Beach Trip

by Cathy Holton

  “She’s awesome,” April repeated.

  “Yes. Awesome.”

  “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her,” April said, giving her head a fierce little shake. “Nothing.”

  Mel wondered if anyone had ever felt that way about her. The mood in the cabin had grown heavy and she said, “Briggs, now he’s an asshole but you have to take the bad with the good.” She grinned when she said it but April only glanced at her, then went back to the list.

  Mel turned her face to the small galley window. “It looks like we’re getting ready to shove off,” she said. She could feel the engines throbbing beneath her feet.

  Out on the dock, Sara clicked off her phone and slid it into her bag. She was smiling.

  Mel turned away, gathering the folded bags in her arms. There was a price to be paid for shutting yourself off, and she had paid it.

  Sara stood on the dock watching Mel unsuccessfully flirt with Captain Mike and trying not to feel that little flutter of happiness she always felt whenever Mel tried, and failed, at anything. It happened so rarely. The flutter of happiness was followed quickly by a stab of guilt. She was old enough, surely, to have left the competitiveness of girlhood behind her? Apparently not. She watched Mel, looking like a movie goddess sex kitten in her short shorts and T-shirt, set her bag down and disappear through the sliding glass doors into the galley. Apparently there were some things you never got over, no matter how old you were. I’ll have to tell Tom about this, she thought, but then realized just as quickly that she would not.

  She and Annie walked down to the end of the dock to look at the boats. They stood for a while, looking out at the green sparkling water. Seagulls glided above the harbor or perched noisily atop tall masts. A large yacht christened the Lisa Marie pulled slowly into port.

  Annie, noting the name, said, “Hey, you don’t think that’s Elvis’s boat, do you?”

  “Elvis is dead. What would he want with a boat?”

  “How do you know he’s dead?”

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “No, really. Think about it. How do you know he didn’t fake his own death to get away from the paparazzi? How do you know he isn’t out there right now, living the life he always wanted to live, cruising the seas under an assumed identity?”

  Sara couldn’t think of anything to say to this, so she said nothing. A ferry pulled slowly into the harbor with its load of happy, waving tourists. The big engines throbbed as the boat nosed up along the landing like a nursing calf. Shouting stewards began to frantically unload, pushing heavy carts up the gangways to the baggage station. Annie put her hands on the rail and peered anxiously down at the water. A dead fish floated forlornly on its side. “Do you think we’ll go out of sight of land?” she asked.

  Sara, noting the concern in her voice, said, “Have you never been on a boat before?”

  “Not on the ocean.”

  “Well, Annie, I’m pretty sure we’ll go out of sight of land. Captain Mike says it’s about a forty-five-minute trip to the other island.” Golf carts trundled gaily around the perimeter of the harbor. On the village green a group of children played tag. Annie, looking down into the water, shivered.

  “Will you be all right?” Sara asked, putting one arm around Annie’s narrow shoulders.

  “Yes.” She sniffed, watching a man and a child fly a kite on the village green. The kite was a tiny speck in the sun-bleached sky. “It’s silly, I know, but I’ve always been afraid of dark water.”

  “You and Natalie Wood,” Sara said. She gave Annie a quick squeeze and dropped her arm.

  “Very funny,” Annie said. “I haven’t thought of her in years.”

  Sara smiled faintly, watching the steady stream of ferry passengers as they disembarked. She had been a junior in college at the time of Natalie’s death, still brooding over a boy she couldn’t have, and the whole affair had seemed so sordid and sad. Beautiful, childlike Natalie dead at the tragic age of forty-three. Fragile Natalie, floating in the dark water off Catalina Island in her flannel nightgown and knee socks. Rumors had swirled about a lovers’ triangle turned deadly, and caught up at the time in her own lovers’ triangle, Sara had understood how it might have happened. She still understood how it might have happened. She saw it every day as she struggled with the aftermath of so many failed marriages.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, trying to reassure Annie. “She wasn’t wearing a life jacket.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Annie asked morosely.

  After her years in family law, Sara was an expert on infidelity. She knew it happened slowly, gradually, over a period of time. In the beginning it was harmless, just a flirtation. A glance, a shared joke, a moment of false camaraderie when you tell yourself it doesn’t matter, you’re just friends. Good, good friends. It could have happened with Dennis McNair if she’d let it. But she’d seen too much of what followed: the bitterness, the guilt, the loss of self-esteem that infected lives like a sickness. A very modern sickness.

  “I’ll probably wear a life jacket the whole time I’m on board,” Annie said. “I’ll probably have Mel make a pitcher of Margaronas.”

  “That’ll take the edge off,” Sara said.

  Staying true to your marriage vows was easy, she had found, if you were careful. You stayed on the path. You didn’t deviate. You didn’t listen to your heart when it said, Step off here. Don’t be afraid; it doesn’t mean anything.

  “It’ll probably also increase my chances of falling overboard,” Annie said, grimacing.

  “That’s true. If you drink we’ll have to strap you in.”

  Not that marriage was easy. Her own had had its fair share of ups and downs. She and Tom had wanted children so desperately, and yet having them had changed everything. The whole dynamic of the marriage went from What can we do for each other? to What can we do for them? That’s what it felt like sometimes, like they were all in the water and drowning, and with her last dying effort she was trying to shove the children to safety. She sometimes thought that by the time they got Adam and Nicky grown, there would be nothing left of her and Tom but two whittled-down twigs, two emaciated husks.

  Not that getting Adam grown would bring much relief.

  “Where’s Lola?” Annie asked, looking around.

  “I think she’s on the boat.”

  Not that she or Tom would ever give up one blessed moment of having Adam as their child. When he was born, they had laid him on her chest, and she had looked down into his wrinkled, chalky face and felt a piercing love stab her heart. She knew then that she would never be the same. He was her own tender heart made visible, offered up to the world with all its terrible possibilities. She was shaking from the anesthesia and from the wonder of it all, and when he cried suddenly, it was the sweetest sound she’d ever heard. She cried then, and so did Tom.

  “We probably should get on board,” Annie said. She had on one of Lola’s wide-brimmed hats, pulled low over her ears. She didn’t look like she wanted to get on board. She didn’t look like she wanted to go anywhere near the boat.

  “Don’t worry,” Sara said. “You’ll be fine. Everything will be fine.”

  When they walked on to the Miss Behavin’, Mel was waiting for them on the aft deck. The twin engines had started and were rumbling at a slow idle. A smell of burning oil and diesel filled the air. Captain Mike stood on the flybridge with one hand shielding his eyes, scanning the marina.

  “Where’s Lola?” Mel asked, peering behind her.

  “What do you mean, where’s Lola? I thought she was with you.”

  “I haven’t seen her since we got to the marina,” Annie said.

  “Did you try her on her cell?” Sara asked.

  “She’s not answering,” Mel said.

  April came out of the sliding doors and Captain Mike leaned over the railing so he could peer down at her. “She’s not in any of the cabins,” she told him. “She’s not below.” He walked to the helm and turned off the engine
s.

  Annie put her hand to her forehead. “You know, she was talking on the way over here about getting some bottled water. She kept talking about her mouth being dry. I wasn’t really paying attention. Maybe she walked back up to the marina store to buy some water.”

  April and Captain Mike exchanged glances. “I’ll go look for her,” April said, but Captain Mike said, “No, I’ll go.” He bounded down the teak stairs to the aft deck, and stepped over the gangway onto the dock.

  “I’ll go with you,” Mel said.

  Despite her long legs, she had to hurry to keep up with him. If he appreciated her presence, he gave no sign of it, his eyes scanning the dock and the harbor like a roving searchlight. Looking at him, Mel had a sudden appreciation of how difficult his and April’s jobs must be, trying to keep tabs on Lola. It had less to do with spying, she realized now, and more to do with keeping Lola from falling overboard or hurting herself or wandering off with some psychopathic stranger.

  “If you lose his wife, Briggs will not be happy,” she said, trying to be funny but it was apparent from his expression that she was not. “He’s not the kind of guy who’d let something like that slide.”

  “I thought you liked Mr. Furman,” he said tersely, staring at the water.

  “Who told you that?”

  He said nothing. A couple pushing a stroller was coming along the boardwalk toward them, and he stopped and waited for Mel to step ahead of him, single file. “You know, Lola comes down here to get away from Briggs,” she said to him, over her shoulder. “Have you ever thought of that?”

  The couple passed and he stepped up beside her again, moving with a long, loping stride. “It’s really not my job to wonder why Mrs. Furman comes down here.”

  “No, but it’s your job to report everything she does to Briggs.”

  He looked at her now, his eyes a steely gray in the slanting light, and she thought, I wouldn’t want to make him angry. “I don’t know you very well,” he said slowly. “But you seem like the kind of person who likes to interfere in other people’s lives.”

  “You’re right,” she said. “You don’t know me very well.” Ahead she could see the marina store through a forest of ship masts.

  The air inside the store was frigid, and as the door swung shut on her heels, Mel felt the goose bumps rise on her arms. It was obviously one of the older structures on the island and had not been recently remodeled; the lighting was dim, and the wooden floors were stained and warped with moisture. Tall shelves sporting cigarettes, sunscreen, and fishing tackle stood on either side of the door, and along the right wall stretched a long row of coolers. The rafters were hung with trophy fish—marlin, swordfish, and yellowfin tuna—and above a door in the back hung a huge hammerhead shark.

  Almost immediately they heard Lola’s soft laughter. Captain Mike’s face relaxed and he let out a slow breath. He stepped ahead of Mel, and she followed him down a narrow aisle that led to the back of the store. Lola was sitting on the checkout counter talking to a boy, who perched precariously in a chair tipped up against the wall on two legs.

  Lola smiled when she saw them. Her tinted Oakleys had lightened in the dim interior of the store, and you could see her eyes, blue and innocent, behind the dark frames. “There you are,” she said brightly, as if she had been waiting for them all along.

  “There we are?” Captain Mike said gently.

  Mel shouldered her way up beside him. “Lola, why didn’t you tell anyone where you were going? We were worried. We’ve been standing around in the hot sun trying to figure out where in the hell you were and you weren’t even answering your cell phone.” She hadn’t meant to sound so short but she was tired suddenly, and hot, and she needed a drink. And Lola stood there looking so pretty and cool, as if she hadn’t a care in the world, that Mel wanted to shout at her, Do you think you can just run off without telling anyone where you’re going?

  “Sorry,” Lola said, not looking the least bit sorry. “I left my phone back at the house.” Her legs dangled from the edge of the counter, and she swung them back and forth like a double pendulum. She pointed at the tall, dark-haired youth. “This is Hunter. He goes to Duke. He wants to be an architect.”

  “Hey, how you doing?” Hunter said in a friendly manner.

  “Maybe next time you’ll tell us if you decide to wander off,” Captain Mike said.

  “Okay,” she said. She nodded her head gravely as if she thought this might be a good idea. “Yes, of course.”

  Mel stood there breathing heavily, feeling the sweat trickle down her back. Captain Mike pointed to a cooler at Lola’s feet. “Is that yours?”

  She nodded. “I filled it with bottled water.”

  “We don’t need bottled water,” Mel said irritably. “April just stocked the galley with more bottled water than we can ever possibly drink.”

  “No, not like this,” Lola said, scrambling off the counter. “These have the prettiest labels. See?”

  She held one up for Mel’s inspection. “Let me help you with that,” Hunter said, setting the chair down and reaching for the cooler, but Captain Mike said, “No, I got it,” and picked it up before the boy could.

  Hunter stood. “There’s a dance tomorrow night at the Beach Club,” he said.

  Lola smiled serenely. “Really?” she said.

  Captain Mike said, “Mrs. Furman, we need to get back to the boat.”

  “I was thinking you might like to go,” Hunter said.

  “How nice,” she said.

  “She has friends visiting,” Mel said sharply.

  “Well, hell, bring the friends,” he said, grinning at Mel. “The more the merrier.”

  “The more the merrier,” Lola said gaily.

  Mel swung around and headed for the door. Behind her, Lola said, “Bye.”

  “See you later, Lola,” Hunter said.

  Mel pulled the door open and Captain Mike stepped up beside her, holding it open for them with his back, his hands full with the cooler. He waited until they had stepped through, his eyes fixed on Hunter, and then he turned, letting the door swing shut behind him with a loud bang.

  Chapter 28

  ara and Tom had only been married a short time when they packed up and moved from Charlotte to Atlanta. She had heard about a job from an old law school classmate who’d landed at a midsized firm on the perimeter, and she was suddenly restless and eager to solidify her new marriage with a change of scenery Sara interviewed with the firm, and not long thereafter, sat for the Georgia bar. Two months later she gave her notice at Schultz and McNair.

  Dennis was hurt and disappointed, although he acted as if he’d been expecting her to leave. “Something went out of you the minute he slid that ring on your finger,” he said to her one night over cocktails. “You lost your killer instinct.”

  “I never had a killer instinct,” Sara said. “That was the problem. I wasn’t dirty and underhanded enough to make a good divorce attorney. I have too many scruples.”

  “Oh, thank you very much,” Dennis growled.

  She laughed and kissed him primly on the cheek. “I mean that in a good way,” she said.

  Three weeks later, she and Tom rented a U-Haul, packed up their household goods, and headed south. It was mid-April, and the dogwoods and azaleas were in full bloom. Crossing the Chattahoochee River into Roswell, Sara felt as if her life was just beginning. As if everything she’d ever hoped for or dreamed of was coming true. Tom looked at her and smiled and she pushed over next to him on the bench seat and snuggled up under his arm.

  “Happy?” he said, kissing her.

  “Yes,” she said. “Very happy.” On the floor, at her feet, Max whined and thumped his tail.

  They were traveling up a slight, tree-lined rise toward the square. Roswell was an old town, a suburb just north of Atlanta, and they had chosen to live here because of its proximity to the city and its history and quaintness.

  As they topped the rise, they passed the square with its gazebo and memorial to R
oswell King. Small shops and cottages stood along the perimeter, which was bounded on one side by a row of tall brick buildings, cotton warehouses originally, from the days when the river barges used to stop at the warehouses and mills, disgorging their loads of baled cotton.

  “Just look at this place,” Tom said.

  “It’s perfect,” she said.

  They turned right past the mill and followed a narrow cobbled street past a collection of stately brick row houses that ran parallel to the river. The buildings had originally been built in the 1840s to house the mill-hands, and had stood for some time empty and dilapidated. They had only recently been remodeled and converted into single-family townhomes. The redbrick buildings, clustered so close to the water’s edge, had an air of melancholy about them, a trace of times long past, of lives lived and lost. Sara felt an instant affinity for the place.

  “This must be it,” Tom said, pulling into the parking lot and turning off the engine. Cicadas sang in the trees. The heavily forested banks of the Chattahoochee rose above either side of the swiftly moving river, dotted here and there with houses and buildings that seemed to rise out of the wilderness like an abandoned city. Tom glanced down at her, his green eyes shining in the light slanting through the wide window. “I wish we hadn’t wasted all those years,” he said.

  She smiled and put her face up to be kissed. “Here’s to new beginnings,” she said.

  • • •

  Despite the change in locale, their lives followed the same routine they had established for themselves during the years in Charlotte. Sara rose early to head for the offices of Manning & Phillips with the often-vain hope that traffic along 400 would be light, and Tom rose and sat at his desk in his pajamas working on his dissertation or on what he called his “vain scribbling,” which Sara was pretty sure was a novel. He had been offered a part-time teaching assistantship at Emory and was continuing to work on his dissertation, which he hoped to have completed the following spring.

  Coming home in the evenings, she would look up and see the tree-lined rise that signaled the ascent to Roswell, and she would feel a little flutter of excitement in her stomach knowing that Tom was waiting for her, knowing that she was coming home to him. It was a feeling she never got over.