by Claire Cook
There was dead silence on the other end.
I laughed an odd little laugh. “That’s probably not what you called to talk about, huh?”
“I was conjuring up an image of the one we used to have. I think it had car-wash features and the girls would drive through it in their Barbie vehicles, their whole posse of dolls riding shotgun.”
“Mine tried pulling a wagon full of their stuffed animals over one of theirs to give them a bath. Which seemed like a good idea until the mildew set in.”
“So, before you hang up on me again.”
“Right,” I said. “Sorry about that.” The mourning doves flew off together and then the squirrel scampered across the lawn and up the side of an oak tree. The air was cool and breezy and a little bit salty, or maybe I was just imagining that I could smell the ocean from here.
Ted Brody cleared his throat. “I know you’re in reunion mode so I won’t take up much of your time. I was wondering, now that you’ve seen the courtyard, what you think I should do to light up that sculpture of yours at night? I’ve got all these strands of white lights, but when I tried hanging them on the wall, it looked an awful lot like Christmas.”
“Hmm.” I took a moment to picture the space. “What if I made you some rusted metal fireflies that attached to the wall, and we strung the lights through those? I could turn them into blinking lights—all I’d have to do is replace the bulb on the end of the light string closest to the electrical outlet with a blinking bulb. They’ll blink on and off just like real fireflies and also light up the wall along with Endless Loop.”
There was silence on the other end.
“Or you could buy a spotlight at Home Depot,” I said.
He laughed. “No, it’s a great idea. I was just thinking how refreshing it is to talk to someone who’s doing her own thing and enjoying it.”
“Thanks. And, um, ditto.”
“When I decided to open Sprout, my then-wife thought I was single-handedly throwing away everything we’d worked so hard to build together. My way of seeing it was that I’d toed the line my whole life and didn’t want to end up rocking away on my front porch one day counting my regrets. I’d dreamed about owning a restaurant for years, and I’d imagined every single inch of the place.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, I think those fireflies of yours will be just the thing.”
“That must have been a tough time for you,” I said.
“It became the Mason-Dixon line of our marriage, and ultimately we went our separate ways.”
The Mason-Dixon line of our marriage. I loved that. I wanted to make it come alive in metal, maybe huge etched and spattered scrap metal profiles, male and female, facing away from each other, and a long jagged copper line separating the two. The line would be studded with bits and pieces of things—tiny sticks and stones and shards of sea glass—the detritus of their time together. A lifeline of their marriage.
“Have you both remarried?” I asked, because it seemed less personal than asking if he’d remarried, as if I just happened to be taking a general survey.
“She has. I haven’t. I guess the thing about restaurants is that they basically call the shots on your personal life. Romantic dinners can only happen on Monday nights, when we’re closed.”
“Romantic breakfasts are nice,” I heard myself say. The squirrel was back on top of the bird feeder now, looking over at me as if I’d just said the most ridiculous thing it had ever heard. Romantic breakfasts are nice—what an idiot I was. Clearly this was a business call.
“Thank you for the optimism,” he said.
“You’re welcome,” I said, for lack of a better idea.
“And your story, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“My husband left me for someone named Crissy. For some reason that bothers me far more than if she were a Simone or a Giovanna. Or even a Ruth.”
“I can understand that. My ex-wife is married to a Dick.”
I burst out laughing.
“Laugh if you will, but it’s gotten me through some tough moments.”
“I bet. How long did it take you?”
“To what?”
“Get through your tough moments?”
“Hmm.” The mourning doves were back now, too, or maybe they were new ones. Ever since I’d found out that mourning doves mated for life, it bothered me whenever I saw one alone. What had happened to its mate? Did mourning doves have tough moments, too? Did one of them want to ground feed in the same yard every day, while the other wanted to move on? Was it my turn to talk, or was it his?
“Someone once told me,” he said, “that it takes a month to get over each year you were married.”
“I hope that someone was wrong,” I said. “I’m not sure I’ve got that long.”
He let out another laugh. He had a great laugh, nothing mean or measured about it. “But I think in some ways you can start counting from the time you first begin detaching from each other, if that makes sense.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “That does make sense.”
“Well, I’ll let you get primping for that reunion.”
“Well, it’s not till tomorrow. And I’m a fast primper. But I should get back to my friends. Anyway, shall I give you a call about the fireflies when I’m back in town?”
“I’d like that.”
“Okay, I’m going to let you hang up first this time.”
I could still hear Ted Brody’s booming laugh after we hung up. He was a nice guy, and for a moment I almost wished I was still back in Atlanta so we could hang out and talk some more.
Then I remembered Finn Miller. I did a quick email check before I headed back inside.
To: Melanie
From: Finn Miller
Subject: playlist
Thought about asking if you wanted to meet for a drink first but I don’t want to miss watching you walk through the door.
Here’s the whole playlist. Been listening to it for weeks.
Nights in White Satin, The Moody Blues
Stairway to Heaven, Led Zeppelin
You Are So Beautiful, Joe Cocker
The Letter, The Box Tops
More Than a Feeling, Boston
When Will I Be Loved, Linda Ronstadt version of course
Wonderful Tonight, Eric Clapton
Right Now and Not Later, The Marshalls
Love the One You’re With, Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young
Brand New Key, Melanie (your namesake)
Let’s Get It On, Marvin Gaye
To: Finn Miller
From: Melanie
Subject: Re: playlist
I forgot all about the other Melanie!
Just so we synchronize our arrivals, what time are you going?
CHAPTER 24
“Hurry up,” B.J. yelled. “We’re way off schedule.”
“I’ll be right there,” I yelled back. I pulled up Finn’s email and double-checked a song. I’d managed to sign into my iTunes account and was downloading Finn’s playlist to my phone.
B.J. poked her head into the guest room. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing. Just buying a few more songs I remembered.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “I worked really hard on that playlist. I think we have plenty.”
I tapped the final BUY link and jumped up. “Of course we do. But when it comes to the old songs, more is more.”
I grabbed my purse and my carry-on and followed B.J. down the stairs.
Fawn was wearing a Hello Kitty bathing suit and skidding across the Slip’n Slide, backward of course, when we got outside. Veronica kept one eye on her as the three of us had a group hug.
“Are you sure you two can’t come with us?” I said.
“I’m sure,” Veronica said. “But thanks for stopping by. It was great hanging out with you.”
“What about Mark?” B.J. said. “Will he be home this weekend? You could just drive up by yourself for a few hours for the reunion. I’m on the committee, so I’m sure I can still get you a ticket. If
they’ve already given the numbers to the caterer, I’ll just steal someone else’s.”
“He’s not coming home this weekend.” Veronica combed her fingers through her hair. “And I have to tell you, I don’t think I’d be up for it anyway. Too much I don’t feel like talking about.”
“Not a problem,” B.J. said. “We’ll make up a story for you. We could say you’ve invented a breakfast cereal that entertains kids for hours by making them talk backward.”
“Beej,” I said.
Veronica looked over at Fawn. “Yeah, and as soon as I come up with the antidote, I’ll let you know.”
“What about one of your other kids?” B.J. said. “Couldn’t they watch her for a few hours?”
Fawn stretched out on the Slip’n Slide facing us. Her eyes were half closed, like a snake sunning itself. Every once in a while, she’d stick her tongue out and pull it back in so quickly, it was as if it had never happened.
Veronica lowered her voice even more. “Neither of them is around this summer. And let’s just say that I’m not comfortable leaving her with anyone else right now anyway.”
“Fine,” B.J. said. “We’ll just pack her up and take her with us then. We’ll tell everyone at the reunion she’s with the band. And Mel and I will help you keep an eye on her.”
“If there’s one thing this kid doesn’t need, it’s another party,” Veronica said in a flat voice.
She gave us each another hug, carefully avoiding our tattoos, then turned to Fawn. “Say good-bye to Melanie and B.J.,” she yelled across the backyard.
Fawn stuck her tongue way out and slowly pulled it back into her mouth. “Eyb-doog,” she said.
“Eyb-doog,” we said.
“Okay, we’re out of here,” B.J. said.
“Let me just run back in and go to the bathroom again first,” I said.
B.J. shook her head. “Make it fast.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to drive while you have me as your copilot?” B.J. asked. “I mean, maybe now that you’ve talked about it openly, driving on the highway won’t be as much of an issue.”
“Isn’t it supposed to be God who’s my copilot?” I said.
B.J. rummaged in her shoulder bag for her keys. “Or dog, depending on the bumper sticker.”
“Why do I think Fawn may have come up with that bumper sticker? That is one smart kid.”
“Scary smart,” B.J. said.
I put my suitcase down behind the Mustang. We’d stripped the guest room beds and thrown the sheets and pillowcases into the washing machine when we got up, and loaded the breakfast dishes into the dishwasher before we left. We’d both gone back inside and written our cell phone numbers on the memo pad hanging on the refrigerator, just to be sure Veronica knew where they were. But I was still feeling a little bit guilty that we could breeze right out the door.
B.J. finally pulled out her key ring. “Well, that’s a relief—I was starting to think my keys had disappeared. I love Veronica, but I don’t think I could have handled five more minutes here. I’ve paid my dues. My caretaking days are over.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “They say it’s completely different when it’s your own grandchild.”
“Right,” B.J. said as she popped the Mustang’s trunk open. “And they say cauliflower can taste like mashed potatoes, too.” She collapsed the handle of her carry-on and hefted it in. “It’s probably a suburban myth fabricated by some ungrateful kid who wants you to babysit her ungrateful kid.”
I slid my carry-on into the trunk beside B.J.’s. “Whoa. Where did that come from?”
B.J. shrugged. “I just want to enjoy my fifteen minutes of selfishness, that’s all. I mean, first it’s all about your kids, and then it’s the dog they left behind and never fed anyway, and then it’s your parents. And now we’ve both got this tiny window to enjoy ourselves before it all starts up again. So let’s party on, Romy. And hopefully Veronica will find a way to ditch the kid and meet us at the reunion. And I really think you should drive.”
I headed for the passenger side. “Sure, I’ll drive. And we’ll stop and get you another tattoo while we’re out so you can work on your needle phobia. Maybe this one will heal by tomorrow.”
Fawn wiggled out from under the Mustang and hissed.
B.J. screamed, long and loud.
I held my phone out so we could both hear the music and rocked my head back and forth to the slow, sexy beat of “You Are So Beautiful.”
B.J. turned to look at me. “Okay, what’s going on?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, first of all, Sally’s speakers are obviously far superior, so I don’t even know why we’re listening to your cell phone. But, come on, really? ‘When Will I Be Loved,’ ‘Wonderful Tonight,’ and now ‘You Are So Beautiful.’ Even I think we might have a theme here.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
B.J. adjusted her scarf. The ride back had been uneventful and truckerless. I had a few early warning twinges riding over the Sagamore Bridge, even with B.J. driving, but nothing after that. Once we got off the highway, we’d pulled over to put Mustang Sally’s top down. Then we tied on scarves to protect B.J.’s hair and what was left of mine.
We’d finished Finn Miller’s playlist, so we switched back to B.J.’s iPod as we drove along the back roads to Marshbury. Elton John burst into “Bennie and the Jets.”
“She’s got electric boobs and a new tattoo,” B.J. sang.
I burst out laughing. “Well, at least we have one of them now.”
B.J. stuck out her chest and wiggled her shoulders. “Speak for yourself.”
I shook my head. “Remember when we really thought those were the lyrics? Until my sister Marion made fun of us.”
“Marion,” B.J. said. She pushed the SHUFFLE button and we sang along with Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young about loving the one you’re with and living with cinnamon girls and finding the cost of freedom.
“So gentle and pure,” I said. “It was a different time back then.”
“It sure was,” B.J. said. “We are lucky to be alive. Remember that time when we told our parents we were sleeping over at each other’s houses and we hitchhiked all the way up to that concert in Maine?”
“No,” I said. “I think we talked about it, but we chickened out.”
B.J. turned and looked over her sunglasses at me. “No offense, but you’re such a buzz crusher.”
We stopped at Satuit Saloon to pick up fish-and-chips. The second we got back out to the Mustang, we tore open the brown paper take-out bag. The scent of fried fish filled the car. We took turns reaching into the bag to sample french fries as we headed for the beach.
“Thank you for treating,” I said.
“What are friends for,” B.J. said. “When my husband cancels my credit cards on me, you can pay me back.”
We circled around and around and around the block, hoping one of the rare parking spaces that overlooked the beach would open up for us like a clamshell.
“There,” I yelled.
The car in front of us, which had driven just beyond the car that was pulling out, put on its blinker and started backing up.
“As if,” B.J. yelled. She put on her blinker and leaned forward like a racecar driver. The instant the space was mostly empty, she hit the gas.
The other car beeped, long and loud.
B.J. shook her head. “What an idiot. Everybody knows that once you’ve passed it, you can’t go back. Ohmigod, that sounds like a metaphor. Good thing I don’t believe in those, either.”
I laughed and reached for what was left of our fries.
Directly across from us was the seawall, topped with a simple barrier made of galvanized-steel posts and railings. It did the trick in terms of function, but if I were in charge of the beach I’d redesign the whole thing. It would have to stay as open as possible, of course, because the point was to be able to see through to the ocean. But why couldn’t the posts be bent to form fish standi
ng on their fins, with the crosspieces curving up and down like waves breaking?
I’d search the architectural supply catalogs until I found the perfect materials—I was pretty sure eight-inch steel spirals would work for the waves, and dotting the fish scales with two-inch ball bearings would make them pop. The trick would be lots and lots of edge grinding so that the barrier would be safe for pedestrians. But it would be worth every bit of effort, and when it was finished it would be spectacular.
Beneath the seawall, a thirty-foot drop ended at the beach. People of all shapes and sizes and ages filled almost every available inch of sand as they crisscrossed between the water and a patchwork of beach blankets and towels and chairs and coolers and toys. There were so many things to look at it was like trying to navigate an old Where’s Waldo? picture book.
As I scanned the crowd, I had the oddest feeling that I was looking for myself. I found a mom and two sons who could almost be Trevor and Troy as toddlers if I squinted. A youngish couple shared a blanket, and the man was putting sunscreen on the woman’s back, the way Kurt had once done for me so long ago it felt like another lifetime.
I looked slowly across the entire expanse of beach. Who would I be next? That solitary woman in a big floppy hat and sunglasses and a long-sleeved cover-up huddled under an umbrella with a book? One half of the older couple sitting so far apart on the sand that their matching plaid beach chairs were the only clue they were together?
Another couple, Boomer-aged and both in rolled-up jeans, held hands as they walked along the water’s edge, laughing as they dodged the people they passed. When two little girls ran through the water in their direction, they lifted up their hands like a bridge and the girls ran right under. My eyes teared up.
“I lost my virginity on this beach,” B.J. said. She reached her hand into the take-out bag, then picked up the bag and looked inside. “Tell me you didn’t just eat the last french fry.”
“Please don’t make me listen to that story again,” I said. “And I’m pretty sure it was you who ate the last one.”
“I don’t think so. And what’s wrong with that story?”
“I think losing-your-virginity stories are only interesting if you were there.”