by Marian Vere
With that, she disappears before my eyes into a cloud of dingy gray smoke. In the same moment I hear the door behind me groan, and I spin around to find Nick standing in the open doorway.
“Oh,” he says, surprised and little embarrassed. “I didn’t think anyone would be in here.”
I can only gape at him, frozen in place. Somewhere in the back of my mind a little voice yells at me to speak up and say something—anything. The rest of my body, however, refuses to comply.
After a few more awkward moments he says, “Goodnight,” and turns back into the hall, closing the door behind him.
The sound of lazy applause coming from behind me pulls me out of my stupor. I turn, tearing my eyes from the door, to see the old woman sitting in one of the oversized armchairs on the other side of the room. She stands and walks toward me, still clapping a slow, mocking rhythm.
“Bravo,” she says. “I have never heard such a heartfelt speech. How does he keep his hands off you?”
My cheeks flush in embarrassment. “It was too sudden. I wasn’t ready,” I snap, not able to meet her eyes.
“Right. I’m sure if I’d have warned you, it would have gone much differently.”
Her patronizing sarcasm makes my eyes sting, but I refuse to give her the satisfaction of seeing me cry. “I—I just,” I say, trying to swallow the lump in my throat.
“You just, you just, you just. You just need a second chance, you just need some time alone with him, you just need some warning.” She stalks toward me, and I step back until I’m up against the wall. “I’ll tell you what you just. You just want someone else to blame, you just want someone else to swoop in and solve all your problems, you just want to reserve the right to bitch and moan about everything you are too scared to try to change—”
“Stop it.”
She continues as though I hadn’t spoken, “That is why nothing will ever change for you—”
“Stop it!”
“That is why you will never truly be happy again—”
“Stop!”
“And that is why you will die miserable—”
“Stop it!”
“And alone!”
“STOP IT!”
My eyes fly open, and I find myself looking up at the ceiling over my bed. My heart pounds, my blankets are balled up in my fists, and the magazine lies open on my chest. I toss it on the bedside table and roll over with a huff.
Two more days, seven hours, and twenty-seven minutes to go…
8
SUNDAY DAWNS WITH THE PROMISE of a clear, beautiful day.
Outside.
In my room, however, you’d think a hurricane had struck. Work files are strewn over my desk; there are water bottles on the floor, a tipped-over bottle of aspirin on the bedside table, an empty plate and cereal bowl on the dresser, and a bed totally in shambles. All products of one of the worst nights ever.
Yesterday had been a disaster. Oh sure, the work aspects of the day were fine; all the inspections had gone smoothly. It was the rest of the day that was hell. I had to suffer through three meals and two hours of after dinner socializing, all the while enjoying a front row seat in America’s New Cutest Couple, starring Bree and Nick. All day long the two of them were talking and touching and giggling, while I did all I could to keep from screaming.
On top of that, the one portion of the day that shaped up to be tolerably pleasant ended up ruined. It was after dinner, and Nick had suggested we all play a card game. The one he suggested was called Spoons, basically musical chairs with cards and silverware. Everyone sits around a table, passing cards counter clockwise—as quickly as possible—trying to be the first to collect four of a kind. When you get your four, you grab a spoon from the center of the table. Once the first person claims their spoon, everyone else must grab one of the remaining ones, but there’s always one fewer spoon than there are players. If you don’t get a spoon, you’re out. It’s a fast, rowdy game that I wasn’t particularly in the mood for. Chris seemed to share my opinion, so the two of us decided to take the spare set of cards and play Rummy over in the corner. The Spoons war raged across the room and resulted in a torn shirt, several bent spoons, and one snapped clean in half, while Chris and I sat, played, and talked, having an all-around nice time.
It didn’t last. At one point, I felt the need to look over at the other table. Everyone except Nick was absorbed in the game. He was looking over at our table, but not just pleasantly glancing, mind you. He was glaring to the point where my skin started to crawl, and my hands got all sweaty. What the hell had we done? So we didn’t want to play his stupid game, was it really that big of a deal? I suddenly felt so uncomfortable, I had to fight the urge to run out of the room. I turned back toward Chris and resumed our game, making absolutely sure not to look over to the other table for the rest of the evening.
The only remotely enjoyable part of the day was seeing Susan’s car parked by the estate garage. I had called her the night before, after speaking with Margaret, and told her that taking the time off wouldn’t be a problem—in fact, Margaret seemed even more excited than I was. You know you work too much when even your boss is thrilled you finally want some time off. I told her Susan was planning on joining her at the ranch if it was still all right. She said that of course it was and the easiest thing to do would be to drop off her car for me on their way out today. Seeing it sitting there, ready and waiting for me, was a happy little reminder that this would all be over soon.
I had gone to bed that night and tried to sleep, worried that my dreams would once again be haunted by the “anti-godmother.” However, the images my mind seemed to be stuck on were of a far more real and disturbing nature: a happy, flirty, Bree and Nick. Every look, every touch, every laugh the two had shared that day replayed itself over and over again in my head. What’s worse, the harder I tried to picture something else, the clearer and more detailed my imagination became. I could actually see Mr. and Mrs. Nick and Bree Kerkley living happily ever after in this gorgeous house, with their ten blond-haired, blue-eyed kids, smiling, playing, and riding off into the sunset. I’ve never been so nauseated by such a pretty picture.
So I gave up on sleep altogether and spent the rest of the night trying to occupy my mind in any way I could. Somewhere during the early morning hours—after 4:08, because that’s the last time I remember consciously looking at the clock—I passed out into a thankfully dreamless semi-coma.
And now it’s eight a.m., we’re leaving for the beach in a half hour, and I can barely move. This day is going to be hell. Much worse than yesterday anyway, because I won’t even have work to distract me. I’m heading straight into a nonstop beachside Nick and Bree flirt-a-palooza.
I hope someone brings alcohol.
Somehow I drag my ass out of bed, get ready, pop two more aspirin, and lumber downstairs to meet that evil, harpy bitch called karma.
Two hours later, we arrive at Sand Beach in Acadia National Park. The beach itself is tiny, less than a quarter mile long, but it is the most beautiful beach I have ever seen. White sand with rolling waves and rocky cliffs—it’s like a piece of heaven. It’s mid-September, which puts us a few weeks past tourist season, so it seems we’ll have it pretty much all to ourselves. There is only one other person in sight, and he’s on the far side near the cliffs, fishing in the calmer waters. The sky is as clear as I’ve seen in a long time, and the sun is warm without being overly bright. The water looks warm, and the air is perfect.
I take a deep breath and look out over the horizon. Maybe today won’t be so bad. I can enjoy the scenery, take a nap, maybe talk with Chris for a while. As long as I can find some way to studiously ignore the flirt-fest, maybe I can make myself enjoy this.
“Oh my gosh, it’s beautiful!” Bree says, coming up behind me and resting an arm across my shoulders.
“It really is.”
“So, are you okay?” she asks, concern thick in her voice. “You’ve seemed down the past few days. This really isn’t your sort of thing, is it?”
>
What? Watching my ex-fiancé, who I am still madly in love with, flirt and fawn all over you? No, not my thing.
Obviously I can’t say that, nor do I even want to imply that this is her fault, so I simply say, “Not really.”
“Yeah, it’s pretty easy to see.”
“It is?” I’m suddenly worried. Miserable as I am, I’ve been doing my best to make sure no one else knew about it. I guess I’m not doing such a great job.
“Oh, don’t worry,” she says, feeling my shoulders stiffen. “I’m sure no one else has noticed. I meant it’s easy for me to see.”
“Good.”
She makes a sympathetically sad face and brings her other arm up, hugging me from behind. I know she has no idea what is actually going on, but at the same time, it feels like she really understands. I want so badly to be able to talk to her the way I did with Susan. It would be so nice to have someone here with me who knows what I’m going through. I always tell Bree everything, and if it were anything else I could—but not this.
After another moment she lets me go, and we walk back to the cars and help Margaret and Cathy carry all the towels and bags down to the beach. The men follow with the coolers, food, and anything else deemed heavy. We set up our little camp as close to the water as we can without having to worry about the tide or larger waves. I spread out my towel and start to set up my own area.
“Anyone up for a swim before we eat?” Nick asks the group, as we all organize our stuff.
“I am!” Bree says without hesitation, taking off her cover dress. Chris, Rob, and Derek join too, and all the guys start to pull off their shirts. I drop my eyes to the towel below me, praying I don’t blush, while realizing how depressingly juvenile it is that I even need to worry about it. The five of them head down to the water, leaving Margaret, Cathy, and I to relax.
I lie back on my towel and watch them. Bree looks incredible, as always—and in a one piece no less! She doesn’t even need a bikini to turn heads. Good thing she didn’t wear her two piece, or the men may not have been able to function. I watch Bree and Nick walking side by side. Nick leans in to hear something Bree says, placing a hand on the small of her back. They step into the water, which is apparently much colder than it looks—there are some shocked faces as they get their feet wet. Finally, I see Nick reach out and take Bree’s hand and lead her in behind him.
I shut my eyes and let a stream of profanities run through my mind, directed both at me for deliberately watching the two of them, and at Nick and Bree for being so disgustingly perfect! Really, I think that might be what bothers me the most—the fact that they are absolutely perfect for each other. Suddenly, without a conscious command for my brain to do so, I picture Bree falling in a sand pit, being sucked out to sea, and a number of other disturbing images.
My God, my imagination is actually trying to kill her? What is wrong with me?
She’s one of the nicest people on earth, not to mention one of my best friends, and here I am subconsciously wishing a spontaneous shark attack on her! Well, that settles it—I am definitely going to hell.
“So,” Cathy says quietly, leaning in toward Margaret, “I see my brother has taken a liking to your girl.”
“Yes, I noticed the same thing. You don’t mind, do you? I can certainly tell her to stay away if you would rather…”
“Oh no! Not at all,” Cathy insists. “I’m thrilled. It’s nice to see him interested in someone again.”
“Again? An attractive, sweet boy like that? I would have thought he had women lined up just waiting.”
Cathy chuckles. “You would think, but no. Actually, it’s sad. He had a terrible break up a while back, and I don’t think he’s dated much since.”
Oh no.
I stare down at the towel, pretending not to hear them.
“Really?” Margaret says, sounding genuinely upset. “Oh, that’s a shame.”
“It was back when he lived in New York the first time, oh, eight years ago now I guess. He met someone, they dated for about three months or so, and he told me he wanted to marry her.”
My heart is thumping so hard in my chest that my vision actually pulses. I can’t just sit here; I have to do something. I turn around and focus my attention on the picnic bags behind us, and start unpacking and organizing them. At least this way if I start crying they won’t see.
“The next thing I hear,” Cathy continues, “is that they are engaged, and he is on top of the world.”
I go through the bags, trying to ignore the lump in my throat.
Oil and vinegar go with the salad; ketchup and mustard go with the buns…
“Then, out of the blue, a few days later he comes to stay with me. He says the wedding is off, he canceled the lease on his apartment, and that he is moving to London! He left the end of that week.”
Ice tongs in the cooler…
“What happened between them?” Margaret asks.
“I don’t know. He wouldn’t talk about it. All I could get from him was that she called it off and didn’t want to see him anymore.”
“Oh my.”
Serving spoons with the dishes…
“He was devastated! The few days he was with me he wouldn’t talk, he wouldn’t eat, and he spent most of his time alone in his room. I was scared to death; I had never seen him like that before.”
I tried to read the bottle in my hand through the tears in my eyes.
“Oh, the poor thing. He must have really loved her.”
“He did.”
“Well, maybe it will all turn out for the best.”
“I hope so. Though I can tell you there is nothing I’d like more than to give that girl a piece of my mind.”
I want to run away. I want to run all the way back to my apartment, lock the door, and never come out again. Do I need this? Really? Am I seriously not feeling bad enough?
Sensing the conversation has ended, I blink several times to clear away the tears so I can turn back around. I lie down on my towel and close my eyes. Maybe I can sleep this day away. Or maybe I’m already asleep and this is all just some ridiculous nightmare. I know the odds are pretty slim, but hey, a girl can dream.
I do doze off for a while until Margaret’s sudden shout jerks me awake.
“Oh!” she cries, pointing out toward the water.
Nick is carrying a limp and very pale Bree.
Oh dear God, my shark fantasy! I killed her!
We run down to the water, and are joined by Derek and Chris, with Rob pulling up the rear. As soon as Nick lays Bree down on the sand, everyone starts loudly talking over each other.
“What happened?”
“Is she breathing?”
“What do we do?”
“Does anyone know CPR?”
“Was she pulled under?”
“Can’t she swim?”
“Nick, what happened?”
Nick hears this last question and attempts to answer, though he is out of breath and almost beside himself. “I don’t know! She said something cut her, then she started wheezing, and couldn’t stand…”
Cut her? I look her over for blood and don’t find any. What I do find are red welts in a vein-like pattern up the front the side of her right leg. I recognize it immediately: jellyfish sting. Her trouble breathing must mean she’s having a reaction to the venom.
Not as bad as a shark, but still…
I turn and run back to our camp, trying to think. Lisa was stung once when we were kids, and my dad had used his shaving cream on it. I know nobody brought shaving cream with them today, but I remember the doctor saying something about vinegar.
I take the vinegar and the ice tongs from the cooler, grab the first wallet and cell phone I see, and run back down the beach, dialing 9-1-1. As it rings, I find it odd that no one else has thought to call an ambulance. Everyone is still grouped around Bree, yelling over each other, panicking, calling her name, and a slew of other things that aren’t going to help in the least.
“9-1-1,
what is your emergency?” a man on the other line says. However, I reach the group and can barely hear him over the racket.
“Can everyone keep it down for a minute?”
No one hears me.
“QUIET!” I shout, in no mood to be polite. Everyone is instantly silent and staring at me in shock. “Yes,” I say into the phone, “I am at Sand Beach, and I have a woman who has been stung by a jellyfish. She seems to be having a reaction. We are going to need an ambulance.”
“Is she conscious?”
“No.” I open the vinegar and pour it over the sting as I talk.
“How is her breathing?”
“Labored but audible.”
“And what is your location? Are you near the road or on the beach?”
“We will be at the road,” I tell him, knowing it would be best for the paramedics.
“All right, we have called it in. An ambulance is on the way.”
“Thank you.”
As I hang up, I look around and see everyone still staring at me, stuck in some sort of stupor. I realize if anything is going to get done, I’m going to need to start giving orders.
“Derek, Chris, Cathy, go pack everything up. Margaret, go and open the backseat of the car and clear out anything that is in there. Nick, Rob, when Margaret’s done, you carry Bree up and lay her in the back of the car. Make sure you don’t touch her leg.”
Everyone obeys immediately and without question. While we wait for Margaret to prepare the car, I take the tongs and begin removing the tentacles from Bree’s leg. The vinegar seems to have done its job, and they come off easily. When that’s done, I scrape over the sting with a credit card—hence the wallet—to make sure it is totally clean. As soon as I finish, I look up and see Margaret waving us up to the car.
I glance over at Nick, expecting him and Rob to already be lifting her, but he’s looking at me with a strange expression in his eyes. Appreciation? Admiration? Whatever it is, it knocks the wind out of me, and had the situation been different, I would be blushing like crazy. However, this is about helping Bree—not impressing Nick. I simply nod in her direction, which seems to snap him out of his train of thought, and he and Rob begin to pick her up.
