The Yellow Braid

by Karen Coccioli

  “Don’t get that way, Baby.”

  Caro’s mental vision flashed back to Zach showing off one of her books. Like Tommy about Nina’s photography, Zach had been proud to say that his wife was a poet.

  Tommy changed the subject. “By the by, if you need a hairdresser while you’re here, come see me. I have a salon and spa in Southampton on Meetinghouse Lane.”

  Caro resisted the urge to touch her hair as she imagined the grey roots that had inched up the brown dye; she was weeks overdue for an application. “I will,” she said in a small voice.

  A stiff breeze skidded off the ocean and Caro saw Nina shiver in her midriff top. “It’s getting chilly and I’m beginning to feel the effects of moving in—I better go in. But thanks for introducing yourselves.”

  “Enjoyed it.” With their arms linked at their backs, they began to walk away and then Tommy swung them back around. “We have Nina’s niece with us for awhile, so if you see a thirteen-year-old hanging out, it’s her.”

  “What’s her name?” Caro asked.

  “Livia.”

  Nina warned, “She’s very shy so don’t be insulted if she doesn’t talk the first few times.”

  “I won’t,” Caro replied and then watched the couple climb the catwalk that led up the dune to their house.

  Caro went inside as well, ready to settle in for the night. The space she lived in was important to her and the bungalow had met her every expectation. In her condo in New York the most important rooms—her bedroom and study—were appointed with infinite care and detail. Believing that she’d been born a century too late, she felt most at home among Victorian furnishings: Persian rugs, Tiffany lamps, and tufted fabrics in warm reds and chocolates.

  Thus it was surprising to her that she found these Bahamian seaside tones of apricot, peach, and seaweed green so charming. Gwen’s tastes were eclectic, however, and Caro had chosen the smaller of the two guest rooms for her bedroom that was painted in lavender.

  Gwen even had arranged for a bouquet of fresh lavender to be brought in for Caro’s arrival. So infused was the room in the purple flower that Caro’s mood at once eased, and it wasn’t long before she was nested in the floral linens. Even after she flicked off the lights, she felt the fabric’s blooms envelop her in the invisible arms of safety and comfort.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Is there no way out of the mind? ~Sylvia Plath

  Caro dragged a canvas chair the length of the catwalk, then down a short flight of steps. The near-empty beach was a balm to her melancholic mood; she had had a repeating dream of Marcie the night before.

  The dream began the same way with her and Marcie hiking on rough mountainous terrain up a narrow trail that dropped off on either side to several hundred feet below. Being in the lead, Caro doesn’t realize immediately that Marcie stops walking in order to let a hiker pass by who’d come up behind her. Instead of continuing on the path, however, he turns to Marcie and accuses her. “You’ve kidnapped my wife.”

  “No,” Marcie says. “I haven’t kidnapped anyone. I don’t even know you.”

  “Yes, there,” he insists and points to Caro.

  “She’s not your wife. She’s my friend. Go away! Go on your way.”

  The man is large and inches Marcie toward the edge.

  Caro shouts, “Get away from her!”

  “Come to me and I will,” the man says.

  Caro steps toward him.

  The man says, “Good wife,” to Caro, and then turns to Marcie and with both arms shoves her over the side.

  Caro screams, “No!” She runs at the man and begins to hammer his chest with her fists. “You shouldn’t have done that. She was my best friend. You shouldn’t have killed her.”

  “Too late,” the man cackled. “Like always, you were too late.”

  Caro woke up every time at this point in the dream to the heaviness of Marcie having died all over again, and the illogical sense of guilt that she had some culpability in Marcie’s death for not being in the park with her the day she was killed.

  She looked out over the beach and shook her head, a motion to clear out her brain of Marcie’s image. Only a few brave hearts who weren’t bothered by the cool temperature lay out in bathing suits. The others, like her, dressed in sweatpants and jackets.

  Before long, however, the noonday sun burned down into the sand and sent a pleasurable heat up through her body. Caro sank down in the chair and gave herself up to the cacophony of the gulls’ cries as they executed flawless dives in search of food, the hum of a lone fruit fly, and the low slapping of the waves as they licked the edges of the shore.

  Her sadness slowly transformed itself as her memory wrapped around the familiarity of this beach. She’d not known the allure of yellow heat and tumbling surf until her sister, Tereza, married Sean, a contractor she met while visiting a college friend. After the wedding Sean built a home for them in the neighboring hamlet of Remsenburg, an unimposing suburb away from the smog and hustle of Manhattan.

  Only thirteen when her sister married at nineteen, Caro had had the luxury of summering on the Island. Her brother-in-law was happy to have company for his relocated wife. In the mid-Sixties, the Hamptons, especially Westhampton, traditionally considered the poor sister of its more affluent southern and eastern siblings, had yet to be “discovered.” Duck and potato farms were still measured in hectares and spanned the Island from the Atlantic on the north fork to Peconic Bay on the south.

  Caro was old enough to be helpful around the house and young enough not to cause any concerns with borrowing the family car. And dating wasn’t a worry either until Caro developed a crush on a sixteen-year-old boy, the son of a local policeman. They got caught parking in an off-limits area on the beach in his jeep on a couple of occasions until Sean threatened to send Caro home to New Jersey if she didn’t stop seeing him. Tereza tried to intervene on her sister’s behalf but Sean remained firm. In word, Caro complied; in reality, she found ways to date the boy behind her brother-in-law’s back.

  Oftentimes, Caro, Tereza and Sean set out with baskets after he came home from work. He’d gas up the motorboat and they’d head across the Sound to a stretch of beach kept private due to its inaccessibility by land. They’d swim, dig for clams if the tide was right, and eat, sometimes not returning until dusk. The unadulterated joy of those two summers between childhood and young adulthood was untouchable, sacred for its innocence—

  Caro opened her eyes. Covering them with her hand she sat up and put on her sunglasses. The twosome came immediately into sight.

  “Livia, look this way.” Nina directed her niece toward an invisible spot to the right of the lens. “That’s great,” she said. Crouching around her niece, she clicked multiple shots.

  Livia sidestepped the eye of the lens and held up her hand to beg no more.

  Nina let the camera drop onto her chest. “No, Livia. I’m not done yet. The light is perfect.”

  Livia gripped her aunt’s arm with both hands. “Please, we’ve done enough.”

  “No. Now get in place again.” Nina jerked her arm free.

  Livia planted her feet and stared at the spot on the ground where her aunt indicated. Slim and flat-chested, Livia didn’t have the full-fledged figure of other girls her age. She was all young ballerina arms and legs but without the apparent grace that either training or maturity brings. And so she stood in coltish stubbornness until the sea coughed up a light spray, inducing her to move. She raised her foot to take up her position, but stopped mid-air.

  “Get,” Nina ordered.

  Livia stumbled into place and tears seeped out from under her lowered eyelids.

  Caro watched the scene play out between aunt and niece, photographer and model. She wished she could see Livia’s face to know what made her such a special subject, for even the perspective from her back stirred Caro. There was something about the way Livia’s plaited hair purled along her spine, wavelike—a symbolic tribute to the ocean that rushed homeward in dedicated routine on
ly to leave with equal constancy. Or was the tidal movement a metaphor for the girl’s position on the threshold of young adulthood, her defense mechanism against the uncertainties of life?

  Nina observed Livia’s slackness through the lens. “Shit!” she said half aloud, and then to Livia, “All right. Get out of here.”

  Livia started toward her aunt but when she spotted Caro she set off for home, making a wide arc well out of reach of the approaching woman.

  Nina put up her hands. “I told you she’s shy.”

  Caro shrugged off the apologetic words. “She’s young,” she said and joined Nina as she followed Livia’s retreat.

  Livia pumped her arms as she ran and her honey-blonde braid bumped lightly on her back. When she got to the catwalk, she skidded to a stop.

  Caro hoped she would turn around. She waited for it without knowing why. But Livia did not oblige and disappeared from sight.

  Nina replaced her camera in its case and then put the case into a large, plastic-lined canvas bag safe from the elements. “I’m anal,” she said, patting the bag.

  Caro lowered herself onto the chair. Nina leaned back on her elbows on the blanket and stretched out her legs, crossing them at the ankles.

  Caro noticed Nina’s smoothly waxed skin and immaculate pedicure. If Marcie had been here, she would’ve already made appointments for them at Tommy’s spa. On her own, Caro was lazy about her grooming, then felt embarrassed when she found herself in a situation like this one. She desperately tried to hide her chipped red toenails. She gave a small toss of her head.

  “Does Livia model for you a lot?”

  “Bribery used to work. Lately, it’s only on command. She has no idea what a rare beauty she is. Just heats up the camera.”

  “How long is she staying with you?”

  “Two months. Maybe more. Her mother and new husband are traveling through Singapore and China, part honeymoon, part business. He’s an exporter looking to find a base in Hong Kong.” Nina smirked. “The family thought my being in the arts—a photographer—was capricious and more prone to multiple divorces. Meanwhile Tommy and I have been together eighteen years. This is Carmen’s third husband.”

  “Where’s her dad?” Caro asked.

  “Oscar’s sweet and stays as involved as he can in Livia’s life, but he’s busy with his own family. Inherited a handful when he remarried—three teenage stepsons.”

  Nina raised herself into a sitting position and, gathering her hair in a thick tail, flipped it to one side. She shifted the talk to Caro. “Gwen mentioned you were supposed to rent with someone else. Did she change her plans?”

  Caro hesitated. “She died.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be so nosy.”

  “It’s fine. It’s just that I knew Marcie for a long time. We were, I mean, she was an incredible person.” Caro said.

  “Do you have family,” Nina asked.

  “My daughter, Abby, lives in London. And my husband’s been dead for several years, so I’m used to doing things on my own.”

  Caro felt a current of unease slither along her backbone. She was uncomfortable talking about people she loved to someone she had met only the night before, no matter how genuine Nina seemed.

  “If we can do anything at all…” Nina offered.

  “What?” Caro asked.

  “…you know, with Marcie not here.”

  “Thanks,” Caro said. And then, “I think I’ll head in.”

  They got up simultaneously; Caro helped gather Nina’s belongings.

  When they got to the steps that climbed up the dune, Caro saw Livia at the window in the tower. In the bright sunlight, the girl appeared made out of gold. Caro suddenly felt her heart pound, and an inexplicable desire to get to know Livia rose to her consciousness.

  Nina tapped Caro on the shoulder.

  “Sorry,” Caro said startled, and turned quickly away.

  “No problem. You can put everything down here,” Nina said.

  Caro set down a large canvas bag and a retractable tripod. When she straightened up, she couldn’t help herself and glanced in the direction of the tower. Livia was gone.

  “Thanks for the extra arms.” Nina pushed through the double doors and called, “Hey, I’m home,” to her niece.

  ***

  Later that evening, inspired by Livia’s surprising entry into her life and Nina’s own attractiveness, Caro pondered again the connection between ideal love and beauty. As for herself, she didn’t look in a mirror unless the task called for it: fixing her hair or applying makeup. Even in public bathrooms where rows of glass striped the walls above the sinks, Caro shrunk from her reflection.

  She wasn’t ugly, just not pretty. An artist friend once told her she was a study in lightness. Oatmeal and bone and sand came to mind when she contemplated her features. The irises of her eyes were small and of the palest river-stone grey. Habitual scowling had driven a rut between her eyes, which she obsessively tried to rub smooth with her forefinger. Everything about her was millimeters out of balance. Even her right eyebrow arched higher than the left, a defect made obvious when she wore her glasses and one brow dipped below the frame.

  Caro let out a small sigh. In the Hamptons all the women seemed bred from a common pool of superior genes. Not knowing any of them personally made them easier to ignore as they passed her on the sidewalk. In contrast, Nina’s close proximity and friendly personality were going to make it impossible for Caro to forget her own physical failings.

  Snickering at herself, she flicked off the bathroom light and went into the bedroom where she’d left her pen and journal on the dresser. The pen, unlike the mirror, seemed forgiving. If there was any reflection to be had from the pen, it was of her soul.

  As always when the mirror disappointed, she felt all the more inspired to create. Images transformed into words that swam in and out of her awareness. She wanted to hook the words in her handwriting, to feel the physical sense of each curve and curl stringing the letters together in a cursive mosaic. The transference of inspiration to the pen and then onto the page was a choreography of sorts; the only guesswork was in the mechanics of style.

  Caro opened a spiral notebook—its pages clean and tight—and positioned a new pen, only to have the words, that moments before had been poised for expression, drift away. An unstoppable stream of snapshots of Livia filtered into her consciousness. Caro studied every image, holding each one up to a mental frame as if someone was passing her tangible photographs. And once again, she felt an unnamable attraction to the girl.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Writing, I think, is not apart from living. Writing is a kind of double living.

  The writer experiences everything twice.

  Once in reality and once in that mirror which waits always before or behind. ~Catherine Drinker Bowen

  Caro negotiated her way through half-naked, oil-slick bodies in order to get closer to the water. Now mid-afternoon, the temperature hovered at seventy-eight, and a northeasterly breeze kicked up the surf.

  The day before, she’d bought a portable beach canopy and already acknowledged the value of her purchase as she sat in the shelter of its nylon walls, immune to wind, sun, and prying eyes. She’d eaten lunch in clean comfort and now, with her skin a pale pink from an hour of sunning, she was enjoying a brief respite when she heard someone talking.

  “Aunt Nina says you’re a poet.”

  As the words registered, Caro’s heart sped up and her eyes came open with a start. As each inch of Livia came into Caro’s view, she expelled her breath in a soft rush, unaware she’d been holding a lungful of air in her chest. She’d been wrong. Her earlier imaginings about what Livia looked like close up did not compare with the beauty that stood before her.

  Yet, it wasn’t only the sea-foam eyes or the straight nose or the rose lips set in a firm chin that made Caro pale from the sheer amazement of Livia’s prettiness. Nor was it her freshly tanned skin. It was Livia’s expression; she owned a poise in spite of t
he way she chewed at her lower lip. Caro couldn’t bear to dwell on her any longer. Poem or picture—Livia could raise either to life!

  “Yes, I am,” Caro said. She adjusted herself and gestured for Livia to join her under the cover of the canopy. “Do you like poetry?”

  Livia nodded, and then sat cross-legged at Caro’s feet.

  “So where’s home, Livia?”

  “It used to be Westchester, but I don’t know where after the summer,” Livia said.

  “Oh, why is that?” Caro asked.

  “Mom and my new step-dad have to figure that out depending on where he opens up his business. Right now they’re in Thailand.”

  “Thailand…that would be a big change,” Caro said.

  Livia looked away toward the ocean.

  Caro held up a bottle of iced green tea from the cooler. “It’s all I have.”

  Livia accepted the drink. “Are you here just for the summer too?”

  “Yes,” Caro said. “Reminds me of when I was just a little older than you and I used to come and stay with my sister and her husband.”

  “Are they still here?”

  “Not anymore, but I remember the fun we used to have,” Caro said.

  “Like what?”

  “Clamming was one of my favorite things.”

  Livia’s eyes brightened. “Me, too! Uncle Tommy and I go so much Aunt Nina is sick of clams. She says she’s running out of recipes.”

  “I love them cold on the half-shell,” Caro said.

  “Maybe you can come with us one time.”

  “I’d like that.” After Nina and Tommy had warned Caro of Livia’s shyness, she was glad how open she was. “So tell me more about your interest in poetry.”

  “I’m a poet, too.”

  “How wonderful! What do you write about?”

  “Different things,” Livia said.

  “Like what,” Caro asked.