Caribbean Crossroads

by Connie E Sokol

  Kara linked arms with her mother and all four of them went outside. A sparkling red Camaro sat like an ornament in the driveway. Her mother spent a good ten minutes giving obligatory ooh and ahh responses and questions, while Megan wondered how they were affording it. Well, it was none of her business.

  Feeling something ominous, Megan looked up to find Jackson at her side. Where had he come from so quickly and quietly? He stood uncomfortably close, practically touching her shoulder with his.

  “What do you think? Sweet ride, huh?” His voice was low and throaty—she knew that familiar tactic. But why was he using it on her? He was married.

  “It is a beautiful car,” she said. “Work must be going well.” She spoke calmly, even with a bit of irony, but the panic began to rise uncontrollably, like a mercury thermometer. The foreboding she had felt weeks earlier seemed to manifest itself by degree now.

  “Yeah, work is going great. I’m top salesman, Meg. Things are going excellent for me.” He turned to look at her, his face so close she could feel his breath on her ear. Megan faced straight forward, showing no signs of affectation.

  “That’s great, Jackson.” Why was he telling her these things? Why was he standing so close? A cold shudder passed over her. Something about the way he looked at her, spoke to her, stood next to her. Nothing she could put a finger on—typical Jackson—but she could feel it. Suddenly, Megan felt grateful that Kara and her mom were here with her though she couldn’t define exactly why.

  Megan moved, ostensibly to look at the car from a different angle, but allowing herself more distance from him. She wished her mom and Kara would hurry up and finish the extended interior tour so they could return to the house.

  ***

  Watching the fading afternoon light shining on the TV, Bryant reflected again on Mitch’s words: Trisha played hard to get. Humiliate yourself. Don’t give up.

  Everyone had gone home and today he was alone. His mom had taken Dad to Piper’s. After three solid days with family, Bryant had had enough and wanted a break. But he hadn’t expected what free time would do to him. Everywhere he turned, everything he saw reminded him of Megan.

  She hadn’t taken the job. Unfathomable. Why wouldn’t she? There could only be one reason, at least in his mind. Was that what Mitch meant, why he shouldn’t give up? Had she finally figured out what she wanted? But then, if she had, why hadn’t she said so? Why hadn’t she called? Bryant felt wary of jumping to conclusions. And yet. She wasn’t going. His heart lurched beneath his ribs, a hopefulness that he’d kept compressed in that hollow space. But now, it inflated without permission. Maybe, just maybe.

  Bryant looked over at his cell phone, narrowed his eyes, then turned back to the TV. Keeping his hand on the remote, he tried to focus on the game.

  ***

  After returning to the warmth of the house, Megan quickly gathered the group’s winter coats. Her mother took Kara and Jackson to the living room while Megan made her way to the safety of the laundry room that served as a coat closet.

  Closing the door, she paused in the small space with the dryer tumbling in the background. Her face felt unnaturally warm—not a romantic flush, more like a finals exam. The nausea had turned into something tight and suffocating. The gray confusion in her mind kept pushing in, making things fuzzy and cold. What was wrong with her? Why wasn’t she stronger? He meant nothing to her now. Nothing. But Megan hung the coats with shaking hands. Could she still care for him, even after all this time, after all he’d done? The feeling was a tremor of something she knew but couldn’t recognize. It didn’t feel like caring, it felt like . . . Megan looked at her shaking hand.

  It felt like fear.

  With the turkey almost ready, Megan and her mother spent the next thirty minutes preparing the last minute dishes. Megan spent part of the time readying things that didn’t need to be before they all sat at the Thanksgiving meal in the dining room. She surveyed the incredible load of food—golden basted turkey, orange yams with oozing marshmallows sliding down into the bowl, piping hot rolls with glossy tops, and three kinds of salads. This was an unusually hearty holiday table, and not one bit of it looked appealing.

  Her aunt, uncle, and their teenagers had somehow landed at the far end of the table so Megan listened in on the conversation with her mother, three brothers, and Kara who talked about redecorating their just-purchased condo.

  “The color palette, honestly. It looked like someone vomited paprika on the walls,” Kara was saying. And all about Jackson’s work. As an intern for a local advertising firm his last year of college, he’d apparently made his mark now by rising to assistant ad exec. Since graduating, he’d spent a good deal of his time and money on the road and at party functions “networking,” he told them.

  “Honestly, you’d think you could get decent furniture,” Kara continued. “We’re in Scottsdale, Arizona, not Podunk, Arkansas,” said Kara, drinking from her glass between bites. “Did I tell you the deal I got on these Ferragamos?” She raised her ankle above the table height. “Absolutely a steal at $165. You really need to visit, Mom. I could take you to the most outrageous places with absolutely incredible prices.”

  Loralee answered politely and tried to involve her sons when they weren’t scowling at Kara’s remarks or making sarcastic remarks. When Kara began hinting about needing cash for the holidays, Sam’s look was almost murderous. Jackson stared at Megan through most of the meal, enough that she finally had nowhere else to look but down at her plate. After an hour, Megan’s head throbbed and she got up on the premise to clear space for pie.

  “Oh, we can clear that later, Meg,” said her mom. “And let’s have dessert in a little while.”

  “I’m for that,” said Sam, patting his stomach. “Got to work it off, watching the game.” He winked at Megan who made a face.

  “I’ll just clean up a few things,” said Megan. As she walked out with full hands, she heard the chatter begin to break up with talk of watching the rest of the game. After loading the top tray of the dishwasher, she looked up to find her mother and Jackson.

  "Megan, would you mind driving down with Jackson to get some Tylenol? We’re completely out." She tried to appear cordial but her voice was strained. "Jackson has kindly offered to get it if you can show the way. You know how tricky those turn-offs are to McMillan’s."

  "Doesn't Kara want to go?" Megan's confusion was aimed at her mother.

  "She's anxious to show Patty and me the pictures from redecorating their condo. It might be a while." She smiled apologetically. Megan understood the familiar company face of let's-keep-everybody-happy, that was her mom's way. But at the same time she read Jackson's purring look of triumph. She tried to catch her mom's eye to communicate this was a very bad idea, but Loralee had already nodded at Jackson and turned back into the hallway.

  Jackson swung his keys around his finger a few times. "Shall we?"

  That same smug model look—how had she ever found it attractive? Megan forced her thoughts to the situation. Getting in the car with him seemed unwise at best, but neither could she scurry away like a coward.

  "That should be fine," she said, more confident than she felt. "But let's hurry, I want to spend some time with Patty before they leave."

  Jackson nodded in an "Of course" way and opened the front door for her.

  Driving the country roads, he kept glancing at her from the side of his eye, a kind of leering look, and most often at her legs. Megan took to looking out the window, counting the minutes until they arrived at the mom and pop store.

  "So, this cruise ship thing," he said, soft and throaty. "That doesn't sound like you. But it's got me interested. Why did you do it?"

  Because you're a lowlife scum and I moved on, with three-thousand ocean miles between us to make it clear. "Oh, you know. It seemed like a great opportunity, and it was." Thoughts of Bryant suddenly crossed her mind, at first eliciting joy then momentary pain. Covering her emotions, she pointed which way to turn.

  Jackso
n nodded. "Oh, I see." She was afraid he had. "So, did you meet anyone interesting?"

  "Lots of people."

  "No, I mean someone really interesting." She blushed. "Aha, I can still read you like a book, Megs." He rested his hand on her leg, giving it a friendly squeeze.

  "Really?" Megan tried to smile in a relaxed way, forcing herself to be bold. "Are you reading me now?" She lifted his hand and put it back on the gear shift.

  His face darkened slightly as he throttled down the car and hugged the next corner. "What's his name?"

  Megan almost shook her head. Typical Jackson, he hated competition. But it was creepy that he even cared about that now. He was married, something he seemed to continually forget.

  Suddenly, a very clear thought pierced her mind: he is a collector. Jackson didn't care about Kara, or her, or the other women he dated. He cared about winning, about having. Dating four girls at once had been a status symbol, a challenge, and from the college stories, nothing new. And she highly doubted a gold band on his finger would stop the craving for constant feminine adoration. With this realization, Megan felt deeply sorry for Kara who likely had no idea what was in store for her.

  "Just make the next right and we're there," she said.

  After pulling up to the store, Megan practically jumped out of the car while saying she'd grab the Tylenol and be right back. After making her purchase, she hurried back, catching his expression through the windshield—a moody, furrowed brow kind of look, almost menacing. Until he saw her approach the car, then it was dimples and smiles again.

  Pulling out and back toward home, Megan gave simple directions again. When he intentionally missed a turn, Megan felt a sense of panic. What was it about him that made her feel this way? Like a pacing lion ready to strike, Megan could feel him working up to something, but exactly what she couldn't say. "You were supposed to go right back there."

  "Was I?" He lazily turned to her, one eyebrow raised. The hair on the back of her neck stood up.

  "No problem," she said, "we can still turn at the next one."

  "We could take a drive, it's nice out today."

  Megan felt her throat constrict. What was his game? She hated trying to guess his moves, never mind navigate them. Pretending more confidence than she felt, Megan said "Look, Jackson. I told you, Patty is leaving and I want to say hi. If we don't get back soon they might leave. Or even call Earl to see if we've had an accident, you know how paranoid Patty gets."

  Jackson squinted his eyes. "Who's Earl?"

  "The county sheriff. She's so funny about things like that," said Megan, sounding conversational but making the point. "She calls him about the smallest, slightest things. Doesn't make Earl too happy either."

  Jackson paused then slowed down at the next right, thinking. For some reason even the relief that they were headed home didn't totally comfort her.

  Entering the house, Jackson headed to the TV room and Megan went upstairs to give her mom the Tylenol, offering to finish the dishes while the ladies chatted. With the kitchen to herself, Megan gathered up the remaining plates, feeling a foreboding, but shaking her head and telling herself to be calm and mature.

  She had almost finished loading the dishwasher when something made her tense. Glancing at the doorway, she saw Jackson enter with a few side plates in his hand.

  “Thought I’d help out a little, work for my supper, that kind of thing.” He smiled, all charm and smooth, his dimple showing. It still shocked her how good he was, how naturally enveloping he could be. Like one of those exotic green plants that shine and curl and look breathtakingly beautiful, until they snap your hand off.

  “Oh, I’m good here.” Megan leaned down to secure the detergent, her heart pounding and the nausea reaching her throat. She felt trapped. In the u-shaped counter to her left was the sink, to the right was the dishwasher, and Jackson was coming toward her at an angle, blocking the only escape.

  “Let me give you a hand.” He approached and leaned over the dishwasher with her. She took the side plates from him to have something to do, then filled the detergent holder as if nothing was wrong. Her heart hammered against her breastbone. Why was she reacting this way? It was only Jackson.

  But she felt herself hiding behind the familiar wall, what remained of it, with her eyes mentally squeezed shut and wishing he would just go away.

  She closed the dishwasher door but still felt him near. Standing up, Megan saw that he had stepped closer. Her back was against the corner between the sink and the counter.

  “You know, you look great, Megs. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look so amazing. The cruise must have been just the ticket for you,” he said.

  “Yes it—it was a good summer.”

  He stepped closer, leaning outstretched arms on either side of the counter, glancing down from half-closed eyes with that look he used to give her.

  “I can tell it was good. I’ve missed you, did you know that? Missed lots of things about you.” He eyed her up and down leeringly and stepped in one more time. She could see the intentional stubble he left on his face. She could see his eyes, smoky green with the long fringed lashes. And she could see his lips in that smoldering smile, talking to her, telling her things he thought she wanted to hear.

  It happened faster than she could have imagined. He bent down, putting one hand around her waist and pulled her in as his face came to hers. Instinct was all that moved her. She slapped his face—hard and sharp—and pushed him back.

  Breathing irregularly, she pointed at him. “Don’t ever touch me again. Ever.”

  He only smirked, rubbing his face. “Or what? Think a little spunk will make a difference? Think you can push me back forever?” It was silk, and deadly. Now she knew why the dark feeling, the nausea and the fear. She knew what he was capable of, instantly remembered what she had learned, and had chosen to deny. Things I can’t imagine are true. She could imagine them now.

  “Maybe not,” Megan said, pointing a shaking finger to where her brothers watched the game. “But they can.”

  Bolstered by that truth, Megan felt a shift—physically and emotionally—and the last bricks fell for good. In one sharp moment, she saw him for who he was. Saw his anger at refusing him, standing up to him, at no longer being swayed by what he thought or said. Like a shock to her system, the truth made everything clear: it had been him all this time, that feeling of fear and holding herself back. All she had needed was to stand up to him, like this, to hold the emotional upper hand. And she had done it—out in the driveway, in the car to the store, and now in the kitchen. From her repeated rejections, it was obvious to both of them he had no more power over her, and she was finally free.

  She advanced towards him, suddenly strong and energetic so that he involuntarily stepped back. “I see you.” And then she laughed. “I see you. You’re small—just a small, inconsequential fish in your own little pond. And you can never intimidate me again.”

  A sound at the kitchen entry made them both turn. Sam walked in holding an empty chip bowl and stopped still. A cheer went up from the TV room—something good had happened.

  Sam’s right empty fist clenched low by his side. “Everything okay in here, Meg?”

  “Couldn’t be better,” said Megan. She pushed Jackson aside and walked quickly over to her purse. She had one last thing to do and it was now or never. Standing by Sam, she turned back to Jackson.

  “And you still owe me $150 for that last week of work. Got a problem with it, you can take it up with the university complaint department.”

  Her last view was of Jackson standing in the kitchen, between arrogance and confusion, and Sam seething. She’d let the two of them work that out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Driving in the dark, Megan knew she could push it for two more hours then she would need to find a hotel, but only until dawn. After that she would be there in a couple of hours. What had Jillian said to her before the cruise? The old Megs would have jumped at the chance. Well, she was jumping now
, a definite Old Meg move, but it was right. She knew in her soul, with a pristine clarity, that this was what she should do. Finally, she felt the balanced yin-yang of her Old and New self—improved, tempered, and perfectly clear on what she wanted.

  Bryant.

  During the hours-long drive, Megan had gone over in her mind their relationship—from despising him, to letting down, to being friends, to being everything. Then letting go, leaving, yearning, and losing.

  She shook her head. Incredible. The ride had been unplanned and almost unbearable, but he had borne it. And now, she was done. No grayness or fear, no anger or hostility. In a few short months with God’s help and Bryant’s patience, she had become whole again, free and clear. Her nose tingled and the tears welled in her eyes. Everything in her spilled over with feelings of gratitude for Bryant’s patience, his understanding, his wisdom. How she loved this man.

  Loved.

  Yes, she did. “I love you, Bryant,” Megan whispered, allowing the words to escape like a thin stream into the car air. Then louder.

  “I love you, Bryant Johnson!” She yelled it to the windshield, then laughed. A cascade of emotional glass shattered inside her breastbone. She could almost touch her heart, feeling the beat of it steady and sure. No doubts, not one. She felt the realness of the love, so thick and full, like a safe downy blanket that encased her, with a yearning to wrap him inside.

  Megan pushed the accelerator.

  ***

  Bryant pushed aside the silver tinsel and placed the cup under the fountain lever, watching it fill, then taking a long swig. He stared out through the dusty window with his typical surveying glance. From the showroom he saw Bertie quickly thread his way toward him through the moving equipment and beefy lumber guys.

  He shook his head, chuckling. Bertie had been just what he needed. And now things were taking shape. Orders were coming in fast and steady on the fax machine, several every half hour instead of one every few hours. Ross was spending more time networking on the phone, his favorite thing anyway, always leaning back in the chair with his cowboy boots on the desk. And Mitch was settled in Seattle, having started a few weeks ago with Brinkerhoff. A feeling, quick and sharp, nipped through him. He missed Mitch. He hadn’t realized how much the past few months had meant to both of them, talking more, just being. It had been like old times. Better than old times.