by Wendy Wax
“Wow, Mom.” Lily looks me up and down. “It might be time for a shower and a pajama change.”
Clay’s lips tilt up but he’s smart enough not to laugh or agree. It’s Kendra who says, “That’s unkind, Lily. I happen to have it on good authority that that’s what a writer on deadline is supposed to look like.”
I flinch slightly at her allusion to Lauren, though maybe she’s just trying to desensitize me before I have to face her in person. I lean forward to peer at the stainless steel refrigerator door and see my murky reflection topped by a head of hair standing up in so many directions I might have stuck my finger in an electric socket.
“I think these two could have managed breakfast,” I say as I hug Kendra and pinch a still-warm muffin from the basket she’s put them in.
“I was up early anyway and thought I’d pop by. There’s a hamburger casserole in the refrigerator for dinner. Gina stopped by with a pan of lasagna and an apple pie.” Gina is Clay’s mother and a far better cook than I am. She’s a one-woman force of nature and practically runs the vacation rental arm of the family real estate business singlehandedly while Clay and his father buy and sell properties and handle repairs. One of my favorite things Clay brought with him to our marriage is his large, extended, rowdy family that’s been on the Outer Banks for generations.
The rain outside makes the kitchen feel even warmer and cheerier. Surrounded by the easy chatter of three of the people I love most in the world, I’m not prepared when their faces blur and memory yanks me back into the empty silence of this very kitchen in the weeks after my grandmother died. It got even quieter after my parents, having decided that sixteen was old enough to live alone in the house my grandmother left me, departed to once again dig up an ancient civilization in some far corner of the world.
Technically I could take care of myself, just as Lily could if she had to. But sixteen-year-old girls are not designed to live alone, connected to no one. I shudder slightly and feel my hands wrap around the heat of the coffee cup even as the remembered chill of loneliness seeps inside me. I remember the brutal ache of isolation. The time I spent weeping, and struggling to understand how the house that had once overflowed with her warmth and love could be so still and cold.
I went to school each day, where I pretended that I was like everyone else. And then came home each night to the chilly quiet and the unavoidable knowledge that I wasn’t. That my parents didn’t care about me enough to come back for any real length of time, or send for me, or alter their life in any way. That the only person who had ever really loved me was gone.
Lauren had spent plenty of after-school afternoons with me at my grandmother’s while we were in elementary and middle school; afternoons we spent eating homemade treats while we made up stories then acted them out.
In the days and weeks after Gran’s funeral, it was Lauren who helped fill the silence. She filled it with friendship and a VHS of Pretty Woman that she found buried in the bottom of an old trunk.
We loved everything about that modern-day Cinderella story. But our favorite scene was the music montage of Vivian trying on clothes on Rodeo Drive. We replayed that scene over and over, ultimately deciding that we liked it even more than the makeover scene in Clueless.
We watched Pretty Woman (with popcorn) as a regular prehomework treat. We watched it so many times that we could (and did) recite scene after scene of dialogue along with Vivian and Edward. Sometimes we lowered the volume and delivered the lines ourselves.
It was our favorite movie and Roy Orbison’s “Pretty Woman” became “our song.” We hummed it and sang it. When it came on the radio, wherever we were, we belted out the words and bobbed along. One rainy afternoon we choreographed a dance number to it, which we performed for our own personal entertainment whenever the opportunity arose. Even now the first drum licks of that song set my head bobbing and my body moving. I’m sixteen again and my best friend is at my side.
“Bree?”
“Hmmm?” I jerk my head up and see all three of them staring at me.
“Are you okay, Mom?” Lily has her schoolbooks, and Clay’s got the car keys. They’ve both pulled on raincoats.
“Absolutely, sweetheart,” I say in my heartiest mom voice. “I’m just a little lost in the chapter I’m working on.” As my lips brush across their cheeks it’s a reminder of how lucky I am to have them. When I married Clay and we decided to live here I vowed to turn it back into the kind of home my grandmother’s presence had made it. And mostly I’ve succeeded.
“Go ahead and get back to work while it’s fresh in your mind.” Kendra’s eyes are filled with concern as she hands me a plate to take up with me. “I’ll clean up and let myself out.”
“Thanks.” I feel a swell of love and gratitude. In those months after my grandmother died I spent almost every weekend at the Sandcastle. The day Lauren admitted to Kendra that I had been left on my own was the day they came to pack me up and take me home with them—no longer just a best friend but a member of their family.
Where would I be without her?
Back at my desk I gobble down a piece of bacon, a couple bites of scrambled egg, and most of a muffin. While I look at the notes I’ve scrawled all over the manuscript in my race toward the finish line, I sip my coffee and go back through all of Whitney’s scenes one last time.
It’s only now, with food in my stomach and the comforting soundtrack of Kendra puttering in the kitchen downstairs, that I’m ready to finally accept the truth about the characters I’ve come to love and thought I knew so well.
Somehow, and I’m really not sure how, Whitney has grown and evolved in ways I never planned or noticed. In fact, I wish I were half as fleshed out as she is. That my dreams and goals seemed as clear and obtainable as hers.
Of course, there’s still tweaking to be done, but Whitney is surprisingly strong and resilient. Frankly, if Heath doesn’t get his shit together he’s going to be left behind.
I shake my head in wonder. Then I smile and finish off the muffin, considering. I’ve only ever wanted a traditional happily ever after for this woman I created. But now when I see what she’s become I can’t help wondering if she’d be happier going it alone.
Kendra’s handled being single with aplomb. And from what I’ve heard and observed, Lauren has never needed a man to make her happy or “take care of her.” I have to admit I’m curious to see what kind of man it took to win her.
Neither Kendra nor Lauren feared being alone like I did, like I still do. But then they’ve always had each other.
I eat another piece of bacon. As I lick the grease from my fingers, my eyes are drawn to the paragraphs I wrote late last night. I sense Whitney’s presence and hear her begin to speak. After all these years her voice is as familiar as my own. I cock my head and listen, surprised again at what she has to say. And then I’m typing rapidly, trying to catch every word, as if I’m simply taking dictation.
Her decisions, which she lays out quite clearly, shock me. She’s made the kind of hard choices I’ve been afraid to even consider.
Eleven
Kendra
The Sandcastle
The sky is a steel gray. The heavy clouds that hang low over the ocean are a shade darker. Surf pounds onto shore. The wind howls, pelting the walls and windows with sand. It’s been raining for three days. Which means the freezer is now stuffed with enough home-baked chocolate macadamia nut cookies, salty caramel brownies, and snickerdoodles to last a lifetime. The refrigerator contains all of Lauren’s favorite foods. As if the perfect meal might somehow soften her outrage when I tell her that her father is not dead, but alive. Or consuming enough chocolate could stimulate forgiveness.
Between the weather and my nerves, I’ve worn a groove in the wood floors from pacing. My hands are cramped from wringing. At the moment my knees are shrieking in protest as I duckwalk the living room cleaning the baseboards, something I h
aven’t done in years and don’t need to do now since it’s doubtful that Lauren will notice or that my future son-in-law has packed a pair of white gloves with which to test the baseboards.
I know my way around cleaning products. I cleaned houses and motel rooms in the first years after we arrived because we needed the money and because I could bring a baby with me while I did it. But even while I was acquiring the skills I’d never learned growing up in a home with full-time help, I wasn’t particularly interested in achieving household perfection or stamping out every last dust mite—that was always more my mother’s goal than mine. It went hand in hand with her need to please and appease my father.
As always the thought of my parents is a one-two punch to the gut. First comes the burst of anger that still burns far too brightly—that my father expected obedience in all things and that his love was completely conditional on compliance. That my mother was too weak to stand up to him, too timid and too dependent to insist on a relationship with me and Lauren after I disobeyed his edicts and refused to give up my child. Too fragile to be the woman I always wanted her to be.
The anger is followed by the quieter sting of remorse that my mother and Lauren never knew each other and that I never found a way to mend the breach before my parents died.
I like to think that my mother would have loved this box of a house as much as I do even though it’s small and utilitarian without a single grand element or statement piece. An aging woman who is not embarrassed by her wrinkles.
Everything here is designed to stand up to salt, sea air, and sand. The cedar shake exterior has darkened over time and the wooden steps and railings that lead to front and back porches are weathered. The interior is splashed with color and consists of sturdy rattan with brightly patterned cushions that hide the spills and stains that have accumulated over the years. The run of east-and-west-facing windows lets the sunshine in and turns the space bright and airy, which is what I care about most. Give me plenty of natural light and I’m happy. Darkness has never been my friend. On days like this the windows frame the wild and turbulent beauty that first drew me and that I’ve never grown tired of.
Still antsy, I scrub every inch of the bathroom starting with the claw-foot tub and finishing, once again on my hands and knees, with the original black-and-white tile floor. I take pleasure in prevailing over the grout and breathe a little easier when everything begins to sparkle, but that lasts only until I let myself remember that I’m not just preparing for a meet-the-fiancé weekend, but a revelation that will change history as Lauren has known it. My pool of dread keeps deepening.
In Lauren’s bedroom the twin beds that she and Bree slept in sag slightly in the middle. Even now I can’t understand how Bree’s parents could abandon her like they did. Only one of them made it back for her wedding, and I don’t think they’ve visited more than a handful of times between them since then. Lauren was the center of my universe for so long, my reason for being and especially for being here. Why have children if you don’t intend to make time for them?
I vacuum the turquoise rug that Lauren chose when she was nine and dust the dresser and nightstand. It’s on this nightstand that Lauren kept the photo of me and Jake standing at the altar just moments before I turned and ran. The photo that I let her believe was of her parents getting married. I even made her a small photo album of Jake and me during our dating years.
My eyes water and I sniff to hold back tears. In my attempt to protect Lauren and Jake, I saw no way to make her known to his parents and so I let them “die” in the fictitious accident that claimed my parents.
What was that Hemingway quote? “The coward dies a thousand deaths, the brave but one”? Ha! I’ve been fearing this for so long that by all rights I should be relieved to have the truth come out. But I know how shocked Lauren is going to be, how confused and upset she’ll feel. In a matter of days she’ll realize how many mistakes I’ve made. How many lies I’ve told.
I lift the nightstand out of the way. When I push the beds together their sagging centers look even less appealing. Unless I figure out a way to anchor them together, whoever ends up in the middle is going to be sleeping on the crack or possibly the floor.
At the moment that seems like such a small thing in comparison with what lies ahead. I can only hope that when Lauren meets her father she’ll . . . what? Not be angry that she’s finding out only because I’ve been forced to tell her? Tell me she doesn’t begrudge the last forty years?
No matter how many times I remind myself that I altered the truth for the best of reasons, even I haven’t found a way to forgive me.
* * *
Lauren
New York City
We fly home tomorrow. My bag is packed and sitting on the ottoman in Spencer’s bedroom. The black-and-electric-blue Trina Turk pants outfit with its wide, elastic-waist pants and flowing top is carefully folded over the back of the matching club chair. A pair of black Jimmy Choo flats that I can wear with everything in my suitcase sits on the floor waiting to be stepped into.
Spencer is sound asleep beside me and when I asked him why he wasn’t packing earlier he told me that he’d have plenty of time in the morning. Even though we’re leaving for the airport at nine A.M. sharp.
Of course he fell asleep in seconds, because to him flying is like taking a bus or a train—just another form of transportation.
To me it’s a potential brush with death at thirty thousand feet. Which is why despite the two Tylenol PM I took an hour ago, I’m still staring up into the ceiling trying not to think about midair collisions, engines exploding, or plummeting to the ground in a ball of fire.
I do have a system for managing my fear. Typically I knock myself out the night before—come on, Tylenol! Then I take a Xanax an hour before takeoff so that I can make myself get on the plane. Once on board I have exactly one drink as soon as possible. (I discovered the hard way on a cross-country trip that two drinks is one too many.) This drink prevents me from blubbering in fear and begging to be let off the plane. (Which I suspect would not play well on social media.)
As I wait for the Tylenol to kick in, I remind myself that the flight to Norfolk is relatively short and that, since it’s not yet tourist season, the drive down to Nags Head should be an easy one. There’s no reason there should be any real issues once we get home, either. My mother, who is the least judgmental person I know, is bound to love Spencer and I can’t imagine him not loving her back. And it’s not like he’s going to have to deal with some big family looking him over. Now that Great-aunt Velda is gone, I have only a couple of cousins and none of them lives in the Outer Banks.
I turn on my side and pull my pillow under my head. There’s Bree and Clay, of course, and their daughter, Lily. It might be a good idea to share a little more of our “backstory” with Spencer before we get there. But while I wish I didn’t have to go to Title Waves or even tell Bree about the anniversary edition, it’s not as if there’s anything she can do about it.
I draw in a deep breath and feel my eyelids growing heavy as I tell myself that there’s no point in worrying. A week hanging with my mom, showing Spencer around, and maybe looking at a few possible venues for the small, intimate wedding I’m hoping for should be fun. The Outer Banks are beautiful and the beach and the water surrounding it are guaranteed stress busters. After all, it’s not as if we have any big issues to resolve.
* * *
Bree
Manteo
It’s one in the morning when I suddenly realize that it’s over. Heart of Gold is finished. Afraid I might be hallucinating, I go back and reread the last pages of the manuscript. It’s possible that my lips move as I read—that’s how exhausted I am. But it seems I’ve tied things up satisfactorily. Everything makes sense. Whitney is satisfied, Heath not so much. There’s nothing else to say.
With trembling fingers I type the magic words The End a few lines below the final paragraph. I
stare at those words on the page in the pool of light that spills from the desk lamp. A smile spreads across my face. It’s so large I can actually feel my skin stretching.
I retype the words again. This time all in caps. THE END. Then I go back and add an exclamation point because the occasion demands it.
“Oh my God!” I get up then sit back down. I scrub at my eyes. I am so exhausted I could crumple to the floor at any moment. Or I could go outside and run through the streets.
Hysterical laughter bubbles up as I imagine what the sight of me racing around in the rain in my ancient pajamas and ratty robe whooping and hollering might do to any neighbor who happened to be up. They might call the sheriff’s office. I could end up in jail for being dangerously and deliriously happy.
I don’t go anywhere. I just sit there grinning and laughing. Then I notice that I’m crying. I feel an odd sort of reverence almost like I did when Rafe and Lily were first placed in my arms. I wonder if the agony of the fifteen years I’ve spent on this manuscript will fade the way the remembered pain of childbirth did?
Next I whoop and circle-pump my arm because I’ve finally done it. When Lauren gets here tomorrow—make that this afternoon—I will no longer be the loser still struggling to finish a single manuscript after a decade and a half. Whatever does or doesn’t happen next I have made it to the end. The End. THE END!
I whip open my office door. The house is dark and silent but there’s no way I’m going to be able to keep this to myself for six more hours. Maybe I should sneak into the bedrooms and adjust the alarms so that Clay and Lily wake up simultaneously and I can tell them.
I practically float down the stairs. As I pass Lily’s room I reject the idea of waking her. Lily doesn’t come back to consciousness easily or happily. When she was a baby I used to go to great lengths to keep her from falling asleep while we were running errands in the car—and what kind of mother would wake her child at one A.M.?