“She wouldn’t have wanted to come back here,” I say as much for my own sake as for Jack’s. Lord knew we had debated long and hard, but bringing her back just didn’t make sense. “Margo and I were both gone, and Annie wasn’t about to visit her grave. My father always overshadowed her, and after—well, after—people didn’t know what to say to her, so she was a victim of that night, too.” I feel the same sense of resignation now as I felt then. “We buried her with her parents in Illinois.”
Jack sets down the coffee and flexes his hand. It wants to touch me—pure habit again, I know, because I feel it, too. Our relationship was a physical one, and it went beyond sex. We touched easily and often, satisfying a need that no one else in our lives filled.
Times have changed. But his eyes don’t seem to remember that. Their warmth makes me want to cry.
“Was she finally happy?” he asks.
Swallowing, I managed to say, “Yes. Finally fulfilled.”
“That’s good.”
I take a minute to recompose myself, thinking of my mother and Jack. My stomach clenches around the memory, causing an involuntary grunt. “You’re being very generous. She wasn’t particularly nice to you.”
“She thought her husband was having an affair with my mother. How was she supposed to act?”
I could more easily understand if Jack hadn’t looked just like Elizabeth’s husband. “Like it wasn’t your fault?”
Tearing his eyes from mine, he looks down and gives a sad laugh. “Like human nature forgives and forgets?” His thumb glides back and forth over the drinking hole on the lid of his coffee. He takes a drink and lowers the cup, then, seeming to realize, offers it to me. I take a sip and hand it back, by which time he is staring into the distance. “But I’m a fine one to talk.”
About forgiving and forgetting? And here he is outside Sunny Side Up, which is pretty much the headquarters of his nemesis. “So you’re just … hanging out here on your way back from work?”
He shrugs.
“Do you know my father is inside?” I ask.
“Sure do. I have spies.”
“Spies?”
He snorts. “Friends, Mal. Employees. Clients. Small towns are small towns. People love dredging it up. Hell, I could care less, but if you’re waiting for him, don’t. He sits in there for hours. He won’t be out any time soon.”
“Do you ever go inside?”
“Nope.”
“Just sit out here.”
“When I have time.” The words are barely out, though, when his manner shifts. It is so subtle that the tilt of his spine, the lift of his chin, or the focus of his eyes might have been missed by someone who didn’t know him. When it comes to body language, though, I’m still attuned to Jack’s.
Looking over my shoulder, I see Amelia Ackerman from Boise, Idaho, a.k.a. Lily, who looks exactly like Jack’s mother, emerging from the pergola between the still-closed deli and the beach shop. She is with a man I’ve seen before, and this time, I remember where. He’s the same one I saw here yesterday, the one wearing baggy shorts and a loose tee, the one who may or may not have been taking pictures of me but who is definitely walking beside Lily. Just to be sure I’m not mistaken, I pull my camera around and, sliding up beside Jack, scroll back to yesterday’s shots.
Zooming in on the one I want, I offer him the camera. “Who is he?”
Shading the screen with a hand, he leans close. My instinct is to lean away, not because I don’t like his nearness, but because I do. He smells of soap, which he has obviously used after operating on the cat. Sure, there’s the bloody shirt. But that’s Jack. His hair is short enough to be messed and still look good. His face is tanned and scruff-chic, skin moist in the heat.
“More to the point,” he murmurs, “who is she.” It isn’t a question. He knows.
I do pull back now. “Who is she?”
Chewing on the corner of his mouth, he considers that. Then he nods, seeming to accept that he has to say it aloud. “My mother’s brother’s granddaughter. Amazing thing, genetics.”
“Wow,” I breathe, studying the girl in this new light. The blonde hair is in a ponytail, the long legs in athletic shorts, the height putting her eye-to-eye with the man. They’ve started down the sidewalk toward Sunny Side Up, so I figure she’s on her way to work. “Why is she here? I mean, I know what she’s doing while she’s here, but why here?”
He returns his elbows to his knees. “She says she’s tracing her family tree. She thought it would be fun to explore this branch.”
“You don’t believe her.”
“Not for a minute. Fun? There’s been too much hard feeling. Something bad happened back then. Why else would there be zero communication? Fast forward to this spring. Anne advertises for summer help in the local paper, and Amelia answers. It sounds innocent enough, but one look at her wearing my mother’s face, and you know it was not.”
“Maybe it is. Maybe she doesn’t feel her grandfather’s animosity.”
“And her mother doesn’t share it?” he asks. “Fat chance of that. I always liked Kim, but after my mother disappeared, she wouldn’t talk with me either.”
“Lily looks eighteen.”
“Try twenty-two. She just graduated from Boise State with a degree in journalism. So what’s she doing working as a waitress?”
He has a point. But there is a plausible counterpoint. “Breathing?” I offer. “Taking time to decide what she wants to do? It’s not uncommon. I have friends whose kids take gap years after high school or college just to lie low until they decide what comes next.”
“Maybe she knows what comes next, which is write a book about what happened to her family.” He says it like I should know what he’s talking about. Only I don’t.
“What happened to her family?”
“Financial ruin,” he says but without satisfaction. Whatever resentment he holds toward Elizabeth’s mother’s family for not cooperating with him in his search, is apparently separate from this. “Her grandfather—my mother’s brother—invested everything he had in a deer farm in upstate New York. He imported a breed of deer that supposedly produced better meat. Venison was in demand in Europe, and he didn’t see why it shouldn’t be in demand here.”
“It wasn’t?”
Jack shrugs. “Don’t know if the problem was on the marketing end or the breeding end, but it never took off. When he finally folded, he was up to his ears in debt. Home, farm, equipment—everything sold at auction for a fraction of what it was worth.”
“How awful.”
“You’d think.”
“You don’t?” I ask in surprise.
“Oh, I do. I just have trouble dredging up sympathy for a family who still has the man in the flesh. They couldn’t’ve cared less that my mother was gone.”
I could understand his resentment. “But why would Lily come here to write a book about what happened there?”
“Yeah, well, that’s a good question. I’m guessing they asked my mother for financial help and she refused.”
“Did you ever ask Elizabeth about it?”
“Hell, I didn’t know about it until after she disappeared. So,” he drawls and returns to his list of possible explanations for why Lily is in Bay Bluff, “maybe she suspects there was a connection and is here to do research. Maybe she doesn’t even need to do research because she already knows what really happened. Maybe she knows damn well how much she looks like my mother and wants everyone in town to know it, too. Maybe she’s here to haunt me. Maybe she’s here to haunt your father.”
I’m looking at him through the last of this, but only at the end does he realize it. Then he turns to me in quick dismay. “No?”
“No to which part? There are lots of them here.”
Eyes the color of slate search my face. “You pick.”
“Okay.” I consider the options. “She’s been here … how long?”
“Five weeks.”
“And she’s questioned how many people?”
“So she’s not researching a book. That’d be way too much wasted time. Has she talked with you?”
“Oh yeah. I confronted her the first time I saw her.”
“What did she say?”
“She told me right off who she was, but she claims to know nothing about my mother.”
“What do your spies say?”
His mouth quirks. “That she went to Boise State because it was cheap, that she was engaged to be married before breaking it off, and that her mother doesn’t know she’s here.”
“She volunteers this?” I ask in surprise.
“So my spies say. She likes to talk.” He murmurs the last as a heads-up. Lily has seen us and is trotting over. His posture doesn’t change, though I sense that is deliberate. He is the image of nonchalance, which must run in the family, because when Guy raises his head, Lily doesn’t show an iota of a qualm. She may have experience with pit bulls. More likely, she’s met this one before.
“Hey, you all,” she says, and after giving the dog a head scratch with her left, offers her right hand to me. “I’m Lily. You must be Anne’s sister. I heard you were here.”
“So quickly?”
“Well, yeah, when I called Anne to say I’d be late, she said your daughter could help out ’til I got here. So here I am.”
We shake hands, though I’m not sure I manage an actual smile. Totally aside from the fact of wondering whether Lily Ackerman is in town to hurt my father, the girl is even more like Elizabeth up close. I can’t help but stare.
“Sorry,” I say when I realize what I’m doing.
Her smile is kind. “You’re not the first. Strong genes,” she remarks with a quick look at Jack. I’m thinking that she may be afraid of him, when she reaches back for the man in the baggy tee. “Nick White, Mallory Aldiss.” In lieu of introducing Jack, she tells me, “Jack and Nick met last week.” Softening, she says to Nick, “I’d better go in.” And off she goes.
Awkward in her wake, Nick nods to us and heads back toward the beach.
Once he’s out of earshot, I make a face. “That was weird.”
“What?”
“Is he a boyfriend?”
“He’s a private investigator.”
“She hired an investigator?” I ask in alarm.
“She didn’t. I did.”
I lean away. “You? To pin something on my father?”
“Nah. I’ve hired snoops before to do that, and they’ve come up with zip. I hired this one to follow her.”
“And how’s that workin’ for ya?” I mutter. When Jack snickers, I add, “Looks like they’re a pair. Is that the way he works?”
“No. That just happened. I’m not supposed to know the extent of it, but Christ, they were all over each other at the beach the other day.”
“Which you know how? Ah. Spies. Right. Is he still on your payroll?”
Eyes smiling, Jack bobs his head side to side. “For now.”
“What does that mean?”
He sighs. “It means, Mallory, that I’m not a total shit. If they’re together, he’s not going to give me anything of value. If they’re together, they’re together.” He sits forward again, putting his forearms on his thighs and linking his hands.
“And you don’t want to ruin it?”
“Why would I? I’m not a monster. I just want to make sure she’s not here to make trouble for me. If she wants to make trouble for your father, great.”
I ignore that. “She seems guileless. If she likes to talk and may not have much more of a filter than her uncle—”
“Cousin.”
“—cousin, wouldn’t she have already spilled something to someone if she was here to nose around? She knows that she looks like your mother, so yes, she may be sticking it to my dad, but maybe that’s not a bad thing. Maybe it’s just another way of jarring his memory so that something spills out.”
There is no change in Jack’s body. I would know. Our arms and thighs are touching. But I do sense a shift in mood. Sure enough, when I look at him, the grooves on his forehead are deep. His eyes meet mine, but only long enough for me to see the shadows there, before he looks away. He seems to be considering what I’ve said—something about my father’s memory or about Lily’s motives—no, not either of those but something else—actually considering whether to broach it, because he’s chewing on the corner of his mouth again. I’m watching that when he murmurs, “Maybe my mother sent her.”
My eyes fly to his. The words don’t fit a man who is an educated professional, who has established a successful business and screams survivor from every pore. That man should have accepted what logic insists. And still, I sense that he needs me to say it.
I jiggle my leg against his, just the tiniest bit. He is wearing shorts, and his skin is warm, not gorilla hairy but enough to add abrasion. I always liked being able to feel that difference between us. “Oh, Jack,” I say softly, “you know that’s not true.”
“You think she’s definitely dead,” he whispers, eyes haunted.
Hope dies hard, I know. But I’ve never seen this vulnerability before in Jack Sabathian. Add the sun glinting off unruly hair, and he could be ten years old. My heart breaks as I nod.
He nods back. After a minute, he returns to rubbing the dog’s ear with his thumb. I think of the soothing that comes from touching a rabbit’s foot, a lucky penny, even rosary beads. He clearly gets something from Guy’s silky ear. When he finally speaks, his voice holds surrender. “She drowned. It’s the only thing that makes sense. The question is how she got in the water.”
And there we are, back at Square One. I don’t look at him, don’t want to see accusation. It’s been nice sitting here talking with him.
“I’ve missed this,” he says quietly. “Never had it with anyone else. The easy talk. The honesty. The silence.”
“Not even your wife?” I ask.
He seems startled by the question, perhaps uncomfortable, like he’s cheated on me and is caught, which is both sad and adorable at the same time. “Anne told you?” he asks.
I nod. “With pleasure.”
“It didn’t last. Did she tell you that, too?”
I nod again. “What happened?”
“You.”
“Me.”
“She didn’t measure up.” Before I can make an evasive maneuver, he is pressing his face to the back of my neck.
“Jack.”
He inhales as he pulls away, and eyes me with expectance.
“What was that for?” I can’t be angry, not after what he just said. But I’m curious.
“Remembering,” he says with a sad smile. “It was good, Mal.”
“Uh-huh, until it wasn’t. Do you remember why we broke up?”
“I remember why you ran away.”
“I didn’t run—”
“You did. You didn’t stay to talk it through. A few bad words—”
“A few?” I cry. It was more than a few. It had been a torrent, coming from the person I most trusted in the world, and it had sent me into a downward spiral of loneliness and doubt. I spent months trying to recover from that argument. The memory of it, even now, is painful. “You called my father a murderer and my mother a coward. You called Margo a ball-buster and Anne stupid. You called me a basket case who couldn’t make up her mind what she wanted. You called me spineless. You said I was crippled by my father. You said I was damaged—permanently damaged, you said, if memory stands—and you said it when you knew I was falling apart, knew my family was falling apart, knew I was crushed. Do you know the meaning of love, Jack? Love means you put another’s pain even above your own. I was in pain, and you were too obsessed with yourself to see it. You’re abandoning me, you said. Well, no, Jack. You abandoned me. For you, it was only about the Sabathians, but I had family, too. I had issues and fears, and you were blind to everything but—” I stop. “What is that smile about?” It is triumphant.
“I love it when you’re passionate.”
<
br /> I gape at him. “You do not. That’s what set us off twenty years ago.”
“No,” he says, still smiling, “what set us off was shock. We’d never argued before. We threw words at each other, and at the worst possible time. But now? Now is deliberate and rational. You never did it like this back before that night, but I wanted you to. Has living in New York given you balls?”
Rational? Hah! If I were another type of person, I’d have hit him. It might be the resurgence of those memories and my need to lash back for those ugly words. It might be his smugness. Or the fact that this man has the ability to so quickly strip me raw.
But I’m no hitter. Physical violence gives me a panic attack. Words—now, words are another thing entirely. I don’t even bother to move away, because what I have to say can be said inches from his gorgeous face.
“Listen, bud,” fury keeps my voice low, “living in New York gave me nothing that I didn’t work my tail off for. And I sure as hell didn’t do it for you. I’ve been with men who are kinder than you. I’ve been with men who are smarter and more successful. I’ve been with a ton of men.”
“But you didn’t want any of them.”
“And I don’t want you. You are not why I came back, Jack. My family is. So call me crippled or damaged or spineless, if calling me names gives you a rush, but I’d wager I’m a lot happier than you are right now.”
My phone dings. His phone dings. We both reach, raise, read.
Where r u? Joy texts.
Almost there, I text back and slide off the table at the same time as Jack. “My daughter calls,” I say. “Gotta run.”
“Me, too. My cat calls.”
I might mock the fact of daughter versus cat, or say, See, it’s always about you, if it weren’t for the concern in his voice, which I do hear precisely because I loved him once. But no more.
Without another word, we walk off in opposite directions, which is a metaphor if ever there was one.
Chapter 10
The interior of Sunny Side Up is as yellow as its name implies—yellow walls, yellow tables, yellow art. Still annoyed at Jack, I would have preferred a calmer blue or green, even my New York black. I’m not feeling terribly sunny.
A Week at the Shore Page 12