Carousel Beach_A Novel

by Orly Konig

  I catch myself looking back to see who the “darling” is she’s talking to. A man and his golf clubs return the confused look. I trot down the steps, head bowed to hide the flush of embarrassment, and allow the car to swallow me whole.

  Seventeen

  “Hand me those socks will you,” Sam flips her hand in a general direction of four open boxes containing an assortment of socks, sunglasses, T-shirts, and bracelets.

  After yesterday’s lunch with my mom and a marathon session in the studio, I welcomed Sam’s invitation for mindless-busywork therapy and girl talk. Even her bossiness is a relief. I haven’t had the time to think about Hank or my grandmother or my mom in over an hour.

  “Which ones?” I push my left hand into a box of ankle socks and grab a pair of knee socks out of another box with my right hand.

  “Those. There.” Sam points.

  Again my eyes follow. I reach for a third box and pull out a pair of light-gray slippers. The left one has spots with blue trim around the opening and the right one has stars with green trim around the opening. “These?”

  “Yes. Finally.”

  “These are slippers.”

  “Okay?”

  “You said hand you socks. These are slippers.”

  Sam turns in slow motion, partly because she’s standing on a ladder, but I have no doubt it’s also for full attitude effect. She flops her hand, palm up and waggles her fingers in a hand-it-over motion.

  “Okay, spill,” she says. “What has your panties wedged up to your armpits?”

  “Nothing.” I hand over an armful of slippers. “Ooh, these are my size.” I set them on the ground and slip a foot in.

  “Feet out of the merchandise, missy. Seriously, Maya, what’s happening? You’re totally off your merry-go-round.” She guffaws at her own joke and points at the box again.

  I hand over more slippers, this time with a bit more attitude. Sam chuckles.

  “Do we need to play thirteen questions?” She folds onto the floor next to me. Sam’s favorite number is thirteen. Even the store address is 1313. “Double lucky,” she’d said when she signed the lease.

  “It won’t take three questions to get to the heart of this.” I reach into a box and pull out a bangle bracelet. I slip it on and twist my arm to make it rotate from left to right. The enamel colors catch the lights, and I’m suddenly watching a merry-go-round spinning around my wrist.

  Sam grabs at my hand and removes the bracelet. “You’re making me seasick. Considering that yesterday was the country club lunch with mummy dearest, let’s start there. It has to do with your mom?” She dumps a handful of T-shirts in my lap and a pile of plastic hangers in front of me.

  While we hang the shirts, matching size to the small red letter at the neck of each hanger, I replay the lunch discussion.

  When I’ve hung the last shirt and gotten to the awkward good-bye, I look up. Sam’s staring. “What?” I snap, avoiding eye contact.

  “You’re keeping something from me.”

  “I’m not. Anyway, it’s your turn. You said you have something to tell me.”

  She puckers her lips. “I did, didn’t I? But by the color of your cheeks, what you’re trying to hide is way better. Damn, Maya. You know I live vicariously through you and your family dramas. Gimme more.”

  My family may not be the happy, close-knit ideal, but compared to Sam’s family, we’re a ’50s TV family.

  Sam’s father is the CEO of a multitrillion-dollar company known only by an acronym. Her mom is a dean at an Ivy League college. One of her brothers is a high-priced attorney in New York, the other is a big-shot CFO in Boston, and her sister is one of the leading plastic surgeons in Los Angeles. Sam, on the other hand, dropped out of college after her sophomore year, took the money her grandfather left her, and spent two years in Italy.

  When the money ran out, she came home. Her family didn’t welcome her with open arms or open wallets. Not even an open guest room. So Sam did what they expected of her: She moved to the beach and got a job as a waitress.

  That’s when we met. Fins had always been one of my favorites, and whenever Vale and I came to visit our families, it was the first place we went. And somehow, Sam was always our waitress. Two years later, when she turned twenty-five, her trust fund kicked in and Socks-A-Lot was hatched.

  She tosses a pair of mismatched socks at me and gives me a come-on gesture.

  “Remember I told you about Hank’s memory glitches?”

  She nods.

  “Well, I went to see him yesterday morning and he was having an off day.” I air quote off.

  Sam scoots on her bottom until she’s facing me, glowing with anticipation.

  “The inscription and the letter were pretty clear that they were more than the passing friends she claimed. But they weren’t even friendly friends. Sam”—I wrap my fingers around her forearm before I bounce out of my skin—“he referred to my mom as ‘our Claire.’”

  Sam’s forehead creases and the corners of her mouth quirk. “You sure he meant your mom?”

  “Who else could he be talking about? And the timing is not inconceivable.”

  Sam gives me a dubious look.

  “Okay, think about it. They had a romance of some sort. We know that. Grandma and Grandpa got married after dating for a month. Mom was born barely nine months later.”

  Sam puckers in thought. “You think?”

  “I think.”

  “I don’t know, Maya, this seems like a stretch.”

  “You wouldn’t say that if you saw him when he’s talking to her.”

  Sam gives me a skeptical eyebrow.

  “I know, I know,” I jump to defend myself. “But what if I’m right? What if Grandma and Hank had a last fling before she tied the knot with Grandpa?”

  “So what?”

  I chew the inside of my lip. Indeed, so what? So what because Mom harps on being “proper,” doing everything by the proverbial good-girl book. But that’s Mom, not Grandma. Grandma didn’t subscribe to the same philosophy.

  “Maybe you’re right,” I concede.

  “Of course I’m right.” Sam flashes a grin. “But what am I right about this time?”

  “It doesn’t really matter.” But saying the words doesn’t mean I actually believe them. But what is it that actually bothers me? That Grandma had an affair? That Grandpa isn’t Mom’s biological father? The lies? Would it bother me if this was my mom we were talking about instead of Grandma? But that’s absurd because Mom would never have done that. They’ve been married for … I count back in my head.

  “Oh my god,” I startle Sam with my outburst. “Like mother, like daughter. Mom and Thomas. Holy crap.”

  “What are you talking about? What does Thomas have to do with this?”

  “Mom used to tease that Thomas was big and busy and didn’t have time to hang around for all nine months.” I grin. “He wasn’t early.”

  Sam hoots and rocks back on her butt, then slaps playfully at my crisscrossed legs. “You are certainly the black sheep, or is it white-sheep in this case? You’re the only woman in your family who wasn’t knocked up when you got married.”

  “How did neither of us ever question that?”

  “Because you had no reason to. It was a secret your parents chose to keep.”

  “Think my grandmother knew?”

  “Probably.”

  “Then there’s me. And Uncle Joe.”

  “Where are you going with this?” Sam stops sorting socks and refocuses on me.

  “Grandma had Mom, then Joe. Mom had Thomas, then me. Even Bree has two.”

  “Okay…?”

  “Then there’s me.” My fingers flutter by my stomach, playing a soundless lullaby on an invisible piano for a baby that doesn’t exist.

  “Oh, Maya.” Sam grabs my hand, stilling the movement and crescendoing emotion.

  Her thumb rubs a slow, soothing circle on my hand.

  “Enough on me. You had news to share,” I turn the focus away
from me.

  Sam swallows and picks at the cuticles on her left hand. “It can wait.”

  “No, it can’t.”

  “Really, it’s okay.”

  She’s saved from further prodding by a gentle knock on the glass door of the boutique. Taylor holds up a large bag with a yellow owl on it. Both stare in through the glass. I turn to Sam.

  She answers with a sheepish smirk. “Refreshments have arrived.”

  “The Yellow Owl delivers now?”

  Her face flushes and she hops over a box to let him in.

  “Sam?” I draw out her name, making it sound long and saucy. The red deepens and she turns away to open the door.

  Moments later, another knock. This time it’s Vale, holding up two four-packs of beer from the local microbrewery.

  “Sam.” No playful question to the way I say her name this time.

  She waves me off and pulls Vale and the beer inside. “I figured we’d need reinforcements.”

  “Seriously,” Taylor says, scanning the volume of boxes. “But first we eat.”

  “Four orders of spicy shrimp? Good thing there’s more beer in the car.” Vale laughs.

  We settle on the floor, food containers spread on a handful of boxes between us.

  “So, Maya, how’s the merry-go-round coming? Still on target for the Fourth of July reopening?” Taylor asks.

  “I think so.”

  “You better be more sure than that,” Sam teases.

  “She’ll be ready. She’s been working round the clock on it.”

  I look at Vale, trying to decide if the comment has a hidden dig. He winks.

  “Wait till you guys see it,” he says. “Each animal is more beautiful than the previous. This carousel has never looked as good.” His face beams with pride.

  I have no words.

  Taylor holds up a red crustacean by the tail and studies it. “Why doesn’t that thing have a ride in the shape of a shrimp?”

  His expression is so serious that both Sam and I dissolve into giggles.

  “No wait, he’s on to something,” Vale steps in to defend his buddy. “Shrimp, crabs, a dolphin or two. Oh, and a couple of mermaids.” Vale high-fives Taylor. “We’re a beach town, why do we need horses and lions?”

  “Don’t forget the ostrich,” I add.

  Sam coughs a laugh. “Wait,” she feigns shock. “The ostrich I saw jogging on the beach last week isn’t a local?”

  We all break into fits of laughter.

  “People.…” Sam claps her hands five times, teacher style, and I giggle when Taylor and Vale chant “one, two, eyes on me” in time to her claps. She shoots them a look that falls three blinks short of menacing.

  “Okay, okay, we have work to do.” I try my hand at rallying the troops, only to end up with a balled-up napkin bouncing off my forehead. “Nice.” I throw it back at Vale.

  By midnight we’re done with the food, drink, and rearranging the store. Sam yawns and surveys our work, nodding appreciatively. “You guys do decent work. Now shoo. I need my beauty rest before I open tomorrow.” She smothers another yawn.

  “We’ll walk you to your car,” Vale offers.

  Sam and Taylor exchange a look. Taylor slaps Vale on the back and says, “I got it, man. You guys go ahead.”

  Vale puts his arm around my shoulder as we walk away, and squeezes gently. “I bet he’s getting it.”

  I elbow him gently and lean into his side when he puts his arm around my shoulder. We walk and talk; about Sam and the store; about his day and mine; about the heartburn we’ll have tomorrow from the spicy shrimp. And for those blocks, for those minutes, we’re the couple we used to be.

  Eighteen

  I straighten and stretch my back. The clock blinks over another hour.

  I have less than an hour before our dinner reservations. Vale texted earlier that we were going out to celebrate. He hadn’t said what we were celebrating, and I’d exhausted all of my ideas.

  Even the horse wasn’t giving up any new secrets today. Each new layer of paint removed revealed another layer. I know the original paint is there, the pinstriping and special Hank details waiting to be released from captivity. But today, the merry-go-round magic is on strike.

  Every carver has his signature details. I’d been reading about the old-school carvers. They were a fascinating breed. Most had started as carpenters. Like Hank. Some had fallen into carousel-making by accident. Like Hank. I’ll have to ask him about his ancestors, and how he got involved.

  I check the clock. I know there isn’t time for a side trip to visit him now, but I can’t fight the urge to go see him. It’s been three days since I’ve been to Tower Oaks. Three days of mounting questions. But after the last time, I’m also a bit afraid to return.

  I have to tell him I’m Meera’s granddaughter. That I’m Claire’s daughter.

  But each time I’ve started to go, a ghost has held me back. She’d kept me away from Hank for three years. Maybe longer. She’d wanted the secret for herself.

  Maybe she thought I’d tell Mom, explode her beliefs in who she was. Maybe I would have. I had the perfect chance and didn’t though.

  Are there secrets that belong to only one person? No. If it didn’t have the potential to affect someone else, then it wouldn’t be worth keeping it a secret.

  As the keeper of a secret, how do you decide whose world you’re going to shift? And when to nudge it off its axis?

  How many times during that lunch had I tasted the words? And the times since when my fingers have twitched to call. And yet I didn’t, couldn’t, let the words loose. Why? Out of loyalty? Pity? Fear?

  Whatever the reason, their secret is now mine as well.

  Does knowing change how I feel about Grandpa? Grandma? Mom? No and yes. But maybe not the way she expected.

  Then again, I have no idea what she expected or why she lied. There’s really only one person who may have answers. Tomorrow I’ll go see Hank.

  Right now, though, I have another secret to sort out. What are we celebrating tonight?

  I close up the studio and enter the house. The breakfast dishes are on the counter, clean and dry. Vale cleaned up before leaving for work. The bathroom remodeling will be delayed, he’d apologized over scrambled eggs. Paying work was getting in the way.

  This is when having one full bathroom doesn’t work. Luckily, we have the half-bath, but I want to soak in the tub or stand in the shower until the water turns cold. Washing my hair in the kitchen sink is getting old.

  But it’s all I have for now. I go upstairs to retrieve the shampoo and conditioner and a couple of towels. I still end up drenching myself and the floor. This is one skill I hope not to have to master.

  The afternoon sun has dipped enough to send rays under the closed door of the spare room. It’s not really a spare, but I haven’t been able to think of it as anything else. Except maybe the room that’s never opened.

  I’ve ignored it for a year, walked past as though there weren’t a door there at all.

  I stand at the top of the stairs and look at the sliver of light. We’d picked that room because of the afternoon light.

  The sun had been brilliant that last day. It had heated the repolished floors and shone a spotlight on the mural I’d started painting. It had cooked the room far beyond cozy.

  Everything about that day had been dazzling and wrong. How can a perfect late-spring day become your darkest nightmare?

  I reach for the handle. My hand, suspended in midair, shakes. The light from under the door dims then brightens. My skin prickles.

  It’s nothing but a cloud, Maya. It’s time. You can do this.

  My fingers graze the handle. There’s no electric jolt, no sparks, no fairy dust. I push down on the handle. There’s a faint click as the latch springs back and the door becomes light in my hand. I give it a gentle nudge, and it swings open.

  A sob pushes up from my diaphragm and lodges in my throat.

  This was the last place I’d seen her alive.
She’d brought lunch. We’d sat right there in the middle of the room on the yellow-and-blue carpet, eaten our sandwiches, and talked about the mural.

  The idea for it, along with pregnancy heartburn, had woken me up at two A.M., and I’d rushed in here to rough it out. We’d already painted the walls—yellow on the bottom two-thirds and a summer-day blue with fluffy clouds on the top third. But this wall, the one across from the window, demanded something special.

  The faint outline of my sketch is barely visible now. There’s an ear, a muzzle, a front leg raised in anticipation, a tail whooshing behind. The dream had been so vivid. A merry-go-round, wooden horses going up and down. Music getting louder in time to the whirling of the platform. People laughing as the world around them blurred into fuzzy colors.

  The outline on the wall is the perfect replica of the horse in my studio.

  Something yellow on the bookshelf catches my attention. The stuffed dog Grandma had bought when I was born sits alone and forgotten. His colors are faded from years of love, but he’d once been bright yellow and blue, as bright as the colors in this room. He’d been the inspiration for the color scheme. Well, him and the rug. The rug that’s no longer here.

  I touch my flat stomach. No baby. No cramps.

  I walk into the room and stop in the middle. The wood floor is polished, clean. I wonder if the blood had soaked through the rug into the floor.

  I turn, a slow-motion 360. The rocking chair waits patiently in the corner, angled to see the entire room and catch the last soft caress of the setting sun. To the left of the rocker is the bookshelf, painted white to match the window frame above it.

  To the right of the rocker is an empty blue-and-yellow wall. That’s where the crib was going to be. Who canceled the order for the crib and matching dresser? How did I never think to question that before?

  Across from the crib is the wall that should have been perfect.

  I sink into the rocker, grabbing the dog on my way down. I pull him into my chest and bury my nose in his head. He smells of dust and neglect. A faint hint of paint lingers, but I can’t be sure if it’s on him, in the room, or in my mind.