Sweet Waters

by Julie Carobini

  He turns to me. “So, Tara, you up at Coastal Christian today?”

  I turn to him, my gaze questioning.

  “Been there. Lots of dudes go there early before climbing into the waves. The pastor surfs.”

  Really. “So have you been attending there long?”

  “Nah. I don’t go on Sundays or anything. Just when they have their Friday night barbecues.”

  “Ah.”

  Camille playfully shoves Shane and he feigns hurt. “He’s in a band. He plays the guitar, Tara.”

  Of course.

  She flips one long curl over her shoulder. “We should go see them. Oh, and Shane’s cousin Jo-Jo plays too—you’ll like her, she keeps the group organized.”

  Why is Missouri suddenly sounding so good? “So, Shane, you live around here?”

  “Yeah. My buddies and I share an apartment in the village.”

  “And what do you do for work?”

  Now Camille’s rolling her eyes at me.

  “I’m a painter.”

  Great. An artist.

  “Yeah, I get work from contractors around here all the time, but all of ’em know I’m not available until after eleven most days. I tell ’em I’m at a board meeting.”

  Camille giggles. “Get it? A ‘board’ meeting? As in ‘surf’ board? You’re so funny, Shane.”

  Oh, brother. But at least he’s got a real job and isn’t some hungry artist making his living off oils and a tin cup.

  Shane watches the waves, his arms resting on bent knees. “You two over on Fogcatcher Lane, right?” He shakes his head, still gazing seaward. “Man, that’s sweet. I might have a job up there if the Horton house ever gets opened up.”

  My hands continue to fiddle with the coarse sand. “Which one is that?”

  He cocks his head toward the cliffs. “The burned-up one on your street. Thought they’d tear it down, but nope, plan is to fix her up and get the owner back in there. Don’t know when it’s gonna happen though, but when it does, I’ll be takin’ my lunch breaks right here.”

  As if the surf has suddenly called out his name, Shane stands, pulls Camille to her feet, and I watch them take off into the tide, my cousin squealing like a teen. For a moment a tinge of jealousy threatens to overtake me. If Eliza were here, she’d strip off her sweats to expose a Porsche red bikini fitted over her tanned and toned body. She’d laugh gaily as she romped in the water, easily shrugging off the burdens of the week.

  Maybe someday I’ll be that girl. Not now, but someday.

  I allow my fingers to take one long lunge back into the pebbled sand before hoisting myself up and smoothing the earth from my bum. While a part of me longs to enjoy the beach longer, I’m still too keyed up over meeting Beth this morning. Something about her timid demeanor coupled with her obvious interest in Josh has my mind spinning. That and Peg’s accusations, which I’ve no intention of accepting, but must deal with nonetheless.

  “YOU THE SWEET GIRL”

  I’ve been at the inn for two hours, watching relaxed travelers leave, and the harried arrive. The old man towering above me sounds ornery, but there’s a twinkle in his eye.

  “Yes, sir. What can I do for you?”

  “If I were forty years younger, I’d tell you.”

  Well.

  He taps his fist on the counter. “Heard you were asking around about your family this morning at the church.”

  “You attend Coastal Christian, then?”

  “Darn tootin’! Been there through the last eight presidents, although some of them were repeats. Served on the church council in the seventies, the elder board in the eighties, the compassion ministries in the nineties, and now I’m an usher. During first service.”

  “So . . . you remember us?”

  His gaze runs down one long, narrow nose. “Might. Burton Sims.” He shakes my hand. “Thought you folks moved east after the scuttlebutt.”

  My hope sinks. “You know about that then? Can you tell me more?”

  “Maybe. Could use a cup of coffee first. You have cream and sugar, I hope.”

  I pour him a cup, thankful I’d had time to brew another pot between check-ins. When I turn back, he’s already grabbed two of the welcome cookies from the tray on the desk.

  I hand him his coffee. “Would you like to sit down?”

  He mumbles that he would. As he takes a seat on the couch in the lobby, a dripping wet boy in swim trunks traipses in. “I need a towel.”

  I hand him two and follow him out, mopping the entire way.

  “Your dad still an accountant?” Burton has downed both cookies.

  I straighten. “My father passed away, but he worked almost until he died.”

  “My condolences then. He was good with numbers. Helped us out on the church council sometimes.”

  “Really?”

  “Your mom still a looker?”

  I smile. “She is.”

  “Never knew why those two had so many problems . . . a good-looking couple like that should be immune in my book.”

  I’m back behind the counter now. “Oh, they didn’t have any more than most couples do, I think. They took good care of us, and, well, they’d still be together if Daddy hadn’t gotten so sick.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that Robert got sick. After the wringer that ol’ Peg put him through, he deserved better, I thought.”

  His words land a crushing blow. “So . . . it’s true. Everything Peg said about my father . . . is true?” I inhale a jagged breath. How could this be?

  “It’s true, but he who is without sin, let him first cast a stone. Or something like that. I remember that one from Sunday school when I was a kid.”

  I make my way into the lobby, hoping that no guests will choose this moment to arrive, their faces cheery and hopeful, and find a chair to lower myself into. “What do you mean by that?”

  Burton swigs another sip, his gaze flickering off into the distance. “So he’s a man who made some mistakes? Don’t we all. But that one”—he points through the window, toward the diner next door—“that one was like a burr in his saddle, and I’ve always believed he had no choice but to pack up his young family and head out of Dodge.” He sets his cup down and shakes his head. “Too bad too. He was one fine choir member.”

  I sink deeper into the chair, like a feather turned to stone. Weighted. Almost breathless. And yet, unlike a stone, a hint of life prevails within me. It makes itself known by the straining twist that wrenches my heart.

  My mind searches for any recall, for any memory of what I’m learning about my father. And there is none. Yet, from some deep place that I cannot fully grasp as I sink further into this loathsome chair, an itch, like a gnat on the skin, unsettles me.

  If only scratching at it would make the sensation stop.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I’m unprepared for what awaits me back at the cottage. Nine suitcases—all shapes and sizes—and three large moving boxes lie haphazardly on the front porch, leaving only enough room for one person to stand. If that. A yellow moving truck idles at the curb and, as I stare gape-mouthed at the mess on the porch, a heavy man with moppish hair hops out.

  He takes a pen from atop his ear. “You Mel?”

  No, me Tara. “No—is this all for Mel? Mel Sweet?”

  “Yup. Sign here.”

  I take the pen. “Can you help me move them indoors?”

  “Nope.” He rips off a yellow copy of what I’ve just signed and hands it to me. “Company policy says we drop off at the door. No exceptions.”

  Alone, I squeeze through the screen door’s narrow opening and enter the cottage. Why isn’t Camille home yet? We’d talked earlier and she had planned to buy pierogies and sauté them up for dinner. With my work schedule and all her free time, we’d decided to divvy up the duties more. The screen door slams shut behind me, sending the smell of dampened wood into the room. I fumble for the light, my mind and heart a cloudy mess.

  The old lightbulb from the table lamp sends a sallow cast
throughout, doing nothing for my state of mind. After Burton Sims corroborated Peg’s story, I moved through the rest of the afternoon and evening just a shell of myself. My hands may have handed out room keys, but my heartbeat felt more like a thud in my chest—a steady, but labored thump.

  Although there’s no sign of buttery onions or sautéed pierogies in the kitchen, the room has been cleared of the morning’s mess. All except for a stash of Camille’s magazines and an explosion of yarn that litters the cozy booth at the end of the room. I shove her things aside and sit down. Just then, laughter perks my attention. Three doors slam simultaneously, followed by Camille’s giggles mixed in with other voices.

  “Mel is here!” Camille leads the way into the house, Mel behind her, followed by one spit-and-polished Shane. “She called from the airport in SLO, so Shane drove me down to get her—and we got burgers!” She holds up two grease-stained sacks.

  Mel’s hair falls in cascades on and around her shoulders. I’ve always been a bit envious of its lushness, and tonight is no exception. She looks prettier—and happier—than ever. She hugs me, and I squeeze her back, wishing this reunion wasn’t filled with so much uncertainty.

  “You made it here a day early,” I say.

  Mel glances around, her eyes stopping randomly, staring at the kitschy beach décor that came with our cottage. Her attention turns to me. “It works. And close to the beach too. You didn’t have to fight it out with someone else, did you? There’s no little old lady crying in her soup over losing this one, I hope.”

  I shake my head. “Being on your own hasn’t changed you one bit.”

  “In other words, I’m still as nasty as always.”

  “Hey, admitting it is the first step.”

  Shane’s already helping himself to a burger as Camille pulls plates from the cabinets and sets them on the table. “Would you two quit it? Here you haven’t seen each other in weeks and you’ve started bickering already.” She tosses forks and napkins onto the table, surprising me with a rarely seen take-charge attitude. “You’re both stubborn, if you ask me.”

  We answer in unison. “Am not!”

  We scooch ourselves into the built-in booth, and I snag a fry, thankful for the lightness of the moment. Mel takes a whammy of a bite from her burger. “Ahm. Stahved.”

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full,” I scold.

  Camille wags her head, curls flopping all around her. “Nothing’s changed here.” She turns to Shane. “Of the three of us, Tara’s always been like the mom . . .”

  Mel swallows her bite. “Yeah, like the mean, old mom.”

  Camille laughs. “And Mel is her bratty child. I, on the other hand, am the angelic baby of the bunch.” She bats her eyes, which looks quite adorable until Shane wiggles his eyebrows at her and I have to resist the urge to slap him.

  I clear my throat until all eyes look my way. “Mel, you have more stuff on the porch than Camille and I have together. Almost looks like you’re planning to move here indefinitely.” I laugh, as if that’s absurd.

  Mel shrugs, but then her shoulders deflate and she glances away.

  Camille looks to me, then to Mel. She sets down her hamburger and wipes her fingers on a paper towel. “Shane, honey. Help me drag in Mel’s things, will you?”

  The screen door bounces against the frame, and I reach across to touch Mel’s wrist. “I am sorry, you know.”

  “About what?”

  A sigh escapes me, and I’m not sure if it’s for her—or for me. “I just meant that although the interviews didn’t go well, there’s something better out there for you. I know it, Mel.”

  “Who says they didn’t work out?”

  Through the open doorway, I can see Shane tottering through the living room carrying more bags than any rational person would. Probably didn’t want to make two trips. Camille’s behind him, pulling a single case on wheels. “Well, they obviously didn’t, because why else would you be here?”

  “Both companies wanted me, but I . . .” She shrugs, her gaze landing nowhere. “I turned them both down.”

  “Oh. Oh? Then there must have been something wrong with the working conditions.”

  “Not really.”

  “The money. They were offering you a pittance. In this day and age, that is just . . .”

  Mel sits back, her arms crossed. “The money was pretty fabulous actually.”

  I stand, and walk over to the garbage can, filling it with the paper that had held our meal, confused. Turning back to her, I flip my palms upward. “Then what in the world was wrong?”

  She studies the fingernails on one hand, as if checking for dirt. Her eyes flash briefly, before her gaze catches with mine. “I missed my family. You have a problem with that?”

  Despite everything I’ve learned in the last few days about my parents’ past in this supposed Shangri-la, I find myself further surprised. Ever since she was a teenager, Mel has been planning her escape from our family. I always thought she’d make her move during college, but instead she attended school nearby—although we rarely saw her face around home before 11:00 p.m. When she finally earned that degree last year, I thought, She’s out of here. But then she helped her friend Mary Jane set up and run her own line of organic baby clothing. And now, after setting out on her own and finding terrific work in marketing, she’s come back across the country . . . because she missed us?

  I slide into a seat across from her. “We missed you too, Mel-Mel.”

  “Don’t get all sloppy on me. I’m not staying forever. Just thought I’d, you know, come check the place out. See what’s the big deal.”

  “I’m so glad to hear you say that.” I gesture to the side deck with my head, and Mel follows me out. We settle into the Adirondacks, the night enfolding us. I sigh. “Frankly, Mel, things really aren’t working out here, and I want to head back to Missouri.”

  I hadn’t realized that Camille stood just behind the French doors. She charges onto the deck. “You what?”

  Mel’s arms stay crossed across her body. She shakes her head. “You’re going to have a tough time with this one, big sister.”

  Camille tosses her curls to one side. “You dragged me all the way here and now you want to leave? I don’t think so.”

  Tension wraps itself around my forehead and temples like a thick leather strap. “Camille, I’ve thought this—”

  Her eyes grow big and round and angry, and her normally bouncy voices cuts into the night quiet. “You never give anything a chance!”

  My fingers clench. “I give everything a chance.” I try hard to control the emotion in my voice. “I worked at the same auto parts store for five years—that’s chance. I believed Trent when he said he wanted to marry me, and I asked Mom many times to take us back to Otter Bay—all chances. And I came all the way out here only to find out that, hey, it’s not the happy place I remembered. At least I gave it a chance!”

  Camille scrunches her round face until her cheeks turn red. “That old woman said one thing—one mean thing about Dad. You didn’t have to be so snarky with her. Why does what she has to say matter anyhow?”

  Mel stands and walks back into the kitchen. I hear the fridge door open and her steps back out to the deck. She holds a bottle of water, opens the cap, and takes a long, lingering drink. “So much is clear to me now, Tara.” She recaps the bottle, sets it on the large, flat arm of her chair, and sits back down next to me. “You want everything to be easy. Controllable. And when it’s not? You run.”

  “Oh brother, that’s just not true.”

  “Oh no? What about your old job? I couldn’t have stood being in that drab office all day, but you withstood it mainly, I think, because it was easy. You knew the job, they paid you well, and you didn’t have to spend anything extra on a new wardrobe to work there. So why leave? And Trent. I couldn’t have made it more than a year of that boy’s half-hearted commitment, but you—you lasted five.”

  I’m incensed. “You’re the one who said he was the best thing tha
t ever happened to me!”

  She shrugs. “I always figured that’s the way you wanted it, but now I see that it was just easy. You knew him and his family and didn’t have to stretch yourself at any time. If it weren’t for a little thing called a marriage license, you’d still be there with him in a relationship that had less passion than two pieces of fruit.”

  Camille giggles, then sobers. “Sorry. That was funny.”

  I smooth my hair back in place, gathering my temper with it. “I told you from the start that this was a long vacation, that we’d see how it went. Look around you, Mel. Camille and I are still living mostly on the paltry supplies we brought with us. You’re the only one with more luggage than the Queen of England. Okay, sure, I admit that I’d hoped we’d love it here—I even rented this cottage, for goodness sakes!”

  A throat clears, and all three of us turn to see Shane standing in the doorway looking as uncomfortable as a preteen boy seeing his mom in a bikini. “Uh, thanks for the burger. Cam, I gotta go.” He steps out onto the patio and slips down the stairs and almost out of sight to the street. Camille follows him and catches him by the corner of the house. She does nothing to hide the drawn-out kiss they share.

  When she returns, her face remains flushed, probably not from our conversation. “You’re not fooling me, Tara. You planned on staying here all along—just like I said that day at the diner, when we first met Nigel. But I’ve been thinking, and Mel is right. It would take a burning bush for you to do anything new. I think you’ve been wanting to come out here ever since Dad died, but you were too scared. When Mom left, you somehow found the courage—”

  Mel cuts in. “And now that it’s not going the way you planned, you’re giving up and crawling back to your old, dull, predictable life.”

  Camille flops into the empty Adirondack, her eyes on me. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Mel joins her. “And neither am I.”

  WhHAT WOULD ELIZA DO?

  The girls are in bed, but once again I’m up into the night because no sleep will come. The laptop whirs against the quiet. My sisters are against me, and other than a brief, vague “yes” about Coastal Christian from Mom via Facebook, and a promise to call me “just as soon as I sign up for international calling,” I’m alone. Thankfully, the plucky Eliza Carlton has kept me company with her philosophies on life and all its idiosyncrasies.