Footsteps

by Susan Fanetti

  This was the kind of crowd Carlo could deal with—a cookout on a beach, people in bathing suits and board shorts, wearing sunglasses and baseball caps, kids running around, the air thick with the mingling aromas of sunscreen, seawater, and cooking meat. Fuck tuxedos and shiny shoes. Standing in the middle of the beach, warm sand between his toes and a can of beer in his hand, wearing nothing but a pair of camouflage board shorts and his Oakleys, watching Trey bury John and Elsa in the sand, the world a cacophony of happy people—this was the world Carlo belonged in.

  Right now, he was having trouble remembering why he’d left it.

  “Hey, Junior! Grab another tray of burger meat from the cooler.”

  Roused from his reverie by his father’s gruff voice, Carlo said, “Yeah, Pop,” and headed over to one of the several giant coolers in which the prepped meat was stored. Carlo had been right that as soon as their father had been parked in front of the grill on the beach, his mood would improve. Until dark today, he would do nothing but stand at the grill, drinking beer and flipping meat. And he would be happy all the day long. He’d talk and bicker in good nature with whomever came by to do so.

  At the moment, he was on his own. Carlo brought the meat over and set it on the folding table set up near the grill. His father nodded and took a drink of his beer. “Thanks, son.”

  “You bet. Need anything else?”

  His father gave him a look, and Carlo girded himself. “You see all this? What I built here—this is important. This sustains our family. This wasn’t a mistake. It’s not a shame. It’s an honor, to take this on.”

  “I know, Pop. You know I’m not ashamed of this. I love you, and this, and the business. But I don’t love the work. I love the work I do. I love the design, not the build. It’s just the other side of the same coin.”

  “You love the office, not the job site.”

  Well, that wasn’t true, either. He loved the job site, and, until he and Peter had gone out on their own, he’d loathed the office. He’d worked for his father from the age of fourteen until he passed his licensing exam—ten years. And he’d loved almost all of it. But that job was about building someone else’s vision. He wanted to be the one who saw the reality before it was reality.

  “Pop. Come on. Cook the burgers. Chronicle my failures as the family scion tonight.”

  Carlo Sr. chuckled. “I’m gonna die, you know. And then what?”

  His father was a couple of years past sixty and strong as a bull. Built like one, too, with the weathered, barrel-shaped body of a man who’d lived his life working outside, using that body as a tool. “Today? You planning on kicking today, over the grill?”

  “Smartass.”

  “Good. I’m gonna go intervene before Trey actually inters Elsa in the sand. I think she’d lie there and let him do it, too.” With an affectionate slap on his father’s back, Carlo turned and headed down the beach.

  Once he’d freed the dog—and, after some lingering consideration, his brother—from their sand graves, he took Trey and Elsa into Carmen’s cottage for a nap. Elsa was nearly as good a nanny as Natalie was. He could leave them alone in the house and, as long as he stayed within sight and earshot of the cottage, he knew Trey would be safe. So he hosed his kid off in Carmen’s shower and then tucked him in on the daybed in the little spare room. Elsa, still dusty with sand, lay down on the floor, her big body against the daybed.

  Carlo ruffled Trey’s damp hair and then Elsa’s sandy ears. “One hour, pal. No less.” He pointed to the old-fashioned Big Ben clock on the side table. “You stay put until the big hand is on the one and the little hand is on the three. Got it?”

  “Yes Daddy but I didn’t see a shark yet.” The only punctuation that sentence got was a yawn at the end.

  “You’ve got your whole life to see a shark, pal. One hour won’t blow your chance.” He kissed his son’s forehead and, once Trey’s eyes drooped shut, he left the cottage.

  Carmen was ambling up from the water as Carlo stepped off her little porch. He hadn’t seen her since they’d first arrived. Even more people-averse than Carlo, she tended to make herself a little scarce on this day—at least until things quieted down around dusk. The crowd had bled over from the public beach onto her private space, and usually she hated that, but on this day, the whole beach was part of the party.

  She was wearing a wetsuit and carrying her board. The surf wasn’t good at this point in the day, but Carlo knew she’d just been out a ways, finding some quiet, sitting on her board and watching the party from a peaceful distance. They met at the fire pit, and she laid her board over one of the Adirondack chairs that circled it.

  As she worked the suit off, revealing a small, turquoise bikini, she asked, “Did I see you take Trey in?”

  “Yeah. If I didn’t get him sleeping now, he’d crash before the bonfire, and I’d never hear the end of that.”

  Her brow creased at that, but then smoothed quickly. “I guess I won’t go in, then.” She pulled her long, dark hair free of its ponytail and tossed her head to loosen the wet tangles.

  “You still trying to hide?” That was antisocial even for Carmen. “Are you hiding from somebody in particular?”

  “It’s nothing. I’m just not feeling it this year, is all.” She draped her suit over a chair. “Did Peter show?”

  “Not yet. He was iffy on coming at all. He had his hands full last night. You’re not trying to avoid him are you?” Peter had made a play for his sister once, a few years ago. But Carmen hadn’t been interested, and he had known better than to behave like his usual, Neanderthal self with Carlo’s sister. But Carmen, a landscape designer, was working a job with them, and she’d spent some time lately with Peter in that capacity. If he was getting handsy again… “Is he giving you trouble?”

  Carmen huffed impatiently. “No. And do you seriously think I couldn’t handle him if he were? Don’t be all big brother on me, Carlo. I’m not avoiding anything but the town of Quiet Cove. I’m just not in the mood for this today.” She rolled her brown eyes at him and pushed past him, walking up onto the porch and pulling a tube of sunscreen from a small cabinet she kept up there. “Go find something better to do than invent a soap opera for me. I’m just grouchy. End of story.” She smeared sunscreen over her arm.

  Grouchy was her default setting. As beautiful as she was, as talented and funny and smart, as great a life as she had, his sister had trouble being happy. That was another legacy of their mother’s untimely death. Carmen had been twenty-four and not much more than a year out of college when it had happened, and her life had taken a sharp U-turn. She and Carlo had filled in for their parents—the one who’d died, and the one who’d stopped. Carlo had already been working in Providence and settling into a career. Things had changed for him, but not so drastically. Carmen had been about to move to Europe. She’d had much bigger plans for her life than Quiet Cove. She’d been the free spirit of the family, the big dreamer, the one who wanted the whole world in her life. Instead, she lived a mile from the home she’d grown up in. He knew that, despite her appreciation of the life she’d made, she still felt stymied by fate.

  He went up onto the porch and took the tube from her. Understanding, she pulled her hair over her shoulder and turned her back to him. “Sorry, Caramel. Just looking out for you.” He smoothed sunscreen onto her back.

  “I know. And you know I don’t need a minder. I’ll hang out here and keep track of Trey. Go mind Joey. I’m sure he needs to get bailed out of something by now.”

  Laughing, Carlo handed her the tube and stepped out onto the beach.

  ~oOo~

  Carlo spent the day on the beach, mingling with townsfolk and tourists, playing in the surf with Trey and Elsa, getting in a few games of volleyball and cornhole, helping his father at the grill. Luca was the only sibling who hadn’t yet showed. That would get him some heat when he finally did make an appearance, but Carlo didn’t expect his brother to care. The sons had filled fairly predictable roles in their family—Carl
o, the firstborn, was the responsible one. Joey, the youngest boy, was the goofball. John, second-youngest son, the quiet brooder. Luca, third child and second son, was the rebel—always on the wrong side of their father, which was why Carlo’s refusal to stay on with the company was such a continuing disappointment to their father. In Carlo Sr.’s highly traditional mind, if Carlo did not want it, then he had no choice but to groom his second son, the next in line. And he could not tolerate that idea.

  The perfect irony, of course, was that Luca was the only one of the boys who loved the job and the company like it was literally in his blood. He was a brilliant craftsman and savvy about the business. He would be great in their father’s place. Possibly better than their father. But Carlo Sr. would never see through the rebellion, and Luca seemed incapable of anything but.

  After dark the night played out as usual—the crowd dwindled down to a fraction of its peak, bathing suits were covered with jackets and sweats, and Carlo and John helped their father build up a big bonfire. Luca had simply never showed; he was blowing off the whole day, which told Carlo there had been some kind of fresh dustup between him and their father.

  There were s’mores for the kids (and some of the adults), the beverage of choice shifted from beer to liquor, and, as always, a few people brought out guitars, John among them. No matter who had the guitars, no matter whether they’d ever met before, they always knew enough of the same songs that they could play together, and enough of the people sitting on logs or blankets or beach chairs or simply in the sand knew the words that they were always able to get a righteous sing-along going. It was a quintessentially summer thing for Carlo. The sort of ridiculously picture-postcard moment only found in cheesy movies. Or on a beach in a ridiculously picture-postcard town like the Cove. He loved it with his whole heart.

  His father was settled comfortably in a beach chair, the happy glow of the day still suffusing his face. This was always a good day for him. Even the first year after their mother, he’d done okay on this day. Carmen sat next to him, and they were holding hands. She looked content, too.

  Joey had a little blonde on his lap, his hand up the leg of her shorts.

  Trey had dropped off to sleep in Rosa’s arms, the remnant goop of his s’mores giving him a white and brown goatee. Elsa was curled at the end of the log on which Carlo was leaning, and he dropped his hand to nestle into her warm, soft fur. He felt a peace he hadn’t felt in months. He’d needed this. He needed the summer to cleanse the fall and the winter from his mind and soul.

  At this time last summer, Jenny had still been with them. Things hadn’t been good between them, but he had not realized it at the time. What he’d thought of as a another rough patch had, in fact, been the beginning of their end. She’d already been cheating on him, and by the end of the summer, she was gone.

  He shoved that thought away and turned his head to look out over the water. As his eyes adjusted to the change in light from the orange blaze of the fire to the inky blue of the night sea, he realized that there was someone standing alone at the tideline. In the faint illumination of mingled moonlight and firelight, he made out a woman’s figure. Something about her seemed lonely. Maybe it was that she seemed to be watching the bonfire, as if wishing she were invited. She would be welcome, of course. This was the tail end of a town party.

  He had no idea from where he’d gotten the idea of loneliness; all he could see was a silhouette, standing where the water rushed over her ankles. He had no idea why he stood and headed down the beach toward her, either. But he did.

  As he came toward her, she turned and headed away down the beach. “Hey, hold up. Join us, if you’d like. It’s not a private party.”

  She turned back, and he got a tickle that he knew her somehow, but he wasn’t sure. Then she brought her left hand up to tuck her errant hair behind her ear, and the moonlight caught the massive ring on her finger. Dressed as she was in jeans cuffed midway up her calves and a bulky fisherman’s sweater, her hair loose and tossed by the sea breeze, he hadn’t recognized the woman who’d worn the plum-colored sparkly dress so well the night before. But that ring was unmistakable.

  “Um…Sabina? Er…Mrs. Auberon, I mean?”

  ~ 4 ~

  Sabina had merely been out walking. Alone at the beach house facing an expansive, magnificent week entirely on her own, with no James, no staff, no obligations for luncheons or fittings or charity board meetings or galas, nothing but her own time and her own company for seven—no, eight—glorious days, she’d spent the first couple of hours simply being in the house. In the quiet. Feeling veritably weightless without the constant pressure of James’s gaze, or that of the people he’d tasked to keep track of her, burdening her shoulders. She’d kicked off her pumps, uncovered the furniture, made the bed, opened the windows. Then, without bothering to change her clothes, she’d selected a book from the library and sat out on a dune and read in the waning sunshine for a while.

  At James’s behest, she’d driven to the shore in the afternoon, shortly after the museum docent’s luncheon. He’d been gone, at the office, when she’d gotten home to pack. She’d found her bags already packed for her and sitting neatly at the foot of the sweeping center staircase. Not even pausing to wonder what clothes he’d had packed for her week-long vacation from their marriage, not even changing from her ‘philanthropic socialite on the go’ slacks and pumps, she’d snatched up her Coach luggage and trotted happily back to her BMW.

  She’d spent the previous few hours thinking about this fascinating new development, and she continued to ponder it on the drive shoreward. By the time she pulled her bags from the back of her car and carried them into the beach house, she’d become quite certain that James planned to kill her—no, correction, to have her killed—during this unusual week away. It was perfect, really. She would have an ‘accident’ on the beach and he would ‘grieve’—oh my sweet, silly Sabina, this is why I kept her so close, she was always being reckless and getting hurt, she could never be trusted to take proper care of herself, I’ll never forgive myself for not going with her to the shore—and then probably open a hospital wing in her name. Then, after an appropriate amount of time had passed, he would wed whatever hapless twenty-something he probably had queued up already. One whose breasts hadn’t yet met gravity. Not the little miss in last night’s white bandage dress. He’d never deign to wed one of his extra confections, or any woman who would behave so wantonly in public. He wanted purity in his home.

  Perhaps she had some kind of syndrome. Not Stockholm Syndrome, because she didn’t love her captor, not in the least. But something that made her not care one whit if he succeeded. In fact, a part of her, and not a small part, would welcome it. Not because she had a death wish, but because she craved freedom at whatever cost it might require. Fifteen years, she’d been unable to find her way free of him. Death was at least that, at least freedom.

  So now, the wry thought she’d had when he’d first mentioned sending her to the shore had become a real hope, even a prayer—Please don’t let him kill me until the end of the week. Please give me this bit of enjoyment in this life.

  Near dusk, she’d driven into town and gotten some Chinese take-out, then returned to the house. She’d sat on the veranda, overlooking the sea, and had eaten orange chicken and fried rice straight out of the little cartons. She’d washed it down with sugary soda. It had been her best day since she was twenty, her best day since the day after they’d returned from their honeymoon, when she’d woken to a life with a different man from the one to whom she’d said, “I do.”

  After her happy little meal, she’d lounged on the veranda while the moon rose, feeling the cooling air of the night sea make a comforting kind of chill on her skin. She’d felt pulled by the susurration of the incoming tide, and the ever-so-light spray in the air, and she’d gone in and opened her bags to discover that, of course, they were perfectly packed for this week. She’d pulled out a pair of softly-worn jeans and her favorite sweater, and she’d dr
essed for a walk on the beach.

  She’d walked and she’d thought, and she’d gotten lost in her mind. With no sense of how long she’d walked, she’d realized that she was coming up on a bonfire. As she’d approached, she’d been able to make out a vinyl banner strung between two posts—Pagano & Sons. The Pagano name again. Had she walked all the way to Quiet Cove? Well, that was more than two miles up the beach.