I lean into his chest and wrap my arms around his waist. His arms slide around me and I feel their strength, and yet it’s the fragile part of him lying exposed that I long to comfort.
The deepness of his voice resonates against my ear and sends a quick ripple up my neck. “Nothing could take away the pain Beth must’ve felt, or all those scars and the image of so much blood, but I’ve been caught up in trying to make it right. For a long time.” His lips are inches from my cheeks. “I’m sorry I made you feel second best.”
Second best? I release a slow breath. “Oh, Josh, you didn’t make me feel that way. I’ve just been trying to figure you out, to understand where all the anger and need to prove yourself came from.”
“Other than that, you thought I was a pretty good guy.”
“I knew when you leapt over that counter, and by the way Holly praised you, that you were a pretty good guy.”
“If we’re going to be passing compliments, then you deserve to be first. You’re the one who jumped in and started serving coffee to strangers.”
“Crazy, huh.”
“No, not crazy—terrific. I saw your heart.”
I blush.
He groans. “And now it’s your mind that’s got me. You’re right, you know. I have been trying to prove something. That I’m not my father and I’m not going to wallow in addiction.”
“Then something happens to make you doubt yourself. Been there.”
He doesn’t say anything, but as I lean my head against him once more, his shoulders relax. We’re quiet for a long while, and the sea’s rhythm lulls us. I roll my gaze upward and he stares at me, his smile rueful. “You’ve pretty much figured me out, haven’t you?”
“I feel like I’m beginning to.”
He scoffs, but his eyes still smile. “Well, it’s a start then.”
“Can I ask . . . have you changed your mind about attending your father’s special ceremony?”
His smile fades and he groans again.
I pull back. “You’re not going?”
“Nothing’s changed, Tara.”
“But you just found out about Beth . . . I thought . . .”
“What? That just because I’m not a drunk like my father, I should just get out there and pretend how full of respect for him I am?”
His anger jars the air around us. So much simmers just below the surface. It’s frightening. “You don’t respect him . . . at all?”
“Even when life was normal in our house, it wasn’t, not really. My father wasn’t physically abusive, but he knew how to make me feel small and helpless.”
I can’t imagine this hearty man ever believing himself as weak.
“Anyway, I didn’t have too many friends come around back then, like more normal families always did.”
“Why not?”
“How would it look if they saw their mayor walking around our house wearing boxers and a sappy smile? No, thank you. Just too much shame in that, Tara. Like I said, we weren’t really normal. We looked it, but”—Josh shakes his head—“it was a lie.”
I try to put myself in his place, recalling the unshakeable embarrassment that goes along, tongue and groove, with middle school and on into the upper grades. But those years have passed, along with the unearned shame that often attaches itself to the unsuspecting. Josh is a well-respected, accomplished firefighter. Surely he carries no shame for his father’s behavior.
“Have you talked with him about his . . . problem? Other than . . .”
“Other than our showdown, you mean?” He shakes his head. “Dad’s problem has always been like the elephant in the living room. My mother’s in denial and bringing it up has always been frowned on. Like other kids of alcoholics, I’ve learned to adapt. Just don’t ask me to face it anymore. I’m finished with that.”
“So you won’t forgive him?”
A muscle in his jaw shifts. “Didn’t say that.” He pitches a smooth, flat stone into the water. “Just some things I’m not ready to forget.”
Chapter Thirty-three
Mel yawns as I step into the house. “I left your laptop on for you. I was working on my resumé, but my eyes won’t stay open anymore.” She rubs her eyelids. “You’re glowing. Sort of.”
“I listened to you and came home late, but I don’t know what to think about Josh and me anymore. After our conversation stalled, Josh and I wandered along the rocks until nearly sunset, mostly quiet, our thoughts as far away as the islands to the south. We found a rare abalone suctioned to the side of a rocky ledge and watched as the waters tumbled back in, drenching the endangered creature. When the sun sank into the horizon and cool air had set in, the night sky became a picture of diamonds on a blanket of navy blue, spreading itself before us calm and clear. Unfortunately, our hearts were anything but, so we called it a night.”
My sister leans against the doorway to the hall. “For someone who’s become all about setting her mind on what she wants, how can you say you don’t know what to think?”
“It’s just . . . it’s complicated.” She yawns again, so I talk fast. “The more I’m with Josh, the more confused I get. He’s strong and handsome and really, really good to me.”
“Yeah, that would be confusing.”
“Good to me, although he did just break our date for the mayor’s big celebration. He’s got so much anger toward his father. If anyone should get that . . .”
“That would be us.”
“You’d think.”
“You know what I really think, Tara?” She taps the side of her mouth, examining me. “You’ve changed.”
I cross my arms. Mel, it seems, has rallied against sleepiness and has more of her signature criticism of me to launch. Here it comes.
“You always were a sergeant, that’s true. Bossy, bossy.”
My eyes begin to roll.
She raises a hand, as if to tell me to stop my usual reaction. “But a happy one. Carefree, kind of. I was always so jealous of that because even now I have trouble carrying out my plans. Anyway, you got so much done, especially when Dad got sick and Mom, well, you know what an avoider our dear mother can be.” She distracts herself by examining a fingernail. “Then all of a sudden, you turned sour.”
Slowly I uncross my arms.
She shrugs, her mouth a grimace. “Made it a lot easier to keep up with you.”
“What does that mean?”
She looks me square in the face. “I didn’t have to work so hard to be you anymore. The new ‘you’ had become angry . . .”
“And boring?”
“Trent was dull. Yuk, very dull. And strangely enough, my once adventurous and happy sister seemed to be okay with that.” She wrinkles her brow at me. “It’s like you had given up.”
Part of me wants to deny her assessment of me, but another part sees the truth in what she says. Life had become a drudgery. My job—boring. Boyfriend—predictable. Day-to-day life—routine. Yet since arriving in Otter Bay, my emotions have careened over and around one oversized roller coaster, and I’ve felt a shedding of anger with each fantastic twist. No doubt, despite the astonishing turn of events since the move, less and less anger lives in me.
“I think I see what you’re saying.”
Mel’s brows register surprise. “You do?”
“As recently as this morning, I was still wondering if this is where I should be. If moving to Otter Bay was the right choice.”
“And now?”
“I’m more at peace with this decision than I’ve been since day one.”
She draws in a large breath and exhales a healthy yawn. “Yeah, me too.”
Her yawn is contagious and one finds me as well. “Go on to bed, Mel-Mel. I’ll shut down the computer.”
She turns to go but pauses. “It’s been a mind-boggling week. Don’t rush things about Josh. And who knows? Maybe he’ll come to terms with things before his father’s big day.”
If he attends. My body longs to sit in the dark, with only the tick of the clock and the
nearby waves as companions. It’s what I should do. But as is my habit, I find myself absentmindedly logging on to my Soaps Weekly Digest account. Eliza’s had another busy day. Vicky the vixen, her son’s replacement fiancée, has fallen from her good graces, apparently. That was quick. I read on. Seems Vicky hit it off with Maurice at the soiree she had thrown for her son’s newest (and orchestrated) engagement. If only she’d left well enough alone . . .
Where’s the reward in this?
The truth smacks me on my usually sensible brain. I realize just how tired I am of Eliza and her shenanigans. Who could survive such a life unscathed? She’s nothing but a fictional character who falls into one conflict after another with no sign of reward. And I’d been looking to her for help?
Maybe . . .
Maybe my own life had become so boring that I needed Eliza. Or at least I thought I did.
But Eliza plays with people with no thought to how her actions affect their lives. Their souls. My mind wanders back to Josh and the confusion in his voice today. He knew how to make me feel small and helpless. Josh’s statement had surprised me. The way he always put himself on the line was impressive, but maybe there’d been another reason for his many sacrifices, for the inattention to his own safety. Maybe his father’s brokenness had caused him to internalize the misconception that his own life didn’t matter much.
The idea pains me to my center and I sit in the silence, all except for the clicking of that clock. Unnatural light glows from my computer screen and I shake my head. Of course his life matters. Every life does. Even mine.
I take one last look at the screen, that old familiar longing for the Weekly Digest nothing but a pale memory. “Sayonara, my old friend,” I say to the picture of a grinning Eliza, her hair in the style I’ve always envied. “It’s just that there’s been enough drama in my old life lately, much of it avoidable.”
She keeps on grinning, as if she hadn’t heard a thing. A sigh flows through me and I keep talking to the static picture. “You don’t care and you never have. And you know what? I need more than that in my life. I need people, Eliza . . . and I . . . I need God.”
Saying the words aloud, rather than just thinking them in some fleeting, happy way, moves something fresh and active within me. I. Need. God.
Can it be as simple as that?
With all of me, I know the answer, and it stuns me, but in a good way. At the same moment, Nigel’s words from the morning jolt me: Those who are there now understand that the church today should operate much like a hospital for sinners.
“Eliza,” I say to the quintessential drama queen. “Get thee to the church.”
With a click of the mouse, I unsubscribe to the site and click close.
“YOU DID THE RIGHT thing.” Camille’s wielding a crochet hook and sharp eye toward the yarn in her hand.
“You were out surfing when I called Mel to talk about it. I didn’t want you both to feel obligated, so I figured it could come out of my portion.”
She looks up. “Is Mel kicking in?”
I look at Mel. “Yes, she is.”
“I still can’t believe Dad would’ve done stuff like that.” She shrugs. “But you know what you’re doing. You always do. Count me in too.”
I send Mel a questioning glance and she takes over. “So you’re cool with us paying back Peg all of the money?”
She doesn’t lift her eyes. “Uh-huh.”
“Camille?” I rest one hand on her shoulder. “Is something bothering you?”
She works faster and with more intensity, her full curls bouncing against each other as her crochet hook does its thing. I’m wondering if she heard me when she misses a loop and lets a curse word slip out under her breath.
Mel catches my eye and gives me a reassuring nod. She leans toward Camille and gently removes her crochet project from her hands. “Talk to us.”
Camille shuts her eyes tightly, something she’s done since a child. She smothers her face in her hands and lets out an uncharacteristic howl. “I’m so confused!”
Mel and I exchange a bewildered glance.
I reach out to her. “By what? C’mon, Camille. Talk to me.”
She throws herself into my arms and we roll over onto the carpet together, like a couple of roly-poly bugs caught on their backs. Mel stands over us. “You girls need some help?”
We lie there on the floor, looking up into the wood beamed ceiling, our chests rising and falling in the silence.
Camille speaks first. “Do you girls think I’m insensitive?”
I roll over and take in her precious face. “I’ve never once thought that of you.”
“That’s it.” Mel drops to the floor. “Give it up. You’re beside yourself and you need to tell us why.”
“I don’t miss them.”
She’s speaking in riddles. “Who? Who don’t you miss?”
“My parents!” Camille stands and hugs her waist. “I don’t miss them at all. I’m horrible! How could I not miss them?”
I’m at her side in an instant. “Oh, honey.” She falls into my arms. “You were just a baby when Uncle Grant died. And your mother left even before that. You couldn’t possibly remember them. Don’t beat yourself up.”
“Yeah, kiddo. If it helps any, we don’t remember life without you.”
“How did this come up all of a sudden?” I ask.
A dramatic sigh flows out of her. “Holly. She’s got all these pictures of her mother and some magazine cut-outs of men she thinks might look like her father in an album with all kinds of stickers and captions. It’s kind of sad. She dreams of some kind of reunion someday, like she’s Annie.”
I rub her back. “You two have become good friends, haven’t you.”
“Yeah. I feel so bad for her. All she’s got is her Aunt Peg—and you know what a bear she can be. I hate to say it, but what happens to her when Peg, you know, passes away?”
Mel clucks. “She’ll throw a party?”
“All I’m saying is that Holly loves two people she’s never known. I’m so worried about her because a reunion may never happen—and then she’ll be alone. And that makes me feel guilty, because honestly, I don’t ever think about my birth parents.”
“Never?” I’d wondered, on occasion, what it would have been like for Camille to have been simply our cousin. The thought always chilled me, like a cold snap in winter. And for that, I always felt guilty. Somewhere within me an idea niggles at me, bringing on that same sickening chill, followed by the guilt of my own selfishness. Camille’s mother could very well show up here in Otter Bay.
“Well. Maybe not never. I used to wonder about my real mother. And you know how Mom always likes to tell stories about how funny my father was.” She shrugs again. “I have happy memories of him only because of what Mom has said. I don’t remember him. Anyway, I never felt like I didn’t belong and I’ve never really wondered ‘what if.’ If anything, I’ve been counting me lucky stars. Sheesh, Dad treated me no different than you two!”
I swallow the lump growing at the base of my throat. “We’re the blessed ones . . . so, so blessed to call you our sister.” Another reason to offer thanks instead of curses to Dad—and to Mom.
Mel socks Camille on the shoulder. “Yeah. Don’t feel bad that you’re not mooning over your parents, kiddo. Things worked out the way they were meant to.”
Mel’s words strike me to my center. Was Uncle Grant meant to die in a motorcycle crash? Was it God’s plan for Camille’s mother to abandon them both? Hard to imagine either of these scenarios as God-designed, but now is not the time to argue the point.
I hide away these thoughts and muster up a smile for Camille.
Chapter Thirty-four
Déjà vu pays a visit as I look for seats amidst a buzzing crowd. Same crowd, same venue, different event. It’s all very weird. If I hadn’t told Shirley I’d come, and if Nigel hadn’t coerced me into accompanying him with the promise of free tapas and a day off, I might very well have just mailed a card.
<
br /> A female volunteer—I can tell by the word VOLUNTEER emblazoned on her name tag—hands us a program, and Nigel and I find our seats. Up front, Pete and Shirley Adams sit regally as a variety of residents gather around them to offer hellos and congratulations. Nothing looks amiss as Pete’s charismatic smile greets his admirers.
“It’s a lovely day for an outdoor ceremony,” Nigel says. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
I glance at him, aware of how angry I was at this gentle man only days ago. “It’s beautiful, Nigel. The ocean, the trees, the warm air—the perfect day to be outside.” I don’t mention how fierce the waves sound against the otherwise blissful day.
A squeal, followed by an infectious giggle, draws my attention. A tiny girl, dark-skinned and chatty, spins in the center aisle as her mother tries unsuccessfully to coax her into a folding chair. The child catches my eye and lunges toward me, one of her petite hands clutching a single flower.
“I sit with you!” Accent heavy and drawn out on the you. I smile and scoop her up, as if doing so is as natural as the unfurling of waves. She’s on my lap, beaming like a pixie, her own attention caught between the seaside daisy in her hand and the features on my face.
“Mia!” The girl’s mother utters apologies as she climbs over several people in order to exit her row of seats and reclaim her daughter. She crosses the aisle in haste and looks to me, her brow scrunched. “I’m so sorry. Mia, you need to stay with Mama.”
I smile. “I don’t mind at all. She’s adorable.”
Mia takes one last look at me and hops from my lap, dropping the daisy onto the grass and scampering away before her bewildered mother can catch her. The woman heaves an exasperated sigh and dashes off.
“You will make a tremendous mother some day, my dear.”
Sweet Waters Page 23
