Some time later, she heard a knock on the front door. Glancing at her watch, she saw that an hour had passed already. Reluctantly, Heather rose and hurried to the front door, her mind still occupied by her work. Opening it, she was surprised to see Bo. Carrying a bouquet of yellow tulips, no less.
“Come in,” she exclaimed, near giddy despite herself at seeing him, and opened the door wide.
Bo passed her, and she felt again the fluttering in her stomach. She smoothed back her hair, which was slipping from its clasp, ran her hands nervously over her slim-cut jeans.
“I ran out to grab something to eat and I saw these,” he told her, and handed her the tulips. “Their color reminded me of your hair.”
Heather couldn’t stop the flush of pleasure that bloomed on her cheeks. “Thank you,” she said, and brought the bouquet to her nose. “This is so . . . unexpected. They’re beautiful.” She didn’t think any man but her father had ever brought her flowers before.
“Well,” he began with a grin of pleasure, “I came to tell you I’m finished. The deck is all done.”
“It’s beautiful. Great job,” she said, feeling unusually tongue-tied again with him. The job over, there was a new tension between them. What would happen next?
“I wouldn’t go out there for a few days yet. Give the stain time to dry. The weather should hold for the next few days. Then I’ll swing by and deliver the chairs. Brett started painting them, but he never got to finish. I can start that tomorrow and come by with them when I’m done,” he added with a smile.
“I’d like that,” she said, clinging to the chance to see him again.
Then his expression changed as an idea came to mind. “You know what’d be real nice?”
Heather shook her head.
“You ought to invite Cara to come on over to take a look, now that it’s all done. It’d be a way to get her out of her house. Flo was around the other day and told me Cara still hasn’t come out, not since the funeral. It’d do her good.”
It wasn’t the invitation she’d hoped for, but Heather was both oddly relieved and touched by his concern for Cara. Thoughtfulness came so easily for him. In truth, she should have thought of it herself.
“That’s a great idea. I will. And I’ll invite Emmi, and Flo, of course. Flo will have a hissy fit if I don’t.” Her nervous laugh followed. She sidled a glance at Bo. “You’d come, of course.”
“Of course! Wild horses couldn’t keep me away. I’m proud of that deck; it’s the last project I worked on with Brett. It really means something.” He looked at his feet. “And I’d like to have an excuse to come back and see you,” he added quietly.
Heather stared back at him, her anxiety spiking. Her sudden speechlessness didn’t seem to bother Bo in the slightest.
“Say, I have a friend who’s the chef at a restaurant on the island. The Long Island Café. It’s real good. I’m talking about the best fish on the islands. All local, too. I was wondering if you’d like to come out with me. We could go there for dinner.”
She swallowed hard. “When?”
“How’s tonight?”
She felt her throat clutch. She wanted to go. Very much. But just the idea of going on a date was sending her anxiety spinning out of control. She couldn’t breathe. She felt light-headed. In a moment she’d be sweating as if she were running a marathon. Excuses rallied in her brain—she had nothing to wear, she had to wash her hair. Oh, stop being such a baby, she scolded herself. After all, it was only dinner at a local restaurant at the end of a long day. They were friends. It was the equivalent of going out for coffee. And if she was being honest, the steady diet of organic soups and salads-for-one with only the canaries for company was beginning to wear on her.
“So?” he asked. “Do you want to go?”
The negative voice in her mind screamed, You can’t do this! No way. You’d have nothing to talk about. You’ll just be nervous, scared. He’ll only reject you. Of course he will.
“I’d love to . . .” The negative thoughts raced through her head, magnifying her fear. “. . . but I can’t,” she said in a rush.
“Oh.”
“I have to get sketches turned in and—and I’m behind schedule. I don’t dare take time off.”
“You’ve got to eat,” he argued with a convincing smile. “I’ll bring you right back. Promise.”
She shook her head. She couldn’t look at him.
“How about tomorrow night?”
She took a deep breath, afraid she’d burst into tears. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
He ran his hand through his hair. “Okay, then,” he said in a different tone. Almost a monotone. “Well . . . I best be off.”
Heather glanced at him. Bo’s face was pinched and his eyes narrowed; he was clearly disappointed, perhaps even hurt. She moved to open the door and stood aside to let him pass. She tried to smile, but he wasn’t looking.
“Thanks again for the flowers.”
Bo didn’t reply. She watched as he walked down the stairs, counting each one as she felt the thuds reverberating in her heart.
CARA LEFT THE lights on throughout the night. She couldn’t face the darkness. When she’d awakened in the middle of the night, her arm was stretched out on Brett’s side of the bed. For those first few seconds of wakefulness she wondered where he was. For those brief, stolen seconds he was still alive in her mind. She tried to hang on to the moment between sleep and wakefulness, clinging to it with desperation, especially emerging from a dream in which he’d been so alive she could feel him, touch him, smell him. Yet the longer she waited, the more heartbreaking it was to face the truth. He is gone.
So she kept the lights on. She found if she woke quickly and could see the empty bed, the pain was more a dull ache when she realized, He is gone.
Each morning when the sun was bright in the sky, Cara rose. As she’d promised Emmi and Flo, Cara showered, brushed her teeth, her hair. It was all very mechanical. She didn’t think about what she put on. Pants, a bra, top, flip-flops. Nothing seemed to fit anymore. Her clothes hung shapelessly from her frame.
It seemed to take more effort to do the smallest things. Everything made her so very tired. Her mind drifted; she’d walk into a room and find herself standing there, staring into space, having forgotten what she’d come for. She was never hungry. She ate mostly because she’d promised Emmi that she would. She went to the fridge and found it jam-packed with Tupperware and foil-covered dishes. She opened one marked CHICKEN KIEV on the foil cover and, looking in, gagged. It had gone bad. She tossed the entire dish into the trash. She went through a few more, sniffing suspiciously, and, when in doubt, tossed those, too. She reached for a white baker’s box. Inside she found a mother lode of pastries and cookies. She pulled out a thick, chocolaty oatmeal square and began eating it mindlessly as she tossed one of the tiny cups into the coffee machine. Chocolate was one flavor that reminded her she was still alive.
She licked her fingers, tasting the dark chocolate sweetness, smelling the coffee brewing, then reached for another bar, feeling a sudden insatiable hunger. Outside, the fronds of the palm trees waved gently in the breeze. White clouds floated in a blue sky and boaters were racing along Hamlin Creek. She could hear their whoops of excitement. It was a sunny summer day. Brett would have a lot of tourists out on the boat, she thought.
She stopped herself and put fingers to her forehead. “Must stop doing that,” she said aloud. It was a month since he’d died. Thirty days today. She had to stop thinking he was coming back.
She’d read so much about the grieving process over the past month. Devoured articles on the Internet, ordered books. All of them were clear that there was no timeline for grief. They were specific about symptoms of grief—the sensations of choking, shortness of breath, feelings of emptiness, endless crying. But nothing warned her that when she wasn’t experiencing those symptoms of anguish, all that was left was a sense of meaninglessness. A great, vast gray space of nothingness. Limbo.
She
tried to rally, pulling together her power of cognitive thought. She’d promised her lawyer and accountant that she would gather the important papers they needed by tomorrow. She ran her hand through her hair. She’d always done the bills and financial planning, so she knew where those papers were. But where did Brett keep his personal papers? He’d always been creative in his filing. When she’d first met him years ago, he’d taken money from his customers for the tour-boat ride and simply put it into an old, dented metal box. No record, no receipt. Why hadn’t they shared with one another where they kept their important papers?
She set aside the coffee and cookies and began prowling through the house, considering likely places Brett might put his papers. His closet was a good start. She opened the door and was met with an overwhelming surge of scents—sandalwood and cologne with a hint of the salt water Brett had perpetually carried on his person from his time spent out at sea. It sent her reeling and tears burst from her eyes. She brought her palms to her face. After she collected herself, she pulled back the hair that had fallen into her face. It was damp with her tears.
It was painful to go through his closet, but she soldiered on, she had to, or she’d curl up in his bathrobe and sleep. On the top shelf she found an old Nike shoebox. She stepped off the stool and opening it, she couldn’t believe what was in it. There was the deed to the house, along with an old Nikon camera, a collection of keys, some coins, and a picture of a young blond woman with a Farrah Fawcett hairstyle.
“In the shoebox,” she said with disbelief. She had to laugh.
She climbed out of the closet and sat on their bed with the box in her lap. Forgetting the deed, Cara picked up the photo. She was a pretty girl, young with peachy skin and a radiant smile. Staring at it, she felt no jealousy, just a morbid curiosity. This had to be Ashley, the young woman Brett had once been in love with. The young woman who had died in that terrible motorcycle accident. Brett had been driving. It wasn’t his fault, but that didn’t matter to him. The incident had scarred him deeply and left him changed. The thought that they were together again in heaven popped into her head. She shook it away. Though it stung to see he’d kept her photograph, she told herself that it was only right. Ashley had been an important person in his life. She set the picture back in the box.
She carried the box to his office. His was an old desk that had once belonged to his father—a crackled leather top, missing handles. He’d loved it. Scattered among the tall tilting piles of papers on top of his desk she found receipts, gum wrappers, lottery tickets, index cards filled with to-do lists. She ran her finger over his distinctive bold printing. She collected his blank checks and checkbook from the middle drawer and a file marked Insurance far back in the bottom desk drawer. His life insurance was what she needed most, and she sighed with relief and sat in the chair and began reading the policy.
Her blood chilled. She reread it.
It couldn’t be true. She covered her open mouth with her palm. Brett hadn’t kept up with his payments. He’d let the policy lapse.
“Oh, Brett,” she breathed out on a long sigh, feeling a rush of dismay. She slipped down into the chair, a deep heaviness in her heart. She felt in shock again and rested her forehead against her fingers. Then she slowly shook her head in disbelief. Brett wasn’t good with money. He wasn’t one to think of planning for a future. But allowing a life insurance policy to lapse was one of the worst financial decisions possible. The policy could have been a lifeline for her, now that he was gone. A way to ensure his wife was taken care of, her future preserved—or the reverse, if she had been the first to go. But it was lost. Gone up in the ether, despite all the payments they’d made.
They’d been having difficulties financially, but why hadn’t he come to her if he couldn’t make the payments? She would have begged, borrowed, or stolen to front the cost. What was he thinking?
Cara rubbed her eyes. He must have been that sure that neither of them would die young. That they had time to take care of their future. Cara could feel the tongues of financial ruin licking at her heels. She quelled the sudden panic and straightened her shoulders. No time for self pity. She had to be sensible now. Think! she told herself. She was never one to gloss over a problem. She preferred to deal with it head-on.
She felt cold, whether from anger or fear she didn’t know. Maybe a little of both. She set the shoebox and insurance policy on the dining table, then went to fetch the box of cookies and a second cup of coffee. Next she carried the large laundry basket filled to the brim with mail to the table as well. Emmi had been collecting it in the basket for her to plow through when she was ready. It was shocking to see how much mail could accumulate in a month’s time. Well, ready or not, Cara had to deal with it.
First she sorted the mail into three piles: bills, personal, and junk. The junk pile went straight into a recycling bag. She sifted through the personal letters, checking return addresses. Most of them were cards or letters of sympathy that she saved to read later. The bill pile was alarmingly high. She’d missed her credit card payments, but she thought she could probably get the overdue charges eliminated when she explained the situation. Her heart skipped a beat, however, when she saw the thick file from the hospital. She’d been given the file when she left the day Brett had died, but she’d never read anything in it. With trepidation, she slowly studied one page, then the next, one after another. Most of them were medical insurance forms with instructions for how to fill them out. Her hand stilled when she saw the medical report. The Emergency Department Physician’s Record had been filled out by hand.
Brett Beauchamps was received for triage at 3:40 p.m. There was no pulse. The physician noted: Cardiac arrest. Massive. DOA. Pronounced 3:53 p.m.
DOA. Dead on arrival. No chance for survival.
She sat motionless for quite a while, trying to digest the information. When the doorbell rang, she jumped. Reading this report, the doorbell was too eerily a reenactment of that day.
The doorbell rang again.
Just go away, she thought. Strangers at the door were only bad news. She couldn’t talk to anyone, especially not right now. She’d been spoiled by having Emmi here to cover for her, telling everyone to go away. The doorbell rang again. But Emmi wasn’t here now, she told herself. She’d promised to try to live a “normal” life.
The doorbell rang again, this time followed swiftly by three strong knocks.
Cara reluctantly set down the mail and went to the door. Peeking out the window, she saw it was Robert, Brett’s cocaptain at the tour business. With unexpected joy, she swung open the door.
“Robert! I’m so glad to see you.”
Robert was short, wiry, and deeply tanned. His short blond hair was spiky, stiff from the salt and sun. She hadn’t seen him since the funeral, and it did her heart good to see the man who had been like a brother to Brett. They’d been colleagues and friends since he’d started Coastal Ecotour.
They hugged, feeling each other’s grief in the gesture. She’d needed a hug just then. Badly.
“Come in,” Cara said, ushering him inside the house.
Robert’s eyes appeared clouded with concern as he looked at her. “Are you all right?”
“Me?” she asked, surprised he’d ask such a thing. “No, of course not. But I’m managing.”
“I thought Emmi was here with you.”
“She was, but she’s gone home now. She has her own life, and, like I said, I’m managing.”
He gave her a doubtful look. “Are you eating?”
She went to the table and lifted the box of cookies. “I am. Can I offer you one? A cup of coffee?”
Robert shook his head and walked closer. He appeared uncomfortable, even nervous. “No, thanks, I don’t have a lot of time.” He jerked his thumb toward the door. “I have to get back to the boat. The new guy, Phillip, is a good enough captain, but he’s young. He has a lot to learn. But he’s willing to work for less, which is a good thing, eh? I don’t want to leave him alone too long. We’ve been
slammed.”
“That’s good to hear. What about the Caretta Caretta?” she asked, referring to the luxury boat.
Robert made a face and shook his head. “Sorry. It’s slow. No takers there, I’m afraid.”
Cara was afraid, too. She and Robert both knew that the boat was an albatross around the tour business’s neck. “So then, Robert. Is this a social call? Or business?”
“Business, I’m afraid.”
Cara indicated a seat and they both sat at the table.
“I hate to bother you with this,” Robert began apologetically. “Brett used to handle this sort of thing.”
Cara didn’t know what he was talking about. “Handle what?”
“Payroll. It’s, uh, due today.”
“Oh! My God, of course,” Cara said in a rush. “You’re right. Brett used to hand me the forms, I’d write the check, and he’d give it to you. I’ve completely lost track of time. I’m so sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about, Cara. You’ve had other things on your mind. I hate to bother you about it, but Phillip is new and all. Don’t want him to think there’s any problem, with Brett gone. You know what I mean.” Robert handed her the invoices. “It’s all there. My amount’s the same, of course. Phillip is getting a starting salary. Like I said, I think he’ll fit in just fine. We also have a new intern starting Monday, unpaid, college credit, which is ideal for us right now. You don’t have to worry, Cara. I got things covered. You and Brett created a well-oiled machine; all I have to do is my part to keep it running.”
Cara was touched by Robert’s willingness to step up and help keep things going. “Thanks, Robert. I know he’d be proud of the way you’ve taken over. Wait here a moment, would you? I’ll get the checkbook. Oh”—she spun on her heel, remembering—“do you have the receipts from last month?”
Beach House for Rent Page 15
