Just Breathe

by Susan Wiggs

  Sarah blew out a sigh and folded her arms across her chest. “I give up. What do you want from me?”

  “We want you to start by getting out of bed. You’ve scarcely left this room. It’s not healthy.”

  “I don’t care about being healthy.”

  “Nonsense, dear. Of course you do.”

  My God, Sarah thought. They were like the girls in Arsenic and Old Lace. Completely dotty but convinced they had all the answers.

  “You’re still so very young,” Gran said. “You have so much ahead of you. We want you to go out and embrace that, Sarah. Not hide away and sleep.”

  “We think you want that, too.” Aunt May took a key from her crocheted handbag and set it on the bedside table. The key chain was a plastic dime-store figure from the cartoon Lilo and Stitch. Sarah had always liked that character. She surfed her way through life and sang in the face of trouble.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “The keys to May’s Cottage,” Aunt May said. “I’m giving you a lease on it, with the first year rent free.”

  The cottage by the sea had been in the Carter family for nearly a century. Elijah Carter, who’d made a modest fortune fishing the rich waters of the bay and the ocean beyond the point, had built it for his new bride, whom he had brought from Scotland.

  “The lease is in the house,” Aunt May said, “on the kitchen table. I’m charging you one dollar for the first year’s rent, just to make it official. You simply need to sign the paper and bring it to me.”

  “I don’t understand. Why are you doing this?”

  “Like we said, it’s to help you get back on your feet,” Gran explained with exaggerated patience.

  “You need a place of your own,” Aunt May added.

  “We think it’s healthier,” Gran said.

  “And it’s close to town and has a high-speed Internet connection,” Aunt May said.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No. Broadband was requested numerous times by my guests, so I finally had it installed.” Aunt May spoke as though she knew what she was talking about.

  “I can’t live at the cottage,” Sarah said. “It’s a huge source of income for you.” With its vintage furniture and period decor, the cottage was rented to well-heeled tourists for $500 per night in the high season, and harried San Franciscans flocked to pay it.

  “I don’t need that, I assure you,” Aunt May said. “And I’ve been thinking of finding a tenant for quite some time.”

  The bungalow was an artist’s dream, Sarah thought. Quiet and private, with a spectacular view of Tomales Bay, yet still close to town. High-speed Internet.

  “I don’t know what to say,” she told her great-aunt.

  “A simple thank-you will do.”

  Sarah turned on her side and stared at the key. A part of her wanted to reach out and seize the offering before the opportunity was snatched away. Yet another part recoiled at the idea of setting herself up in a place of her own.

  “I can’t live at the cottage,” she whispered.

  “Of course you can,” Aunt May said. “It’s perfect.”

  “I don’t want perfect. I want...normal. At least if I stay here, in bed at my father’s house, I can maintain the illusion that my situation is temporary. That I’ll wake up one morning, come to my senses and reclaim my life.”

  “Is that what you want?” asked Gran.

  “I keep trying to convince myself to forgive Jack. That’s what he wants me to do. To reconcile with him.”

  “I didn’t quite catch your answer,” Gran said. “Is that what you want?”

  Sarah stretched the bedspread into a tent across her knees. Jack had conveniently forgotten that he was the one who’d said it first: I want a divorce. He had spoken those words before the idea had ever occurred to her. Now he wanted to take back what he’d said.

  Yet hearing the words spoken aloud had unraveled something in Sarah, a deeply hidden discontent, and now there was no reeling it back in. He had expressed something she wanted before she even knew she wanted it.

  “I miss being in love,” she confessed to her grandmother and great-aunt. She missed the happy warmth in her heart of being part of a couple. She missed snuggling up to him, feeling his arms wrapped around her, breathing in his scent.

  But although she missed these things, she could not persuade herself to love him again.

  Could love be killed in an instant? she wondered. Could it exist one moment, and then die like a person taking a bullet to the heart? Like a blood vessel bursting in the brain of a person who was in the middle of weaving a blanket?

  The demise of Sarah’s marriage wasn’t so instantaneous, she forced herself to acknowledge. One of the hardest truths she had to face was that their marriage had been on life support for a long time prior to that final betrayal. Finding him naked—and erect—with Mimi had merely been a formality.

  “It was way too easy to stop having feelings for him,” she said. “Like turning off a switch. Makes me wonder if I’m all that good at relationships.”

  “You are good at relationships,” Gran contradicted. “Look at all you’ve done for love. Lived in Chicago when all you wanted was to be by the sea, away from the wind and the snow.”

  “The right clothes can make any climate bearable.”

  “You were steadfast through his illness. You did it all.”

  “That’s devotion, which is different from the way I loved him in the beginning. Deeper and God knows more personal. But not passionate.” A bleakness settled over her. That passion, that heart-pounding he’s-the-one feeling, had never returned after Jack’s cancer treatment. They had each gone in different directions, looking for something to replace the lost passion—she to a fertility clinic, he to another woman’s arms.

  “Enough of this gloomy talk,” Gran declared, dusting her hands together as if she’d just taken out the rubbish. “Time to move on.”

  “This is my marriage,” Sarah said. “My life. Not just some gloomy talk.”

  “We know that. We don’t want you to turn into one of those insufferable and bitter divorced women.”

  “Fine, then what do you want me to turn into?”

  “A happy, productive, well-adjusted divorced woman.”

  “Great. I’ll get right on that.”

  “Who dates,” Aunt May added.

  Sarah flopped back on the bed and pulled a pillow over her head. “I don’t believe you people.”

  She felt a friendly pat on her leg and lay quietly until she was sure they were gone. Then, like a soldier in enemy territory peeking out of a foxhole, she moved the pillow to see if the coast was clear. They were gone but had left the curtains wide-open to the late-morning light. A slanting golden bar fell across the bed and touched on the white wicker nightstand, where the key to May’s cottage gleamed.

  Sarah took a deep breath. She suddenly felt ravenously hungry. She got up, and a wave of light-headedness washed over her.

  “Yikes,” she muttered. “I need to eat more or sleep less.”

  What were the old ladies thinking? she wondered. It was too soon to be making a decision like this. She picked up the Lilo key chain. The golden key was etched with the warning Do Not Duplicate.

  Thirteen

  “Something’s going on at May Carter’s cottage,” Gloria observed as she and Will returned to Glenmuir from Petaluma.

  Gloria decelerated and trolled past the seaside bungalow. In the falling light at day’s end, the historic cottage resembled an illustration in a storybook or tourist brochure. Surrounded by a moss-covered picket fence, its flower boxes spilling color, it had a timeless charm that had made it a coveted beach rental in the area.

  In the front hung a weathered oval sign, discreetly flapping in the breeze. May’s Cottage,
the sign read. Circa 1912. Weekly Rates.

  “Looks like another batch of tourists to me,” Will said.

  “That car belongs to Nathaniel Moon’s daughter. It’s the only blue Mini in town.”

  “I’ll call a press conference.”

  “Very funny.” Gloria’s glance flicked over at him; then she turned back to the road. “I hear she’s single.”

  “I hear she’s married.”

  “Not for much longer.”

  Will almost felt sorry for Sarah Moon. The trouble with living in a small town where nothing ever happened was that everyone kept track of everyone else’s business. Secrets didn’t last long in Glenmuir.

  Sometimes there were exceptions, though. He flipped through a file from the arson investigator they’d met with this afternoon. They had a dossier of evidence in both hard copy and digital form, which covered two separate incidents of arson in two successive months. Yet despite all the evidence, there was one thing lacking—a suspect.

  Gloria kept her eyes on the road, though a knowing smile curved her mouth. “Weren’t you and Sarah in the same grade, coming through school?”

  “I think we were,” he said, and although he knew where the conversation was leading, he added, “I barely remember her. So?”

  “So nothing,” she said. “Just an observation. She’s single. You’re single—”

  “Shut up, Gloria.”

  “Aw, come on. You are the town’s most eligible bachelor, and available women don’t exactly grow on trees around here.”

  “Maybe that’s why I like it here.”

  “Bullshit. I know you, Will. You want to find someone. Marisol’s been gone five years.”

  “Drop it, Gloria.” He tried not to think about all the lonely nights when his arms ached to hold someone.

  “I’m just saying, nature abhors a vacuum. Trying to match you up with someone has become a favorite pastime around here.”

  “Great. Well, guess what, Gloria. I’d just as soon be taken off your list, if you don’t mind. Find some other bachelor to fix up.”

  “Like who?”

  He thought for a moment. “Darryl Kilmer’s single.”

  “Give me a break. He doesn’t have it.”

  “Have what?” he demanded in exasperation.

  She turned the vehicle into the station parking lot. “Let’s see. Dental work?”

  “Very funny, Gloria.”

  “Don’t pretend you don’t understand.”

  “I’m not pretending. I really don’t get why people are always trying to pair me up with someone.”

  She cut the engine and put her hand on his arm to keep him in his seat. “People want the best for you, Will. You’re the kind of old-fashioned, stand-up guy nobody ever seems to meet these days, not in real life. You’re a good man with a heart full of love. It doesn’t seem right that you’re alone and Aurora doesn’t have a mom.”

  “Hell, Gloria, now I want to marry you.” He leaned across the seat and kissed her cheek. “What do you say? We can make it to the state line by sunset. Better yet, my aunt can fly us to Vegas in an hour.” To Will’s surprise, Gloria reached up and brushed a sweat-soaked lock of hair off his forehead.

  He was too startled to move, to do anything but stare. He swallowed, cleared his throat, found his voice. “Gloria?”

  “You break my heart, Will,” she whispered. “You always have.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never—”

  “It’s not your fault. You can’t help who you are any more than I can.”

  He frowned. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

  “I’m always nice to you. And everybody who knows you wants to see you happy. Ruby and I were talking about it. We were wondering what it would take to make you happy.”

  “Let me watch?” he suggested.

  She shoved him back. “Pervert. That will teach me to get all sentimental over you.” She climbed out of the truck.

  Will called after her, still teasing. “What about me, Gloria? What about my heart full of love?”

  She turned and looked back at him. “Find someone to give it to, Will. Just a bit of friendly advice.”

  * * *

  Juggling two full grocery sacks, Sarah opened the door with her hip and headed for the kitchen counter. With mechanical efficiency, she put away the groceries. Milk, bananas, Pop-Tarts, frozen dinners, a package of fresh batteries for the smoke alarms. She had promised Aunt May she’d replace them. The local paper had reported a recent incident of arson. Most likely, the culprits were vandals committing mischief, but you couldn’t be too careful.

  On a whim, Sarah had bought a bouquet of fresh-cut flowers, a beautiful profusion of candy-colored snapdragons, primroses and pale green Bells of Ireland. As she took them from their cellophane wrapper, she recognized the logo on the small gold sticker. Bonner Flower Farm.

  Birdie’s parents, she thought. The parents of Birdie and Will.

  Other than mentioning he had a daughter, Birdie hadn’t said anything else about her brother. Sarah assumed he was married to someone fabulous and long gone from Glenmuir, chasing dreams of glory somewhere glamorous. She could picture him living in one of those big-money enclaves that attracted professional athletes and their expensive toys, like yachts and motorcycles and Cessna planes.

  She arranged the flowers in a vase and placed it in the middle of the table in the kitchen nook, admiring the way the light from the windows behind made the flowers glow in a halo of color.

  She hoped she was doing the right thing by accepting Aunt May’s offer. In practical terms, it was ideal. The cottage was perfectly appointed, with durable but cozy furniture, a fine array of dishes and utensils in the kitchen. Sarah had set up her drafting table and computer in the smaller bedroom, and was managing to keep up with her deadlines—just barely. If she was going to make a living on her own, she’d need wider syndication. Contracting with a syndication service was probably the wise move now.

  But being practical had never been her strong suit, and most days, she muddled through without making a decision. She constantly felt restless and scared, her mind going in all different directions. She was truly on her own for the first time in her life, and to her dismay, she wasn’t handling it well.

  No, she was terrified. She’d never had to face the future relying solely on herself. The prospect thoroughly intimidated her, the specter of failure looming large.

  Exasperated with herself, she grabbed the most recent volume from a small display of guest books on a shelf under the window. This one was an oversize hand-bound book with entries dating back a couple of years.

  “We had a fabulous stay to celebrate our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary,” was written in a large curly script, and the entry was signed by Dan and Linda Davis.

  The Norwood family from Truckee reported that they’d had an “unforgettable family vacation, just magical.”

  “This is the kind of place we want our kids to experience, so they can discover the beauty of unspoiled nature,” wrote Ron van der Veen of Seattle, Washington.

  Sarah paged through the comments, skimming rudimentary sketches and happy faces, effusive statements supported by multiple exclamation points.

  “What’s wrong with you people?” she asked, still browsing. “Didn’t anybody have a lousy time? Days on end when the fog never lifted? A painful sunburn? Getting stung by a bee or a rash of poison ivy? Come on, people. How about a fight? A nice, big knock-down, drag-out domestic dispute, maybe one that culminated in a call to the police.”

  She shook her head and mocked an entry that sounded like a chamber of commerce ad: “Food, fun, friends and family—it doesn’t get any better than this.”

  “I would love to see just one honest entry,” she said. “Like some guy writing
that this is the perfect spot to bring his mistress to avoid all danger of getting caught by his wife. Or some woman admitting that the sex was terrible.” She took out a Blackfeet Indian pencil and doodled on a blank page. “I won’t hold my breath waiting for that one.”

  A vacation was supposed to be a time to renew and heal. When Jack’s treatments were finished, they had made a trip that was supposed to refresh them and prepare them for a bright future. They stayed at a historic boutique hotel, the Inn at Willow Lake, in a town called Avalon, in upstate New York. She’d chosen the location based on the fact that the tiny local paper carried her strip. She had found the inn online. They were supposed to get away from it all, but Jack had stayed tethered to work by cell phone and BlackBerry. They’d made love, and she’d dared to hope she was pregnant at the end of the trip. Instead, they’d returned to Chicago with a vague, unsettled distance between them. Jack threw himself into working on Shamrock Downs. And into shagging Mimi Lightfoot.

  Looking down, she saw the doodle resolve itself into a sketch of Shirl, bringing home a bored-looking goldfish in a clear plastic bag. “Having one of those days?” asked the goldfish. And Shirl’s response: “Having one of those lives.”

  “Too much time on my hands,” Sarah said, shutting the book and turning her attention back to the groceries. She frowned at the bottom of the bag. “I can’t believe I bought this. I don’t even remember putting it in the cart.”

  At some point, with her brain on autopilot, she had bought Jack’s favorite snack—a can of King Olaf kippered herring and a box of Ritz crackers.

  “I don’t even want to think about why I did that.” She carried the items to the trash can but decided that wasn’t far enough. She marched out to the beach instead, lifting her legs high over the dune grasses and making her way to a heap of driftwood logs deposited by a storm.

  There, she used the key to roll the top off the can of kippered herring. The smell alone threatened to knock her off her feet. Since moving into the bungalow, she seemed to have developed an extra sensitivity to smells. The fishy, oily odor of the herring made her nauseous.