by Cecilia Lyra
“I’m Patrick Smith,” he said.
“Julie Meyers.” I shook his hand.
“Julie,” he repeated, pronouncing my name correctly. “Are you French?”
“Half,” I said. “My mom is French.”
He eyed the purple plush cube, the one I’d sat on minutes ago to try the shoes. My BU student ID was there, next to a half-empty Starbucks cup. He asked me what I studied at Boston University and invited me out for real coffee. Right then, the saleslady approached me again to ask if I would be buying the espadrilles. I looked down at my feet, feeling my face burn. I’d forgotten I was wearing them. I returned them to her, mumbling something about them being too small. She looked unconvinced. I didn’t blame her. I slipped back into my comfortable, but decidedly unglamorous shoes—an old pair of beaded, fleece-lined moccasins by Alma Boots—and said goodbye to Patrick. He hurriedly gave me his business card before I left, but I wasn’t about to call him. I left that store assuming I’d never see him again.
A week later, a courier was at my dorm, asking me to sign for a package. I flushed when I noted the emblem. Louis Vuitton. Inside it was a pair of black stilettos with a discreet gilded LV engraved behind the heel. I opened up the card next.
Beautiful shoes for a beautiful woman.
Patrick
They were undeniably gorgeous—even if they were nothing like the trendy, colorful espadrilles I coveted. And they were the right size. I took in the impeccable stitching, the flawless design, the timeless refinement. I was an English major with massive student loans. How long would it be until I could finally afford these shoes myself? I wanted to try them on. To wear them every day of my life.
But there was no way I could keep them. I paid fifteen dollars to return the shoes.
Two days later, another delivery. This time, seven pairs of stilettos by different designers: Chanel, Dior, Manolo Blahnik, Jimmy Choo, Christian Louboutin, Miu Miu, and Louis Vuitton.
I’m not giving up.
P.
I was furious. Who did this man think he was? I had to put a stop to this. I found his business card buried inside my bag and wrote him a curt message asking him to please stop sending me shoes. I was not for sale.
His response was instant: he was sorry to have offended me, he meant no harm. Would I let him take me out to dinner to apologize? I didn’t reply.
The next day, a courier arrived to pick up the shoes and deliver me flowers. Tucked inside the bouquet was a card: another apology, another invitation to dinner. All of my friends encouraged me to accept, declaring his behavior to be romantic and gallant. Janette added that I shouldn’t turn down free food—she was only half joking.
I did say yes, but I was a nervous mess during the entire meal. It wasn’t Patrick’s fault—he was behaving like a perfect gentleman—but something about the way he courted me made me retreat into my shell. I’m an extrovert, I know how to be charming, sociable. And Sophie had taught me the art of small talk. But that day, my stomach was in knots. Instead of enjoying the view at Top of the Hub, I was counting the minutes until I could leave. Patrick didn’t seem discouraged by my attitude, he kept the conversation going almost singlehandedly. Looking back, I can only imagine the kind of effort that took on his part. Now that I know how anxious he is.
If he hadn’t brought up his childhood, we never would’ve gotten married.
I don’t remember how the subject came up, but I do remember it started with him mentioning his half-brothers. At this, my ears pricked up—I thought about Cassie all the time. When I asked him about his family, he opened up. His mom was from Southie, he said. When she was barely eighteen, she fell for a rich, married man from Beacon Hill. Their affair was a brief one, but it lasted long enough for Patrick to be conceived.
“I lived in the same city with the dad I didn’t have,” Patrick said. There was so much vulnerability in his words, so much pain. He described his fatherless childhood, the taunting from other children who didn’t know how cruel their words could be, his anger at his dad for not being there for his mom.
By then, I’d stopped looking at my watch. I’d never met someone who knew what it was like to be invisible, to be the other family, the dirty little secret no one talked about openly but that everyone loved to judge. I told him about my dad, about how his anomalous blend of presence and absence had left an imprint on every aspect of my entire life.
“It’s the same with me. The way I grew up defined who I am now,” he said, quietly. “My ex-wife never understood that.”
“You were married?” I felt a tug of disappointment. I didn’t want him to have been married. I didn’t care if it was premature: by then, I was picturing a future with Patrick, and I didn’t want to share my husband, not even with someone who was in the past.
“Yes,” he said. “But she never understood me.”
But I could, I thought.
I didn’t know it then, but I was hooked. Hooked on the idea of building a life that was whole with someone who understood what it was like to be half. Hooked on a fairy tale that I thought was real.
Now, as I’m sitting on the beach only a few feet away from Nana’s house, an awareness swims to the front of my mind: I don’t know if I believe in the fairy tale anymore. And maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe I have to grow up and come to terms with the reality of my life. The reality of my marriage.
I stare at my phone’s screen, thinking of the text that I could compose to Patrick. Thinking of what it would mean to go back to Boston, to give up on the idea of mending my relationship with Cassie. To refuse Nana’s last wish. To accept my marriage for what it is.
I clutch the necklace again with my left hand, feeling the shells’ sharp edges against my skin. I look up at the sky and close my eyes. I ask Nana to send me a sign. I tell her the truth: that I want to honor her wish. I, too, want Cassie and I to find our way back to each other. But I worry Nana underestimated the depth of Cassie’s resentment towards me.
When I open my eyes, nothing has changed.
The sun is still fighting to puncture the clouds. The air is still salt-heavy and quiet. And I’m still here, alone. I’m not sure what I expected as a response—a message from a seagull? A strong gust of wind on this otherwise breezeless day? Whatever it was, it doesn’t happen.
I lower my gaze towards the horizon and let out a deep breath. I’m about to text Patrick when my eyes land on something in the ocean. Movement. A splashing of water. I squint in its direction, trying to figure out what I’m looking at. It can’t be a whale, not this close to shore. Could it be a dolphin? Whatever it is, it’s getting closer. Then I see him.
A man.
I watch as he emerges from the water in the exact moment that the sun pierces through the clouds. He’s closer to shore now, the waterline just below his chest, receding. Slowly, he’s revealed: wide shoulders, strong arms, a perfect six-pack. He’s wearing a pair of red shorts that cling ever so slightly to his thighs. He wipes his face with both his hands, rubs his eyes.
Then he looks straight at me. And smiles.
I sit motionless as he makes his way in my direction. I want to look behind me—maybe someone arrived while I was lost inside my mind? But I can’t tear my eyes away from him. From this tall, tanned god who emerged from the sea.
“Hi,” he says. He’s now standing right in front of me, dripping wet.
I place my hand on my forehead like a visor and meet his eyes. They’re warm, the color of honey. I’m aware that I’m staring. It’s rude. But how can I not stare? It’s not that he’s attractive (though he absolutely is), it’s that he’s just materialized from the ocean. I’ve been here for a while. I didn’t see anyone at the beach, didn’t see anyone go in the water.
“Hi,” I finally say. I’m about to get up, but he lowers his body towards the sand.
“Julie. It’s you.” He’s beaming at me, grinning. His teeth are white and straight.
“Ho-how do you know my name?” I seem to have forgotten how to speak
.
“I’m Craig,” he says. His tone suggests I should know this.
It takes an extra second for my brain to make the connection.
Craig. Nana’s Craig. Her neighbor. Her friend.
I frown. Nana talked about Craig all the time. She’d often express her gratitude for having met him. She’d say that he was unfailingly kind and helpful around the house. She mentioned he was a great dad. That he was funny and polite.
She never said anything about him being handsome. Let alone unbelievably hot.
“I recognize you from your pictures.” He runs his hands through his wet hair. Is he aware of how sexy he looks? He must be. He should be, even if just for safety reasons. His dimples alone could cause a heart attack. “I’ve been wondering when we’d run into each other.”
“I…I got here last week.” I can feel the crease deepening in my forehead. I still can’t believe this is Craig. This is the man who installed grab bars and rails in Nana’s shower. Who put up motion-sensor lights on the stairs. Who checked on her daily. I’d pictured someone entirely different from the man sitting across from me.
“I’m so glad to finally meet you,” he says.
“Me, too.” I manage a smile. I can feel my cheeks burning. I must look deranged.
“Is that Bertie’s necklace?” he asks.
My hand touches the shells again. “It’s mine. I made it when I was a kid. It was here.”
“Right, I knew that. Bertie used to wear it.” A pause. “She said it made her feel like she was with you.”
Right then, I feel it: a rush of air coming from the southeast. It only lasts a few seconds and then the air goes back to being heavy, still. But it was unmistakable.
A gust of wind on an otherwise breezeless day.
Nineteen
Cassie
Friday, July 6th
I jump when I hear a knock on the door.
“Can I help you?” I ask, from the hammock. I’d been napping. Or trying to, anyway.
The man spins around. “Sorry, didn’t see you there.” He looks surprised.
I don’t point out that this is my house. It makes perfect sense for me to be on the porch. It’s his presence that has yet to be explained.
“Are you with the law firm?” I sound annoyed—and I don’t care. Exactly how often are these people coming to check on us? It’s disruptive and just plain rude.
“I’m Craig.” He frowns. “We met a few days ago.”
“Right.” I remember him now: Nana’s handyman. But what is he doing here? I’m about to inquire when Julie appears at the door.
“Oh, hi Craig,” she sings. “Come in. Want something to drink?”
I don’t mean to, but I get up and follow them inside. Julie looks up at me, confused. This is not an unreasonable reaction—she and I haven’t exchanged a single word since Tuesday’s showdown. She no longer offers me food or asks inane questions. It’s been, quite frankly, a relief.
“Have you met Craig?” She’s looking at me like I’m a large animal at the zoo.
“We met the other day,” he says.
Julie nods. She stares at me for an extra beat. I offer nothing in return. They’re both acting like I’m interrupting something—which is exactly how I know I should stay put. Why is this strange man in our house? I remember how curious he’d been about meeting Julie. He might be a stalker for all I know. A serial killer. A practicing member of scientology.
“Let me grab my bag and we’ll head over?” she asks, looking at Craig.
“Sounds good,” he says. “I really appreciate this. And I’ll be home before dinner, I promise.”
I follow her up the stairs. Julie’s eyes widen slightly when she sees me go into her room and close the door behind me.
“What’s that about?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“That man downstairs.”
“Craig.”
“Whatever his name is.” I swat my hand in the air. “What’s he doing here? And where are you going with him?”
Her lips curl into a satisfied smile. It’s infuriating. “Are you worried about me?”
I don’t have an answer to that. No. Yes. Maybe?
“I’m babysitting his kids,” she says.
Why is she babysitting a stranger’s kids? She can’t possibly need the money. Unless—could she and her husband be separated? I never see them talking. He didn’t come to the island last weekend and it doesn’t seem like he’s coming on this one, either.
“I don’t like it,” I say. “We don’t know anything about him.”
“He’s Craig,” she enunciates his name like it’s supposed to mean something. “Nana’s Craig?”
Before I got here, I’d never heard of a Craig—not that I’m admitting as much. It hurts, realizing that she and Nana had been close to the point where Nana would talk to Julie about her handyman.
“What’s it to you anyway?” She crosses her arms.
“It doesn’t seem safe.”
“But Nana loved Craig.” A beat. “He took care of her.”
I vaguely recall something about a neighbor’s two kids. Nana would call them her placeholder great-grandchildren, playfully. At least I think it was playfully. Still, that doesn’t mean Julie should go to his house. We don’t know if he’s trustworthy. What happened to his kids’ regular babysitter? It probably hasn’t occurred to her to ask. If she quit, then there must’ve been a reason. What if Craig is some type of creep?
“Nana trusted people too easily,” I say. “She wasn’t herself towards the end. She got soft.” This isn’t entirely accurate. At least not that I know of. But I want to be the one who knows about Nana—not the other way around.
“Please don’t start.” Her tone is touchy, impatient.
“Don’t start what?”
“The negativity, the criticism. At least have the decency to spare Nana.”
“Excuse me?” I cross my arms. “You don’t get to tell me who I can criticize.” Not that I’m criticizing Nana. I wouldn’t do that. Not now—I miss her too much. But if I wanted to, I could. My entire life, people have told me that I shouldn’t be so unhappy, so dissatisfied. That my anger and opinions would rub people the wrong way. I never listened. I understood from an early age that girls are expected to be pleasing, amenable. Amenable people don’t challenge the status quo.
And that’s simply not me.
“You’re right,” Julie says. “God forbid you keep an opinion to yourself.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, never mind!” She turns around and begins rummaging through a tote bag.
“No, say it.” I take a step forward. “You started it. Now finish it.”
“Fine.” She turns around, her face flush. “You’re entitled, judgmental, and you won’t let go. You refuse to be happy. You wouldn’t know the feeling if it hit you on the head. All you do is pass judgment and complain about everyone in your life. Nobody’s good enough for you. No one can live up to your impossible standards.”
Her words hit me like a slap in the face. I had no idea she felt this way. I used to think she understood where I was coming from when I was being critical. She used to say she admired my determination, my sense of self-worth. I think of my mother. Of how she couldn’t be happy. Am I the same?
Is this why Nana shared parts of her life with Julie and not with me?
But, no. She doesn’t get to say these things to me. I won’t be attacked. Not like this.
“You think you’re better?” I say.
“At least people like me, Cassie.”
“They don’t like you, Julie. They’re ogling you. There’s a difference.”
“You know, for someone who likes to call me shallow you seem awfully focused on my looks.” There’s a tremor on her lower lip. I’ve hit a nerve. Good.
“I didn’t call you shallow. You just did.”
“You think you’re better than everyone, don’t you?” She clenches her teeth. “
Hiding behind your degree, your TV show, telling everyone how to live. Well, guess what, Cassie? You don’t see anyone. Least of all yourself.”
“You’re wrong. I see you. Still the same people-pleaser, desperate for everyone to love you even if that means you don’t get to be yourself. I’d rather be hard on the people I love than settle for scraps like you do.”
I’m talking about our father—and she knows it.
“At least I’m not angry all the time.”
“Easy for you to say. I grew up surrounded by anger.” And she knows it, too.
“At least you had two parents.”
“Two parents? An abusive father and a sick mother?”
“She could’ve left Dad, Cassie.”
“You know she couldn’t.”
“What I know is that you let them define you.”
I bite my lip. My biggest fear in a sentence: that my parents are all I am.
“Look, I get it,” she continues. “It was awful having a dad who had another family. Don’t you think I know that? I was that other family. I barely got to see him. So how do you think I felt hearing you bad-mouth him for all those years when I would’ve given anything to have him in the house, temper or not?”
“That’s because he was someone else around you.” He never broke things at her house. Never hit her mother. Never even yelled. She knows this. We’ve traded enough stories about our father to understand that the father I had wasn’t the father she missed.
“That’s not my fault!”
“I never said it was.”
“Yes, you did.” She stabs her index finger in the air. “When you stopped talking to me over something that happened fourteen years ago.”
“That something was my mother dying,” I feel my throat close up.
“She killed herself, Cassie.” She drops her tone to a whisper. “And I’m so sorry she did. I really am. But if you want to be angry with someone, be angry with her. Not us.”
“Us?”
“Dad and me.”
I scoff. I’m expected to let go of my anger towards a man who abused my mother for years?