by Lynda Curnyn
I tried to contain my surprise at that little remark. Mostly for Sage’s sake. Because I was starting not to care what our happy host thought. What the hell was wrong with this guy, anyway?
“I’m going to go get settled in, Daddy,” Francesca said, beaming up at her father.
But Tom’s gaze had already returned to his fishing rod. “Hey, looks like I got something! Must be my lucky day!” he announced, before jogging back toward the shore.
I watched as annoyance flashed across Francesca’s face, before her creamy features moved back to her formerly cool expression. “Nice meeting you both,” she said. Then, turning on her high-heeled flip-flops, she headed back toward the house.
I saw Sage frown. Finally, a reaction out of her.
“Good thing we came last night,” she said. “Now we have a claim to the green room. I mean, I know she’s his daughter, but I don’t want to lose one of the best rooms in the house.”
Fortunately, I had my sunglasses on, so she couldn’t see me roll my eyes. God forbid anyone should encroach on our beloved room, which just so happened to be the second biggest after the master bedroom, complete with its own private bath and a lovely view of the lighthouse in the distance.
“I’m going for a walk,” I said,jumping up and dusting the sand off me as I did.
“You better put sunscreen on those legs.”
“I’ll be fine,” I muttered, sliding my shorts on, more for modesty than anything else.
With one last glance at Tom, who had just let out a whoop as he began to reel in his first catch of the day, I headed up the beach.
I had only gone about fifty yards when I realized where I was headed. And remembered…
Maggie’s sightless eyes staring up at me with a look of surprise… or was it resignation?
It was neither of those things, I thought, chastising myself. The woman was dead. A dead woman couldn’t feel anything.
And neither could her husband, apparently.
I shook off the thought, plowing on, trying not to notice how many of the blankets I passed contained cozy little couples. Trying not to remember that I might have been one of those cozy couples this summer.
When I came to a break in the line of houses near the end of Kismet, I knew I was in the right spot, recalling the loneliness of the dunes that night. I “wondered, not for the first time, why this land didn’t have a house on it, since it was prime oceanfront. Realized if there was a house here, maybe someone might have witnessed what had happened that night on the beach.
I looked out into the tide once I was standing right about where I had found Maggie. I think half of me expected to find her still there, rolling in the waves, forgotten.
Of course, she wasn’t there. In fact, I was all too aware that there was nothing about this particular stretch of beach that might indicate a woman had died there two weeks before.
I stared out into the ocean, watching the waves rolling over one another in the distance, trying to imagine someone—well, Maggie—stepping into that inky darkness alone.
Unless she wasn’t alone.
Stepping closer to the tide, I watched the waves crash in the distance, mesmerized by the constancy of it. A memory washed over me of my father, pulling me through the waves, hands braced under my armpits as I screamed, not trusting him not to let me go. I guess that first instinct had been right.
The tide washed over my feet and I jumped.
Fucking cold!
What sane woman would willingly jump into the Atlantic Ocean in June?
It had been hot that day, I thought, beginning to walk back along the shore, remembering how I had spent the unseasonably warm day in Adelaide Gibson’s air-conditioned living room. I knew, too, that by evening the water would have been warmer, having been heated all day by the near ninety-degree temperature.
Okay, so it wasn’t that cold. Maggie was simply walking along the beach on her way back from Fair Harbor and decided to take a little dip. Yes, the queen of the tasteful beach cover-up had decided to drop her drawers and take a dive, just for the hell of it.
Yeah, she’d been drinking, according to all reports, but I just wasn’t buying it. It just didn’t make sense that she would have gone into the ocean at night alone. Didn’t she watch all those teen movies where people died doing the same thing? She seemed like such a reasonable person. In fact, almost too reasonable, from what I could see. She had to have been forced, I thought, remembering a damp and angry Tom chopping vegetables.
But even that was too much to fathom—Tom drowning his wife. Yet there was something about him that spooked me. Something in his indifference that made me wonder if he was capable of pushing his wife underwater. What kind of man faced his wife’s death without so much as a tear? Opened the very beach house he’d named in her honor the week after her funeral and was planning his annual Fourth of July bash as if the fact that neither Maggie nor her esteemed potato salad were going to be around didn’t faze him? I couldn’t help but think of Scott Peterson, cheerfully making plans with his new girlfriend days after he had murdered his wife and unborn child.
What kind of men were these?
“Zoe? Is that you?”
I turned, shocked to hear my name being called in a town where I knew virtually no one, and found myself face-to-face with a man I once knew better than myself.
“Myles?”
“Hey,” he said, jogging closer until he was standing before me, bare-chested, his sandy brown hair looking even sandier in the sun, his golden brown eyes on mine. Before I could sputter out my surprise, he was bussing my cheek with a kiss, as if we were old friends rather than a freshly severed couple. “So I see you decided to take that share after all,” he said, as if my presence on the beach were the surprising thing.
“Of course,” I said. “What are you doing here?”
He ducked his head shyly. “Well, some friends from law school had a house with an open share and, I dunno, at the last minute I figured, what the heck.”
What the heck? my brain echoed. “Oh,” was all I said.
“So how are you?”
As if he cared.“I’m fine. You?” Even as I asked, I found my eyes roaming over that hairless, perfectly carved chest. Yes, he was fine.
In fact, Myles had been born fine, I thought, feeling suddenly resentful of his naturally athletic build.
“I’m doing okay,” he replied. “You know…”
I looked up into his eyes, saw the hesitation there, and realized that maybe things weren’t so fine with Myles. “Everything all right at home? How’s your mom? Your sisters?”
“Everyone’s good, good,” he said, bobbing his head a bit too merrily. “How about your mom?” he asked. “She okay?”
“She’s fine,” I said, suddenly feeling swamped by sadness. This was what we had come to. Polite questions and head nods. And separate summer shares. I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to sob or smack him across the forehead for not caring enough to think of my feelings.
Maybe Myles sensed this—at least, I hoped he was somewhat aware of the grief his actions were causing me—because he said, “If I’d known you were going to be here, Zoe, I would have called. I just thought you’d given up on the whole idea. You said as much that night we…you know, decided to take a break.”
We decided? And if this was a break, no one told me. In fact, if I remembered correctly, Myles said he didn’t know if he was ready to take the next step. With me, anyway. I would have argued the point now, but something about his pensive gaze stopped me.
“Hey, if you’re here, then you must have been here the night—God, Zoe, did you take that share in Tom Landon’s house?” He reached out, taking my hand in his. “I’m so sorry about what happened.”
I looked into his eyes and saw the first genuine sympathy I’d seen from anyone yet, and Myles didn’t even know Maggie. “Yeah, me, too.”
“How’s the husband doing?”
“Fine,” I said, with a shrug, dropping my eyes to the sand,
studying Myles’s feet, his long, even toes, already beginning to tan. “He’s here, too,” I said, looking up at Myles again. “This weekend.” I paused. “He’s out fishing as we speak.”
He nodded, his eyes on mine, assessing. Then he blew out a sigh. “The whole thing was just freaky, if you ask me.”
“I know,” I replied, glad to find out at least someone agreed with me. “Were you out here that weekend?”
“No, but I heard about it. Made the Long Island newspapers, according to my mother.”
“I saw her, Myles, I mean—I found her. On the beach.”
“God, Zoe. How—”
“I was out walking Janis Joplin—the dog, that is. Maggie’s dog. It was like the dog knew something, you know? She was going nuts—pulling me along on the leash, as if she were looking for her. And then we found her…”
When I saw the horror in his eyes, I felt fresh horror move through me.
His hand tightened around mine. “Hey, Zoe, if you ever need to talk…”
“Myles!” came a female voice in the distance. We both turned to see a blonde in a bright yellow bikini jogging down the beach toward us. She was thin, yet curvy, and when she stopped before us, breathless and smiling, I realized she was also beautiful.
“We’re short a player! You in or not?” she exclaimed, one thumb gesturing over her slender shoulder at the volleyball net set up in the distance.
Myles dropped my hand as he turned toward the blonde, and my antennae went straight up.“Sure, just give me a minute, okay?” Then, as if he realized the blonde and I were sizing each other up and that some introduction might be necessary, he said, “Uh, Haley, this is my friend, Zoe. Zoe, Haley.”
Haley nodded at me, a bit dismissively I thought, then turned her sunny little face up at Myles once more. “Five minutes?”
“Sure thing,” he said, smiling back at her. She nodded and headed merrily back up the beach to her teammates.
“So we’re friends, is that what we are?” I said, feeling less than friendly as I watched Haley’s perfect little ass get smaller and smaller as she jogged away from us.
Myles looked at me, surprised, I suppose, at the anger in my tone. I couldn’t blame him. I was surprised. I was usually a little more subtle than that. Still, I couldn’t be stopped. “So if I’m a friend, what’s Haley?”
“She’s…a friend. I mean, she was in a few of my classes.”
Which meant she was not only cute, but young. Everyone in Myles’s classes was twenty-three or twenty-four, since Myles had worked for a not-for-profit foundation for a few years before returning to school to study law. The fact that he was in the classroom with so many young people had bugged him a bit. But apparently it didn’t bug him anymore.
“It’s her house I’m staying in. With six other people,” he added quickly. “All friends. From law school.”
“How nice you have so many friends out here,” I said.
“Zoe—”
“Look, Myles, I have friends out here, too,” I said. “And the truth is, I don’t need any more. Especially you.”
* * *
Chapter Eleven
Nick
Somebody’s been sleeping in my bed.
“Finally!“ Sage said when I came through the door Saturday evening. ”We were beginning to think you weren’t going to show up.“
“Have I ever been known to miss a party?” I said, leaning in to buss her cheek. “Whatcha making?” I glanced at the large mixing bowl she stirred.
“German potato salad.”
“Whoa, Sage. I didn’t know you were a German-potato-salad kind of girl,” I said, sliding my knapsack off my back and moving in closer to inspect her creation. Mmm…looked good.
She looked somewhat offended.“I can cook. I’ve always been able to cook. It’s just more fun when you have a real kitchen to do it in. And a real reason. I’m making this for the party tonight. I told you, it’s potluck.” She lowered her voice.“I didn’t want Tom, you know, putting himself out with cooking after, you know, everything.”
“Right,” I said, nodding my head. “Where is Tom?”
“He’s out on the back deck mutilating innocent aquatic creatures,” came Zoe’s voice from the sofa in the living room, where she was lying down. I assumed she was lying down anyway. All I could see were her feet.
“Hey, Zoe,” I called out by way of greeting.
“He’s cleaning fish,” Sage explained. “He caught two stripers today, and he’s going to grill them up for the party tonight.”
“Cool,” I said, patting my stomach. I loved grilled fish.
“So what did you bring?” Sage asked now, reaching for the pepper grinder and beginning to turn it over the bowl.
“Bring?” Shit, I knew I forgot something. “I figured I’d pick up some beers at the market,” I hedged. “Actually, I think I might even have some left over from the last weekend we were here, since we didn’t get to, uh, drink them.”
“Nick, I did tell you everyone was making food, right?” Sage said, stopping midgrind to stare at me.
I looked at Zoe. Or rather, Zoe’s feet. “What did Zoe make?”
“Apple pie,” Zoe replied.
“Really?” I was impressed. Hell, maybe I had underestimated the women in my life. “I didn’t know you baked, Zoe!‘
Her feet came down as she sat up. “I don’t. Mrs. Smith does, though. I got it at the market.”
“Whoa, Zoe, what happened to your face?” I said, once I saw her beet-red cheeks and nose.
She turned a shade redder, if that was possible, and slapped her hands over her cheeks with dismay. “Does it look terrible?”
It didn’t exactly look good. But I knew enough about women not to say that. “It looks okay.”
“Really? Everyone’s not going to think I’m a freak, are they?”
“Nah,” I said. “Anybody asks, just tell them you got that disease. What’s it called again? The one where your face gets real red and your skin dries out?”
“Ohhhhhh!” She jumped up from the couch, running from the room on legs that were almost as red as her face. Except in stripes. Long red stripes. Ouch.
“Aloe vera’s in my bag, Zoe,” Sage yelled after her.“Just keep putting it on!”
She turned to me, pausing in her stirring. “What the hell did you have to go and say that for?”
“I don’t know,” I replied.“Wasn’t thinking, I guess. Besides, she’s not usually so sensitive. What’s up with that?”
“She ran into Myles today,” Sage replied, wiping the excess salad off the mixing spoon, then tossing the spoon in the sink.
“Oh, yeah? Does he have a share out here, too?”
“Apparently. Zoe’s not happy about it, so…” Sage said, giving me a meaningful look. As if I needed a reminder not to bring up the “M” word. I don’t know what Zoe was getting so uptight about. If Bern were here, I’d see it as an opportunity. A booty opportunity, that is. Of course, if Bern were here instead of San Francisco, we wouldn’t be broken up or whatever we were. I hadn’t heard from her since Dear Nick letter number 7,675. Not that I cared. I had better things to do now that I was a man with a plan. Or rather, a man with an investor. Uh, that is, an investment.
“So what took you so long to get out here? Zoe’s scalding notwithstanding, you missed a nice beach day.”
“Oh, I had some business to take care of,” I said, my eye straying to the knapsack I had dropped on the floor, which contained my brand-spanking-new laptop, purchased today at Comp USA. It had taken me a little longer than expected—the crowds were chaotic—but it was worth it. This new machine kicked ass—and was fast as hell. Which was what I needed. With the new Web site for the record label, I’d need more speed and functionality. Besides, now that I had a little cash to play with, it was about time I updated my PC.
“What kind of business?” Sage covered the bowl with foil, then slid it into the fridge.
“You know, computer stuff,” I answered vaguely,
wondering if I should have brought the laptop out here with me. Not that I’d spent a lot of money, but I didn’t want Sage to wonder about my sudden cash flow. I didn’t think she was computer savvy enough to notice my new upgrade, but you never know.
I picked up my bag. “I’m gonna go put this stuff away,” I said, making an exit before she could question anything else—like the brand-spanking-new knapsack I was carrying. I needed it, you know? It had a special insert to store the computer in, and I didn’t want anything to happen to this baby.
I headed down the hall to the purple room, which was on the other side of the communal bathroom from Sage and Zoe’s room. Aside from the fact that it looked like an Easter egg, it was the best room in the house, in my opinion, mostly because it had a private entrance that led out on to the back deck. Okay, the best room would be Tom and Maggie’s—uh, that is, Tom’s—since he had an ocean view and master bath. But since I had the purple room all to myself, that meant I could push the two twin beds together and make a double, whereas Sage and Zoe had to contend with trying to sleep on those twin beds without tumbling off. But then again, I’m a big guy—nearly six feet. Okay, five-eleven and a half, but still, a guy like me needs room. In fact, I should set up the bed right now, so I can just tumble right in after the party later, I thought, remembering the last time I had tumbled into bed here, too drunk to deal with pushing the beds together, and wound up on the floor in the middle of the night. Swinging the door open to the room, I was surprised to discover someone had beat me to it—in fact, not only had someone already pushed the beds together, but a female someone, if the pink thong on the floor was any indication. Wow, that was a tiny thong. Probably Sage’s. What the heck was Sage doing in my bedroom? Maybe she hooked up last night and needed the privacy.
I began to slide my pack off my shoulders, when I saw a decidedly un-Sage-like item on the nightstand. A Britney Spears CD. God, no. If Sage did go for either of the two tarts who had taken over the teen world, she was more a Christina Aguilera girl than a Britney girl. And Zoe…Zoe was into that vagina rock. You know, like Sarah McLachlan, the fucking Cranberries. Besides, I couldn’t see Zoe in that thong. She was cute and all, but that little scrap of pink…let’s just say it wasn’t her.
