She tosses him a quick wave and looks back to Holly. “Don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll talk to your Aunt Peg when I get back in.” Camille ignores Mel and me when she adds with a low voice, “I’ve got to go meet someone.”
Mel and I gape at each other. That was awfully fast.
Holly shrinks away from the table, her shoulders taut. “Gotta go before Auntie comes by and gives me what for.”
We eat in silence, Mel and me. We haven’t been alone since before that awful conversation yesterday when I hung up on her at the beach. She’s not exactly handing out romance advice to our flirty sister, so it riles me that she has so much to say to me on the subject.
Not that I haven’t mulled over what she said. I glance out at the busy room of diners, many ensconced in vibrant conversations. A tot twirls in the aisle as her parents attempt to finish their meal. Jorge laughs with a diner behind the counter, until Peg shoos him back to his post. The whole world, it seems, orbits around us, as we sit here dwelling on our own private thoughts.
“Have you thought about what I said?” Peg’s sudden presence pulls me out of my reverie.
“Remind me.” Eliza wouldn’t let someone like Peg bully her, so why should I?
Peg blows out an exasperated sigh. “It’s really not the best place for you people to live, knowing what you know about that father of yours. People might talk, so I have an offer to make you girls.”
Mel’s face hardens.
“And that is?” I ask, but I don’t really care all that much.
“I pay your moving expenses. Must be terribly expensive to move all the way across country, so I’m here to help.”
Mel clucks her tongue, an eye roll away from laughing in Peg’s face. “What is your problem, lady? You think the Sweets’ll run just because of a few gossips? It’s hard to believe that you and Holly are related. That girl’s a sweetheart, but you”—she shakes her head—“you’re cut from a different cloth.”
Peg’s eyes narrow and she gathers wind in her lungs as if readying herself to let loose on us. Before she can, Camille prances through the door and slides up behind Peg, her old bounce back in her walk.
“Hey there, Peg,” Camille says, her voice earnest. “I just love your new hairdo. Are you growing it out?”
Camille’s compliment seems to knock the thrust from Peg’s assault, rendering her speechless. Something in her face is unreadable—unlike the curse-filled expression she often darted our way all morning from across the diner. The tension that drove the lines in her face deeper, has let up slightly and I’m more than a little curious. Is this a simple case of catching more flies with honey?
Camille slides in next to me, her focus still on Peg. “And those earrings you’re wearing are amazing. You have really good taste!”
Stunned, Peg fingers her right ear. Her eyes don’t seem to know where to land. “They were our—my—mother’s.”
Camille jostles her head side to side, her curls following along playfully. “Well, then, your mother had exquisite taste too.”
Peg runs both hands down the front of her apron, as if trying to right herself. “Th-thank you. More lemonade?”
Mel and I exchange a wide-eyed look. Is this the same woman who moments ago tried to pay us to leave town? The one Mel thinks may try to sue us for our father’s supposed theft? The transformation is stunning—until she turns to leave and our eyes meet.
Something familiar smolders in them and let’s just say, it’s anything but the warm fuzzies.
IF YOU HAD SAID a year ago, or even last month that I could be found stepping into church on a Wednesday night, I’d have thought you had suckled the vodka bottle for far too long. Wednesday night. The end of hump day and the day before everything goes downhill. I’ve always been too busy on that night getting ready for the rest of the week.
Instead of my usual Wednesday night race, though, I make my way to the side aisle of Coastal Christian and take a seat about halfway down. In front would be too conspicuous and, come to think of it, so would being in the back. I settle in, watching churchgoers trickle in, some obviously from work, others from a day at the beach. I, too, worked much of the day, but I just couldn’t bring myself to go home yet. Too many unsettled thoughts.
Instead of the quiet sanctuary I was hoping for, pockets of groups form in every corner, some, like the band, set up, while others fall into happy chatter. It’s like an old-fashioned town meeting. Unfortunately I’m feeling more and more like the perpetual outsider and I sag into the pew.
To my far left, three men give each other shoulder slaps, reminiscent of the result of a game of pick-up basketball. One looks awfully familiar and after several quick glances, I realize it is Josh’s father. He’s livelier than when I saw him last week, but then again, we were visiting his son in the hospital. I marvel at how much he looks like an older, more seasoned version of Josh. The same handsome height, broad smile, though his are timeworn and gracious.
A guitar player tunes up on the stage, minor notes slicing through the crowd. Laughter from the far corner becomes more boisterous, causing me to flick a glance back and forth between those setting up for service and the posse of men who appear to have no plans to take their seats anytime soon.
Certainly not the impression I had of church as a child.
A crashing sound hurls from the corner and I stand to my feet. The men are bent over in a circle, calling out Pete’s name. Josh’s father has fallen from view. I leave my seat to see if I can help. Already several others have rushed to Pete’s aid, but I can’t help myself. I’m nearly there when Josh leaps in front of me.
His eyes implore me. “Stay here, Tara.”
“Where’d you come from?” I don’t wait for his answer, but stretch a look over his shoulder. “Your father. Is he hurt?”
Josh walks forward, causing me to take a step back. “He’s . . . he’s fine. I’ll go check. Just relax and take your seat. I’ll handle it.”
“Josh!” A voice from the crowd calls out to him.
He turns to go and I follow until Josh spins around and looms over me. “Stay out of it, Tara.”
I shrink back, hurt, confused. Conflicting emotions skitter across Josh’s face, as if mirroring my own. I flash on the day I first saw him, when he leapt the counter at the diner. Does he want to be the hero again? Or did that conk on the head last week cause him a long lasting bad temper?
He takes a step back, then stops. “Tara . . .”
“Go. Your father needs you.” I turn and head back to my seat. By now, the laughter has subsided and several in the group have helped Pete up. He looks disoriented and I’m worried for him, but Josh is on the case and it’s not my business. He let me know that all right.
As if nothing out of the ordinary has just occurred, the worship leader cues the band and the music starts. I try to focus on the words of the song that are projected onto a large screen, but all I can think of is that something about Josh just isn’t right.
Chapter Twenty-five
What would Eliza do?
I’m out on the deck, rereading the last few days’ events of Quartz Point on Soaps Weekly Digest. It used to be that I would stay up late every night just to catch up on Eliza’s doings, but lately, I don’t know, it’s as if I’ve been distracted. I rub my eyes until they sting, and the words blur across the screen. Eliza hosted a dinner party for twenty guests, including a new match-up for her beloved son. She wore white and flitted from guest to guest, never spilling one drop on her pristine suit. I yawn, surprising myself. For the first time I can recall, my interest in Eliza’s day wanes.
I shut the laptop and sit back against the Adirondack. Josh hurt my feelings today and, if I am being completely candid, he embarrassed me. His order to take my seat felt eerily similar to the time I volunteered to work the cash register at Dexton auto parts. Woody rushed over then. “I’ll handle the store, Tara. I will be fine. You stay at your post in the back.” You’re not welcome up front, Tara. He didn’t really sa
y all that I am thinking, but it felt as if he did.
“You still up?” Mel pads out onto the deck, her silky robe cinched around her waist.
“’Fraid so. I’m wide awake.”
“Try a glass of warm milk.”
I weigh the option. “You know I’m not a fan of milk. Unless it’s in my morning coffee, that is.”
“Worked for Mom.”
I smile. “Thanks, but I’ll probably just go read in bed.” Mel’s face becomes clearer as my eyes adjust to the absence of the laptop’s light. She looks worried. “Why are you up?”
She shrugs. “No reason, really. I just had a few more ideas for Simka that I wanted to think out and write down before I forget.”
“So that’s going well? Working with Simka?”
Mel tries to hold back a smile, but a partial one breaks through anyway. She’s always so open with her opinions, especially the negative ones. Why can’t she share the good things with me too?
“It’s all right. Nothing long-term, but something to do while I consider my options.” I just nod, knowing full well if I were to ask what options she might be considering, she would continue to be vague. It’s as if my asking is an invasion of her privacy. Silence settles around us, except for the occasional burst of wave lofting onto shore.
Mel surprises me by staying. “So the big wedding date is this weekend.”
I nod, although I’m not exactly glowing with the luster of anticipation.
“You are still going, right? Simka says the whole town will be there. Apparently the happy couple has lived in little Otter Bay their entire lives.” She glances out to the distant sea. “It’s nice around here, but I can’t imagine staying here that long.”
“Really?”
“Too much of all this beauty might give me a cavity.” She laughs at her own joke, the sound rattling through the quiet night.
“What? Oh, I meant, is the whole town really going to be there? I had no idea. I just thought we were going to a wedding of another fireman.”
“Don’t worry about finding something to wear. The girls and I already planned on dragging you back to Simka’s tomorrow. Sshh. Don’t tell Camille I squealed . . . she was going to kidnap you.”
I set aside the computer, stand, and begin to pace. “This is perfect. If the bride and groom have lived here their whole lives, then maybe some of their guests have too. Someone other than the Sims family must have known us!”
Mel crosses her arms. “So you’re going to take a couples’ happiest day and turn it into a fact-finding mission about our parents? What’re you going to do? Walk up and say ‘My daddy had an affair here, remember that? And oh, yeah, he stole big bucks from Peg, the diner owner from hell . . . whaddya know about that?’” She shakes her head vigorously. “No way, Tara, I wouldn’t recommend this at all.”
“You really think I’m that callous, don’t you?” My eyes shut tight and I hug myself against the coldness of the night. Eliza wouldn’t allow such negativity to stand. She’d nip it before it grew any further. Why have I always allowed Mel to get to me? My eyes snap open. “All I meant is that if I’m friendly and introduce myself to people, surely someone will remember our name. I need some good news, Mel. The happy memories of this place”—my voice chokes up—“are beginning to fade.”
My sister’s brows dip. “But what if the things they say hurt you and us? What then?”
“What is wrong with you? Our father was amazing! Don’t you remember him at all, Mel? He loved us and took care of us . . . and what about all those people who came forward at his funeral to say how much they admired him? Have you forgotten?”
Those furrowed brows soften and tears form in the corners of Mel’s eyes. Her voice is just a whisper. “I will never forget him. I-I just want to remember him the way he was.”
Her statement is like the proverbial lightbulb springing to life in a dark room. I reach for Mel and pull her close, no longer mindful of how she might react to my embrace.
“Yeah. Me too.”
“YOU GIRLS HAVE BEEN here only a little while, but gracious, how did I do without you all these years in Otter Bay?” Holly’s standing in the middle of Simka’s main gallery, the living room of the former residence, her elbow jabbed into her waist and a polka-dot thong hanging from her forefinger.
I toss my head back, defying her. “You don’t for a second believe that I would wear one of those.”
Holly glances at it. “Well of course I do. Everyone’s supposed to be admirin’ the bride on her weddin’ day. You don’t won’t want to be distractin’ them with your big ol’ pantylines, do you, Tara?”
I squint. “Maybe I do.”
Holly twirls the thong around her finger like it’s a piece of string, which actually, it is. “You’re such a fuddy-duddy.”
My mouth opens and stays there. Not long ago Camille called me the same thing. Why is it that choosing not to
wear trendy underthings that are nothing but mere floss with a pretty design somehow makes me old-fashioned and boring?
Mel takes Holly by surprise and wrests the offending thong from her grasp. “You are barking up the wrong pine tree, Holly. My sister loves her granny panties.”
I protest with a sigh and a Camille-worthy eye roll.
Mel keeps moving, obviously intent on returning her prize to the lingerie bin. Before she can, though, Camille skips over and grabs it from Mel, pirouettes and pulls back on the thong like a sling shot and flings it with a snap. It hits Simka on the cheek when she enters the room.
We all gasp.
Simka holds out the thong and considers it critically. “I’ve always preferred a less geometric design.”
Camille bites her lip. “Sorry, Simka.”
Simka’s bell-like laughter ripples through the air. “No harm done.” She turns to me and claps her chubby hands. “Now. I have chosen several delightful gowns for you, my dear. The yellows are my most favorite, except for the bees—bees love yellow, so I have only chosen dresses that use it as an accent color rather than primary. Oh, it is a shame.”
“I will keep that in mind. Thank you.”
I head to the dressing room, listening as the girls “ooh” and “aah” over Simka’s newest summer arrivals. It’s a universal phenomenon among women that purchasing a new wardrobe—or even a new dress, as in my case—uplifts the soul. For as long as I remember, though, I’ve been too frugal and sensible to shop much. Trent hated that about me, but there’s nothing more trying than attempting to find the perfect blouse, shoe, whatever, during the lunch hour, when I was most available to shop. That’s the time that just about every other shopper, be they retirees, moms of little ones, or nine-to-fivers, seem to flood department stores and take over the aisles and dressing rooms. And have I mentioned the lines that snake through the racks? Not my idea of a lunch break.
Camille’s sudden squeal surprises me. “I love these capris! Hurry up, Tara, so I can have the dressing room.”
I take her seriously, because if I don’t, Camille just might strip down to her skivvies for all the shopping population to see. The first dress I try on has a high waist and wide skirt, causing me to look “with child,” more so than someone who truly is pregnant. I step out of it and hang it quickly.
“Hey, Tara, not fair.” Holly catches me. “You have to give us all a modelin’ show.”
“Next one,” I shout over the flimsy fabric curtain. Unfortunately the next one hugs me like the skin of a caterpillar and I want to eat my words. The dress is tight, revealing and the worst shade of yellow ever. Like sludge.
I step out and discover, too, that the board-straight skirt provides little room for actual walking. My feeble attempt to strut around is met with suppressed mirth. Camille glances at Holly. “Didn’t know there were penguins in these parts.”
Holly snorts loudly, and Mel shakes her head, but the smile across her face refuses to fade.
“All right. I’m done with you people.” I waddle back behind my fabric barricade. M
aybe attending this wedding isn’t the best idea. Josh’s behavior yesterday still weighs on my heart. If it weren’t for my quest to see the whole town in one place, I may have backed out of this date.
Would you really, Tara?
The thought falls across my mind like a shadow. Would I really have the guts to turn down a date with the most eligible bachelor in town, even though his behavior left little to be desired? For some reason I could confront a nonpaying customer at the auto parts company with the evil eye, but when Trent continued to put off our wedding, I acquiesced, as if grateful for the chance to call myself engaged.
“C’mon, Tara. Give us one more chance.” Holly’s no-nonsense voice shuts down the running commentary in my head. I survey the remaining selections within my tiny dressing room and pluck one from the bunch. The black, white, and yellow print with its double straps and shimmery skirt hugs my skin, but in a natural way. Wearing it makes me feel cool and thin . . . and pretty. I attempt a slow twirl, hoping the girls don’t spy my feet beneath the curtain.
“Oooh, Tara likes this one.” Holly doesn’t miss a thing.
Camille giggles. “Let’s see, let’s see!”
With reluctance, I slide the curtain to the side and step out. Holly and Camille rush me, their mouths overflowing with adulation. The effect on my heart startles me. Something inside twists a little. I’ve wanted to be on the receiving end of a man’s praise forever, and recently I had been, when Josh’s eyes lit up the night of our first date as he noticed me walk out from the hall. It had been a long time since anyone caressed me with eyes that way. If I were to be honest, Trent probably never had.
Simka nods at me. “Oh, yes, yes, yes. And with the right shoes and accessories, you may just draw all the attention away from the bride!”
I laugh, uneasily. That’s about as likely as Peg giving me a warm hug and welcoming me to Otter Bay.
Sweet Waters Page 17
