Stranger on the Shore (Mirabelle Harbor, Book 4) (6 page)

“They’re not
imaginary
,” Donny said with a huff. “They’re
real
people. They just live in different cities.”

“Uh-huh.”

“There’s no reason for you to get all judgmental. Just because Vince likes an activity you don’t approve of, it doesn’t make him a bad guy.”

This was one of Donny’s old refrains: That I “looked down” on his friends. That I was hypercritical. That the people in his neighborhood weren’t up to the standards of my old neighborhood. The first two were true (Donny had a talent for choosing scumbag friends and I’d stopped keeping my opinions about them to myself a decade ago), but the last one was a blatant falsehood that always pained me to hear.

“Donny, I don’t care about the virtual games Vince plays. But I guess it always bothered me that your best buddy from the neighborhood is a voyeuristic thirty-eight-year-old man that
never
held a full-time job, despite his parents paying for his college education more than once—” Vince switched majors five times, “—and who still sponges off his elderly mother.”

He sniffed. “I’ve known Vince since we were kids. And stayed his friend even in hard times. Guess I can’t expect you to understand lifelong friendship. You came into the neighborhood, lived in my parents’ house, and never really appreciated it ‘cuz you just compared everything to
your
parents’ neighborhood. Not that they ever cared about you or visited you or even remembered you in their will. So now you’ve got to grab onto
my
inheritance instead.”

Donny knew how to rip at my old scabs but, unfortunately, this was another half truth where the untruth part of it really wounded. But so did the truth part.

To say my parents were displeased by my marriage to him would be a gross understatement. They thought I was short-circuiting my future, told me so and, basically, left me to sink or swim after I moved into his parents’ basement. My mother and father were snobs to a degree, yes, but that was some of what I’d thought I was running away from in marrying him. And they were dead wrong about Donny’s parents and their neighborhood. Sure, it was slightly more rundown and not as ritzy as their side of Mirabelle Harbor, but there were lots of people with hearts of pure platinum who lived on the block—including Vince’s mom. Donny’s parents were at the top of that list, too—generous, caring, thoughtful, and compassionate. I’d loved them as much as any blood relation.

My parents’ assessment of Donny, however, was sadly correct.

Dad didn’t live long enough to witness the collapse of my marriage, but Mom watched—from the distant sidelines—and she had the satisfaction of seeing all of her dire predictions about my life come true before she, too, passed away.

“I’m making dinner now,” I informed Donny, still slumped on Ellen’s queen bed and squeezing that poor pillow. “I need to go.”

“Oh, no, you might burn something,” he remarked sarcastically. “Don’t want you to ruin your lobster tail. Or is it filet mignon tonight?”

I didn’t bother to answer. Kiddie cereal with skim milk was always a good choice, but it wasn’t exactly on par with fresh lobster or filet. Honestly, I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d eaten either one.

“I think it would be
decent
of you to just agree to share some of the profits from the sale of the house with me,” he said. “It’d be easier than going through the lawyers. That would cost us both extra money, and we don’t need them now anyway. I think twenty-five percent would be fair, don’t you? I mean, after all my parents did for you, can’t you finally be the one to be a little generous?”

After his parents sold us the house and moved into a retirement condo, Donny often left me with the job of scrounging up the money for our monthly mortgage payments, and I’d supported him on and off for years while he quit one stable job after another in search of the latest get-rich-quick scheme. There was that t-shirt business he started and abandoned. There was that one delivery service he got into with another bum friend. There was the memorable year when he and Vince tried their hands at inventing the perfect marshmallow roasting stick. Then he left me and our daughter—taking every penny of our savings—to go to L.A., to live in the sun, and to sell sports cars to celebrities. Guess that didn’t turn out so well for him, huh?

“I’ve been plenty generous with you already,” I said, my voice dropping to a whisper.

“Oh, c’mon, Marianna,” he pleaded. “I need a little help. It’s a tough economy. I don’t want to have to chase you around with lawyers and paperwork. Fifteen percent. You owe me...and the memory of my parents...at least that.”

For a second I considered his threat—that he’d get the lawyers involved. That I’d have to deal with him again on a regular basis until he got what he wanted. That he might really have the power to take away what little I had left.

But, no. Damn him.
No
.

The legal documents we’d signed were ironclad, which was why he was trying to guilt me into giving him the money instead of going through lawyers. He knew he wouldn’t win that way. And somewhere deep inside of him, he knew even his parents would agree that he didn’t deserve another red cent.

Furthermore, I’d mostly played by the rules for thirty-nine years. Except for one stupid act of teenage rebellion—my “escape” into marriage, or so I’d thought at the time—I’d been a good girl growing up. Almost always reasonable. Not too demanding at home or at school. Loyal at work. I did my job and then some. I’d been a dedicated employee, wife, daughter, sister, mother.

And still the company let me go.

And still my parents didn’t forgive me for my single foolish, childish mistake.

And still Donny left me.

Well, I couldn’t get my old job back, and I wasn’t sure I really wanted it again anyway. My parents were dead. For Kathryn’s sake (the one true blessing I’d gotten out of all of this), I stayed cordial to Donny and didn’t openly bash his character in our daughter’s presence. I didn’t yell at him or swear at him, even when I thought my head and heart would explode.

I’m almost forty, and where did this good behavior get me?

“Screw you, Donny,” I said, enunciating very clearly. “I don’t owe you anything. And don’t you dare call or threaten me again, you lying parasitical louse.”

Then I flipped the phone shut, buried it under Ellen’s pale blue pillow, and raced into the kitchen. My hands were shaking so violently I couldn’t pick up the milk to pour it on my dry cereal without fear of dropping the plastic bottle, so I shoved the bowl to the back of the counter and just stood there. Motionless. Listening.

It was hard to hear over the sound of the TV and the rumbling thunder outside, but the cell phone rang a few times. It stopped. Then it rang again. I turned up the volume on the game show and paced by the sofa until my legs were tired and I ceased to hear the phone anymore.

But I couldn’t flipping
stand
it. This aimlessness—like a piece of driftwood floating on the water’s surface. This frustration at feeling so helpless against the current. And waiting, waiting, always waiting for the next storm. For something bad to happen. Not being in control of
anything
.

Next to the DVD player, there were books and magazines in a neat stack. I rummaged through them until a picture of a decorative dinner plate heaped with shrimp scampi caught my eye. Yum. It was a local dining guide with a list of restaurants in the vicinity. I still didn’t want to go out—least of all to a restaurant by myself—and I knew better than to splurge on pricy carryout.

But this was a special occasion, I decided. My independence day from Donny. And I’d be wholly and completely fiscally responsible again come tomorrow morning.

I chose the least expensive restaurant in the guide that offered delivery and dialed the number from Ellen’s landline. “Hi, I’d like to order dinner. Just for one. Your Wednesday early-bird special, please. Yes, that’s right, the lobster...”

Man in the Mirror

G
il sautéed half a pound of fresh shrimp and, as always, enjoyed watching the color shift in the skillet from uncooked grayish blobs to invitingly plump pink crescents.

He smacked his lips and turned to Nancy. “I know how much you love having shrimp for dinner, my sweet,” he told her. “Yours is already waiting. We’ll eat together after I finish fixing mine, okay?” He tossed in a few handfuls of sliced red and green pepper, diced onion, and fresh Portobello mushroom. “Too bad veggies aren’t your thing. They’re so gorgeous. So colorful.”

Nancy opened her mouth but didn’t utter a sound. A second later, she glanced away.

“Oh, don’t worry,” he reassured her. “I’m not being judgmental.” He squirted some teriyaki sauce into the skillet and checked on the wild rice, bubbling on the back burner.

Nancy returned her attention to him and blinked, a slight air of accusation in her gaze.

“I’m
not
,” Gil insisted. “Geez, what is it with you females? Always jumping to conclusions. Seriously. Just look at the range of hues right in front of us. This pan is like a painting. It only needs a hint of...” He stirred his shrimp and veggies a few times before adding the last ingredient on his memorized recipe—drained pineapple tidbits. “Yellow,” he murmured, pointing out the cheerful addition to Nancy who was, at last, studying the skillet with interest. She took a few steps toward it.

“Ah, no you don’t, darlin’.” He scooped her up in his palm, stroked her back from the tip of her sleek amphibious head all the way down to her long black tail, then he blew her a kiss, which she didn’t return. “I love ya, Nancy. You are the most beautiful fire-bellied newt to walk the earth. Or at least my kitchen counter.” He stroked her back again. “And one of these days you’ll tell me you love me, too, right?”

Nancy looked dubious.

He laughed. He loved the feel of this petite living thing strolling across his palm. The slow, graceful padding of her tiny feet stepping cautiously toward his forearm. The licorice swizzle of her textured tail swishing behind her. To Gil, proof of God lived in the existence of the world’s smallest creatures. There might not be a lot of things he believed in—lasting marriages, for one...supportive parents, for another—but he had faith in newts. And in salamanders, seahorses, and starfish.

If there was any good in the universe, it would be found in them first.

He lifted Nancy carefully—her red-speckled underside visible only when he gave her belly a quick look—and he gently set her back into her tank, letting her loose on a sturdy flat rock. She’d been out of the water for only ten minutes but, clearly, she reveled in being wet again. She splashed herself greedily as he reached for her specially formulated newt food. He fed Nancy her everyday pellets most of the time but, on the occasions when Gil made shrimp for himself, he gave her some of the “newt treat” shrimp flakes. It was kind of like sharing a meal with a friend.

Then he washed his hands and fixed his own shrimp plate.

He’d only managed a couple of bites when the phone rang. His mother.

“Hiya, Ma.” He stifled a sigh. Calling at dinnertime was rarely a good sign. “Everything okay?”

“What? I can only call my son when there’s a problem?” she asked, her voice that distinctive brand of indignant he knew so well.

He grimaced. Now he knew for sure there was a problem. Only question was how long she’d chitchat before she’d reveal it. “Of course not,” he said. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Watching golf on ESPN. There’s a tournament.”

It was Florida. There was always a tournament. “Sounds great,” he managed, striving for a sliver of enthusiasm. “And you’re feeling fine? Is there anything you need me to pick up for you? Your blood-pressure medication? Some groceries? A few new books from the library?”

She huffed. “I’m sixty-eight, not ninety. I can get my own damn books.” She paused, mumbling something about the joys of owning an eBook reader. “But, um, there
is
an event coming up that you could drive me to tomorrow afternoon. If, um, you’re not too busy.”

He rolled his eyes, grateful only Nancy could see him. He loved his mother but some days... “I’ll make time, Ma. Where do you need to go?”

“Just to Tampa for a few hours. You know I don’t like driving long distances.”

He knew. Even though Tampa/St. Pete was just an hour away from Sarasota, driving much further than the local Publix grocery store always flustered his mother. She was very forthcoming with the location of the event (a bridal shower at Minerva’s Tea Room for her friend JoAnn, age seventy-eight, who was getting married for the third time) and the time of the event (one p.m. sharp) and tomorrow’s weather forecast (hot and sunny). Too forthcoming. Which meant there was something else she wasn’t telling him.

“So, I’ll plan to pick you up a few minutes before noon, Ma. I’ll make sure to get you to the Tea Room on time. And then, when it’s over, you can just give me a call on my cell and I’ll—”

His mother cleared her throat. “Well, actually, Gil...”

Here it comes.

“...it’s one of those
couples
showers. You know, both the bride and groom will be there. So, you don’t have to leave. There are going to be
lots
of people. Men and women. Even some younger folks your age. Why, JoAnn’s niece is going to be driving down from Tallahassee, and you know, JoAnn and I were talking about how you two both like
artsy
things, so you might want to meet—”

This time Gil didn’t try to stifle his sigh. “Ma,” he interrupted. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m more than happy to drive you up to Tampa, but I don’t want to be set up with anyone. Not with JoAnn’s niece. Not with your hairdresser’s sister. Not with the daughter of the clever man who did your taxes last year.” God, she’d tried every single one of them on him and more. “I’m sure she’s very nice—”

“Veronica,” his mother interjected.

“I’m sure Veronica is very nice,” he said, “but I am not going to a couples shower.”

“We could all get together for some coffee after the shower,” she suggested. “Then you wouldn’t have to actually go to the—”