Stranger on the Shore (Mirabelle Harbor, Book 4) (14 page)

I handed Lorelei the box, marveling at the lovely color combination she had going on with her current project—an entire bracelet family of panthers that were surrounded by beads that were yellow (like the eyes of a real adult Florida panther), tan (like their coats), creamy white (like their underbellies), and black (like the tips of their ears and tails). Fans of both the living mammals and the famous professional hockey team were going to love those.

Joy glanced at her watch. “How about we break for lunch in about twenty minutes?” she asked, playing with a few slipper shells and a peregrine falcon charm in her palm. “Gil said to give him a call before we ordered out, and that he’d run and get it for us.”

Abby sent an arch look in my direction before addressing Joy. “What a nice, thoughtful brother you have,” she said, with more than a hint of deviousness playing at the corners of her lips.

Joy’s eyebrows shot up. “Well, he’s still single, you know. That is, if you’re willing to give up dating emotionally unavailable men, Ms. Abby.”

Abby giggled. “Nope. Not me. Besides, you know how I feel about our pool guy.”

This brought a delighted laugh from Joy and a smirk from Lorelei.

“Your pool guy?” I asked.

“Almost every apartment or condo complex around here has an outdoor swimming pool,” Joy explained. “And the maintenance guy in charge of ours is...hmm. How would y’all describe him?”

“Pretty fine,” Lorelei contributed.

Abby shook her head. “The phrase you’re looking for is ‘smokin’ hot.’ Six foot one. Blond. Abs like a
Playgirl
cover model.” She fanned herself. “And friendly. Very friendly.”

“And engaged,” Lorelei added. “Don’t forget that part.”

Abby shrugged. “Details, details.”

Joy pulled out her cell phone and stood up. “Who was the one you liked before?” she asked, about to punch in a number when a lady customer walked through the door. “Wasn’t it the Gustosa Pizzeria guy?”

“He
always
delivered,” Abby deadpanned.

We burst out laughing, and Joy stepped away from the table to help the customer for a few minutes. After the woman made her purchase and left, Joy called her brother and started chatting with him.

In the meantime, Lorelei riffed on the pizza joke and lobbed a few dirty puns at us about the delivery guy’s zesty sauce and his spicy Italian sausage. Then she regarded Abby more seriously. “You’ve still never met Jamison’s cousin, Gary,” she said, explaining to me that Jamison was her husband and Gary was a thirty-something tax attorney in St. Petersburg. “
So
easy to set you up, little chickadee. Just say the word.”

The younger woman smiled, but I could see that lingering sadness I’d noticed the day before. I recognized this particular variety of pain. Someone—and not too long ago—must have really broken her heart. And, because Abby and I shared a hometown and knowledge of the Michaelsen family, it didn’t take a genius to guess that Chandler was that someone.

Joy clicked off her phone and returned to the table. “Gil said he’s bringing us a surprise. He already ordered it, so he’ll be here soon.” She glanced at the collection of finished bracelets in a basket on the table. “How close are we?”

Lorelei referred to a list she had near her, scanning it thoroughly and checking off a handful of items. “Looks like we’re just about done with the advanced orders. But we still have the extra one hundred we need to keep on hand. If we can each average four bracelets in an hour, we’ll be done in—” She paused to calculate. “About six more hours.”

Joy grimaced. “Sorry, girls. Next year we’ll start earlier. Like February.”

“
Next
year?” Lorelei cried. “You’re already thinkin’ about next year?” She picked up a translucent blue bead and pitched it at her friend’s head.

Joy squealed trying to avoid getting beaned and almost rammed into her brother as he strode into the shop.

“Whoa there, Sis. Careful.” Gil was carrying in a large aluminum platter covered in foil with one hand and, in the other, he had a plastic bag stuffed with an assortment of things yet to be seen. “Lunch is served,” he told us, setting the platter down on the back counter and pulling out soda cans, paper products, plasticware, and five gigantic oatmeal-raisin cookies from the bag. He then lifted the foil off of the platter and a delicious aroma wafted up at us. Mmm. It was what I’d always imagined a true Floridian clambake would smell like.

“Oh, yum!” Joy said. “You know what I love. Thanks, Gil.” She pecked a kiss on his cheek and told the rest of us, “Barbequed scallops with mushroom, yellow pepper, and cherry tomato skewers over jasmine rice and a side of asparagus spears from On The Barbie.”

“Our Aussie friends, two blocks over,” Gil explained to me with a grin. “They threw in an order of buttered clams just for you, Joy.”

Joy covered her heart with the flat of her palm. “Zach’s a charmer. He’s seventy-two, but I know he’s trying to make me fall madly in love with him. He’ll probably succeed,” she said, handing out plates and napkins to everyone, her brother included. “You’ll stay and eat with us, won’t you?”

Gil nodded. “I’ve got a half hour until I have to take over for Carter.” He lifted a skewer off of the platter and bit off the grilled cherry tomato at the end. “Mmm. C’mon, ladies, dig in.”

I let Joy scoop a few spoonfuls of rice, crisp asparagus, and barbequed scallops onto my plate and plop a vibrantly colored skewer on top of it. “This does look delicious,” I said. Even on a plain white paper plate, it looked like a dish ready to be photographed and prominently featured between the pages of a gourmet magazine.

“Wait ‘til you taste it, girlfriend,” Joy said. “You know I’m a pesco-vegetarian—I haven’t had so much as a bite of chicken, pork, or beef in two decades—but I’d order Zach and his sons’ seafood every other day if I could. And, oooh, here. Take a clam, too.” She transferred a chunky, butter-dripping one onto my plate as well.

Gil then handed me a lemon-lime soda and motioned me over to lean against the counter near him. “So, I see you ladies got a whole bucketful of bracelets finished,” he said, around a mouthful of scallops. “That slave-driver sister of mine...”

“Oh, you hush,” Joy said, feigning poking at him with a skewer. But then she turned her attention to serving Abby and Lorelei, and Gil lowered his voice. “Thanks, again, for pitching in today. Means a lot to her.”

I just nodded. How could I begin to explain to him—without sounding lonely and needy—that it meant far more to me? Even if it were true?

Fortunately, Gil didn’t require great depths of conversation from me. He just jabbered casually, while eating his meal, answering a few questions I had about the way the tents would be set up for the arts festival the next day.

I marveled at his seemingly effortless manner. At his level of ease with himself. The assuredness he projected at being comfortable in his own skin.

“The whole circle, the main streets, the sidewalks, everywhere you look is filled with the craft booths. Crafters from all over the state drive in and set up their tents for one-of-a-kind displays.” He held up his fingers and started ticking them off. “There’s jewelry, soaps, plant holders, crystal and glass items, pottery, quilts, photography, vintage clothing, hand painted greeting cards—”

“Which Gil will have in our booth,” Joy interjected. “Right? You’ve got them packaged?”

“Yes, slave driver. I’ve got them packaged.” He rolled his eyes and I could see a hint of what they must have been like as kids. Maybe arguing about household chores. Or bickering about some instruction their parents had given them. At odds with their words, but not with their true selves. It made me smile to see them as siblings. Their way of being “in relation” to one another. How they seemed to instinctively understand each other’s essence...in a way that Ellen and I had always struggled to do, even when we were agreeing aloud.

“Why aren’t you selling your larger paintings?” I asked Gil. “Do you need to have a certain number on hand before exhibiting them?”

Gil shook his head. “The festival this weekend is specifically for crafts. Anything like my canvases or our friend Claudia’s bronze sculptures are considered ‘fine art,’ and they’re saved for the annual November show, which is dedicated to that. The cards are more craft-like, so I’m allowed to exhibit them at this fair.”

“But he’s only telling you about half of what’s really sold,” Abby said. “There are
tons
of food vendors, too. You can get hot dogs, sausages, smoothies, lemonade, kettle corn, Italian ices—”

“Slices of pie, little taster cups of chili and rice, fruit salad, baked clams,” Lorelei added. “And don’t forget about the music. There are always singers and instrumentalists who play acoustic sets of their music and sell CDs. It’s a real festive atmosphere. Like a weekend-long neighborhood block party.”

I nodded, unwilling to admit that the neighborhood block parties of my recollection mostly involved charred beef patties, Donny singlehandedly downing a six-pack of Miller Lite, and Vince Jordy blasting nineties-era Britney Spears from the stereo of his parked car in his parents’ driveway. Memorable, yes, but not quite like the fun and classy event my new friends were describing.

I finished my plate while he was talking and unwrapped one of the giant cookies, but I was only able to eat about half of it. I kept thinking about how few real friends I’d had in my life. In high school, I’d hung around a handful of average girls with average grades. Their interest in me was as middling as it was in their schoolwork. And then there was Donny, of course. I’d made him the center of my teenage world—undeservingly, I realized too late. Looking back, I think it was his parents I’d really fallen in love with. They were so much warmer than mine.

Problem was, the reality of living with Donny in his neighborhood didn’t live up to my illusion of it. Yes, some of the people I spent time with—like his parents—were genuinely kinder and more concerned about me. Others were just better con artists. The difference between what I’d
thought
I was getting and what I
did
get still haunted me. To be encircled by the warm embrace of “family” was still a persistent fantasy of mine, which I’d only felt in more recent years in the company of Olivia and the Michaelsens.

My college experience wasn’t much to speak of, of course. I’d had no time for a social life. And when I began working at the insurance company, my colleagues had been nice enough to me, but everyone at the office had their own lives outside of the job.

Ellen had probably had it great during grad school and at the start of her work life. After getting her undergraduate degree, she’d left home, moved into the heart of Chicago, and was hanging out with wealthy, good-looking, smart people all the time. Like Jared. Never having to worry about rushing home to a fussy baby or to a husband who might have just cleaned out their savings account to fund his latest harebrained “project.” Imagine living like that, huh?

With a familiar pang of envy, I wrapped up the second half of my cookie and tucked it in my purse for later, then I watched as Gil and Joy razzed each other some more. Much as I liked this funny little band of Sarasota transplants, and as enticing as spending time with them seemed, I’d learned not to trust my first impressions. These people could be hiding just as much personal dysfunction as I was.

At one point, after Gil had returned to his shop and when Joy and I finally had a moment alone, I tried to broach the topic of their father in Texas and, specifically, Gil’s lack of a relationship with him.

The light in Joy’s blue eyes dimmed a little at the mention of her dad. “He isn’t...a laidback man. He wasn’t ever easy to live with for any of us, particularly for Gil.” She shrugged. “So there was a rift and, I guess, my brother and I each found different ways of declaring our independence. I became a vegetarian in high school, which our dad considered a serious act of defiance. He’s always been a big steak eater.” She rolled her eyes. “Gil didn’t give up meat, but he gave up something else—his accent. Within a year of Ma moving us to Florida, you couldn’t tell he’d ever lived in Texas.”

Ah. That explained a few things. I appreciated Joy’s honesty, but my new friend wasn’t the type to dwell in sadness, and Joy didn’t say any more about the situation than that. For me, the most interesting part our conversation was the realization that, with the Canton siblings, a parental rift seemed to bring Gil and his sister closer together. Maybe it had only been a minor kind of family falling out—I couldn’t tell from Joy’s explanation—but Gil’s refusal to set foot in his home state for more than two decades seemed to belie a trivial cause. And despite Joy’s warm and accepting nature, there was something uncharacteristically cold in her voice when she spoke of their dad.

Regardless, family estrangement had resulted in a very different sibling experience for my sister and me. Our family “rift,” which could be better described as a “major fracture” or, possibly, a “gigantic schism,” had pulled the two of us further apart, even though Ellen and I still spoke regularly and professed to love each other. With our family’s interpersonal dynamics, especially after I eloped, there was always this unsettling element of anger simmering just beneath the surface for us both. Like the dangerous undertow of the tide.

~*~

W
e finished the last set of bracelets around seven or so, but all four of us continued to hang around and chat. We were tired but, for whatever our own individual reasons, we each seemed reluctant to leave The Beaded Periwinkle.

“I should go home,” Lorelei murmured wearily. “The boys are probably at each other’s throats, and I won’t be able to be in the house to referee this weekend.”

Abby nodded and looked unenthusiastically in the direction of her car keys. “I know. Tomorrow will come early, but it’s so nice not to have to move.”

We all laughed, me the hardest. Every single muscle in my arms was sore, which was to be expected, but my neck, shoulders, and back were aching, too, from all the sitting and working. Still, despite my exhaustion, I felt a wave of contentment.