Sweet Waters

by Julie Carobini

  Her smile’s flat, but her eyes glisten. “And I would not change knowing him for one second. He’s my . . . he’s my life.” Her voice cracks. “He’s my gift from God.”

  Gift from God. Almost a cliché. This time, though, the sentiment sounds as real to my new friend as the tears still dripping from my chin. We sit in silence for a second, before she twists the key in the ignition and starts up the car. My mind continues to sway under the pressure of bad news. If Daddy did have an affair, why did he and Mom stay together? For us? And who is the other woman, this Gigi? Is she still in Otter Bay, ready to pounce on my sisters and me with more degrading secrets?

  No, I’m not buying it yet. Not completely. I came to Otter Bay to find myself again, to find that carefree little girl lost among the watery tide pools . . .

  And I’m just not ready to give up on her yet.

  AFTER NORMA DROPPED ME off at my car, I wanted to go home, crawl beneath my quilt, and start this day again. Or at least head to the cove just down the block from our rental. Those calming, familiar waters draw me like nothing else ever has. Instead, I slipped into my new white cottons and went to work at the inn.

  In the last two hours I’ve checked in a family of four visiting from India, an old woman with a very bad dye job (but who seemed happy about it, so why should I care?), and a middle-aged man with deep-set lines and a laptop computer.

  So buried in paperwork that I don’t notice Nigel toddling in until he lays his cane across the front desk with a resounding clunk.

  “Nigel!”

  “Tara, dear.”

  “I didn’t see you come in. It’s been busy today.” I force lightness into my voice. “You should be proud of how popular the Bayside has become.”

  “A blessing from the Lord above,” he says, then proceeds to lean against the counter and watch me without a sound. I force a smile in his direction, all the while wondering if I’m doing something wrong. Finally he speaks again. “You seem troubled today.”

  I swallow and muster up what probably looks like one more sad attempt at smiling. “Josh is in the hospital . . . did you hear about that?”

  He nods. “I thought that may have been the source of your sober expression today.”

  You don’t know the half of it. “Yes, well, I heard about it at church this morning and went to see him. He’s doing fine. Ornery, but fine.”

  Nigel laughs. “I’m glad you two have become friends. Tell me how you like the church. I attend myself, when I’m able to, although the mornings have been getting more difficult for me these days.”

  I cock my head to one side. “I’m sorry to hear that, Nigel. Anything I can do to help?”

  “My dear, just your face around here has brightened the mood. No need to worry over me.”

  I laugh, well, for the first time all day. “You make my day, Nigel, you really do.”

  He slides the cane off the countertop and settles it beneath one steady hand until he’s sitting on the sofa across the room. He offers a slight sigh. “Now,” he says. “Tell me about church. Do you like it there?”

  I glance outside to the distant horizon. Hm, do I like it at church? “Well, I didn’t stay long this morning, but overall, I don’t know. I’m drawn to it, because I attended there as a child. But I’m not all that familiar with the customs, so it remains to be seen whether I’ll continue.”

  “You make it sound almost like a foreign country.”

  “In some ways, it feels like one—like a strange and wonderful place from long ago.”

  “Perhaps as you become more familiar with the service and step into a more active participation, then you will feel completely comfortable.”

  Movement through the front window catches my attention. I pull my eyes from Nigel and see Camille’s surfer guy, Shane, wrestling with a woman, curvaceous and coppery-skinned, her bikini nothing more than an answer to societal rules of decency. And just barely.

  “U-huh. Maybe you’re right, Nigel.” I take another peek and realize, they’re not really wrestling, because although Shane’s hands and arms grope her all over, the woman’s doing nothing to fight him off.

  I feel ill. He smacks her on the rear, then pulls the giggling woman down over the rocks to the sand below which, thankfully, can’t be viewed from this vantage point. Gah. I shut my eyes, hoping Camille has not let him get too far with her and wondering if she’d listen to me anyway.

  A soft rippling draws me back to the lobby. Nigel’s hands rest on the cane in front of him and his head has dropped forward. I step closer to realize that Nigel has fallen asleep.

  My cell rings from across the room. I grab it on the second ring, and Nigel rallies as I pick it up.

  “Tara?”

  “Camille. I’m glad it’s you. Listen—”

  “Can’t talk long. Holly and I are going to get some dinner and then I’ll be going out tonight.”

  “Where’s Mel?”

  “What? Oh, Mel. She’s at Simka’s. They’re working on some marketing ideas she has for her. You know Mel.”

  “Oh, okay, good. But where are you headed tonight?”

  “What?” Laughter spills through the earpiece. Camille comes back on the line. “Gotta go! Surf’s up and all that . . .” She ends the call, and I’m kicking myself for not warning her about Shane. I try her back, but all I get is a message telling me she’s at a “board” meeting. Sigh.

  Nigel pulls himself off the couch with no mention of his ten-second snooze. “It appears you have everything under your expert care. Mary will be here until late tonight should you need any supplies. I am off to enjoy my dinner.”

  His gait moves unevenly, but he looks happy. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Nigel.”

  Just after he departs, Mel blows in through the front door like a strong east wind, her face a rage of emotion. “Just when”—she says, both arms jabbed into the cinched waist of her silk jacket—“were you going to tell us about Daddy’s little escapades in Otter Bay?”

  Chapter Twenty

  That old quote about a woman scorned comes to mind as Mel’s eyes narrow, dart-like. Inside my heart jerks around like it’s set upon a heap of coals, but on the outside I keep it cool. Like always.

  I straighten my back. “Hello, Mel.”

  “Don’t ‘Hello Mel’ me.” Her voice mocks me with its high pitch. “Some kid just told me that our dad’s a thief and that he . . . had an affair?”

  One of my hands reaches for the low part of the counter, to steady myself. My expression, however, I keep even. “I’ve heard the rumors.”

  “Duh! And now so have I, from some zitty teenager. And so has Simka. Good grief, Tara, you could’ve warned me what we were walking into.”

  “Who told you?”

  She crosses her arms. “I was at Simka’s store discussing some superb marketing ideas I had for her when in crashes a bunch of teens with paint buckets. Apparently they’re from some merry fix-it crew from that church you go to and they had volunteered to paint Simka’s office. One thing leads to another and this kid says to me, ‘Hey, I’m sorry to hear about all the stuff your dad did,’ and I’m like, ‘What stuff?’ And he says, ‘You know, like stealing and cheating on your mother.”

  I wince. “Was it Mikey?”

  “I guess. Who cares? Some kid knows more about us than we do, or at least, than Camille and I do.” She throws up her hands. “You could’ve warned me.”

  “I didn’t think you’d find out. At least, not yet.” Numbness enfolds me and my gaze flits around the sun-draped lobby. “Besides, I don’t know too many details.” Nor do I want to know.

  “Always the big sister, controlling everything. What gives you the right to treat us like children?”

  A car pulls up just outside and a woman hops out of the passenger seat and scrambles up to the door. She peeks her head in. “You got any rooms available?”

  I paste on a smile. “Just a moment while I check.” Mel stews in the corner, as I flip through our book. “For how many?”
r />   “Two adults and a kid.”

  “I have one king left and can offer you a rollaway. Will that do?”

  Her face lights up. “That’ll do it. Be right in.”

  I begin prepping the paperwork, keeping my eyes on the work before me. “Let’s talk about this later, okay Mel?”

  “I’ll wait.”

  Sigh. Fine. Be like that. “Could be a while.”

  Mel drops her arms to her sides and marches into the attached sitting room. With a huff, she plops down onto a couch from whence she can watch me work and crosses her legs. “You know where to find me.”

  I check in the young family of three, patiently explaining Otter Bay’s finest assets and answering their many questions. Behind them a line forms, so for the next twenty minutes I work to fill up the Bayside. When the last guest trails off down the hall or back out the door, depending on where their room is located, I begin the task of straightening the desk and avoiding my sister.

  She approaches the desk. “You didn’t think you could get rid of me, did you?”

  A thought springs to mind. Camille. “I almost forgot. We need to warn Camille about Shane. Before you came,

  I saw him getting handsy with a half-naked woman just over there.” I point toward the sea.

  She places the back of one hand on her forehead and looks up toward the ceiling. “Whatever will we do?”

  “This is serious. Camille thinks he’s really into her, but he’s obviously not. I tried to call her but—”

  “Who did Dad have an affair with, and is this the real reason they packed up and took us halfway across the country?”

  I smooth back my messy bun. “We don’t even know if this rumor is true. It may just be the figment of some old woman’s imagination.”

  “You believe it, or else you wouldn’t have cried your eyes out all morning over it.”

  Argh! Just how much did Mikey tell her? “Who told you about that?”

  “No one, but your eyes look dry and red. They always look dry and red after you’ve cried.”

  “Oh.” I close my uncomfortable eyes and let out a long breath. “Has it ever occurred to you that Mom and Dad kept this a secret for a reason? Maybe they never wanted us to find out—if it’s even true.”

  “And what about him stealing money? Are you kidding me? Maybe our inheritance belongs to someone else! Did you ever think about that? Maybe she’ll sue us for it!”

  “Sshh!” I glance around. “He had to have a reason for that. He had to have. Have you heard from Mom? She’s only sporadically answering my e-mails and when she does, she conveniently leaves out anything important.”

  “Well, you haven’t been dropping Dad’s criminal record on her over the Internet, I hope.”

  I roll my eyes and glare back at her. “I haven’t mentioned anything about that specifically, no. But I have asked her to call me so I can ask her about Peg.”

  “From the diner, Peg? What about?” When I don’t answer her right away, her eyes broaden. “Dad stole from Holly’s aunt?” She shakes her head slowly. “Well, well. No wonder that woman wasn’t all that hospitable when we met.”

  I open my mouth, but snap it shut when Shane and that barely-clad woman emerge from the rocky beach. Much of her chocolaty hair tumbles over her face and—ugh—she must have forgotten to retie her bikini top right because Shane’s laughing and tugging one side, evidently to keep her legal.

  Mel has stopped yammering about Peg, her attention also drawn to the daring duo licking face as they lean up against a pickup truck by the side of the road. “Did he just smack her rump?”

  “Yup.” I’m still watching the disgusting PDA, which continues even as near-naked gal climbs into her truck. She shuts the door, but in an admirably seamless maneuver, her head’s now out the window while said PDA continues.

  Mel grunts. “Nothing is as it seems, eh? Well, whatever. At least one of us trusts that Camille’s smart enough on her own.”

  I duck, at least mentally, not allowing her backhanded slap to land on me. I’m quite skilled at that.

  Betty steps into the lobby, patting her newly rolled hair. “My goodness, how the wind has picked up.”

  “Betty, hi. You’re early today.”

  Her hand stops mid-pat. She flicks over her wrist and squints at her watch. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, would you look at that. I misread my clock by more than an hour. Poor Roy. I made him rush through his barley soup so I could be here on time. Nearly burned his tongue on it.”

  “Well, now that you’re here, I’d like you to meet my sister, Mel.”

  “Good to meet you. I’m not usually this daft, although I’ve had my moments.”

  To her credit Mel has erased all evidence of the day’s events and smiles, warmly even, at Betty. “Haven’t we all. It’s a pleasure, Betty.”

  Betty holds her handbag in front of her. “Why don’t you take off early, my dear? Go see some sights with your sister. Oh, if only my sister was still living, we’d have such fun together, she and I.”

  “You’re sure?” I ask, already finding my purse.

  She waves me on, and Mel and I head for home.

  “LET’S PLAN THIS OUT.” Mel meets me at the sidewalk, where I’ve parked my car.

  I have an inkling she’s referring to how we’re going to deal with our newfound knowledge of Daddy, et al, but do I let on? “You mean plan what we’ll have for dinner?”

  Mel stomps one pointy-toed foot into the patchy lawn. “Since when do you attempt humor?”

  “Daddy always said I was the funniest, you know that.”

  “Whatever.” Mel glances around. “Let’s decide right now how we’re going to spill the beans to Camille.”

  “Oh, that. We just need to tell her that Shane’s a creep. She’ll listen.”

  “That’s none of our business, and you know that’s not what I was talking about. We need to tell her right away about all this business about Daddy having an affair with some mystery woman and about the money he took from Peg.”

  “Right. And this is going to be helpful how?”

  “She and Holly are beginning to be good buds, so we need to tell Camille before Peg does it out of spite.”

  She has a point. I wouldn’t want Camille to find out from someone else—the way Mel did. But then again, Peg specifically said we should keep this to ourselves and she seemed to mean it. We would need to talk with Norma and Mikey, not to mention Burton and Glory—oh, it’s getting complicated . . .

  Fueled by a sudden desire to take things into her own hands, Mel charges the front steps as I struggle to keep up. She whips open the screen door, nearly smacking me in the head and twists the antique door handle. I’m on her heels when she suddenly stops and stares into my face.

  “Don’t try to stop me.”

  I hold up, knowing that once she sets her mind, life gets complicated. Still, she knows better than to think I’ll lie down like some compliant lap dog. The room’s dark, yet the smells of cinnamon and nutmeg flow straight to my nostrils. No lights on in the kitchen. Instead, only a sliver of bouncing light, along with some faint laughter and music, comes from somewhere down the hall.

  Mel drops her purse on a chair. “Camille?”

  Together we follow the scent of thanksgiving down the hall. I’m right behind Mel. “Camille?”

  Mel raps twice on Camille’s bedroom door, which is ajar. “You in here, Cam?”

  No answer.

  A waft of smoke and perfume alarms me and I gesture to Mel to go ahead in to Camille’s room. She does and hops backward, careening into my chest, but not before I get a glimpse—one sickening glimpse—at the source of her fright. Shane has just leapt from the rumpled bed, while Camille scrambles to yank up one sleeve of her cock-eyed blouse.

  In a room lit only by candlelight—one wax draped and infused with cinnamon and nutmeg—Camille’s annoyance shines. Her forehead scrunches so tight that her lines have had to introduce each other. “You weren’t supposed to be home yet. What’r
e you doing home?” She adjusts her clothing and glares at us. “And where’s your manners? You didn’t knock!”

  Mel has composed herself and stands there in her standard way, a bored expression on her face and arms crossed firmly against her chest. “Actually, I did knock. And besides, your door was open.”

  Shane’s in the corner, watching the drama unfold with a little too much pleasure. I’m inches from his face before I can stop myself, my index finger poised to injure him should he try to leave. “You. You will leave this house and never even look at my sister again.”

  Camille flies across the tiny room and tries to wedge herself between us. “You are so bossy, Tara. You can’t just chase away my boyfriend like that!”

  His taunting grin never leaves my face. “He’s a sleaze.”

  Camille gasps. “Don’t say that . . . I love him!”

  My heart clenches. I loved Trent too, but look where that got me. Shane winks at Camille and takes a step toward her. I thrust out my arm to divide them, my palms smacking up against the wall.

  Camille tries to push my arm away. She whips a look at Mel. “Do something!”

  Mel’s bored expression falters. She thinks I’m over the top again, the “sergeant,” the name she often called me to her friends when we were teens. Why can’t she just forget about her pride, that nasty need to prove me wrong? Admit it, Mel, I want to shout. Shane’s a loser only out for one thing and if he gets what he wants from Camille, he’ll just leave her broken.

  Is that what she really wants?

  “Just go.” Mel’s voice cuts through Camille’s tears, and I drop my head forward. Defeated. Mel pushes me aside and gets in Shane’s face. “Tara’s right, Camille”—she never takes her eyes off surfer boy—“this one’s a loser among losers.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Camille shed tears into her pillow until long after dark, the pitiful, uncomfortably familiar sound seeping beneath her door. I hate that she thinks my zeal for Shane’s head on a platter has more to do with my own sad dating experience than with my desire to protect her. I’ve been trying to change my ways, to find a balance between the mothering older sister and the cool Eliza Carltonish dynamo who can make life happen as she calls it.