The Girls of Mischief Bay

by Susan Mallery

  She nodded as she got in. The message was clear. He wouldn’t be going with her. After all, watching her shop wouldn’t help his career. Perhaps a harsh judgment, she told herself. But was it inaccurate?

  She’d long known that the Eric she’d married was gone. What about this new guy? Did they have anything in common? Because if they didn’t, she didn’t see how their marriage was ever going to work.

  * * *

  Riverside was less than ninety miles from Mischief Bay, but in terms of life, purpose and style, it was another galaxy in distance. Or maybe that was unfair, Shannon thought as she sat in her parents’ backyard on a hot and sunny Saturday afternoon. Maybe the real distance was simply between her life and her parents’.

  Her dad had gone golfing with a few of his friends. To the public course, he’d been careful to say before he left. Because he would never join a country club of any kind. She was pretty sure her parents could afford it and as much as her dad golfed these days, it made sense. But to do so was to cross that invisible line of being too much or having too much. You bought things because they were necessary. A golf club membership wasn’t ever going to be necessary.

  “It warmed up early this year,” her mother said.

  “It did. Your roses look beautiful.”

  “Sally’s are much nicer, but I’m happy with how these came out. I’ve been working with them.”

  The backyard was a testament to her mother’s love of and talent with all things plant-based. There were lush bushes, blooming flowers, artfully arranged and elegantly displayed. Shannon had never shared her mother’s affection for the outdoors, but she’d still spent many happy hours on this small patio, reading while her mother gardened.

  “Your father’s thinking of retiring,” her mother said.

  “Good for him.”

  “He’s sixty-six. It’s past the retirement age.”

  Shannon understood that retiring could be mistaken for being lazy. Or not working hard enough. “He’s earned this. What about you, Mom? Thinking about letting the kids teach themselves?”

  Her mother, also a natural redhead whose only vanity was to color her hair ever four weeks, shook her head. “Shannon, I don’t know where you get your strange ideas. Children can’t teach themselves. I don’t know how much longer I’ll work. Your father and I have been thinking about buying an RV. A small one, of course. It’s just the two of us. Used. We’ve been looking around and there are some bargains.”

  “That sounds like fun,” Shannon said as she picked up her lemonade and sipped it. What she really wanted to say was “Go wild. Get a big one. Or even a medium-size one. And hey, look at a new one!”

  But she wouldn’t. Not only couldn’t she possibly change their minds, but they would also be uncomfortable at what they perceived as waste.

  Shannon told herself to respect their frugal natures. They’d been raised by depression-era parents who had taught them to squeeze every penny until it was reduced to its base elements. Saving was good for families and good for the economy. But, like anything worthy, it could be taken to the extreme.

  And it wasn’t the savings she took issue with, she thought. It was the attitude that went with it. The constant apology if something was new, or nice. That her mother couldn’t simply accept a compliment about the roses—she had to say someone else’s were nicer and that she’d worked hard to get them that way.

  “I hope you and Dad get an RV,” she said instead. “You’ve always wanted to travel.”

  “I have. And it’s not like we’re going to Europe. That would be so extravagant.”

  “It doesn’t have to be,” Shannon said gently. “There are discount trips…”

  Her mother was already shaking her head. “We’re not like you, Shannon. We don’t believe in that sort of thing.”

  “Seeing the world?”

  “Wasting money like that. You always wanted more. You were never content with what you had.”

  Shannon remembered being eight or nine. It had been close to Christmas and she’d seen a pair of red patent leather shoes in the store.

  They had been the most beautiful shoes she’d ever seen in her life and she wanted them with a fiery desperation. Of course, her parents had told her no. That she already had her school shoes and her play shoes. If she needed something fancy, which was unlikely, she could borrow a pair from one of her friends. Come summer, she would get a pair of sandals and maybe they could be red.

  She hadn’t been appeased by the thought because she knew that come summer, she would get brown sandals. Brown was practical. Brown went with everything.

  She’d tried begging, bargaining, and had even attempted to sell some of her toys to neighborhood kids. But no one would pay for her modest playthings. Christmas morning had come and gone. She’d gotten three presents, and no red patent leather shoes.

  Years later, she’d started babysitting. She’d saved until she had enough and then she’d bought a pair of ridiculous high-heeled patent leather pumps. Her parents had been horrified. She was supposed to be saving for her future. She told them she’d been dreaming about red patent leather shoes for six years. She was past due.

  Later she’d realized the pumps she’d bought were more suitable for someone who dabbled in prostitution than a high school sophomore. She’d only ever worn them a couple of times. But they’d represented something significant: she’d wanted them and she had bought them herself. Buying those shoes had represented possibilities and freedom.

  Her mother would say they’d been her first step down the dark path and maybe they had been. But Shannon had decided then and there she was going to make enough money to buy whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted. No one was ever going to tell her no again.

  “You do know I have a savings account, right?” she asked her mother. “And a 401K.”

  “I hope it’s enough.”

  “Mom, I work in finance. I’m the CFO in a billion-­dollar company. I know how to handle money.”

  Her mother glanced around, as if concerned someone would overhear them. “Keep your voice down. There’s no reason to go bragging to the whole neighborhood. That sort of thing is private.”

  Right. Because aside from not spending money, her parents never talked about it, either. To this day she had no idea what either of them made. She could guess, but she didn’t know. Of course they didn’t know what she made either. She had a feeling they would faint with shock at her mid-six-figure salary.

  “Maybe you could plan to go to Europe for your sixty-fifth birthday,” she said. “That gives you a couple of years to save for it. It could be your present.”

  For a second her mother’s expression turned wistful. “That would be nice,” she admitted, before shaking her head. “Your father would never agree it was a good idea.”

  Shannon only nodded. No point in getting into it with her mom now. But later, she would drop a hint or two to her father. Maybe if she suggested it and offered to pay half as her gift to her mom, she could make it happen. Or maybe it would all blow up in her face with her father accusing her of bragging. It was difficult to know with them.

  For the four hundred millionth time, she wished they could be different. An impossible request, of course, but she couldn’t shake the feeling of sadness when she thought of her parents. They chose to live such small lives. They could afford to do more and wouldn’t. If they didn’t want to travel, then she could understand them choosing to stay home. Only they did. Or at least her m
other did.

  Shannon knew her love of exotic places came from the times when she and her mom would check out travel books from the library. They would pore over the color pictures and talk about going there…someday.

  Shannon had learned that for her parents “someday” really meant never. Once she’d broken free and bought her red shoes, she’d also decided she was going to see the world. And she had. She supposed for her mother, the RV was enough.

  Shannon wondered if the concept of enough should be one she embraced. But she wanted more—at least when it came to her personal life. A problem she and Adam had yet to resolve.

  “Mom, why didn’t you and Dad have more kids?”

  Her mother picked up her drink and took a sip. “Are you sorry you’re an only child?”

  “It’s all I know. I can try to imagine what it would have been like with siblings, but at this point, I’m not sure what difference it would make.”

  “We talked about having more children,” her mother admitted. “But then it never happened.”

  The obvious question was why. Had there been problems getting pregnant? Problems in the marriage? Or had her parents simply made the sensible choice? The one to only have a single child so they wouldn’t stretch their budget?

  “I want to have a baby,” Shannon confessed.

  Her mother turned to her, her eyebrows raised, her mouth twisted in judgment. “Shannon, no. You can’t. You’re too old.”

  An unexpected slap, she thought, trying not to react, at least on the outside. “I’m going to be forty.”

  “I know how old you are. And you’d be close to sixty when your child graduated from high school. Are you sure you could even get pregnant at this age? Besides, you’re not even married.” Her mother’s eyes widened. “You’re not going to go adopt a foreign child on your own, are you?”

  “I might.” Because the stubborn kid in her thought defying her mother sounded pretty damned good right about now.

  “I have no idea what your father would say about that.”

  Shannon wanted to find her way to the golf course and tell him that second. In front of his friends. Then she drew a breath and let the urge wash over her and away.

  It was usually like this when she came home, she thought. She and her mother talked while her father disappeared somewhere. Conversation took a turn and she found herself on the teenaged side of parental disapproval.

  She knew she was a disappointment. She hadn’t followed the family rules. She wasn’t modest enough or average enough or traditional enough. She’d been too driven, too flashy. Although her parents knew about her beachfront condo, they’d never seen it. No doubt their senior hearts couldn’t stand the strain.

  She told herself that love came in many forms. That she should be grateful she still had her parents and that while they couldn’t be more different, if something bad happened, they would be there for her. She was only staying for a few more hours. She could afford to be gracious.

  “You’ve raised some good points,” she said gently. “I’m going to have to think about them. And I won’t say anything to Dad.”

  Her mother relaxed. “He loves you very much. We both do. It’s just sometimes…”

  “I know, Mom. I don’t make it easy.”

  Twenty

  Nicole stared at the foil-covered glass casserole dish. The instructions were very clear. Thirty minutes in a 350-degree oven. Greta’s writing was like the woman herself—precise and deliberate. Okay, and maybe just a little bit scary.

  In addition to the prepared entrée, there was a salad for her and Eric, along with a weird blue smoothie drink in a child-size cup for Tyler. One he claimed to have had before and really liked. Nicole was sure all the ingredients were organic and locally sourced, wherever possible. That the meal couldn’t be more healthy and that she would sleep better because of it.

  All things to be grateful for, if only she could get over the weirdness of it all.

  Two years ago, she’d been going along with her life. She had a husband and a son and a new business. All of which was still true, but somehow it all felt different. As if the traditional painting that was her life had been redone by Picasso. All that was missing were the flying goats.

  Not that she was complaining. The changes had happened gradually. But when she looked back at how much things had changed, she felt a little strange about it all.

  She turned on the oven to preheat it. There wasn’t much else for her to do. The laundry was done, the kitchen clean. Even the bathroom towels had a just-washed scent and softness. Tyler informed her that Greta had already given him a bath that afternoon and read him his favorite B the D book twice.

  Nicole realized that she didn’t have anything to do. Not cleaning, not getting dinner ready beyond the back-­breaking task of turning on the oven, not anything. She was tired from a long day at work and she could simply relax with her son.

  “Let’s play while dinner’s heating,” she said.

  Tyler shouted his pleasure and made a beeline for his room.

  She followed and soon they were busy working on a puzzle. When the oven beeped it was hot enough, she put in the casserole, then returned to the fun. By six, they were sitting down to eat.

  For once there was time to find a nice classical station on the radio and even pour a glass of wine. Tyler enjoyed his strange blue drink and didn’t seem to notice the vegetables Greta had hidden in the casserole.

  When they were done, they cleaned the kitchen together, then went into the living room to watch one of his movies. Movies that had been put away on their shelf…in alphabetical order.

  The evening continued to pass smoothly. Nicole wasn’t sure when Eric would be home, but that was true most nights. He was kept busy with his movie and starting a new screenplay. She only knew that last bit because she’d overheard him talking about it with Jacob. As for the current one, he still hadn’t given it to her to read, despite her asking.

  At eight, she put Tyler to bed and then wandered through her clean, organized house. She picked up a book she’d been wanting to read for at least two years and settled down to sink into the story. It was a weekend night and here she was—reading.

  Somewhere around nine, Eric walked into the house.

  “Hi,” he said when he saw her. “How was your day?”

  She looked up from her book. “Good. How was—” She stared at the man she’d married. The clothes were new, but then she’d been there when he’d bought them. But they weren’t what startled her. She stared at his hair, taking in the blond ends of his new sticky-up style.

  “Do you have highlights?” she asked, unable to grasp the possibility.

  “Yeah. Do you like them?”

  Sure, this was L.A. but highlights? Who did he think he was? Brad Pitt?

  “Um, sure. They’re, um, great.” She closed her book. “Did you eat? There’s a chicken casserole in the fridge. Greta outdid herself again.”

  “I ate, but thanks.” He sat at the other end of the sofa. “We’re getting serious about casting. That’s been interesting. I’m learning a lot from Jacob.”

  “I’ll bet. It’s great that he’s involving you in so much of the movie.”

  Eric leaned forward, his clasped hands dangling between his knees. “I know. We’re becoming good friends. Most writers don’t get to see all the magic happen. We’ve been brainstorming my next project. I’m going to have to take a few months to write it, but I want to stay with the movie as lon
g as I can. Then I’ll hole up and get the writing done. It’s hectic, but fun.”

  She studied his face. He looked happy, she thought. Relaxed. The highlights would take some getting used to, but she could probably live with them.

  “I’m glad it’s all going so well.” She paused, not sure what she wanted to tell him. “You’re gone a lot.”

  “I know. It’s tough, right? All this work. It comes with the business. I’m sure you can imagine. Jacob’s going to be out of town for a few days. So the three of us can do something Sunday. Maybe go to the POP and hang out.”

  “Tyler would like that a lot. He misses you.”

  “I miss him, too.” Eric rose. “I’m going to catch up on email.”

  “I miss you, too,” she added.

  Her husband nodded and gave her a kiss on the cheek. But instead of speaking, he headed for his office.

  When she was alone again, she leaned back against the sofa. Had he noticed that he didn’t say he missed her? They’d drifted so far apart. It had happened slowly at first, but now the chasm between them was wider and deeper every week.

  She couldn’t tell if he was excluding her deliberately or if it was simply happening through circumstance. While she was glad Eric was happy with his work, where did it leave their relationship?

  What did he want from her and what did she want from him? And if they were rarely in the same room at the same time, how were they ever supposed to have that conversation?

  * * *

  Shannon hesitated only a second before walking into Latte-Da. It was ten in the morning on a Tuesday and there wasn’t much of a crowd. She spotted Adam right away. He had two to-go cups in front of him and when he saw her, he stood and carried the cups over to her.

  “Thanks for coming,” he said, as he approached.

  “You said it was important.” She took one of the cups. “Thank you for my latte.”

  “You’re welcome. Let’s go outside and walk along the boardwalk.”