a lot to do this afternoon,” Sue said brightly.

“Oh, all right. Call if you need anything.”

Sue gave Irina's hand a shake. “Ready?”

“Yeppers!” Irina bounced on her light-up sneakers.

Sue nodded once, and her blue eyes were as somber as a cold morning mist. After they left, Thea was no longer in the coffee shop. She was remembering. She was sixteen years old, sitting at the edge of Sue's flowered bedspread, her eyes red and puffy from crying. Her parents had been talking about moving back to Turkey. It was just talk, but it was enough to scare her. She'd gone running across town to the Sorensens' house in the Bellevue neighborhood, seeking refuge in the most perfect place she knew. Garret and Jonathan weren't home, but that didn't matter. Thea was always welcome.

Sue had listened patiently to Thea's plight—her fear that her parents would take her with them and her fear that they would not. As Thea spilled her guts, Sue sat patiently brushing Thea's long hair.
You know
, she'd said.
I always wanted a daughter. And if God had seen fit to give me one, I would have wanted her to be just like you.

The moment was such a meaningful part of their past, a precursor of things to follow. But the divorce would likely rewrite what that moment had portended. Thea picked up a rag to wipe down the counter. She loved the Sorensens—all of them. Love did not bloom one day and die the next. It couldn't be neatly severed or cut cleanly out of the heart. (At least, not for most people—though Garret might have been the exception.)

She would do what she could to remain a part of the Sorensen family—regardless of what had happened or what might yet happen with Jonathan. She just had to give herself over, to trust in their kindness—and to hope that Garret would not succeed in poisoning his family against her once and for all.

 

 

The morning after the divorce party, Garret woke hungover and wretched. He'd kicked his covers to the foot of the bed in the middle of the night, so they were in a great black heap on his warm toes while the rest of him pebbled in goose bumps. He pulled on his boxers and dragged himself to the bathroom, his face bearing a sandy blond stubble, his fair hair going this way and that.

After a certain point, he couldn't remember much of last night. Drinks, laughs, cigars—the memories were smeared and blurry as a dream. There was the toast, of course. He'd botched it. And a ninety-dollar bottle of champagne that Jonathan wouldn't let him buy. But after that, just blur.

He hoped he hadn't done anything too outlandish. He'd wanted the divorce party not to feel like a divorce party at all—no games of “pin the blame on the ex” or faux voodoo dolls. Instead, he'd hoped that it would become the bachelor party he'd never gotten to throw, that his toast would become the best man speech he'd never gotten to make, that he could finally show support for his brother without any awkwardness or rage.

Instead, what was meant to be a coming-out party had felt like a pity party, and just who was being pitied it was hard to say.

Garret bent down and washed his face in mint cleanser and ice-cold water. He rinsed the sleep from his eyes. For a moment he leaned his weight on his forearms and watched the water go sluicing down the drain.