Walking on Sea Glass

by Julie Carobini

  After Taylor wandered off Beau took his seat, the hall still bustling. The rumble in his belly told him he probably should have stopped for a sandwich on the way. He was contemplating this menial thought as one of the elders strolled up the aisle with a woman close beside him. They stopped right next to him.

  Beau stood again, wondering if perhaps he should have not made that U-turn tonight. “Hello, Rex,” he said.

  Rex shook his hand and quickly stepped aside. “Beau, I’d like you to officially meet Wendy Wilkes. She’s part of our new member’s class and quite fascinated by art, like you and … well, like you are.”

  No doubt he was staring blankly at the petite woman with the stick-straight hair and kind smile peering up at him. Rex had said “officially,” which probably meant that they had already met at some previous time. There was nothing particularly familiar about the young woman, though, and Beau had no recollection of ever speaking to her before now. Inwardly, he held back a sigh. Anne had often chided him about forgetting faces and names, for that matter.

  He stuck out a polite, if not overly friendly, hand. “I’m Beau. Welcome to the church.”

  She shook his hand. “Thank you. I’m glad to be here.”

  Beau glanced at Rex for more, but found him looking off into the distance. The elder flicked a look at Beau. “Would you excuse me, please?”

  Beau opened his mouth but shut it quickly, realizing that Rex was likely running off to chase after a fictitious church member in need. The image of that yellow singles’ group flyer burned in his mind.

  He caught Wendy contemplating him. “I understand that your wife passed away recently. I’m truly sorry for your loss.”

  He nodded, and quickly swallowed. “I appreciate that.”

  “Sorry if Rex put you on the spot. I moved back into town recently after being away for school. My grandparents still live here—maybe you know them? Kat and Steve Wilkes?”

  The granddaughter of the Wilkeses? “Yes, we have met a few times,” he said. Her grandfather was a retired judge, and her grandmother, a retired lawyer.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “when Rex heard that I had studied art, he seemed to think you and I would have a lot to talk about.”

  Beau forced a smile, willing to give Rex the benefit of the doubt. At least for now. “I can’t say that I know that much about art, but any interest I’ve taken in it is a direct result of Anne … my wife. She was an artist in her own right.”

  “Then she must have been a compelling woman.”

  “She was,” he said, remembering the times she had cajoled him into accompanying her to various museums, both at home and abroad. It was through her influence that he had become fascinated by the physical manifestation of what an artist had conjured up in his or her own mind. “She saw things that most of us would miss, whether a distinct color or an image or even the artist’s intent.”

  “If you’re interested, there are a few nice galleries downtown. Maybe we could visit them together. There’s even an Art Walk we could attend.” When he didn’t answer right away, she touched his shoulder. “I promise I won’t bite.”

  His insides froze at her boldness, but then again, her tone was easy-going, too. He found himself smiling, and considering a change of pace. It wouldn’t hurt to have a reason to leave the house more often, would it? “Sure,” he said, as the lights in the hall began to dim and the crowd took their seats. “Let’s do that sometime.”

  Chapter 4

  The air had turned blustery and cold and on one uncharacteristic lull in early December, Trace, who had straightened and dusted her collection of kitsch for the umpteenth time, let out a sigh. “Feast or famine, now isn’t it, Liddy?”

  “I’m okay with the downtimes,” Liddy said. “Always something to do.” For her part, Liddy had determined to make herself useful, so she used the occasional lulls to gather a collection of her own: namely, operation manuals from other parts of the hotel. She figured that if she better understood the duties of various departments, she could better carry out her own.

  Trace didn’t seem to care whether or not Liddy improved her knowledge of the inn’s operations, but she had quickly learned that her co-worker was not one for allowing a good lull to go to waste by allowing it to pass by without filling it with conversation. So Trace had filled the silence of the morning as often as possible, asking questions about Liddy’s life, some that felt too personal and uncomfortable to talk about still. It wasn’t that she had anything to hide, or that she didn’t like Trace—she did, very much. But though she had long accepted her new normal, sometimes the familiar things of the past were still too raw to face.

  “I brought you something,” Trace said, sidling up next to her. “Here.”

  Liddy carefully took the “snow” woman ornament from Trace’s hands. The sculpture had been made to look like as if formed from sand. “This is so cool.” Liddy laughed at the pink hat and ruby-colored lipstick on the “sand” woman’s face. “Oh my gosh … those are flip-flops dangling from her, aren’t they? Where in the world did you find her?”

  She expected Trace to tell her she had found the treasure in one of the thrift stores that dotted the area of otherwise tony boutiques—or at least some trying to be. Instead, she said, “I ordered it online.”

  Liddy flipped a glance at Trace, who wore a satisfied smile.

  “I was on Facebook when she popped up on the screen and I thought, now there’s something that has Liddy written all over it.”

  Liddy continued to cradle the ornament, touched by the gesture. In the several months they had known each other, Trace had never once shown off something that she had purchased new. And here she had done just that … only she had given it to her. “It’s … Trace, it’s perfect. Thank you so much.”

  “Do you have your tree up yet?”

  Liddy swallowed the growing lump in her throat. She lowered the ornament. “N-not yet.” Would she even bother this year? She considered the expense, especially since she had dashed from her home with Shawn in too much of a hurry to bring even one strand of tinsel. First she would have to buy a tree, then all the trimmings. She exhaled. Maybe the rotund gal with the floppy hat and pink flip-flops dangling from strings would bring her enough cheer for the season.

  “Speaking of the holidays,” Trace continued, “what are you doing for Christmas?”

  “Again. Not sure yet,” she replied.

  Liddy knew she could drive to her parents’ home about an hour south on Christmas Eve. But that would mean sleeping on the couch, since her brother took over her room years before. She had never been in this predicament before. Liddy had gone from the luxury of living in a teen-sized bedroom, its walls coated with concert tickets and selfies, to the cabin in the desert with her then-husband, to her new, well-worn place up the coast. It had not occurred to her, until now, that she had never woken up to an empty house on Christmas morning.

  “Well, you could always go to church in the ballroom on Christmas Eve.”

  Liddy frowned. “Is that a thing?”

  “You don’t know? That church you and Thomas have been going to—”

  “Once. We went together once. And I’ve only visited a couple of times on my own.”

  “Whatever. Anyway, they rented the ballroom out for Christmas Eve. Do you not read the Daily Bulletin?”

  Liddy’s expression must have looked as blank as a freshly painted wall.

  Trace whipped out a copy from her desk drawer. “Says here the church is holding one big service here at 6 p.m.” She looked up. “Be here with bells on.”

  “It does not say that.”

  “Well, then, maybe it should. And then you can sleep in and come have Christmas with Agatha and me.”

  “Agatha?”

  “My cat. I named her for Agatha Christie, you know, the mystery writer?”

  Liddy nodded, remembering her mother’s stacks of the mysteries around their house growing up. She took the bulletin from Trace and offered her thanks for t
he invitation. She’d weathered her first Thanksgiving without Shawn and had survived, but the memory of a rather desolate Black Friday continued to haunt her. She and Shawn had made it a tradition of sorts to rise early the day after Thanksgiving, brew a Thermos-full of coffee, and hit the stores with a list that covered not only their parents and a few friends, but things they had saved for all year long. Kind of like their own personal holiday.

  She swallowed a sigh, willing herself to keep her chin up. Truthfully, she didn’t miss her marriage. Was that okay to admit? The painful way it ended notwithstanding, there had been myriad troubles, and though she would have fought to fix them—or died trying—she reasoned that it took more than one person’s will to fix a two-person problem.

  The loneliness, though, had burrowed itself a little deeper lately. For the past several years, she had commented wistfully to Meg about her friend’s abundant travels, wishing now and then that she could tag along with her. She had pictured herself sunning on the terraces of various resorts while her friend toiled to fill them, then meeting up for glasses of wine and nonstop chatter. Meg would laugh at those images, and more than likely she would have given Liddy work to do while she waited for sundown—make calls, map out travels—you know, the kinds of tasks she now got paid for.

  Liddy slipped the Daily Bulletin into her purse, along with Trace’s gift. Then she pasted on a smile, urging herself to act hospitable. Guests would be approaching the desk soon, and it was her job to make them feel cared for and welcome … and anything but alone.

  * * *

  As Trace had both suggested and predicted, Liddy found herself in the hotel ballroom some weeks later on a starlit Christmas Eve. She marveled at the frenetic pace of music and people who all seemed to know each other. How odd to be so alone in a room where everyone else was not.

  “May my children and I sit here?” a woman asked.

  Liddy nodded.

  Two young children, a boy and a girl, scurried onto the seats next to the woman. The girl laid her head on her mother’s lap. On her other side, a couple probably younger than she was, held hands. She pulled her gaze away, instead keeping her eyes focused on the altar. Or was it a stage? The ballroom twinkled with lights and red poinsettias and towering, decorated trees, like it had all month long. She supposed this was as good a setting as any to worship the Christ child on the eve of his birthday.

  The service began and as it did, the empty spot directly in front of her was taken by a familiar-looking man in a suit the color of deep charcoal. He was slim, but not skinny, his dark suit expertly fitted to his average height. A crisp white collar folded over at the base of his neck, his hair thick and deep red, almost brown, landing just above it. She bit her lip. Was it inappropriate to admire the man in front of her while in a house of God? Or was the fact that this cavernous room could boast years of snake-like conga lines in its history reason enough to let her eyes linger on the man in front of her?

  At greeting time, he turned and wished her a “Merry Christmas.” His smile lit up his eyes and the spattering of freckles across his nose—a grown man with freckles!—captivated her. But it was the dimples, drawn long and deep and friendly on either side of his face, that made her stare. Not to mention the warm, comforting, and strangely electric pulse to his handshake. When her lack of verbal response (read: tongue-tied) became awkward, she broke eye contact with the stranger. And then the music began again, and the moment passed.

  For the next hour or so, Liddy watched as a string-bean of a guy on the front platform—the youth pastor it turned out—scooped up his fussy daughter and led the congregation in singing anyway. He was followed by another pastor, this one delivering a sermon on the gift that Christmas brings and how His presence is meant for every day. The dry crevices of her life, the ones that had formed and cracked deeper over the past year, received more than a sprinkle of nourishment from that message and, as if by some kind of miracle, she forgot all about the divorce and the fact that her doctor, after not finding one thing amiss in her blood test, had urged her to get a CT scan sometime after the new year.

  She would do it, of course, but for now, as she wandered with a light heart out into the wide sky of Christmas Eve, all Liddy wanted to do was celebrate.

  * * *

  Beau had crept into his parents’ home early in the morning after catching a red-eye from LAX, but had yet to really sleep. Outside, powdered snow blanketed the morning of this Colorado town where his parents lived. As if Norman Rockwell planned it himself, however, the inside of the house smelled of maple and bacon and coffee so bitter and strong that his father handed him a mug along with an apology.

  With one arm, Beau easily pulled his four-year-old niece up onto his lap. Unlike his nephews who wiggled and kicked their way through their young lives—smelling really foul doing it—little Madi sat doll-like against him. She probably weighed less than one, too.

  Madi peered up at him with doe-like eyes, her miniature fingers tapping his fleshy chin. “Are you happy now, Uncle Beau?”

  The din of chatter around the family Christmas table halted and all eyes veered to him.

  He cleared his throat.

  “Madi,” the girl’s mother, Ally—Beau’s sister-in-law—chided. “Don’t bother your uncle.”

  Beau shook his head. “Of course she can ask. And yes, I’m happy today because it’s Christmas!” He curled the girl’s petite hand in his, and kissed it.

  Madi pulled it away from him, her laughter like wind chimes. “Your face is sharp!”

  Beau’s dad, who himself sat grizzle-faced at the far end of the table, said, “That’s nothing. Come over here, and I’ll give you sharp!”

  Laughter filled the old dining room. Just like old times.

  Except, instead of his mother seated at the head of the table across from his father as usual—she was buzzing around the kitchen—her seat had been bestowed upon Beau. Years ago, his dad had custom built the long wooden table for gatherings like this, even though Beau lived across the country on the west coast. Whenever Anne and Beau had flown out to snow country for holidays, they would sit side-by-side on one end of this ancient, beat-up table, much like his siblings and their spouses did today. Until this year.

  Still wearing PJs, young Toby and his big brother Maxson bounced from foot to foot on the creaky floorboards next to their respective parents. Those kids laid the guilt on thick. “Please? Can we open more presents? Please!?”

  How exactly had the two children showed so much restraint this long anyway? When Beau and his siblings were all kids, they would wake up on Christmas morning and tear into every last shred of wrapping paper until they hit the floor. Those same impatient kids had grown up to be “responsible” parents, and had somehow taught their own children to wait until after breakfast.

  This parenting thing was all a mystery to him, and for the slightest moment Beau wondered if he would ever have a chance to unravel it for himself.

  Madi hopped down from his lap and wrapped her fingers around his pinky. She pulled at him. “C’mon, Uncle Beau. Let’s play with my presents!”

  He marveled at his tiny niece’s sudden strength, then grinned at his brothers still chomping on bacon. “Sorry, guys. How can I resist?”

  For the next half hour, he sat cross-legged on the floor surrounded by his niece and nephews and mounds of torn wrapping paper. He found himself laughing at their antics—including gasps of delight and choruses of “just what I always wanted!” And for an instant the fissure in his heart began to show signs of closing up.

  And then he craned his neck at the sound of snickering. Beneath his mother’s traditional mistletoe stuck firmly to the alcove with a piece of clear tape, his brother Curt embraced his wife, Jen. In that instant, no matter how hard he fought off the pathetic image, Beau took on the role of “Dan” from the movie Dan in Real Life, standing there as a forlorn, solitary figure in the midst of happy couples.

  He disliked that film.

  Worse, he disliked feelin
g sorry for himself.

  Anne, on the other hand, loved the film—she had even cajoled him into watching it with her more than once. He had always questioned that, although not out loud, thinking her fascination of it odd considering all that she faced.

  Beau’s mother interrupted his musings. “Here you go, honey.” She handed him a gigantic trash bag.

  He looked up at her, his brows arched into a question.

  “For the wrapping paper,” she said with a hearty laugh. Then she tweaked him on the nose like he, too, was still a boy.

  The last few months had brought nothing but unwelcome change, but as he filled the garbage bag with paper of gold and red and green Beau thanked God that some things had not.

  Chapter 5

  She had spent New Year’s Eve curled up on her couch with nachos, a cozy mystery, and not a drop of champagne. So when Thomas leaned over Liddy’s desk that morning announcing that “something shady was definitely going on in the restaurant,” intrigue wooed her. Would be nice to do something interesting for a change. Not that she wanted to appear desperate or anything. But sniffing out a nice mystery might shake away the doldrums.

  “Tell you what,” Thomas whispered, taking note of her enthusiasm. “Let’s grab drinks in the bar after work and check it out.”

  Liddy grinned. Maybe Thomas wasn’t exactly “the one,” if that was even a possibility for her anymore, but he was cute, in a surfer-dude kind of way, and she enjoyed his company. At least she would have company. “Well, if there is some kind of criminal activity happening over there,” she mused, “don’t you think it’ll be suspended while we’re enjoying a nice wine flight together?”

  Thomas winked at her. “I don’t do girly drinks,” he said as a hand landed on his shoulder. He straightened in a hurry.

  Hans, the hotel’s operations manager and resident worrywart, hissed in his ear. “Guests are arriving. Guests are arriving.”