"Poor thing," said Lydia. "Those cookies are addictive."
In a moment, Joe inhaled the balance of his shrimp, then rose to his feet. Over his shoulder he waved bye, saying he was leaving to watch his beloved Cubs.
"Baseball over coastal sunsets," said Allie, watching Joe depart. "How pitiful."
Minutes later, Steve followed suit. "I may go meet the crew in Myrtle Beach," he said, brushing sand from his legs. He seemed bored with us. "Anybody else wanna go?"
"No thanks," I said.
"I try to avoid concrete jungles," Allie added, her missionary fingers expertly prying shell from meat. Oddly, she peeled five at a time before eating.
I had no such patience.
With only the three of us left on the shore, she and Lydia lay back on their beach towels and, with hands behind their heads, suggested a nap.
"Can't believe I ate that much," said Lydia, turning to dump the peels in a shallow hole. "I'm gonna pop." She covered the peels with sand and kicked off her sandals.
Needing a subtle way to get her to leave me and Allie alone, I came up with an indirect approach. "There's some Pepto-Bismol back at our beach house."
She took a moment to consider my offer, then said, "No thanks, Jay. Might be a can of Krylon in disguise. I'm dozing off."
"Me too," said Allie, folding an arm across her forehead.
And no one spoke another word. Only the lazy tumbling of waves and sporadic squawking of gulls to coax our slumber. Here, slumber.
A dune blocked the breeze, a jet flashed the sky, and I thought perhaps someday I'd retire here; buy a boat, catch my lunch, stay tan in winter.
I lapsed off to recurring thoughts of nautical surprise and sandbar poetry, slowly reliving the wavy leftovers from our afternoon drift, my entire body now back in rolling repetition even though I lay motionless on dry sand.
I'm a Slinky, with shin.
With the tide drawing ever closer, my eyes opened to a brilliant silver moon, stars more numerous than Myrtle's billboards, and females in the midst of another talk.
"Do you think the universe really never stops expanding?" asked Lydia, wide awake and sitting cross-legged again.
"If God has no reason to conserve, then why not?" said Allie, tracing the Big Dipper with her finger.
"Never thought of it like that," I mumbled, only half conscious.
"Welcome back."
Low, lumbering waves hissed and sparkled. "What'd I miss about the universe?"
"Well, I think we'll only be able to see new galaxies from heaven," said Lydia, staring up at the stars. "But Allie thinks we'll be able to play there."
I sat up, unfamiliar with such deep, celestial thought. "Really, Miss Kyle?"
"Yep," she said, now propped on her elbows. "I think we'll be able to float around in the Milky Way and hide behind Neptune or Pluto or Mercury. And sometimes Jesus will join us, and he'll grab Saturn and spin it on the tip of his finger like a basketball."
"That's, um, interesting. Any more drinks?" I asked.
She thumped her empty can and shook her head. "Steve took the last one when he left."
I needed something cold. "Can I get you girls a refill?"
"Please," said Lydia.
"Fillerup," said Allie.
I walked barefoot between the dunes, feeling the warm sand sink between my toes, then cooler grains firm below the surface. A timid wind rattled a palm tree as I neared the walkway, where dozens of empty Bud cans overflowed from a trash receptacle.
At our street, I put on my sandals before checking my watch: 12:23 A.M. Seaspray Drive was now calm and composed, only the crickets to dub over a balmy backbeat of crashing surf. On our driveway, the shells crunched beneath my sandals, so I detoured around the jeep and through the yard. The house was dark. And not a sound now other than the crickets.
I was nearly to the porch stairs when the first flash appeared. It couldn't be lightning, not on a night that clear. One more flash, two more, and a fourth, each one lacking thunder. Another flash. Then another. Still no thunder.
Confused, I backpedaled into the yard and looked skyward. Only stars. Then another flash. I heard a squeak and glanced over to the roof. A male figure, looking very much like Steve Cole, stood in our crow's nest with a flashlight. He was leaning against the rail, signaling.
Two houses over, up in the female crow's nest, she flashed return signals. It was too dark to tell who it was, so I took a few steps toward the road for a better view, peeked around a palm tree, and there she was, forty feet in the air, tall and blonde.
I knew it, or at least suspected.
No time to snicker, because here he came down the skinny stairs, taking slow, purposeful steps, like a burglar. I ducked behind his jeep.
The screen door closed, and I could hear him crossing the crushed shells of our driveway. I fought the snorts, a fresh snort trying to burst through my nose, great pressure on the roof of my mouth.
I felt like a spy, but this was too good.
They met at the road, two houses over.
I was back behind the tree.
A quick peck from him to her, then a second one, longer, from her to him. Silhouetted against a streetlight, they walked off down the road, fingers interlocked and swinging their arms.
Quietly, I tiptoed up the stairs and across our screened porch. In the living room, five men were asleep on the floor. I stepped gingerly between Stanley and his verbiage, opened the fridge real slow so the seal on the door wouldn't make that reverse sucking sound, and found three canned drinks behind the lettuce. Two colas and a grape.
The front door closed without a creak, and I was through the yard again and down our street. No breeze, no lights, just the crickets as I made the turn toward the beach.
Ahead of me, a gold sedan pulled alongside the oceanfront road. I was a half block away and could barely make out the white lettering across the rear window: "Just Married."
That really stunk. Romance was busting out all over Litchfield Beach, and I was serving refreshments.
Both the bride and groom exited the car through the passenger door. They were middle-aged and still in formal clothes, laughing and giddy and barefooted. He tossed his jacket in the car, she pulled a clip from her hair, and they strolled arm in arm across the wooden walkway. I slowed my pace to give privacy. When I stepped up on the boards, they were already slow dancing in the surf. I figured he was humming in her ear. Suddenly grabbing hands, they ran north past the last oceanfront house-wedded bliss racing toward a deserted beach.
Watching them run made me feel like an intruder, so I turned the opposite way and did not look back.
To the south, Allie and Lydia had pulled all three beach towels back between the dunes as the tide continued its ascent. They sat face-to-face, animated and expressive, absorbed in the giggly chatter of young women.
I felt like sitting there on the wooden steps for a minute, to clear my head of all the love breaking loose that night.
That night for rooftop rendezvous.
For incognito Presbyterian romance.
For barefoot brides and grooms to slow dance in the surf.
And me toting two colas and a grape.
"Come over here and join us, Jay," said Lydia. "We're having `the talk."'
The moon was hiding behind a cloud, further dimming the girls, the shoreline, and our three cans of carbonation. Seawater inched up the sand as I plopped down on my towel, each wave less fatigued than its predecessor. I asked what drinks they preferred, and Allie said she'd take the grape. I wanted the grape.
"What talk?" I asked.
"You know," said Allie. "What guys look for, what girls look for."
Our dune-girdled niche of beach was now dark and serene enough to host such discussion, so I offered the first opinion. "I thought maybe we counted on there being only one person, and they've just been well hid."
"Don't believe that," said Lydia, opening her cola. "If I stay in South Carolina, I could meet somebody. Or if I were to mo
ve to Idaho, I could meet somebody else. But if I married either one, that one would be the right one."
"Well said," Allie offered, taking a swig of grape. "But the right one has to prove he's the right one."
"And just how does a dashing bachelor go about this proof?" I inquired.
A brief pause. They glanced at each other as if the talk had turned serious. In the silence, we reclined on our towels, hands behind our heads, looking skyward before any of us spoke. I saw the Little Dipper and the flashing lights of another jet.
"He has to treat you like a precious gem," said Allie, leaning into a cushion of sand. "But he needs to be in a real relationship with God first."
"A little more on the precious gem thing, please."
"All that opening of doors and bringing of flowers is a given," said Lydia, talking to the heavens. "A guy's momma shoulda taught 'im that."
"At least that," said Allie.
"Birthdays and anniversaries seared into his brain," said Lydia.
"That too," said Allie.
Lydia never took a breath. "Without even asking, he should know if I'm happy or sad or somewhere in between."
"Yeah," said Allie. "Also that."
"And none of those yes-men who agree with everything, like if a girl says she loves moldy cheese and the guy says he loves moldy cheese, too. We don't need that."
"Definitely don't need that," said Allie.
"And no calling us at 11:00 P.M. on Thursday, requesting a date for Friday."
"That wouldn't be courteous," said Allie.
"And if you want to skimp on something, skimp on the price of your lawnmower or your golf clubs, or sit in the cheap seats at the ball games. But don't skimp on us."
"That's a fact," said Allie.
"And after a nice evening, call us the next day and tell us we're special."
"That'd be nice," said Allie.
"And if we go to the same church and then break up, don't sit next to us during the Sunday morning service and ask to share a hymnal."
"Been there, done that," said Allie. "Yuck."
"But if we get back together, make it clear that we girls can order whatever meal we want, since the price of steak versus meatloaf pales in comparison to a lifetime of love and devotion."
"Sums that up," said Allie.
"And another thing," Lydia added. "He should never, on a date or any other social occasion, let us get into situations that might be even slightly perceived as compromising."
Allie nodded. "That's good stuff, Lydia," she said. "You should write a book ... and I agree, not even a hint of compromise."
I needed help, but my two roommates were scattered. Ransom, the onenight pseudo-single, was out on a hot date with his wife, while unshaven Steve was exchanging romantic Morse code from a crow's nest with a five-foot, eleven-inch blonde.
Not fair. Not the way to treat the new guy.
I felt like the victim of some convoluted practical j oke-one that left me defenseless at the base of a sand dune, defenseless against a short redhead who would surely publish books on dating etiquette, and a missionary who threw food at strangers.
I wanted to defend the brotherhood against that female ambush, but I could not do it alone. Could not defend the forgetting of flowers and the slightest hint of compromise.
However, for the sake of the gender, I would give it a shot. "Can I speak up for the men?"
"No!" said Lydia. "Just take good notes and inform the entire male populace."
Talk over. I knew when to quit.
Time lingered in the darkness, and we remained with hands behind heads, staring up at night sky as the tide, only steps away, exhausted itself.
The Atlantic now stretched, like my psyche, for all its worth.
I woke to a kick on my shin. It was Sunday, and my hair felt as though someone had covered it with sand.
"Ouch!" I said. Someone stood over me, kicking again.
"Wake up!" she said. "This is gonna look bad."
"Huh?" My eyes wouldn't focus.
`Jay, it's 6:05," she said. She sounded flustered.
It took me a moment to gather my thoughts, to realize that waves were lapping lazily against the shore.
Still drowsy, I propped myself on my elbows. "What happened to Lydia?"
Allie stood between me and the lazily lapping waves. "Who cares about Lydia! She probably walked home in the wee hours and left us out here alone. I can't believe we stayed on this beach all night. This is gonna look so bad."
"You said that already."
Shrimp peels had blown against my leg; sand had filled my pockets. Over the ocean, morning seemed to muddle between dark and light. Pink and orange hues melded together, the first slice of sun still below the horizon, preparing to beam across the Carolina coast and highlight our hint of compromise.
Allie tried to smile, but the smile quickly faded as her brown eyes turned serious, as though she wanted to say something but couldn't summon the sentence. She flapped her towel, raining more sand in my hair.
Awake now, I stood and gave a retaliatory flap. She started to laugh, but then stifled it. Instead, she looped her yellow towel around her neck and began trudging between the dunes, quickening her pace as if getting in at 6:15 would look better than 6:20. Her hair was tangled and matted, lightened just a touch by a weekend of sun and salt air. The native look.
I walked beside her-my own towel around my neck as we crossed the oceanfront road-and felt like apologizing, though I could not figure out why. We had merely fallen asleep.
She glanced over her shoulder at the sunrise, which was now a rich red, as if it were trying to blush right along with her.
"I know nothing happened," she said, gesturing spastically with her right arm. "You know nothing happened. And most importantly, God knows nothing happened."
"But our friends might be up and-"
"And it might be tolerated if it were just me and Lydia or all three of us or seven of us or if it was just girls. But you, you're just a visitor who ... aww, this is gonna look bad."
I stopped in the road to brush sand from my legs. She kept going.
"So what are you saying, Allie ... that rumors will fly?"
"They'll have a chat room dedicated to us by this afternoon."
I could hardly keep up with her stride. "That bad, eh?"
"Worse. I'm the daughter of an elder. I need to pray."
"Ouch."
"Shh. You're messing up my prayer."
"I got a sandspur."
"Shh."
With our sandy, matted hair and a strong sense of embarrassment, we made the turn onto Seaspray Drive. No lights on in the houses, no one in the crow's nests, just three gulls gliding quietly above the treetops.
Allie stopped in the road, a calculating look on her face. "Can't take the chance," she said, yanking the towel from around her neck. She wadded it in a ball to make a pillow, strode underneath her beach house, and climbed into the backseat of Lime Sherbet.
En route to my own house, I stopped in the road, shook the remaining sand from my purple towel, then reversed course. With a corner of the towel in each hand, I walked back beside the Caddy.
Her eyes were shut.
I spread my towel across her.
"G'night," she whispered.
"Good night, Allie."
I wanted to kiss her.
But I didn't, and she made that phony snoring sound as I walked quietly toward house number four.
I'll sneak into my beach house-that was my mind-set as I made my way around to the back deck, where I could peer into the lone window at the end of our freshly painted, sea green room. There was just enough daylight to see Ransom on the floor, still in his clothes, and Steve over on the corner bed, also sound asleep, his mouth wide open.
I checked the window. Locked.
Sliding glass door-also locked.
I'd have to try the front.
Imitating Steve's burglar steps, I crept up the stairs to the porch, peered through panes in th
e door, and saw clean-cut church men sleeping all about the living room. My hand felt for the doorknob, the knob turned, then I saw movement across the room.
Stanley was sitting against the wall, reading verses again. He did not see me.
I retreated down the steps, wincing with each squeak. A navy towel was draped over the stair rail, and someone had left a big black inner tube beneath the porch.
It would have to do. The heft of Stanley's jumbo words would surely burst the thing, but for me it would do.
Atop cool concrete beneath a beach house, I spread the towel over the tube. Then I plopped down and shut my eyes, my bottom submerged as if wedged into a black rubber commode.
Lydia's relational spiel clanged between my skull as I tried to process thought, gain perspective, but perspective would have to wait because I was headed for la-la land, right there inside an inner tube. And my snoring would not be phony.
Half an hour passed in my rubber bed. Could've been longer. But I would never recommend tube snoozing because it's very bouncy and weightless-and being single and sleeping alone is bad enough without funky, lopsided dreams of trampolines and golf on the moon.
With eyes still shut, I heard footsteps on the crushed shells. Birds chirped, and a female voice heralded morning.
Jay?"
"Sleep well, Allie?"
"Nice bed," she said, taking a seat on the stairs.
"Thanks. How was the backseat?"
She'd brushed her hair, though sand still clung to her neck, her legs, her lovely thin ankles. Her khaki shorts were wrinkled, as was her yellow T-shirt. She frowned, rested her chin in her hands. "Beige vinyl is a bit warm. But I can't get up the nerve to go inside my house. The looks I'll get will be just awful."
"How awful?"
"Bad awful. I did speak to Darcy, though, and she understood the situation."
I struggled to rise from the tube. "I'd imagine Darcy to be very understanding. But what's she doing up so early?"
Flabbergasted: A Novel Page 9