The Bridge Tender

by Marybeth Whalen

  “It’s fine.” He smiled at her. “I just don’t meet new folks all that often. I tend to stay behind the scenes or hang out with people who already know me so this kind of thing doesn’t happen too much.” From the way he looked at her, she could tell he knew she was mortified by the whole exchange, and more than a little thrown off by his presence. The look on his face wasn’t that of a confident, cocky movie star. He looked like just another guy trying to say the right thing. A guy who, as it were, just happened to be far better looking than any other guy she’d seen in a long time. Later she would apologize to Ryan for thinking that. But for now she tried to take in the changes in him, gauging whether he looked older or better. She decided on both. She had to laugh and shake her head. She’d had a strange couple of days but this took the cake.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I should’ve thought about what I was doing. I didn’t even think about the movie thing. Those days were so long ago, I figure most folks have forgotten all that by now.”

  She shook her head. “No, not really. I mean, I haven’t.” Nice. She sounded like an idiot.

  He nodded, chewed on that for a moment. “Well, they have here. And that’s what counts most. You’ll find things are different here. In a good way. If you’re looking to start over, or change your life, this is about as good a place as any.”

  She looked away, her eyes filling with those pesky involuntary tears that were as much a part of her life as hangnails and hiccups. “That’s good to know,” was all she could say in return.

  “Maybe you have a number where I could reach her?” he asked. “I’d like to come back when you’re more . . . settled and pick up what Ada’s husband left for me. But I’ll call and make sure she left it like she said. And if you want, you can call her and check out my story. Just ask her about the bridge tender’s log and she’ll explain what it is, and why I want it.”

  “Sure. I’ll get that for you,” she said. She walked inside quickly and over to the number she’d placed under a magnet on the fridge, scribbled it on the back of a grocery receipt, returned to the porch, and handed it to him. “Nice to meet you,” she managed to add, even though just being around him made her tongue-tied.

  “You too,” he said. “Although I never got your name.”

  “Emily. Shaw.” She fumbled, feeling more and more stupid the longer they stood there. “And that’s the only name I have.” She tried to recover with an even stupider joke.

  “Good to know.” He smiled. “Well, nice to meet you, Emily Shaw.” He winked and, when he did, all those heart-fluttering, long-ago crush feelings came swelling to the surface. “See ya later.”

  He turned and ambled away as she lowered herself back down on the porch chair, watching until he disappeared from sight and thinking about how his hand felt in hers, warm and weathered, not like a movie star’s hand at all.

  Eleven

  Emily eased into a life at Sunset that was quiet, simple, and, if she was honest, lonely. She found a small bookstore on the mainland that kept her beach bag filled with new novels for reading on the beach, thanks to the consistently good recommendations of the book mavens who staffed the store. But brief encounters with salespeople hardly counted as real relationships. And the books she took home, while filling her time, didn’t fill her heart. As each story ended, she couldn’t help closing the novels with a renewed sense of loss and pain at the thought of never again having a great love like the ones she’d read about. And yet, she was resigned to this hand she’d been dealt, this end she’d come to. She looked around from her dock as the sun began to set on another Wednesday night and reasoned that it could be worse. Alone as she was, Ryan had certainly arranged for an amazing place to spend her widowhood.

  Laughter perked her ears, rising over the sound of the water lapping and the birds calling. She looked in the direction it was coming from, knowing it was the children in the house next door. She’d caught sight of them and their mother from time to time, always offering a polite smile before darting inside. The last thing she wanted was to be around a happy family. It was hard enough to see their cartoon-print wet towels and bright bathing suits hanging over the deck railing, reminders of the things she should have by now.

  She looked away from the sight, focusing back on the water. She debated going inside. Maybe there’d be something good on TV. She needed to replace Ada’s old set soon. Perhaps tomorrow she would venture to the big box store in Shallotte and splurge. There was a bit of money left in the account from Ryan’s life insurance policy for home improvements. And a flat screen, top-quality television would be a definite home improvement.

  Sometimes she thought about going back home, living there full-time and arranging visits to Sunset for a few days at a time. But something made her stay, a child digging in her heels out of sheer stubbornness. Ryan had wanted her here, had intended to give her this and—even if she hadn’t exactly wanted it for herself—she had to trust that somewhere in this summer was a new beginning for her. She just had to keep waiting. And the truth was there wasn’t much to go home to. Her mother would only pester her about dating again, arranging contrived meetings with her version of appropriate men. And Marta was still head over heels over Phil, though she had promised another visit soon the last time they’d talked.

  “Hey!” A little voice cut through her evening reverie, startling her.

  She looked over at the house next door, toward where the voice was coming from, and spotted the child in the strip of grass between their yards. “Yes?” she asked, her voice tentative and hoarse. She wondered how long it had been since she last spoke to another person. She had to change that. Get a job or volunteer or something. Maybe the little bookstore was hiring.

  “You want a popsicle?” the child called. He walked closer, waving a red popsicle in the air that was melting down his arm. Emily would be willing to bet that he had already licked it before his offer to “share” it with her.

  She gave him a polite smile, her heart hurting a little at the sight of him. He was barefooted and wore plaid pajama pants but no shirt, his chest streaked with additional red stains. His blond hair was damp, sticking to his forehead, and his mouth was also ringed in red. “No thank you,” she said, hoping he’d get bored and go away quickly.

  “My name’s Noah,” he said. He looked from her to the popsicle and back again. Then with a shrug he ran his tongue up the side of it, sucking the juice with a loud slurp. He swallowed, grinned, and held out the popsicle. “If you change your mind, we’ve got more inside. My mom got them today. She said I couldn’t have one, but since you don’t want it, I figure I better eat it.”

  She nodded. “Good thinking,” she agreed. Hey, she wasn’t the kid’s mother.

  On cue a woman’s voice hollered from the porch next door, “Noah!” Next to her a blond-headed little girl stood, her hands on her hips, just like her mother’s. She also called Noah’s name, with the same amount of insistence.

  “I think your mom wants you,” Emily said to Noah, who seemed not to have heard. He was intent on watching a boat traveling down the intracoastal waterway. He bit into the popsicle, oblivious as he happily crunched away.

  Emily waved her hand in the air in the direction of the mother and daughter. “He’s over here!” she called. “He’s with me.”

  The woman started down the steps and crossed the yard toward the dock, her daughter struggling to keep up. Emily rose to greet them, feeling a bit nervous at the thought of meeting her neighbors this way. She hadn’t bothered to shower and was still wearing the cut-off sweats and T-shirt that she’d slept in the night before. She ran a hand through her hair, as if that could help.

  “I’m so sorry he came over here uninvited,” the woman said. She strode forward and snatched the popsicle from Noah’s hand. He began to holler at the indignity. “I specifically told you you couldn’t have this,” the woman said to him. She shook her head at the popsicle, now dripping onto her hand. She pointed at their house. “Go,” she instructed.


  Noah gave her a little wave, still sniffling. “It’s not fair,” she heard him mumble as he walked away.

  The woman turned to the little girl standing beside her with a matching scowl. “Sara, will you please go with your brother and help him wash off?”

  The girl rolled her eyes skyward and with a huff, expressed her displeasure. “Now he’s going to be all sticky and he just had his bath.” She stalked after Noah, catching up to him in a few strides. Emily and her neighbor watched them go in silence.

  “Sorry again,” the woman said. “Nothing like a little family drama on an otherwise quiet summer evening.” She gave Emily a little smile. “I’m Claire Connolly.” She started to extend her hand but looked at the dripping popsicle in it and changed her mind. “I’ll save you from the formalities.”

  “I’m Emily Shaw,” she replied and smiled, feeling more at ease around her neighbor now that she was in front of her. Though beautiful in a careless way, with the blonde, sun-kissed good looks of a Hollywood starlet, there was something disarming about her, something genuine and unassuming. Emily felt badly about avoiding her for the past few days and wished she had words to explain her rudeness.

  “I’m so sorry we haven’t been over here before. We got down here later this summer than usual and it seems I’ve been playing catch-up ever since, trying to open the house and do all the things the kids want to do. I feel like a cruise director.” She glanced down at the red trails the popsicle was starting to leave down her arm and sighed. “Mind if I take this up to the house to throw it away? It’s going to start dripping off my elbow soon.”

  “Oh, sure.” Emily gave a little wave and took a step back toward her chair. “It was nice to meet you.”

  Claire gave her a confused look and shook her head as she made a waving motion for Emily to get up. “No, you come with me. I want to know all about how you talked old Ada into finally giving up her house.” She started walking away, waving her arm again to indicate that Emily was supposed to follow. She continued talking as they made their way across the yard to her house. Emily glanced back at the dock, her lone chair, her drink perched on the weathered boards beside it, ice melting in the glass. Maybe she wouldn’t be spending a lonely evening watching the sun go down and staring at the lights on the bridge in the distance as cars came and went across it. She listened to Claire’s running monologue as she ushered them into the back door of her house. She deposited the popsicle in the trash and washed her hands without so much as a stutter.

  “We never thought she’d actually sell that house. She talked a good game but she loved this place so much. In fact, when we first got here I didn’t even realize someone else was living over there. I kept meaning to get over and see if Ada needed anything, and I wondered why we hadn’t heard a peep out of her. She was usually on our doorstep before we could get the car unloaded.” She grabbed a towel from a hook and wiped her hands dry. “Do you happen to know where she went? I’d love to send her a card.”

  “Oh, sure,” Emily replied. “I have the address of her sister, Ida. She went to live with her.”

  “Well, good for her. I know that’s what Frank wanted. But of course once he was gone I had no idea whether she’d keep her promise.” She laughed. “He used to tease her about that. Tell us we were to ‘report her to the authorities’ if she didn’t comply. As if we knew what authorities to report her to!”

  Emily thought of that evening, her conversation with Ada and how seriously she’d taken her promise. Even if it meant giving up something she loved to do so. “She was happy, I think,” Emily said. “In the end. With her decision. She seemed . . . excited about spending time with her sister. This place gets kinda . . . lonely. At times.” Emily thought of the empty chair beside her on the dock, another long, lonely night stretching out ahead of her before Noah showed up with his red popsicle.

  “Ha!” Claire said. “Lonely is not a word in my vocabulary. I never get a second to myself. Even in the bathroom. They find me, I swear!” She looked around, as if suddenly realizing the kids were unaccounted for. “Noah! Sara!” she called.

  From the loft above she heard Sara’s answer. “We’re up here. I’m reading Noah a bedtime story.”

  “Okay!” Claire called back. She looked back at Emily. “That girl is God’s gift to me. I’d have lost it years ago without her around. She’s such a big help with her little brother. If he’d have been born first he’d have been an only child, I can tell you that.” Claire started scrounging around in a cupboard and produced a bottle of red wine. “Can I interest you in a glass?” she asked. “This is Mommy Juice, I tell the kids.” She winked at Emily.

  Before Emily could answer, she poured two glasses and handed her one. Emily thanked her and took a tentative sip. As the daughter of a Baptist preacher she’d never been one to drink. But she had to admit it felt nice to share a glass of wine with this energetic woman who could possibly be a friend, or at least another human being to trade bits of conversation with from time to time. It certainly beat another lonely night contemplating running back home. Emily followed Claire into the adjoining living area and waited for her to move toys and books out of her way so she could sit. All around them was the detritus of family life—laundry piles, cast off sippy cups, a stray red flip-flop, the sole printed with ladybugs.

  “Sorry about the mess,” Claire said, noticing her noticing. “I’d tell you to come back on the weekend when my husband gets here and it’ll be cleaner but that wouldn’t be true.” She shrugged her shoulders and took another sip of wine. “I keep promising myself that one weekend I’ll actually clean up before he gets here on Friday, but it never happens.”

  “I could help you sometime,” Emily blurted before she knew what she was saying.

  “Oh no! Did you think I was fishing for help? I’m sorry!” Claire exclaimed. “I’m just trying to be honest. I mean, if you’re going to be my neighbor you might as well know the deal.”

  “I didn’t think you were asking. I just thought I could help. I mean, I’m not married and I don’t have any kids, and I have a lot of time on my hands this summer and . . . I wouldn’t mind having something to do. That’s all,” Emily said. She saw Claire’s eyes flicker over the plain gold band on Emily’s left ring finger, then dart away. Someday, if they truly got to be friends, she’d explain.

  “Well, that’s awfully nice of you.” Claire set her wine glass down on the coffee table and reached for the pile of laundry, her hands folding the clothing without even looking, robot-like. “I will never turn down help. These two little monkeys wear me out.” She set down a small folded T-shirt and looked around the house as if she was seeing it anew. “Every spring I tell my husband I’m not coming down here alone again.” She sighed. “And every June I’m right back here.” She grabbed another item of clothing, a miniature pair of khakis like the ones Ryan used to wear. He would’ve loved to see a son of his in those.

  “Where’s your husband?” Emily asked.

  “He stays home and works.” Claire gestured to the house. “Someone has to pay for all of this.” She laughed, gave up on folding the laundry, and leaned back against the couch. “This house has been in my family a long time. My grandfather and Frank were friends, actually. So when Rick—that’s my husband—and I were planning our life together, we decided that once we had kids this is how we’d do it. My kids would get to grow up like I did.”

  “So you spent summers here?”

  “Oh yeah. Worked at the Island Market, hung out with the summer kids up at the pier.” A small smile crossed her face. She held her hands up. “Summer romances, constant pranks, sneaking around our parents. The whole shooting match. It was a great way to grow up.” She sighed, folded her hands across her stomach. “It’s a sacrifice though. I miss my husband. My friends back home. And while life in paradise is wonderful, it can get kinda dull sometimes.”

  Emily laughed. “Yeah, I’m finding that out.”

  Claire’s eyes lit up. “You should come with me tom
orrow night! I’m going to a community meeting. We’re fighting to save the bridge.” She pointed in the direction of where the bridge was, as if Emily didn’t know which bridge she was referring to.

  “You want to save it?” she asked.

  “Oh yeah, it’s part of my childhood. I can’t imagine my kids getting to Sunset on some big sophisticated high-rise bridge like the state wants to put in. Our little pontoon bridge is part of the charm of this place.” She grinned and lifted her chin. “And I’m not going down without a fight.”

  Emily nodded. “Sometimes at night I sit and watch the bridge open and close and, in the distance, I can hear the cars rumbling over it. I watch the lights of the boats that line up to get through. It is kind of quaint and appealing.”

  Claire leaned forward, eager. “Exactly. Can you imagine them just doing away with that?”

  She shook her head. “I really can’t.”

  “Then you’ll come? To the meeting?” Claire’s excitement over the cause shone in her eyes.

  “Sure . . . I mean, I guess,” Emily agreed. How did she explain to her neighbor that she literally had nothing else to do and that any offer was better than another lonely night? Even if her heart wasn’t in the bridge fight, she would welcome the opportunity to be around other people. And maybe some of their passion would seep into her, carried on the summer breeze.

  Twelve

  She was ready to go with Claire and the children to the meeting hours before it was time to leave. She sat in her living area and stared at the clock hands making another laborious loop around the face, still feeling like a guest in her house. “Why would you have ever thought it would be good for me to come here without you?” she asked aloud in the empty room.

  Speaking to Ryan was a habit she’d developed, one she kept to herself. But somehow she felt he was listening no matter how weird that might be.

  A knock at her door startled her. No one ever came over to her house. Then she remembered Noah and his dripping popsicle and smiled. Maybe this time he’d be bearing chocolate chip cookies, something she couldn’t help but say yes to. She tugged open the door to find Brady Rutledge—Kyle Baker, she remembered—standing there again. She’d done a good job at convincing herself that whole encounter was just a dream, some imagined encounter her grieving mind had latched onto. It was too crazy to believe. And yet as she blinked at him with the afternoon sun streaming behind him, he looked as real as she was. Certainly more real than the ghost she was attempting to communicate with moments ago. “Yes?” she managed, but her voice was shaky.