Buzz! An immediate response.
Because it’s easier.
I lay the phone face-up on the desk and stare at the glass orb I keep on my bedside table; its aqua color swirls around a tornado of crystalline flecks forever suspended in the middle. Mama and Noli-Belle’s ashes, the only physical part remaining of them, are preserved in an art piece to carry with me forever. There was nothing I couldn’t confess to Mama, nothing we couldn’t talk about. What I wouldn’t give to have her opinion now. No sooner do I think it than her voice whispers as a faint memory in my brain. Always follow your heart. It feels the things we’re not yet prepared to see. Something about her nuggets of wisdom always seemed risky. Even more so now.
My phone buzzes again.
The million-dollar question, and I have the answer, uncomfortable as it may be. It’s not so much about trusting Jett as it is being able to trust myself when he’s around.
Chapter Ten
Actions. Not words.
The reply I sent to Jett before crawling under my covers last night is still on the screen when I wake up. And nothing else. No response. No virtual thumbs-up. Not even an emoticon. Worse still, I’m not scheduled to work again until tomorrow, so I have the whole day to contemplate the hidden meanings behind his silence.
Sitting around this house is not an option, and one thing keeps swimming in my mind. Memaw swears heartaches are healed by the sea. And while I think Jim Beam is the one really doing the heavy lifting where she’s concerned, my getting drunk in the kitchen is out of the question, so I might as well see if her theory holds water. Of course, I won’t tell her this and subject myself to the lengthy discussion on how I should make some sort of bold move on Jett. Or worse yet, have her call him and arrange another “chance meeting.”
I stumble to my bureau and slide open the top drawer, looking at the bland selection of post-scar bathing suits. This time last year, I sported a sweet two-piece halter number, yellow with pink polka dots. Every time I wore it, Dad sang the “Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka-dot Bikini” song. I’d cover my ears and talk over him, but now I’d give anything to go back. To have his attention. That bathing suit. That body.
Those days are long gone, like everything else normal in my life. I snatch the first suit on top of the jumbled pile and then slam the drawer. Holding it in my hands makes me grimace. The stringy black bottoms, leftover from last year, still look cute, but the long-sleeved, hide-everything, gray rash guard sucks. I get that there’s a totally legit function for these. Surfers and boogie boarders swear by them, and now, so do I. They do wonders for covering my scar under a layer of dry-weave fabric without inspiring too many questions, though people probably get the wrong impression. I’m so not sporty, and I’ve never ever been on a boogie board.
Once dressed, I head to the kitchen where Memaw sits at the table, cup of coffee in one hand and pen in the other, hovering over the daily newspaper’s crossword puzzle. She cuts her eyes at me over the rim of her mug as I grab a banana from the wire bowl on the counter.
“Is that what you kids call a bathing suit nowadays? The bottoms look normal, but the top does nothing for your figure, honey.”
I should’ve known Memaw would have questions, but then again, when doesn’t she? She stares at me, expressionless, as I spit out the usual explanation about how the rash guard keeps the board from chaffing my skin. For a minute, I’m sure she buys it.
Almost.
“So, where’s this boogie board you speak of?” She scans the room, even walking over to the windows to search the ground below. The woman should’ve been on Broadway for her dramatic prowess.
I blow out a breath. “I don’t have one.”
“I see,” she mumbles, chewing on the end of the pen still clutched in her fingers. I wait for another lecture, but nothing comes. She sits back down and leans over the table, doodling again on the spread-out newspaper.
Let it go, CJ. Now’s your chance to escape.
Somehow, my brain decides to forego its own advice.
“I thought I should take advantage of living at the beach this summer.”
She narrows her eyes, never glancing up from her work. “You should take advantage of a lot of opportunities here.”
No explanation needed. Before I can haul ass out the door, she tells me to be back by 11:30. We have a lunch date.
Something’s Fishy is nothing more than a roadside fry-house with a massive screened porch dining area attached to it, but Memaw swears it’s the best food on the island. From the five-gallon bucket of used, partially solidified cooking oil beside the employee’s entrance to the kitchen, I’m skeptical of her raves.
The chalkboard hanging on the handle of the screen door says “Please Seat Yourself”, and Memaw beelines to a small table at the porch’s far edge, which she declares is the best seat in the house because it provides a view of the ocean and of everyone coming and going. In other words, a Southern busybody’s dream. She hangs her purse on the ladder-back chair and scoots herself in little spurts until positioned just so, then plucks a laminated menu from the metal holder and hands it to me.
“I don’t even have to look. I always get the fried shrimp.”
I glance at the main selection of entrees. Grease, grease and more grease. Not a salad or green vegetable in sight. Fried shrimp, it is.
“Now where is that waiter?” she huffs, craning her neck around me, scanning the room. A man, probably in his early sixties, pushes through the kitchen’s swinging door with a tray on his shoulder and waves at us.
Memaw’s frown reverses, the corners of her lips inching up her cheeks. Her eyes follow the waiter’s every step. “You know, I’ve been thinking.” She pauses, her eyes still glued to the man as she runs her tongue across her bottom lip, then pulls it in between her teeth. “You flirting with Jett. I think you’re doing it wrong. Obviously the boy’s interested in getting to know you, but you’re not putting forth enough effort.”
Our definitions of “effort” probably span night and day. This is the woman who happily bestowed upon me the right to drink and have sex under her roof should the situation arise. Not that it ever will. And besides, how does she know what has or hasn’t happened between me and Jett?
She taps her finger against her temple, glancing at me briefly with a smile, before diverting her attention back to the waiter. “Watch and learn from a master.”
As soon as the words exit her lips, the man walks to our table, notepad open and pen poised for our orders. His wavy salt-and-pepper hair is a bit shaggy, but his face is clean-shaven. He looks like the type of guy who probably smokes pot around the fire pit in his backyard. Suburban hippie.
“How are you two lovely ladies doing today?”
I give him a thumbs-up, but Memaw leans forward across the table, her humongous boobs piling on top like one fleshy mountain. “It’s hard to have a bad day when the weather’s this beautiful,” she coos, her voice airy and laced with Southern honey. “I don’t recall seeing you around here before. Are you new?” She reaches up to finger his name tag pinned on his T-shirt. “James?”
“Yes ma’am. Started first of the week, but I actually moved here last month. My wife died a couple years ago, and I finally decided it was time to get back in the ol’ saddle. So, here I am.”
“Yes. Here you are.” She pulls her fingers back and trails the tips down her neck. “I’m local,
too, so if you ever need anyone to show you around, let me know.”
A grin spreads across his face. “That’s mighty nice of you. I sure would love that…”
“Bessandra.”
I roll my eyes, but she ignores me. Everyone calls her Bessie or Memaw, and here she is spouting off her full name in some breathy tone, making the middle “a” sound more like an “o.” Guess that sounds more exotic while she’s playing him like a fiddle.
He winks at her. “That’s very friendly of you, Bessandra.” He repeats it just the way she said it, except his eyes narrow at the “o” sound like a lion ready to jump its prey. Have they forgotten I’m even at the table? Surely that’s the only reason they’re comfortable with this senior citizen verbal foreplay in front of me.
“Well, that’s me. Friendly.” She throws both hands into the air in a coy shrug and giggles. “So, James, what are today’s specials?”
Why does it even matter? Two seconds ago, she was fried shrimp all the way.
“Fried flounder basket or shrimp and grits.”
“Shrimp and grits? Does that come with the usual bell peppers and…sausage?”
Oh. My. God. She did not just ask that. I gasp, sucking in a clot of briny air that makes me cough. They don’t notice. The kinetic energy between them crackles, and while a part of me is disgusted, there’s another part, albeit a much tinier one, secretly worshipping her confidence.
James swallows hard a few times, his Adam’s apple bobbing and his chest moving faster. “Yes ma’am. I believe so.”
“Mmmm. That’s what I’ll have. I do love some good sausage.”
Fire rushes to his cheeks. “I bet you do,” he mumbles, looking at his notepad. “Shrimp and grits then for the lady.”
They stare at each other, so I clear my throat, hold up the menu and point. “I’ll have the regular shrimp basket, please. With fries. Also, two sweet teas.” I volunteer that part before Memaw can tell him how she’d like to drizzle it over her breasts or some other God-awful image that’ll be burned into my head. He writes it down and dashes back into the kitchen.
Across the table, Memaw swipes her nails back and forth on her navy tank top, pleased with her performance.
“I so hate you. Know that now.”
“There’s nothing wrong with a little flirtation. Keeps you young.”
“I am young.”
“You’re the oldest young person I know.” She plunges her finger in my direction. “A little flirting—especially with a hunky racecar driver—might do you some good.”
That was way more than flirtation. Flirting requires side-eyed glances and little giggles. Maybe a touch here and there. Not an X-rated discussion of sausage. And the thought crosses my mind that when he brings the food, I should excuse myself to the restroom before they sample the special together on top of the red-and-white plastic tablecloth.
She reaches across the table to grab my hand. “You like Jett, don’t you?”
I stare at the napkin, a heat burning in the curve of my ears. “Like” is such a casual word. Meeting Jett has flipped a switch inside me, igniting a rainbow of emotions, good and bad, from distrust to jealousy to infatuation. But one thing undercuts them all: fear. He could hurt me, rip my heart into little pieces, and it’s all because what I fear the most has already happened to me once. I did love, and I lost. And despite my best efforts, I care about him, even though I’d sworn to block myself off for good. Somehow, he’s wiggled in the cracks of my armor.
“I don’t really know him.”
Memaw tugs at my fingers, and I glance over at her. “It’s okay to take a chance. Happiness is worth the risk.”
My phone vibrates, and I drop Memaw’s hand to pick it up. A new text message from Jett “Jackass” stares back at me. No words, only a selfie of him in one of those zip-up suits standing by a camellia bush full of creamy blossoms. I can only smile.
“Jett?” Memaw grins at me from across the table.
I nod, just as James sweeps out of the kitchen with our food and drinks. He puts everything on the table, laying the bill face-down by Memaw with a wink. After he’s gone, she flips it over. Underneath is a small sliver of paper with James’s phone number. Memaw tucks it into her bra. “The bigger the risk, the bigger the reward.”
After lunch, we rummage through beachy knick-knacks and racks of T-shirts in the souvenir shops off the boardwalk. In the back corner of one store, while rifling through a collection of framed art, Memaw squeals, hoisting a small rectangular sign in the air. A large rod and reel is painted on the front, and in white block letters, it says:
Reel Girls Like Big Rods.
As if her other suggestive signs littering the house aren’t enough. This one might be the raunchiest yet.
“Do you even fish?”
“No…but maybe I should according to this.”
I don’t know how the idea starts. Maybe it’s the way Memaw tugs at her collar as she daydreams about naughty fishermen with big rods. Maybe it’s the lingering memories of the sausage from the restaurant. I grab the sign from her hands, ready to give her a dose of her own medicine.
“You’re right, Memaw. It must be a sign. Jett rides around on a big ol’ shrimping boat. I bet he has a real huge rod.” I emphasize the last three words with a couple deep pelvic thrusts.
She clutches her hand over her mouth, stifling a laugh, but her eyes focus on something behind me. Or someone.
A dark-haired woman with shining hazel eyes walks up on my right. Her pale lavender blouse and slim-fit white capris make her look more like a movie star than a local. “This must be the Cami I’ve heard so much about!”
Please be a random townsperson. Please don’t be Jett’s mom. Please let it be a fluke she just called me Cami.
The fried shrimp threaten a resurrection on the tile floor.
“Jenniston! Yes, this is my granddaughter, here for the summer. She and Jett have already been…acquainted.”
I stare at the woman in front of me. She can’t be more than 35 unless Jett’s dad is shelling out the big bucks for some really good plastic surgery. Or maybe she was a teenager when she had him. He’s never mentioned her, so who knows. I search her face for signs of him but find none. There are no similarities in their looks, though they both share that charm-everyone-you-meet personality. I pluck my courage together, my stomach knotted. “So…you’re Jett’s mom?”
“Stepmom, actually, but mom for all intents and purposes. I’ve been in his life since he was six.”
Jenniston fidgets with the strap on her purse while my mind kicks into hyper-drive. For all intents and purposes. I’m no PhD on family dynamics (Lord knows mine’s a dysfunctional mess these days), but something about that statement strikes me. Lots of the kids back home have stepparents. Em’s stepfather was about as close to her as any birth father would be, driving her to dance lessons and showing up at every school play. Still, she didn’t refer to him as Dad, and neither did he. Her birth father remained a huge part of her life, too, so it wouldn’t be right. For all intents and purposes makes it sound like Jett’s birth mother is either a deadbeat or just…dead.
“When are the boys due back?” Memaw interjects, breaking the awkward silence.
“Couple days. Hopefully not longer. People talk about being a golf widow. Maybe I’m a racing widow?” Jenniston sighs, more from relief than exasperation. Like she’s happy for the quick change in subject.
My phone buzzes in my hand, and everyone’s eyes land on me as I swipe the screen.
I snort-laugh then look up to two sets of wide eyes.
“Jett?” Memaw asks with a lilt.
Jenniston strokes my arm. “You must be pretty special. Jett doesn’t take time away from his racing for just anyone.” The blush returns back to my ch
eeks as she adds, “Nice to meet you, Cami…or CJ. Which do you prefer?”
“Either.” My stomach somersaults at the lie. Cami is reserved for Jett’s use only. It’s his thing. “On second thought, CJ is best.”
Jenniston nods, lips pushed into a sideways grin and a knowing glint in her eyes. “I look forward to getting to you know this summer. It’ll be nice to have some estrogen in that sea of testosterone I call home.”
As she walks away, Memaw turns to me, nodding toward the wooden sign still clutched in my fingers. “Let’s get that one. You really sold me on it.”
Chapter Eleven
“Pierce, she’s fine. Got a job. Making friends.”
Eavesdropping on Memaw’s conversation wasn’t my intention, but when she calls my dad’s name, the curiosity claws within. I’d come to let her know I was going outside to read for a while when her exasperated responses caught my attention, so now I’m skulking in the hallway outside her bedroom.
“Why would I lie to you? CJ’s happiness is my priority.”
I ease to the cracked door. Memaw’s sitting on her bed, back to me, holding the phone to her ear, head shaking back and forth. What’s new? They’re disagreeing on something. At least they’re talking, I guess.
“You may not trust me—and for very stupid reasons I might add—but…”
She slams her fist onto the bed. It absorbs into the comforter. “I don’t owe you any explanation. That was between your father and me. Maybe one day you’ll finally understand.”
She snorts into the phone. “Oh, so that’s it. You felt cheated, so you cheated me? Out of my family? Time with my grandkids?”
Wondering what’d torn Dad and Memaw apart has always bothered me, but now, hearing their arguing, their using our family like a whipping stick to beat each other, turns my stomach. Funny how adults expect their kids to act with maturity while they run around kitty-scratching each other like a bunch of snot-nosed kids.
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