“We just want to help people,” Emily would retort.
He would raise his eyebrows and nod. “Yeah, whether they want to be helped or not.”
He’d never gotten over the time she and Marta set up Ryan’s sister Susan with Marta’s brother Rob. For the record, that scheme had actually worked—for a while. Unfortunately, it had ended with Susan camping out on their couch for several days eating multiple cartons of ice cream and blubbering over sad romantic movies. Ryan thought she’d never leave and completely blamed Marta and Emily. After that he’d forbidden any more matchmaking of family members. Not long after that he got sick and all of Emily’s energy went toward getting him better anyway. Come to think of it, she and Marta hadn’t hatched a meddling scheme since then.
Marta picked up a muffin, plated it, and handed it to Emily. “No time like the present, I say. But try one first.”
She thanked Marta and accepted the plate, slathering the muffin with butter Marta had set out. She poured a cup of coffee and carried the plate and mug to a seat at the kitchen table, admiring her view as she did. She could see the water from where she sat and thought that this wasn’t a bad way to start the day. She looked around the room and wondered when the furnishings that had come with the house would stop feeling like someone else’s, when the house would come to feel like home. She took a bite of the muffin, the rich taste of warm, melted chocolate chips mixing with the sweet bread. Paired with her cup of coffee, it was the perfect breakfast. “I hope you made plenty of those,” she said to Marta, who was starting to clean up. She tried not to think about her leaving, how much she liked having her around.
Marta held up a freezer bag. “I even made enough to freeze for later,” she said and winked. She was trying to take care of her, she knew, to leave something behind for when she was no longer there. Emily appreciated the effort even if it made her miss her friend while she was still standing right in front of her.
“Now I want you to get dressed and take a basket of muffins to the girl to thank her for her hospitality,” Marta ordered. “I’m going to sit on the dock and enjoy the view for a bit.”
Emily almost argued with Marta about the “hospitality” Amber had showed her, but instead she mock-saluted her. “Yes, ma’am.” Emily finished her breakfast and carried her plate to the sink. Last night they’d gotten the kitchen all set up and made a big grocery run that made the place feel more habitable. The smell of coffee and baked goods helped even more. Marta shooed her away and she obediently went to her room to dress and throw her hair into a ponytail. It had gotten long in the last year and Emily liked the way it looked. Sometimes she caught herself wondering what Ryan would think of it before she realized that Ryan didn’t have an opinion anymore. At least, not one she could ask him about. She thought about the horizon, the place where the water met the sky, and wondered again if Ryan waited there.
She shook her head, her ponytail swaying as she did, and put on some lip gloss and mascara—her bare minimum makeup for the summer. Once she had some sun on her cheeks the look would be complete. Maybe she and Marta would head to the beach for the afternoon, tilt their chins toward the sun, and take their chances with the harmful rays. Cancer didn’t scare her nearly as much as it once did. She’d already fought that particular villain, already accepted its defeat. If it came gunning for her, well, at least she’d be with Ryan. In some ways, Emily didn’t care what happened to her anymore. Her life was, in some very important ways, over. No one had to understand or accept that but her.
In the kitchen she found the basket prepared as Marta had promised. She’d found a small one in Ada’s things she’d left behind and tucked the muffins into a hand-embroidered tea towel. Emily fingered the tea towel, tracing the outline of a flower done in pink and green. It was simple and pretty and Emily found that part of her wanted to keep it. She could hang it on a towel bar in the kitchen, a little memorial to the woman who once loved this house. But Amber might enjoy having something pretty, something special. Without a mother around, she probably didn’t have little feminine touches in her life. Emily picked up the basket and called out to Marta that she was leaving.
“Good luck!” Marta called out from her room, the door closing between them. Emily guessed that she was talking to Phil. She remembered those early days of a relationship, the excitement that came each time you heard the other person’s voice, the revelations that came with each conversation, the connection that grew with every phone call. She remembered how she used to get that goofy grin on her face whenever Ryan would call, how she hated to hang up the phone, how each time they talked it seemed she gained some new insight to who he was—and why she wanted to be with him more than ever. She suspected every married couple looked back fondly, and wistfully, at those early, exhilarating days. The memories became even more substantial when there was only the past to look back at, with no prospect for a future.
As she walked to the motel carrying the basket, she thought about all the nevers of her marriage. She would never share a positive pregnancy test with him, never drive to the hospital to give birth, both nervous and scared and giddy. She would never stare down at their child and see if he or she got his eyes or her ears, his smile or her coloring. She would never celebrate another anniversary, another birthday, another holiday with her husband. She would never know what he looked like as an old man, never see each other as mom and dad, then grandma and grandpa. She looked around her as cars drove past and happy families milled around the shopping area in the center of town. She would never spend a single night with him in the very house he made possible for her.
She arrived at the motel feeling more than a little sad, and a bit upset with herself for entertaining the thoughts she’d allowed to roll around her mind as she walked. She should be happier, she reasoned. She should work harder to appreciate what she’d been given. She was smack-dab in the middle of paradise and acting like she was anywhere but. She glanced down at the muffins. Marta had the right idea. She would focus on others and maybe it would help her have a better attitude.
She entered the office to find it empty. She crossed the small room and set the muffins on the desk, glancing around as she did. There was no sign of Amber and, to make matters worse, Amber had left her purse in plain sight on the desk. There probably wasn’t much of value in it, but she didn’t want it to get stolen by someone who saw an opportunity, and there could be any number of opportunities with all the tourists milling around this area, especially other bored teens looking for something to do, a bit of daring.
Even though it wasn’t her business—not really—she went around behind the desk to hide the purse and write a note to Amber explaining that she’d left the muffins as a thank-you and she was sorry she’d missed her. As she lifted the purse it fell open. Lying right on top of the other contents was a telltale white stick, similar to the one Emily had bought just before Ryan got diagnosed. That one had been negative, something she’d spent many sleepless nights wondering about. Was that good or bad? Would it have been too hard for her to have a baby during his battle with cancer? What would it have been like to raise that child without him? And yet, she would have some part of him, living on. Her hand went to the test, almost before her mind realized what she was doing. Another thing that was none of her business, not really.
But that didn’t stop her as she held the stick up to the light, studying the control window with its definitive pink line. The window beside it almost looked empty until Emily looked closer. She could just make out a faint line there too. She tilted the test and peered closer, uncertain as to whether her eyes were playing tricks on her. But then she remembered how Amber had thrown up in the bushes, running from the room in an effort to hide the telltale signs from another person. And she knew that what she was seeing was real. She dropped the stick as if it had burned her but it missed the open purse and fell to the floor.
She dropped to her knees to feel around underneath the desk where it had fallen. She was crawling around down there
when she heard the door to the office open and Amber’s giggle. She froze, wishing she could hide but there was “nowhere to run, nowhere to hide,” just like the old song said. She froze, listening as Amber’s giggle was echoed by a deeper laugh. Then there was silence and the sounds of lips meeting, the smacking sound she knew from distant experience. She closed her eyes and prayed for them to leave, to give her just a moment to get out of there.
And then, amazingly, she thought her prayers were answered. “Want to go to my room?” she heard the deep voice ask.
Her heart sank as she thought of the young man she’d seen leaning across the desk that time, his body language too familiar, too entitled to be just another customer. She looked down at the pregnancy test she held in her hands, made a mental note to wash her hands as soon as she got out of there, and held her breath waiting for Amber to answer him. A better person would’ve willed the girl to say no. But Emily wanted a chance to escape the awkward position she’d found herself in. She thought about that second line and reasoned that one more trip to this man’s room wouldn’t make things any worse. At least she didn’t think it could.
She waited until they were gone to let out the breath she’d been holding since they entered the room, deposited the test back into the purse, and breathed a second sigh of relief that Amber had been too wrapped up in that guy to notice her muffins, walk over to the desk, and find her hidden underneath it. She left the muffins without the note she’d intended to write and fled the office, but not before scanning the front of the motel to determine which room could possibly be his. Part of her wanted to go door to door until she found them and yank Amber out of there. But a cooler head prevailed and she turned away, feeling worse about the situation than when she’d come, holding up those silly muffins as if they could fix anything. She walked home trying to decide what her next move would be, grateful Marta would be there to help her figure it out, and worried about when she’d be left to do life at Sunset alone.
Ten
Marta left three days later—days spent finishing the unpacking and settling in, cooking and eating delicious food, watching old movies on the small television Ada had left behind, and walking the beach talking about Phil and debating Emily’s options for reaching out to Amber. By the time Marta left, she was certain of two things: Marta was smitten, and Emily shouldn’t give up on helping this girl. How she would do that still remained a mystery. A few times she and Marta “happened by” the motel, hoping to spot the young man going in or out of his room or steal a glance of Amber entering or exiting one of the rooms looking guilty, or happy, or whatever the girl was feeling at this point. No matter how Amber felt, she had to be confused and lonely. This wasn’t exactly the type of thing girls discussed with their fathers and Amber had been pretty clear he was the only family she had.
Before she left, Marta had put her hand on Emily’s shoulder. “Be careful,” she had warned. “You don’t know anything about this kid.”
Emily had nodded obediently. “I will,” she promised. But she wasn’t so sure.
Marta’s return glance told her she knew what Emily was thinking but blessedly left it alone.
That night after Marta left, she went and sat on the front porch, feeling sad and more than a little lonely without her friend’s presence. She understood Marta had to go. Phil had an important work event he wanted her at—a cocktail party where she would be meeting his coworkers and boss. It said a lot that Phil wanted her there, and she was excited about the direction things were headed. Emily felt a bit of pride that she—and Ryan, come to think of it—had a part in Phil and Marta pairing off. She shook her head at the mystery of it all, the way things worked out, coming together even as they were coming apart, woven by an expert weaver. One thing was for sure, she wasn’t going to understand His design this side of heaven.
She was about to go inside when she saw a man walking down the quiet street. Off the beaten path, this wasn’t a road you typically saw people walking along. Most people didn’t venture this far down 40th Street, she’d come to realize, not knowing that these houses were even down here. The effect was private but also isolating at times. Sometimes she liked the quiet, the time for reflection, but sometimes she wondered if she’d been better off in the center of town where all the action was. The merry widow instead of the reclusive hermit.
For lack of anything better to focus on, she watched the man walk, figuring he was just out for a stroll, a tourist exploring the island. From a distance he looked to be about her age, trim and nicely built, the kind of man Marta would point out if she were still there. “Now what about him?” she would say. “If he lives here you should find out where.” Emily would object, of course, tell her how ridiculous she was being. And yet, as the man got closer, even she had to admit he was a nice-looking guy. Nothing like Ryan though. She always had to add that.
Her heart picked up its pace when he slowed as he got to her house. She watched as his eyes narrowed when he saw her sitting there. He looked as confused as she did as he turned and made his way up her walk.
“C-Can I help you?” she asked, feeling not at all brave. She scanned the length of the street, wondering if there was anyone around to hear her scream. She’d watched one too many true crime documentaries, she told herself. This was Sunset Beach, North Carolina, not the mean streets of New York.
He looked past her, at the door of the house behind her. “Is Ada here?” he asked.
That explained it. He didn’t realize Ada had moved. “No, I, um, bought her house. She moved in with her sister. I just moved in a few days ago.” She put her hands on her knees to steady herself. There was something familiar about this man, something that set her on edge and made her heart beat even faster. She didn’t need Marta to point out his looks. Tall, dark, and handsome described him to a T. She swallowed and forced herself to hold his gaze.
He gave a little laugh and shook his head. “Well, that explains it. She’s gotten so forgetful lately and I couldn’t get her on the phone, and I finally just decided to head over here and check on the old bird.”
“Well, I assume she’s just fine, living in Florence, South Carolina, now. I can give you her new address if you like.” She rose from her seat on the porch just for something to do. From her place at the top of the stairs she found herself looking down on him and she rather liked the height advantage. Even though he seemed like a perfectly nice guy, she was also upright in case she needed to run.
“Did she happen to mention I might be coming by, to get something?”
Emily shook her head. “No . . .” She thought through her few conversations with Ada, trying to remember anything like that. “Sorry.” She shrugged and—she couldn’t help it—wondered what she looked like to him in her denim cutoffs and Ryan’s old T-shirt that no longer smelled like him, her hair wind-blown and her face makeup-less. Her cheeks, at least, had picked up some sun so she didn’t look like a gaunt ghost. She broke his gaze as her cheeks grew warmer, her eyes focused on the plank floor of the porch and her bare feet. She should’ve painted her toenails like Marta suggested.
“Are you sure?” he pressed. “She might’ve mentioned something about the bridge tender’s log? That doesn’t sound familiar at all?”
She shook her head again. But then a memory from the day of the closing surfaced, Ada nearing the porch railing close to where she stood now, her steps slow and deliberate as she took one last look at the place. She’d started to say something to Emily, but then said she would take care of it . . . if she could just remember. “Wait!” Emily said. “She did start to tell me something but then she said she’d do it. She might’ve meant to get in touch with you and make arrangements. I guess.” She shrugged.
He let out a relieved sigh and nodded. “That sounds like the last few conversations I had with her. I was a friend of her husband’s and when he died, he left me something. She promised when she sold the house she’d get it to me but I never heard from her.” He looked around, seeming to notice the empty st
reet for the first time. He grinned and when he did, the feeling of familiarity struck her even more, her mind scrambling for the name that was on the tip of her tongue. “Sorry if I scared you,” he apologized. He climbed the few steps between them so he was close enough to extend his hand to shake. “I’m—”
She interrupted. “Brady Rutledge,” she breathed aloud, mortified even as the name slipped from her lips, her breath catching as her hand was enfolded by his for the briefest of moments. He let go, his momentary shocked expression quickly replaced by a laugh. He threw his head back and looked up at the sky, that wide trademark grin she’d memorized in film filling his very real-life face. “No one’s called me that for years,” he said and looked back at her. The grin was gone and a smirk remained. He nodded. “My name’s actually Kyle Baker.”
As he said it she remembered reading an article while waiting for her hair to be cut in one of those celeb magazines about “The Disappearance of Brady Rutledge.” He had left the film business shortly after the success of his one and only film, Just This Once. The article had said that he’d gone into acting hesitantly, persuaded by those close to him because of his good looks and love for acting. He’d given no interviews as to why he left acting, just declined subsequent roles and slipped away when no one was looking. The interview had speculated on where the talented young man had landed. And where in the world someone with his recognizable face could hide. She thought of how desolate Sunset had been in the off season. With the exception of the summer season, this wouldn’t be a bad place to fall off the radar.
“Sorry,” she apologized. “I just recognized you from . . .” She searched for the right words to finish her sentence. From my favorite movie? From your pictures I stared at a little too long? From the ongoing joke I had with my now-dead husband about my crush on you? She settled for, “From before.”
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