Her words seemed to have come in one long breath, in a single sentence, and the other women just stared at their quiet starling until she rubbed at her face. “Sorry ’bout that.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Rose said. “It’s true. Let’s add Jerry McGuire where Tom Cruise says ‘You complete me.’ It goes on and on. Every Hallmark movie. Every romance novel. Life is so much different than that; it was always meant to be different than the stories and books, but we got confused. We thought our love stories were supposed to be just like the fairy tale.”
Rose nodded. “As a creative writing major, every story I told was a love story. Everything . . . is a love story. It just depends how we want to tell it. I still believe that.”
“Or we want to believe it,” Victoria said.
“Whoa.” Beatrice lifted her hands. “Can we back up about ten sentences? What do you mean the husband who didn’t pay the bills?”
“Forget it.” Daisy waved her hand and wine sloshed over the edges of the glass and onto Red’s pine floors; she didn’t notice.
“Oh, hell no,” said Victoria. “We will not forget it. What . . .” and she paused, looked at each of the best friends as if they were huddled at two in the morning in the living room of their decrepit house at college, the ragged furniture covered in shared clothes and CDs and schoolbooks. “What happened?”
Daisy exhaled and slumped in on herself, her head bowed before she looked up and told them the truth. “It’s been five years. I’ve paid them off. But yes, he left loads of debt. I went back to work teaching, and the girls went to in-state colleges and we’ve dug our way out. But I just meant . . . the happily ever after is rarely ever after. It’s happy for the moment. Then life. Then some more happiness and then . . . you know . . . life. But that doesn’t mean it was a bad marriage or I didn’t love him. It’s just never a storybook.”
“Yes.” Beatrice looked up to see that twilight had turned to dark; night had fallen on their conversation. Nature’s sounds had changed from birdsong to frogs; the hum of boats rushing by had turned to the slap of water against the dock and the tinkle of oyster shells disturbed by the tide.
Beatrice looked to each woman. “I am so glad you’re all here. I don’t mean for this to turn into a love inquest. I just want to understand why I resisted Lachlan for so long. I mean, that has had serious consequences, and I don’t get it. You three know me better than anyone in the world. Sometimes it takes someone else to show us who we are.”
4
The Moon
The moon spread a wide swath of light across the water, a pathway so vivid it looked as if they could walk across it, find themselves on the far side of the earth on moonlight. Dinner of tomato soup and Beatrice’s toasted homemade sourdough bread was over, and they’d made their way outside to the beach. A pale slip of sand was sandwiched between the wild grasses and the estuary’s waves. The gray-brown sand of the Lowcountry with its rough feel beneath their bare feet was as familiar and comforting as their best memory. Victoria spread a striped blanket and they sat; the four of them sat side by side in silence as a sweet acrid smell floated by on a breeze, an aroma coming from the shack where Red resided.
Could he hear them?
Victoria lifted her face. “I know that smell.”
Beatrice smiled. “If you lived anywhere near our house in 1986, you would know that aroma.”
Daisy laughed and lay flat on the blanket, stared up at the dark sky. “Victoria, go get us some of that. I think we could all use a little—”
“Daisy!” Beatrice elbowed her friend. “I don’t think getting pot from the landlord was in the contract, and honestly, I am horrified he’s even here.”
But Victoria was gone before they could blink another eye, before another wave could crash onshore. “Be right back,” she called over her shoulder.
They looked at each other in the moonlight and laughed, fell back on the blanket. “Our Bird of Paradise,” Beatrice said. “God, I love her.”
Daisy settled on her side, propping her cheek on her hand to face Beatrice. “And I love all of you. How lucky we are.”
Silence spread across the night until, minutes later, Victoria came bounding back with a thin rolled joint in her hand. Each sat without a word and Daisy lit it, took a puff, and passed it down the row. Beatrice inhaled and held in the acrid smoke, feeling that old 1980s feeling of falling past her own anxiety and into a place that, for a moment, felt padded and soft. She handed the thin joint back down the line. “Even the taste of it brings back memories.”
“Sure does.” Rose took a long breath of fresh air. “Now, Victoria, tell me the swan maiden story. No more excuses.”
Victoria shook her head. “No. Not now.”
“When’s better than now?”
“Well, you asked.” Victoria stood and with the breeze her kimono flew open like wings. She stood beneath the full moon, hair wild about her, looking very much like the bewitched storyteller she was hoping to be. “In a time long ago, but not far away.” She stopped and smiled at her friends. “There was a mythical creature called the swan maiden who could shapeshift from human to swan form when and how she pleased. But to be seen as human, she had to shed her swan feather skin and lay it aside. One night while swimming in the lake a man saw her: a beautiful swan maiden swimming naked in the water. He fell instantly and hopelessly in love. How could he possibly convince such a perfect creature to be his own? He came every night for many nights to watch her until finally he devised a plan. While she swam, he grabbed her feather skin, took it for his very own. When the maiden realized her feathers were gone, she begged him for them back, and he promised to give them back to her if she would marry him for a while, for just a little while, he told her. Bear him children and let him love her, and then she could have her feather skin back.”
Rose let out a sound so close to a whimper that Beatrice moved closer to her. “You okay?”
“I am. Go on, Victoria. Go on. What happened next?”
Victoria turned to the moon. “The woman gave the man everything he wanted: a house, a home, love, and children. When the time came that the children were safe and on their own, she asked for her feather skin back. She was desperate to return to the lake, to the waterfalls and rivers of her true self. She wanted her swan skin and her feathers. But he refused. He broke his promise and she was forced to stay on land. She mourned her feathers for the rest of her remaining days—”
“Oh my God, Victoria,” Daisy cried out. “Give it a better ending than that.”
“You give it a better ending.” Victoria turned around and shrugged. “That’s the legend I know.”
Rose stood up next to Victoria. “Here’s how it should go: One day the swan maiden discovered her feather skin, hidden in a trunk in the attic. She slipped it on and ran to the river, dove into the waters, and was never seen again. Restored to her true self, she swam as far and as deep as she wanted. The End.”
Victoria threw her arm over Rose’s shoulder. “Yes. Infinitely better.”
Beatrice sighed. “Yes, much better. You know, Lachlan has never, not once, asked me to be anyone other than who I am. He loves me. He sees me. I have never loved so much or felt so loved. It’s like . . . being with all of you. He’s never tried to take my feathers.”
Victoria dropped her arm from Rose, took a few steps onto shore before she sloughed off her kimono. Her bra and panties fell like dark shadows to the sand, and she walked into the water, slipping into the waves and floating on her back to stare at the starry sky. “Come in!” she called.
And they did, one after the other, slipping from their clothes into the warm water at ebb tide to float on their back and watch the stars get brighter and brighter, their fire burning holes through the dark sky.
5
The Next Day
When they awoke the next morning, gathered in the kitchen in their pjs over the coffeepot and sizzling eggs on Red’s black cast-iron pan, the friends came out one by one holding their pastel-co
lored drawings. With hugs and exclamations about how beautiful each of their birds had turned out, they filled their coffee mugs and woke slowly.
“When did you start using pastels?” Daisy held her starling to the light. “It’s extraordinary.”
“Lachlan talked me into it about two years ago when I wanted to try a few new mediums . . . I’ve also been painting oil on wood. It’s been fun to play with new ways to do things.” Beatrice glanced about. “Where’s Victoria?”
Daisy motioned down the hallway. “I’ll go wake her. Sleepyhead is used to living on her own time and schedule.” Daisy walked off and returned in seconds. “She’s not there. Her bed hasn’t even been slept in.”
An alarm raced through Beatrice’s heart; a reminder of the days when her daughters were in high school and she would check their beds in the morning, when she couldn’t remember hearing the chime of the bell that signaled an opening door in the middle of the night, letting her know they’d come home.
Rose set her coffee mug on the counter. “Oh my God. Is she okay? Should we call someone? Go search? What if she tried to swim or . . . ?” Rose got up and went out the door.
“She’s fine,” Beatrice said. “I’d bet a million dollars she’s with Red.”
“No way.” Daisy shook her head. “Why do think that?”
“Because every time I was worried about my teenagers’ empty beds, believing they were dead, they had crashed at a friend’s house and . . . she’s Victoria.”
As if on signal, the screen door opened and Victoria in her caftan swooped into the cabin. “Good morning, Sunshines,” she said, flouncing past them to the back of the house. “I’ll be out soon. Beach day, right?”
“Right,” Beatrice called after her. “Beach day.”
The hours passed with swims and naps and paperbacks held up against the beating sun, and with laughter when someone shot out an old memory or joke. Victoria disappeared for a few hours, and no one worried. The day felt beautiful, hazy and slow. Beatrice thought of Lachlan, but the pain had lessened since she’d arrived here. That sword of loss would return, she knew. But for now, she was so cotton padded with love that it would wait. They caught up on their kids and their lives, on their jobs and the small talk of facts. They laughed about taking pot from their landlord. Then chat would fade, books would open, and soft sounds of sleep would arise.
After lunch, they sat around the pine picnic table, pine needles stuck between the slats of the table and bench. “Sometimes,” Rose said, “when I look at my skin, or my arms, or catch myself in the mirror I can’t believe it’s me. Inside I am not fifty-five. Inside I am the same as I ever was, but outside . . .”
“All of us,” said Daisy, who’d made her famous chicken salad and sangria for lunch. “I’m stunned over and over. When one of Sara’s kids calls me Grandma. When I get the AARP card in the mail, I am shocked again.”
Victoria had just returned, and she twisted her fork in the salad, pushing it around more than eating it. “Beatrice, ten minutes ago we were at your senior project show, admiring your fantastic birds. We were headed into our lives.”
“And now,” said Beatrice, “already passing the middle of our lives, are we making any better decisions than we did then?”
“I hope so.” Rose shrugged and settled back. “But how to know? Daisy, tell us all about the guy you’ve been . . . seeing? Is that the right word these days?”
“It’s weird to date now. Hard to . . . give a word to. I mean, we aren’t dating. But we are.”
“So it’s a booty call?” asked Victoria.
The rest of them ignored the question.
Beatrice propped her elbows on the picnic table. “Tell us about him.”
“Well, it started oddly. On a bet really. During that totally surreal social isolation during the coronavirus last year, both my college girls were home with me and without my permission they made me a Bumble account as a widow.”
“Bumble. What’s that?” Rose asked with raised eyebrows. “Sounds like a society for beekeepers.”
“No. It’s a dating app but the women are in charge. Women make the first move. So Sara set up a profile for me and the first match was this guy who loved Chopin, the architecture of Frank Lloyd Wright, and the poetry of David Whyte. We started talking—well, texting—and two months later we met for coffee. He doesn’t live in Charleston; he lives in Atlanta, so I only see him when he comes to town. He’s a magazine writer—a nature writer, so he travels. Anyway, I’m enamored but definitely not in love. He’d like to be more serious but,” Daisy shrugged. “I am nowhere near ready. But it’s fun.”
During Daisy’s telling, Victoria drew closer to her along the picnic bench. “He sounds lovely. And . . .” She looked around the table. “Familiar.”
“What does that mean?” Daisy pulled her hat’s brim up to gaze at Victoria.
“What’s his name?” Victoria asked.
“Charlie.”
“Holy shit.” Victoria stood up and laughed, her neck hinged backward as she lifted her face to the sky. “Are you kidding me?”
“No, why?”
“What’s his last name? Please God, don’t say Rogers.”
Daisy removed her sunglasses and stared at Victoria. “Yes. Rogers. How the hell do you know that? Have you been in my phone?”
“No, I haven’t been in your phone, but I have been in his bed. I’ve been sleeping with him.”
“What the hell.” Daisy flipped her hair behind her shoulders.
Beatrice pressed her lips together and then said, “This can’t be true. You can’t both be dating the same guy, right? It has to be two different people.”
Victoria threw her hands in the air. “Nope. Same guy.”
Daisy stood and then sank again. “Oh my God. I’m such an idiot.” She looked up to Victoria. “How the hell am I supposed to compete with the likes of you?” She covered her face.
“Compete?” Victoria sat down and put her arm around Daisy. “Are you kidding? This guy is an obvious scumbag. He’s been dating us both and telling us both he wants to get more serious. What is that about? If it’s the both of us I guaran-damn-tee there’s more.”
Daisy looked up. “How did you meet him?”
“Same. Bumble.”
“He’s a Bumble stalker,” Rose said. “And I don’t even know what Bumble is. It sounds like a thing you drop in your bath or use to clean the toilet.”
At that, the women dissolved into laughter, finally even Daisy. “I can’t believe this. I believed him. He said he—”
Victoria interrupted. “Loved you to the depths of the sea and back.”
“Exactly. Aghhhghg!” Daisy stood, picked up a rock, and threw it into a tree. “What an ass.” She looked to Victoria. “Did you tell him you loved him back?”
Victoria shook her head. “No! I barely know him anywhere but the bed.”
The friends laughed but then stifled it as Daisy’s face fell with disappointment, biting her bottom lip. “I didn’t either, so I guess there’s some saving grace. But . . .” She shuddered. “We have been sleeping with the same man. I am horrified.”
Beatrice took a long swig of her sangria and shook her head. “Maybe we should get together more often. Who knows what else we’d find out.”
Victoria walked over to Daisy and lifted her cell phone. “A selfie of the two of us. We’ll send it to him, and I don’t think anything else will need to be said.”
Daisy leaned into Victoria’s shoulder, and Victoria snapped the photo. “When I have service, I’ll send this beauty right off.”
Daisy shook her head. “I think I need a little walk.”
Rose nodded toward the shoreline. “There’s not very far you can go. Walk in a circle?”
“True, but . . .” And off she went, disappearing around the corner only to appear less than thirty minutes later when they had all returned to their blanket and their books, to their quiet afternoon.
Daisy plopped down and Beatrice set down her
sketchpad where she’d been drawing the horizon of scrubby brush across the water. “I’m sorry, friend.”
“Well, that’s what I get for falling for a guy whose life I know nothing about while I pretend we know each other because we texted for months and months. It’s gross. I’m embarrassed of myself, but I get . . . lonely.”
“We all do.” Beatrice fell back on the blanket. “It’s part of it, isn’t it? Finding our way while finding if we can ever love again.”
“Doesn’t seem so worth it to me right now,” Daisy said.
“It’s worth it. It’s always worth it,” Beatrice said. “We try anyway. The odds are always against it working out, but there we go—”
“Coming from a woman who loves a good man.” Daisy smiled sadly. “You’re answering your own questions.”
Beatrice wasn’t quite so sure.
6
The Last Night
Their last night fell quiet with the thick aroma of pluff mud as they reconvened once more at the water’s edge.
Victoria broke open an aloe leaf from a nearby shrub and rubbed the gooey insides on Daisy’s sunburned shoulders while speaking to Beatrice. “What’s most important for this gathering, for now, is this: Did we help you figure anything out, Bea? Our grand Pegasus, do you know how high you can fly?”
Beatrice dug her toes into the sand. “I know this love between all of us sustains me. Sometimes we have to be surrounded by something to be reminded of what it really truly is—love, I mean. I love Lachlan. He loves me. It’s beautiful. That’s all I know for now. When I get home, I will go to him and if he’ll listen, I’ll tell him I love him. I have and I will. Marriage, if it’s important to him, is important to me. I’ve been selfish . . . and scared. But my fears have nothing to do with him and everything to do with the past. We carry these things, these burdens from the past, forward and hurt those who had nothing to do with it.”
“Will he listen?” Daisy asked.
Reunion Beach Page 5
