by Cecilia Lyra
There’s something you should know, Cassie. Daniel is a cheater. You’re not the first mistress he’s ever had and I’m sure you won’t be the last. Years ago he was seeing a woman named Jill. Don’t say I didn’t warn you when you find out he’s cheating on you.
Jill. Daniel has never mentioned a Jill. At least I don’t think he has.
“Are you ready?” Julie’s voice shakes me out of a stupor.
“Yes,” I say. “Let’s go.”
She frowns, no doubt taking in my shell-shocked expression. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” she asks.
“I need to get out of the house,” I say. And I don’t want to get in a car with Julie behind the wheel. Not right now. Going to Craig’s house seems like a pleasantly innocuous activity. Useful, too—I’ve been wanting to get to know the man with whom my sister is infatuated.
We walk along the sandy path that connects the houses, our feet crunching over stray twigs. I’m still wearing my Havaianas—it feels safer because of my ankle. But Julie is barefoot, wearing a pair of white, linen belted shorts and a matching shirt. She looks lovely, of course. But I miss her old look: peasant skirts, a crown of flowers on her head, minimal makeup. At least her hair looks more beachy and less coiffed. And she’s wearing the funky seashell necklace she and Nana made together.
“Promise me you’ll be honest?” she asks. “About Craig?”
“You know I will.” And then: “What is it about him that you like so much?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You’ve been having dinner with him every day for two weeks. You say you two spend time together after the kids go to bed. You know him quite well, I’d say.”
“When I’m with him it’s like I’m not on. I don’t overthink or worry about saying the wrong thing. It feels easy. Right.”
“Easy is good,” I say. It really is—it speaks to feeling comfortable around someone. “Let me ask you this: if your marriage weren’t going through a rough patch, would you still be interested in Craig?”
“I think so?” She looks up for a moment at the clear, blue sky. I wonder if she misses Patrick. I sense the answer is no. They’ve spoken once since their argument: she texted him to let him know she’s all right, but all he did was tell her that they’d talk when she got back to Boston. And yet she’s still bubbly and happy, still filled with that rosy glow. It’s possible she doesn’t love him anymore.
“What about his kids?” I ask.
“What about them?”
“How much of this is you loving the idea of an instant family?”
“I don’t think that’s it,” she says. “Though I do love seeing Craig with his kids. He’s great with them, you’ll see. They’re very lucky.”
“He’s lucky, too,” I remind her. “They seem like good kids.”
She lifts her shoulders. “A good dad is a rare thing.”
“I’m not sure that’s true, actually.” I pause. “I feel like we got shortchanged.”
She stops for a moment. I do the same. I wonder if she’s going to pick up a seashell from the ground, or a pretty stone. She used to do that a lot as a kid. But instead she just looks at me and says, “It’s weird. You had him full-time, but you don’t talk to him. All I got was scraps and I have a relationship with him.”
I want to tell her that she didn’t get scraps. But that might not be a fair thing to say. Still, what I got wasn’t any better. She knows this.
“Why do you think that is?” I ask her.
“Because I prefer something over nothing.”
“That right there,” I begin, “is the root of your problem. I’ve heard you describe this unfulfilling marriage to a domineering man, but your conclusion always seems to be ‘but maybe that’s OK’ or ‘what do I know about a marriage?’ or ‘no relationship is perfect’. It’s like you’ll take whatever you can get. But that’s no way to live. I’m not telling you to leave Patrick, that’s something only you can decide. And I’m not telling you to go for it with Craig, either. In fact, I don’t think you should jump into a new relationship if you do decide to leave Patrick. Here’s what I am telling you, though: find out what makes you happy. Not what you think will make you happy. Not what makes you happy given what’s available. But what really makes you happy. And don’t settle for anything less.”
Julie is silent for a moment. I wonder if she’ll ask if that’s how I live my life. It’s not—obviously. It’s a lot easier to preach than it is to actually live by my words. I think about the years I spent punishing myself for my mom’s death.
“Thank you for that,” she says softly. She leans in to give me a hug.
We share a comfortable silence as we make our way to Craig’s house. It’s smaller than Nana’s, with a low-pitched roof that gives it an appealing ranch-style look. I admire the potted hedges flanking the front door, the small herb garden. Craig must have a green thumb like Nana.
“Remember, you promised not to ask him about Dad or any letters,” she says.
“I know, I know.”
When we’re at the front door, Julie reaches for the doorknob. Apparently, she’s beyond the ringing-the-doorbell stage.
But the front door opens before Julie can get to it.
“Hi,” a woman says.
I’ve never seen this person before—I’d remember. She’s wearing all white: crochet cropped top and long skirt. It’s a good color on her, she’s tanned and toned and very healthy-looking. Her earrings are much too frilly for my taste, but they match her rakish look. Her hair is golden and long, probably the longest hair I’ve ever seen. There’s something unsettling about her. She’s stunning, of course. But that’s not it. She looks familiar. I can feel a thought forming in the back of my mind, but it goes away as quickly as it arrived.
“You must be Julie,” she purrs, moving in for a hug. She pronounces Julie’s name correctly—with a soft j. No one does this unless they’ve met her. Or heard of her.
I watch Julie awkwardly hug her back, a puzzled expression on her face.
“I’m Cassie Meyers.” I extend my hand. I do not enjoy embracing strangers.
“Oh my gosh! Where are my manners? I’m Elle.” She has a faint southern accent, which always reminds me of my mother.
“Who?” Julie blurts out.
I feel my lips curling into a smile. This is a side of Julie’s that I’d missed the most: the way she speaks first and thinks second. It’s refreshing, candid.
“I didn’t know you were coming over,” Elle drawls. “This is such a nice surprise. Oh dear, what’s wrong with your foot?”
“It’s just a sprain,” I say.
“Are we interrupting something?” Julie cranes her neck.
“Not at all! Come in, come in,” Elle seems oblivious to Julie’s hostility.
Craig’s house looks untidy in a way that gives it a homey feel. Nana’s house has always kept its pied-à-terre look to it, even after it became her primary residence.
“Julie! Julie!” Two high-pitched voices—and two adorable children—come barreling into the living room. The smallest one—she goes by Kiki, I believe—jumps and latches on to Julie. She’s wearing a pair of pink cotton shorts and a matching pink shirt with a drawing of a large, glittery purple unicorn.
“You’re quite the flyer,” I say, smiling at her. Seeing a little girl makes me think of Angie, and then Daniel. I miss him. I need to talk to him once I’ve sorted out my feelings about Tatiana’s phone call.
The boy—Ben, I think—is wearing a Spider-Man costume. “Are you Julie’s sister?” he asks, adjusting his glasses.
“I am,” I say.
“I’m Ben.” He grins. “This is my sister, Kiki.”
“It’s nice to meet you.” I crouch down to shake their hands.
“How are my two little monsters behaving?” Julie asks, looking at the two of them. She’s studying Elle through the corner of her eye. Her face is burning red.
“Jul,” Craig says, coming down the stairs. He is wearing a
white T-shirt and a pair of blue-striped shorts. I envy his tan almost as much as I envy Julie’s. Why can’t redheads tan?
“Hey.” Julie’s tone is warm, but it’s also questioning. It says: Who is this beautiful woman in your house?
“Hi, Craig.”
“Hi, Cassie. This is a nice surprise.”
“Um, Cassie and I just wanted to, we, uh…” Julie stammers, looking at Elle.
“I asked to stop by,” I interrupt. Julie shoots me a grateful look. “I wanted to meet your kids.” I hope I sound convincing.
“Do you want to play with us?” Ben asks.
“Of course I do.”
“Do you know how to tell stories as good as Julie?” Kiki asks.
“I’m afraid not,” I say.
“I’ve heard so much about your famous stories, Julie,” Elle says.
Julie blinks at her. It’s possible she’s sneering.
Craig seems oblivious to all this. Basic awareness is clearly not his strong suit.
“Craig, I’m heading off,” Elle sings. “Walk me to my car?”
Craig follows Elle, a dopey smile on his face. I want to smack him on the head with the plastic shovel that’s lying on the foyer floor.
“Do you guys want to go upstairs and grab some props for a story?” Julie says.
“Yes!” the kids answer in unison. They turn and begin running up the stairs.
“No running indoors,” she calls out. Then, to me, “Who the hell was that?”
I don’t have a chance to answer. Elle and Craig walk back inside.
“Jul, would you mind staying with the kids for a few minutes?” Craig asks. “I’m going to follow Elle to, um, her place. I’ll be back in an hour.”
“Sure,” Julie says, a plastic smile on her face.
“Thanks.”
“It so lovely to finally meet you two,” Elle says. “I hope we see each other again soon. Oh,” she pauses and looks at Julie. “Will I see you tonight?”
“Not tonight,” Craig answers curtly before Julie can say anything.
“Oh, too bad,” she says.
They leave again.
“What was that?” Julie whispers. “Did you see how she was all over him?” She doesn’t give me a chance to answer. “And did you notice how she made a point of saying they were going to meet tonight? Who does that? Do you think they’re dating?”
“I didn’t pick up on romantic vibes between them,” I say. It’s the truth. Frankly, the only disturbing thing about Elle is how oddly familiar she looks. I still can’t put my finger on what it is about her that I recognize. “Let’s not jump to conclusions.”
“But how could it be anything else? She’s gorgeous and flirty.”
And then it hits me. Elle looks like Julie.
It isn’t a physical resemblance. It’s more her style, the way she carries herself. Elle looks like Julie used to back when we were teenagers and she wore flowing skirts and beaded necklaces. Her summer style, she called it. Because she only got to wear the outfits she loved when we were in Montauk.
Julie really is Craig’s type. At least the Julie she used to be.
Fifty
Julie
Monday, July 23rd
The living-room floor is covered in plastic tarp. It looks like a carnival float, speckled in glitter and paint. Clean-up will take at least an hour. But it’ll be worth it. Ben and Kiki look thrilled, proud of their art. I love seeing them like this.
“I think it’s ready.” Ben grins.
The three of us examine the giant poster: messy and beautiful.
“We should add a puppy,” Kiki says. “Elle has an English bullfrog called Chunky Monkey. Maybe we could get a picture of him and put it on the beach where we went?”
“Bulldog,” Ben corrects her, rolling his eyes. “But he wasn’t there that day.”
The Sky Princess has resisted the urge to ask the two adorable munchkins about the origins of Horrible Hurricane Elle for three whole days. The handsome knight hasn’t said anything about her, almost as though the tall, leggy blond was never here. They continue to spend their evenings together, lost in laughter and conversation—at least on the outside. The Sky Princess has suffered in silence.
But now I have to say something.
“Does Elle come here often?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
Ben shrugs.
Kiki singsongs, “Only since Nana Bertie passed away. I want to meet her dog. I’ve only seen pictures of him on her phone.”
“Is she a summer person?”
“She’s from Washington.”
“Kiki.” Ben nudges her.
“Ops!” Kiki covers her mouth. “I forgot.”
“What did you forget?” A lump forms in my throat. I don’t like this.
“We’re not supposed to say,” Ben whispers, his head lowered.
“What aren’t you supposed to say?”
Another shrug from Ben.
“Daddy says we can’t tell you yet,” Kiki offers.
“Can’t tell me what?”
“About Elle and—” Ben stops himself abruptly.
I feel my heart clench inside my chest. Ben had been about to say about Elle and Dad. I’m sure of it. They really are a couple. I’ve spent the past three days thinking of reasons why Elle was at the house, why she’d clearly heard of me while I’d never heard of her. Maybe she’s dating a friend of Craig’s. Maybe they work together at the pub. Maybe she’s his cousin. But Occam’s razor applies: the simplest answer is most often correct. Elle is his girlfriend. Craig has asked his children not to bring her up because he can tell I’ve developed a sophomoric crush on him. And he feels sorry for me. Poor Julie. Unhappily married, grieving the loss of her grandmother. I mistook pity for interest.
Patrick is right. I’m a silly girl who lives inside my own mind, feeding off ridiculous fairy tales. I’m not a grown-up. I don’t understand relationships. I never will.
And yet.
The Sky Princess is thinking of the day when the handsome knight brushed his hand on her cheek. She is reliving the dinners they shared with his children, where she was included as a member of the family. Her mind is transporting her back to the moment when he handed her an envelope and she shared her deepest secret with him. Instead of judgment, he offered her comfort and cooperation. And when they held hands, the air was filled with sparks.
How could I have imagined all that? It doesn’t make any sense. And if they really are dating, then why does Craig ask me to stay for dinner every evening? And why do we spend time together, just the two of us, on his porch, lost in easy conversation?
“Julie?” Kiki’s voice interrupts my raging thoughts. “Please don’t be mad at us.” Her face could melt steel: innocent, sweet. I hope Elle loves them as much as I do.
“I’m not mad at you, baby. Or you, Ben,” I say, turning to him. “I could never be mad at you guys. You’re the best kids in the world.”
“Promise you won’t tell Dad?” Ben asks solemnly.
“I promise.”
I’m smiling. I have to be—they need reassurance right now. But on the inside, I’m fighting back tears. My body is quivering slightly. I feel heartbroken. Over a guy I’ve never even kissed. How pathetic am I?
Crying in front of them is not an option. So I take a page from Sophie’s book. When she wanted to be alone—in her case, to spend time with my dad—she put me in front of the TV.
“How about we watch a movie?” I say cheerfully.
“Yes!” Ben says, his eyes gleeful. “Can we watch The Lego Movie?”
“Great choice,” I say. “I’ll set it up and go make us some popcorn.”
In a few minutes, they’re on the couch in the family room, hypnotized by the colorful little men dancing on the screen. I hurry out of there. I need to be alone. I go up the stairs, walking into the only door I’ve never opened before.
I sit on the floor, tears running down my face. My breath is ragged in my throat, my chest is heaving. I’m tr
embling. It’s a feeling I know well. I call them emotional earthquakes because it feels like my body is rumbling from the sheer force of my feelings.
This one only lasts a few minutes. I focus on my breathing, willing my body to stay strong. I blink away the last of the tears as my eyes adjust to the room. Craig’s room.
I walk towards the nightstand and pick up the only framed photograph. It’s Ann, smiling adoringly at the baby she’s holding. I can’t tell whether it’s Kiki or Ben. She has that new-mother glow. I’ve always wanted that glow. Other than the frame, the room is unremarkable, with scant signs of everyday life—a desk with stacked papers and an uncapped pen, a mug with the remains of what I am assuming is coffee, an unmade bed.
I study Ann’s face. She’s beautiful, serene. It’s a peculiar thing: I love her children so much, and yet I know very little about her.
What I do know: her grandfather was a fisherman on the island, as was her dad. Her family has been in Montauk for five generations. Six, with Kiki and Ben. It’s so unfair that she isn’t here, that she has to miss out on so much. Ben’s first wave on Ditch Plains. Kiki’s first lobster roll. Ann has never seen Kiki on a boat. She won’t get to hear Ben tell her about his first crush. It’s revolting. Nonsensical. Ann deserves to be here. Kiki and Ben deserve a mother.
But maybe Hurricane Elle loves them. Craig is probably devoted to her—she seemed so confident of his affection. Not the least bit fazed by my presence. Their relationship is probably serious. The real deal. But when do they even meet? I’ve been hanging out with Craig—and his kids—for weeks now. Maybe she works nights? Or could she work at Holly’s? Could he be with her now? The possibilities are maddeningly endless.
I wish he’d told me about her. Spared me the humiliation, the heartbreak.
Because my heart is breaking. It sounds dramatic, but it’s also true. Maybe it’s because he’s handsome. Maybe it’s because Nana used to talk about Craig with such affection—and then there was the postscript in her letter. Maybe it’s because he’s such a sensitive, dedicated father. Whatever the reason, I have feelings for him. Real feelings. Unreciprocated feelings. Feelings that are very different than the ones I have for Patrick—or had for Patrick before they faded. Because what I said to Cassie is true: being around Craig feels easy. And being around Patrick has always been difficult, even when it was less so. I didn’t use to mind difficult—maybe because that’s all I’ve ever been exposed to. But now I’ve seen how different things can be. Platonic or not, my time with Craig has given me a glimpse of another way to live. One where I can relax and be myself.