“And I appreciate the fact that Livia has you in her life this summer. My sister’s other marriages didn’t upset her as much as this one, or not that I could tell.” Nina piled the dishes. “Come help me with coffee,” she said to Caro.
When they were in the kitchen, Nina said, “Tommy and I agreed to try and put off any further discussion about Livia until she’s gone. So I didn’t tell him I submitted the photos to Art World.”
“Nina, you didn’t,” Caro said.
“Shh! I don’t care. I’ll deal with him if they accept me. In the meantime, please promise you won’t say anything?”
“I won’t…except that you’re crazy.”
They rejoined Tommy just as he reached for a second helping of cake. The women exchanged looks of envy that Tommy was immune to gaining weight.
“By the way, what should I wear to Phyllis’s party?” Caro asked Nina.
“Dress-down chic,” Nina said.
“I don’t even know what that means, much less own something that fits the description.”
“We’ll go shopping one day next week and I’ll show you,” Nina offered.
“I’ll warn you now,” Caro said. “I have an intense dislike for shopping, especially for myself, mainly because I circle the racks for untold amounts of time clueless as to what will look right.”
“Not to worry. We’ll get you and Livia both outfitted. Maybe buy something new for myself,” she said and filched a chocolate curl from her husband’s plate.
Tommy grimaced in semi-seriousness. “You own dress-down chic already.”
“But I’m sure whatever it is, everyone’s seen it.”
Looking at Caro’s hair with a professional eye, Tommy said, “Am I going to see you before the party?”
“I suppose I have to,” Caro said with reluctance.
“You do,” Nina agreed. “You don’t appear to be anywhere near your age, so why announce it with all that gray hair?”
Tommy circled Caro’s chair, examining her from different angles. “I’ll get my cosmetician to recommend some make-up tips.” He held her chin. “If nothing else, liner to bring out your eyes. Matter of fact, I’ll slot you in for a day of beauty and you’ll have nothing more to do than slip on your party clothes that night.”
Nina pushed back her chair. “I’m going to run up and check on Livia.”
“I’ll help Tommy clean up,” Caro offered.
“Thanks,” Nina said as she gathered up Livia’s presents and mounted the stairs to her room.
“Tell her to stop by tomorrow,” Caro offered. “I’ve got a new poem to show her.”
Nina nodded over her shoulder.
Tommy loaded the dishwasher while Caro stored the leftovers. His methodical movements in the kitchen, combined with the residual cooking aromas, reminded her of a favorite uncle who’d entertained her with stories he made up while he dished up Italian dishes. Like Tommy, between him and his wife, her uncle was the softer of the two. “You care for Livia a lot,” she said.
“She’s sensitive, you know, and Nina, for all her goodness, doesn’t understand her. She wants her niece to be tough and outgoing. Unfortunately, those attributes can’t be transferred just by willing them on someone.”
“If she was stronger, more extroverted, would you be less bothered about the photos?”
“I’m supposed to be sophisticated and cool about different art forms. A canvas painted completely black with a purple circle in the middle of it and titled “Self-Portrait” I’ve got no argument with. It’s ugly but doesn’t hurt anyone. A picture of a tattooed porn star, I find less digestible, but she’s not related. I treat Livia as I would my own daughter, so yes, I still would have a major problem. I just wish Nina would stick to shooting lighthouses and water mills.”
“Wow, you’re very clear on how upset you are with Nina, but Tommy—I have to say, that’s a pretty selfish attitude. Lighthouses and water mills, come on. You know Nina’s better than that.”
Tommy stopped what he was doing and turned on Caro. “Did you ever compromise your daughter?”
“In my own ways, yes,” Caro said.
“Ever forgive yourself?”
“Not totally,” Caro said. “I don’t think I ever can.”
“My point exactly.”
“I don’t believe you’re worried about Nina regretting—”
“Of course not. I’m concerned about forgiving myself if I don’t try and stop her.”
CHAPTER NINE
There’s a period of life when we swallow a knowledge of ourselves and it becomes either good or sour inside. ~Pearl Bailey
Caro wrenched the bed sheet and coverlet from the coiled mess around her legs and tucked them up under her chin, her elbows pointing out to either side like airplane wings. Her blanketed and tucked position didn’t stop her from bouncing from side to side or from punching the pillow with her fist in frustration minutes later. In the three hours since midnight, she’d drifted off twice as many times, and awakened from a recurring dream.
More like a nightmare, it began with Marcie walking in the park where she had been attacked. Instead of the mugger slamming her with a bat, he covered her eyes with his hands, and exclaimed, “Guess who?” When Marcie peeked, she saw it wasn’t her assailant at all. It was Zach!
They didn’t spot Caro, who peered from a distance. They didn’t kiss. There was no embrace. And yet Caro woke every time sweaty and shaken right at the moment when she found them out.
In reality, Caro had no reason to believe there was anything between Zach and Marcie besides friendship. She reflected on the numerous occasions the three of them had been together. After Marcie’s divorce, she melded into their family seamlessly. They didn’t have to invite her to anything; it was expected that she’d be there, and most of the time she was.
Often, on weekends, Marcie stayed over, bringing an overnight bag. After a while, so many of her clothes had accumulated at the apartment that one day when Caro was doing the laundry, she’d laughed to herself at the number of Marcie’s items she was washing.
Caro sat upright, drew her knees in and hugged them as she recalled the many nights she had holed herself up in her study to write. Intermittent chords of laughter would drift up the circular staircase like curlicues of cigarette smoke and she’d raise the volume on whatever mood music she had on so as not to lose focus.
She’d never been jealous of them. Quite the opposite, she was a dedicated artist and Marcie’s friendship with Zach alleviated her guilt for not spending the evenings with him watching reruns of Seinfeld and Sex and the City.
Zach and Marcie? The only other person she loved more was her daughter. They wouldn’t have cheated on Caro. She drew out the oversized T-shirt in front of her—U.S. Open, ’96. She’d known Marcie only six months. Nevertheless, when Zach found out she was an obsessive Andre Agassi fan, he’d insisted she tag along to Queens with them to attend the grand-slam tennis event. Marcie had bought him the T-shirt in appreciation.
Caro went into the kitchen, switching on lights. Standing with the refrigerator door open, she was deciding whether to drink iced tea or a beer, when a staggering thought seized her heart and slid up to her throat.
Zach had been at a job site when he’d suffered his heart attack. By the time Caro had received the phone call and then driven to the hospital, he was already undergoing surgery to repair an aortic aneurysm. Afterward, the doctors had assured her the prognosis looked hopeful. It took Zach only twenty-eight hours to prove them wrong.
Marcie had arrived at the hospital shortly after Caro and had remained until the end. In the last hour before Zach died, he’d asked to see Marcie alone. At the time, Caro had imagined that he wanted to extract a promise from Marcie that she’d look after his wife and daughter. She was so upset—who knew what she was thinking, or why. But that was it.
And when Marcie emerged from the room, her eyes red from crying, Caro asked about the piece of paper crushed in Marcie’s fist. Marcie had denied its
importance; a tissue, she’d said. But a circle of red darkened around her neck like a collar and stained her cheeks and she’d hurried off down the hall.
Although over the next weeks Marcie’s obfuscation had niggled at Caro, in her grief the incident had gotten lost. Now she contemplated with a studied fierceness what that paper could have been—what had it contained?
Agitated by her insomnia and her irrational thoughts, Caro dialed Abby’s number, hoping that her daughter’s voice would calm her.
“Mom, this is the third time this month you’re calling in the middle of your night. Are you all right?”
“I had bad dreams about Marcie,” Caro said.
“Did you want to talk about it?”
“It’s just that I haven’t been able to settle down to anything since she died. I haven’t written, and now I’m getting nightmares. Seems like Livia’s the only person I feel completely sane with.”
“And me?” Abby said.
“You know what I mean. Out of the people I see here.”
“Maybe that’s your problem. Except for her aunt and uncle, you don’t mention anyone else but her. You need to socialize. What is it that you do with her anyway?”
Caro was defensive. “I mentor her.”
“In what?”
“Poetry mostly. She has great potential. More important, I understand her and she appreciates that.”
“That’s fine, but nobody mentors twenty-four seven,” Abby said.
“There’s no one else to socialize with. Besides, I’d compare everyone to Marcie.”
“That’s totally understandable. That’s why you need to give yourself a push. You know how easy it is for you to isolate.”
“Easy as it is for you to give advice. What I need is a little sympathy.”
Abby checked the time; she had to get ready for work, and so she ignored her mother’s barb. “I’m sorry, Mom. Losing Marcie’s been hard.”
Caro felt herself in the grips of a bad mood, and itching to fight with her daughter. “That’s all you can say? Maybe if you lost someone close to you—”
“Does losing my dad count?” Abby shot back.
“No, he was family. I mean someone you choose especially to be a best friend, that you can depend on and talk to and…”
“I’m getting off,” Abby said.
“Not now you’re not. I’m still talking,” Caro snapped.
“Fuck, Mom! You want to pick a fight, go find your young school friend,” Abby said, and hung up.
Caro was glad not to talk to her daughter any longer. How dare Abby implicate Livia in their disagreement. Livia was fast becoming a part of Caro’s daily routine, and finding her was exactly what Caro needed.
By first light, Caro was walking along the beach as the sun moved in and out of a rosy, purplish haze. A beautiful day was inevitable for even now she detected the globular field of yellow heat behind the low cloud cover. She walked quickly, mentally stamping out her argument with her daughter the night before with each definitive footprint she made in the hard-packed sand.
She thought of Livia instead. Indeed, she couldn’t stop thinking about the girl. She didn’t understand how she could be falling in love with the teen. And yet, she couldn’t get around the hard truth—she did love her.
Caro didn’t realize how far she’d walked until she came upon the Hampton Bay Bridge. On the other side was Lacey’s, a coffee shop that opened at four, though most of its customers, at that hour, were fishermen.
It was nothing more than a shack with a screened-in porch for sitting. There was additional seating outside, but the plastic chairs were still wet with dew and turned seat-side-down on the tabletops. The pungent smells of fish, bait, and diesel fuel brought Caro back to the living.
Caro gave her order at the counter and stepped into line with the other patrons who were waiting for their food. Suddenly, she muttered “Shit!” and dug in the pockets of her hoodie for money, knowing she’d forgotten to bring any. “Excuse me. Excuse me,” she said repeatedly as she inched her way to where she’d placed her order—and found herself face to face with Nina.
“Oh, thank God, how great to meet you here,” Caro said. “I forgot my wallet. Do you have a few dollars to spare?”
“Sure. I’m just getting a second cup of coffee. Livia’s over there,” she said and pointed to a table along the wall. “I’ll grab your order when it comes up.”
“Livia’s here?”
“Yeah, like I said, over there.”
“What are you doing up and out this early?” Caro asked Livia.
“We were at the docks before dawn to photograph a fisherman who hooked a twelve-foot great white shark yesterday. The shark had been kept on ice overnight especially for the shoot. It was amazing.”
“I have to agree, it was pretty extraordinary,” Nina said as she placed the coffee and food on the table. “What’s your story, Caro?”
Caro shook her head. “I just started walking this morning and—”
“Walking, did you say?”
“I know,” Caro said. “I kind of had it on autopilot.”
“Guess so. Anyway, I was going to call you later to ask if you want to come to Queens with me tomorrow. I’m getting a tattoo as a surprise for Tommy for our anniversary next week. I really want things to ease up between us.” She whispered the last comment behind her hand at the same moment Livia left the table to fetch syrup from the counter.
“Can I tell?” Livia asked as she prepared her pancakes.
“Go ahead,” her aunt said.
“The tattoo is of an angel with very long hair. She’s on tiptoes with clouds below her, and reaching up to a star. The hair is for Uncle Tommy being a stylist, and his name is written in the clouds.”
“Where are you putting it? And how big?” Caro asked.
“A three-by-three circle on my shoulder.”
“Hope he loves it.” Caro’s attention was on Livia. The newly risen sun shone through the window screens, dispersing particles of light like glitter across her face.
“Do you have any tattoos, Caro?” Nina asked.
“Actually, I almost got one once. And have thought about it now and then.”
“When? What happened that you didn’t?” Livia sat forward, her expression full of anticipation.
“Never had the courage, I guess. And my husband didn’t like them on women.”
“Get one now with me,” Nina said.
“Don’t think so. Not on this old body of mine,” Caro said.
Livia’s enthusiasm and curiosity about the subject produced a pale blush on her cheeks. “What would you get if you did?”
Caro didn’t hesitate. “A long-stemmed lotus in full bloom with the word infinity written in black Chinese characters above it. I’d have it done right here.” She indicated her right hip. “And another small one on my inner wrist.”
“Seems like you’ve thought about it more than only every once in a while.”
Caro remained neutral. “Like I said, not on this body.”
Nina urged, “Come be my support anyway?”
“Sure, what time?”
“My appointment’s at two. But I figure we’ll leave about noon so we have time to get lunch before. I know a great Italian deli nearby.”
“Coming too?” Caro asked Livia.
“Wouldn’t miss it. Maybe I’ll get a tattoo.”
“Don’t get any ideas,” her aunt cautioned. “Your mom’s not into tattoos.”
“Mom’s not here,” Livia said in a tone of finality.
Caro asked Livia, “What are you doing for the rest of the day?”
Livia looked to her aunt for an answer.
“Nothing planned yet, but we need to decide when we’re going clothes shopping for Phyllis’s party.”
Caro begged off. “Another day.”
“You sound like someone else I know,” Nina complained.
Caro winked at Livia, whose face lit into a smile.
“Well,” Caro sai
d, “Sweetwater Books is sponsoring an open-mike poetry reading tonight. Thought you might want to go?”
“Are you reading?” Livia asked.
“Maybe, I haven’t decided yet.”
“I’d like to. What about you, Aunt Nina?”
“Thanks, but I’ll leave the poetry to you two.”
***
The reading was at the gazebo on the village green. As Caro and Livia walked from the car with thermoses and blankets, Caro felt the pride of having Livia with her. People paused in their conversations to stare at the girl, whose skin, in the light of the late-day sun, appeared almost iridescent.
“It’s crowded already,” Livia said. “Want me to run ahead to get a good spot?”
“You don’t have to and really, I don’t feel like climbing over a lot of people. We’ll find a place out of the main throng,” Caro said and steered Livia off to one side, near the forsythia that hedged the property.
Caro positioned herself slightly behind Livia so she could look upon her and keep her eyes on the stage at the same time. Not long ago, Abby had cautioned her that she needed a life, but she wanted little else than Livia’s company; it seemed that simple. And her ambition to mentor Livia seemed to fade in the face of her growing feelings.
Within a short time, Ian Finch, the owner of Sweetwater Books, began the proceedings with a brief welcome, then introduced the first reader, a local poet whose book Ian had displayed in the window of his store.
Caro was the third to read. Ian introduced her as “a cherished poet, and winner of numerous prestigious awards, including the Pulitzer Prize in 1995 for her collection, Primal Landscapes.” He continued, “Ms. Barrone is at work on a new collection, In Search of Eros, from which she will read tonight’s selection entitled, “Desire.” Ms. Barrone.” Ian led the audience in applause.
Caro’s style of poetic recitation was purposeful, almost pensive, as if she was new to the work and intent on capturing each nuance of language, dallying over the words; strung together they became the verses that hung like stars over the bandstand.
The Yellow Braid Page 7
