Snapshots

by Pamela Browning

  Stanley pushed his hat back off his forehead. “Sounds like you Mr. Lonely Man again,” he said.

  “Well,” Rick said, paused in sudden realization of something that had escaped him until that very minute. He wasn’t lonely now that Trista was here, but he wasn’t going to mention that to Stanley. “Anyway,” he continued, “this weekend is Easter, and you’ve got time off. Why don’t you join us on Saturday. How old are the kids?”

  “Boy’s ten, girl’s eleven.”

  “We’ve got Frisbees tucked away under the house if they’d like that.”

  “They might. My wife would enjoy the beach. She works at the social-security office and doesn’t get to play much.”

  “Trista and I will put a picnic together,” Rick said on impulse. “We’ll do it up right.”

  Stanley hesitated only a moment. “Okay, you talked me into it. I’ll have Lu call you, but I’d better get going now. Got lots of mail to deliver today.” He turned away before angling his thumb toward the oleander bushes. “If you’re craving company, seems like you’d invite that poor dog in. She’s been hanging around your place for days.”

  The dog was sprawled in the shade. “I don’t want a pet,” Rick said with what he hoped was sufficient forcefulness.

  “Looks like you got one anyway,” Stanley observed.

  “Yeah, well,” Rick replied with no enthusiasm whatsoever.

  “Be back on Saturday,” Stanley told him as he rounded the curve in the driveway.

  After quickly perusing his final decree of marital dissolution and wondering why he didn’t feel more upset about it, Rick slit open the envelope from the law firm where Trista and Martine’s father had been a partner. He unfolded a short letter and scanned it. It was signed by J. Alston Dubose, the member of the firm who had been closest to Roger Barrineau.

  Dear Rick,

  I recall that Roger always spoke highly of you and was pleased that you’d be joining our firm. I was sorry to learn after his death that you had chosen another path.

  After I spoke with Trista the other day, I realized that you could be considering a change in career. If you’re ever interested in pursuing a legal career, our firm is open to you. We have recently taken steps to enlarge our practice in immigration and naturalization law, and your expertise in Spanish would be most useful.

  It would be great to hear from you.

  With best wishes,

  J. Alston Dubose

  Trista had been talking to Alston about him? She’d never mentioned it.

  From beneath the oleanders, the dog regarded him warily as he marched up the back steps and into the house.

  “Trista?” he called. “I want to talk with you.”

  Trista, who was standing on a stool and dusting the ceiling fans with a tool resembling a cheerleader’s pompom on a long stick, frowned down at him as he burst into the room. “You’ve decided to keep the dog?” she asked hopefully.

  “It’s not about that.”

  “You’re going to paint the wicker chairs today.”

  “Maybe.” He brandished the letter. “I received this from Alston Dubose. What have you been telling him about me?”

  Trista carefully descended from the stool. He noted that she was wearing a pair of tight cropped pants and a snug T-shirt. “I didn’t tell him much, Rick. Let me see that.”

  He relinquished the piece of paper. “Alston and his wife were at a party I attended a month or so ago,” Trista said after reading it. “They asked about you and Martine.”

  “And you said?

  “Either not enough or too much, depending on one’s point of view.” She handed the letter back to him.

  He followed her as she went to the door and shook the duster outside. From under the swing, he heard a sneeze. That damn dog again.

  “What the hell does that mean?” he asked, refusing to be distracted.

  “I told Alston you were on leave from the department. I mentioned to Eloise that you and Martine had separated.”

  He blinked at her. “Why’d you do that?”

  “Alston asked me about you, and since he and Dad had often discussed your joining the firm, I decided to bring him up-to-date. Did I do something wrong?” Her glance challenged him as she walked past.

  “Informing Eloise of our marital problems doesn’t exactly strike me as right.”

  “Martine had already filed for divorce, Rick. It was a matter of public record.” She registered the forbidding expression on his face and sighed. “Why are we talking about this? I’m sorry if I did something I shouldn’t have.”

  He ran a hand across the back of his neck, thinking that he really should get a haircut. “Let’s drop it,” he said curtly, immediately regretting his tone of voice.

  Trista shook her head as if to clear it. “Rick, you and I aren’t on the same wavelength lately. Which is why I might as well go upstairs and get ready to lie out on the beach and start on my tan.”

  He followed after her when she headed toward the staircase to the Lighthouse. “Tris—” He reached for her arm.

  She wheeled around, the sides of her neck flushing. “Just when we’re getting along again, you trigger over something.”

  “Noising my private business all over the place is worth getting steamed about,” he said indignantly.

  “I thought we were going to drop it.” Her eyes flashed blue fire.

  This deflated him somewhat. “We should,” he said, removing his hand from her arm. This wasn’t worth fighting about.

  Trista sighed. “Rick, have you considered that you’re in denial about some important things?” she asked gently. When he didn’t reply, she left him alone and pondering the truth.

  Rick hated psychobabble but was well aware that it existed for a reason, which was that it was necessary to understanding modern life. These days, if you weren’t in therapy, most likely you were acting as your own psychologist. He recognized that some people were better at this than others, and he’d never been much for analyzing himself. But was his lack of feeling when he read his divorce decree a few minutes ago a sign of denial? Or was the divorce simply not as upsetting to him as it had been before?

  He had too many questions and not enough answers, so he went into the storage room and began to shake the can of green spray paint so he could get busy refurbishing the wicker chairs. He’d rather be on the beach with Trista, but he agreed that he had a lot to do to spruce things up around the cottage. And he felt better if he kept busy, anyway.

  As Rick sprayed the chairs, he forced himself to consider his future. Alston Dubose’s job offer was totally unexpected, and working at Barrineau, Dubose and Linder was a possibility that he’d dismissed years ago after Roger’s murder. He’d been so angry, so incensed that one of the very people that Roger had tried to help had killed him, that he’d decided to become a policeman over Martine’s objections.

  After the funeral, he had waited until he and Martine were back at their apartment in Durham before he initiated the conversation about his intended switch of career path, and she had freaked out.

  “You can’t do this, Rick! What about the firm, what about moving back to Columbia? I’ve put up with this dinky apartment and never having enough money and you with your nose in a textbook all day long only because we’d have a good life once you got your law degree. And now you want to become a policeman?”

  “Martine, listen to me,” he began, but subsided under the onslaught of tears and pleading and impossible demands. If he didn’t want to join her father’s law firm, how about one in Charlotte? It was a big city, lots going on there. Martine could join the Junior League and the museum guild. They’d enjoy a social life befitting a young, up-and-coming lawyer and his wife. They’d buy a big house on the desirable south side of the city, and he could start a career in politics just as they’d planned.

  “Just as you’d planned,” Rick said resentfully, only to be met by Martine’s stony silence.

  For the first time in their marriage, Rick walked
out of the house. He’d stayed away only for the rest of the afternoon, but when he came back, Martine was subdued and quiet. She hadn’t spoken to him for a week, and by that time he’d already signed on with the Miami Police Department. He’d actually been surprised when Martine agreed to go with him.

  He’d heard Martine complaining to Trista shortly before the move that she didn’t want to live in Florida and that Rick was imposing this awful hardship on her, but somehow Trista had communicated to Martine that this was an opportunity to experience new things, and an adventure for both of them. Good old Trista, he’d thought at the time, always making the best of things, putting a good face on it, cheering him on.

  And she was still doing it.

  When he had finished painting the chairs and drinking a tall glass of iced tea, he went to the back door and picked out the dog in the shade of the oleanders. She wagged her tail when she saw him. Her ear had a cut on it and it was oozing blood. Flies buzzed around, he could hear them from where he stood.

  “Go away,” he said to the dog. “You don’t belong here.”

  She gazed at him, her eyes round and intelligent.

  “Scram,” Rick said halfheartedly. She merely flipped her tail up and down a few times, rearranging the dust into feathery patterns.

  Having given up on the dog, Rick was bending now and assessing the contents of the refrigerator when Trista walked into the room. She had showered and changed clothes, and her hair was still damp.

  “I won’t be here for lunch,” she said too airily for his taste.

  He slammed the refrigerator door and stared at her. This just wasn’t done; when they were at Sweetwater Cottage, no one picked up and went off on his or her own. Everyone did things together.

  “And where might you be going?”

  “Just—out,” Trista replied. Her attention was distracted by the dog, who was standing outside at the bottom of the stairs. “What’s wrong with her ear?” she asked.

  “Maybe she got in a fight,” Rick said, still bewildered that Trista would go anywhere without him. Could she have a date? Who did she know here, anyway? The questions surfaced, leaving him feeling indignant, though he couldn’t have explained why.

  “We’d better check it,” Trista said. She stepped out and bent beside the dog, who gratefully nuzzled her hand as Trista petted her. “Would you please hand me a clean rag out of the box in the kitchen? And put some water on it from the sink.”

  When Rick came back inside, Trista took the damp rag from him and began to swab the sore. The dog was patient, submitting without a whimper. Rick was reminded of the efficient manner in which Trista had ministered to him on the night of the prom so long ago, and the memory unsettled him.

  “I hope this won’t get infected. Rick, Hal may have left some antibiotic cream in the guest-room bath after his dog tangled with that rottweiler on the beach a couple of years ago. How about taking a look.”

  Deciding that it would be better not to comment about not having wanted the dog around in the first place, Rick trudged back into the house and soon emerged with the antibiotic. Trista squeezed some onto the wound, but as soon as she moved away, the dog pawed at her ear.

  “Uh-oh,” Trista said, moving to stop her. “We can’t have that. Come on, dog. Let’s go up on the porch and I’ll get you some of that barbecue we ate yesterday.”

  He followed Trista inside. “You’re going to feed her,” he said accusingly.

  Trista pivoted to face him. “If I don’t, she’ll rub the medicine off that cut before it has a chance to do any good.” She opened the refrigerator.

  “Maybe we should relocate that dog to the pound.”

  “You’re aware of what happens to dogs in shelters if no one adopts them,” Trista reminded him darkly.

  “Why don’t you take her back to Columbia with you? Give her a real home?”

  “That wouldn’t be fair. She wouldn’t get enough exercise living in my condo, and I’m not there much.” She spoke regretfully and as if she wished things were otherwise.

  As soon as Trista carried the dish of barbecue outside, the dog lost interest in pawing at her ear and immediately began to gulp great mouthfuls of pork. “There,” Trista said with satisfaction. “This is our good deed for the day.”

  “Hmmph,” Rick said, but he couldn’t help smiling at the dog’s wagging tail.

  They stood watching, their differences forgotten. “Hey,” Rick said on a sudden inspiration. “Why don’t we ride the bikes down to the docks by the Purple Pelican. Unless you have a hot lunch date, that is.” He couldn’t resist adding that last part.

  “Of course I don’t,” she said, seemingly amused. She slanted a look in his direction. “I was just going out because you were being disagreeable.”

  Well, what did she expect when she was making noises about doing something without him? “Wouldn’t a bike ride be more fun? I found the tire pump this morning and fixed the tires so they’ll hold air. Maybe.”

  “Okay, you’ve talked me into it,” Trista said. “We could pick up lunch at Jeter’s and eat it at the public docks.” The docks included a marina, prized because of its location at the mouth of Tappany Creek. Boats heading north on their way home from wintering farther south often put in for a day or two, and it was fun to read their names and home ports off the sterns.

  Under the house, their faces speckled with squares of sunlight admitted by the latticework, they brushed spiderwebs from the bikes’ wheels and handlebars and then set off. At Jeter’s, they bought shrimp-salad sandwiches, and when Jolly learned what they were going to do, he offered them his old rowboat.

  “It’s tied up on the easternmost dock. You might as well use her. No good if she just sits there accumulating barnacles,” Jolly said.

  It was only ten minutes, easy pedaling to the docks. This was a route they knew well: right on Center Street, over the creek bridge and right again. They leaned the bikes against a tumbledown fence and strolled along the dock, past empty berths where fishing vessels tied up in the evenings. The visiting boats displayed the names of faraway ports: Bar Harbor, Norfolk, Quebec. A couple was disembarking from their Boston Whaler with a tub of freshly caught fish, and Rick and Trista stopped to help; afterward, they chatted with a gnarled old man who was mending crab traps.

  The weather was sunny, the breeze minimal, and once in the rowboat, which Rick insisted he could manage by himself, Trista occupied the bow and leaned her head back so the sun’s rays would reach her neck.

  “A suntan looks good on camera,” she explained to Rick, who only grinned and said she looked good on camera with or without.

  Rick was an expert oarsman, slicing the oars cleanly into the water. The boat skimmed easily toward a neighboring island, the one where the marsh ponies lived.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to help you row?” Trista wanted to know after a while, but Rick shook his head.

  “Physical activity helps me think,” he told her.

  “About what?” she asked with interest. She seemed unaware of the pretty picture she made, and he swallowed, forcing himself to concentrate on rowing.

  “Wouldn’t you say I have a lot to decide?” he asked. “Not only on a personal level, but professionally, as well? I have little enthusiasm for returning to Homicide,” he admitted, finding it hard to say the words. He’d been so committed to his work for so long that it pained him to have landed at a juncture where he actually was considering a change.

  She shaded her eyes with her hand. “So Alston’s offer is welcome, then?”

  “It’s appealing.” Encouraged by Trista’s willingness to listen, he admitted his many misgivings about going back to work at the department.

  “If you accept Alston’s job offer, you’d be moving to Columbia. Is that what you want?”

  He rested on his oars. “I believe it is,” he said softly.

  After a long moment, Trista diverted her gaze toward the nearest spit of land, which extended from the ponies’ island. As they wa
tched, one of the ponies appeared on the beach. “Look,” she breathed, pointing.

  The pony was a solid swaybacked specimen, its legs short, its mane tangled. It lifted its head, sniffed the salty air. For a split second, it made eye contact with him and then flicked its mane before wheeling and trotting back into the underbrush.

  They kept watching for more ponies to appear as he headed the boat toward the wild and desolate lee side of the island, where Rick tossed out the anchor and shipped the oars. As he settled in the bottom of the boat with his back against the seat, Trista passed him a sandwich. She slid down so that she was sitting in the bottom of the boat, too, and they rocked gently on the waves as they ate. They washed down their food with the cans of cold Cheerwine that they’d bought from the vending machine at the docks and munched on the gingersnaps that Jolly had thrown in for free.

  As they relaxed, inhaling the familiar scents of marsh and creek and ocean, Rick told Trista about inviting Stanley and his family over on Saturday.

  “I remember Luella,” she said, looking pleased. “She always arranged time to talk with Martine and me when she visited Queen, even if it was only a few minutes. That made us feel so special, since she was older and engaged to be married.”

  “She’s going to call you to ask what she can bring,” Rick said. “Find out if she knows how to make Queen’s waffles.”

  Trista only laughed. “Doubtful. It was a secret recipe.”

  They stayed moored in the lee side of the pony island for a long time, talking if they felt like it but often remaining silent. It was good to be comfortable with each other, requiring no words in order to communicate. When it was time to go, it was as if they both arrived at that conclusion at the same time, and Rick moved to resume the oars while Trista stowed the picnic leavings under the seat in the bow.

  “If only we’d brought fishing poles, we’d catch our dinner,” Rick said regretfully as he headed the boat toward the docks and began rowing.

  “Who would clean it?” Trista, sitting tall in the bow, turned and widened her eyes at him. She was notoriously squeamish about gutting fish.