by Wendy Wax
“But it’ll only take about thirty minutes of her time. Maybe Spencer could come, too, and talk about his Broadway show. It won two Tonys, you know.” She tosses this out as if I might have somehow managed to miss this bit of information.
“You could maybe talk about the bookstore and, I don’t know, maybe about your book now that it’s finished.”
“That would be a pretty jam-packed thirty minutes.” I can hear just how dry my voice is but I’m pretty sure I manage to keep smiling.
“Will you just bring it up, Mom?” The smile she gives me is her most winning.
“I’ll mention it if and when the opportunity presents itself, but you’ll have to do the asking.”
“Come on, Lily,” Clay says. “I mean it.”
With a final pleading look and a toss of her head she follows him out the door.
I’m on my third cup of coffee when Lauren and Spencer come downstairs. I can tell that they’ve been fighting. I’ve been in enough domestic skirmishes to recognize the signs.
They both say good morning to me but are careful not to look at each other.
“Coffee?”
They nod and I fill their cups. Lauren pretends not to watch Spencer take and butter a muffin, but her face reveals her displeasure at the reminder of her mother. She reaches over the plate of offending muffins to the fruit bowl to retrieve a banana then yanks off its peel, twists it apart, and pops the top into her mouth.
“So,” I say into the vast silence. “What are your plans for today? Fort Raleigh Historic Site? The Waterside Theatre?” These are the closest and best-known tourist sites on Roanoke Island. “Too bad The Lost Colony doesn’t start until Memorial Day weekend.”
“Yeah. I’d really love to see it,” Spencer says as we watch Lauren masticate the banana she’s decapitated.
“Maybe you should leave those sites for later,” I say, unable to watch Lauren’s assault on the piece of fruit. “They’re so close you can run over there anytime. The drive down to Hatteras is beautiful.” Lauren’s eyeing a bunch of grapes as if they, too, deserve a comeuppance. But then I guess I should be grateful she’s taking her distress and hostility out on the fruit.
I pull open a drawer and retrieve an “Exploring Cape Hatteras” trifold to show Spencer the Cape Hatteras National Seashore. “It’s a beautiful drive and there are lots of places to stop on the way down. The Bodie Island Lighthouse is well worth seeing though you won’t be able to climb it right now. And you’ve also got the Pea Island National Wildlife Refuge and the historic Little Kinnakeet Lifesaving Station.” I’m trying not to sell it too hard, but as a bookseller close to the historic waterfront I’ve done more than my share of directing and guiding tourists.
Lauren is still torturing the banana.
Spencer, who’s been looking at the map, points to the shoreline. “Oh! There’s Rodanthe.” He pronounces it like the first-time visitor he is. “Isn’t that where that Nicholas Sparks movie was set?”
Lauren and I turn as one.
“It’s ‘Ro-DAN-thee,’” she says icily. As if he should have known this.
“And you might not want to mention that movie while you’re down there or anywhere on the Outer Banks, really,” I add more gently.
His surprise is not surprising. “Seriously? I mean, I’m not a huge Sparks fan, either. He skews a little too close to melodrama for my tastes. But . . . why not?”
“Because the local population didn’t appreciate being portrayed as country yokels,” I say.
“And bluegrass and country music are not ‘local,’” Lauren adds, clearly surprised that she’s just taken up the mantle of a local while I’m relieved to see she’s still got some civic pride and a native’s perspective. I was afraid she’d checked them in when she took up residence in Manhattan. “As anyone who was on the beach in the ’70s will tell you, a lot of big-name groups played here.”
After that the double-team defense is automatic and rapid-fire.
“And because you will never see wild horses running on the beach in Rodanthe.”
“Not ever.”
“It was completely inaccurate.”
“People around here don’t appreciate outsiders who don’t bother to get things right.”
Lauren stops mid-rant and I can practically see her brain registering the fact that she and I have come down on the same side, instinctually filling in each other’s blanks, anticipating the other’s thoughts.
“Given that all of us at this table have a propensity for making things up, that seems a bit harsh,” Spencer says, not particularly disturbed by the corrections and, if I’m not mistaken, as relieved as I am that Lauren has stopped mangling the fruit with criminal intent. “But I get it. ‘Ro-DAN-thee.’ And no movie references.” He reaches for a second muffin. “Is there anything else Outer Banksters have a hate on about that I should be careful of?”
“Well, since you asked, the term is Bankers,” I reply, still smiling.
“Lauren?” He draws her back in again. “Any other advice on fitting in?”
“Don’t bring up the Weather Channel, either,” Lauren replies almost begrudgingly.
“Why not?” Spencer asks before popping part of a muffin into his mouth.
“Because they show up here anytime there’s even a one percent chance of a nor’easter or—God forbid—a hurricane. And they do stand-ups twenty-four hours a day making it sound like we’re about to be blown off the face of the earth,” Lauren explains.
“It’s really bad for business,” I agree, barely resisting the impulse to high-five her.
“Shocking as it may seem, tourists aren’t eager to cross multiple bridges to get to a narrow barrier island when they’ve been led to believe a hurricane is barreling toward it.”
“They blow everything out of proportion,” Lauren adds. “Because if it’s only a possibility of thundershowers and not a hurricane brewing, they don’t have a story.”
Spencer shakes his head. “Wow, you Bankers are a tough crowd.”
“Now that you know how to avoid pissing off the resident population my work here is done,” I tease, grateful that he’s facilitated this conversation. “I believe it’s safe for me to head to the store.” I get up and pour the rest of my coffee into a to-go cup. “Make yourselves at home.”
“Actually, I thought I’d give Dee a call before we head out to see what time our room will be available.” Lauren tosses this out as if it’s an afterthought—and just like that she negates whatever bond I might have imagined was forming. She can’t wait to get out of here.
“Great.” I’m not going to beg her to stay with me. Maybe Rafe’s bed is too small. Or maybe she wants to stay in the same place with her father. Who knows? It’s not as if a couple conversations are going to put our friendship back together anyway. I don’t need more than basic communication if Lauren doesn’t. But I know for a fact that Kendra does.
I exhale as I turn and walk outside to my car. The drive is just long enough to dither over whether to call Kendra now or wait until I get to the store. Or maybe I should swing by the Sandcastle after work. I have no idea how this whole mess is going to get resolved or what, if anything, I can, or even should, try to do about it. But I have to let Kendra know that I’m here for her if she needs me. She’s always been there for me. I can’t leave her to face this all alone.
* * *
At the store I automatically begin to straighten shelves and dust the children’s section, but Mrs. McKinnon, who filled in for a few hours yesterday afternoon, is a much better housekeeper than I am and everything’s in perfect order. There’s barely even a speck of dust. In fact, the whole store is extremely neat, maybe even too organized. Like a woman who’s put on her Sunday best just to run to the market. There’s really nothing that needs doing and if I were still working on Heart of Gold, I’d already be at the front desk booting up my l
aptop. Where I could lose myself in Whitney and Heath’s relationship instead of examining my own. Or wondering if Kendra’s okay. And what on earth I should do about it if she isn’t. And whether I could forgive her if I were Lauren. Or Jake.
I pick up my cell phone and hit speed dial but Kendra doesn’t answer. Finally it goes to voice mail and I leave a message. Over the next thirty minutes I try twice more with the same result. I beat off the stirring of unease and then the worst-case scenarios. Kendra’s not exactly a techie or overly attached to her phone, but she’s not someone who never answers, either. She’s also not someone who’s going to do herself harm or give up on attempting to make her daughter understand why she did what she did.
Too antsy to just sit there and actually wishing I still had a manuscript to throw myself into, I rearrange the new-releases table even though it clearly doesn’t need it. Then, because I’m still worried about Kendra and feeling the unexpected blip of camaraderie from breakfast, I pull Lauren’s books from the shelves and create a whole display of them in the front window. Then I decorate it with a neon-green bucket and shovel, a floppy sunhat, and an assortment of beach balls and sunglasses and drizzle it all with seashells.
I’m considering putting the BE BACK SOON sign on the front door so that I can go check on Kendra, when the front door opens with a jangle. Mrs. McKinnon and Leslie Parent walk in.
“Hello!” Leslie smiles cheerfully. Mrs. McKinnon looks around either to reassure herself that I haven’t destroyed the order she had wrought or, perhaps, to reassure herself that I have.
“Hi.” We meet halfway, which puts us right near the local cookbooks.
“It’s funny to come in and not find you typing away on your laptop,” Leslie says.
“It is funny. I was just thinking how odd it is to be done after all this time.”
“When will you send it off to New York?” Mrs. McKinnon asks as if you just put New York, New York on the front of it and pop it in the mail.
“Well, I probably need to do another read-through. And it might need some revisions. Then I’ll put together a list of agents who represent my kind of work. Then if I’m lucky enough to have an agent agree to represent me it would go out to editors that . . .”
“Has Lauren read it yet?” Leslie asks.
“Well, no.” I’m very glad we’re now on speaking terms, but I have no intention of asking her for help of any kind. And especially not a critique of my manuscript. I’m not sure I could survive that.
“She could probably just ask her agent to read it, couldn’t she? And maybe her editor?” Mrs. McKinnon asks. “That way you could just leapfrog over all that rigmarole.”
“Oh. Oh no. I would never ask her to do that.” I’m practically stuttering. And wishing I had left for Kendra’s before they arrived. “She’s far too busy to . . .” I stop short.
“That girl has a lot on her mind now, doesn’t she?” Mrs. McKinnon says not unkindly. “What with a long-lost father showing up and all.”
“What, uh, what makes you say that?” I can barely get the words out.
Leslie rolls her eyes. “Plenty of people have seen them out on the porch at the Dogwood.”
“Oh my. It’s not supposed to be a secret, is it?” Mrs. McKinnon asks. “I mean, not anymore?”
“To think Kendra pretended to have been married all that time.” Leslie shakes her head. “As if anyone here would have treated her any different.”
“People might have,” Mrs. McKinnon says. “Not everyone was so open-minded back then.”
“Oh, I . . .” I close my mouth. It’s not like I have anything to add to this conversation.
“I heard she left him at the church brokenhearted. And that’s one fine-looking man.” Mrs. McKinnon sighs. “But I suppose she must have had her reasons.”
They both peer at me as if I’m going to tell them what those reasons were when I’m wondering that very thing myself. I have no idea what would have made the woman I thought I knew so well act so out of character. I take a step back.
“Lauren must be so upset,” Leslie adds, but I can tell she’s still hoping I’ll weigh in. “Is she just furious at Kendra?” When I don’t say anything she continues, “Clara over at the post office said she wouldn’t be surprised if that girl never forgave her mama.”
I take another step back. There’s no room to retreat farther. I’m up against the shelves.
“Well, at least she’s getting to know her father now. Better late than never, I always say.” Leslie has clearly spent some time thinking this out. “Maybe he’ll even give her away at her wedding.” One eyebrow sketches upward. “Is he married?”
“Um, no. He’s a widower.” I’m relieved to have something to offer that isn’t someone else’s secret.
“Maybe he didn’t just come to get to know his daughter,” Mrs. McKinnon says with a wistful smile that reminds me of just how many romance novels she’s purchased. “Maybe it isn’t only about Lauren.” She waggles her eyebrows in a way that reminds me that she’s also been reading quite a bit of erotica. “Maybe he came back for Kendra, too.”
Twenty-three
Lauren
“So tell me again why Ocracoke isn’t pronounced ‘Ockra-COKE-ee’?” Spencer is watching me from the passenger seat of the rental car as we head back toward Manteo from our drive down to Hatteras.
He’s been asking this question since he spotted the signs for the Hatteras-Ocracoke Ferry and assumed the pronunciation of Ocracoke would be similar to Rodanthe.
I appreciate the fact that he’s been trying to make up and jolly me into a better mood all day (not to mention applying his creative flair to capturing our outing for posterity and social media), but it also makes me feel worse. Because it’s obvious that the only reasons we’re fighting are my abject unhappiness and my inability to deal with what has happened.
I stare glumly out the window at some of the most gorgeous scenery on earth. It’s been a bizarre point of honor not to respond to his teasing or even crack a smile. (Except in the over-the-top photos and videos he’s staged and posted.) As if any sign of real levity or enjoyment might somehow absolve my mother of treachery. Or negate the horror of her keeping my father and me apart. Of making me mourn someone who was not only alive but living less than six hours away. Of depriving me of grandparents. Of family.
“I don’t know,” I say more gruffly than I mean to. “That’s just the way it’s pronounced. Like how the letter c can be ‘see’ or ‘kuh.’” I sound like a guest lecturer with a great big stick up her ass. “It’s best not to question these things.”
I set my jaw. Thank goodness I didn’t take him to Ocracoke, which is still reachable only by ferry; a turn of events that has left them isolated to the point where some old-timers still speak Hoi Toider, a dialect heard only on remote islands in the Outer Banks. (A bit of trivia that sent Spencer to YouTube to hear the Ocracoke brogue for himself. After which he recorded and posted a video of us pretending to miss the ferry while singing a chorus of a hit song from The Music in Me in a mangled brogue.)
“Hey, I’m just trying to apply a little logic to the situation.” He gives me the puppy-dog look and expectant smile he’s used to coax me into performances and poses that are way outside my comfort zone. I’ve clung to my righteous indignation most of the day, but now, inexplicably, an answering smile threatens.
“Fahgeddaboutit,” I say in my best Brooklyn accent. “I’ve been in all five boroughs and I don’t think New Yorkers have a leg to stand on when it comes to accents and pronunciations.”
“Point taken. I’ll move on if you say Chicamacomico real fast one more time,” he says, gleefully massacring the name of the historic lifesaving station we toured in Rodanthe. (After which he somehow talked me into crawling across the sand with a lifesaving ring around me and seaweed clinging to my clothes as if I’d just been rescued.)
I give
him an eyebrow, still not completely ready to capitulate to his good humor. “And, FYI, you didn’t have to say ‘Ro-DAN-thee’ quite so many times.”
“Ah, but I did.” His slightly sunburned face is wreathed in smiles. We both smell like a combination of salt air and sunscreen from the time we spent plopped down on the sand of an absolutely deserted stretch of beach. (Where he staged a shot of us discovering the actual remains of a shipwreck that had recently washed ashore.) “Not only that. Did you notice how many times I did NOT mention Nicholas Sparks or his movie or the Weather Channel?”
I give him a stern look that’s no doubt ruined by the smile that tugs at my lips.
“I see you smiling and feeling superior, but come on. Who decided Bodie Lighthouse should be pronounced ‘body’? That’s just wrong.”
I give a long, theatrical sigh, but I am in fact smiling, something I couldn’t even imagine this morning when we left Bree’s. I still feel like my head might explode every time I let myself think about the steady diet of lies my mother fed me, but while the anger continues to simmer inside me the tears aren’t quite so near the surface. And while I have no intention of so much as being in the same room with my mother, I’m looking forward to continuing to get to know my father. Today has reconfirmed just how lucky I am that Spencer will be a part of everything that lies ahead. (Plus, I have no doubt his social media skills will thrill the publicity team at Trove.)
We’re just coming off the Herbert C. Bonner Bridge when my cell phone rings. It’s Deanna. I glance at my watch. It’s just after four P.M., so I assume she’s calling to see what time we’re planning to check in.