Shades of Blue

by Karen Kingsbury

  “Early release. Teachers’ meetings until three.” He grinned and did a slight shrug. “Our group’s already finished.”

  “So you came here?” She leaned against the doorframe.

  “I needed to drop off a few camp registration forms. Figured it was a sunny Friday afternoon. Maybe you’d be up for dinner at the beach.”

  For a single moment, Emma imagined dinner with Gavin, sitting across from him, allowing herself to make small talk about their students and laughing at the funny way Gavin always had about him. The thought faded almost before it was entirely formed.

  “I can’t.” She peered over her shoulder at her students. They were holding their own. Her mind raced for an excuse, so he wouldn’t take her rejection personally. “I have to stay late. Then I need to run on the beach. I’ve got that half marathon in November.”

  “We can work around that.” If he was hurt by her answer, he didn’t show it. “I could, you know, sort of run along beside you feeding you grapes and sliced chicken. A little mustard so you don’t have to choke it down or anything.”

  Emma studied him, the tall boyish man with the hopeful look. Years ago Gavin played baseball at Georgia Tech before coming back to North Carolina to teach history and coach middle school. He was thirty-two with the toned, muscled body of a college beach kid, sandy brown hair, tan skin, and green eyes she could easily get lost in.

  But she wouldn’t let herself. Not now. Not ever.

  A sigh hung on her lips and her smile felt as tired as her fa-çade. “Really, Gavin. I can’t. Not tonight.”

  “Did I mention,” he took on a mock quizzical look, “I’m running in that same race?”

  “Really.” She gave a mildly sarcastic nod.

  “I am. Exact same one. Outer Banks Marathon.”

  “Which means …”

  He cocked his head, and his charm doubled. “Which means I could run with you, since, you know, I need to train too. We could push each other. Maybe hit the beach a few times a week so we’re ready.”

  She pictured running alongside Gavin Greeley, making their way down the beach and passing the small white wooden cross, the one mostly covered by the tall grass that fanned out from the sandy knolls at the top of the shoreline. The cross she’d placed there. A shudder passed over her, but she didn’t show it. Instead she laughed and shook her head. “You’re good.”

  “I could be better.”

  “Not at running.” She shook her head and couldn’t keep from laughing. His persistence sometimes had that effect on her. “You’re just plain good.”

  He feigned innocence about what other sort of good she might be talking about. “No, really. I’m not a runner like you.” He shifted, and a ray of sunlight splashed across his eyes, making them more brilliant than before. “Here’s the thing. If you push me, I might be really good.” He raised his brow and waited for her reaction.

  “Gavin.” Her voice was the same one she used for her students.

  “Right.” He drew the word out, nodding slowly. “Some other time, I mean. You could push me then.”

  A pang of regret tugged at Emma’s heart but quickly passed. She narrowed her eyes. “Okay, seriously … you aren’t really doing the marathon, are you?”

  “Actually?” His chuckle told her the ruse was over, that this was for real. “I’ve been training since March. I’m not much of a distance runner, so yeah, I’m doing the half marathon.” He flashed another grin. “Maybe we’ll see each other at the beach.”

  Not today … please not today. She glanced again at her students and then took a step in their direction. “Maybe.” For a brief moment she hesitated and allowed a sincerity to her smile. “I appreciate the offer. Really.”

  “Okay.” He gave another lighthearted shrug and took a step back. “See you around.”

  Emma retreated to the safety of her classroom and raised one hand in his direction. She mouthed the words, “See ya.”

  And with that, he was gone. Emma shut the door behind him. She turned to her students, and her eyes met Frankie’s. The little girl gave her a sad smile, almost as if she understood the battle raging inside Emma’s heart. As if whatever prayers the child had lifted to heaven on her behalf were only the beginning of her concern and knowing.

  Again Emma walked slowly toward Frankie’s desk. “Okay, every one, if you’re finished, take your paper to the red folder on my desk and sit back down.”

  Most of the students pushed back from their desks and skipped or walked their papers to the front of the room. Frankie stayed seated, her eyes still on Emma. What is it about her? And how come she looks at me like she can see straight through to my soul? Emma tried to seem composed and together, the way a teacher was supposed to. She stopped when she reached Frankie’s desk. “Everything okay, sweetie?”

  “Yes, Teacher.” Her expression lightened some. “I was watching you, that’s all.”

  Emma touched the girl’s pretty dark hair. “I’m okay.”

  Frankie tilted her face, analyzing her the way only a child can. “Good.” She reached out and took hold of Emma’s fingers. “You’re the bestest teacher in the whole world.” Her eyes shone. “Know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re nice, and you look like a princess.” She gave Emma’s fingers a light squeeze and then she released them and struggled to her feet. Her arms were more bruised than usual. “I’ll take my paper up now.”

  Emma watched the way Frankie’s first few steps were a struggle, marked by her constant, chronic pain. But three steps along she picked up her pace and looked like any other child. Pain never slowed Frankie, not as long as Emma had known her. She was proof that perfection wasn’t needed for life to be beautiful.

  Her students were buzzing again, talking out loud and teasing each other, chatting about the weekend and who won the games at recess. Emma let them be. She went to her desk and straightened the stack of papers in the red folder. While the final minutes of the school day ticked away, she stared out the window.

  It had been a day like this. Colder, of course. Less humid, maybe, but just as blue. The day that could’ve changed everything. Memories rushed at her, but she held them at bay. There would be time to think about it later. Down at the beach.

  The bell rang and the children obediently lined up at the classroom door. Emma bid each of them good-bye and then settled back at her desk. Two hours later, when every paper had been corrected and filed, and when her classroom was as neat as it would get before school let out for summer, she headed home.

  Emma kept the ragtop down on her old red Volkswagen Cabriolet. The salty summer air took the edge off her heartache as she headed southeast for the Holden Beach Bridge. But her solitude was short-lived. No matter how serene the surroundings, questions cut at her, toying with her, taunting her. What if she’d never … What if they hadn’t … How would it be today if …

  She stopped at a light and something caught her eye. She turned and for a few seconds her breath caught in her throat. The stranger beside her was in a Dodge Ram pickup, and in that moment he looked like … well, he looked like him. Like a face from the past that she could never quite bring herself to forget. The way he might look now at twenty-eight. The same blond hair and rugged face, the same profile.

  Crazy, she told herself. You’re seeing things. Ghosts from a time long past. She blinked away his memory and focused her eyes straight ahead. She’d never get through the evening if she didn’t find a way to stay here in the moment. Her soul hurt from so much thinking, so she leaned back against her headrest. Of all the days to see someone who looked so much like him. A sigh rattled around in the basement of her heart before slipping through her teeth.

  She reached the crest of the bridge and gazed out at the deep blue Atlantic. At certain times of the year and from certain stretches of beach, a person could watch both the sunrise and the sunset from the island that made up Holden Beach. She turned right on Ocean Boulevard and savored the sun on her face, her dark hair wh
ipping against her oversized sunglasses.

  A few hundred homes made up the beach area, most of them double-wides set in a few blocks from the shore, condominiums with ocean views, and the handful of million-dollar houses set right on the water. Emma never drove home without reminding herself how good she had it, how fortunate she was to have a beach house on Dolphin Street, a block from the sand.

  She could still hear her grandmother’s voice, calling her a week before her death. “I haven’t been there for you the way I should’ve,” her words were scratchy and stuck together. “It’s time I made up for it.”

  The beach house was her way of making up.

  Emma pulled into her driveway and surveyed the place. It was on stilts, faded white and gray with wood siding weathered by the sea air — the bleached-out look of most homes along the island. On either side of the front porch was a set of stairs that shot out like another pair of angled stilts. Emma put the car’s top up and shut the door. At a quick glance, her house looked sort of like an oversized sand crab, its legs jutting down at differing angles, sitting on a grassy section of sand that doubled as her front yard. The house was built in the late sixties, with a charm she wouldn’t have traded.

  It wasn’t beautiful the way some beach houses were, but Emma didn’t care. She was a minute from the shore and the eight miles of sand where she could run until her heart no longer hurt. She knew every neighbor up and down Dolphin Street — including a couple of retired teachers who spent most days reading on their front porches. One of them was always up for an evening conversation and a cup of coffee. But tonight Emma was glad they were already inside.

  Besides, she wouldn’t be alone. She had Riley, her red-brown lab mix, and two cats — Oreo and Tiger. And she had a plan. She was a year away from earning her master’s degree in education. After that she’d see about getting her administrative credential. Maybe one day she’d move to Wilmington or Raleigh and be principal of an elementary school. She loved her beach house, but if she got out of Holden Beach, she wouldn’t see her past around every corner.

  She slid the long strap of her purse across her body and headed through the front door and into the living room.

  “Riley! Here boy.” Through the window over the kitchen sink she could see a sliver of the Atlantic, and at this hour the sun sparkled against the distant water, beckoning her.

  From down the hall came the sound of dog feet scratching against the worn hardwood, and Riley’s wagging tail smacking against the wall. He rounded the corner followed by Oreo, a black-and-white, feisty one-year-old kitty, and Tiger, a striking long-haired mix with exotic green eyes and a haughty personality. The three of them napped together on the couch in her room most afternoons, basking in the sun shining through the window and waiting for her to come home.

  “Hi, guys. I missed you!” She gave them each a minute of her attention. Then she downed a glass of water and slipped into her running shoes.

  She needed to get out, get to the stretch of white sand that made up her backyard. With the memories surrounding her today, there was only one place she wanted to be, one place that would give her any solace whatsoever. With Riley running alongside her, she headed for the water, to the familiar shore of Holden Beach. Where a lifetime ago it all began.

  Where it all ended.

  Three

  THE WHITE WEDDING DRESS HUNG AGAINST the far satin-lined wall at Clea Colet’s on New York City’s Upper East Side as Laura James and her mother entered the fitting area. Laura’s breath caught in her throat and her fingers instinctively flew to her mouth. She couldn’t help herself. Now that the dress had been fitted, it was somehow even more beautiful than before.

  “It is a dress for a princess.” The seamstress had a heavy Italian accent. She stood a few feet away, gazing at the gown, clearly satisfied. She turned her smile to Laura. “I don’t know if we ever have a more beautiful bride for that dress.”

  “The lace … it’s exquisite, honey.” Her mother leaned in and kissed her cheek. “Like everything about you.”

  Laura wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry or ask for a moment alone. But staring at the dress, at the elegant lace train that flowed from the silk and taffeta skirt, and at the shirred sleeveless bodice, she was suddenly taken back. Back to the day when she was thirteen and she talked her mom into buying a Bride magazine.

  With the wedding plans taking up so much of her time, Laura sometimes caught herself saying she’d been dreaming about her wedding since Brad’s proposal. But that wasn’t true. She’d been planning for this, dreaming about it since she was in middle school, since her thirteenth birthday when her parents presented her with a promise ring and a prayer journal.

  “Ask God for the right man,” her mother had told her. “And don’t ever settle for anything less than that special guy.”

  Laura had taken her words to heart. A few weeks later the two of them brought home a copy of Bride magazine, and Laura had asked a simple question. “How come all the dresses are white?”

  Her mom smiled. “White — for many brides — represents purity. Your promise ring means you’ve made a commitment, honey. To stay pure for your husband, so that one day when you wear a white wedding dress, it’ll mean something very beautiful.”

  The memory faded as quickly as it had come. Laura linked arms with her mother. Then she cast a hopeful look to the seamstress. “Can I try it on?”

  “Of course.” The slight wisp of a woman hurried to the dress and began removing it from the silk hanger. “You wore the proper underclothing?”

  “I did.” Laura swapped a quiet giggle with her mom. They had been up and down Madison Avenue earlier that day looking for the right strapless bra and the perfect wedding attire for beneath the dress. What they’d found was beautiful, a mix of satin and lace, much like the dress.

  Laura had put the undergarments on in the dressing room at Rose’s in the Fashion District, the shop where she’d found the bridesmaids’ dresses. Now, with the door to the fitting area closed, she moved to the small stage at the far end of the room, the one surrounded by tall mirrors on three sides, and she slipped off her T-shirt and jeans. At the same time, her mom helped the seamstress, as together they eased the dress carefully over Laura’s head.

  “Oh, honey …” her mother stepped back, her eyes soft and wide. Tears welled up despite the smile that stretched across her face.

  “You like, Ms. Rita?” The seamstress nodded at Laura’s mother. “A perfect fit, yes?” She tilted her head. “You look like someone famous, Miss Laura. Reese Witherspoon, maybe.”

  Laura and her mother both smiled. The seamstress wasn’t the first person to compare her to the blonde actress. “Thank you.” Laura smoothed out the skirt and adjusted it so it settled evenly around her feet.

  “I guess I never dreamed …” Her mom stared at her. “It’s perfect, darling. Definitely.”

  The dress fit like it was made for her, which after the tailoring, it pretty much was. Laura stared at herself and at the reflection of her mother looking at her from a few feet back, and she knew she would remember this moment as long as she lived. This dress would in some ways represent her entire past and future as they came together in a single day.

  Her wedding day.

  “You’ve lost weight, a little, yes?” The seamstress furrowed her brow and pinched the satin fabric near Laura’s waist. “We take in another quarter inch?”

  Laura laughed. “It’s fine. If I lost anything, I’ll probably gain it back with the craziness in the next six weeks.”

  Her mom nodded thoughtfully. “Laura’s right. Let’s leave it. We can always adjust it the week before if we need to.” She pulled a camera from her purse and took photos of Laura, two from the front and a few from each side. “Your father will want to see you. He would’ve been here if he could have.”

  “He’ll be home for dinner, right? He and Brad?”

  “Right.” Her mother took a final photo. “Six o’clock on the back terrace. Marta’s making h
er skewered shrimp, steak, and grilled potatoes.”

  “That’ll put the weight back on.” She smoothed out her skirt, loving how she felt in the dress, not wanting the fitting to end. “Daddy will love it. Marta too.” The full-time housekeeper and chef had been with them since Laura was eleven years old. The family loved her dearly.

  The seamstress helped lift the dress over Laura’s head, and in a few minutes she was dressed again and back outside with her mother. She hadn’t talked to Brad since earlier in the afternoon, but she was looking forward to seeing him. She had no idea how she’d keep the details about her dress quiet.

  Again she and her mom linked arms, and with the sun at their backs they walked more slowly down Madison Avenue. “You were a vision in that dress.” They both wore their sunglasses, but her mom’s dreamy expression was still easy to see.

  “Remember when I was thirteen?” Laura looked up, her steps slow and thoughtful. “We bought that Bride magazine. You and I talked about my promise ring and white wedding dresses, and we looked at every gown in every ad. Remember?”

  “I told you one day you’d have a fairy-tale wedding.”

  “And I believed you.”

  Her mother pulled her a little closer. “I’ve loved being your mom. You’ve given me nothing but joy since the day you were born, Laura. A part of me can’t believe you’re really getting married.”

  Laura grinned, and she felt the thrill of love to the center of her soul. “I found my Prince Charming.”

  “Yes.” They slowed to a stop and her mom pulled her into a tender embrace, one that didn’t notice the foot traffic and craziness of Madison Avenue. “You definitely found him.”

  DINNER WAS ON THE BACK PATIO of the house where Laura had grown up, a six-thousand-square-foot estate situated on five acres in West Orange, New Jersey. The place wasn’t far from Essex County Country Club, and only an hour’s commute into Manhattan even at the peak of rush hour.