Carousel Beach_A Novel

by Orly Konig

  I smile remembering Hank’s animated gestures as he talked about the animals, his hands sweeping through the air as he described each flourish and tassel, then stopping midair and sliding slowly down as he talked about delicate pinstripes.

  I wish I could have seen her newly painted. I wish I could have known the young Hank.

  The wind picks up and I give in to the pull of the ocean.

  I twist my hair into a ponytail and hold firm while the wind grabs at loose strands and sends them whipping around my face. The sea, an ominous grayish blue, spits a briny mist at me, as if warning me not to come closer. The sky has turned the same color as the water, the only hint of a horizon are the frothy whitecaps on the waves.

  Through the growl of the waves I hear a mom yelling to her kids to get moving before the storm hits. Once they’re gone, I’m alone with the gulls and crabs and my thoughts.

  I burrow my toes deeper into the sand and fold until I’m sitting, my shoulders hunching forward, chest pressing into my thighs, chin resting on my knees.

  My thoughts swirl with the details Hank doled out, and questions about those he squirreled inside.

  “What was he like, Grandma? What was your relationship with him? Why aren’t you here to answer me?”

  That’s twice I’ve been to see him, and twice I’ve walked away with his letter still in the bottom of my bag. Twice when I’ve left with more questions than answers.

  “You think I should have asked him directly, don’t you? You would have shown him the letter and tried to get an answer from him. You would have gotten an answer. I’m not like you; I didn’t inherit those mind-meld traits.”

  The air shivers around me, and a wave crashes onto the packed sand. I lick the salt from my lips. I should go before it gets nasty. Instead I push my toes deeper into the sand. There’s something about the ocean during a brewing storm. Maybe it’s the unpredictability, or the sheer force of nature. Maybe it’s the fact that it drives everyone else away. Or maybe it’s that my funnel cloud of emotions and thoughts pales in comparison to what Mother Nature can whip up.

  The first time I visited, Hank was a fortysomething-year-old, reunited with an old friend. Today, he was a ninetysomething-year-old with a faulty memory, discussing a beloved project with a young restorer. Simon had warned me there were days Hank reverted to his younger self, when only his body stayed in the present. That there were days he couldn’t remember how to get back to his room. And then there were days his mind was sharp enough to challenge the nursing staff with the hardest of crossword puzzles.

  Today’s Hank couldn’t connect with who I was or why I’d come. But every detail of the carousel was perfectly preserved in his brain. I hadn’t realized how much I missed talking about restoration practices until this morning.

  The other Hank is endearing and my heart melts for him. Him, I want to protect him. This Hank, I want to syphon for information.

  Fat, heavy raindrops dent the sand around me, stinging my arms and legs. The warning is short lived though, and before I have time to stand and brush the sand from my pants, the dark clouds release everything they’ve been storing.

  I duck my head, laughing at the futile attempt to keep the rain from my eyes, and run for the boardwalk. A handful of people are huddled under the overhangs of restaurants or shops, waiting out the deluge. I trot past, careful not to lose my footing on the wet sand covering the wood boards. I straddle a puddle next to my car, my fingers digging into the wet fabric of my capris, the pocket refusing to release its stranglehold on my keys.

  A car drives by and I squeal as water envelops my calves. Overhead, the storm gods clear their throats, alerting us crazy mortals standing in the rain to take cover. I pull at the keys, the sound of ripping fabric getting lost in a spine-tingling crackle as lightning slices through the clouds.

  I yank the door open and tumble in as thunder booms around me. My left foot disappears into the cold, murky puddle as I throw my body into the shelter of the car. Water follows the squiggles of my curls, dripping down my back and into my eyes before dive-bombing the black leather of the car seat. The air-conditioning kicks in the minute I turn the key in the ignition, and my skin turns bumpy in the sudden chill.

  From the safety of my car, I watch the waves leap up to meet the rain. The few trees along the side of the road sway, dropping even more water on the cars below.

  A lone pedestrian sprints across the road, head down, clutching a briefcase above his head. He jumps over a puddle and onto the sidewalk. His dress shoes skid on the wet pavement and his shoulder makes contact with the wood fence protecting the carousel.

  He loses his grip on his briefcase and I watch, helpless, as it summersaults over his head. He rubs his shoulder and bends to pick up his makeshift umbrella. I hope he doesn’t have a laptop in there.

  He stands and leans into the fence, catching his breath. Next to his head is the sign announcing the grand reopening.

  Grand reopening.

  There won’t be a grand anything unless I get back to work.

  Thirteen

  I close my eyes as tendrils of steam from the tea tickle my nose, inhaling rich chocolate and tangy orange. The combination is soothing and stimulating at the same time. The studio is quiet this morning. For once, I don’t want music. I want to hear what the horse has to say.

  The rain stopped during the night, but the morning is still damp, and I can hear the drip from the gutters. I stare at the horse. He stares back.

  “Well?”

  He continues to stare.

  “Lotta help you are.”

  Still nothing.

  “Shall we start stripping you?”

  I’ve made my drawings, taken photographs, cataloged every inch of him. It’s been years since I last rode him and yet, standing here looking at him, I can feel the movement, hear the music, remember the happiness.

  I think it’s physically impossible to be unhappy when you’re on or near a carousel. Maybe it’s the vivid colors, the crazy menagerie, the loopy music. Whatever it is, merry-go-rounds have magical powers.

  Whenever I was having a “poop day,” as Grandma called them, she’d take me for a frozen custard and a ride on the merry-go-round. Even those times I wanted to stay mad or sad, like when Flynn Nelson picked Luann Waters to be his lunch club sit-with, or when Mom and I got in a fight because she wanted her hairdresser to give me a “chic bob” and I’d wanted to keep my unruly long curls.

  The last raindrops from the tree outside ping a lazy beat in the gutter of the studio.

  “Time to get to work.” Time to release some of that old magic.

  For the next few hours, I lose myself in details. He’s no longer the carousel horse; he’s a work of art, and I am nothing more than his restorer.

  With the precision of a plastic surgeon, I remove one layer of history at a time, painstakingly documenting each color I encounter. When I’m done with the head, I pull myself up onto the table and scan the horse, from his erect ears to the high step of his front leg, to the rigid swish of his tail.

  Restoration is a slow process, slower for some of the animals than others. It could be argued that I’m overagonizing; after all, these are not museum pieces. In two months, the merry-go-round will once again be at the mercy of the riders and the elements.

  I’d spent two full days rebuilding the front leg of horse number twelve. Even with the metal stirrup, kids seem to prefer using his bent leg as their launchpad on and off. The leg had broken at the knee and been poorly put back together.

  I’ve repaired chipped ears and tails. Hooves and legs. Dings and gouges. But mostly, I’ve reconstructed parts worn down by years of use. Saddles and bridles rubbed smooth under hands and bottoms.

  For almost three years I’ve loved every one of the menagerie back to their, almost, original splendor.

  A ripple races up my spine. I’ll bring Hank to the reopening. I wonder what he’ll think of the merry-go-round. Will it live up to his memory of the way it was when he c
arved those same animals? Will he be disappointed at some of the changes that have crept in over years of maintenance and renovations?

  If only I’d known he was living here, I could have collaborated with him from the beginning.

  A bolt of anger jolts me upright. “Why, Grandma? Why keep the truth from me?”

  Hours. We spent hours sitting in this studio, talking about whatever animal was in here at the time. Hours reliving memories and stories. Hours walking to the carousel house to check on the other renovation work. The Friends of the Carousel committee had hired, based on the research I presented in my proposal, specialists to update the mechanics, carpenters to rebuild the platform and surrounding structure.

  “Oh my god.” My fingers dive into my hair and I fist a clump of curls, the tug on my scalp stopping the rush of thoughts. The wasted opportunity. For me. For him.

  Or maybe not for him. Maybe he didn’t want to look back. Maybe they’d discussed it.

  I don’t buy it. He’s so animated talking about the carousel. So why? Why did Grandma keep him a secret? Whom was she protecting?

  My phone chimes with an incoming text.

  “I’m baaaack.”

  Sam. She’s been in New York on a buying trip for her boutique.

  “How was the trip?”

  “Awesome. Lots to tell you. Tonight!”

  “Tonight?”

  “Tonight. 7 PM. Sharp. I’m coming to get you.”

  “I can meet you.”

  “Nope. I know you. I’m coming for you!”

  “That sounds like a threat. ☺

  “It is. 7 PM. Sharp. And change into something adult for once.”

  “Hey!!” I look at my sweats with the college name in block type down one leg, paint splotches everywhere, the frayed inseam and cuffs. My T-shirt isn’t much more respectable. She has a point. Not that I’ll admit that to her.

  “Mwah.”

  “Only because you asked nicely,” I type.

  * * *

  “I knew it.” Sam’s voice booms into the studio.

  “Oh shit.” I drop the X-Acto knife I’ve been picking at the layers of paint with.

  “Hell of a welcome. Missed you, too.”

  “Sorry, you startled me. Is it seven already?” I twist to look at the clock.

  “Nope. You still have twenty-three minutes. I couldn’t wait any longer to see you.” She skips into the studio and circles the horse.

  I straighten and hug Sam when she finishes her inspection of the horse. “I’m glad. I’ve missed you, too.”

  “When did you have time to miss me? You’ve been a studio troll.” She winks. I wince. It’s a friendly jab, but it hits a bit too close to the not-so-friendly jabs from Vale.

  I take in my best friend, stylish in a white T-shirt with a zebra face on the front. The zebra is sporting hot pink, oversized sunglasses with rhinestones. Her capris are a light blue, almost the same shade as the scarf billowing around the zebra’s neck. On her feet are flip-flops, one blue with rainbow stripes, the other green with rainbow stars. Her shoulder-length brown hair is pulled back with a gauzy blue scarf.

  “What?” She instinctively wipes at her mouth then checks her shirt. “Do I have toothpaste all over my face? Coffee stains on my boobs?”

  “No, you look great. You always look great. Give me a minute to change.” I grab her arm and lead her out of the studio, stopping only to flip off the lights and lock the door.

  She pulls away to arm’s length and makes a show of looking me up and down and back up. “You’ll need more than a minute, sweetie. Take your time. I’ll help myself to a drink.” She walks to the fridge, surveys the contents, closes the door. “That’s even more boring than your wardrobe.”

  I glare, she beams. I turn and sprint up the stairs. Two minutes later, I’m back in a mist of perfume, but at least I’m wearing clean clothes.

  Sam wrinkles her nose at me. “You need to get out more. And not just to the grocery store.”

  “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” I pull my T-shirt away from my body to check for stains. No stains. Do I clash? Pink shirt, white crop pants. No clashing.

  “That’s fine.” She waves her hand, dismissing me from the neck down. “It’s that.” Her hand makes a circular motion over my head.

  “What’s wrong with my hair?”

  “In a word? Crazy.”

  “Yeah, well, I washed it in the kitchen sink yesterday.” I grab at a couple of long strands and let them drop.

  “Why are you showering in the kitchen sink?”

  “Vale decided to fix the leaky sink by demolishing the whole bathroom. He assures me we’ll have a working bathroom by year’s end.”

  “Speaking of … where is he?”

  I stop and look around as if I expect to find him in the kitchen. A note on the coffeepot catches my eye. I pluck it off and hold it up like I’ve grabbed the winning lottery ticket.

  “He’s meeting with his boss and a new client over dinner.”

  Sam pulls her mouth into a half frown.

  “What?” Her expression sours my discovery.

  “Sticky notes?”

  I want to argue that we’re busy, and leaving notes for each other is actually a good thing. I want to shake the feeling that my relationship with my husband is headed for the shredder.

  I settle for snide. “At least we’re keeping it spontaneous with color choice.” I point at the various colored pads on the counter.

  “Not funny.”

  “I know.”

  “So?”

  “So nothing. We’re trying.”

  “Try harder.”

  “After we eat. I’m hungry.” I grab my bag and push the door open, sweeping a hand for Sam to go first.

  “Fine, but stay downwind from me, please.”

  “Funny lady.”

  We walk along the boardwalk toward the cluster of bars and restaurants tucked into the secondary streets. The Yellow Owl with its rooftop deck is our go-to spot.

  “Ladies,” a deep baritone welcomes us, and a hulking figure steps around the reception desk. Taylor Wheeler is the manager and sometimes bouncer at The Yellow Owl. At six foot six, he doesn’t need to do much in the form of bouncing. For most people, finding yourself in his shadow is warning enough to stop any and all shenanigans. Taylor flashes his signature sparkling smile.

  Sam stretches up to hug him. She positions her cheek for the welcome kiss and grins like a giddy schoolgirl.

  With one arm around Sam’s tiny waist, Taylor pulls me in for a group hug. “Always makes my day when the two of you walk in.” He gives us both a squeeze then returns to the reception desk. “Dinner? Looks like it might start raining again. I’ll put you inside if that’s okay?” He taps at a hidden screen, securing a table for us, then pulls out two menus as a girl in a black halter top and flared black pants slinks to his side. “Lily will show you to the table. And I’ll be over shortly to check that you’re behaving.” He winks and swats at Sam’s exaggeratedly swinging rear.

  Slinky Lily walks us to a booth along the far wall of the restaurant. It’s the perfect spot for observing the pickup attempts at the bar without being overtly obvious. I smile at the mix of people crowding the bar.

  “Where did she get those shoulder blades?” Sam sticks her chest out and reaches to feel her own shoulder blades, then stares down at her chest. “Think they’re fake?”

  “Her shoulder blades?” My head whips from the retreating Lily with her protruding bones to Sam and her gyrations.

  “No.” The answer drips with duh. “Her boobs.”

  “Don’t know. Ask Taylor.” I flip open the menu but my attention is still on Sam, her left hand poking at her shoulder blades while her right hand pushes at her right breast. “Seriously.” I laugh and lift the menu higher.

  I order a blueberry martini and a salad while Sam dittos the salad but opts for sparkling water with lemon from a waitress who, Sam concludes after close inspection, doesn’t have model shoulder b
lades and could use a boob job.

  “Sparkling water?” I wrinkle my nose at her.

  “It’s all the rage in New York these days.” She shrugs and diverts the conversation. “What are you guys doing with the bathroom?”

  “The original plan was just to fix the plumbing, change the tiles, and put in a new sink. Vale, however, has gotten ambitious and is now talking about rearranging the whole damn thing.” A soft groan escapes me at the thought.

  “What’s the groan for? You’ve been wanting to redo the bathroom since I’ve known you.”

  “I just thought we’d plan it out before the demolition began, not after everything was already torn to shreds.” And not when there’s the cloud of a move over us. I stop myself from telling Sam about Vale’s offer. After the sticky-note incident, I’d rather not open the door for deeper analysis of my failures.

  “Vale is brilliant. It’ll be gorgeous.”

  “I know. I’d rather hear about your trip to New York.”

  For the next hour Sam fills me in on the design studios she visited, the designers she schmoozed with, and the boutiques she’s “borrowing” ideas from.

  The first shipment of her purchases arrived yesterday and, in true Sam fashion, she promptly started rearranging the display windows. “I’ll have to go back tonight and get more work done if I want to have the store in shape for opening tomorrow morning. Yes,” she holds up her hand to stop an anticipated criticism, “I should have waited until morning. But oh my god, Maya, these T-shirts and shorts are the cutest things you’ve ever seen.”

  I stare at the sparkly zebra on her shirt.

  Sam grabs at the zebra’s ears and pulls the shirt forward. A man walking by our table stumbles and his female companion glares. I snort at the sight of his blinking eyes, her steaming face, and Sam’s fingers pinching zebra ears that just happen to coincide with her nipples.

  Sam’s enthusiasm for reorganizing the boutique far outweighs her enthusiasm for her salad. I’m mostly done with mine, but Sam’s looks like it’s multiplied.

  “Hey, don’t look now, but we’re getting checked out.” Sam sits a bit taller and pulls her shoulders together in her prep-school posture.