Sweet Waters

by Julie Carobini

  “Yeah, Cam, you made him sound so old. He was what? Twenty-three in that picture?”

  Camille pulls the picture from me and gives it another look. “Man, poor Dad looked old even when he was young!”

  There’s truth in her words. For a man so young and with a vibrant life ahead of him, Dad’s shoulders slumped far too low in this picture. The issues I’d forgotten, or at least had laid aside, now emblazon themselves like a Vegas marquee in my mind. What was going on in his head? Was he thinking about Peg’s money? Another woman?

  The thought forces my mouth into a frown, and I turn away. “What are you doing with those pictures anyway?”

  “I’m trying to crochet a frame. Well, not a frame, but a cover for one. Thought this place could use some personalizing. Don’t you want to look at it again, Tara?” Camille holds the picture out to me. I begin to shake my head “no” when Mel pulls it from her grasp and studies it.

  “Check out the James Dean wannabe in the back. Reminds me of Nigel.” She tips her chin up. “Did he know us back then?”

  I glance over her shoulder. Most of the men in the shot wear rumpled tees and shorts that expose too much leg á la the ’80s, but one leans against a burnt tree trunk in the back, looking very much a rebel in his tight jeans and leather bomber jacket. Mel’s overzealous observation lightens my mood. “Yeah, that Nigel, always strikes me as the renegade-type.” A cackle escapes me.

  “It’s not impossible.”

  “Except that he hasn’t lived here all that long. He inherited the inn and came back to run it after his sister died. But seriously, Mel, our dear Nigel in bad-boy leather?”

  Mel shrugs. “So maybe it’s his evil twin.” She hands the photo back to Camille, who giggles as she files it in the box with the others. “I’m going outside to watch that sunset you’re always fawning over, Tara,” Mel says. “Feel free to come along and give me the real scoop about your afternoon with lover boy—he was terribly eager to know your schedule today.”

  Outside she plops herself into the center Adirondack and I take the chair on her right. The hard slats of wood provide a surprising amount of comfort. Neither of us speaks, as the waves cry out their swan song for the evening. Streaks of fuchsia dash across the sky and from the corner of my view, a bunny feasts on a patchy section of grass.

  This. This is what I longed for, what I remembered most about Otter Bay. Not an exact memory, as I was too young to enjoy the things adults often do, but a sense that this place along the coast had the ability to take the wrongs of my day—my life—and in one grand sunset, make everything all better.

  “I bet Dad loved these sunsets.”

  Mel stays quiet. She’s often quiet as she’s thinking, so I don’t take offense. Still, and even though it’s a small thing, I hope she agrees with me. After a moment she inhales. “Mom sent an e-mail today.”

  I pull myself up to look at her. “What did she say? Did she finally get international calling?”

  Mel turns, her expression thoughtful, her eyes searching. She shrugs. “She’s worried about you. She says that you’re going to learn some things that neither she nor our father had the courage to tell you.”

  I sit back down, taking in the cooling sunset along with our mother’s words. “Too late for that now, isn’t it?”

  “Rather cynical, coming from you, big sister.”

  I groan. “Maybe. But can I ask you something? Why is it that she trusts you more with information than she does me?”

  “Are you kidding? Trust me? Hardly. Mom’s always so concerned with you and your reaction to everything. I don’t know why she tells me so much, but I can promise you it has nothing to do with trust. Sometimes I think she just needs me to be her sounding board.”

  “Oh, Mel.”

  “I guess she figures if I don’t pass out over her latest news, then you’ll be just fine—and that’s what matters most.”

  “You’re serious. You really think that Mom favors me.” I laugh. “How ironic is this?”

  “Oh, really. And why’s that?”

  I slowly shake my head, hardly noticing as the sun submerges itself into the sea. “Because while you were busy resenting me, I was just as busy . . . resenting you.”

  “JOSHUA ADAMS, WOULD YOU look at that! It’s like you brought Cinderella herself to the ball.” Glory Sims, wearing more pink than a flamingo, approaches us from across the lawn, two steps ahead of Burton.

  My arm is looped through Josh’s, and he smiles. “Guess that makes me the prince.”

  “I’ll say. And you know what that makes me now, don’t you?” We all look to Burton, who wheezes between sentences. “The jester!”

  We all laugh and nod, and as Josh guides me through the throng of strangers gathering for the outdoor wedding, I realize how very much like a princess I feel. Come to think of it, Camille and Mel were the antitheses of ugly stepsisters, the way they fussed and carried on over me this afternoon. I’d completely forgotten about shoes when I bought this dress from Simka’s and it took a bit of searching through Mel’s unpacked suitcases and boxes, but eventually, the girls came up with the perfect, shimmering black pumps for me to borrow.

  “If the night’s a dud,” she whispered when Josh picked me up, “just tap your heels together three times—like you’re Dorothy.”

  So I mixed my fairy tales. I’m still in one, as far as I’m concerned.

  “Tara, you look stunning!” Norma gives me a hug and turns to a wiry man who resembles Mikey. “I’d like you to meet my husband. Mike, this is Tara, the new friend I’ve told you about.”

  “Good to meet you, Tara.” He shakes my hand, his grip firmer than I’d expected.

  “And you as well. You have a lovely family.”

  Norma takes my arm in hers. “Speaking of which, may I speak to you for a moment?”

  Josh’s face registers slight surprise, but he steps back, his smile congenial.

  When we’re a few steps away, Norma lets go of my arm. “I just wanted to tell you in person how very sorry I am that your private news got back to your sister. I’m so ashamed.”

  I touch her shoulder. “Please don’t be. It was all for the best. Mel needed to know and I, well . . . I was having a hard time figuring out how to tell her.”

  Norma’s shoulders lower as her smile deepens. “So you forgive me?”

  I swallow the lump that has formed in my throat. “Yes. Yes, of course I forgive you. No harm done.”

  “I called my sister this morning and forgave her for snapping at me the other day. She sounded so relieved! We can’t receive forgiveness unless we give it first, you know.”

  I wasn’t aware of that.

  She hugs me tight. “Find us after the ceremony, okay?”

  I promise, and Josh leads me to find our seats next to Billy and Beth, who have apparently come together. The men shake hands while Beth and I just smile our hellos. I try not to notice the long sleeves she wears on this warm day.

  Seats all around us fill in as the time for the wedding nears. Peg doesn’t notice me, as she strolls down the side aisle, and I almost don’t recognize her myself in that smart gray suit with pillbox hat. Funny, but associating Peg with Audrey Hepburn had never come to mind before. It’s not the clothes, though, that alter her appearance so much, but the gracious smile displayed across her face. Like she’s genuinely happy.

  Imagine that.

  “Trouble at ten o’clock.” Billy’s clandestine message may be meant for Josh’s ears alone, but I hear him too. Beth’s on his other side and seems fairly occupied with the wrist orchid she’s wearing, a tender gesture on Billy’s part, if you ask me.

  Josh groans quietly, a muscle twitches in his jaw. “Can’t believe he’d show up here.”

  “And with her,” Billy whispers back.

  Like a couple of old women with nothing but time to kill, they each, in turn, take surreptitious glances toward the left front where a striking couple takes their seats. The man’s hair, so dark, thick, and wavy, r
ivals the richest chocolate. And the woman turns heads. Her mane of white blonde locks obediently hold themselves in place, as if they’ve done so her entire life. They are one of those couples, like Eliza and her first husband, Charles, the kind who know the life they’ve been groomed for—and never let anyone around them forget it.

  I lean toward Josh. “Who are they?”

  He slides his arm around me and whispers, his lips grazing my ear. “That’s Beth’s slimy ex-husband, Gordon, and his new girlfriend.”

  I steal a glance at Beth, who’s smiling into Billy’s face now. My gaze finds Josh. “She seems to have moved on quite well.”

  He cocks an eyebrow. “So you’re saying I should let it go then.”

  I let loose a teasing, but exasperated laugh. “I’m not assessing you . . . just making an observation.”

  Josh quirks the corner of his mouth, then releases a sigh. “You’re right. I guess.” A small laugh escapes him. “I still think the guy’s slime.”

  “All that hair gel, probably.”

  He’s smiling fully now and running his eyes over my face. Crowd? What crowd? At this moment, all I see, all I smell, all I hear, is Josh.

  The familiar notes of “The Wedding March” begin to play, signaling the bride’s impending entrance. The crowd stands and, with reluctance, we join them. As we turn to face the center aisle, Josh rests a hand on my waist, sending a quiver through me.

  Tears well up behind my eyes as the woman in white, someone I’ve never even met, takes her place at the top of a flowing carpet of rose pedals. Something about that song always does that to me. I swallow the emotion rushing its way through my body and slide a glance to see if Josh’s reaction mirrors my own. He doesn’t notice, though, because his eyes are fixated not on the bride, or on me, but somewhere across the aisle.

  As the bride and her father make their entrance, and cameras begin to pop and flash, and tissues start to do their work, I follow Josh’s line of vision. He’s staring at his father, who stands beside his mother, laughing outright in the very last row on the bride’s side.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  After the “I dos,” Josh’s mother kisses his cheek. She offers me a hug. “Such a lovely ceremony, wasn’t it?”

  I nod.

  Josh rubs my back. “Mother, where’s Dad?”

  Shirley wiggles her hand into the air, as casual as can be. “Oh, you know your father. He’s probably found some friends to chat with.”

  Josh’s back rub intensifies, along with the strained look in his eyes. “Maybe you ought to go find him.”

  Shirley’s smile is wide, carefree. “Joshua, you mustn’t worry. Your father’s just fine. He’ll be along any minute.” She pats his shoulder. “I’ll ask him to stop by your table.”

  I cut in. “Won’t you be joining us?”

  She looks to Josh whose masseur moment has ended, as I gently extricate myself. She places both hands on my shoulders. “My word, she’s simply lovely, Joshua.” She squares her gaze on me now. “You truly are. It seems that the seating has already been pre-arranged—there are place cards at each table. Oh, but I do hope you and Josh will join us for dinner soon. Make him promise you, all right?”

  “Absolutely. I will.”

  Josh squires me away to a table bordering the dance floor. The reception is being held adjacent to the ceremony site, beneath a mansion-sized tent. Thousands of tiny white lights lace themselves around silk trees and flower-laden trellises creating a virtual garden of Eden.

  Josh holds my chair out for me and I take a seat next to Beth. Maybe we’ll get a chance to actually talk instead of just smiling at each other over our dates. Although he sits down and holds my hand beneath the table, Josh seems distracted. Billy’s pouring the wine that had been set out for us, but Josh turns his goblet over with his free hand. Billy’s carrying on about some strange call to the station involving burning marshmallows and a faulty smoke alarm. The rest of the guests at our table, two couples in their twenties or so, laugh in all the appropriate places.

  “Everybody, I’d like you to meet . . . my girlfriend, Tara Sweet.” Josh squeezes my hand and I realize that I’m tottering a bit. Girlfriend. He called me his girlfriend, which I suppose is true considering we’ve been exclusive for oh, say, two weeks now. Except for those occasional disagreements.

  One of the women, a firefighter I soon learn, reaches across to shake my hand. “I’m Reese. Good to meet you.” She gives me one firm pump of the arm, as if I were a hatchet. The men follow suit.

  “I’m Thomas. Hi.”

  “Hey, Tara. I’m Joey.” He gestures to the petite woman sitting next to him, who’s smiling shyly my way. “And this is Carolyn, but we all call her CeCe.” She raises her hand and wiggles four fingers at me.

  As the conversation progresses it’s clear that most of them know each other from the station. Except CeCe, who sits quietly with a pleasant but rather blank expression on her face. I’m pretty sure we haven’t met before, but her name does have a familiar ring.

  “A toast!” Billy’s standing now, holding a goblet out before him. “To firefighters . . . in love.”

  Snickers and hoots and laughter erupt all around the table. Joey cinches CeCe in close as she blushes profusely. Reese smacks a loud kiss on Thomas’s mouth, and Billy bends down and brushes his lips across Beth’s cheek.

  Josh just grins and shakes his head. He looks to me and his eyes glow as if all distraction has vanished. “So, am I a liar?”

  “How so?” I whisper back.

  “The girlfriend announcement. You didn’t seem upset by that.”

  I tip my head up when Billy’s voice slices the space between us. “Just kiss her, man!” Billy looks around the table. “What’s he waiting for?”

  Beth pats Billy’s hand, as if to calm him.

  Josh grins, dimples sinking deeper into his cheek. He bends toward me and I can feel his warm breath on my face. “Don’t want to disappoint them. Or you either.” He kisses me then and the crowd disappears.

  More crowing and laughter erupts from our table.

  “Hate to interrupt you young folks, but I think the missus and I are seated here.” Burton towers above us, with his pink-covered wife, Glory, jiggling beside him.

  Reese’s face alights. “Sit on down, Granddad. We’ve been waiting for you both.”

  “Well, my goodness, look at this lively table we get to join!” Glory’s perfume infiltrates the group. She takes her seat and glances around the table, her smile deepening the lines that crisscross her face. “You all look lovely,” she says, stopping on Carolyn, “but I don’t think we’ve met.”

  All eyes turn to Carolyn, who’s become a blushing machine. Joey pipes up. “Glory, I’d like you to meet my date, CeCe.”

  “CeCe! Oh, my, what a delightful name! Is that short for something?”

  CeCe nods, while Joey tells her, “Carolyn. Her real name is Carolyn.”

  A befuddled look overtakes Glory. Her lips pooch and a distinct divot appears on her forehead. “I’ve heard that name somewhere before. Let me think. Gah. I’m an old woman, but I’ll think of it.”

  Billy holds up the wine bottle, a question in his eyes. Burton offers his empty goblet. “By all means. And Glory here’ll have a pink lemonade when I can flag down one of those waiters in penguin suits.”

  A trio of musicians begin to play songs that although probably famous, I cannot identify. They stir the magical mood under the big tent, though, and now that all the introductions are out of the way and dinner is about to be served, I feel myself relax.

  Maybe a bit too soon, because Josh’s hand tenses in mine and I look up. He’s staring across the room to an open bar where his father’s tall frame rises from the hovering pack. I place my hand on Josh’s back and push aside the rush it gives me. “Is everything all right?”

  He nods, but doesn’t turn to me. Nothing in his face confirms that all is well.

  The rest of the table stays buried in conversation. “Josh.�
�� I whisper his name close to his ear, once again ignoring the wave of desire that unfurls. “I’m concerned. Let me help.”

  Josh swivels toward me, his eyes sad and soulful. “I wish you could.” He closes those eyes of his and breathes in deeply. “My father’s . . . got problems.”

  I pick out Pete from the group and watch him for a few seconds. He’s laughing and carrying on and shoulder slapping as if he’s never heard something so hysterical in his life. My mind moves fast. We’re face-to-face, Josh and I, our conversation as private as it can be in a room full of people. Suddenly I think I understand. “Does your father . . . is he an alcoholic?”

  One look into Josh’s grim face and I receive my answer.

  ELIZA’S FATHER WAS AN alcoholic too. Only he never laughed as much as Pete does. He was angry and bitter and perpetually out of a job. Which goes a long way toward explaining just why Eliza had become so self-sufficient—not to mention a teetotaler. And perhaps a tad more of a manipulator than I’d like to admit.

  Glory, who sits just on the other side of Josh’s now-empty seat, slathers a slice of bread from the table basket. “Where’s he going?”

  “Just had something to tell his father. He’ll be right back.”

  She bites into the soft bread, closes her eyes and squeals in culinary delight. “Mmm-mm—oh!” Glory’s eyes pop open.

  “You okay there, Glory?” I ask.

  She turns to Carolyn who slowly chews a hunk of bread while listening to an intense debate between Billy and Joey over which team’s the best: Dodgers or Giants. “I just remembered why your name was so familiar!”

  All conversations around the table stop. Glory swipes a look at me, a magenta-colored fingernail taking aim in my direction. “It was CeCe! CeCe was the woman that had a thing for your father!”

  WHILE IT MAY BE customary, and a high form of politeness, to invite other ladies to join you for a trip to the restroom, protocol had sunk to the bottom of my to-do list. I had to get away. From the first time we met, I knew that Glory didn’t have a mean bone in her chubby body. But I’m beginning to wonder if she’s missing something upstairs.