“Extraordinary from both of us, I think,” Bowie says, looking up at her with with a grin. “And this is Keegan Monroe. Keegan, Myrtle is one of the fine chefs here.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say. “This was amazing.”
She glances at what’s left of my tomato sandwich. “Now you’re gonna take that with you, aren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say.
“And what did you think of that sauce? Too much jalapeno?”
“Not a bit. I loved it.”
“I like her,” Myrtle says, putting a warm hand on my shoulder and smiling at Bowie. “You bring her back anytime.”
“Will do, Myrtle,” Bowie says.
The cafe door opens, and an older couple walk in. “Hey there, Mr. and Mrs. Miller!” Myrtle calls out. “Find you a table, and we’ll be right with you.”
She’s back to the kitchen then, humming as she goes.
“I think that’s how a person should feel about their work,” I say.
“What’s that?” Bowie asks, pushing his bowl away, even though he hasn’t quite finished it either.
“Like humming. Because they’re happy doing it.”
“Did you love your work?” he asks.
“I did for a lot of years. But the last few, I didn’t hum very much anymore.”
“Is that how you knew you wanted to leave the show?”
“You want an honest answer even though it’s one you’re not likely to believe?”
“Yeah,” he says.
“I love acting. It’s just something I enjoy doing. Like dancing, I guess. Or creating music. But I started to feel like maybe I wasn’t doing it for the right reasons anymore. It no longer needed to be about the money. I started to wonder if my ego liked the glory stuff a little too much.”
He looks at me for a few moments, shaking his head. “That’s honest. But I have to say you don’t seem to take yourself that seriously.”
I shrug. “I don’t want to. But there’s something about people you don’t know, people who know next to nothing about you other than the role you play, acting as if you’re worthy of adoration that makes you start to think maybe you are. That maybe the world really needs to know what designer you’re wearing, who your stylist is and what you eat for breakfast.”
Bowie laughs a little. “And you don’t think the world really needs to know those things?”
“No. None of that will promote a morsel of good on this planet.”
“Is that what you want now? To promote good?”
“If I can. I’m not sure how yet.”
“I bet you’ll know it when it comes along.”
“I hope so.”
He’s quiet again, and then says, “Do you think you need to justify what you’ve earned for yourself, Keegan?”
I consider the question. “Maybe.”
“Maybe being kinder to yourself might be a good place to start.”
I could take the assessment as criticism, but it’s not intended that way. I can tell from the look in his eyes. And so I take it as it’s meant. An observation rooted in compassion.
Four things come not back: The spoken word, The sped arrow, The past life, The neglected opportunity.
– Arabian Proverb
Evan
IT’S LATE AFTERNOON when Analise pulls the boat into a cove near the foot of Smith Mountain. There are no houses built along the waterfront. She drops the anchor just out from a stretch of sandy white beach.
“How about a swim?” she asks.
“Sure,” I say, averting my eyes as she pulls off her T-shirt and shorts.
Before I can pull off my own shirt, she’s jumping over the side of the boat, splashing water back on me.
“Hey,” I say and jump in after her.
We chase each other around, dunking and splashing, until, laughing, we swim in to the beach and sit on the sand, facing the lake. I’m out of breath, wiping water from my face when I say, “You’re tough.”
“Have to be with a big brother.”
“What’s he like?” I ask.
“He’s the good one,” she says.
“And you’re the bad one?”
“Not so much anymore,” she says, tipping her head. “But, yeah, I was.”
“You don’t seem like the bad one,” I say.
“I gave my mom and dad a hard time for a few years.”
“How so?”
“Getting into anything I thought would annoy them.”
“Why?”
“Because they got divorced, and I got lost, I guess. Cliche, I know, but maybe that was the only way I could think to get attention.”
“What changed?”
“My dad getting sick,” she says, her voice serious. “You think you can imagine what it would be like to lose someone you love. To not have them in your life anymore. But you really can’t. Not until it’s real, and you have to face it.”
“Yeah,” I say. “That’s tough.”
“It wasn’t as tough for me as it was for my dad. He’s the one who had to face the reality of dying. But it changed me too. It changed all of us, actually.”
I think about my mom then, wonder if I’ve been taking her for granted. I know my sister has, but have I acted much better? Not a lot.
“I probably have some work to do in that department,” I say.
“With your mom, you mean?”
I nod.
“It did seem a little weird that you didn’t mention she was an actress.”
“Why do you say that?”
Analise shrugs. “It seems like you’d be really proud of her. I would be.”
“I am,” I say, but I can’t deny that I should give my mom more credit than I do.
“Can I give you some advice?” Analise asks.
“Sure.”
“Don’t wait,” she says. “Because you never know. You just never know.”
“You sound a lot older than you are,” I say, tracing a finger through the sand between us.
“I guess I’ve grown up a good bit in the past year. When I think about how I treated my dad before he got sick.” She shakes her head and says in a low voice, “I was such a brat.”
“Maybe you didn’t mean to be?”
“Oh, I meant to be,” she says, smiling a little.
“We are teenagers,” I say. “Maybe we’re a little bit entitled?”
She shrugs. “All I know is there was a point when I thought I might not have a chance to have a good relationship with my dad again. That would have been a horrible thing to have to live with.”
“I’m glad you didn’t have to.”
“Me, too.” We meet eyes for a moment, before we both glance off like we’re shy or something. I haven’t felt shyness with a girl since I was like eleven.
“Are you an only child?” she asks.
“No. I have a sister,” I say.
“Older?”
“Two years older.”
“Where is she?”
“We don’t really know.”
Analise tips her head and says, “What do you mean?”
“She kind of decided she wanted to go her own way.”
“You don’t see her?”
“Not in almost a year.”
“That must kill your mom.”
“Pretty much.”
“Did they have a fight or something?”
I look out at the lake where another boat is pulling a skier. “Reece got pregnant and told Mom she was having an abortion.”
“Oh,” Analise says. “Wow. That’s some painful stuff.”
“It is.”
“Did she go ahead with it?”
“As far as I know. But like I said, we haven’t seen her.”
“You sound like you’re mad at her.”
I shrug. “It’s just hard to think about, you know. That would’ve been my niece or nephew. And the baby didn’t do anything wrong.”
“So you think she should have kept the baby?”
“Or let
Mom raise him or her.”
“Would she have done that?”
“I’m pretty sure she would have. She was more than devastated about the whole thing.”
We’re quiet for a while. I notice the sound of the water lapping against our ankles, the roar of a SeaDoo engine somewhere out of sight.
“What would you do?” I find myself asking. “If it happened to you, I mean.”
“Well, I believe we don’t know for sure what we would do in a situation until we’re really in it. But I know myself, and I . . . couldn’t . . . I would give the baby up for adoption after it was born, if I couldn’t keep it myself. There are so many people who can’t get pregnant, and I guess it seems like that would be changing something that wasn’t supposed to be into something that absolutely was meant to be.”
I study her face for a good while, long enough that she sits back a bit, and with a soft smile, says, “What? Do I have mud on my nose or something?”
“No,” I say. “I was just wondering if I could kiss you.”
“Funny,” she says. “I was just hoping you would.”
And so I do. Just kissing. Neither of us touching each other beyond that. But then she makes a small sound of pleasure, and I reach out to put my arms around her waist and pull her to me. She shifts onto my lap and slips her arms around my neck.
The sun is hot on my shoulders, and I can feel it starting to burn my skin, just as I’m pretty sure I can feel this girl starting to burn my soul.
It’s good to get silly, a bit willy-nilly. A person is only as old as his soul.
– Author Unknown
Bowie
I REALLY DON’T want to take her home just yet. I’m pretty sure I should because every time I’m with her, I’d like to be with her a little longer.
“There’s a putt-putt course up at the other end of the lake. You up for a game?”
She looks at me and smiles, and I have to wonder if I really just invited her to play putt-putt.
“That sounds fun,” she says. “I’ve never played.”
“Never?”
She shakes her head.
“How about regular golf?”
“Nope.”
“Should we play for money?” I ask, grinning a little.
“You’re evil,” she says.
“A man has to take his advantages where he can find them.”
“Oh, is that right?”
“Yep.”
“Well, I’m a fast learner, so I’ll take that bet.”
“All right, then,” I say.
We both stand with the wind blowing against our faces as I point the boat toward the Hales Ford side of the lake. It’s a good twenty-minute ride, even with the boat wound out. We don’t talk. Keegan studies the houses and docks we’re passing.
When we’re close to Bridgewater Marina, I slow the boat for the upcoming no-wake zone.
“I had no idea the lake was this big,” she says. “I mean I read about it, but it didn’t sound as big as it actually is.”
“There’s been a lot of development in the last twenty years or so. My grandparents owned a good bit of land here before the dam was built. They lost a lot of it to the building of the lake, but still had a good bit of acreage.”
“When was the dam built?”
“In the early sixties. For decades after that, it was mostly a fishing lake where people would bring boats in for the weekend. You’d see things like old school buses parked at the edge of the shore, and people would use them for a tent of sorts, I guess.”
“The houses here now are so nice. How did people find out about the lake?”
“A local developer started doing some building. I guess he took a pretty big risk because there were a lot of doubters who said this lake would never support that kind of property. He built Bernard’s Landing and Vista Point, the big high rise at the end of 626.”
“Were they successful?”
I nod. “Things started to grow from there.”
“It’s not hard to see why people are drawn to moving here.”
“Most people who do have no desire to leave.”
“I could be one of those people,” she says.
I focus my attention on pulling into a dock slip, not responding to that because I’m afraid if I do, it will be clear how much I hope it is true.
I have learned that to be with those I like is enough.
― Walt Whitman
Keegan
“SO YOU DIDN’T tell me you were a putt-putt shark,” I say, watching him make another hole-in-one.
“We did put money on this, didn’t we?” he teases.
“How does anyone even get this good at putt-putt?”
“Do I detect sore-loser syndrome?”
I laugh. “Maybe a little.”
“I totally suck at regular golf. This is my version of trying to make myself feel better about that.”
“It should be working for you,” I say, aiming a ball at the hole and watching as it skitters off far to the left. “Oh, for goodness sake!”
Bowie laughs. “Should I spot you a few points?”
“Absolutely not,” I say.
“Be happy to,” he says.
I fume then while he finishes another section without missing a hole.
We play three rounds. Carson sleeps near the entrance to the course, Bowie walking over to check on him several times. It’s dark when we finish the last round, and although I lose all three, I’m at least respectable by the end. I hand him the ten dollars, and he smiles, shaking his head.
“That’s okay,” he says. “I did take advantage of the fact that you’d never played.”
“No, no. I pay my debts. You won fair and square,” I say, forcing him to take the bill.
“How about I use it to buy us a pizza for dinner?” he asks, pointing at the restaurant just down the boardwalk.
So we head for the restaurant, Carson happily trotting along next to Bowie.
I find the restroom and stand in front of the mirror, looking at my disheveled hair and my red cheeks. I’m a mess, but staring at myself, I’m somehow okay with the way I look. I look relaxed, happy.
Those aren’t things I’ve seen in myself in a very long time. It’s actually kind of nice to think I still have them inside me. That I’ve found someone who likes who I am. Who seems to just like being with me.
And that’s nice. Really nice.
Praise the bridge that carried you over.
– George Colman
Bowie
WE SIT AT an outdoor table, Carson flopping down next to my chair. The waitress recognizes Keegan, and she asks five minutes of questions before taking our order.
Keegan answers with politeness and an air of appreciation for the woman’s interest.
Once we’ve given her our order and she’s headed for the kitchen, I say, “You handle that really well.”
“What?” she asks.
“People feeling like they know you because they’ve seen you on TV.”
She shrugs a little and says, “I guess I understand it. I’ve felt that way about characters I’ve loved on shows I’ve watched. As actors, we want people to get so involved with the characters and their lives that they can’t wait until next week’s episode. So should we be surprised when they recognize us in real life and feel like they know some part of us?”
“I guess not,” I say. “Seems like it would be hard to separate your personal life from it though.”
“Most people are respectful of there being a line of sorts. I’ve just never understood celebrities who put themselves out in the public eye in the biggest ways possible and then act offended when people want their autographs or want to speak to them.”
“I don’t think you’re typical of most celebrities, Keegan.”
“Maybe it’s about where you start in life,” she says. “For most of mine, I could never imagine anyone being impressed enough with me to want my autograph.”
“You’re very gracious.”
“I think grateful may be more accurate.”
I study her for a few moments and say, “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone quite like you.”
“I’m not that special, Bowie. I just enjoyed acting and was fortunate enough to find work that paid me for it.”
“And you don’t think it’s unusual that you didn’t start buying your own press somewhere along the way?”
“Most of us have days where we wake up thinking we’re a little greater than we actually are. I’ve found it’s better not to go there, because somehow life has a way of taking you down a notch or two.”
“Can I be honest with you about something?”
“Sure.”
“I didn’t want to take you home this afternoon. I wanted to find an excuse to spend more time with you.”
She considers this, then says, “Can I be honest with you?”
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t want you to take me home this afternoon.”
I feel the surprise on my face, followed by notable relief.
She smiles at me.
And I smile back.
WE LEAVE BRIDGEWATER and travel back down the lake at a much slower pace than when we came up this afternoon. The night air has cooled considerably, and it’s pleasant in comparison to the heat of the afternoon.
Carson is asleep on the back seat. Keegan is standing next to me, looking out at the dark in front of us as I drive.
“It’s a lot trickier at night, isn’t it?” she asks, raising her voice above the boat’s motor.
“Especially if you don’t know the lake,” I say. “It can get confusing.
We’re on a wide water stretch, and I note a mile marker as we pass it, double-checking that we’re where I think we are.
“Thanks for the day, Bowie. It’s been kind of perfect.”
“I should thank you,” I say. “And yeah, it has.”
I glance at her for a second, see the look of sincerity on her face and think to myself that you really can’t anticipate the sudden turns life can take. For good or bad. I know better than to try, but even so, the sound of a boat engine somewhere close, too close, catches me off guard.
Dragonfly Summer (A Smith Mountain Lake Novel Book 2) Page 11
