Fade to Blue

by Julie Carobini

  “I was wrong about you,” she finally said. “When you first began working for the studio, I attempted to needle you, but it never fazed you until I had to give up and admit that you, Suzanna, are impossible not to like.” She said this like she’d made some great discovery, such as how the moon and the tides are tied together. “I understand now why two men fight over you.”

  I slapped the table and shook my head. “Not true. No way are two men even half interested in me—nor I in them.”

  She chuckled, chipping away at the flimsy barrier that had begun to grow between us. “Okay, Suzi-Q, whatever you say. I am not here to fight with you, but I know what I see.”

  I clasped my hands on the table in front of me and leaned forward. “Do you want your groceries or not?”

  Letty began to laugh, her two elegant hands cupping her mouth. “You cannot even be spiteful. How could I not love you from the start?”

  I sat back and crossed my arms, unsure of how to take this. “Letty!”

  She continued to rock, laughing until tears fell from her eyes. She used her manicured fingers to wipe them away, the attempts mostly unsuccessful, which caused her to laugh more until all I could do was roll my eyes and offer her a napkin.

  “Thank you.” She grinned while wiping, sighing, and rocking away. The more she struggled and flopped about, the more the kitchen filled with the scent of her perfume. “I am so sorry, Suz, but you don’t know how long it has been since I have truly laughed.” She blew her nose like a trumpet, which sent us both into fresh peals of cackling.

  I smacked a hand over my mouth, my eyes on alert, and gestured toward the doorway where Jeremiah—hopefully—still slept.

  She pressed her forefinger against puckered lips, trying to add a “shush” but unable to without more tittering. Her chuckling grew more muffled as she steadied herself, napkin to mouth.

  I shook my head, wiping my eyes with the back of one hand, and blew out a slow, steady breath, my voice unable to hide its sarcasm. “Wow. So sorry to be such a thorn in your side. I had no idea.”

  She reached over and grasped my hand. “Do not apologize, Suz. You don’t understand.” She sat back. “My problem with you stemmed from my own fears.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She looked about the kitchen, then at me. “My husband—his name was Alexander—he worked all day, every day, on his art. He taught me more than I learned in school.” Her eyes misted again, this time not from mirth. “It was his dream to work solely in the Hearst Castle, restoring the ceilings and walls throughout. He studied art for many years and could tell the difference between sixteenth- and seventeenth-century carved ceilings just by viewing them.”

  “He never had the chance?”

  “I am afraid not. He was much older than me and had been ill for years. He was in remission when we married, and we thought that perhaps this would finally be his time to reach his goal.” She shrugged then, her smile almost shy. “But this was not the case.”

  “I’m so sorry, Letty.”

  She nodded in quick bursts.

  I tilted my head, watching her. “How does this relate to your fears and how you felt about me?”

  “I long to fulfill my husband’s dream. I’ve worked hard. I have tried to show Fred that I am qualified and capable, hoping he will recommend me for the next promotion into the castle. There is a rumor it will be very soon.” She glanced away. “Fred took such an immediate liking to you, always sending you for special trips up the hill or on isolated jobs like this one here at the log cabin . . .”

  “You thought I was your competition?”

  “Don’t give me that wide-eyed expression of yours. That is exactly why I did not like you that first day you walked into the studio. I thought you were a . . . a charmer.”

  I squinted at her, not liking the direction of this conversation. “Really.”

  She dropped her head back and raised her chin, as if the answer she sought could be found in the knotty pine ceiling above. “After only one day, I saw your character and knew I had misjudged you. You were honest about how much you do not understand about the world of art restoration—most others would have hidden that information. Some in this business have even been known to steal ideas from others. Still, I stayed close, watching, hoping Fred would find in me what he found so appealing in you.”

  “Oh, Letty.”

  She raised a hand. “Do not feel sorry for me. I understand that some people were born with charisma, while others were not.”

  I grunted. “Please.”

  “Laugh at me if you like, but there is much more at stake than my pride.” She paused, seeming to gather strength with the pull of one deep breath. “What money Alexander left me did not last long, nor did it cover all of our debts. Without this promotion, I cannot survive on what I am making at the studio now.” She looked me square in the eyes. “But if I leave now to find higher-paying work, before possibly being recommended for that promotion, I will never be able to share my husband’s dream of working at the castle.”

  Understanding filled me. The cabana she doesn’t allow anyone to see, the near-constant poor state of her car, Sunday visits to the town’s thrift store—Letty’s broke, and for whatever reason, she chose this moment to share that revelation with me.

  “Then don’t leave. I’ll help you with the incidentals, you know, like food.” We both smiled at this. “But do not leave until you talk to Fred about that promotion. Promise me.”

  “He may have you in mind for it.”

  With a promotion like that, I could afford to rent this cabin for Jeremiah and me. We could extricate ourselves from Gage’s busy life and give him the privacy he’ll soon need. But could I be content? No. Not if it meant taking the position away from Letty, who had yearned and toiled and dreamt of spending her life restoring the castle’s unending supply of irreplaceable art.

  The idea to turn down a position like that—audacious as the concept was—gave me an astonishing lift, like the sudden flutter of finding just the right shade of lipstick to go with a new dress. I, too, had dreamt of working inside the castle walls, surrounded by all that art, but the reality now . . . after spending days and days and days on one minute section of an ancient door? Far from the appealing high I’d thought it would bring me.

  I stared my friend down, the one who possessed both the patience and skill for this type of work, imploring her not to give up hope. “For someone who has fought adversity while working to learn her craft, you worry too much. There is no doubt in my mind—not one bit—that when the time comes, yours will be the first name to come to Fred’s mind.”

  I didn’t add that I’d make sure of it.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Saturday morning sun drew Jeremiah, followed by groggy me, out of our cocoons of piled-high quilts and blankets and into the task of gathering our things for the ride home. My son’s idea of helping out, though, meant multiple rounds of jungle gym climbing. “I’m staying out of your way, Mama.”

  Ah yes, I’d taught him well.

  Letty left the day before, after our night of heart-to-hearts. Gage drove his mechanic, Andy, up to jump-start the stalled car. Afterward, Andy gave Letty a ride home, with the promise to take her car back to his shop to “noodle” around the engine awhile, as he put it.

  I knew what it felt like to have empty cupboards. I understood the depth one must plunge in order to do the only thing that’s left: ask for help. So, despite her protests, Letty strolled out of here with a hug and grocery bag bulging with apple-blueberry tart, fixings for sandwiches, cans of soup and tuna, a jug of lemon iced-tea, and a half bag of oranges.

  In three days, not a whisper from Len. Although only minutes from town, Jer and I had holed up in this cabin the entire time, not leaving for anything other than walks in the nearby pine forest or hot chocolate breaks in the evening on the back porch. I’d begun to wonder if seeing Len after so many months of separation had been an aberration of sorts. Time away from the routine
and from work made me cling harder to the dream of a quiet life without complications.

  “You ready?”

  Jer bounded out of the house, the one I’d spent much of last evening scrubbing and straightening, across the patch-sized front yard, and into his booster seat. The ocean grew large and wide as we descended the hill, all buckled in. “Know what, Mama? I think we should go to the beach today. I don’t think you want to be done with your vacation yet.”

  “You know me well, kiddo.”

  “That’s right. I do!”

  I laughed. “Maybe after I unpack our stuff and put in some laundry first.” No white caps appeared anywhere in sight, the sea rolling rather lazily onto shore. My son’s suggestion grew wings. “I suppose we could eat up the rest of the sandwiches at the beach.”

  “Picnic!”

  “Okay, sure. We’ll take a picnic with us.”

  Gage’s cottage sat empty when we arrived. I had to remind my growing boy to come back and help me unpack, which he did with a noticeable frown. Let’s hope that’s not a glimpse into the teen years. Once inside, I hurried to finish up a few chores, then change out of my jeans and long-sleeved cotton shirt and into a swimsuit, my favorite mesh-blue coverall, and squishy flip-flops. I stuck a floppy hat on my head.

  “You ready, Jeremiah?”

  He slapped down the hall from the bathroom wearing swim trunks that reached to his puffy knees, and with large goggles over his eyes and a snorkel hanging from his mouth.

  I bit back a laugh. “Guess you are, then. Let’s go, hmm?”

  I hadn’t planned on playing more today, but with a sun shining this bright and a newly refreshed heart, how could I resist? We walked along the road, past the other cottages, most of them occupied on this dazzling day. Three women, Holly’s relatives, lounged in Adirondack chairs and waved at us as we passed by, Jer skipping with gusto and me trailing behind.

  The tide looked lower than usual, offering hope that I might have a chance to tread across uncovered rocks and search the pools for more inspiration for the cabin’s walls. Letty had taken it on herself to teach me all she knew about the soft and pretty creatures that intrigued me so. She said that though anemones looked like underwater blossoms, they moved about and ate like other sea animals. News to me. I’d watched them several times and they never budged, their bodies stuck to undersides of rocks like they’d stepped in peanut butter before heading out to play.

  I laughed at the image, remembering the time I’d been repapering the drawers in my old kitchen. Only three years old at the time, Jeremiah stepped onto contact paper in his stocking feet, then danced around like a wild creature, unable to tear it off.

  “What are you laughing ’bout?” he asked, one hand on the railing.

  A handwoven beach bag swung from my arm. “Just happy, kiddo. Feels like summer, you know?”

  “I’ll race you to the beach!”

  “You’re on!” I kicked off my flip-flops and hooked them with two fingers, but by the time I reached the top step, Jer had jogged down the stairs and jumped into the pebbly sand below. I hardly recalled being so reckless and free, but it wasn’t all that long ago that summers had meant scorched hot dogs and weak tea, followed by swatting at mosquitoes until well past dark.

  I reached Jer at the same spot we always played, intuition telling me the value of routine in his life. It’s how memories were made, the kinds one wanted to treasure and uncover over and over again for a long, long time. Sitting on the bath sheet I’d brought, we scooched our fannies deeper into the sand. Jer began to stack smooth rocks called moonstones while contentment drew my mind and sight out across the vast sea where flying fish skittered and popped and pelicans glided in formation, scouring for lunch.

  I’d hardly noticed the gathering of beachgoers to our left until one of them, a familiar guy with a slight paunch, waved in our direction. Funny how people you see in church, wearing their Sunday best, look so out of place with so much skin hanging out of their beach clothes.

  After acknowledging them with a friendly smile and wave, I laid back on the blanket to peer into the baby blue sky. Had I not taken that moment to raise my eyes to the heavens, would I have seen the dark clouds form as I did?

  I shaded my eyes with one hand. “Hello, Len.”

  He bent over me, blocking the sun now, examining my face. Did he hope to find fear in my expression over his three-day disappearance? Or anger, perhaps? Or maybe he hoped I would throw my arms around his bleached-blond head and welcome him back?

  “Daddy!” Jer leapt to his feet, apparently unconcerned with my ruminations. “You coming to our picnic?”

  “That sounds like a fine idea, little man.” Len held Jer to his bare chest and glanced down at me for some kind of encouragement. “If it’s okay with your mother, that is.”

  Jer’s wispy blond hair defied gravity as he arched his back so far he nearly tumbled from his father’s grasp. “C’mon, Mama. Let him stay. He must be stah-ving!”

  “Sure, of course. He’s your father.” I took another glance at the blue-green sea and shrugged, my smile less than full. The church man wrapped a Velcro strap around his thick ankle and grabbed a surfboard. A teenage boy with a similar shape—gut included—did the same, and the two made their way across the rocky beach to a wide clearing in the sea.

  Len watched the men traipse into the ocean, their ribs pronounced from sucking in against the cold water. “You want to go see the surfers, Jer?”

  He struggled out of Len’s grasp and pulled his father closer to the water’s edge. I let my eyes trail after them, my body stiffening. The older man in the water shook his head, turned around, and began jogging in big leaps out of the surf, that long board still stuck under one arm. I watched as Len struck up a conversation with the shivering man and Jeremiah hopped like a bunny at his father’s side.

  While the activity piqued my interest, waves and wind and bubbling wet sand coaxed me in a different direction, lulling me to forget my worries and bask in this moment. This was how it should have been: Len, Jer, and me, on a beach, living a full life.

  The church man dropped his board to the ground and bent, hands on knees, until eye level with Jeremiah. He spoke to my son and stopped, his face reacting in ways that made it look like he was truly listening. For his part, Jeremiah’s head bobbed like it did whenever he shared one of his many opinions.

  Without warning, Jeremiah spun around and sprinted in my direction, leaving sand clouds in his wake. “Mama! Daddy’s gonna borrow that man’s surfboard!” He yanked me by the hand, no match for my laziness. He pulled with all the might of a four-year-old until I relented. “Come on. Come watch!”

  By now the church man’s family lined the shore, sending fat plovers scurrying away in Chaplinesque fashion. Did Len expect that the board he borrowed would include an audience?

  The man’s son paddled back in and spoke with Len amidst the rising tide, offering directions we couldn’t hear. Was he explaining the metaphor of surfing as art? That the board represented a brush, the wave a wide, blank canvas, and the surfer, the painter? Each stroke of the painter’s brush, it was believed, represented the artist’s mood, creative expression, and experience.

  The latter of which, Len had none at all.

  On the other hand, he’d always looked the part of the stereotypical West Coast surfer, so score one in the image department. We watched as Len nodded, those locks of his rustling in the sun, then threw himself over top of the board on his stomach, his legs bent at the knee, his feet writing on the sky. A wave bounced over the nose of his board, salt water spraying his face.

  I’d forgotten until now about Len’s balance. He could squat flat-footed on the edge of a diving board without falling in, while I always tottered there, forced to roll up on the balls of my feet to avoid wobbling. And sometimes even that didn’t work. I’d witnessed his adeptness at balancing several times at a neighbor’s pool, well, before life gave way to secrets and other dangers.

  I hauled Jer up
and held him to my side, noting that his days on my hip were numbered. We watched Len as he paddled out using a crawl stroke behind a teen we’d learned was Steven Jr., the man’s eldest boy.

  “He’s gonna have to be careful not to cork the board.” Steve Sr. gave Jer and me a step-by-step surf lesson. “Yeah, he’s good. He’s got his body centered, so he oughta be all right. Steven’ll make him sit on the board out there first to get a feel for it.” Arms crossed across his belly, he glanced down at us, quite fatherly. “The key is staying calm. ’Specially the first time on a board.”

  I nodded, half listening, half wondering how life could feel so ordinary all of a sudden. Beyond the breaker, Steven Jr. made a spinning motion with his hand, as if to instruct Len to turn around. Len pulled the board around, rose onto his knees, then dropped into a sitting position, just the slightest wobble left to right on the landing.

  From the shore, Steve Sr. gave Len an exaggerated thumbs-up, despite the fact Len was oblivious to it. “Your husband there has some talent. ’Course, he’s not standing yet, but just getting that far without upending himself is a big accomplishment.”

  I didn’t correct him. Not that I didn’t try. But when I opened my mouth to utter the truth—that we were divorced—my mouth shut so fast it rattled my teeth. The awkwardness of it all caused my heart to feel as if it had dropped to the hollow of my stomach. Would I always feel as though a scarlet D were sown into my blouse like a modern-day Hester Prynne? My mind revealed the ridiculousness of the thought, but my heart, where it continued to roil in the pit of my stomach, sunk even more.

  “Well, would you look at that? That guy’s got some talent.” Steve Sr. and the rest of his family all hooted and cheered, as if Len was out there “shootin’ the pipe” like some Hawaiian hotshot surfer. True, he looked strong standing on that board like he’d done this all his life, but he also reminded me of a bent-kneed sumo wrestler, his feet death-gripping the board at either side.

  “Woo-oo, Daddy!” Jer kicked his legs and pointed, and I had to admit he looked impressive out there, gliding on that never-ending wave, riding it onto shore. For a second time, life felt ordinary and new all at the same time.