Sand Castles

by Antoinette Stockenberg

  What had she done? She'd had wild, satisfying sex with Jim's brother-in-law and nemesis, that's what. Had she just used Zack as a knife to drive through Jim's heart?

  Another thought: had Zack used her in the same way? That idea too was sudden and chilling. Why hadn't she considered either of those possibilities when Zack was pulling her clothes off? Her, relishing the act of being stripped naked on the landing and with the door wide open! Her aching nipples began to harden at the mere thought of it, amazing her still more.

  Obviously she was in no shape to analyze motives, either hers or Zack's. Or Jim's. She didn't believe, as Zack did, that Jim had abandoned Zina simply because he'd gotten cold feet about becoming a father. Wendy just didn't buy it. Jim hadn't been that happy when she herself became pregnant—and yet he had stuck around and had been a good father to Ty.

  And that was the misery of it. Everything would be so much easier to take, so much more cut-and-dried, if Jim hadn't cared about Ty. He was both harder to hate and easier to hate because of that single fact.

  After the quick review of the emotional rubble that was her life, Wendy decided that, exhausted or not, she was going to have to begin clearing some of it away. So she was actually disappointed to see a second car parked behind Jim's in the driveway of their rented house in Barrington. She parked alongside the Dodge, trying to decide if it was the one that belonged to that dodo Alexander from Jim's old office. She had no desire to make pleasant conversation while her lips were still swollen with passion, so she detoured through the breezeway entrance to get inside.

  Quietly, she opened the French door and then closed it behind her. The lamp on the breezeway table was on; too useless to read by, it gave the area a cozy glow, perfect for petting a cat. She smiled when she saw Walter, curled up on the floral cushion of what he now considered his chair, and wondered whether Jim had been sitting there with the cat on his lap, reflecting. Was it possible? The thought made her wince. Brushing it aside, she tiptoed to the guest room at the far end of the wing, grateful that earlier she'd moved her shampoo and things to the shower there.

  With the bedroom door closed behind her, she took off her clothes and folded them with care, perhaps to make amends for the rude treatment they'd seen, and then she stepped inside the freestanding glass box that seemed designed for no other reason than to display and seduce.

  She turned on the shower, and the simple, everyday act accomplished what no one and nothing else so far had been able to do: it reduced her to tears. They came in a sudden, wrenching burst of sobs, wracking her chest, filling her throat, overwhelming her soul. Suddenly she was drowning in her own tears, awash in them. Shower or no shower, she could taste the salt, feel the sting, as she bowed her head and hugged herself under the downpour, sobbing bitterly.

  She stayed that way for what seemed like hours before she forced herself back under control, but it couldn't have been hours: the bathroom was hardly steamed.

  Okay, she acknowledged to herself, you lost it. That's once, that's allowed. But that's it. There would be no more tears. Jim wasn't worth them. The tears were done with, over, gone, the evidence washed down the drain.

  With a deep, damp breath, she told herself that that was that. But she knew, as she shampooed and conditioned and scrubbed herself clean, that the tears were still rolling. They just didn't hurt quite as much, that's all.

  After drying herself, she slipped into her nightgown and turned out the lights. The guest wing was pitch-black. Wendy wasn't used to such darkness; she considered turning the light in the breezeway back on, but she was too drained to get out of bed. She fell asleep while lying on her back—unusual for her, but there was no longer anyone to curl up with—and woke up when she was suddenly, violently jumped from above.

  Wendy let out a cry, and fat Walter scrambled awkwardly to the floor with a heavy thump. He had wanted to curl up with a human being, that's all.

  "Bet you don't try that again," she mumbled after her heart quieted down, and she got up to get a drink of water.

  She stood near the open window, emptying the glass, in a hurry to fall back asleep and blot out her day. She was near an open window. It was a damp, quiet night, and the sound of voices carried well. She could hear Jim's outside in front, apparently seeing his guest to the car. She wondered what time it was.

  And then she heard a second voice, louder than Jim's softer, placating one, hurtling across the distance.

  "You dumb shit! You know how long I've waited for this? You get it for me, and if you don't, I'm gonna rip off your balls and shove 'em down your throat. Fuck, I'll do it anyway!"

  Shocked into wakefulness by the crude and violent threat, Wendy ducked low, with her ear cocked to the sounds of their voices.

  Jim was saying something in a hurried mutter, but she couldn't make out anything beyond, "I'll do it, I'll do it."

  "I could kill you now, you bastard. Right now! Right here!"

  And then she heard a third voice; it belonged to Phil, her crusty neighbor to the west. "Hey! Put a sock in it, or I'll call the cops!"

  Immediately after that, she heard a car door slam, followed by the squeal of tires backing up sharply and peeling off.

  And then quiet. She was in a safe, peaceful neighborhood again, with only the sound of crickets to keep her awake. That, and the thunder of her pounding heart. She rushed to the phone to call 911. But what should she report? Confused, she slammed the phone back down and ran out to the entry hall in time to see Jim brush past her and proceed on to the master bedroom.

  "Jim, what was that about? Who was he?" she said, tagging frantically after him.

  "A business associate," he told her without looking back. He went into the bedroom and flipped on every switch, washing the room in blinding light.

  Squinting, she said, "Business? What kind of business? The man was a thug. What have you got yourself into, Jim? Tell me, I want to know."

  "Just don't worry about it, okay?" he said, pulling out his biggest duffel bag from the dressing room and propping it open on the bed. "He wants some money, that's all. We have plenty of it." He was pulling drawers open as fast as he could, now, grabbing the contents and pitching them into the bag.

  "But where are you going?"

  "On a business trip," he muttered.

  "With him?"

  He shot her a look of contempt. "Yeah. Right."

  "You're running away! Where?"

  "I'll let you know when I get there."

  Stunned, she said, "The way you did when you ran from Zina?"

  "That was a different situation," he said as he jammed balled-up socks into the edges of the duffel.

  It was an admission, and it flattened her.

  Immediately, he saw his mistake. "Look, I said I'd call. I'll work out something with him, but on my own terms. Right now, I've got to get out of here—so stop hassling me!" he snapped.

  "If you owe him money, then pay the man," she said, amazed that Jim didn't get the connection.

  "It's more complicated than that," he muttered as he pulled down three pairs of slacks from their hangers. He folded them into the duffel, then zipped it quickly. The zipper caught in the fabric. With a curse, he gave it a couple of vicious yanks and ended up pulling off the metal tab from the zipper. He swore again, then swung the bag over his shoulder anyway, his clothes exposed in the yawning gap. Ready or not, he was going.

  Wendy grabbed at the strap as he moved past her, pulling the duffel from his shoulder. Caught by surprise, he let the bag get away from him and fall to the floor. "What the hell are you doing?" he shouted.

  "You can't walk out on this mess!" she said in a whole new rage. "I went to Tillicut today, I saw the grave. You're not James Hodene. I don't even think you're James Hayward. Who are you? What's your real name? At least tell me that!"

  He grabbed at the fallen strap and arched it over his shoulder again. "Do you think it makes a damn bit of difference now?"

  She stretched her arms, barring the doorway. "It does to you
r son!"

  "Move."

  "No!"

  "Get out of my way," he said, slamming into her with his duffel.

  She staggered back into the hall, unhurt but in shock as she watched him half run through the house and for his car. At the window, she saw him peel away, no less in a hurry than his so-called business associate was.

  Mind-boggling! The day that wouldn't end remained determined not to. Wendy ran to throw the deadbolt on the door and then, still jumpy, she locked all the double-hung windows and activated the alarm. Suddenly it seemed unbearably still; she could hear a pin drop, and lots of pins seemed to be dropping.

  Clutching a heavy flashlight as a club, she stalked the rooms, checking the closets and under the beds for more surprises. She was on all fours in Tyler's bedroom when Walter found her and butted his head into her arm from behind, making her jump sky-high. But then he rolled over and exposed his white belly to her in a luxurious stretch, and that made her smile and calmed her down: if he wasn't afraid, then neither would she be.

  Exhausted and bewildered, she went into the kitchen to warm up some milk. She would call Zack. But to tell him what—that her not-husband had run away? Zack wouldn't be surprised; he would point out Jim's track record. For the first time, Wendy wondered if Jim had even been legally married to Zina. Who knew how long the trail was of his ex-not-wives?

  I wonder if there's a word for us, she thought wearily. Bigamees?

  For all her desire to contact Zack, Wendy had an equal desire to avoid him. What they'd shared back in the house on Sheldon Street was still pure raw mystery to her. She needed time to mull over it.

  She wanted instinctively to talk to her son, to hug him tight, but it was too late even to phone him; her parents would be alarmed. Better to alarm them after they'd had a good night's sleep. She was glad that she'd called Tyler earlier when she stopped on the road for a bite, before the double tumult of events. Tyler had sounded happy and distracted; he and his grandpa had just watched the entire Star Wars series (again) and his grandma had made cinnamon rolls.

  The thought occurred to Wendy: what if her son had been there tonight to hear and see it all? What could she possibly have told him after he saw his father peel away in the middle of the night?

  No more Dad, honey; and this time it's for real. Her stomach tightened. She was going to have to come up with an explanation for Tyler by morning.

  She drank her milk, but it did no good. Her stomach stayed knotted for the rest of the night.

  Chapter 26

  Zack tried to call Wendy first at the rented house and then at the old house, but he got the machines at both. She was probably out and around, picking up Ty. Most likely.

  He called her cell phone number but got her voice mail there, as well, and that's when he began to wonder: was she in fact avoiding him?

  It killed him to think so, and yet it killed him even more to think how undisciplined he'd been. When he saw her coming up the stairs so numb and disillusioned, he'd just ... lost it. He had wanted to make everything better for her, and the odds were superb that he'd made things worse. She was vulnerable, he was a jerk: that was his night in a nutshell.

  He loved her. He knew that now, and beyond a doubt. But loving Wendy and making love to her—those were two separate stages, and somehow he'd compressed them in his hurry to replace the wrenching sense of loss he knew she felt.

  All of that was true, but it wasn't the whole truth.

  You've wanted her since the day you saw her in that bastard's arms, he admitted to himself. You've wanted her every day since then, in this painful, frustrating, twisted odyssey toward justice.

  Bitter and sorry, he was kicking himself all the way over to his sister's house. He knew that Zina too was reeling with loss, and he was all too aware that she had only a fraction of Wendy's resilience.

  Still, Zina, at least, had answered her phone that morning. Zack had had no experience in wronging her, so he didn't know what to expect—but somehow or other, she had sounded too blithe. So, impulsively, he'd asked her if he could drop in on his way down to Providence, and she had answered, "What a good idea."

  When he pulled in front of her side of the duplex, he saw her watching him through parted curtains. She gave him a startlingly cheery wave and then ran to get the door, greeting him with sweet enthusiasm and expecting, and getting, a warm hug from him.

  "Hey, kiddo," he said in a muffled voice, rocking her back and forth in his arms. "How you doin'?"

  "Oh, I'm fine, Zack," she said. "I'm doing really, really fine!"

  She seemed adamant, which put him even more on guard. "Well, that's good," he said. "Is that fresh coffee I smell?"

  "Just for you," she said in a happy voice.

  "You're a doll." Their one and only falling-out had been after she eloped with Jim, and that time, she hadn't been nearly so quick to forgive. This was too painless. His heart began to sink.

  "Come sit," she coaxed. "After you called, I ran out and got muffins. Blueberry for you, cranberry for me. With big, sugary crusts the way you like them; I'm keeping them warm."

  Smiling tentatively, he let her take him by the hand and lead him over to the round table in her tiny kitchen. She had covered it with yet another pretty quilt—she called it a wedding-ring quilt—that he knew she'd been working on. A big vase of wildflowers took up too much of the tabletop but was pure Zina. She had put out her favorite plates, yellow and green, and bright-blue cloth napkins.

  He sat on a chair, heard something crack, and remembered, too late, that he'd promised to glue it for her.

  "I'll take this one home," he told her, and he moved it out to his truck.

  By the time he resettled himself, Zina had sliced and buttered his muffin for him and poured his coffee. With sweet ceremony, she folded his napkin across his knees. After that, she placed one of the cake plates on the floor with a couple of muffin chunks on it for Cassie the skunk-cat, who seemed perfectly willing to partake in the ritual.

  Anyone watching Zina would have seen a preschooler playing house. Zack's heart sank lower.

  "You'll never guess who came to visit me, not here but at the shelter on Sunday," she said, propping her chin dreamily on her fist as she watched Zack bite into the muffin with feigned pleasure.

  In fact, Zack didn't have to guess. Wendy had told him about her visit to Zina as they lay entwined in the dark on the bare mattress. Zack had found out that Wendy was as concerned about Zina as he was.

  "C'mon, Zack. Guess."

  "Well, I hope it was the mayor of Hopeville, there to give you the Volunteer of the Year award," he said with gentle gravity.

  "Zack! I work at the shelter because I have to be there; it's not volunteering, it's who I am. Do you volunteer to blink your eyes? To breathe? That's how it is for me. I have to be there. But anyway, no, it wasn't the mayor of Hopeville," she said with an affectionate laugh. "It was Wendy!"

  "Really," he said, acting surprised.

  "Yes. She actually found my address and then drove all the way up here just to see me. At first I was afraid of her. She was very stern, especially about you. But after I told her—well, about you, about how you've taken care of me ever since Mom and Dad, well, she changed completely."

  The muffin turned to ash in Zack's throat. "You told her about Mom and Dad?"

  "Yes. Otherwise, she would have kept on thinking you were a criminal," Zina said simply. "I wanted her to realize how good you are."

  Wendy hadn't admitted to knowing about their childhood trauma. Suddenly he had a vivid recollection of her lying curled up against him in that brief eternity before they went their separate ways. Had pity been part of the mix for her, then? It was a depressing thought.

  "She's a good person, Zack," his sister said quickly, seeing the double take in his face. "I liked her a lot. And you won't believe it, but she adopted Walter. Right there on the spot! No one has ever been able to do that without getting screened before. I think she may have made a really big donation. Sylvia
came right over to do the paperwork, and you know she plays bridge on Sunday afternoon."

  "Bridge ... hmm." His mind was a million miles away, in an upstairs bedroom on Sheldon Street.

  "Zack—you're not mad at me, are you?" his sister asked, her face pinching in distress.

  It yanked him back to the present. "No, Zee," he said. He brushed the backs of his fingertips along her brow to smooth the furrows there. "Why would I be mad?"

  "Oh, good." She settled back with her teapot, removing the knitted cozy from it, and she launched into a new but related subject which made Zack no less uneasy.

  She said as she poured her tea, "Have you been to Wendy's house yet, the one she's renting?"

  When Zack gave her a vague shrug, Zina sighed and told him, "It's so pretty. It's right on the beach. There are roses everywhere, I smelled them right away when I stopped in to visit that day."

  Stopped in to visit?

  "Wendy seems to have lots of friends, lots of family," she informed him. "That's good, because I'm sure they'll be a comfort. Although—there were one or two that I met who were not very nice." Zina rolled her eyes and shook her head, apparently dismissing unpleasant thoughts.

  Without distracting his sister with a response, Zack studied her as she went on with her bewildering teatime chatter.

  "I'm sure we'll end up living on a beach ourselves, somewhere," she told him. "Maybe in Newport. There's so much more to do there, don't you think?" she asked her brother cheerfully.

  Zack didn't know what to say to that; as close as they were, they hadn't shared a house since they were kids. He was beginning to feel the first faint stirrings of panic—as if he were in a doctor's office, and the doctor was taking his time getting to a frightening diagnosis.

  "I think that a beachfront property might end up being a little pricey," he said vaguely.

  "Oh. Huh. I have to admit, that's a little disappointing," she said, taking a sip from her tea. "I was hoping we'd have at least enough to buy a place on the beach. A little cottage would be cheap, wouldn't it? People are always so happy on a beach. It wouldn't have to be big. Just a tiny, tiny shack would do. Will he give all of the money to Wendy, then?"