An embroidered lace bridal cap covered much of her long tangle of untamed dark hair, and looking at her reflection alone in her room on her wedding day, a fear rose in her eyes. No black eyeliner, no defiant attitude, no acts of rebellion could deny the fear of what she’d gotten herself into.
Every bit of that moment, the very one when she raised her arms, took hold of the veil and slowly but gently lifted it and draped it over her face, the whole moment that captured the unknown she found herself facing at eighteen, returns as steady and unstoppable as the tide, the rising wave of memory moving over her heart as Maris stands now in front of her bedroom mirror, the very same mirror as then.
Visualize, Eva softly suggests as she sets her old veil on Maris’ head. And as Maris reaches up to lift the veil forward over her long brown hair, Eva sees her eighteen-year-old self in the look unbound in Maris’ steady gaze at the mirror. It is there all over again, this time in Maris’ dark eyes, that same pure fear of what she is about to do.
“I can’t do it,” Maris says.
“What do you mean? You’ll make a beautiful bride. Look.”
But Maris hasn’t stopped looking, turning to the side, lifting the veil back over her face.
“My veil can be your Something Borrowed. It looks so pretty on you. And we can shop for a gown together. Or if you shop in Chicago, pin pictures of gowns you like on Pinterest so I can see too. I’ll let you know what I think of them. Here, hold this up, just for fun.”
Maris takes the vintage gown from Eva’s hands, feeling the detail of the fabric, of a life itself, in the complex threads of embroidery and lace. Oh the anticipation and tears and love and promise all stitched into one simple dress. It feels like playing dress-up, holding the gown against her body and seeing someone she isn’t sure of. Someone she has to imagine, this bride. The delicate feel and faint scent of this aged cream gown long tucked into a cedar hope chest give it a tangible quality, an evidence of a life fully lived for one day within it.
“When will I ever find time to do all this? Gown shopping? A wedding?”
Eva stands behind her and adjusts the veil, resetting it over her dark hair.
“Can you do me a favor?” Maris asks, holding the gown’s shoulders over hers, vintage satin and lace falling the length of her body, brushing her bare feet. Eva’s reflected eyes in the mirror rise to meet hers. “Find me a place to stay here.”
“Here? What do you mean?”
“Just for a little while.” She turns back to Eva, giving her the gown. “The more I think about it, the more I want to do it.”
“Do what?” Eva asks, laying out her gown on the bed.
“Oh, this idea so needs a fresh cup of coffee to mull over. Come on.” Maris rushes back down the stairs to Eva’s kitchen, feeling suddenly so hippy, barefoot in her skinny jeans, tank top and wedding veil. She sits in front of Eva’s laptop again, glancing at her decorating inspiration. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll help you with your design plans in exchange.”
“Maris, you design denim. Fashion design. Not homes.”
“Fashion design. Interior design. It’s all about having an eye for it.”
“Wait. You said in exchange.” Eva sinks slowly into a chair across the table from her. “In exchange for what?”
Maris adjusts the veil, lifting it and letting it fall back again over her shoulders, remembering Eva wearing it the same way when they’d found it all those years ago in a vintage clothing boutique. She looks around the kitchen now, seeing the faded country-print wallpaper, the Formica countertops, the tiny homework cubby filled with dictionaries and cookbooks, pencils and measuring spoons. Nothing has changed. So can Eva see the same memory she is seeing? The one of two teenage girls finishing breakfast and heading out for a day of tanning, or crabbing on the rocks, or swimming out to the big rock? Right at this moment, it feels like she just arrived at her best friend’s home, the same way she did all those years ago, suitcase bulging with tank tops and shorts and flip-flops. Suddenly they are fifteen again, beginning another summer when Maris stays with Eva and her family at the beach for two sweet months. When a smile breaks out on Eva’s face, she knows her friend feels the same way.
“I need some time. There’s so much going on in my life right now with the estate, and now this with Scott. Really, it’s just overwhelming. Do you think there’s some empty little cottage here that I can rent for a few weeks? I’ll trade you my design skills for your realtor skills.”
“Seriously?”
As soon as she asks, Maris feels the magic, the sense of a peaceful dove fluttering from an unfurled scarf. This beach has a way of casting its spell right through the windows under the guise of sun and salt, the call of the gulls, the sound of the waves. “It’ll be like old times, one more time.”
“For how long?”
“I can extend my family leave, I’m sure. A few weeks. Maybe a month.” She stands then, spreads butter on a blueberry muffin and warms it in the microwave before turning back to Eva. “You game?”
Eva reaches an outstretched hand, her pinky poised in a hook, her steady, dark gaze time travelling back to their teens.
Maris reaches forward and hooks that pinky with hers, the silk tulle of the wedding veil brushing alongside her face.
Whispers, shadows. They are one and the same as far as Jason Barlow is concerned. Both have you turn at the hint of them. Both have you think someone is close by, watching. His life is their stomping ground, so much so that he begins answering them back if they get too close. Or if he can’t make out the words. If he can’t tell if it is the wind or Neil’s far-off voice. Sunlight through tree branches, or his brother’s soul visiting him.
Anything can spark them. Like now, driving past the still-empty guard shack. How many summer voices that sight can summon. “Don’t even start,” he says as he looks past the shack, steering down the old beach road. Abandoned homes have a knack for toying with voices and shadows, too. And he is on a crash course with one.
Jason drives past cedar-shingled colonials with windowed walls and porches facing ocean views. Tucked back from the road, small wood-sided bungalows with lattice-windowed front porches sit on refurbished stone foundations. His clients want all this, along with the swaying sea grasses, the sandy beach and gentle Long Island Sound waves, the swans in the marsh, the evenings on the old boardwalk. The cottages he renovates are all about architectural charm, and nothing about demons. As he pulls into the stone driveway of his family’s deserted beach home, it is just the opposite.
“It’s only for the weekend,” he tells himself, or some shadow sitting in the passenger seat.
Inside the cottage, time stands still, like a museum. Or hell, depending. The faded walls, the seaside paintings, the musty furniture and framed photographs arranged on end tables, all pay homage to a family life. He sets two grocery bags on the kitchen table and plugs in the refrigerator. Opening the window over the kitchen sink, he sees the sandy pails and cluster of small fishing nets leaning against the outside shower enclosure. At low tides, he and his brother climbed over the exposed rock jetty, plucking mussels and snails from the damp stone surfaces. They cracked open the bait with a big rock and tied it on to their crabbing lines on the jetty and in the creek.
When he looks at the outside shower again, the pails and nets are gone.
Jason opens the cold water faucet and splashes a handful on his face. It seems so far away. Crabbing, swimming, hanging out at Foley’s, rowing through the lagoon in summers that were endless, behind marsh grass that beckoned, beneath sunlight that nourished and starlit skies that calmed, forging friendships and memories. His fingers feel the long scar above his jawline. Whether he irritated it shaving or if changes in the weather bring it on, he can’t be sure. But today the scar feels tender.
When he turns back into the living room, glass on the fireplace mantle catches his eye, the sharp slivers glittering on its brick hearth. If it hadn’t all happened, he wouldn’t have tired of seeing Neil in every sh
adow last fall, wouldn’t have flung his glass of scotch at the brick fireplace. He gets the dustpan from the broom closet now, sweeps up the mess and hears his father’s voice complaining about the injustice of it all, of Neil not being with them anymore at the beach.
“Just shut up,” Jason says under his breath. “Shut up or I’ll leave.”
But he never stays away for long; it is the only place he can find Neil now.
He picks up the phone and gets his sister’s answering machine. “Paige, when you talk to Mom, tell her the house made it through the winter fine. But the outside window trim is peeling. I’ll get someone to repaint it.” He pauses a few seconds in case she might be rushing in, maybe running inside from the clothesline or from picking up her kids at day camp. Maybe she’ll grab up the phone and talk a little. “Take care now,” he finally says, holding the receiver tight to his ear a moment longer before disconnecting.
Then Jason Barlow walks out back to the barn like he did all those years ago with his father and Neil, the breeze carrying echoes of his father’s low voice detailing his masonry craft and the work his hands did, building stone walls and patios and foundations. He swings open the barn doors and low golden sunlight sweeps into the dusty space. An old ladder hangs horizontally on high wall hooks. He lifts it down and finds a few spattered paint scrapers hanging with the hammers and screwdrivers and trowels on a wooden pegboard. With about an hour of daylight left, he has enough time to begin.
Chapter Three
Lights come on in the little shops outside, the morning gray with a lingering fog, its mist hovering low. It feels like Christmas, and Maris pictures twinkling lights strung along the storefronts and up the masts of the tall sailboats in the harbor. Elegant burgundy bows would hang from balsam wreaths, blowing in the snowy wind. Sitting in the diner’s window seat, her laptop opened on the table beside a plate of scrambled eggs and fresh coffee, the morning is easy and comfortable. Until she reaches for the velvet box, the one holding a solitaire diamond on a platinum band. Scott had tucked it right into her laptop case before mailing it all to her. In his note, he tells her she is right. She deserves to be engaged. And her world stops cold at the sight of the ring.
He wants her back, soon. He wants them married. He wants a honeymoon before she goes back to work at Saybrooks.
She reaches for her cell phone and dials his, leaving a voicemail. “The ring, Scott, it’s beautiful,” she begins as she straightens the loose band on her finger. “Well, we definitely have to talk. But I’m not sure when I’ll be back yet.” She looks at his note, at the list of things he wants, wants, wants. What about what she wants? Does she tell him that mornings spent pressing wallpaper samples against Eva’s walls and deciding on paint chips and having lunch outside on the deck all hold her back?
“It’s just that I’m helping Eva with a project, and I have to get Madison settled.”
How about what Madison wants? Does that count for anything? Does she mention all the driftwood the dog has stockpiled in a few days, carrying pieces back to the cottage from their walks along the high tide line, her tail finally swinging wide with happiness?
She is surprised at all she finds herself wanting here. Does she mention that coffee never tasted as sweet as it does on her front porch? And that she tucked tender seedlings into the flower boxes of the silver-shingled cottage she rented? Okay, it was on a whim, but still. The petunias reach skyward now, like nesting baby birds drinking in the nourishing late June sun. Sitting with her pastels and sketch pad, she’d sketched their deep azure color into her latest denim jacket design. And sleep. It comes so easy with a sea breeze moving in past the sheer curtains.
She pauses, thanks him again for the ring and disconnects. Then she slips the ring back into the velvet box, tucks it into her case along with the computer, grabs her check and walks up to the cash register. Customers sit at the counter stools; two cooks in white aprons work the kitchen, laughing and flipping bacon and eggs. This place is all about familiarity. She sets down her computer case when the waitress approaches, pulls her wallet from her purse, pays the tab and quickly leaves, feeling caught in a riptide between here and Chicago.
Jerry had wanted a boat all his life. He told everyone when he was a kid, When I grow up, I’m getting a boat. Then he did grow up and got married instead. After we buy a house, he told his wife, maybe I’ll get a boat. Then she got pregnant. Three times. When the kids get older, he said to his family. Maybe they’d like to have a boat, do a little fishing. After college, he would mention to Kyle, once their tuition’s been paid.
“You’ve got your boat,” Kyle told him years ago when he washed dishes at the diner. It isn’t necessary to die to go to heaven; Kyle Bradford finds heaven standing in front of the big stove, spatulas in hand, tending the eggs and bacon and home fries, sliding meals onto warm plates and turning the carousel for the next order. Cooking is his calling and his downfall, standing in the way of happiness and failure. A job at the diner can never support his family, so as much as he wants it, he can’t have his passion. “You’ve got a big shiny silver ship, with lots of friendly people on it,” Kyle told his boss back when he first worked there. That’s how much Kyle loves the diner, as much as Jerry would have loved a boat.
And that’s when Jerry changed the name of his diner to The Dockside. He added anchors and buoys to the décor and draped a big fishing net along one wall. Starfish and seashells dotted the net. At night, the new lanterns in the windows made the silver diner look like a ship out at sea.
Kyle glances over his shoulder as a woman leaves. Sometimes he wonders what life is like for his customers—if it is any better than his, when scrambling eggs and frying bacon to save his life, his wife is considering leaving him. He presses his arm to his damp forehead. When the diner door swings open a minute later, Kyle knows what this customer’s life is like. He saunters out from the kitchen, wiping his large hands on a dishtowel.
“Hey, Barlow,” he says as Jason takes a stool at the counter. “Haven’t seen you around lately. How’s it going, man?”
“Good. Busy, you know?” Jason asks. “How about yourself?”
“I’m hanging in there. Coffee?”
“To go, today. I’m pressed for time.” Jason sets his elbows on the counter, clasping his hands in front of his chin, his thumb reaching for his scar.
Kyle pours a steaming mug of black coffee and sets it in front of him along with a plain doughnut on a plate. “On the house. Let me tell the boss I’m taking five.” He heads back into the kitchen, returning with his own coffee, leaning against the counter across from Jason.
“Really, Kyle. I’m running late.” Jason starts to stand until Kyle waves him down.
“Take a minute. So how are you, Barlow? How’s the leg? Giving you any grief?”
“You ask me that every time I see you.”
“Listen. After what you’ve been through? Get used to it. I’ll always ask.”
“Okay, then. It’s fine, Kyle.” He breaks the doughnut and dunks a half into his coffee. “It’s fine.”
“Just checking. I was reading somewhere that the limb actually feels pain with changes in the weather.”
“It happens.”
“The article said something about fluctuations in air pressure and temperature bringing it on.”
“Okay, Doc. You’ve just about got my health covered today. You want to take my blood pressure while you’re at it?”
“Just saying.” Kyle sips his coffee.
“So, Jerry keeping you busy here again?”
“Yeah, cooking’s a good side gig. There was another layoff when they lost the submarine contract.”
“It’s tough, I know. Got any leads for work?”
Kyle shrugs. “Where you headed?”
“You won’t believe it.”
“Try me.”
“Gallaghers’.”
“Matt’s?”
“They’re back at Stony Point. Matt saw me scraping paint at my place. Stopped by a
nd had a beer.”
“No shit. Where they living? They buy a place there?”
“Eva’s parents sold them the house, and I guess Eva took over her mother’s old realty too. Now they want to move the walls around.”
“Damn. Lauren wants to maybe rent a cottage there this summer. She’ll be surprised to hear about Eva.”
“It’s late in the season, but she might have something.” Jason finishes the last of his coffee. “I’m drawing up plans to redesign the porch.” He stands for his wallet and picks up a leather computer case set on the floor against the counter. “Hey Kyle, someone left their merchandise here.”
“Kyle,” Jerry calls out from the stoves. “Let’s go.”
Kyle glances toward the busy kitchen, then turns back to Jason.
“Go ahead,” Jason says, setting the case on the counter. “I’ll take care of it.”
Back at the stoves, Kyle grabs three eggs in one hand and opens them on the griddle. What he didn’t tell Jason is that Lauren wants time apart this summer. A few weeks away at the shore. That maybe they can better sort things out separately. This round of unemployment rattled her bad and he can’t stop worrying about how to bring her to her senses.
Jason opens the black leather case and finds a business card holder neatly tucked inside. Gold letters inscribe the word Saybrooks. His thumb slips out one of the cards.
Blue Jeans and Coffee Beans Page 2
