True Blue (Hubbard's Point)

by Luanne Rice

  Glancing up from her notes, Rumer saw Edward standing there. Her mouth fell open with surprise. Mathilda hesitated, as if she weren't sure what to do, then backed out of the room to leave them alone.

  “I've come to pick up heartworm medicine for Orazio and Artemesia,” he said.

  “I didn't realize you had run out,” she said. “You know I would have brought it to the farm.”

  “Do I?” he asked stiffly “I also thought you'd have stayed to say hello last night. The young man acknowledged that you'd heard me saying I'd be in the barn.”

  “My nephew, Michael,” she said. Her mouth felt dry.

  “Yes, we met at the wedding.”

  “You know how young people are, Edward,” she said, knowing she had to say something, to come up with a story; feeling ashamed for using Michael as her excuse. “When he finished riding, he wanted to head straight home… to have dinner, and to see Quinn.”

  “Would a quick hello really have taken so much time?”

  “No,” she said, the guilt snowballing. “I'm sorry.”

  “I've barely seen you,” he said, his voice low. “Since—”

  “I've just been so busy,” she said hurriedly. “With all the summer people at the beaches, there seems to be twice as many animals. And yesterday my father told me he's leaving on a long sailing trip… it really shook me up.”

  “Is that the kind of friend you think I am?” he asked, stepping closer. He touched the side of her face with his finger, gently stroking her cheek. “One you can't call when you're feeling shaken up?”

  “Of course not,” she said, breathing harder. “You're such a good friend, Edward.” Her stomach churned. His physical closeness was making her feel terribly uncomfortable, reminding her of what she had almost made happen between them. She had never used anyone that way before, never treated another human being as someone to fill her own need, give her comfort, help her to avoid painful feelings—but she almost had last week.

  “What about dinner?” he asked.

  “Dinner?” she asked, swallowing hard.

  “Yes, tonight. We could go to the Renwick Inn, listen to the rain falling on all those willows by the river.”

  “Sounds romantic,” she murmured.

  “Then say yes,” he said. “I'll go home and change, and you can do the same, and I'll pick you up—”

  “Excuse me,” came Mathilda's voice. She knocked on the door, then poked her head around. Her eyes were bright, filled with a question.

  “Oh, you must want to leave,” Rumer said. “That's okay—I'll close up myself.”

  “No, I still have to mop the kennel and play with the overnight guests,” she said. “But I thought you should see this important message that just came in.”

  Rumer reached out, and Mathilda passed her a yellow slip of paper: Meet Zeb at Foley's, 5:30, urgent. The corners of her mouth twitched. She stared at the words, trying to appear calm.

  “What time did the caller… ?” Rumer began.

  “Five minutes ago,” Mathilda said.

  “Is there a problem?” Edward asked.

  “Well,” Rumer began. Her palms felt sweaty. What could the message mean? Rumer had made it very clear that she didn't want to stir anything up, listen to Zeb's explanations about the past and rehash all their family miseries. Was he persisting anyway? Or was it something to do with Michael—or with her father's trip?

  “Rumer?”

  “I'm not sure,” Rumer said, feeling the color rise in her neck, spreading into her face. Edward was staring at her. She felt torn, wanting to tell him the truth yet not wanting to face whatever he might have to say about meeting Zeb.

  “The doctor wants you to call him right back,” Mathilda said sternly.

  “The what?” Rumer asked.

  “Oh, professional courtesy,” Edward said. “Absolutely. Don't keep your fellow vet waiting.”

  “Listen, would you mind if we had dinner another night?” Rumer asked. “I've had a crazy day, and I just want to go back to the Point after work. I'm sorry….”

  “Don't worry,” he said. “Just finish up here and take care of yourself. You've seemed so stressed and overworked lately.” He held out his hand for the bag Rumer had filled with heartworm pills and treats for the dogs. They kissed, and she promised to call him the next day.

  “The doctor wants me to call him right back? The doctor?” Rumer asked Mathilda as soon as Edward had left.

  “From what I remember you telling me,” Mathilda said, “Zeb Mayhew has a Ph.D. in astronomy or astrophysics or theoretical mathematics or something like that. That makes him a doctor, doesn't it?”

  “Yes,” Rumer said, peering at Mathilda. “You weren't listening at the door, were you?”

  “How can you ask such a thing?” she asked, her hand on her heart as if horribly wounded.

  “Because I was just about to say yes, I'd have dinner at the Renwick Inn with Edward, and I haven't heard the phone ring in the last half hour.”

  “Okay, so the call came in earlier, while you were giving Bootsie McMahon his rabies shot. I was transcribing the messages, and I just thought you should have all the information about all your options before you nailed yourself down for tonight.”

  “Having dinner with Edward wouldn't be nailing myself down…”

  “Whatever you say, Doc,” Mathilda said, starting to smile.

  “You sound like my father,” Rumer said.

  “I've heard worse,” Mathilda said, beaming now.

  “Was it really urgent?” Rumer asked, staring at the piece of paper. “What do you think he wants?”

  “I don't know,” Mathilda said, pointing at the clock, “but you'd better scoot—it's five-fifteen now.”

  Taking a deep breath and pulling on her slicker, Rumer yanked her hood over her head and hurried out the door. Her meadow glistened, green and silver under sheets of rain. The graceful maples spread their leafy branches over the rolling acres, and birds sang as Rumer walked to her car.

  THE BUILDING THAT housed Foley's store was as large and plain as a barn, inland and across Hubbard's Point from where Rumer and les Dames de la Roche lived. Sage-green paint had flaked from its weather-beaten shingles, giving it the look of old bronze. Rumer parked her truck in the sandy lot. Habit made her kick off her shoes; in summer, it was sacrilege to enter Foley's with anything but bare feet.

  Covering her head, she ran inside. Vast and airy, the store was filled with groceries, books, magazines, bait and tackle, rafts, and tubes: staples for the shore. In the back was a soda fountain with a Formica counter and tall vinyl-covered stools.

  Around the corner, just behind the pay phone, were four old tables and chairs. The wood surfaces were scuffed, scarred with coffee cup rings, carved initials, and burn marks from when smoking had been allowed. It was five-thirty, and Zeb wasn't there yet. Rumer rarely had time to come here anymore, but she didn't hesitate; she went straight to what had always been her favorite table—in the corner. She settled into the oak armchair to drink tea and listen to the rain on the roof.

  Sipping hot tea, she looked at all the hearts and initials. So many Hubbard's Point boys and girls had fallen in love, wanted the world to know: TR&LA, SE&CM, DM&SP, ZM&RL.

  Rumer still flinched to see their initials. Zeb had carved them almost as a joke, before they'd ever gotten together. They had been about sixteen; he had done it one day after finishing the paper route, saying best friends deserved memorializing too

  Rumer closed her eyes for a minute, asking herself why she had agreed to come here. Foley's belonged to their past—she and Zeb had often stopped in for lemonade or hot chocolate. She shopped at the store, but she had avoided this table for years. Slowly, as if compelled from within, her fingers trailed across the oak surface, down to the drawer pull in front.

  The table had one wide, deep drawer. Perhaps it had originally been intended for a desk but had somehow wound up at Foley's. Who had been the first Hubbard's Point girl to leave a note inside for t
he boy she loved? Over the years, the drawer had become a place to leave “secret” notes—telling someone how you felt about them, asking them to meet you at Little Beach or the Indian Grave, even—in a few celebrated notes— proposing marriage.

  Holding her teacup steady in one hand, Rumer read the notes with the other. She refused to be affected— this kind of romance was too old-fashioned, too nonsensical, for a woman of science like herself. As a young girl she had thought the drawers to be magical; she no longer did.

  Still, once she started reading, she couldn't stop.

  It was a tradition to spend an afternoon once in a while, going through the love notes. Mr. Foley— grandson of the original owner—prided himself on never throwing any of them out.

  Time took care of it somehow. The notes settled— packed together in the drawer. Sometimes the authors came back to take them; other times, the recipients did. Others seemed to last forever. The oldest dated back decades, still stuffed into the drawer, an informal written history of this place that meant so much to everyone.

  “Hi, Rumer.”

  Hearing Zeb's voice, Rumer looked up. He stood there in a dripping yellow slicker, khaki shorts, and sopping wet sneakers.

  “Hi, Zeb.”

  “You got my message.”

  “Yes, what's going on?”

  Without replying, Zeb gestured for the waitress to bring him a hot chocolate. Then he shook the water off his hair, spraying Rumer in the process.

  “Hey,” she said, brushing the drops off her skin.

  “Oh, sorry,” he said. “Just drying off.”

  “Well, dry off over there,” she said, pointing at an empty space ten feet away.

  “Oh, come on, Larkin. A little water won't hurt you. You're a vet—haven't you ever given a shaggy dog a bath? They shake and shake—”

  “Shaggy dog. That's about it,” she said, looking up at his messy blond hair falling into his blue eyes. Those eyes were giving off sparks, and she shivered. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

  “Before I tell you, just let me drink a little of this,” he said, pausing to lick half the dollop of whipped cream from the top of his steaming hot chocolate. “I really caught a chill out there in the storm.”

  “Your Range Rover has a leaky roof?” she asked.

  “Nah,” Zeb said, hunching down, his elbows resting on the table. “I've spent the day on my trusty bike.”

  “Your bike?”

  “Yeah—my old Raleigh. Winnie had it in her garage. Guess she thought it was too good to throw out. Anyway, I'm not discussing business with you or riding back home till I finish this hot chocolate.”

  “Fortification,” she said, and he laughed. “What's so funny?”

  “That's what you used to say when we had our paper route. I'd be complaining about having to get up at five in the rain, and you'd bribe me with promises of fortification: You'd take me to Foley's and buy me hot chocolate when we were done.”

  “We had some cold, wet mornings…”

  “Saved up a lot of money…”

  “Till you got us fired.”

  “Wasn't me!” Zeb protested, laughing hard.

  “Are you kidding! Whose idea was it to single out poor Mrs. Williams—”

  “She was mean to you—you went blue-crabbing on her stretch of the creek and she confiscated your shoes and Good Humor money.”

  “That was serious,” Rumer scowled. “I had to go without a Creamsicle that day.”

  “See? I was looking out for you.”

  “But you didn't have to desecrate her paper.”

  “Dear Abby speaks…”

  Rumer hid a smile: To get back at Mrs. Williams, Zeb had started writing messages in her paper every morning before leaving it on her step. He would find the Dear Abby column, draw a balloon coming from the mouth of her picture, and scrawl some advice of his own: “Be nicer to everyone,” “Having a bad day? Keep it to yourself,” “Sure, you have a headache; you're tense, irritable: but don't take it out on others,” and finally—the one that had gotten them fired—”Burn, baby, burn.”

  “The amazing thing was, it took her so long to report us,” Rumer said.

  “Maybe she thought the balloons were really part of Dear Abby's column. I printed very neat, to make it look official.”

  “She knew!”

  “Yeah, you might be right. I think maybe she just liked the extra attention. You know? Is she still around?”

  “Dead, Zeb. Fifteen years, at least.”

  “Damn,” Zeb said, pounding his fist on the table. “I've been thinking I should apologize.”

  “You're a little late…”

  “Don't rub it in, Larkin….”

  They smiled in spite of everything, a memorial silence of affection and memory for old Mrs. Williams. Zeb got up to refill their tea and hot chocolate cups. When he returned, he clinked his with Rumer's.

  “Okay,” he said.

  “Okay?”

  “I'm ready to state my business. The reason I set up this meet.”

  “You make it sound like we're spies and can't be seen talking.”

  “That's truer than you think, Larkin. I want you to be the bad guy.”

  “The bad guy?”

  “Well, that's not exactly it… I guess I was thinking good cop/bad cop.”

  She took a deep breath. “Just tell me, Zeb.”

  “Okay. It's about Michael. He needs help…”

  “Is he okay?” she asked, her heart skipping a beat.

  “As okay as a high school dropout can be. Half the time I want to shake him, the other half I want to sit him down and make him tell me what I did wrong.”

  “So, why don't you?”

  Zeb's face was very stoic, trying to smile, as if he wanted to make a joke. But then it twisted, and the smile left his eyes. “Because I'm afraid of what I might hear. What he'd tell me. That he has the two most selfish parents in the world, that I haven't been there for him enough….”

  “If he needs to say it,” Rumer said steadily, “you should be ready to listen.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “Very understanding of you…”

  “No problem, Zeb. Anytime you want me to take your or Elizabeth's side against Michael, you'd better ask someone else.”

  He pushed back, nearly tipping his chair over. She saw the anger in his eyes, the furrow between his brows and the tension in his knuckles, and forced herself to sit still.

  “Zeb,” she said. “Sit down.”

  “Forget it,” he said. “I was wrong to have expected—”

  “No you weren't. Not when it comes to Michael. What can I do?”

  Reluctantly, Zeb lowered himself back into the chair. His face seemed to have changed during the last few minutes, as if the emotions he felt were knocking him out. He looked tired, defeated—ten years older. The lines around his eyes and mouth were pronounced, and his lips were a thin straight line.

  “I want him to go to summer school,” he said. “I know Black Hall has a session—I heard him talking about it with Quinn. Also, your father mentioned it to me. I think, in the back of my mind, I hoped that coming here would be good for Michael. That Sixtus would take him under his wing.”

  “But he's sailing away,” Rumer murmured.

  “Yes,” Zeb said more clearly, watching her reaction.

  Rumer shrugged to shake off her worry and concentrate on Michael. “Anyway, with Dad gone, you want me to help?”

  “Yes,” Zeb said. “Michael likes you—he came back from seeing your horse the other day happier than I've seen him in months. I think he'd talk to you… and I think he'd like you to be proud of him.”

  “What about you and Elizabeth?”

  “He's lost to us right now,” Zeb said. “I can't explain it, and it's killing me, but he wants nothing to do with either one of us. It's as if we've let him down in too many big and small ways over the years.”

  “Do you think you have?”

  Zeb sat very still. Color rose to h
is cheeks, but his blue eyes were as bright and clear as Rumer had ever seen them. “He's a child whose parents never loved each other,” Zeb said quietly, and Rumer felt chills run down her neck and out of her fingertips. “That couldn't have made a very safe place for him to grow up…”

  “Zeb,” she said, holding out her hand as if she could stop his words, keep him from saying any more about his marriage to Elizabeth.

  “We never did, Rumer,” he said. “Never, from day one. It was all a mistake…”

  “Stop!” she said. “We're sitting here talking about Michael! It can't have been a mistake, don't you understand?”

  People looked up from what they were doing— shopping, sitting at the soda fountain. Rumer felt her heart racing, watching Zeb stare into her eyes and not look away. His hands inched across the table, as if he were thinking of taking hers. Their forefingers touched, and then she pulled hers away.

  “Rumer, listen to me,” Zeb said.

  But she shook her head, composing herself. “I'll help you with Michael,” she said calmly. “Anything you need, anything that will help him. I know my father would do the same. By the way, you know his plans?”

  Zeb opened his mouth, floundering, as if he wanted to change the subject back to Michael. Then, resigned, he conceded, “He told me yesterday. Said he wanted to let it sink in for you before he started spreading the news.”

  “Are you encouraging him, by any chance?” Rumer asked. “Because if so, I wish you wouldn't.”

  Zeb gave a wry laugh. “Not that he'd take encouragement from me, but he doesn't need it anyway. He's on it, Rumer—this is his mission.”

  She shook her head. “I know he loves to sail, that he's been feeling nostalgic for old places. But I never expected him to put those things together and sail to Ireland—via Canada! It's crazy.”

  “So is flying to the moon,” Zeb said. “But people have done it.”

  “It's a little different, don't you think? Astronauts have all that equipment and support…”

  Zeb fell silent for a moment, as if mulling that over. But then he looked up. “So will your dad. He has a great boat; he has your support… if you give it to him.”