The Seacrest

by Aaron Lazar

  My mother came in half an hour later, peeking into the blanket fort beneath which we hid.

  “Did you two have breakfast yet?” she asked.

  Eva swatted at her with one hand. “We’re pwaying, Momma.”

  “Sorry, Mom.” I laughed and looked at my watch. “Ten more minutes, honey. Then I’ve gotta help dad with the berries.”

  My mother still looked at me with one raised eyebrow. “Well?”

  “Oh, sorry, Mom. Yeah. I made us eggs.”

  “Really?” she said, with a tone of surprise and pride. “Nice job, Finn.” Her eyes flitted to the kitchen and back. “Wow. And you even cleaned up. Thank you, son.”

  Something had happened in me over the past few months. I guess it had to do with growing up a bit. I felt more responsible, more worried about our home and my little sister when I wasn’t there. I loved them fiercely, and for the first time in my life I didn’t mind doing dishes or cooking. It felt good. And I liked that feeling. With Jax gone, I was free to be “the good son” without his taunting and teasing, which I’m embarrassed to say used to stop me from doing what my instincts prompted me to do.

  Now, I was free.

  I’d named one of the dolls with dark hair Sassy, and Eva had liked it. I had to do something to keep my love alive. I knew someday, some how, I would reconnect with her.

  I’d heard through town gossip that Libby had started college at The Sorbonne in Paris. I wondered what she studied, and every few months I tried writing to her again, only to receive the notes back unopened. Several times I’d driven to The Seacrest, that imposing mansion by the sea. I’d spoken once to her housekeeper/cook and once to her father. Both times, it hadn’t gone well.

  Their faces had turned dark and angry before I even opened my mouth to speak. I’d tried handing them letters for Sassy, and told them I didn’t know why she was so angry, but that I still loved her, and would they tell her so?

  They’d stared at me, muttered things like “You’re unbelievable,” or “You sod,” or “Go away and don’t come back!”

  So, I’d gone.

  But I didn’t stop trying. I’d never stop trying.

  “Finn! Only ten more minutes,” Eva reminded me, pushing my hand to make my doll move. “It’s a party. Dance him.”

  I moved the doll appropriately and then made him pick up the Sassy doll and “hug” her. “I love you, Sassy,” I said in a whisper.

  Eva giggled. “The pwince said he loves her.”

  I sighed, smiling at the cherubic face. “Yeah. He did.” I patted her hand and tousled her hair, and we played for another fifteen minutes until my father came looking for me.

  Chapter 51

  July 21th, 2013

  Noon

  I drove Libby home in the rented rig, returned it to the U-Haul place, and came back an hour later to find her upstairs, fixing up a spare room. Already, an old looking hospital bed and other paraphernalia—leftover from Aunt Shirley’s post-heart attack days?—had been shoved into one corner.

  “What can I do to help?” I asked, standing in the doorway with my arms crossed, already feeling useless.

  Rudy and Fritzi talked in the corner, arguing about where the television should go. I noticed they’d moved it from the den downstairs, at least it looked like the same model and there were no new cartons from Best Buy or Walmart littering the floor.

  Libby had turned wooden again, her face a blank mask, her movements robotic. “Nothing,” she said, not looking at me.

  “Lib?” I said, moving toward her. “Is Ian going to need a bed like this? What’s going on with him?”

  She yanked her arm away from me when I gently took it. “Just leave.”

  Flustered, I backed up. “What?”

  Her angry eyes pinned me. “I said, leave. Can’t you understand English?”

  Her father and Fritzi both shot me apologetic looks, and Fritzi used her hands in a shooing motion, encouraging me to go with a sad smile.

  “I…” Feeling overwhelmed, I stumbled backwards, then turned and walked out the door.

  It couldn’t be happening again.

  No.

  No way.

  Why did she turn on me?

  Part of my brain told me it was the shock of finding out Ian was alive. I didn’t know if he was alive and well, but I knew he must be good enough to transport, and obviously needed a hospital bed and the rest of the stuff.

  She’s feeling guilty.

  My brain ran through the past few days and I knew it had to be true. She’d just made love to me numerous times in the past twenty-four hours, reclaimed me, forgiven me, was probably about to accept my invitation to live in the big farmhouse together. And now…she finds out Ian isn’t dead.

  Would she stay with him out of duty?

  Would he hurt her again?

  Ace whined at my side, licking my hand.

  “I know, boy. I’m upset, too.”

  I fumed behind the wheel of my old Jeep, tearing up the driveway, and headed for the farm.

  No way would I let him hurt her again. I didn’t care what it took. I’d kill him if I had to, to protect her.

  No way.

  At the turn for my driveway, I paused, realizing I needed more food in the house. I swung the Jeep around and mechanically drove to the market, trying to ignore the cold fear for Libby that kept returning.

  I parked the Jeep at the bottom of the hill and walked through the crowded lot toward the store. Inside, the AC blasted cold. I grabbed a cart, heading for the fruit and vegetable section.

  “Finn?”

  I swear, the only place I ever run into anyone I know in Brewster is this market. If I ever got through a shopping expedition without bumping into someone from my past, it was a miracle. I sighed and turned to see who had called my name this time.

  Before me stood Jenna Sullivan, arms linked with Berra, Jax’s ex-wife. I’d seen Berra at the funeral, but she hadn’t stuck around to talk with me afterwards. Now here we stood, face-to-face in a place you couldn’t duck out of very easily.

  “Hi, Jenna.” I nodded to Berra. “Berra. Good to see you.”

  Jenna stood before me with a whimsical expression on her face. “My God, Finn. It’s been forever.”

  She wore her copper hair cropped short on one side, died pink on the other. Multiple piercings covered her ears, eyebrows, and nose. I tried to hide my revulsion for the body art. I hadn’t yet learned to appreciate such things, although it certainly was popular with most of my generation and the younger crowd. I noticed Jenna had a tattoo on her upper arm—blue, pink, and purple flowers and berries surrounded the name, “Berra.”

  She saw me looking, and moved closer to the slim Jamaican lady who had once shared my brother’s bed. “Yeah. We’re together now. Been with each other for two years.”

  I shook off my surprise, looking from one to the other. “Really?” I took Jenna’s outstretched hand. “That’s very cool. Congratulations.”

  Berra looked uncomfortable, but when I’d congratulated her she seemed to relax. “We came down from Provincetown for the weekend. Visiting my folks.”

  I nodded, somehow happy to have discovered that Jax’s ex-wife was gay. It pleased the sardonic side of me, knowing his wife had turned to women after being with him. Or something like that. It must’ve really ticked him off when she left him.

  “Are you happy?” I asked Berra, seriously hoping the answer was yes.

  She flushed, glancing sideways to Jenna. “Very. We run a little shop up in Ptown. You should come up and see us sometime.”

  “What do you sell?” I asked, curious now. It was a long time since I’d visited the infamous P-town.

  Jenna answered first, holding up her wrist. “We make silver jewelry, like this.”

  Berra laughed. “Well, Jenna’s the artist. She designs everything. I do the business side of things.”

  I examined the bracelets on her slim wrist. “Wow. They’re beautiful, Jenna.”

  Jenna smiled with
pride. “Thanks.” She touched my sleeve. “Please. Come up to see us. We have our shop in the house, we live right in the building. It’s called Hi-Ho Silver.”

  I smiled, starting to forget about my own troubles, happy to have run into one of the few people I’d thought of as a friend in high school. “I will. When are you going back?”

  Berra answered. “Tomorrow. We’re opening up again at ten o’clock. Why don’t you come up for the day?”

  My usual reticence threatened to flare, but I pushed it aside and nodded. “Okay. It’s a deal. I’ll be up. Probably around ten or eleven. Can I bring my dog?”

  Jenna grinned. “Of course. Mr. Jingles?”

  I laughed. “No, he’s been gone a long time. Now I’ve got a German Shepherd, Ace. You’ll love him.”

  “I’m so glad! You’ll have lunch with us, then. It’s all settled.”

  Feeling decidedly lighter in the heart, I said goodbye and began to choose through a collection of plump black plums. It felt good to see people who were actually happy. Now that my life had gone to hell in a hand basket again, I needed to know it was possible. Just possible.

  I chose a bundle of red beets, then turned to the lettuce bin and picked out two big heads of Iceberg. After grabbing a box of yellow rice, I headed for the fish counter. I needed a nice piece of fresh cod tonight to go with the bottle or two of Riesling I intended to drink—all by myself.

  Chapter 52

  September 7th, 2001

  9:30 A.M.

  The drive from the Cape to Providence, Rhode Island only took an hour and a half in good traffic, but my parents encouraged me to live near the campus when I started my classes at Brown that fall, instead of commuting. Since there was no such thing as good traffic any longer on the Cape, I had to agree with them and was glad we’d made the decision to rent near the university.

  My loft apartment was hot and stuffy at first, but once I’d installed a fan in one window and opened the other windows on the opposite side of the studio, it became tolerable. The old wooden floorboards weren’t finished, and I had to duck to get to my twin bed in the corner, the toilet was slow to flush and hot water in the little shower stall took forever to warm up, but there was plenty of room to set up my easel and supplies and it was only a ten minute walk to the campus.

  Mostly I wanted light. I needed the beautiful sunlight that streamed in the windows every morning and afternoon, and the place was a perfect artist’s studio from every sense of the word.

  Quiet, remote, bright, spacious—it had everything.

  The only real drawback was the stairs.

  Trudging up now with fresh supplies of canvas and acrylics, I slung the bag over my shoulder and made my way up the three flights of stairs in the old Victorian home. The owners—two elderly sisters—had been sweet and although they charged a pretty steep price for the lodging since it was so close to the university, they had been kind and generous so far, offering me muffins and coffee several mornings and sharing their hotdogs and homemade Boston baked beans last night. I had a small microwave and an ancient fridge, but no stove or cooking facilities. Leftovers that could be heated up were my salvation, and I happily accepted them.

  I’d started classes that week and loved my art teachers, had already learned some new brush feathering techniques, and had created a few passable watercolors in class.

  Today was Thursday, and my schedule was clear since I’d already been to my class on ancient Greek history that morning.

  I opened a can of tuna, adding Miracle Whip, celery, sliced almonds, and flax seeds, and slapped together a sandwich.

  Between bites, I set up my new canvas in the strong morning light near the east windows. I knew what I would paint today, and in the tradition that had become obsessive, it would be another portrait of Libby.

  I’d been entitling them “Sassy on the beach” with sequential numbers, imagining that someday I’d give them to her. I preferred to use the nickname instead of her real name, because somehow it helped me preserve the best memories of the days when I didn’t know who she was, when she loved me unconditionally, and when I’d first made love to her in the cove.

  Someday, when she finally granted me the chance to talk with her, I would present these gifts from my soul.

  At least that’s what I told myself.

  I realized it was bordering on crazy. Libby hadn’t spoken to me since high school, and here I was in my junior year of college. I’d caught glimpses of her father in the big black sedan occasionally being driven through town by his chauffer. His eyes would stay stony and he’d look away when he saw me waving.

  I hid my obsession from my parents and of course, from Jax, who I rarely saw any more. The only one I talked to about her was my grandfather, who still came up to see us on a regular basis, and who I’d be seeing this weekend when I went home for my usual weekend visit. I looked forward to our discussions, because of all the people in the world I knew, Gramps and I connected on a level that was almost scary. It was as if he could read my thoughts. No. Not just my thoughts. It was as if he knew my heart, my innermost feelings. And he didn’t judge me, no matter how kooky I sounded, even to myself.

  I set aside one last crust from the sandwich to give to the old yellow lab who lived with the ladies downstairs, and picked up my brushes, inspired by my visions of Sassy and our youth, of the surging green sea, of her hair blowing in the wind, of the sweet teasing expression in her eyes.

  Two hours later, covered in paint and exhausted, I gently set the finished painting against the wall by the window and slumped onto my bed. The old springs groaned. Inside, I was spent. My heart wrenched with love and hurt and in spite of my strongest desire not to give in to the sadness, I felt tears choking me.

  Sassy.

  She sat on the jetty rocks, knees pulled up to her chin, her eyes shining beneath long lashes. The sea glimmered in the background. At low tide, the ripples on the wet sand stretched for miles toward an azure horizon. I painted her hair silky and blowing in the wind, one of the new techniques I’d learned from my class already this week. I’d daubed seagulls into the background, and added a bit of turquoise and tangerine to the horizon line where the sea met the setting sun.

  Now I almost smelled the musky scent of low tide, the muddy sand, the debris of crab shells and seaweed. I heard the screech of the gulls, and felt her soft hand on mine. In a near self-induced trance, I imagined her voice, her lips kissing mine, her body pressed close to me, her legs encircling me.

  I woke an hour later, still tired, but happier for the delusion of having been with my Sassy, the only woman I’d ever love.

  I rolled to a sitting position, rubbed my eyes, and seriously wondered about my sanity.

  Chapter 53

  July 22th, 2013

  10:15 A.M.

  I decided to take route 6A up the coast to Provincetown, knowing I’d have lots of stops in little village crossroads, but preferring it to the monotonous highway. On one side, the quiet bay beaches glistened, hidden behind clusters of historic old homes with white picket fences covered with the heavy blooms of blue hydrangeas. I never tired of the view, and drove with open windows, enjoying the sea breeze. Ace sat beside me, his head hanging out the window, his eyes closed in delirious happiness with the wind ruffling his coat.

  I reached sideways to pat him. “Gorgeous day, huh, buddy? Can’t beat it.”

  With conscious effort, I decided to put thoughts of Ian out of my head. He wasn’t there yet, and before he came home in a few days, I’d get Libby alone to talk, to really talk. I’d convince her that everything we did together was in absolute innocence and good conscience, since we believed Ian was dead.

  Everything would be okay, I would make certain of it. And when Ian came home, I’d assess the situation, wait a conservative length of time, and encourage Libby to tell him she wanted a divorce. I’d tell him we were in love, if it came to that, and he’d just have to lump it.

  Guilt slid down my throat.

  Sure, yo
u’re gonna tell a war veteran who’s probably injured that you’ve stolen his wife and you both want him to just quietly slink away.

  What if he’s disabled? Paralyzed? What happens then? Will you ask her to leave him alone and helpless? In a home? In her home?

  No.

  It wouldn’t go down that way. I forced myself to think positive thoughts. We’d work it out. We would.

  I reached the town of Orleans and passed the Emack and Bolios ice cream stand, where a white building stood fronted by a green awning with inviting tables and chairs clustered beneath it. “Ace, we might just stop for a white pistachio nut cone on the way home.”

  We moved through the intersection of Route 6A and 28, and continued toward the tip of the Cape, where shortly we merged with Route 6, and now all three roads combined into just one. On the left, The Lobster Claw’s red and white building beckoned, next to the Fish Market. I started to crave a nice big lobster roll, maybe with some crispy, light onion rings and a big cold iced tea.

  The Cape had grown overcrowded and far too expensive in the past thirty years, but I still loved it. On mornings like this, however, when I was headed toward Provincetown on the less traveled road early in the morning, it was an easy drive.

  I approached Eastham and pulled into the Sunoco station to fill up. In the craziness of the week, I’d forgotten to top off the tank. I used a credit card that just arrived in the mail—arranged by Sawyer to access one of my new checking accounts where he’d deposited a good chunk of Jax’s money. My money.

  It was the first time I’d filled my tank without worrying whether or not I had enough in the account to make it.

  Such a strange feeling. I didn’t know how long it would take me to get used to it.

  Ace waited patiently, watching me screw on the gas cap.

  “Good boy. You stay right there, I’m almost done.”

  The dog was the smartest I’d ever known.