“Well, if it did, it’s time for a resurgence. I hope I can accomplish something of the sort with the classes I’ll be teaching.”
“Making curtains—fulfilling!”
“So I’m a dinosaur. I warned you. Call the museum.”
“The asylum is more likely.”
Debbie started at her cousin’s jibe, then realized it was only banter. She had been so happy all day. And she wasn’t going to let anything spoil it. She had slept perfectly last night without—
“Yeech!” Byrl’s shriek interrupted her reverie. “There’s sand coming up the drain!” Byrl dropped the lettuce and jumped back in disgust.
“Oh, no.” Debbie set her fruit plate on the table. “I thought I had that fixed. Get the plunger from the bathroom closet, will you? And hurry. The soufflé falls in four minutes.”
Byrl was quick with the plunger, but despite Debbie’s best efforts, the suction action of the plunger served only to bring up more sand and sludge—and a foul smell with it. “Any ideas?” Debbie’s voice held a note of desperation. “Where do you call a plumber after six o’clock?” The black slime was now creeping over the edge of the sink.
“When I rented this place the agent said there would be a resident landlord in the cottage next door. I haven’t seen anyone around, but I suppose it’s worth a try.” Byrl started for the door.
“Right.” Debbie stepped around the puddle forming on the floor and made another assault with the plunger. “See if you can rouse somebody. I’ll keep at this and pray for the soufflé.”
Her heart sank, however, when the buzzer sounded a minute later. The soufflé tested a perfect doneness. But the kitchen smelled like tar and leaf mold. And the ooze was still rising. They couldn’t possibly eat her delicate dish in the midst of this mess. She turned the oven off, left the door open a crack, and hoped for the best. Behind her the sink began making gurgling sounds.
Feeling like a coward deserting under fire she turned and fled—right into the arms of Gregory Masefield.
“Whoa.” He grinned at her gasp and put his hands on her shoulders to steady her. “I do keep turning up like a bad penny, don’t I?”
Debbie was too amazed to say anything. She backed away from his touch, wondering where on earth Byrl had found him. She was certain someone had said that conference ended yesterday.
Greg took one look at the stinking muck. “Well, it’s a wise man who knows when he’s outclassed. That sink wins hands down. Courtenay left me a list of emergency phone numbers. I’ll be right back.” And he was gone.
Debbie stood blinking at the door. “Did I really see who I think I saw?”
“Isn’t it just too marvelous!” Byrl flung out her arms. “That, my dear, is our landlord. Or, at least, he answered the door at the landlord’s cottage, and Courtenay Wallace was the agent’s name—so he must be on the level.”
“But he’s some great Ph.D. brain, not a handyman.”
“Of course. That’s why he’s calling for help instead of standing knee deep in that yuck brandishing a monkey wrench. Don’t tell me he didn’t learn anything at school.”
In a few minutes Greg returned with a plumber in tow. He pointed the man in the direction of the kitchen and turned to Byrl and Debbie. “Well, the least your landlord can do is take you out for a bowl of clam chowder while Charlie puts everything to rights.” Sloshing noises from the kitchen told them that the competent Charlie was already hard at work. “Judging from the clean dishes on the table, it looks like your dinner died an untimely death.”
Debbie gasped. “My soufflé!” then she shrugged. “Might as well go out. I’ll give it a decent burial when we get home.” She covered the fruit platter and salad greens and stepped across Charlie’s tools to put them in the refrigerator.
A few minutes later they were headed down the boardwalk along the beach to town with Melissa in a pink jogging suit dancing ahead of them. Debbie turned to Greg. “Now, tell us how this came about. How you came about—being here.”
“My sister’s real estate agency in Portland manages these beach houses. Courtenay and her husband usually live here themselves in the summer; it makes a nice break for them. But this year Fred’s engineering firm had some big project going he couldn’t get away from, and Court is in the middle of expanding her agency, so they needed a substitute here. I was doing the stint at Cannon Beach last week anyway and don’t have to be back on campus until after Labor Day. Sooo … I thought it sounded easy. She didn’t tell me the part about the plumbing. I have a feeling Charlie and I are going to become very good friends this summer.”
It was a pleasant walk to town, beachfront hotels lining the way on their left and the wide, smooth Seaside beach to their right, with the impressive cloud-topped Tillamook Head jutting out into the ocean in front of them. Byrl and Greg chatted about their current writing projects. Debbie tried to concentrate on the scenery. But her attention kept straying to the little girl bouncing in front of them, her soft blond hair tossing in the breeze and her sneakers flashing red and gold lights with every step—a delightful sight. So why did it make her want to burst into tears?
She was relieved when they reached the Turnaround where Seaside’s main street met the Promenade. The historical marker offered a safe focus. “End of the Lewis and Clark Trail, January 2, 1806,” she read aloud.
“Are you including Sacajawea in your sketches of American women?” Greg asked Byrl.
“Oh! What a super idea!” She hugged him impulsively. “Thank you, Darling! How could I have missed her?” Byrl pulled out the notebook she always carried in her pocket and jotted a note.
They turned down Broadway, walking past the Sand Dollar Square shops, and turned up Columbia to a gray-blue building with a lighthouse-shaped cupola. “This must be good.” Debbie surveyed the long row of patrons standing in line along the covered walkway.
“Only problem is, once you’ve eaten Norma’s clam chowder you’re spoiled for life.” Greg took a place at the end of the line.
“Daddy, can we ride the bumper cars after dinner? Please?” Melissa tugged at her daddy’s hand.
He grinned. “Sounds like a good idea. We’ll see.”
The line moved steadily forward, but for every advance another group joined the line behind them, so the queue was never shorter than the building itself. Melissa tugged at the edge of Debbie’s white nylon jacket. “Do you like to ride bumper cars?”
“Well, I don’t know. I’ve never done it.”
The round blue eyes grew wide in astonishment. “Oh, it’s the funnest thing in the world.” And she proceeded, with uninhibited gestures, to demonstrate a bumper car ride. Debbie made herself listen. And smile. In spite of the burning sensation in her throat.
By the time Melissa’s narrative was exhausted, they were almost to the door of the restaurant. Debbie turned to find her gregarious cousin making friends with the group behind them.
“Deb, this is George and Sylvia from Eugene and their friend Alex. Sylvia recognized me from the cover of my book. Isn’t that exciting!”
Everyone beamed agreement that it was, indeed, exciting—especially the tall, dark Alex, whose crisp mustache accented his deep tan. Before Debbie could reply, Byrl and Alex were again deep in conversation. As they moved to the front of the line, Byrl said, “You dears go ahead and get a table for three. Alex has invited me to join them.” She leaned close to Debbie and spoke in an exaggerated whisper. “He has some politically incorrect ideas you wouldn’t believe. I simply must set him straight.” Byrl’s eyes flashed a crusading gleam. But Debbie wasn’t so certain that the gleam in Alex’s eyes had anything to do with political opinion.
“Chowder all around?” Greg inquired when they were seated. Debbie nodded and Melissa clapped her hands. The salad came first, crisp greens topped with tiny, plump, pink shrimp and a tasty dressing; then steaming bowls of creamy clam chowder, each with its own sun pool of melted butter.
Debbie savored her first mouthful. “Ooh, what I’d give
for this recipe. I have Abigail Adam’s secret for clam chowder—she cooked soda crackers in it for thickening.”
Greg’s brow wrinkled in surprise. “I didn’t realize a woman of your ambitions would be interested in cooking.”
“What do you know about my ambitions? I—” but before she could finish, Melissa tugged at her daddy’s sleeve and whispered in his ear. Greg nodded and started to rise. “I’ll take her,” Debbie offered.
Greg sat back, looking eminently relieved. “Thanks. Public rest rooms are a major disadvantage of being a daddy.” Debbie glanced at the gold band on his finger and wanted to ask, “So where’s the mommy?” Debbie knew something about mommies that abandoned their families. She felt a wave of anger on behalf of all little girls left without anyone to see to their needs.
But no, there had been some reference to a Mrs. Masefield at the conference. She was probably still there. She was sure to show up in a day or two since they were neighbors. Debbie hurried across the room after Melissa.
Debbie was staring at the seashell wallpaper when Melissa came out to wash her hands. She stood in front of the sink. “I need a boost.”
Debbie jumped. “Oh, of course.” But instead of picking up the child she simply turned on the taps so Melissa could stick her hands under the running water.
“Do you have any little girls?” Melissa asked as she took the paper towel Debbie held out to her.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Well, I have a sister.”
“Don’t you want a little girl?”
“Come on. Our chowder will be cold.”
When they all finished licking their bowls clean, Greg suggested Norma’s homemade apple cobbler, but Debbie really was too full, so she just drank coffee while Greg enjoyed his dessert. “You must be proud of your cousin,” Greg observed after Debbie caught Byrl’s eye at a nearby table and smiled at her. “She’s a very accomplished woman.”
“Oh, yes. She has done well, hasn’t she?” She could think of nothing else to say on the subject, so she asked, “And your sister has her own business?”
“Yes, Courtenay’s agency is small, but they’re very successful. She built it all by herself in less than five years.” His voice reflected unmistakable pride in his sister. “Real estate was a natural for her because she always loved houses. She specializes in older homes and makes a great many of her sales because she has such a good eye for how they can be fixed up. She draws these exciting verbal pictures and gets her clients just itching to make the dream a reality—and of course, they have to buy the house as a first step.”
“That’s great. It’s too bad she’s not closer to Boise. She’d be a good person to speak to my classes on using fabrics in interior design.”
“Oh, is that what you do? I thought you were serious about the political thing.”
Debbie set her coffee cup down. “Oh, dear. Is that bit of flippancy going to haunt me forever?”
Greg shook his head. “It’s forgotten already. Tell me about the real you.”
She shrugged. “Not much to tell—six years keeping house for Dad and the twins.”
“And you were so successful that you worked yourself out of a job.”
“What a great way to put it!”
“And now you’re out to conquer new horizons.”
“Absolutely.” And she lifted her chin and shook her dark hair to assure herself that she meant it. It sounded so easy when you said it like that. And apparently it was. For other women. What was the matter with her?
“Now can we ride the bumper cars, Daddy?” Melissa had waited with surprising patience until the last bite of apple cobbler disappeared into her daddy’s mouth, then, like a kitten waiting to pounce, she didn’t hesitate long enough for him to swallow.
He smiled, nodded, and swallowed all at once. “Sure, Punkin. If our friend here thinks her digestion can take such rough treatment.”
“I’m game.” Debbie jumped to her feet.
Greg, who had vacationed at Seaside since childhood, explained that the Scooters were one of the landmarks of the resort. “Down at that end where the silver foil paper is, there used to be cartoon characters of Maggie and Jiggs—from the ’50s at least—Maggie towered over her poor, henpecked husband declaring, ‘Jiggs, I want to ride too.’ I thought it was a shame they ever covered them up. But then, I’m a sucker for nostalgia.”
“So you’re not necessarily in favor of all the uptown expansion being proposed around here?”
“Not much chance they’ll get too carried away. Oregon has some of the toughest land-use planning legislation in the nation.” Greg turned to fold his long legs into the little red car Melissa had chosen and buckled his daughter in beside him.
Debbie chose a yellow one. All the scooters soon filled, the bell rang, and Debbie pushed her accelerator to the floor. With shrieks of laughter from the drivers, the colorful little beetles took off after each other around and around the big silver room: bumping, bouncing, careening into traffic jams that would make a Los Angeles freeway look like a backcountry road. The only rule was no head-on collisions, and even then a few occurred to cars spun around in the melee.
Debbie’s attack instincts were not as highly developed as many of the others. She preferred to drive a wide swath around the pack and challenge herself to see if she could complete a circle without getting bumped. She was almost around her second circuit when a thumping push from the rear accompanied with delighted little-girl laughter told her a battle was on.
She purposely slowed down, forcing them to pass her. Then she accelerated on the corner and accomplished a beautiful broadside shove. Greg shook his fist for revenge. Debbie shrieked in mock terror.
All too soon the bell rang. The cars drifted to a standstill, the shaft each one sported like a pointer hound’s tail, no longer receiving power from the electrified metal ceiling. “Let’s go again, Daddy! Please, can we?” Greg grinned and handed the attendant the money. Melissa wriggled out of her seat belt and darted across the floor. “I’ll ride with you this time.” She climbed into Debbie’s car.
Debbie instinctively edged closer to her own side. But she had no choice. She reached over and snapped Melissa’s seat belt.
The bell rang and they were off. Fluorescent lights around the walls and glimmering headlights from the little cars reflected off the metal floor and ceiling and silver wallpaper. The room was vibrant with shine and motion. Debbie’s laughter matched Melissa’s, and they waved wildly to their reflections in the mirror that covered the back wall.
“Get Daddy!” Melissa shouted. Debbie took off, driving her craziest and shrieking with Melissa when their goal was accomplished with a bump that sent him spinning. Then he returned the compliment.
Still laughing, and with her knees weak from the wild ride, Debbie was glad for Greg’s arm to help her from the car when the bell sounded again. But she was surprised that he didn’t immediately let go when she was once again on firm ground. She pulled away.
As they walked back up Broadway to the beach, the sun slipped beneath the horizon, leaving behind it a gentle peach, apricot, and lavender tinted sky. People walking along the water’s edge made sharp silhouettes against the pale background. Down the beach a few fires winked into life as groups gathered around the big logs washed ashore by the winter sou’westers. Melissa ran down the wide stairs from the Turnaround to the sand and made a beeline for the swings. “Give me a start,” she requested of Debbie. “I can pump, but it’s hard to get started.”
Debbie gave her three good pushes. When she saw the little legs firmly catch the rhythm, she took the empty swing seat next to Melissa and matched her motion to the child’s.
“‘How do you like to go up in a swing?’” Debbie’s voice rose with their bodies on the word up. “‘Up in the air so blue—Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing ever a child can do. Up in the air and over the wall—’” She stopped. “No, that won’t do. ‘Up in the air and over the beach—till I can see
so wide, ocean and mountains and sand and all over the countryside. Till I look down on the beach so white, down on the pale blue sea. Up in the air I go flying again, up in the air, and down.”
“Oh, I liked it!” Melissa cried. “Did you make it up?”
“Goodness no.” Debbie laughed. “A man named Robert Louis Stevenson wrote it in Scotland over a hundred years ago. I just adapted it a bit. My mother always said it to me when I was little. And I always thought someday …” Her voice strangled in her throat. Her legs quit pumping and her hands dug into the heavy chains of the swing.
How many years had it been since she had thought of that experience? There had been a giant old cottonwood tree in their backyard with a rope swing in it. She had loved that swing. She would sit in it by the hour, telling herself stories. And she would twist the ropes round and round, then lift her feet and let the world spin around and around. And she could remember laying her head back until she was level with the swing seat and holding on for dear life. Around and around. She must have been about Melissa’s age.
And then her mother would come out from the kitchen and push her. High. So high she could almost touch the leaves with her toes. And her mother would recite Robert Louis Stevenson. How could she have forgotten that? The memory brought a tumult of emotions with it. Undefined, puzzling emotions.
“Do you know any more?” Melissa’s voice was breathless, her legs kicking higher and higher.
Debbie pushed herself forward. After three or four sweeps of the lulling motion, the agitation inside her calmed. The breeze blew against her face, pushing her back. The waves rose and fell beyond the stretch of sand. Her own rhythmic breathing steadied her.
“More? Well, I should. Let me think.” Yes, there had been dozens of rhymes. Sitting on her mother’s lap, going places together in the car, walking along sidewalks covered with crunchy leaves. The flood of memories almost choked her.
Debbie took a deep breath. Could she do this without her voice breaking? “To market, to market, to buy a fat pig, / home again, home again, jiggety-jig. / To market, to market …” She completed three verses without a hesitation. “… home again, home again, market is done.”
All Things New (Virtuous Heart) Page 3
