She’d narrowed her eyes at Marta but had no good come-back. Mostly because Marta was right. For all the things that were wrong with her life, buying a beach house could hardly be counted among them. And yet when she thought of crossing that old bridge her stomach clenched in dread.
“I’ll just meet you at the real estate office at ten o’clock if that’s still okay?” Arthur asked.
“Sure, I’ll be there.” She tried to make her voice sound enthusiastic for Arthur’s sake. She doubted he’d ever had a client who had the money but didn’t want to buy a beach house.
She hung up with Arthur and dialed Marta’s number but there was no answer. This had happened several times lately and Emily had tried not to be put off by Marta’s recent absence in her life. Things had escalated between her and Phil. As a result of their scheming, a relationship had blossomed, just in time for spring. Emily wanted to be happy for her friend, but she also missed having Marta accessible to her anytime she needed her. She tossed the crumpled paper into the wastebasket and gave herself three points for an outside shot. If Ryan were there he’d have only allowed her two.
If Ryan were there . . . The phrase populated her thoughts and resounded in her heart a hundred times a day. If Ryan were there she’d have plans for the weekend. If Ryan were there she wouldn’t need Marta so much. If Ryan were there she’d take more interest in decorating the house. If Ryan were there she’d have someone to see that new romantic comedy with. If Ryan were there she’d be happier. She eyed her empty suitcase. If Ryan were there she wouldn’t be going to the beach in two days to buy a house.
With a huff, she opened her closet to see if anything in there was worth packing. What did one wear to buy a beach house? Her eyes fell to the black dress, eventually hung there after the funeral and never touched again. Without thinking too much about it, she yanked it from the hanger and balled it up. She stared down at the wad of fabric in her hands, telling herself it was just a dress, nothing more. But the dress symbolized one of the worst days of her life, running neck and neck with the day Ryan got diagnosed and the day he died. Impulsively she tossed the dress toward the trash. She didn’t give herself any points when it made it in. She thought about plucking it out of the trash and folding it up for Goodwill but turned away. Some things shouldn’t have a second life.
Her phone buzzed and she reached for it, happy to have a distraction. Not that she was getting any packing done. Marta’s smiling face showed up on the screen, the ringtone belting out an old Hall and Oates song Marta had chosen from a random list. She answered. “I tried calling you earlier,” an accusing tone crept into her voice that she didn’t like. She sounded like a nagging wife.
“Sorry, Phil and I were having brunch.” Marta hardly sounded sorry. She sounded happy.
Brunch? Marta was hardly the brunch type. “Oh, that sounds nice.”
“Yeah. It’s going really well with him, thanks for asking.”
She grimaced. “Sorry. I’m self-involved, but at least I recognize it. Isn’t that the first step?”
She could hear Marta’s smile through the phone. At least she’d broken the ice. Lately their friendship had been . . . off. She knew that she was primarily responsible for that—who would want to listen to another person whine for over a year? But she also knew that Marta’s developing relationship with Phil was pulling her friend away. She was glad they were going to the beach, just the two of them. Marta’s sense of humor would help her cross that bridge, meet that realtor, find that house Ryan wanted her to have. “I’m packing right now, you’ll be glad to know.”
“Yeah . . . um, about that.”
It wasn’t so much the words Marta said, it was the way she said them. Laced with guilt and heavy in the delivery, Emily knew Marta was about to deliver a death knell to their trip. “Phil’s parents are coming to town for Easter and staying the week. He’s asked me to stay in town to spend time with them and I—”
“Said you would.”
There was silence on the other end. “I have to do this, Em. It’s my chance at happiness.” Marta always did tend toward the dramatic.
“But you were the one who made me go through with this. You said you’d be with me. That I wouldn’t have to do this alone.”
Marta sighed, a real sigh this time, not one just for effect. “I know I did. And I want to be with you. I do. But . . . he’s asking and I can’t shake the feeling that with the way things are going, it’s really important to be here, to meet his folks, if you know what I mean.”
Emily sank down onto her bed, resting her arm on her empty suitcase. She wanted to crawl inside it at that moment, tuck herself into the fetal position and suck her thumb, zip the lid closed around her and shut out the world. “I understand,” she managed.
She expected Marta to argue a little bit, put up a fight or keep her talking about her feelings the way Marta always did. Instead she let out a little whoop and exclaimed, “You’re the best friend ever. Thanks!” Marta threw out a few other closing remarks—platitudes all—and Emily was left with a dial tone buzzing in her ear. She had thought that perhaps she’d tell Marta about what had happened during her massage that afternoon. Marta was always bugging her about keeping everything so together, always pushing her to fall apart more often. It sounded odd but Marta would be thrilled to hear she’d done just that. But that wasn’t going to happen now.
She looked at the closed drawer where the letter resided and said to the ceiling, “Happy now? This is all your fault.” With a heavy heart she rose from the bed and resumed her halfhearted packing attempt, feeling less like braving the beach than ever before.
She arrived at Sunset Beach on Monday afternoon, leaving just enough daylight to get checked into her motel and get something to eat before getting a good night’s sleep, maybe watch a movie on TV before she dozed off. Lately the TV had become her constant companion, her white noise, her evidence that there was life on this planet without actually having to interact with that life. She found it easier to view other people’s crises than to think about her own.
She managed to cross the old swing bridge without having to wait for boats to cross the intracoastal waterway. Her car made the same sound she remembered from before as she came off the bridge railings, da-dum, da-dum. She kept her eyes peeled to the road and tried not to think too much. Before she knew it she pulled into the motel parking lot without fanfare. She sat in the car and took a deep breath. First bridge crossed. No pun intended, she heard Ryan say. A little smile flitted across her face.
Ha, ha, ha, she thought. You’re funny for a dead guy.
She took in her surroundings, gazing across the motel parking lot at the parking lot for the pier, the gazebo that sat off to the left of it, and the ocean beyond. She turned to check out the motel she had reserved sight unseen. Though not fancy by any means, the place looked clean and in good working order. Since it wasn’t the high season and still pretty chilly, there weren’t many people milling around. The deserted feel of the place matched the way she felt inside. Nothing like a ghost town when you’re dealing with ghosts of your own.
She got out of the car and collected her suitcase, now bulging with an assortment of clothes she ended up tossing in without much rhyme or reason. She half dragged, half carried it across the parking lot and ducked into a small front office, only to find it empty. “Hello?” she called out, feeling ridiculous.
When no one came, she called out again, louder this time. “Um, hello?”
She heard a rustling from behind a closed door and stood a bit straighter. After a few seconds, the door opened and a young girl emerged, wiping her mouth with a bright yellow fast-food napkin. “Sorry,” the girl said sheepishly and tossed the napkin into the trash. “I was eating dinner.” She went over to the computer on the desk and started pushing buttons. She looked at Emily for the first time, and as she did, Emily noticed her startling green eyes. “And you are?” the girl asked.
“Emily,” she responded. “Shaw,” she added. “Em
ily Shaw.”
The girl began typing, her fingers flying expertly across the keys. Emily studied her as she did, deciding she couldn’t be much older than Emily’s students. She took in the girl’s clothing—jeans and a long-sleeve T-shirt with the motel’s logo. Her thick red hair was pulled back and she had no makeup on. She probably looked younger than she actually was.
“Is this your after-school job?” Emily ventured, just to fill the silence in the room.
The girl didn’t look up. “Nah, this is our family business.” The girl let out a grim little laugh. “I mean it’s just me and my dad, if you want to call that a family.”
“Well, sure, it’s a family,” Emily rushed to say, her words tumbling over each other. She felt and sounded like an idiot. The girl gave her a look that told her she didn’t need some stranger validating her family life. You could take the teacher out of the school . . . If Ryan were there that’s what he would say. He was always teasing her about her love of kids, especially teenagers. But Emily couldn’t help it. She remembered how hard it was to be a teen—not a kid but not an adult, everyone acting like they knew what was going on when no one really did. She’d had an even more difficult time as a preacher’s kid. Her lingering memories of the awkwardness and uncertainty of that time gave her a heart for that age when most people ignored or avoided them.
She tried giving the girl a smile, but the girl looked away, her emerald gaze directed back at the computer screen. She was forgetting that to her she wasn’t Mrs. Shaw, the popular teacher students clamored to have at school. She was just some strange woman in need of a room for a few nights in her father’s motel. She would have to tone down her enthusiasm.
The girl passed her an old-fashioned key attached to a green plastic disk bearing her room number, 202. She pointed toward the door, reciting in a monotone the directions to get to the room. “Let us know if you need anything. Checkout’s at eleven,” she finished.
“Sure. Thanks.” Emily dropped the key into her purse and lugged the unwieldy suitcase back across the room. She wrestled with the door while managing to keep hold of her purse and suitcase, a feat that she thought deserved recognition, but the girl kept on pecking at the computer, oblivious.
Once she was outside on the sidewalk she began reciting in a snippy voice what the girl should’ve said. “Thank you so much for choosing to stay with us. We know you could’ve stayed any number of places and we appreciate your business.” She got up the stairs and into her room with only a few bruises on her shins from the suitcase knocking up against her legs, balancing it against the wall as she used the key to let herself in.
Once inside she found a large clean room, if not decorated in the loveliest—or even matching—décor. It was good enough for a few days at Sunset. Using her heavy suitcase to prop open the door, she stood out on the open-air breezeway and gazed across the parking lot at the ocean. For a moment she focused solely on the lovely view. She breathed in the salt air, letting it fill her lungs and fuel her with something she wasn’t used to feeling. Something she faintly remembered was called hope.
Six
April 10, 2007
Arthur Groves pulled into the parking lot of the motel and shifted the car into park with a barely audible tired sigh. He looked at her with a sheepish expression and turned the car off. “You sure you don’t want to go over to Ocean Isle Beach to look? It’s just one beach over.” His voice was low and without hope. This wasn’t the first time he’d mentioned this option. Somewhere around the fifteenth house they’d looked at, he’d started suggesting other options. Emily couldn’t tell if he was impatient with her or sympathetic. It didn’t matter. She’d been unable to find the house she pictured in her mind, the house she would know Ryan wanted for her.
Her mind had wandered many times in the past two days as she and Arthur had traipsed around Sunset Beach, their hopes dimming with each “no.” She’d thought of the many times she and Ryan had mused over the perfect beach house—a blend of shabby yet nice, not a designer model home but not a dive. It seemed all the houses were either one or the other. She’d looked at some very nice homes that were out of her price range, and tried not to be a snob at some of the ones she could afford. Some of them looked like a group of high school students partying over spring break had just left . . . and the maid service hadn’t ever showed up. Some of them simply lacked personality. None of them touched her heart. None of them said “home” when she walked in the front door.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Groves,” she said for what seemed the hundredth time. “I mean, Arthur,” she corrected herself, recalling his request to call him by his first name.
The older gentleman patted her hand and put his own hand back on the wheel. She figured he was anxious to get her out of his car. She couldn’t blame him. He’d been hospitable and accommodating for two days—and now it looked as though he wouldn’t even make a commission.
He cleared his throat and turned to look at her once more. “Maybe it would help if you spent some time thinking about what you want.”
She gave him a polite smile and tried to keep from sighing aloud. “Mr. Groves—Arthur,” she amended herself again. “I want to fulfill my husband’s last wish and buy a house here at Sunset. I want to get through this summer so I can say that I did what he asked. I want to shut up my best friend once and for all so she’ll stop harping on me to do this. I want . . .” The sigh escaped her lips anyway. “I want to figure out why he wanted me to do this in the first place. Why he ever thought I’d want to do this without him.”
Arthur Groves shifted uncomfortably and nodded. “I, um, can certainly understand wanting all those things, Emily. But what I actually meant was what you wanted in a house. Make a list of what you’d really like and what you can’t live with. It might make the process easier and bring some things into focus.” He gave her a kind smile she was sure was meant to encourage her. “I find it helps clients sometimes.”
Embarrassed by her unnecessary outburst, she nodded obediently, just wanting to get out of the car and slink up to her room. “Okay, I’ll work on that.”
He turned the key in the ignition and the engine responded with a rumble. “I’ll head into the office first thing tomorrow morning and make some calls. Maybe we can come up with something that hasn’t hit the listings yet. Let’s not give up,” he said.
“Okay,” she said. She pulled on the door handle and felt a rush of warm air fill the car as the door opened. She inhaled the salt air, wondering if she’d ever take that smell for granted. She and Ryan had talked about that—how their children would grow strong and healthy breathing in that sea air. She quickly blinked away tears. Maybe she and Ryan had just been entirely wrong. Maybe she should donate the money he left her to cancer research so someone else could live the dreams she and Ryan never fulfilled and let this crazy scheme of his die with him.
She said a quick good-bye to Arthur and got out of his car, crossing the dusty parking lot as she made her way to her room, her pride still smarting over the way she’d blurted out the wrong answer to his question. At that moment all she wanted was to throttle Marta for bailing on her. They’d talked of driving down to Myrtle Beach to go shopping, heading over to Calabash to dine on fried seafood and wander through the tourist shops, maybe even making a day trip up to Southport or Wilmington. What could’ve been a moderately fun spring break was just one long disappointment. If she didn’t find something tomorrow, she decided as she climbed the stairs to her little room, she was going home. Maybe she really would take a gardening class. Anything was better than this.
She sank down into the couch in her room and clicked on the TV for lack of something better to do. At some point she’d have to venture out for dinner, maybe head up to the sub sandwich shop just over the bridge and bring something back to eat in front of the TV. She wasn’t up to dining in public alone. Looking at happy couples laughing, talking, and gazing into each other’s eyes was more than she could take. She clicked through the channels mindlessly
, hoping to magically land on something worth watching.
When the image of Brady Rutledge filled the screen, she groaned out loud. Too late, the memory of watching this movie with Ryan, teasing him about his competition, filled her mind. She could see Ryan stripping off his T-shirt and bowing up his arms. “Oh yeah?” he’d asked, flexing his pecs, tanned and slick with oil. “Can he compete with this?” She’d fallen over on the couch laughing. She’d known then she had something special with this funny, handsome, charming man. She’d just never thought she could lose it so fast.
She studied Brady Rutledge’s image for a moment, taking in his handsome features, the sound of his captivating voice. “Okay,” she said to the ceiling. “I still say he’s good looking. But he’s no you. Happy?” She clicked off the TV and looked around the silent room. She couldn’t spend all evening closed up in there. It would make her crazier. Remembering a sign tacked up in the office that said they would loan out bikes to guests, she walked back downstairs to ask if she could take out a bike. Maybe a ride around the island would clear her head. At the very least it would get her out of there.
She walked into the office, expecting to find it empty again. Instead she found a good-looking twentysomething guy leaning across the desk where the girl who checked her in sat. When he saw Emily he jumped back like he’d been jolted with electricity. She looked from the guy to the girl as she came to stand behind him to wait her turn. They were all silent as the girl stared at her computer and the guy shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Okay, well,” he finally said to the girl, “I guess I’ll just come by later to pick up those extra towels.” Emily couldn’t be sure but she thought she saw him wink at the girl before he left.
The Bridge Tender Page 5
