Shadows of Pearl (The Pearl Trilogy, Part 2)

by Arianne Richmonde

  He sent me the perfect purse at a price, not because of how expensive those bags are but the price of unhappiness- a continual aide memoire of the fool that is me, Pearl Robinson. Ms. Pearl Robinson. I held the Birkin close to me and started crying again. How I wished I could turn back time. He wanted to make me Pearl Chevalier and all I could do was run.

  I knew then that I could not possibly accept any of these ‘pay-off’ gifts – I called to say I wanted to give everything back but he never picked up.

  ***

  Just when I was thinking that the world couldn’t get worse, Hurricane Sandy struck. Entire coastal stretches along the east side of the country were destroyed, five million without power, and the death toll rising daily. Scores of people died in New York City alone — more than in any other previous natural disaster to have occurred there.

  It quickly shook me out of my self-pity, realizing that I was/am one of the lucky ones in the world. Natalie, not so. Her aunt was a victim of the superstorm’s wrath. She lived in Queen’s in a neighborhood which was first ravaged by flood waters before a raging fire burned everything to the ground leaving nothing but a pile of ashes, debris of wrecked cars and dead trees reflected in the oily, knee-deep water.

  Natalie is broken-hearted. I thought of what Alexandre had said a couple of weeks earlier when we were talking about choices we make in life and he said something like: “Maybe Natalie’s had a relatively lucky life. Perhaps she’s never been a victim of circumstance or ever had to battle with personal demons.”

  Poor Natalie, she’s certainly been a victim of circumstance now and will be haunted by demons for the rest of her life.

  When Bruce arrived back from visiting his parents I knew it was time to leave. I had options. Go back to New York and settle into my new apartment, the one Alexandre has organized for me. Luckily, the Upper East Side is still in working order, not the case for some other parts of Manhattan where the storm wreaked havoc. I had only seen photos of the apartment, a stunning two bedroom pre-war co-op just around the corner from where my place is (which is sublet for another ten months and I can’t break the contract). He said he’d buy it for me if I liked it. I can’t even imagine what it would cost, but a lot, and I don’t feel comfortable with all these ‘gifts’ he has showered me with – I want to return them: a condo in the South of France, two incredible cars, a parking space in the city. Things which remind me of him, remind me that I played it all wrong – that I screwed up yet again. Things which I don’t deserve.

  Another option for me was to drive across America. I had to take the Mercedes to New York so I thought I might as well make a trip out of it.

  At one point Daisy said that she and Amy would come too, because Johnny was on business in Phoenix, but then it was cancelled so she changed her mind. A ten day drive just with me on my own didn’t appeal at all, especially with the way I’m feeling right now.

  I spoke to Natalie several times and she advised me to stay away from New York, just for now. Meanwhile, all she wants to do is spend time with her family.

  The third option was to visit my father in Kauai which is what I decided to do.

  That’s right, Alexandre did call a second time but only briefly to ask what arrangements I had for the Mercedes and how I was planning to take it back to New York. I told him I didn’t want the car but he was adamant I keep it. He came up with a plan. Elodie and a friend of hers were going to fly to San Francisco, pick it up, and deliver it to New York for me. They’d drive across the country, very carefully, he’d instructed them, with utmost respect for the car, he’d warned. I consider it his car, anyway; his money paid for it. Elodie and her friend stayed with Anthony and Bruce for a couple of nights before setting off for a sightseeing trip of a lifetime. By that point I had left for Kauai.

  So here I am now at my father’s in his romantic house made of bamboo, away from the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy, away from the aftermath of my messed-up life. ‘At least you’re still alive,’ Anthony reminded me. ‘And not, as you feared,’ he said, ‘some victim of Sophie’s.’ Perhaps he had a point.

  I have thought about Sophie a lot. Mulled over everything. Maybe Alexandre is right…I’m paranoid, being unfair, I’ve watched too much Dexter and CSI on TV. Whatever, I made my bed and have to lie in it now. He doesn’t want me back. I can hear it in his voice when we have spoken those two times. Business-like - polite but cold. Unemotional. How it kills me to hear him talk to me that way.

  Now I spend the days looking at the ocean, watching the waves rise and fall, listening to the surf and sound of birds. I have penned several letters to Alexandre. Not emails but real letters on paper. But they end up in the trash, crumpled up – like my thoughts, confused, shocked, as if the last five months have been one long dream, as if this phantom Frenchman never existed at all, that he was a just figment of my imagination.

  Speaking of dreams, I am possessed. Not by needle-dick and company. No. That seems to be over. I am possessed, obsessed by Alexandre. Not only does he occupy my thoughts in the waking hours, but when I close my eyes, too. Constantly there. He is in my subconscious, my conscious, flowing through my veins, beating in my heart. He is everywhere. I see his peridot-green eyes sparkling with happiness looking down on me while I sleep. But when I open my lids, there is emptiness; my soul is like a void of black, a deep, dark cavern of misery. Misery I brought upon myself.

  I have been trying to reach Laura all this time. I even asked Elodie if she could get her number for me, I was that desperate. Finally, I got it and left Laura a message but she hasn’t called back. I need answers. Is Alexandre just in denial? Denial about how crazy Sophie is, or was he speaking the truth? Whatever, I realize that I was no match for his beloved sister. As Anthony pointed out, I am the water and she is the blood. Ironic that. Blood is thicker than water doesn’t exist in French yet Alexandre is taking every word of that to heart, polishing each letter of that phrase like a soldier polishing his boots. Until it gleams and shines like a mirror. Blood is thicker than water.

  “What’s up, Pearl?” I nearly jump out of my skin but it’s only my dad coming up behind me He lays his warm hands on my shoulders and gives me a little squeeze. “You’ve been very silent lately, sweetie, very introvert – that’s not like you at all.”

  I turn around, holding one of his hands on my now bony shoulder – I can hardly eat at the moment. “I’m sorry Dad, sorry I’m being so dull and boring.”

  I look up at his handsome, rugged face. His sand-blond hair falls limp about his high cheekbones, his crow’s feet are etched in hard lines about his dark blue eyes which reveal a man who has lived life. Suffered and pushed himself to the limits. His face is a map. He has a reckless air about him mixed with a soft vulnerability which makes him hard to resist. I think about Natalie and see how she must have fallen head over heels in love with him but ran because she needed to protect herself. He could break a heart because you want more from him and he isn’t able to give more. He is a self-absorbed person, yet kind and caring. Self-absorbed because it’s hard to penetrate his shell. What is he thinking? she must have wondered, why can’t he open up?

  “It’s time you learned how to surf,” he says in his deep voice.

  God he’s handsome. I suppose I’m not meant to notice things like that because he’s my father - but I’m not blind. Natalie must be crazy about him however much she’s in denial.

  “What happened between you and Natalie?” I ask, ignoring the surf request. He has been pushing that one on me for as long as I can remember.

  “I tried, sweetie, I tried.”

  “Why did she come running back to New York so soon, then? What did you do?”

  He lets out a sigh. “The way I see it? She was scared. Scared by her strong feelings for me. Natalie is a woman who has always been in control of situations. She’s a tough business woman, a negotiator. She wanted to negotiate me, didn’t want to lose herself in me.”

  “So you were hard on her?”

  “N
ot at all. I felt that she was trying to manipulate me into being somebody I wasn’t.”

  “She’s so beautiful,” I say.

  “She’s that, alright.”

  I frown. “Poor thing. Hurricane Sandy has really knocked the wind out of her. I was going to go back to New York to help her in any way I could but she wants just to be with her family.”

  My dad answers sadly, “I’ve called her several times to try and comfort her but I guess she’s just not willing to talk about it. She still won’t return my calls.”

  I sit there pensively, his hands still cupping my shoulders. The view is spectacular – a carpet of emerald green stretching to the deep blue of the ocean ahead. Coconut palms sway like ballet dancers in the gentle breeze and a cockerel crows for the fourth time in a row. An early morning mist is rising almost like smoke it’s so thick, dissipating into the air as it ascends into the cobalt blue of ice-clear sky. It’s just after dawn. As usual, I couldn’t sleep and my father has got up early so he can get in some surf time.

  “Come with me, honey. Come and surf. Surfing will clear your mind – it’s the zen of life. Surf and all your troubles will melt away.”

  “It’s your addiction, isn’t it?”

  “It’s my sanity, Pearl.”

  “Maybe tomorrow.”

  And then he does something that he has never done before with me. His voice deepens into a commanding, strict tone. He suddenly sounds like an old-fashioned father from the Victorian age who might spank his children or put them to bed with no supper. “No, Pearl. I’ve had enough of you moping around like some lovesick, surly teenager. You are coming surfing and that’s the bottom line.” He clutches my hand and pulls me up out of my chair with a strong jerk.

  I stand there stupefied.

  He barks, “You are my daughter and I’m going to make you a surfer, once and for all. When you next see that French boyfriend of yours you can show him just how good you are. Give him something to be impressed about. You think he’d like to see you as you’ve been all week, hunched over in that chair staring at waves all day long? Or making work calls? No, honey, he was attracted to an active girl full of joie de vivre when he met you - a woman who went rock-climbing on that first date. Show him what you’re made of.”

  “It’s no good, Dad. It’s over between us. He doesn’t want me now. He’s not going to give me another chance.”

  “Nonsense. You’re coming surfing, young lady. Soon you won’t even be brooding about him anymore, anyway - you’ll have better things to occupy your mind.”

  I pull back but he keeps yanking me toward him. “Besides, have you seen the talent out there?” he continues. “Have you set eyes on the bodies along that beach?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, still surprised by his sudden air of authority.

  “There are, like, at least ten dudes on that beach who are good enough to compete around the world. You think your French guy is handsome and can surf? Wait until you set your eyes on this bunch of kids.”

  “Kids?”

  “There are some good-looking young men out there, some in their late twenties, early thirties – perfect for you if you’re attracted to younger guys - a few of them interesting, too. Everybody thinks surfers are dumb but we’re not, we have the key to the secret treasure box, the potion to the essence of life.”

  I’ve heard all this before but I listen anyway. I watch him as he continues with his spiel.

  “Meanwhile, most other people out there are too busy running about in a rat-race in some concrete jungle somewhere, so preoccupied with ‘ambition’ and getting ahead that they can’t appreciate what real living is all about. We surfers know - we have the wisdom.” He tells me this with an ironic smile, although what he says he truly believes from the bottom of his heart.

  “Surfers with brains?” I tease, although my dad is extremely smart. He can tell you anything about philosophy or astronomy and is an ace at mathematics. You wouldn’t know it, though. At first sight he’s so startlingly ‘cool’ and so buffed-up you’d take him for…for what? An old hippie? No, he’s too in shape for that, his eyes too focused. An ex-bodyguard? No, he’s too graceful, too ethereal. Who is he? I wonder to myself. I observe the flexing of his biceps as he turns his surfboard upside down. His fifty-nine year old body could pass for thirty-five. A thirty-five year old in great shape, no less.

  I reflect on what Alexandre said about living in a tree-house and wonder, is that what my dad is doing, basically? Not that his bamboo house is a shack, no – it’s pretty state-of-the-art and modern; he designed and built it himself. But living the simple life, no frills, no ‘needs’. He doesn’t care about the car he drives or impressing anyone. He is who he is and he makes no excuses for himself.

  He squints his eyes as he gazes at my left hand. My engagement ring is making reflections on the walls and ceilings like a mirror, twinkling in the morning light. “But take that rock off your finger, first,” he tells me, “or it could get washed away with the pull of the surf. I have a safety deposit box in the house - you can put it in there.” I am still wearing the ring even though it’s officially over between me and Alexandre, as if the ring is a symbol of hope that somehow everything will work itself out. He refused to take it back. So I carry it about on my finger like a wish.

  My dad and I leave the porch to its spectacular view and go inside. My father taking me in hand the way he has is almost a relief. I don’t have to think anymore; he can do my thinking for me. Isn’t that what parents are for sometimes? To ease the pain? To shake you out of a stupor?

  “Change into a whole piece swimsuit or you could scratch your belly on the board,” he advises me, waxing up his surfboard.

  “All I have is that bright red Baywatch-type thing from years ago.”

  “So? What’s wrong with that?”

  I raise my eyebrows. “I’ll look like a Pamela Anderson wannabe. I’ll attract attention.”

  “You’ll attract attention no matter what, honey. They all want to meet you.”

  “What?”

  “You think it’s normal that you live by the ocean and you’ve been tucked up in hiding in this house for nearly ten days? Every morning when I go down the boys are asking where you are. They’re curious. Curious to meet my only daughter. Besides, I need your help at the shop today. We’ll surf all morning, have lunch and then you can help me organize my book keeping. Your lady of leisure days are over, Pearl. From now on, it’s hang out in my shop, surf, or swim. No more moping about. Is that a deal?”

  “Okay, it’s a deal,” I agree and then my mouth breaks into a huge grin.

  “That’s better. That’s what I want to see. I want to see that big, beautiful smile of yours.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The surfer guys are really friendly and greet me with a warm welcome as if the top of the hill where my father lives were on a different planet. Their dedication to the surf is as forceful as the Pacific waves, unrelenting - they don’t venture far from the beach during the day.

  My surf lesson begins on the sand, itself, and then once in the ocean I find out that ‘paddle’ is the magic word. With my torso pressed on the board, I paddle with my arms feverishly out to sea and am then spun around by my father at the right moment to catch the wave and ride it to the shore. The idea is to stand up on the board as soon as possible. Easy on land, but nigh impossible with a fast-moving crashing wave. I do several tries, toppling over immediately into the water, each try more exhausting than the last, especially after the paddling; my arms and shoulders feel as if they are about to snap off, but in the end, after a long morning, I get there and I manage to ride the wave upright on my shaky legs all the way to the beach.

  “Not bad for your first try,” my father says approvingly. “Not bad at all.”

  “I don’t know if I’m cut out for this, Dad,” I say looking off to the rolling green hills in the distance and then back at him. “It’s really hard, all that paddling – I’m wiped out. No wonder you surfers
have such big pecs and biceps.”

  “It’s just a question of building up your stamina, honey, that’s all. What d’you make of the kids here? Anyone that takes your fancy?” he asks, gesticulating at the guys expertly riding the waves.

  “Where are all the girls? The women surfers?” I reply.

  “They’re about, just not today. Shame Zac’s not here, he’s a great teacher. Sometimes it’s best when someone who isn’t next of kin shows you the ropes,” he tells me with a playful grin.

  “Who’s Zac?”

  “You’ll see. You won’t be able to miss him. He’s one of our local champions. He could show you a few tricks of the trade.”

  ***

  Later that evening after dinner, Daisy calls. I can tell immediately by her quivering voice that something is wrong. She usually speaks with such bravado and confidence that I’m instantly troubled.

  After both of us have discussed the horror of Hurricane Sandy she blurts out, “Johnny is having an affair.”

  I take my cell onto the veranda where the reception is clearer. “Wait, hold up, Daisy…an affair or a one-night stand.”

  “A one-night bloody stand that developed into a full fucking-blown affair!”

  Fucking being the operative word, I think. “But that doesn’t make sense, Johnny’s crazy about you.”

  Daisy blows her nose into the receiver. “That’s what I thought, too, but I was obviously dead wrong. Wrong and blind, to boot. I trusted him.”

  “Well of course you did. He’s your husband. You had no reason not to trust him.”

  “I should have seen the writing on the wall.”

  “What writing?”

  “The increase in the amount of ‘business’ trips he was making. The stupid cow lives in Phoenix, doesn’t she?”