A Week at the Shore

by Barbara Delinsky

  He startles me by reaching for my hand. He had held it from the dock to the house, but he isn’t leading me now. He wants the comfort that a link between us brings. I can’t fight that.

  “Nah,” he confesses, watching the weave of our fingers. His skin is warm, fingers dwarfing mine in the old protective way. “You’re right. Likely before they were married. Not after.”

  It’s definitely a concession. Way back when, he wouldn’t admit to even the slightest chance that my father was anything but the devil incarnate.

  We let it sit. After a minute, I squeeze his hand and pull mine free. Passing Guy, who is asleep under the desk, I approach the sleek sofa on the far side of the room, fold my arms, and study the wall. A modern oil hangs there, but I can’t figure out what it is. “A seascape?”

  “They say.”

  “Remember what used to be here?”

  He is beside me now, staring at the wall as I am. “Yup. A real seascape. Painted by Dante Bowen.”

  “Local artist.”

  “Lots of color and emotion.”

  I look up at him. “What did you do with it?”

  “It’s in the attic. I couldn’t give it away. Couldn’t give any of them away. They’re part of my childhood.” I expect sarcasm, but hear only sadness. He’s thinking it’s the best part, and how pathetic it is that a piece of art should be that.

  Feeling the aloneness that always haunted him, I slip an arm through his. “Joy loved seeing the family pictures climbing our stairs. Remember? Your mom took them.”

  He smiles crookedly. “Oh yeah.”

  “They tell a story, the psychology of photography and all.” I was always on that farthest end from my father. Always. “So what was my father’s role in what happened that night?” I ask, knowing that Jack will follow my thoughts. “If Elizabeth was guilty of something, did he know? If she deliberately jumped off the boat, did he know she planned to do it?”

  “An accessory?” Jack asks with a sad-eyed look.

  I move my head enough to confirm. “You could say.”

  “I can’t. He can. Will he?”

  “Talk? I don’t know.”

  “Guess.”

  I want to punt. In spite of everything, I do feel a loyalty to Tom Aldiss. Sure, Jack has granted him a reprieve from being the bad guy. But if he is trusting me with his worst fears about his mother, I have to do the same. “He mentioned guilt. He said that was why she left. He said they had a pact not to tell.”

  “Pact.”

  “But was it with your mother or mine? He goes in and out, Jack—is lucid one minute and not the next. The upside of his being lucid is he’ll remember what happened on the boat. The downside is he’ll remember a pact and won’t talk. If he’s half-confused, he might.”

  “How can you make him half-confused?” Jack asks with only the smallest quirk of his lips.

  “By badgering him. When he gets flustered, he gets confused. I hate to do it.” I put my heart in my eyes. “He’s an old man, Jack. He knows what’s happening to him, and he isn’t happy.” When Jack opens his mouth, I say, “I know, I know. What he’s keeping secret is making everyone else un-happy. But it’s hard for me.”

  “Could the police do it?” he asks, and while I hear compassion, the worst of memory drowns it out. It isn’t just the police. Where the police go, the media follow, and while there were no lies in what they printed, they were painful to read. Those pieces were speculative, asking questions we were asking ourselves. Unfortunately, what the media speculated about went public.

  I don’t want that again.

  Slipping my arm free, I turn and look around the room. The books help, with their colorful mix of hard and soft covers. Spines of the latter are cracked multiple times—and there’s another one in the shadow of the angular sofa arm, open and face down, an active one, for sure. Neither of Jack’s parents were readers, and I can’t imagine the wife doing this much reading in the short time she was here, which means the books are his, which is interesting. He never used to read. Teenage rebellion prohibited reading as an art form. If he does it now, I’m guessing loneliness drives him to it. Either that, or maturity, neither of which have to do with the décor here, I decide and refocus on that.

  Even aside from the Dante Bowen original, I miss the way this house used to be—miss the big furniture, the colorful pillows, the sense of time and place and purpose. Sure, my condo in New York has the same modern feel as this. But that’s New York, where the chaos of life outside demands simplicity inside. Here on the bluff, it isn’t a matter of chaos and simplicity, but survival. The ocean is beyond our control. The counterpoint is softness, comfort, and warmth.

  Feeling a chill, I wander into the hall. The dining room, straight ahead, is more of the cool modern that Jack’s wife apparently liked.

  Coming up from behind, Jack is quiet. “She never understood this place. She wanted to make it into somewhere else.”

  “Didn’t she know what she was marrying into?”

  “She thought she could change it.”

  How can you stand it? I want to ask, but stark negativity isn’t my style. Instead, I look back at him in sympathy.

  “You think I’m not changeable,” he says.

  “It’s not that. You can change. But this is so…” I look around in despair.

  “… not me. Is it you?”

  He’s asking about my life in New York, and New York is home to me now. But home can be where you spend your time, which is different from where you come from and who you are. Here in Bay Bluff, no. This isn’t me.

  I place my hand on the newel post, which is square to our round. Similarly, the banister has a blocky feel, but then, everything about this house is more angular than ours, from those square turrets on down. Still, the memories I have of being in this house aren’t edgy. Despite everything that happened at the end, my memories here are soft and warm, even hot. There were times, when Jack’s parents were away, that he and I spent hours in his room. Making love in a bed was a luxury. Having a mattress beneath us was a far cry from doing it on the beach at night or, worse, in a hidden cave. We couldn’t go to a motel. We didn’t dare. We tried to cushion ourselves with towels, but dry sand was everywhere, wet sand was clammy, and caves? Caves are stone, and stone is unforgiving.

  Not Jack’s bed, though. His bed was wonderful.

  “I’ve missed you,” he whispers, so close that I feel the heat of his body. Without conscious intent, I lean back into it. Jack always had a wild smell to him—part attitude, part life at the edge of the sea, part innate essence. It circles me now, right along with his arms at my waist. When he kisses my neck, I think to move away but can’t. The breath that follows the kiss is against my cheek, the voice deep and hoarse. “My old room is the same. I wouldn’t let her touch it. Come up with me.”

  “I can’t,” I whisper.

  “Not even a quickie?”

  “Please no, Jack.”

  “We could forget about all this, just go with it, just get lost in each other like we used to.”

  Slowly, I shake my head.

  “When we make love,” he persists, “I forget everything else. Don’t you ever want that again?”

  “Yes, but we’re adults now. Sex for the sake of sex doesn’t work for me anymore. It has to mean more. It has to lead somewhere.”

  “It could,” he says.

  I tell myself to move away. All I do, though, is shake my head again.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I can’t have that and then leave, and my life isn’t here.”

  “You’d leave me again?”

  It’s such a needy male comment that I want to laugh. Except, nothing here is funny, and answering this remark would take hours. It would ruin the moment, and I’m not ready for that. His hands are stroking my waist now, thumbs teasing. And I’m aching as I haven’t with any other man.

  Reaching behind, I circle his neck, then, when I feel his hands full-on me, I whisper his name. And do I ever know
where this will lead if I don’t stop soon? Turning in his arms, I grab that gorgeous, mussed, chestnut-colored hair and pull him in for a kiss. Just one. A full kiss, like he used to give.

  And full it is. It positively consumes my mouth, covering, opening, tasting. I need hard and fast, even punishing, but this kiss takes its time. Surrounded by scruff, it is still butter-smooth and, in its thoroughness, ten times better than I remember.

  Only when it ends, when I draw back with my fingers still in his hair and look into eyes that are electric gray, cheeks that are flushed above the stubble, lips that are moist, do I realize how close our bodies are. My breasts are crushed to his chest, while his hands on the small of my back press my lower body to his. Jack Sabathian is well-endowed, and I feel every inch. This is punishment for my leaving. He is showing me everything I lost.

  “Don’t say it,” I beg, breathing too fast.

  But he can’t help himself. It’s the honesty that I love about him, the honesty that I hate. “Stay, sweetheart. Stay in Bay Bluff.”

  Shaking my head, I say, “Too late.” My voice is too loud, but I need it to drown out the stubborn hum in my body. Knowing I’m losing my grip on what little of me remains when I’m in this place, I break away. Running through the kitchen—yes, running, which is what you do when you’re scared—I go out the back door to the small deck at the top of the stairs. There I stop. I breathe in. Deeply. Of the night ocean, of sand, of marine life that I can’t begin to see.

  Far out, a boat moves through the waves, single lights front and back. Though the sound of its motor is swallowed by the shush-and-break of the surf, not so the hooks that jangle on the dock closer in or the breeze that stirs the tall grasses on this side of the bluff.

  I hear all of this, then the quiet opening and closing of the door, and feel Jack beside me, even before he speaks.

  “I was wrong, the things I said back then, Mal. I was taking it out on you that your father was there and knew what happened.”

  Had he recovered from that little kiss? If so, he was stronger than me. The sweet salt air has stabilized me, but arousal is still just a thought away. Consciously pushing it farther, I ask, “But does he? He’s been consistent from the start. He was fighting to control the boat in a squall, and when he looked back, she was gone. You want to blame him—”

  “—but I can’t. I accept that. Something was going on with my mother. I just wish your father could explain it.”

  “I’ll keep asking.”

  “But you’re only here a week. What if that isn’t enough? What if he doesn’t say anything? Will you still run away to New York?”

  I shoot him a warning look. “Careful, Jack. If I run to New York, it’s to my home. My life is there. My daughter’s life is there. I cleared things to come here for a week, but next Saturday is booked. I have people lined up. If I’m not back, the realtors I work with will go elsewhere.”

  “No loyalty?” he asks, part inquiry, part scorn.

  But I understand my clients. Many have become friends. “It’s about the bottom line. I work with high-end realtors who have high-end clients. They want results and they want them now. Besides, I love what I do.”

  “It shows. Your pictures are top-notch. I love what you do.”

  Closing my eyes, I drop my chin to my chest. “You’re not helping.”

  “Only because you don’t want to hear what I’m saying,” he insists. “You’ve stayed in New York all these years because no one was arguing against it. You choose to raise Joy there because being alone means you’re the one in control. You grew up trying to please everyone else, but when you’re there, there’s no one to please but you and Joy. The decisions are yours.”

  Of all the things I’ve considered, even discussed with Chrissie, the idea that I chose New York for that reason isn’t one. I never thought of myself as controlling. Never thought of myself as wanting to be.

  “Didn’t consider that?” he asks. “Not in twenty years?”

  I don’t take offense. He’s overlooking one major factor. “I wasn’t exactly sitting around doing nothing. I made a home for myself. I built a career. I made friends. I raised a child.”

  “An amazing child.”

  “She is,” I agree, and because he’s said that, I admit, “You may be right about why I stay in New York.” Turning, I lean back against the railing. “But that doesn’t change things. Why I did what I did is beside the point. It’s done. My life is there, yours is here. My father is here, your mother is gone. Two people went out on the boat that night, only one returned. I can badger Dad, but we may never learn anything more. What then?”

  He stands right-angled to me. “Then we move on.”

  “Can we? Here?” I gesture at the darkness behind. “I look at the dock and remember that night. I look at the firepit and remember two families around it. When I think of summer, it’s all of us on the beach. When I think of the Fourth of July, it’s both families in town. The memories won’t go away. And then there’s the way we fought. We said horrible things—”

  “—that were angry and vengeful and wrong. So we botched it once—”

  “—not once. Multiple times. We had three weeks of fights before I left.”

  “One. We had one. It just went on for three weeks.”

  I have to smile. Standing on principle is classic Jack Sabathian. “Fine, one that went on for three weeks, but I couldn’t get through to you and you couldn’t get through to me. It was our first big fight, and we failed.”

  “It was about catastrophic events.”

  “Life is. And we failed.”

  “Okay, but haven’t we grown?”

  “Have we?” I ask. On one hand, we’ve both grown tremendously. I’m a professional photographer with a high-functioning daughter, and Jack is a doctor of veterinary medicine with a successful practice. On the other hand, we’re hung up on the same unanswered questions.

  “I have,” he insists.

  And I think of Robert Frost. Freedom lies in being bold, he wrote. Maybe the only path to freedom from the past is being bold. “Prove it. What are you going to do about the police?”

  “Talk with them.”

  “And say what?” I ask.

  “That Lily Ackerman is new to the whole situation, that she doesn’t know anything more than any of us and is asking the same questions we all asked twenty years ago. That you’re in town to introduce your daughter to Bay Bluff. That your father was a fine judge, but his memory isn’t what it was. That talking with him is pointless and smearing him now would be a disgrace. I’ll say that I’m the one who’s most affected by my mother’s disappearance, and that I’ve accepted the fact that she fell off that boat and drowned. I’ll remind them that I looked for years, that I worked with two different investigators, but that there’s nothing more. I’ll tell them that they’d be wasting their time and taxpayers’ money to reopen the case.”

  He’s covered it all. But then, I never doubted Jack’s quickness. “Will they listen?”

  “Of course they will.” He slants me a smile. “I take care of their pets. We’re talking”—he squints, tallies—“five dogs, three cats, two horses, six guinea pigs, and a tortoise, all that in a small department.” His grin is smug. “They adore me.”

  “And you’d use that relationship to get what you want?” I ask, trying not to succumb to that grin, though it makes my insides curl. Jack is a contradiction of arrogance and vulnerability that I always found appealing. This hasn’t changed.

  “Of course I will,” he insists. “It’s the way the world works.”

  “So,” I test, “you don’t want me to call Paul Schuster tomorrow?”

  “Oh, I do,” he says, like there’s no contradiction here. “I do my part, you do yours. It’s about covering all the bases. It’s about us being in control. The more we learn, the more we have. I’m tired of questions, Mallory.”

  “Maybe the police asking would get it out.”

  “And hurt you all over again? I made
that mistake twenty years ago. Not making it now.”

  * * *

  Of all the things he has said about us, this touches me most deeply. I’m fighting the reasons why as I walk back across the sand, so I’m too distracted to notice Anne, who sits at the top of the stairs, blending into the night with her purple tee and shorts and her tousled dark hair with its burgundy streak. Since she doesn’t call out, I don’t see her until I’m straightening with my flip-flops in hand.

  Factoring in time for an expression of surprise, I have about twenty seconds to decide what to say.

  Chapter 16

  What to say?

  If I tell Anne that Lily is digging into the past, she may fire the girl, which I don’t want. Lily needs the job. And we need whatever information she unearths. So no to that.

  If I tell her about Ronald Doe, I’ll have to get into the whole thing about Elizabeth’s estate, in which case Anne may jump to the worst conclusion and go to the police herself. So no to that, too.

  I can tell her some of what Jack and I discussed, and what I say will be true. But it won’t be the whole truth. Then again, does that matter? We were raised on the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but. Looking at our lives now, though, with everyone either hiding something, looking the other way, or simply forgetting, that mantra is a joke.

  Anne begged me not to side with Jack, and I’m not doing that. He and I will check things out, then share with the others. The danger, of course, is that Anne learns what I’ve hidden first, in which case the fragile détente she and I found earlier this evening may break.

  What to do?

  “So?” she asks when I’m far enough up the stairs that she doesn’t have to shout over the sound of the surf. “What did Jack say?”

  “The PI is quitting.” I climb the last few steps and sit beside her on the dry planks. “He says he likes Lily too much.”

  “But he’s sticking around?”

  “I guess.”

  “Will he be trouble?”

  “As in, going after Dad? I doubt it. What can he find?” I change the subject before she can answer. “Where’s Joy?”