Making Waves

by Cassandra King

  “What gives her away?” I ask with a grin, pushing my sunglasses on top of my head. “The camera hanging around her neck or the Gulf Shores T-shirt?”

  Brow furrowed, Rye shudders and says, “Come on, Clare. No self-respecting Southern belle would be caught dead wearing white socks with sandals, and you know it. It’s a disgrace, that’s what it is. If they are going to run us off our lovely streets, the least they could do is dress properly.”

  “You’re such a snob,” I say fondly. “But you know what? I think you love it. You work hard at being the biggest snob in Baldwin County, don’t you?”

  Pretending to be offended, he pulls back and drawls in his melodious, honey-toned voice, “I just happen to have my standards, is all.”

  When I first met the courtly Ryman Ballenger, a cousin of my former husband’s, I thought he had to be putting me on. He has the most pronounced Southern accent I’ve ever heard, and on the Eastern Shore of Alabama, that’s saying a lot. It suits him, though, just another of his many charms. In addition to being the most breathtakingly handsome man I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing, Rye is also the most elegant. He’s always seemed out of place in this offbeat, artsy little town. He should be strolling the lavish grounds of an English estate instead, trailed by a bevy of manservants and Cavalier King Charles spaniels.

  “It’s strange that I ran into you just as I was running out of the coffee shop,” I say, gazing up at him. Rye is one of those people I enjoy just looking at, in the same way I might stop by an art gallery and admire a painting. “Don’t tell me you walked to town.” In all the years I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him walk anywhere. He’ll get into his big old silver Mercedes to drive a block.

  He looks at me as though I’ve lost my mind. “Me walk to town? In this heat? I should hope not.” With a nod, he indicates a place across the street. “My car’s over there. I almost never found a parking place in this damn mob.” He points out a small shop on the corner. “I came down to pick up a print that Lou framed for me. But the mat didn’t suit me, so I had her redo it.”

  “Not up to your standards, huh?” I tease him.

  Rye studies me through long dark lashes, and his fine gray eyes go soft. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you. I called your cell phone not five minutes ago.”

  With a grimace, I admit that I turned it off when I left the office. “You know how hard it is for me to close shop on Friday afternoons. Etta had to stand in the door to keep me from returning for some unfinished paperwork. If I’d kept my cell turned on and one of my clients called, having a crisis, I would’ve had to go running back to meet them there.”

  He clucks his tongue in reproach. “Ah, Clare, what am I going to do with you? You promised me that you’d stop giving your private numbers to your clients!”

  “I know …” My voice trails off, and I look up at him helplessly.

  He places a hand on my shoulder. “When you didn’t answer your cell, I got concerned about you, after what happened this morning.”

  “You concerned about me? That’s a switch, since I’m officially the one who gets to worry about everybody else. It’s in my job description.”

  “You can worry your pretty head off about whomever you want, my dear Clare, but I’m in charge of you.”

  “How very touching,” I say, trying to keep my voice light. “I assume you’re referring to a certain letter in this morning’s paper?”

  “So you’ve seen it?”With a worried frown, Rye reaches into his pocket and pulls out a clipping. “I have it with me, so if anyone dares to say anything about it, I can tell them what a bunch of hogwash it is.”

  “I’ve seen it,” I tell him dismally. I arrived at my office early this morning, bringing the local paper to read while waiting for my first client. Like most weeklies, The Fairhoper is the perfect antidote to the grim headlines of the national news. Unless we’ve had one of our infamous hurricanes, the articles are full of small-town dramas that can be heartwarming but are more often unintentionally comic. Dory and I will call each other to read some of the more priceless ones aloud. Her favorite remains the obituary written about a certain Mr. McMillan, who is said to have died in his sleep so peacefully that it didn’t wake him or Mrs. McMillan, either one. The human interest stories are usually pretty good, but last month I was embarrassed to find myself named Fairhope’s Citizen of the Month. To my further embarrassment, one of this morning’s letters to the editor, which I read in dismay, referred to my award:

  This letter is written to protest your choice of August’s Citizen of the Month, a self-proclaimed divorce “coach.”The honor was based on the national attention that has come this woman’s way, praising her innovative methods of divorce recovery. I have to wonder if those retreats of hers, held right here in our own conference center, actually do more to promote divorces than to help people get over them. Surely if folks were encouraged to work on their marriages instead, the disgracefully high divorce rates in our country would go down. I hope next month’s choice will better reflect the ideals of our community and country. The letter was signed by Oscar T. Allen, a “concerned” citizen whom I’d not had the pleasure of meeting, fortunately.

  Rye stands with his hands on his hips, scowling. “I can’t tell you how furious I am. And you’ve got to be, too, though you won’t let on. I know how you operate. In spite of all your degrees, you hide your feelings like the rest of us.”

  “You know better than that.” I can’t resist adding with a sly smile, “I’d never hide my feelings from you.”

  “Ha!” he scoffs. “You could’ve fooled me.”

  “You’ve lived here all your life, and you know everyone in town, so tell me who Oscar T. Allen is.”

  “He’s a damned nitwit, that’s who he is. The good thing is, no one will take him seriously, because we all know he’s batty.”

  I let out a sigh of relief. “Well, I have to say I’m glad to hear that he’s a crackpot. It could’ve been a pretty damaging indictment otherwise. The reference to the conference center makes my work sound sleazy, like those fly-by-night operations that breeze into town and rent a seminar room at the Holiday Inn. Calling me a divorce coach, which I’ve never been, implies that I find confused, unhappy women and teach them the secrets of pulling off a successful divorce, feathering my nest in the process.”

  “It’s ridiculous,” Rye agrees, his eyes blazing. “But don’t even think about it harming you professionally. You’re too highly respected for that. The newspaper allowing the letter to be printed is what made me so mad.”

  “To tell you the truth, I’m surprised that this is the first attack I’ve had.”

  “I don’t like anyone going after my girl,” he says gently. “As soon as I read the paper, I called Clyde Ayers and gave him a piece of my mind. I’m sick of him giving voice to every ignorant Bible thumper who picks up a pen. Clyde proceeded to lecture me on First Amendment rights. Me! Can you imagine? I reminded him that I have a law degree from Ole Miss, then hung up on him.”

  “Oh, Rye.” Frowning, I put a hand on his arm. “You and Clyde Ayers have been buddies forever. I don’t want you losing any friends on my account. It’s not that big a deal.”

  “Just as I thought. You’re trying to blow it off.”

  “I’m not!” I tell him, giving his arm a shake. “As soon as I ran into you, so to speak, I knew you’d make me feel better, and you already have.”

  He regards me for a long moment, then says in a soft voice, “You know I’d do anything for you.”

  “You’re such a dear friend.” It’s difficult to meet his gaze without blushing like a fool. In addition to everything else that went on this past summer, Rye and I had a rather unsettling evening that neither of us has mentioned since. We need to discuss it at some point, but I chicken out every time I see him.

  “And then there was the other thing, in Miss Dingbat’s column,” Rye goes on. “I can only imagine what your reaction was to that one.”

  “
After the letter, I didn’t read any further,” I admit. “What’s she done this time?” The society column, “Fairhope’s Fairest,” is penned by a woman who uses the moniker Ernestine Hemingway, apparently with no idea that it makes her sound like a drag queen. Guess she figures it gives her more literary credibility than her real name, Ima June Hicks.

  “Oh, her column was worse than usual.” He glances around before taking my arm and pulling me closer to the shelter of the little café. “While Dory and Son were in Europe, he sent a postcard to Ernestine, and she quoted it in her column. It was all about Fairhope’s favorite couple spending the month of August on a second honeymoon in France. Ernestine went on to say that they were taking in the sights but mostly gazing into each other’s eyes. It was beyond nauseating.”

  “Oh, Lord!” I wail. “It’s pure propaganda on Son’s part. No, I take that back. ‘Propaganda’ is much too long a word for his vocabulary.”

  Rye regards me sternly, his head tilted to the side. “I’ve told you, Clare, that Son will get the best of you if you keep dismissing him by claiming he’s not very bright. It’s all a part of his good-old-boy act. He’s crazy like a fox. Have you seen Dory since they got back?” When I shake my head, he lowers his voice conspiratorially and says, “I ran into the happy couple last night, having dinner at the Yacht Club, and she seemed fine, in spite of all he put her through last year. She looked more beautiful than ever.” His gray eyes are suddenly dreamy. “But Dory always does, doesn’t she?”

  “I’m sure Prince Charming was working the room, kissing ass all over the place, just like he was doing a few minutes ago at the coffee shop.”

  “Even worse,” Rye says in disgust. “With Dory back by his side, he was beaming like he’d just scored the winning touchdown in an Alabama—Auburn game. He held on to Dory’s arm and didn’t let her out of his sight all night.”

  “Hovering over Dory? That’s so unlike Son,” I say sarcastically.

  “When I approached their table to welcome them back, he did something that really surprised me.”

  “Told you that scientists have discovered someone with a lower IQ than he has?”

  Rye sighs in exasperation before telling me, “He jumped to his feet and hugged me like a long-lost brother.”

  “Oh, please!” I groan. “Thank God I wasn’t there. A performance like that would gag a maggot.”

  He regards me with a troubled expression. “I know how disappointed you were when they got back together. Both of us were.”

  “After the last stunt Son pulled, I thought for sure that she was through with him. Dory may be perfect in every other way, but her taste in men leaves something to be desired.”

  “You expect too much of people, my dear. Of all of us. You always have.” Rye says it casually, without censure, but it stings anyway.

  “Maybe I do,” I reply weakly.

  We avoid each other’s eyes until I say, “Listen, I’ve got to go. Dory’s coming to the group tomorrow morning, and I’ll let you know how it goes, okay?” Before putting an arm around his shoulder and kissing him goodbye, I add with real regret, “If only she’d had the good sense to marry you, instead of Son, when she had the chance! You wouldn’t still be looking for the one who got away, and Dory would’ve had a good man instead of a pain in the butt like Son.”

  With a seemingly nonchalant smile, Rye shrugs. “You’re right about one thing: I’ve spent my life searching for the right woman.” We fall silent, then he says wistfully, “Why don’t you change your mind and come to the party with me tonight? Be good for you.”

  “I wouldn’t do that to you,” I say breezily. “Think what it’d do to your social life to be seen with Fairhope’s most notorious home-wrecker.”

  “It’d be worth it.”

  “I’m busy tonight and couldn’t go even if I wanted to. Which I don’t.”

  He takes me by the arm as though to lead me to one of the wrought-iron tables of the outdoor café. “Let’s sit down,” he says. “I need a smoke bad.” At my expression, he flinches. “No lectures, sweetheart. Eventually I’ll honor my promise to quit, but not now. Smoking calms my nerves.”

  “You’ve been saying that for years, Rye! You ought to have the calmest nerves in the state of Alabama. I’ll put that on your tombstone: ‘He died of calm nerves.’”

  “Okay, okay. I won’t have a cigarette, then—we’ll get a glass of sherry instead.”

  “I can’t. I’ve got to get home.” Twisting my wrist sideways, I look down at my watch. “Oh, Jesus, I’m running late as it is.”

  He eyes me suspiciously, tilting his head. “You’re two-timing me, aren’t you, Clare? Running off with your new boyfriend, that Yankee sea captain. He’s the real reason you won’t go with me tonight, isn’t he?”

  “I told you why I didn’t want to go,” I say flippantly. “If I had to get all dressed up, then make small talk with that snooty crowd you hang around, I’d jump off the municipal pier.”

  “You’re not only heartless, you have no manners, either.” Following my lead, Rye goes back to his playful bantering. “It’s rude to say that you don’t want to go. You should make up an excuse that won’t hurt my feelings.”

  Leaning over, I brush his cheek with my lips, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Oh, phooey. Nobody in their right mind likes going to cocktail parties. Well, except you, maybe.”

  Returning my kiss, he smells delicious, his shaving lotion like rare spices. Holding me close for a minute, he whispers in my ear before releasing me, “You’re not fooling me, you know. On my way into town, I drove by your house. Your sea captain is already there. That god-awful vehicle he drives is parked out front.”

  “Good.We’re going to the Landing, and as you well know, we’ll need the Jeep. I’m leaving now, my friend. Have a good time at your snotty party tonight. Oh—and by the way, you don’t fool me, either. I’m sure you won’t be going to the party alone.”

  “Anytime I’m not with you, my dear girl, I might as well be alone.” He says it with that devastating smile of his, the one that’s left a trail of broken hearts all across the South.

  “Oh, God,” I groan. “With that corny line, I’m definitely leaving. See you later, okay?”

  At the corner of the alley leading out of the French Quarter, I turn to wave goodbye. Rye’s still standing on the sidewalk, his hands thrust into the pockets of his straw-colored trousers as he watches me leave. When I wave, he mouths, “Two-timer,” and I chuckle, rolling my eyes before turning onto Church Street, toward my house.

  On my walk home, I avoid the sidewalks and walk the shady little alleyways, thinking I’ll be less likely to run into anyone I know. I’ve had a couple of calls this morning about the letter to the editor, but too many things are vying for my attention for me to worry about it. I wonder if Dory’s seen it yet, and if she’s been trying to reach me. She knows I’ll fret over it a while, then blow it off, if I practice what I’m always preaching about troublesome things like that. I tell my clients that three of the most important and powerful words in the English language are “Let it go.” Pick your battles, decide which are worth putting your energy into fighting and which aren’t. Seeing Son at the coffee shop, the letter to the editor … those are things I have to let go before I get home. My days are always full, but today even more so. The next thing on my agenda is the all-important trip out to the Landing with Lex; if I hurry home, we’ll have time for a few leisurely moments, maybe even a glass of wine beforehand.

  Walking the alleyways was a good decision: I don’t see anyone, and I’ve escaped the tourists. Although I dutifully join in the complaints against them, in truth I can’t blame anyone for coming here. I fell in love with this little town the first time I saw it exactly twenty-five years ago this summer, when I came here with my new fiancé to meet his family. Fairhope has a way of casting its spell on everyone who spends any time here. It’s such a quaint and picturesque town, with its historic waterfront and beach, but the beauty is only part of i
t. Seeing it initially, I was enchanted with the quiet, unpaved streets meandering under overhanging limbs of towering oaks and huge magnolias. Almost all the little cottages and stately old homes are hidden from view, which makes them seem sheltered and safe, as though nothing bad could happen to anyone fortunate enough to live in them. A foolish illusion, of course, as I know better than anyone.

  The unique, even mythical history of the town is as much a part of its appeal as its beauty, and I’m still astonished that such a place exists in Alabama. Fairhope was founded around the turn of the twentieth century by a group of idealists who dreamed of creating a utopia. Even the name reflects their ideal: The story goes that one of the founders remarked that their project had a “fair hope” of succeeding. I’m surprised they gave it that much of a chance, actually. A group of Midwestern idealists establishing a freethinking colony founded on the principles of social and economic justice in the middle of the Deep South is a pretty radical idea even now, but especially for that day and age. The founders left their comfortable lives and homes to venture into the unknown, putting everything they had into building a new and perfect society. When I first started conducting the retreats, the idea hit me to draw an analogy between that adventure and the journey of the participants. It’s still one of the most popular parts of the retreats. Handing out material on the history of Fairhope, I compare the way the colony was established to the way each of them will be beginning her new life. Like the first settlers of this community, each newly divorced woman is charting an unfamiliar course, setting out for the unknown.

  To reach my home, I have to pass the stuccoed, tile-roofed cottage that houses my practice. Because it is not only the home of a therapy practice but also Spanish in style and decor, the locals have nicknamed it Casa Loco. At first I was unamused, but over time the whimsical epithet has served me well. Everyone in town knows its location, and new clients who are directed to Casa Loco almost always arrive smiling. I stand outside it now and wonder if I should go in and get the casework I didn’t complete this morning. Then I scoff at myself. Even if I had it with me, when would I have time to work on it? I take a few steps away, then pause. Maybe I should check my messages. Won’t take but a minute, and one of my really distraught clients might have called. But no. No, no, no! I pick up my pace and refuse to look back at Casa Loco. Like Lot’s wife, I’m liable to be turned into something horrible if I do, and it won’t be a pillar of salt. More likely it will be a stack of paperwork.