“Myra? Hello?”
“Okay, yeah. It could be bad.”
“Arrrgggghhhh! I knew that was what you would say.”
“Anna, I’ve got to get back to the biddies. We can talk about this more later. Bye.”
Myra hung up and I felt as if she’d just slammed a door in my face. Something was still bothering her. I just wished that she—of all people—would be straight with me.
Meanwhile, I needed to set something else straight. I would call Chris and tell him I never wanted to see or hear from him ever again. I took his note out of my pocket and smoothed it on the counter. To the most beautiful girl in the world. Glad our surfboards collided. The paper was getting wrinkly because I had folded and unfolded it so many times. Tears welled up in my eyes and one dropped on surfboards, blurring and breaking the letters as if they were individual surfboards shattered against the rocks. Finally, I was crying, just when I really didn’t want to.
The shell-bell jingle jangled on cue and Meghan came waltzing into the shop. “Here I am,” she sang as she two-stepped toward me. “Did ya miss me?”
“Ah, yeah, sure.” I quickly wiped the remaining tears away from my eyes.
Meghan executed a last, dramatic whirl toward me; then, suddenly she slipped, slamming the take-out food bag against the counter. The bag exploded—plastic utensils and napkins went flying, and the pages of the Kalendar scattered across the shop like sheets in the wind. My avocado and cheese wrap torpedoed the postcard display and Meghan’s Cobb Salad rained corn kernels and ham cubes all over the floor.
But worst of all, my smoothie and her Diet Coke spilled across the countertop oozing over Chris’s note, ending in a gloppy mess on the front of my shorts.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
When Meghan regained her balance and saw the liquid disaster, she shrieked, “Oh my god, you’re a mess!” She slipped her way toward the storeroom and came racing back with a wad of paper towels and pawed at my crotch like an attention-seeking dog.
I held the note overhead, out of reach of her swiping hands. “Get off, De’Errico! Just go away!” I frantically wiped my note, trying to save it from total glop destruction but the numbers were now a blurred line of black regret; they looked like an inkblot test used on psych patients, which was fitting because at that moment I felt like a person with big-time mental health issues.
Meghan backed off, looking wounded. “Just trying to help,” she sniffed.
“I’m sorry,” I sighed, trying to muster up a smile. “Please just clean up the floor. I can take care of myself.” I wadded up the useless piece of paper and lobbed it into the garbage pail.
In the back room, I changed out of my sticky board shorts, which I left soaking in a sudsy froth of Sea Goddess All-Purpose Cleanser and pulled on a pair of Kendall’s Watch sweats. Sara would be irritated that I was pilfering valuable merchandise. Sea Goddess—at twenty bucks a bottle—claimed to include “only the finest, purest, sea-worthiest ingredients”— ingredients like pulverized Japanese eel bones and sea salt from the Dead Sea. If that couldn’t clean shorts, I had no idea what could.
Meghan didn’t bug me much for the rest of the afternoon. When she did ask a few store-related questions I shot her a look that kept her brief and on point. I had to admit, Meghan was better suited to The Shell Shop than I had expected. The customers loved her. Kids especially. And she stayed on top of shelving, stocking and other chores—when not spazzing out and spilling food. Sara would be pleased with how well we had managed while she was away.
Thinking of Sara got me thinking of Rusty, and thinking of Rusty got my blood boiling. It was time to warn her; I couldn’t put it off any longer. At four, I tried my mother’s cell. When it immediately went to voicemail, I left a message. “Hey, Sara, I really want to talk to you before you see Rusty. There’s something we need to discuss. So if you ever get around to picking up your messages, you better call me back ASAP. Oh, and I hope things are moving along with the tee shirts. I just sold our last large.”
The next hour inched along, and finally at five, the phone rang.
“Dugan’s Shell Shop.”
“You’re supposed to add ‘How can we help you?’ How many times do I have to tell you that, Anna?” It was Sara. The sound of her voice had me tearful again.
“When are you coming home?” I sniffled, carrying the phone into the storeroom.
“Anna, are you okay?”
“Yeah, sure. I may be coming down with a cold.” I wished.
“You and your mystery illnesses…”
“Whatever, Sara,” I muttered, feeling a growing irritation with my mother, which at least served to dry up my tears. “When are you back?”
“I’m not sure. Hopefully tomorrow night. Things are a mess here. First, they screwed up the words; then today, they printed the whole Kendall’s Watch image on the front of the tees instead of the back. I tried one on to see if it would work, but it looks terrible. Unless you’re a double D or have a major gut, the whole design gets lost. So, lucky me. I have to stay and make sure they do it right tomorrow.”
“Oh no,” I moaned.
“Oh yes. Only plus is that I can surf Manasquan Inlet again tomorrow morning before these cretins get in to work. Anna, you should see the way the wave bowls up and wedges down here. It sets you flying. Totally insane. I’m so glad I brought my board. At least something good has come out of this fuck-up. Oh, and Joe says hi. We surfed together this morning. Geez, that guy can still ride it clean, I tell you,” Sara sighed.
Big whoop, I thought. “So what do I do about tomorrow?”
“Can Meghan come in again?” Sara asked.
“I don’t know. Probably. I think they’re happy at the bakery without her. She’s got pretty cool retail chops, by the way.”
“Excellent. Good to know. So, what did you so desperately need to tell me before I see Rusty?”
I paused. Maybe this wasn’t over-the-phone material after all.
“Anna, come on. I have to get back to supervise those bozos in the factory. What is it?”
I swallowed hard. I tried to tell her, but I chickened out—again. “It’s no big deal. It can wait till tomorrow.”
“Good, because I am so overwhelmed here. I can’t deal with any more drama.”
Just wait, Sara, I thought. It’s only gonna get more tragic.
“Also, I spoke to Gramma earlier. She wants you for dinner tonight. I don’t know why, but she worries about you. You should probably stay overnight, too. They like it if you do that when I’m away.”
I was relieved to go to Toilsome that night, particularly since things with Myra seemed so off. At least at my grandparents’ house I could sit around and watch dumb shows with Grandpa, help Gramma not burn food, and squeeze Fluffy and Woof Woof against my aching heart all night long.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll be there. When exactly will you get back tomorrow?”
“Um…I’m not exactly sure.”
“Just promise me we’ll talk before you see Rusty.”
Sara sighed. “Sure. Okay, gotta go.” She hung up, leaving me a whole extra day to wait and worry.
When I walked out of the storeroom, Meghan almost mowed me down.
“Anna,” she said excitedly. “There’s someone here to see you.”
He had picked up the cottage Shelly, the one with a thatched roof of painted matchbook covers and a film canister chimney with cotton ball smoke.
“These are really cool.” Chris smiled nervously. “Did you make them?”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
What are you doing here?” I demanded.
“I had to find you,” Chris said. “We need to talk.”
Yes, we did. But now that he was actually standing in front of me, I didn’t know if I’d be capable of saying what I really wanted to say.
“I’ve be
en trying to reach you,” he continued. “I called here earlier and left a message.”
I turned to Meghan, who looked as if she had just swallowed a slug.
“I’m sorry, Anna,” she croaked. “It was, like, so super busy I forgot to tell you. If I had known it was…him, I would’ve probably remembered but—”
“No worries, Meghan,” I interrupted. “It doesn’t really matter.”
“Whoa,” Chris said. “It matters to me, Belly Flop.”
I cringed at the sound of my nickname.
“Why didn’t you call?” he asked. “You have my number.”
“I lost it,” I managed. Never thought I’d see you again anyway, I thought to myself.
The Shell Bell went off, and in walked a “double load”—Shell Shop lingo for two families on vacation together, with a minimum of six hyper kids and four frazzled parents at the ends of their ropes. “Hi, can I help you?” Meghan asked eagerly. Then, turning to me, she added, “I’ve got this covered, Anna. Why don’t you show your friend our storeroom?”
Chris followed me to the back where I sat on the stack of beach towels, arms folded defensively across my chest—hoping to hold my heart in. Chris paced, still absently holding the Shelly in one hand. He looked like he was ramping up to deliver bad news.
“Well, you sure got back to Kendall’s Watch quickly,” I grumbled.
“Huh? I haven’t gone anywhere,” he said.
“Yeah, right,” I managed to whisper.
Chris’s shoulders hunched and his hand clenched the Shelly. “I’m. Not. Lying,” he said slowly, through clenched teeth.
Ignoring him, I started folding a pile of sarongs that were headed for the sale bin.
“Anna.”
I wanted to ask about Rusty and the photos; Live with Larry, Inga, and Fiji. But I couldn’t—all I could manage—with those damned tears welling up in my eyes again—was to pretend to care about the stupid mess of sarongs.
“Can you make this quick?” I mumbled. “I’m really busy.”
“Anna, please,” he pleaded. “Would you just look at me?”
So I did; I raised my eyes to his face, and, to my surprise, he looked like a scared little boy—like one of the brats I routinely chased out of the shop when they got too close to the Shelly display. Somehow his vulnerability gave me a smidge of courage.
“Can you please put the merchandise down?” I said in a shaky but determined voice.
Chris looked at the Shelly in his hands as if he had forgotten he was holding it. He placed it carefully on a shelf next to a mermaid figurine.
“So get to the point already,” I said.
“I need to apologize.”
“Go on then.”
“Rusty—those photos he took. I had no idea he was doing that.”
“Okay, so you apologized about Rusty. Your fabulous dirtbag of a manager. Duly noted. Anyone else you want to apologize about?” I asked.
“Who else would I need to apologize about?”
Her name is Inga, I thought. Inga friggin’ Ward. I turned back to the sarongs. Chris was a liar, and I was damned if I was going to let him see me crushed. “Nobody. Never mind. Can you please leave now and never come back?”
“Belly Flop—”
“What’s the point?” I cried, unable to contain my emotion any longer.
“You. You’re the point,” Chris pleaded. He was almost convincing.
“Just go!” Tears flowed like rivers down my cheeks. “Please.”
“But—”
“Go!” I shouted. “This is my store and I need you to leave. Now!”
“This is so unfair, I can’t believe it,” he muttered; then, shooting me a glance of bewildered anger, he stalked from the room.
I sent Meghan home early and closed the shop on my own. The long bike ride to my grandparents’ house calmed my nerves a little, and I could smell the roast chicken even before I skidded my way up their driveway.
“Hello,” I called, trying hard to sound chipper. “I’m here!”
Gramma called from the kitchen. “Hello, Anna Marie. I’m in here.” Grandpa’s La-Z-Boy was empty, I noticed, as I made my way through the living room.
“Hey Gramma.” I kissed her forehead. She smelled like fermented fruit and I noticed her bottle of schnapps was uncapped. Usually, for decorum’s sake, she kept the cap on in between swigs. “Where’s your Tommy-kins?” Sometimes, when chatting with Gramma, I called Grandpa cutesy names, names I imagined she might have called him back in the day. Gramma would smile, blush, and swat my arm—but not today. Instead, turning back to the stove, Gramma said, “He had to run a quick errand. He’ll be home soon.”
“What kind of errand?” I asked.
“Nothing important.” Gramma seemed nervous somehow. “Nothing at all.” Then, noticing my clothes, she frowned. “What happened to that attractive outfit I picked out for you this morning?”
Oh yeah. That. “Too fancy for the grunt work I needed to do in the storeroom today. I wanna save it for a nicer occasion.”
She smiled. “Good thinking.”
“So where’s Grandpa?” I persisted.
“I sent him to the supermarket to get some fat-free heavy cream. Now be an angel and drain these potatoes for me.”
“Fat-free heavy cream? Isn’t that some sort of oxymoron?” I asked as I lifted the heavy boiling pot over to the sink.
“Anna Marie, that’s not nice,” Gramma tsk-tsked. “We don’t call anything or anyone an ox or a moron in this house, do you hear me?”
“Gramma, ‘oxymoron’ is a term for combining two contradictory ideas. Fat-free. Heavy cream. Get it?”
“No, I don’t,” Gramma frowned. Sure, she was toasted on peach schnapps, but she seemed preoccupied and distracted—something was wrong.
Grandpa’s pickup rumbled outside, and a few minutes later he walked in with a pint of cream. I could see Gramma visibly relax when she saw him. Maybe that was really all it was—Grandpa on a quest for a precious dairy product.
“There she is,” Grandpa said when he saw me. He kissed me, handing the cream to Gramma. “I don’t know why you need to use this stuff, Lorraine. It’s gonna taste like piss. It’s bad enough that now I have to take these horse pills.”
That’s when I noticed the bag from Whitaker’s Pharmacy he held in his other hand. Grandpa took out a vial of pills and read the instructions: “May cause constipation, headaches, nausea, and dry mouth. Hell, like I need any of those things.”
“Oh please, Tom,” Gramma protested. “You know what the doctor said. Now shoo. Both of you.”
Grandpa and I did as we were told, taking our standard spots in the living room—he on his La-Z-Boy, and me horizontal on the couch. As usual, Grandpa reached for the remote and began channel surfing.
“So Grandpa,” I said. “What’s with the pills? What did the doctor say?”
“Not much. Did you talk to your mother? What’s going on down there with those idiot printers? I can’t believe the shirts aren’t done yet. If I were down there at that cockamamie excuse for a factory, I’d be whipping their butts. You can sure bet—”
“Give it a rest, Grandpa. I’m sure Sara’s doing as good a job as anyone could do. Even you, tough guy.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he harrumphed, clicking the remote.
“So answer my questions.”
“What questions?”
“What’s with the pills and what did the doctor say?”
“He thinks I need to go in for another operation on the old heart. A valve replacement. Can you believe that? Like I’m a car or something. But I wouldn’t jump to any conclusions. The pills are gonna keep me fine till then.”
I bolted upright. The fat-free cream suddenly made sense. “What the hell, Grandpa! Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
Grandpa s
topped on an infomercial, watching an automatic carrot grater pulverize carrots over and over again. Grandpa hated infomercials. And he hated carrots. Finally, he cleared his throat. “The doctor ran some tests yesterday. We’re still waiting for the results.”
“Jesus, Grandpa.”
He shrugged. “It’s nothing to get your knickers in a twist about. Those medical clowns probably just want to make a buck. I probably don’t even need the damn heart operation. God knows I don’t do a hell of a lot to tax my ticker, why should it need a whole new car part?”
“Maybe that’s the problem, Grandpa. You’re supposed to walk thirty minutes every day and use those hand weights we got you last Christmas, but you don’t. You sit around like a tub of lard, maybe drive to town to hang with your hardware homies, but that’s about it.”
“Tub of lard?” he cried.
“Okay. That was harsh. Tub of Jell-O. Better?”
He nodded. “Better. I like Jell-O. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Go to the kitchen and help your grandmother. And don’t talk about this heart stuff with her, you hear me? She gets way too emotional about it all. If we’re not careful, she’ll have a heart attack before I do.”
“Oh that’s great. Just great. What positive thinking.” I got up and arrived in the kitchen just in time to save the green beans from overcooking.
Here’s what I learned at dinner: First, that Edna McNully
had been found rummaging in the garbage can outside Corbin’s Automotive Repairs. The mayor claimed his mother had been hunting for Shelly accessories, but word among the retired set was that Edna had now officially gone off the deep end. Second, that the department of highway maintenance had still not repaired the giant pothole on the corner of Breezy Way and Main. Third, that the price of eggs at the supermarket had gone up seven cents; milk, a whopping five. And lastly, that some rowdy teenagers, looking like vampires, had visited the post office the day before, and that one of them was Brian Steinkamp’s grandson visiting from Michigan—definitely a bad seed.
Nothing about Grandpa’s medical condition; zip about Grandpa’s impending surgery; silence about Grandpa’s actual
Wavehouse Page 17
