Blue Jeans and Coffee Beans

by DeMaio, Joanne

  “It’s not. One of the beach guards called me. Nick. He caught Taylor and her friends vandalizing.”

  “What?” Eva asks. “She’s at soccer with Alison.”

  Matt shakes his head no. “She lied, there’s no soccer today. She and Alison were with a couple boys spray painting a fish or dragon or something on the big boulder up at Little Beach.”

  “Taylor was?” Maris asks.

  “All of them guilty as charged,” Matt answers, grabbing a red plum from the fridge.

  “Oh, those little shits,” Eva says. “Where is she?”

  “Calm down,” Matt tells her. “She’s upstairs and knows damn well she’s screwed.”

  “And so grounded,” Eva adds.

  “Evangeline.” Matt looks long at her while polishing the plum on his shirt. “Like we never horsed around on the beach?”

  “Not really. At least not doing any harm to anything.”

  “What do you call stealing that boat?” Matt asks, sitting across from them at the table. “They’re just being kids. So go easy on her, okay?”

  “Wait,” Maris interrupts. “What did you call her?”

  Matt bites into the juicy plum. “Call who?”

  “Eva.”

  “Evangeline,” he says around a mouthful.

  “That’s my name,” Eva says, standing and turning on the oven. “Ooh, I’m so mad at Tay.”

  “It’s beautiful. I never knew that was your name.”

  “I used to hate it. Eva I liked, but Evangeline?” She sets a few eggplants on the counter and looks up at the ceiling toward Taylor’s room. “I thought it sounded so old.”

  “Evangeline,” Maris says under her breath.

  “I’ll deal with Taylor later,” Eva says then. “We’ve got to get the eggplant parmigiana ready for Monday. And shoot. I just remembered I have to show a house today.”

  “What’s Monday?” Matt asks.

  “Girls’ night out with my friend here, and Lauren too. Dinner and a little fun diversion.”

  “A diversion? Like what?” Maris asks.

  “I listed a property yesterday. Foley’s old place.”

  “You’re kidding. You went inside? How’d it look?”

  “Musty. No one’s used it for a few summers.” Eva pulls a bowl and large plate from the kitchen cabinet. “The back room looks exactly the same, stuck in another era. Well. Stuck in our era.”

  “Is the jukebox still there?” Matt asks.

  “Sure is.” She grabs a couple eggs from the fridge. “And that’s our diversion. A girls’ night out at Foley’s.”

  Matt leans back and takes another bite of the plum, watching her closely. “Eva. Do you really think it’s a good idea breaking in there? Talk about rebellious.”

  “I’m not breaking in. I have the lockbox combo,” she says, washing the eggplant at the sink. “And the owners live in New York. They won’t even know.”

  Matt looks from Maris to Eva and shakes his head. “It’s not a good idea to be browsing in cottages you list. I don’t like it.”

  “Oh, I just like to look around a little. No harm done, Officer.”

  “But it’s not ethical, and some day you’ll get caught.”

  “You’re such a party pooper. We’ll just stay a few minutes. Maybe listen to a couple tunes.”

  “Leave me out of this one.” He stands with his plum and grabs a hardware store bag from the counter. “I’m headed back to Barlow’s. He’ll never get that barn done with the antiques he’s using.” He walks out through the front porch, calling back “I’ll grab a grinder for dinner. Behave yourselves!”

  Eva rolls her eyes. “Peeling paint’s the best thing that’s happened to Matt. It turns off the cop in him. Must be some kind of tool phenomenon.”

  “Well, Eva. Matt is right about snooping around in other people’s cottages. You’re oddly fascinated by places that aren’t yours.”

  “Do you know what he told me the other day? That it’s my subconscious way of still searching for my birth mother. Like it’s in me, this need to dig and find answers.”

  “Maybe he’s right. You’re checking everywhere you possibly can to find anything.”

  “To find my mother, you mean.”

  “I guess. Or some hint of her, in some way.”

  “What a pair we are. I’m searching and you’re running away.”

  “Running away?”

  “It seems it, sometimes. From Scott.” She gets a chunk of Parmesan from the refrigerator and sets it on the table for Maris to grate. “I mean, I know he gave you a diamond, but here you are a thousand miles away from him? Going out for clam dinners with Jason?”

  “That was nothing, really. We just ran into each other and ended up getting something to eat. That’s it. Well, kind of. Until the carousel happened.”

  “The what? When? A carousel? We so need to talk, with a dude like that interested in you and you denying it. But I’ve really got to deal with Taylor now.” She stops and looks at her watch. “And I have to show a house at four-thirty. So after dinner Monday, when I’ll have to unground Taylor so she and Alison can babysit Lauren’s kids, we’re definitely taking a walk to Foley’s. A little girl talk and a little beach magic will work wonders to clear your thoughts. You know. Salt air, it cures what ails you.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Now this house has the granite countertops you wanted,” Eva says as she walks the couple through a family room that opens onto a large kitchen.

  “The appliances are white, though. We really wanted stainless,” Nancy says, sounding disappointed.

  “Well there’s good news and bad there. You can have stainless, which is good, because the current owners are taking these appliances with them to their new place. Which is bad, because you’ll have to buy new appliances.”

  “But that’s negotiable then, in the price of the house?” Russ asks.

  “Everything’s negotiable.” Eva leans against the counter, enjoying the central air conditioning while the couple opens and closes cabinets and drawers. “We can work the price of appliances into the offer. And take a look out your kitchen window there. The marsh is right out back, so you’ve got gorgeous views. Why don’t you go out and see the yard, talk about the house, and I’ll write up any questions you have for the owners.”

  With the couple outdoors and the house quiet, Eva walks back into the family room, drawn to the builtin shelves on the side wall. All sorts of books spill from them, children’s books and novels and memoirs. She thinks you can glimpse a family’s life by the inscriptions in those books, and pulls out a couple of novels, opening the covers and skimming the pages before setting them precisely back in place. While turning away, a blue cover with gold print catches her eye, an old, illustrated Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. The pictures inside are pen and ink drawings done with fine detail, the Cheshire Cat and Queen of Hearts and Alice, too. She studies a picture of Alice holding aside a curtain to the rabbit hole door that opens to a garden far beyond, then flips to the inside cover and reads the inscription, running her fingers gently over the words: To my daughter, Wishing you beautiful wonders this year. Happy Eighth Birthday! I love you … Mom

  Suddenly Nancy and Russ are walking back inside the kitchen, excited to write up an offer on the house and submit it as soon as possible. “We want to get the kids settled in before the school year begins,” Nancy tells her.

  That’s always the way. When clients are serious about buying, they make it happen fast. The couple walks through the house to the front door, Nancy already talking out her decorating ideas while Eva puts the key in the lockbox. “Why don’t you follow me back to my place,” Eva suggests. “I’ve got the contracts in my office, and we can fax over the offer to the listing agent.”

  “Perfect,” Russ says. “But aren’t you forgetting something?”

  “I am?” Eva asks.

  He points to the book she holds in the same hand as her purse. “You were reading that when we came inside. In the fam
ily room.”

  Eva looks down at the book. “Oh gosh, you’re right! I was so distracted with the thought of putting in your offer. Let me put this where it belongs.” She turns around and opens up the lockbox and front door again. “Back in a flash!”

  Inside, the house seems even quieter now. It doesn’t help that her own heart races when she leans back against the closed front door. Her face perspires and her hands are shaking. All it will take is a minute or two for them to believe her, to think she walked through the house that is soon to be theirs and returned the book to its rightful place on the shelf. Instead she opens her large purse and tucks the book carefully inside, then goes back outdoors into the bright sunshine.

  Jason decides to keep the barn’s natural wood ceiling details. “Look, it’s got that steep pitch, and you can see the beams in its structure, with those lower cross beams for support. I like it, but it might be a little too rustic.”

  “Hey,” his brother answers. “Rustic works. It’s got character, man.”

  The power sander Jason uses on the rear wall takes off the old paint, leaving exposed wood. The motor of the sander strains as he moves it over a rough patch, going over and over it in a circular motion to wear the finish smooth.

  “It’s dark, though,” Jason says as he continues to sand. His goggles are coated with dust. “Tough light to work in. That’s why I thought about sheetrocking over some of the walls.”

  “What? Are you crazy? Sheetrock?”

  “Why not?” Jason pulls off his goggles and blows the dust off of them, taking a short walk back and forth to keep comfortable standing for so long.

  “You’ll cover the beauty of the place. There’s history in those old beams. Come on,” Neil insists. “You’re going all wussie on me, white walls.”

  “Fuck you,” Jason answers when he leans down and blasts the sander on a lower part of the wall. He works in the loft part of the barn, having hauled his sander and scrapers up the stairs to the rear wall. A long extension cord snakes through the railing down to an outlet below, and the noise from the commercial grade sander is enough to wear ear protection. But he thinks that might block out Neil, too, so he doesn’t.

  A few minutes pass, and nothing. No word from his brother. He keeps the sander moving in a circular motion and then hears Matt down below turn on the boom box radio that’s sat on a shelf for the past ten years. Some classic rock anthem fills the space like they are in a concert arena.

  “What? Did I offend you?” Jason asks. He stops and drags his hand through his dusty hair.

  “Huh,” Neil answers when Matt starts up his sander again. “Takes more than a two-bit cuss to scare me off.”

  The scream of a random guitar riff competes with the scream of the power sanders, so much so that Jason can’t tell one from the other.

  “You need light,” Neil suggests.

  “What?”

  “Light, man. Clean up this wood to brighten it and get lots of light.”

  Jason uses both hands to work on the wall near the corner. “Like hanging lamps, from the beams?”

  “You’ve gone dense, bro.”

  He stops his sander and the dj on the radio rattles on about some summer concert series at a pavilion the next town over. His voice echoes in the vast emptiness of the barn.

  “See that wall there?”

  Jason lifts off his goggles. “Where Matt’s working? It’s got all my good shelves on it.”

  “No, guy. The other one. The one with all the vines growing up it on the outside. Which, I’m just saying, ain’t looking too sweet.”

  “Hey, Neil. I only have two hands. And one leg for God’s sake. Give me a break. So what, you want illumination on the wall?”

  “Like shit I do. I want windows. Floor to ceiling, right to left. Make it a wall of freakin’ glass. You’ll have all the light you’ll ever need.”

  Jason walks over to the loft railing and looks out over the barn, studying the wall from top to bottom. It isn’t a bad idea. An old hooked rug hangs over the railing, and below, a metal file cabinet and ancient table saw sit in the middle of the room, waiting to be tossed. Scrap pieces of wood and a stack of grimy bricks accumulate near the door, a junk pile he and Matt built as they moved through the barn. He opens the beer he’d brought along and takes a long swallow, then wipes his arm across his forehead and glances up at the ceiling. “I’ve got an idea.” He downs his beer while thinking about it, then picks up his sander and finishes the far wall. Dust floats everywhere, paint and wood particles dancing in the bit of sunlight coming in, glinting like gold dust.

  “Let’s have it,” Neil says, waiting. “You’re the boss.”

  “Skylights. Two big ones.” He keeps the sander whirring in a large circular motion and pictures the sun streaming in through the ceiling, rays of it moving across the space with the passing hours of the day. “It’ll be perfect.”

  “What?”

  “It’ll be great, give the place a different look, you know?” he shouts over the sander motor.

  “You all right, Barlow?”

  Jason spins around to see Matt standing near the top of the stairs to the loft, the enormous stuffed and mounted moose head balancing on the top step. “Yeah, why?” He sets down the sander and takes off his goggles, wiping his face off with a dirty rag.

  “I asked you what you wanted to do with this moose and you say it’ll be great? The dust up here must be getting to you.”

  “Shit,” Jason answers without saying that he can’t believe Matt heard him talking to his dead brother. “I heard you wrong, man. But you know, that thing does have a certain rustic charm. Remember when we all swiped it from Foley’s, after it closed down?”

  “I remember. And if you think this ratty thing’s rustic, you need some ventilation up here,” Matt says, turning and sitting on the step then, surmising the barn interior. “And what about your leg? All this dust and mess can’t be good for it.”

  Jason pushes his goggles up on his head and leans on the railing. “It’s not. After I screwed it up hauling Kyle out of the water, I invested in a few good leg covers. After my prosthetist fixed up the damage. I didn’t need the salt water ruining any of the components, and that night really did a number on it.” He shows Matt the black cover protecting the limb from the dust. “But I’m good to go now.”

  “That was a crazy night, definitely. Too bad you had to mess around with your leg.”

  “No shit.”

  “All right, then. Is this moose good to go, too?”

  “No, I’m not sure yet. Don’t throw it out.”

  Matt picks up the moose head and hauls it back down the stairs. “You’re the boss,” he says.

  Late that night, the clear chime of the doorbell wakes Maris. She sits up in the dark and listens. The clock on the bedside table glows 3:30 when she reaches over and switches on the lamp. Something is wrong.

  It can only be Eva and Matt; there must be some sort of emergency. Surely Scott hasn’t travelled here from Chicago. So she moves quickly, wrapping her robe around her. The yellow light from the bedroom throws a faint cloud of illumination down the stairs to the foyer. Madison shifts position on the cool kitchen floor and Maris’ heart leaps at the sound. She doesn’t turn on the front hall light, not wanting to light up the house before she knows who might be standing outside.

  But something feels off and she stops. Outside, there are no car engines running, no voices talking, no movements detected. Her hand skims along the wall near the porch door until it comes upon the switch for the outside light. She snaps it on and that is when she remembers the house doesn’t have a doorbell. It is a summer cottage with a brass lighthouse doorknocker and casual screen door. At these beach places, friends just call out for you through the screen, wanting to take a walk or share a cup of coffee on the porch.

  Looking out at the night, it would be easy to be spooked by it all. As real as it sounded, no doorbell rang. No one stands there, outside. There is only a curtain of black, laced wit
h the silver fog of early morning.

  But somehow, she isn’t spooked. Instead, she thinks of her mother and steps outside barefoot, standing in the damp grass. The idea of her mother feels like the wisps of fog floating over the dewy grass. Gentle, safe, reassuring. She finds her mother in her life this way. Because who’s to say some essence of her doesn’t linger at the place she loved so much? That’s another reason Maris lingers here at the sea.

  After a few quiet moments, she returns to the dark porch, sits in a painted, straight chair near the door and wraps her arms around herself. A stand of decorative wooden herons seems to gaze sidelong at her, waiting with her. Waiting to know some truth. The doorbell sounded so real. That happens sometimes, memories and sounds and images come to her crystal clear. The problem is, she doesn’t know where they come from.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Lauren knows what it feels like to have a wave wash over her. The force of the swell stays with her, becomes a part of her even. Because she learns from it instantly. She learns not to resist it and face its force, but instead to move with it, to become a part of its motion until it eventually releases her. There’s really no beating it, no escaping it, once she’s caught in that wave’s path anyway. She’s not fast enough, or soon enough, or strong enough, to do so. Once the wave is upon her, that’s it. She goes with it, and becomes a part of it.

  When she waded into the sea water earlier today, standing only ankle deep, the tug was there, pulling at her feet, luring her closer, leading her to step deeper, then deeper until she stood waist high in the salt water, the ever-present undertow pulling more at her body the deeper she went. But the thing about an undertow is that it begins with those waves, which have rolled ashore and broken on the beach. The wave comes first, then the undertow returns the water back to the sea, beneath the surface of the successive waves. Always. It never stops.

  So sometimes she stops it her own way, at least for a while. She pulls one bottle of gin and one of tonic water from her straw beach tote and sets it on the old table at Foley’s.