The Bridge Tender

by Marybeth Whalen

  She turned back and shook her head. “No one, just thought I saw someone from back home. A student. But it wasn’t her.” She tamped down the guilt that rose up over her little white lie. Maybe later she’d tell Claire all about Amber. But now, with the kids listening to every word, wasn’t the time.

  “That’s right!” Claire smacked herself in the forehead. “You said you’re a teacher. No wonder you’re so good with kids!”

  “What grade do you teach, Miss Emily?” Sara asked. She had a pink ring around her mouth and Emily wished that Ryan could see her. Happy as she was at that moment, there was always his absence there, a gaping hole that opened up no matter where she seemed to go.

  “I teach eighth grade.” She looked at Sara and widened her eyes, making her eyebrows fly up. “The big kids.” Though they weren’t high school students yet, she knew to Sara that age seemed like giants.

  Sara widened her eyes to make her expression match Emily’s. “That is big. I’m going into first grade next year.”

  She held up her hand so Sara could give her a high five. Then Noah, for no reason in particular, wanted to slap her hand too. “I’m going to preschool,” he informed her after he slapped her hand. He looked over at his mother, then back at Emily. “But I don’t want to.”

  Claire laughed and patted her son on his head. “Mommy wants you to, Noah, and that’s all that matters.” She looked meaningfully at Emily. “I have a countdown going until the first day after Labor Day.” She winked and kissed Noah, coming away with a few sprinkles around her own mouth. Emily grimaced when she licked them off and Sara yelled, “Ew! Gross!” as Claire laughed. “You’ll love preschool, Noah. Sara did.”

  Emily noticed some motion over where Amber and the young man were sitting. She watched them get up. He pulled Amber to him and kissed her, then smiled. Emily stared at Amber’s middle and wondered if she was showing yet. She wondered if he knew. She wondered if Amber had told her father. She hoped the girl hadn’t gone to some clinic and “taken care of things” as she’d heard a girl at school describe it in an anonymous journal entry that broke her heart. She’d felt helpless and heartbroken as she read it—typed so she couldn’t analyze the handwriting. And no one had ever given any indication beyond that one lone assignment. And yet she’d always felt responsible somehow, that she should’ve tried harder to find the girl and help her.

  She watched Amber leave with the man from the motel—a man too old for her, a man most likely hiding a whole other life from her and using her for a good time when he was in town. She hoped she was wrong but knew that likely she was exactly right. The smile slipped from Emily’s face, replaced by a look of concern and a string of ideas about how maybe she could help this one.

  Thirteen

  Marta answered the phone on the first ring the next morning. Emily had called her best friend when she got in from the ice-cream store, anxious to sort through her ideas to reach out to Amber. She got no answer, something that was happening more and more. Emily tried not to feel hurt when her friend didn’t answer, picturing her laughing and flirting with Phil, then looking down when her phone rang and pressing the Ignore button, Emily’s face instantly disappearing from her phone’s screen. Instead she tried to remember that glorious feeling of falling in love. She’d once been the same way and now it was Marta’s turn. But in the meantime she’d been anxious to tell her about Amber . . . and about Kyle.

  But before she could go into it, Marta asked if she’d gone back to see Amber. Emily sheepishly admitted that she’d been too chicken to go back to the motel, hoping that things would just work out for the girl and all would be well. “That’s a great attitude, Em,” Marta said. “That’s just WWJD all the way.”

  Emily smiled and filled her in on seeing her at the ice-cream place. “I’ve been thinking about how I can worm my way into her life without looking like a total stalker. I.e., not end up hiding under her desk afraid she’s going to find me there.”

  “Well, as long as you don’t go sneaking around in her purse and snooping, you should be fine this time. Just take her lunch this afternoon or something. Make that chicken salad you used to make—that kind like your mom makes. The one with the pecans and red grapes.”

  Emily grimaced. That would mean a trip across the bridge to get the stuff to make it, then a morning of cooking, then a trip over to the motel on the chance that Amber would actually be there and would not have already had lunch. Marta’s idea sounded like a lot of work. And yet . . . what else did she have to do? She eyed her beach bag with yet another book peeking out of the top. There would be time to read later—like after the lunch was delivered. “Okay,” she sighed. “I’ll do it.”

  “Then you have to tell me how it works out. Text me,” Marta said. Emily knew that was her way of saying she wouldn’t be able to talk after lunch.

  “Okay,” she said, thinking how easy Marta made things sound. She hoped her friend was right. “So things are going well with you and Phil?”

  “Yeah,” Marta said, a dreamy quality to her voice the minute Phil’s name came up. “We’re so compatible. We like the same movies, the same food, the same music. Except he likes country, which you know I can’t stand, but he’s agreed not to listen to it when I’m in the car. I figure if that’s the worst thing we have to deal with then we’re good. Right?”

  “Absolutely,” she agreed. “So are we talking marriage yet?”

  “Well, neither of us are getting any younger and if we want kids—Sorry. I shouldn’t be going into this with you. I know romance isn’t exactly your favorite subject.” She took a deep breath and started again. “To answer your question, he hasn’t taken me to pick out rings or anything so no bells are ringing yet.”

  “You don’t have to apologize for thinking about your future,” Emily said, keeping her tone bright. “I’m happy for you.”

  “Thanks,” Marta said. “What about you? I guess there’s no chance you’ve met some handsome surfer dude who wants to share a towel with you?”

  “Well, actually . . . ,” Emily said.

  “What?” Marta shrieked so loud Emily had to pull the phone away from her ear. “I was just kidding! There really is someone?”

  Emily laughed. “No. There isn’t. There’s just this guy who came over yesterday.”

  “Came over?” Marta shrieked again. “That sounds very promising. You’re inviting guys over now?”

  “No, no. It wasn’t like that.” Emily giggled. “And honestly it’s so insignificant I wouldn’t even mention it if it wasn’t for who the guy is.” She paused, hearing Marta’s bated breath on the other end of the line, savoring the suspense.

  “Who? Who is it? I know him?” She laughed. “Just please tell me it’s not Perry Jones.” Perry Jones was a guy Emily’s mother had tried to fix her up with before and after Ryan, a devoted church member who “never could quite find a woman who appreciated him,” as her mother always said.

  “You know there’s a reason for that, don’t you, Mother?” Emily always replied.

  “I can just see your mother sending Perry Jones down there to stalk you at Sunset,” Marta continued.

  “That does actually sound like something she would try. But no. It’s not Perry. Poor Perry.” Emily actually felt sorry for the guy. With his multiple allergies, feminine voice, and tall, Ichabod Crane–like appearance, he was hardly appealing, much as her mother tried to sell Emily on his potential to be the perfect husband.

  “He’s a good man and he loves Jesus,” her mother always said in Perry’s defense. “You girls care too much about appearance.” This from the woman who still dressed to the nines just to go to the grocery store, applying lipstick each night before her father got home from the church to greet him “with her lips on.”

  “Can you imagine Perry in a bathing suit?” Marta went on, enjoying the roll she was on. She shuddered into the phone. “My eyes! My eyes!”

  Emily couldn’t help but crack up laughing. She missed her daily conversations with Marta, h
ow she never failed to make her laugh. But she wouldn’t make Marta feel guilty for being busy and distracted. “Do you want to hear about this guy or not?” She attempted to get the conversation back on track and stop being mean about poor Perry, who was a nice guy and who, she was sure, would someday find someone to love. It just wasn’t going to be her.

  “Yes, please tell me about this other guy so I can get that mental image of Perry Jones in a bathing suit out of my brain.”

  “Okay, remember the movie Just This Once?”

  Marta gave a dreamy sigh into the phone. “Ah, Brady Rutledge. How could any girl our age not know that movie? He practically ruined all other guys for us. Who could live up to that standard?” Marta couldn’t resist one last dig. “Certainly not Perry Jones.” She laughed at her own joke. Emily ignored her, her heart thrilling at the news she was about to drop on her friend. Anticipating Marta’s reaction was half the fun. “Please tell me that the guy who came over to your house looks like him. Please give me that image.”

  “I’ll do you one better,” Emily said. “The guy who came over yesterday is Brady Rutledge.” She braced herself for an ear-piercing scream but was met with silence.

  “Ha, ha, ha, very funny. That’s a good one, Em.”

  “I’m totally serious. Brady Rutledge is really a guy named Kyle Baker. Brady Rutledge was his screen name and now he lives here. He left Hollywood and came here to work as the bridge tender because his father and grandfather were bridge tenders before him. I just heard him speak about it last night.”

  Marta was silent, deciding, Emily guessed, on whether she was being duped. She could hear Marta typing on the other end. “I’m Googling this,” she said.

  “Go ahead. I couldn’t make this up.”

  “I will admit that this is all too far-fetched to not be true.” She heard more typing, then waited while Marta read whatever she’d found. “Okay,” Marta said after a minute of silence. “This article says that Brady Rutledge did disappear from Hollywood after the success of Just This Once. Says he went home to—well, whadda ya know?—North Carolina because of a tragedy. Says he never returned and has fallen off the face of the earth.”

  “That’s because he’s not really Brady Rutledge. I’m telling you. He has another name. But it’s him. If you saw him you would know it was him in an instant. He hasn’t changed much at all. Except—” Emily stopped. That was enough.

  But Marta was smarter than that. “Except what?” she prodded.

  “Nothing. He’s just a little older looking I guess is all. More mature.”

  “Annnnd?” Marta kept on, knowing Emily well enough to know when she was holding back.

  Emily shook her head. “And, well, the age looks good on him. That’s all.”

  “Oh man!” Marta shouted. “You’re totally into him!”

  “Marta, he’s a movie star. He looks like a movie star. Any female within fifty paces”—except Claire, Emily thought—“Would think he was handsome. It’s a fact of life.”

  “No. No. This isn’t just a Brad Pitt thing. I sense there’s more. I think you like him as an actual person.”

  “He’s a nice person,” she sighed, feigning disinterest. “That’s all. He gave a very nice speech about the bridge last night—what losing it would mean to the community—and everyone was moved by it. Not just me. He’s passionate about something, and that’s always admirable. That’s it.”

  “You just keep telling yourself that, Miss Thang. Let me know how it works out for ya.” Marta laughed. “Listen, I hate to cut you off—interesting as this news is—but I gotta skedaddle. I’m working out now. Joined a gym. If there is a wedding dress in my future I’d sure like to look good in it, and I figure I need a huge head start on that. Emphasis on the huge. Get it?”

  “Marta, you look great already.”

  “But I could look better!” she sang.

  “I guess I’m going to go make chicken salad,” Emily said.

  “Atta girl,” Marta said. “Make extra and take some to Brady at the bridge. I’m sure he’d just love lunch delivered by a ravishing widow. It’s like a Hollywood movie!”

  “Yeah, that’ll happen.” Emily grinned at her friend’s penchant for pairing her off and admired her tenacity. “I’m not looking for love, Marta,” she said for the umpteenth time.

  “You know what they say though. When you’re not looking for it is usually when you find it.”

  “Okay, I will take that under advisement. For now I’m going to try to help this girl.”

  “You’re doing a good thing. And you know that when I come down I have got to see this guy for myself.”

  “I expected nothing less. See you soon?” she asked.

  “Yeah, we’ll firm up a date soon.” They hung up and Emily had the feeling that as intriguing as Brady/Kyle was, Marta would still put off her visit in an effort to spend more of her summer with Phil. She put the phone down and went to make a list of items she would need from the grocery store to make her magic chicken salad. Magic because it would have to make Amber want to divulge her secret to her, when Emily suspected she didn’t intend to tell anyone. She’d have to pray the whole time she made it, pray and add extra pecans. Maybe toast them too.

  On the way back from the local Food Lion grocery store, her car trunk laden with more than just the ingredients for chicken salad, Emily slowly made her way over the bridge, thankful she’d caught it before it opened on the hour. She checked the car clock and saw she’d made it with only ten minutes to spare. She was getting better at timing her crossings, living by the bridge schedule like the other island residents. For the most part they handled it with good nature. She’d heard the stories at the meeting the other night—the times they’d been about to walk out the door for dinner and realized the bridge was about to open, so they’d poured another round of drinks, dealt a hand of cards, waited out the bridge in the comforts of home instead of waiting in the heat in a long line of cars.

  As she reached the bridge tender’s house, she couldn’t help but slow her pace and glance over, hoping for a glimpse of him. With the bridge about to open, she figured he was doing whatever he had to do to get ready, if he was even working. She glanced over, then back at the windshield, then back over, then back at the windshield. All she caught was a glimpse of someone in the house, someone who seemed to have dark hair, but who knew if it was him. As she heard the wheels of her car make the thump-thump noise that meant the car was off the bridge and back on the road, she shook her head and laughed aloud in the empty car. She’d been reduced to her teenage years, just another fan girl hoping for a glimpse of her favorite star, though she tried hard not to think of him that way. He wasn’t Brady. He was Kyle. She had to keep that in mind whenever she was around him, if she was around him.

  She arrived home and began unloading the groceries, pushing him out of her mind. She put away the pantry items in the small cabinet used for storing food, wishing she’d paid more attention to the lack of pantry space that evening when she’d looked at the house. She’d been so taken with Ada’s story and the serendipity of finding the place that she hadn’t paid attention to details. And yet a lack of pantry space wouldn’t have stopped her from buying the place. It would just be something she’d fix later. She had her eye on an unused corner where built-in storage would fit and planned to ask Claire later if she knew any good carpenters. With the groceries put away, she eyed the rotisserie chicken she’d bought—a shortcut to boiling the meat. “It’s just you and me, buddy,” she said. She eyed the clock as she began assembling the chicken salad. With any luck, she’d be finished in perfect time for lunch. She’d bought croissants and a precut fruit mixture and splurged on some potato chips—even though that was hardly good prenatal nutrition—but Amber was a teen and most teenagers could be plied with potato chips, in her experience. She added mayo and celery to the shredded chicken and hoped her plan worked.

  As she stirred the grapes and pecans into the chicken mixture, she tried to remember the las
t time she’d had the recipe. She faintly remembered her mom making it and stocking it in the refrigerator after Ryan died, in those hazy days of grieving, the odd half-life between the funeral and when she decided to go back to work. She’d slept-walked through those days, staring at the television with no recollection later of what she’d seen. Taken phone calls and opened mail with no idea of who she’d heard from. Obediently spooned food into her mouth with no sense of what she’d eaten. “Just take three bites,” her mother would beg as if she were a child again.

  After her mother left, Marta would sit down with a big plate of whatever was in the fridge. “If you’re not going to eat it . . . ,” she’d always say as she helped herself. And later, “I think I’m finding the weight you’re losing, sistah.” It was during that time that Marta had developed her love for that chicken salad, pronouncing it the best she’d ever had. She’d looked at Emily pointedly. “I think your mother’s chicken salad is the meaning of life.”

  Emily smiled and shook her head at Marta’s silliness. “I’m serious! Have you tasted this stuff?”

  Emily hadn’t tasted anything for weeks and Marta knew it. But she’d coaxed a genuine smile out of her and she knew Marta counted that as a hard-won victory. She’d been a true friend and hung in there longer than most people would have. In some ways, Emily thought as she gave the concoction a final stir, she still was hanging in there.