Barefoot: A Novel

by Elin Hilderbrand

  “When I think back on the stuff I tried as a kid . . . ,” John Walsh said. “It’s a bloody miracle I didn’t accidental y off myself.”

  Ted swil ed his beer, nodding in agreement. Buzz Lyndon cleared his throat and settled in a deck chair. Everyone was quiet. The silence was similar to the silence Tom Flynn liked to immerse himself in; it was this silence that Josh had always found intimidating. But now, he savored it. Four men could drink beer on a deck and not say a word and not find it awkward. Women would talk, say whatever came next to their minds. Men could keep what was on their minds to themselves. And what was on Josh’s mind was . . . Melanie.

  The anticipation of seeing her that afternoon had nearly strangled him; he felt like a half-crazed animal pul ing on its chain. As soon as Josh set eyes on her (a little rounder in the mid-section, a little tanner, a little more luminous), as soon as they were pushing Porter in the baby jogger down Shel Street, he fil ed with quiet elation. She asked about the suit, and he told her about Didi. Talking to Melanie was as therapeutic as crying. A sudden, unexpected death, the death of someone young, the death of someone Josh hadn’t always treated nicely, a death that caused him to fil with guilt and regret—Melanie got it; she understood. Josh and Melanie became so engrossed in talking about Didi that they managed, for a while, to forget about themselves. But then, when talk of Didi was exhausted, Josh felt he had to address the issue of their relationship.

  “I hadn’t planned on coming back here,” he said.

  “I didn’t expect to see you,” Melanie said. “I thought you were gone.”

  “Wel ,” Josh said.

  “Wel what?”

  “I wanted to see you.”

  Melanie smiled at the ground. They had made it al the way to the beach and were on their way back to Number Eleven. In the strol er, Porter was fast asleep. They could have turned right, back onto Shel Street, but Josh suggested they continue straight.

  “Past the ’Sconset Chapel?” Melanie said.

  “Yes.”

  They walked for a while without speaking. Then Josh said, “You’re going back to Peter?”

  Melanie pressed her lips together and nodded. “He’s my husband. That counts for something. The vows count for something.”

  “Even though he broke them?” Josh said.

  “Even though he broke them,” Melanie said. “I realize that must be hard for you to hear.”

  “It’s hard for me to think of you getting hurt again,” Josh said.

  “He won’t . . . wel , he said he wouldn’t . . .”

  “If he does,” Josh said, “I’l kil him.”

  Melanie leaned her head against Josh’s shoulder. The church was in front of them; there were white ribbons fluttering on the handrails of the three stone steps that led to the front door. The vestiges of someone’s wedding. “Finding you was the best thing that could have happened to me,” she said.

  It was another line that rendered Josh speechless. As he stood now on the back deck drinking his beer, he thought: Yes. It had been the best thing for both of them, as unlikely as that might seem to outside eyes.

  Josh was startled when the back door opened and Vicki poked her head out to say, “Josh? D——inner? You’l . . .” She nodded at the picnic table.

  “Sure,” he said. “I’d love to.”

  At dinner, Josh sat between Melanie and Vicki. Melanie kept a hand on Josh’s leg while Vicki loaded his plate with food. Talk was light: Josh heard al about the fishing trip, the bluefish, the bonito. Then Buzz Lyndon told some fishing stories from his youth, then John Walsh told fishing stories from Australia, which quickly turned into stories about sharks and saltwater crocodiles and deadly box jel yfish. Josh had consumed no smal amount of wine—Ted, at the head of the table, kept leaning forward and fil ing Josh’s glass—and the wine, along with the candlelight and the pure lawlessness of Melanie’s hand on his leg, gave the evening a surreal glow. Over the course of the summer he had made a place for himself at this table—but how? He thought back to the first afternoon he set eyes on them: Three women step off of a plane.

  Brenda sat in the crook of Walsh’s arm with a contented smile on her face. Scowling Sister. Except now she seemed happy and at peace. Vicki

  —Heavy-breathing Sister—seemed melancholy and very quiet, though now Josh understood why. The summer had left Vicki physical y transformed (her blond hair was gone, and she was leaner by at least twenty pounds), but she stil retained what Josh thought of as her “mom-ness,” that quality that brought everybody together and made sure every detail of the day was tended to. She was the glue that held everyone here together. If they lost her, they would break apart, splinter off. Fal to pieces. That was the cause of her melancholy, perhaps: She understood how important she was to other people and she couldn’t stand to let them down.

  Final y, next to him, touching him, was Straw Hat. Melanie. He liked to think he had saved Melanie, but it was probably the other way around.

  Melanie had taught Josh things he never even knew he wanted to learn. She would go back to Peter—that fact was as real and hard and smooth as a marble that rol ed around in Josh’s mind—and Josh would be heartbroken. He was on his way to heartbreak now, sitting here on this last night, but that heartbreak—along with everything else that had happened today—made him feel older and more seasoned. He had his story; nobody could take that away. Chas Gorda would be proud.

  After dinner, there was pie, ice cream, the last of the wine, and smal er glasses of port passed around for the men. Buzz Lyndon produced cigars.

  Ted accepted one, though Josh declined and so did Walsh. Brenda said, “Daddy, cigars stink.”

  “Keeps the bugs away,” Buzz Lyndon said.

  Vicki stood up. “I have to . . .” She touched the top of Blaine’s head. “Josh? Wil you r——ead?”

  Blaine, who was almost asleep on his grandmother’s lap, revived enough to say, “Stories! Please, Josh?”

  Melanie squeezed his knee. Josh stood up. “Ohhhh-kay,” he said.

  He lay down with Blaine on the mattress on the floor of Ted and Vicki’s bedroom. Porter was already fast asleep, sucking away on his pacifier.

  Vicki sat on the bed. She handed Josh Sylvester and the Magic Pebble.

  “It’s sad,” she said.

  “Mom cries whenever she reads it,” Blaine said.

  “Does she, now?” Josh said. He winked at Vicki, then cleared his throat and started to read.

  The story was about a donkey named Sylvester who finds a shiny red pebble that turns out to have magic powers. When Sylvester wishes for rain, it rains; when Sylvester wishes for the rain to stop, it stops. One day, when Sylvester is out, he sees a hungry lion approaching, and in a moment of panic, he wishes he were a rock. Sylvester turns into a rock and he is saved from the lion—but because Sylvester drops the magic pebble, he has no way to turn himself back into a donkey. He is stuck being a rock, no matter how hard he wishes otherwise. When Sylvester does not return home, his parents grow sick with worry. After weeks of searching, they come to the conclusion that Sylvester is dead. They are nearly destroyed by the loss of their only child.

  In the springtime, however, Sylvester’s parents venture out for a picnic and they come across the rock that is Sylvester, and they use him as a table. Then Sylvester’s father spies the magic pebble in the grass—and, knowing it is an object his son would have loved, he picks it up and places it on the rock.

  Sylvester can sense his parents’ presence; he can hear them talking. No sooner does he think, “I wish I were myself again, I wish I were my real self again,” than this becomes true—he turns back into a donkey, right before his parents’ eyes. And—oh!—what happiness!

  In the end, Sylvester and his parents return home and put the marble in an iron safe.

  “‘Some day they might want to use it,’” Josh read, “‘but real y, for now, what more could they wish for? They had al that they wanted.’”

  “They had al that they wanted,”
Blaine repeated. “Because they’re together again.”

  Vicki nodded. Her mouth was a line.

  Josh closed the book. He found it difficult to speak. It would be impossible to say good-bye to the boys right now, and so he kissed first Porter, and then Blaine, on the top of the head.

  “Yes,” he said.

  When Josh and Vicki emerged from the bedroom, the dinner party was breaking up. El en Lyndon was finishing the dishes, Brenda and Walsh had left for a walk up to the lighthouse, Ted and Buzz Lyndon were standing on the back deck, blowing smoke into the night air. Josh had wondered al through dinner if he would have the guts to stay here with Melanie tonight, and now he saw the answer was no. There was an unspoken understanding about him and Melanie, but it had to remain unspoken; there was no point lifting the veil now, on the final day. Josh said his good-byes to the elder Lyndons and gave Ted his best interview handshake.

  Ted said, “Oh, wait, I have something for you,” and pul ed a check out of his wal et.

  “Thanks,” Josh said. He was embarrassed by the money; he stuffed the check into the pocket of his suit pants, though he couldn’t help noticing, in a quick glance, that the check had one more zero on it than usual.

  By the time Ted and Josh made it inside, the elder Lyndons had left for the Wade Cottages, down the street, where they were staying. So it was just Ted, Vicki, Josh and—pouring herself a glass of water at the kitchen sink—Melanie.

  Ted said, “I’m going to bed. Good night, al .”

  Vicki said, “Me, too. Tired.” She looked at Josh, and her eyes fil ed with tears. “I can’t say good——bye to you.”

  There was a lump in his throat and it ached. “Oh, Boss,” he said.

  She hugged him tight. “Josh,” she said. “Th——ank you.”

  “Stop it. You don’t have to thank me.”

  “I’m grateful.”

  “I’m grateful, too,” he said. He paused, thinking of his father’s words: It crossed my mind . . . that you’re out there in ’Sconset trying to find your mother. Wel , it wasn’t impossible.

  Vicki wiped her eyes. They separated.

  “Get better,” Josh said.

  “Okay,” she said.

  “I mean it, Boss.”

  “I know,” she said. “I know you do.”

  Vicki disappeared into the bedroom, and Josh turned around. Melanie was standing there, sniffling.

  “That was beautiful,” she said. “But you know me these days, reading the phone book makes me cry.”

  Josh unrol ed the sleeve of his white dress shirt and used it to wipe the tears from Melanie’s face. It had been a very, very long day, perhaps the longest day of his life, but even so, he wasn’t ready for it to end.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “You can drive.”

  For weeks, Brenda had dreaded the day they were to leave Nantucket—but now, with Walsh at her side, it didn’t seem so bad. They would return to Manhattan together, Brenda would assess the damage and make some decisions. As Brenda was packing up, El en Lyndon teetered into Brenda’s room and handed her a jel y jar fil ed with sand.

  “For your shoes,” El en Lyndon said. “I just gave your sister some.”

  Brenda shook her head. “You’re insane, Mother.”

  “You’re welcome,” El en Lyndon said.

  Brenda considered the jar. She didn’t real y have room for it in either of her bags. She would just leave it on the dresser. But first, just in case El en Lyndon actual y was the owner of divine intuition, Brenda sprinkled some of the sand into her Prada loafers, shoes she had not worn since arriving on the island. And then, in the end, she stuffed the jel y jar into her duffel bag. She needed al the help she could get.

  Brenda’s parents left first on the fast ferry; they would pick up their car in Hyannis and drive back to Philadelphia. Melanie was the next to go.

  Josh appeared in his Jeep to deliver her to the airport so she could make her flight to LaGuardia. Ted, Vicki, and the boys were taking the noon boat and driving back to Connecticut in the jam-packed Yukon. So that left Brenda and Walsh to close up the house. Brenda was amazed that her parents and Vicki had entrusted her with such a massive responsibility, and she wanted to do a thorough job. The fridge was empty and shut off, the gas line disengaged from the gril , the beds stripped. Brenda returned Aunt Liv’s enamel boxes, silver tea set, and lace doilies to their rightful place on the coffee table; she tucked the key under a shingle for the caretaker, who would come the next morning. Right before Brenda closed the door to the cottage for good, she noticed the paper cup of pebbles sitting on a high windowsil . Should she leave it there or throw it away?

  She left it there. There was always next summer.

  Brenda’s cel phone rang in the cab on the way to the airport. For the first time in months, the Beethoven-in-a-blender ring did not cause her any anxiety.

  “Wel , I know it’s not you,” she said to Walsh. “Not that it was ever you.”

  “I cal ed once,” he said.

  Brenda checked the display: Brian Delaney, Esquire. Her instinct was to let it go to voice mail, but she couldn’t run away forever.

  “Hel o, Counsel,” she said.

  “I just got the strangest phone cal ,” said Himself.

  “Did you?” Brenda said. Her mind started running like a taxi meter times ten. “Pertaining to me?”

  “Someone cal ed asking about the rights to your screenplay,” he said.

  “What?”

  “This guy, Feldman? He cal ed the university and they gave him my name, as your attorney.”

  “Feldman?” Brenda said. In the end, she hadn’t sent her screenplay to Ron Feldman or anyone else at Marquee Films. Because after that horrible phone cal , what was the point?

  “Yeah. I guess he borrowed his daughter’s copy of the book and he liked it and he wants to see your screenplay. He was very clear that he makes no promises. I guess Marquee is already doing something similar, a book by some guy named George Eliot, more of that old-time shit, but he did like the Fleming Trainor, he said, and he wants to see the script. You know, I sort of got the impression he thought I was your agent.”

  “So what did you tel him?”

  “I told him the script was out with various studio execs, we had lots of interest, but that we would keep him in the loop before we made any decisions.”

  “You’re kidding me,” Brenda said. “God, I cannot believe this.”

  “He makes no promises, Brenda. In fact, he said even if he did option it, it might molder for years, unproduced. I asked him what his bal park was for an option, and he made it clear it was five figures, not six, so don’t go jumping over the moon.”

  When Brenda hung up, she threw her arms around Walsh’s neck. “Feldman wants to see it. He makes no promises, but he does want to see it.”

  This was good news, not great news, not the best news, but not bad news either. For the first time al summer, Brain Delaney, Esquire, had cal ed without bad news.

  Brenda rested her head against Walsh’s sturdy Australian shoulder as the taxi barreled down Milestone Road toward the airport. She was already over the moon.

  EPILOGUE

  WINTER

  Al over the world, mothers are dying, but at eleven o’clock on the morning of January 29, a mother is born. Melanie Patchen delivers a baby girl, Amber Victoria, weighing eight pounds even and measuring twenty inches long. Healthy.

  When the nurses wheel Melanie out of recovery (after eighteen hours in labor, an epidural, a shot of Pitocin, and a distressed heartbeat, the doctors performed a C-section), Melanie is able to hold her daughter and nurse her for the first time, and she feels like the world is brand-new; she feels like she is seeing everything for the first time.

  When she conveys this feeling to Peter, he says, “That’s the morphine talking.”

  I have a baby, Melanie thinks. This baby is mine. I’m her mother .

  Melanie becomes mesmerized by the impossible smal ness of Amber’s eve
ry feature—her smal mouth, her tiny ears, her fingers and toes, her beating heart the size of an egg. The baby cries, she opens her eyes and turns her head toward sound, she roots against Melanie until she latches onto a nipple. Melanie feels an explosive, protective, overwhelming love. She wants to tel everyone about this new love, how it puts everything else into perspective. But what she quickly discovers is that the world fal s into two categories: those who don’t care and those who already know.

  For three days straight, flowers arrive. There are orchids from Vicki and Ted, pink roses from Melanie’s parents, a cyclamen from Peter’s mother in Paris, an embarrassingly lavish and funereal arrangement from “the gang at Rutter, Higgens,” red gerbera daisies from Melanie and Peter’s neighbors, a potted chrysanthemum from Brenda Lyndon and John Walsh, forced paperwhites from Melanie’s col ege roommate . . . the flowers keep coming until the nurses start to joke about Melanie being “quite the popular one.” Melanie sends the next three arrangements over to the cancer ward.

  On the afternoon of the fourth day, when Melanie is nursing Amber in bed, more flowers arrive. The arrangement is modest, sparse even. It’s tea roses and carnations, a few sprays of baby’s breath; it comes in a mug that says Mommy and has a pink, heart-shaped Mylar bal oon attached.

  “Another one,” the nurse says. It’s Stephanie, Melanie’s favorite nurse, the head of Labor and Delivery. She is blond and pretty, kind and capable; she was with Melanie through the last part of her labor and her C-section and she has done most of the teaching—how to feed and burp the baby, how to give her a sponge bath, how to clean around the umbilical cord.

  Melanie smiles. “And here I thought everyone had forgotten about me.”

  “Apparently not,” Stephanie says. She sets the mug down on Melanie’s meal tray. “Would you like me to read you the card?”

  Melanie studies the flowers. What she realizes is that she’s been waiting for flowers just like this: inexpensive but earnest. Easily purchased online.

  “No, thanks,” Melanie says. “It’l give me something to look forward to when I’m done feeding her.”