When we eventually achieved our objective, it was upstairs in the master suite on the bed I was lying on, under the same soft-gold-colored ceiling I was looking up at.
On the ceiling was Tuscan Love, a paint color I had custom mixed and named myself. One of forty-seven custom colors that are still on file at Hollister’s Paint and Supply, forty-seven colors I created and named for our home and the homes of our family and friends—Yee Haw Red, Washed Denim, Tea and Roses. What a great job, naming colors.
Maybe I can get a job creating names for colors. Just sit in a room and come up with names that I think will cause a line of nail polish to fly off the shelf—Scarlet Rendezvous, Honey Cream, Pinky Passion. Yes, that could be my future.
It was 3:30 in the afternoon on a Wednesday when the call came in. Initially, when the phone rang, I ignored it. It rang again. I picked it up and looked at the I.D. screen.
Loretta? It’s not Sunday.
I set the phone back on the nightstand and reached under the pillow with both arms, pressing it to my ears until the muffled ringing quit.
When the phone rang again, I read the I.D. screen and then I shouted at the ceiling, “Loretta, we have a deal!”
I couldn’t turn it off. The base to the phone was in the kitchen. I missed the days when the phone stayed with the mother ship, and you could easily turn off the ringer or just rip the cord out of the wall. Not that I’d ever done that, but the option was there.
What if it’s an emergency? But I didn’t really care at that moment. The ringing quit and then began again. I snatched the phone and answered it, “This better be an emergency.”
“Hey, friend, are you sitting down?”
“This is an emergency?”
“No, no emergency, are you sitting down?”
“No, lying down. Why?”
“I’ve got great news.”
Great news, what could possibly be great news? I felt as if my emotions had checked out of my brain and my heart. It was as though they’d been turned off. My insides were heavy, pulling me into the bed.
“Cam, you still there?”
“I’m here. What’s the great news?”
“Sandi, Dawn, and I are taking you and Marni to St. Gabriel Island. We leave on the twenty-fourth, so get packed.”
I didn’t want to go anywhere. Not even to St. Gabriel Island, a destination I had dreamt about since I had clipped an article and pictures from an issue of Cottage Country magazine over twenty years before. A place that had sent a thrill and a peace through me the first time I had seen pictures of the island and read of its history and traditions. I was captivated by the photos of the charming old buildings that lined its main street and the grand homes, cottages, gardens, and woods that covered the rest. And the best part, no cars, just horses, bikes, and snowmobiles in the winter.
I added to my vacation file any new information of St. Gabe that came my way over the years. That file grew with pictures and articles about the island and other destinations I yearned to see. Occasionally, I opened it and sorted through the stack of dreams, but those destinations had not been visited.
Our family vacations were of the variety afforded on Race’s small-town college professor’s salary—national parks, camping trips, backpacking, a couple visits to my parents’ in Northern California, and one trip to Disneyland when Paul and Janie were fourteen and twelve.
Our vacation memories, however, are ones that we have recounted over and over to each other and anyone else who would listen. They fill more than a dozen thick photo albums, and I wouldn’t trade those sojourns for yacht cruises down the Riviera or skiing in the Alps. But frilly vacations—garden tours, shopping in little boutiques, moonlit walks on the beach—had been someday dreams.
“Cam, is there a problem with this connection? Did you hear what I said? Did you hear where I said?”
“Yeah, I heard you.”
“You know, the place you’ve been filing away information about for the last twenty years, the place you have pictures of pinned to the bulletin board in your studio, St. Gabriel Island?”
“Yes, I know, St. Gabriel Island.”
“Well?”
“It’s really thoughtful, generous, but it’s too generous, and it’s not a good time.”
“Really and why not?”
“I’m trying to figure things out, and Janie’s home. I can’t leave her.”
“That’s what you’ve been saying for three months. And I’ve already talked to Janie. She’s going to help you pack.”
“And, I have to be at the divorce mediation on the twenty-fourth.”
“I know you do. Then you’re taking a shuttle to the airport and meeting us in Detroit. We’ll rent a car and drive like wild women to catch the last ferry of the day.”
“I wouldn’t be any fun, Lo. You guys go. Besides, if I ever go there, I want to feel… human. It’d be a waste.”
“Come on, Cam. This is something you’ve wanted to do for such a long time.”
We went back and forth until I didn’t have the energy to argue with her anymore. Also, the alarm went off, and I needed to get out of bed and prepare to put on the “Everything’s Fine Show” for Janie.
CHAPTER SIX
Lighter and Lighter
Taylor, Tilbit, and Wolfing is a small but prestigious law firm filled with people that know Race and me and his family. I sat at a long conference table and Race sat across from me. It had taken some doing on my part, but I had managed to avoid seeing him since he left. When I walked in and sat down, Race was already seated and the first thing I noticed was that he wasn’t wearing his wedding ring.
We were waiting for the mediator who would sit at the end of the table, the umpire, the referee. I had seen speed dating on television once, and I was reminded of that. I felt the urge to giggle and then cry. Something I did a lot of at the time—giggling, then crying, then giggle-crying.
“You cut your hair.” Race seemed to be studying me as though he was trying to figure something out.
“Apparently.”
“It looks good on you. You look good, Cammy.”
I shook my head in disbelief that he would think I would care about a compliment from him, and then I stared at the coffee pot until the mediator came in.
It was all so civil. I would keep the house and the contents and Race would pay the mortgage. Or, I could sell it and keep the equity. We would split the checking, savings, and retirement accounts, sell the lake property and split that. He would keep his personal belongings from the house and his jeep. I would keep my car. Race was being very generous, the mediator reminded me several times.
When it was over, I got up and left. I didn’t shake the mediator’s hand and I didn’t say goodbye to Race. I just left. Then I got on an airplane and flew to meet a group of women who would likely spend the next week feeling sorry for me. Had I no say in anything?
At the airport, Loretta, Sandi, and Dawn were waiting with signs that read, One Hot Mama, Ms. Sassy Pants, and Ms. Available. When Loretta and Sandi saw my face, they knew the signs had been a better idea in their minds than in reality. Dawn didn’t notice. She wouldn’t. It wasn’t about her.
We all went to meet Marni’s plane. She and I had never been close. Marni was fifteen years younger than Loretta and I, and I hadn’t seen her since she was diagnosed with breast cancer. But when we hugged, it lasted for a long time, and it was a desperate embrace. I stroked her hair, my hair, and it slipped back a little.
Marni tugged the wig back into place and said, “It’s a little loose. I’ll need to have it adjusted.”
“It looks great, Marni.”
“Thanks. And thanks for the hair.”
I gave her another squeeze and we were off.
Once we were out of the city, the countryside we drove through on our way to the ferry was a stark contrast to anything in Texas, green, green, green, and I was soothed by it.
We didn’t have a minute to waste if we were going to catch the last run to the isl
and for the day, and the only stop we made was along the side of the road so Dawn could pee. The indignation she displayed for “having to urinate like an animal” was well worth the possibility of missing the boat.
Loretta skidded into the dirt parking lot where we would leave the rental car, slowing down just enough for Sandi to swing open the door, make a successful leap, and run to the booth to buy our ferry tickets. Once parked, we grabbed the luggage and everything loose we could see in the car, there was no time to be discerning, and ran for the dock.
We dashed by Sandi at the ticket window and heard her holler back to the ticket lady, “Keep the change.” And then she sprinted to catch up with us, a ticker tape of ferry passes flapping in the breeze behind her.
Dawn’s scant yellow sundress floated up above her waist. While pulling her rolling suitcase and wobbily trotting in her four-inch white heels, she batted at her skirt with one hand and held onto her matching hat with the other. It was pretty amusing and Loretta began laughing, which infected the rest of us, except Dawn. It was all we could do to carry our luggage and run onto the boat, seconds before the ramp was pulled up.
Still laughing, tears rolling down our cheeks, we settled into our seats. It felt good to laugh like that. The water and sky were so blue, and I felt lighter and lighter the closer we sailed to the island. When we neared the shores of St. Gabriel, Sandi suggested, “Let’s go outside and take a picture.”
Looking to her husband for confirmation, one of the passengers offered, “We’ll take it, so you can all be in it.” Connie and Roy from Toronto introduced themselves and we all went up on the top deck.
Connie was the wardrobe and hair gal, while I showed Roy how to use my camera. Eventually, we were all in position and just as Roy steadied the shot in the frame and clicked, a strong gust of lake air whipped across the deck, lifting our collars, our hair, and Marni’s wig right off of her head. The wig tumbled on an invisible slide. For a time it stayed in the air and then it floated gently to the water.
Holding onto the railing, our hair and clothes flapping in the breeze, we watched Marni’s wig float and bob on the ocean-like expanse of Lake Brigade. In an instant, Marni was exposed. Her hands gripped her bare scalp and a look of horror gripped her face.
Loretta peeled her little sister’s hands off of her head and held them tight while she kissed her bare scalp. “You’re beautiful, Sissy.”
We all reassured Marni that she was beautiful and she really was. Dawn untied the scarf from around her neck and took Marni below where she stylishly wrapped it on her head. How quickly a joyous moment can become something else.
I stayed on the upper deck, thinking about what I could do for Marni. Finally I realized the best thing I could do for her was exactly what I wanted. I would treat her like just one of the girls.
The ferry sailed past a lighthouse on a small island the size of a neighborhood park, and I snapped pictures. Hundreds of islands dot the Lake Brigade landscape, and since it was and is a major shipping corridor, lighthouses were built on many of those islands. All of which I had hoped to see someday. I set a goal right then and there to do just that.
As we approached the shores of St. Gabriel, I recognized the big Victorian homes, the cottages, and the white church with the towering steeple, buildings I had seen in photographs from twenty years ago. They looked exactly the same and it comforted me.
Once off the ferry we claimed our luggage and hailed a horse taxi. That’s a fun thing to do in the twenty-first century. The horse poop was scraped from the streets regularly, but Dawn was tiptoeing around miniscule traces of manure, holding her nose closed. There was an odor, but after about an hour or so on the island, it really wasn’t that noticeable. Our luggage was loaded into the back of the buggy, we climbed in, and it took us down Main Street toward The Willows Inn.
Along the way, the shops were filled with souvenirs, clothing, and gifts. There was a little grocery store and every kind of pastry bakery you can imagine—German, Swiss, Dutch, Irish, French, Mexican, Italian, Yiddish, and good ol’ American—Gramma’s Buns read the painted sign that hung from the eaves. I’d read about its world famous cinnamon rolls.
Loretta elbowed me and said, “Bakery capital of the world, Cam. I won’t tell Ms. Rivers if you don’t.”
I gave her a good sneer, but I was mentally going through my suitcase, taking inventory of any clothing I might have brought with expandable waistlines. They say if you give up sugar, the craving for it will eventually go away. I want to know who they are. Grates were visible below the bakery windows and there must have been fans down there. The smell wafted into the street, and I could feel my jeans getting tighter just from breathing.
The Willows Inn was a large Victorian house. We were greeted with the aroma of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies and the charms of Jeremy, the front desk clerk. He wasn’t a day over twenty, but that didn’t stop Dawn.
Dawn had been Marni’s best friend since grade school, and she is one of those people I have never quite figured out. Early thirties, quite beautiful with the body and skin of an eighteen year old, Dawn had never been married. She was an actress, self-absorbed, and born without an ounce of tact, but she had some rare good moments. And Marni was one of those people that only saw someone’s good moments.
Dawn talked Jeremy into carrying her luggage up the stairs, flirting with him the whole time. It was no credit to our gender. We got settled into our room, a two bedroom suite with a balcony view of the water and the fountain in the park. The sitting room was in a turret. I had always wanted to see a round room. Forty-seven and I had never been in a round room. That’s just not right.
It was almost ten p.m. by the time we checked in and unpacked. None of us had eaten dinner, and Dawn and Loretta were ready to rumble. I opted out of the late night foray into the streets of St. Gabriel, choosing instead to embrace the empty feeling in my stomach—it went so well with my heart. Marni was off with the wild women. She, I am sad to say, was not great at uttering the word no to anybody.
Sandi stayed in with me. She and I spoke on the phone every month or so, but I hadn’t seen her since her daughter Kim’s wedding over two years before. We had met during our freshman year of college and lived fairly parallel lives since then, except she had five children, one still at home, and her husband hadn’t left her for another woman.
We got into our pajamas and slid under the covers of the twin beds in the room that overlooked the park. Then we spent the hour before we both drifted off to sleep talking and catching up. After we talked about what our kids had been up to, Sandi rolled onto her side, propped herself up on her elbow and said, “Okay, Cammy, I’m only going to ask you once. I promise. How are you, really?”
I closed my eyes and thought about it, How am I, really?
“Really… well, I’m really, really sad.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thanks. And how are you, really?”
“Really.” Sandi rolled her eyes and then flopped her head back onto the pillow. With her arms straight against her sides, she pushed the blankets tight into her body and then held up three fingers and looked at them. “Kate and Patrick just had their third child.” She held up two more fingers. “Daniel and Michele their second.” She added two more, seven fingers now. "Kim and Mark have number two cooking and an hour before I walked out the door to catch the plane today, Jack and his girlfriend told us that they’re going to have a baby.”
Sandi held up an eighth finger and wiggled them all in the air. Then she sat up, and like a neon sign, flashed five fingers in my direction, and said, “They all live within five miles of us and because I don’t work outside the home, they assume I’m running a free childcare service 24-7. I used to love the word baby. Now it’s become a four-letter word that makes me very, very tired.” Both of Sandi’s hands were now pressed on her cheeks, her fingers pulling her eyes open.
“I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.” She laid back down and looked up at the ceiling.
“I love them so much, but it’s just… so much, ya’ know?”
“Have you thought of saying, no?”
“It’s crossed my mind but I would feel so guilty, so selfish.”
“Because you don’t want to be a doormat?” I regretted the words as they fell from my tongue, and I covered my mouth. “Sandi, I am so sorry. I was talking to myself just now. You just got in the way.”
“Don’t worry about it. I am a doormat when it comes to my children, but I honestly don’t know how to pick myself up off the stoop.”
I refrained from offering counsel, something I would have given quite freely before my brush with humility. Race leaving me had given me a whole new perspective. I hate to admit this, it shames me, but I thought I had pretty much figured out how to do life. I had looked at other people whose marriages failed and whose children had gone astray, and thought that I could pin-point where they had gone wrong—if only they hadn’t, or if they had only. What did I know about anything?
CHAPTER SEVEN
Island Grown
Sandi and I didn’t wake up when Loretta and Marni came in from their night on the town. Dawn? We met up with her after breakfast.
I got up in the morning, tiptoed out to the balcony, and watched the fog retreat from the island. It floated away like a blanket that was being pulled off for the day. An hour went by before anyone else was up, and I was jarred from an intense calm when Loretta, Marni, and Sandi came out singing into their hairbrushes, “Wake-up, little Cammy, wake-up.”
Later, showered and dressed, I walked down the stairs with our little band of Landers, as the locals call the tourists, and I realized I hadn’t thought about Race once since I got up. Not once. What I had been thinking about was beautiful St. Gabriel Island and pastry. And I didn’t have to go farther than the lobby to be accosted by the sweet scent of scones, Irish scones served with fresh coffee, juice and tea. I bargained with myself, just a bite. I felt a little jittery as I walked past the silver trays of Gaelic goodness.
My Way Home (St.Gabriel Series Book 1) (St. Gabriel Series) Page 5
