Sand Castles

by Antoinette Stockenberg

  He. "I don't know," Zack said haplessly.

  Unaware that he had spoken, she continued her rambling drift into her own special world. "I suppose I won't blame Jimmy if he does give everything to her; he'll want to ease her heartache, somehow. After all, it's not Wendy's fault. She got caught in a tragic situation, just like me."

  "Zee, honey—"

  She frowned at the interruption, and he immediately shut up.

  "No, I know what you're going to say. You think I'm disappointed because Aunt Louise didn't really leave me any money. But honestly, I'm not. I can get a job in Newport. I'm sure they have a quilting shop there. Don't you think?"

  It was clear to him now that she was going over past events, picking bits and pieces from them that mattered to her, and shaping them into a new reality. Watching it happen was daunting.

  "I'm sure they have a quilting shop in Newport," he said, stalling for time.

  She clutched her mug so tightly that the tips of her nails turned white. "It's really important that Jimmy and I live on a beach, Zack," she said. "I saw how happy they all were on the beach. I saw it with my own two eyes!"

  Now Zack was afraid, and definitely over his head. What was the way to handle this? What would her shrink have done?

  "You're right," he said with self-imposed calm. "It's easy to be happy by the shore. That's where you plan to live, then?"

  "Jimmy and I. Yes. I've thought about it a lot, and I've decided that it's the only place we can be really happy. It will be just like that house where he's living now. I'll plant lots of roses for us, just like at that house. And we'll have lots of little—"

  Her voice broke. She moved her head a little to the right, and he lost her behind the wildflowers. Was she crying, maybe coming out of her fantasy and to her senses? He moved the vase over to the edge and looked at her intently.

  She was looking right at him, and she didn't see him. God in heaven, she didn't see him.

  "I guess you've talked this all over with Jimmy?" he asked, dreading the answer, whatever it was going to be.

  Instead, she gasped and said, "I've just thought of something—we'll need money for his therapy!"

  "Therapy—?"

  "For the amnesia. Jim's amnesia. It can't be cheap. I'm sure the treatment will be long-term. Unless—oh, of course. How dumb," she said, sighing with relief. "He's not like me; he's bound to have medical that's really good."

  She patted her heart with quick, soft strokes and smiled sheepishly. "I nearly had a heart attack just now."

  A heart attack wasn't the threat to her that heartbreak was, Zack knew. He realized that he couldn't leave her in such a precarious mental state, so he said, "Hey, what's the story with your front deck? I just about put my foot through one of the stairs. Can't your landlady find anyone to put down new treads for you?"

  Zina looked confused at the almost violent change of subject, but she answered cogently enough, "I think she got some quotes, but either they were too high, or they were okay but the guys never came."

  "Oh, man," he said, sounding concerned. "The shape those stairs are in, sooner or later she's gonna get sued. Tell you what. I have the day free. If she pays for the lumber, I'll do the labor gratis. I don't want to come over next time and see you hobbling around on crutches."

  "Oh," she said, considering the detour her life had just taken. "You'd do that for Margie?"

  "You bet."

  She blinked her deep blue eyes in confusion. For a moment she looked poised between two worlds: Margie's and Jimmy's. And then she said, almost with regret, "I'm sure she would love that."

  ****

  Margie was thrilled. For his efforts, Zack was rewarded with a stupendous lunch and the sight of Zina of old, talking and laughing and sharing the meal with them.

  His sister was slated to go to work in the afternoon, which was good; she needed to stay occupied. Somehow Zack was going to have to fill more of her spare time, keep her more grounded in reality. He was also going to have to see a therapist for some guidance about the best way to deal with another drift from reality, if and when it came.

  But in the meantime, Wendy. Where was she? After calling his crew on Scott's cell phone and instructing them for the day, he'd left messages with Wendy on all three phones that he would be late coming to the job. She hadn't called back. From any of them.

  He ended up arriving at the construction site late in the afternoon, only to find that the boys had hit an impasse and had left early. Perfect. At that rate, he was going to have to push out his estimate for completion to the following spring.

  Feeling harried, he redid the bizarre placement of two-by-fours that were to receive the twin medicine cabinets (wondering, now, why Wendy even needed two) and then drove out to the house on the beach in Barrington. He was her builder; he was entitled to do that. He wasn't entitled to throw her down on the nearest bed—yet—but the right to consult with her about the house was a given.

  Her Taurus was there, but no other car. Zack gave the bed idea more serious consideration as he rang the bell twice, but he had no idea what he was going to say to Wendy when she came to the door.

  She didn't; Tyler did. "Oh, hi, Zack," he said, munching an apple. "Mom's in the kitchen making supper." He gave two pokes of his finger down the hall. "Mom! Zack's here!" he yelled, and then he ran up the stairs yelling even more loudly, "Josh, you'd better not be taking an extra turn!"

  Zack felt as if he'd parachuted into June and Ward Cleaver's house. He smelled melted cheese and heard the local news on a television in the kitchen into which he was marching with far more trepidation than he wanted to feel.

  Dammit! She wasn't married, after all, and the bum who'd convinced her that she was belonged in jail. Simple logic, keenly felt; but when Zack saw her coming through the kitchen door with a bowl of something green that she'd gathered from outside, he couldn't croak out anything more brilliant than, "Wendy."

  If he was expecting her to drop the bowl and make a run for his arms, he was sadly mistaken.

  "Why are you here?" she said. It sounded almost like scolding.

  Good damn question. She looked angry and embarrassed and distressed, although for the life of him, he couldn't tell which emotion prevailed. He voted for pissed.

  He said, "I'm here because—I don't know why I'm here." He threw up his hands and said, "Because you're here!"

  "Shh!" she said, glancing nervously down the hall. "No. You can't be here for me. You can be here for the house. That's all. That was a mistake, last night," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Last night was—"

  "Something," he said bluntly. "Why didn't you return my calls?"

  She placed the wooden bowl very carefully on the granite counter. Zack had no idea why care was required, other than to prevent her from meeting his gaze.

  Finally she murmured, "There was nothing to say."

  "I can buy that," he said, his jaw working. "Actions speak louder than words. Look at me. Tell me that nothing happened."

  She wouldn't. She stayed fixated on the hall. "We can't talk here. I'm trying to create a reassuring—"

  She let out a quick sigh and did look at him, then, and he saw something new in her face: fear. Of him? Now it was his turn to take a deep breath.

  "Let's go outside," she said. "Ty won't hear us there. Something's happened. Something more, I mean."

  He followed her across the patio and past the wild roses that had impressed Zina so vividly. The two stood on the beach, out of earshot, which was fine, but in full view of everyone, which wasn't so fine.

  Wendy pointed to a small sailboat hauled up on the sand and said, "We'll go look at it. I can always say that I wanted to get a quote from you for repairing the rudder; it has a split in it that the kids made when they dragged it over the beach."

  Feeling like a spy in a low-budget thriller, Zack walked over to the boat and stared down at it with her. "What's happened?" he asked her without looking up. "Why are you being such a nut?"

 
"Jim packed his bags and left last night."

  Zack's head shot up. "Jesus, why didn't you tell me?"

  "Look at the boat, look at the boat," she said in a hiss. She crouched down and pointed to the rudder, wiggling it back and forth as she continued.

  "When I got home last night, there was another car here. I went in through the side and went straight to bed—in one of the guest rooms," she added to Zack's profound satisfaction.

  "Just after midnight," she went on, "I heard shouting outside; someone was threatening Jim. Whoever it was sped off after a neighbor stuck his head out a window and told them to cool it. Jim ran inside and started packing. Ten minutes later, he was gone, too."

  Jim: gone. Zack didn't know whether to clap or cry. The mess had just gotten messier. "Was it about money?"

  "That's what Jim said. But also that it was more complicated than that—naturally. He said he'd work it out with the guy, but on his own terms."

  "Did the thug sound like the same one who's been leaving the messages?"

  She surprised him by shrugging off the connection. "I don't know. You heard one of the messages—that weird, singsong voice. But the man I heard last night, he sounded brutal. He sounded as if he could turn it on and off like a switch."

  Not what Zack wanted to hear. He dropped down into a crouch next to her. "Well, you can't stay here," he said bluntly.

  "Of course I can," she said. "Where would I go? To the half-wrecked house on Sheldon, which the guy probably knows about anyway? And what would I say to Tyler?'

  "Tell him anything; tell him you have to evacuate this house because of toxic mold. I don't care what you tell—"

  "But I do. I can't just dump all this on him. I won't do it. I have to restore some sense of normalcy before I break the news to him about his father."

  Zack didn't get that approach at all. "How are you explaining Jim's absence?"

  "I told Ty the truth," she said, looking as if she'd done anything but. "That Jim was on a business trip."

  "Look, I know I don't have kids; but if Tyler were my kid—"

  "But he isn't," she said with quiet finality. Here they were, crouching in the sand, and she was drawing a line in it: in matters of children, her word ruled.

  Maybe to reassure Zack that she'd thought everything out, she added, "This house has an excellent burglar alarm system, whereas Sheldon Street has none yet. And I can have Dave stay over if I want to. And most important of all," she said with steel in her voice, "Jim is gone."

  "But the thug doesn't know that," Zack said, trying to prick the bubble of her confidence.

  Bingo. She said quietly, "I've thought of that."

  She stood up, and so did he. With no bravado this time, she said, "Jim is Ty's father; he would never leave him exposed to anyone he thought was a threat. But ... okay. I won't take any chances. Ty is going off to the Vineyard tomorrow with his new friend Josh, who lives a couple of blocks away, and several other boys for Josh's birthday outing. Tyler's really looking forward to it."

  She sat on the gunnel of the sailing dinghy, frowning as she worked her way through Plan B. "All the boys have been invited to sleep over at Josh's tonight and tomorrow. In fact, Josh is here right now, while his mother gets things ready. I hadn't planned on letting Ty do the sleepovers, because he's just spent all that time at his grandparents'. I miss him," she said with a sad little shrug.

  She looked up at Zack and said, "But I will let him sleep there tonight, and when they get back from the sail tomorrow, I'll tell him about Jim. Realistically, I'll tell him the next morning."

  She bowed her head and drew a doodle in the sand with her finger. To Zack, it looked like a J. Or maybe half of a heart.

  He said, "What about you, tonight? What will you do?"

  She finished the doodle, a heart. "I feel perfectly safe."

  "I'll stay."

  Erasing the heart with the flat of her hand, she said, "Bad idea. For a hundred different reasons, Zack. Number one is that my son will be sleeping nearby."

  "Wendy—"

  She stood up and cleaned the sand from her hands with quick little swipes as she said briskly, "Would you like me to walk you through the other ninety-nine?"

  No, he thought; it was such dangerous terrain. "Granted, yesterday the timing could have been better," he said, admitting the obvious. "Not to mention the place. If I'd been planning ahead, I think I could have come up with a more romantic evening."

  "I couldn't," she said instantly.

  Before he could respond, she said with a guilty glance at the house, "I have to go back. Zack—I don't know how to explain yesterday—"

  "I love you! Does that explain yesterday?"

  He hadn't meant to say it—it couldn't help matters—and yet there it was, one more thing to add to her woes. She had brought him full circle, from elaborate lies to premature truth. He wanted to add, "And it's all your fault."

  Her cheeks became flushed. Not surprisingly, she looked as if she'd been bushwhacked. She absolutely would not meet his gaze. When at last she did, it was to say with anguish, "I have a casserole that I have to take out!"

  And then she hurried away, leaving him to find his way back to his truck around, and not through, the kitchen with the casserole that had to come out.

  Chapter 27

  Alarm or no alarm, Zack weighed the possibility of spending the night in one of the reclining chairs on Wendy's patio, which he had seen was nicely screened from the neighbors. While he could understand why Wendy would want to keep him farther than arm's length, he was hoping that she wouldn't mind keeping him within shouting distance. And if she did mind, so be it. She could call the cops and have him removed.

  He picked at the pizza, now cold, that he regarded simply as a way to pass time while he waited for darkness to fall. He might be being overprotective, but the sense of unease that he felt was pervasive. He was too jumpy to continue lolling in the booth of the small downtown pizzeria, so he gave up and went out to his truck to call his sister. It was something constructive that he could do.

  "Hey, Zee," he said after she picked up. "So. How do you like your new stairs?"

  "What stairs?" she answered, which threw him. "Oh ... that's right. You fixed them. That was so sweet, Zack! I just forgot, that's all. I haven't had the chance to use them; I've been busy inside all day."

  Confused, he said, "You didn't go to work?"

  "Of course not! I have way too much packing to do."

  It didn't take Zack as long this time to figure out that his sister had drifted again into that kinder, gentler world that she had fashioned for herself.

  Cursing himself for believing that the morning was an aberration, he said softly, "Where exactly are you going, kiddo? I don't think you said."

  "Of course I did, Zack; don't you remember? I'm going off to find Jim. I have to help him, to guide him back to reality," she said, speaking in a breathless rush. "There's something wrong with his memory. He didn't even know me, Zack. He looked right at me, and he didn't know me. He's very ill, and it's up to me to bring him out of his ... his spell, I guess you could say. It's like Sleeping Beauty, but in reverse. Oh! I forgot to ask, can I borrow your small carry-on bag? It would be just the right size for smuggling Cassie somewhere that might not allow pets."

  "Oh, Zina." Zack was preoccupied enough to think, Not now, not now.

  "Well, all right, then," she said coolly. "You don't have to lend it to me, if you think it'll make you an accomplice. Cassie and I can get by perfectly fine on our own."

  "No, no, that's not what I meant," he said quickly. "Don't go anywhere yet, okay?" he begged. "I'm on the road, and I'll be home soon. I'll bring the carry-on right over. Just wait for me, okay?"

  Her soft laugh was apologetic. "I didn't mean to sound rude, Zack. Of course I'll wait. I haven't even begun to sort through my quilts."

  He started up the truck and punched in Wendy's number on the cell. By the time she answered, he was on the road, headed for Zina.

  S
he didn't sound angry, just distressed, to be hearing from him again so soon. "This isn't a good time, Zack. I'm getting Ty's things together for him," was her latest excuse.

  It didn't offend him at all; he understood that what they had to say couldn't be worked in between dishes and laundry.

  He explained very quickly about Zina, and then confessed to his now-abandoned plan to hang around Wendy herself for the night. He could tell that she was touched by that, and it sent a surge of relief and longing through him.

  "Just keep the alarm on. Promise me that, would you?"

  "Yes, sir," she said, wrapping the words in a smile. "And, Zack?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Thanks. Thanks for fussing. It feels ... I don't know. Good."

  He wanted to avow his love for her all over again, but he didn't want to risk blowing the moment. She sounded happy just to have him caring what happened. For now, that was enough.

  ****

  Ten o'clock. Wendy sat curled on one of the twin leather love seats in the library with a well-thumbed catalogue of bathroom fixtures on her lap. She was determined to make her choices once and for all, but the variety of offerings was huge and her ability to focus, minuscule. Sighing, she closed the thick catalogue with its bright Post-it tabs. Another day, perhaps.

  She went up to the double bank of windows that was flanked by his-and-hers bookcases—one side filled with military history, the other side filled with house and garden publications—and reluctantly closed and locked them, shutting out the cool night breeze.

  As she passed the sofa opposite the one in which she'd been reading, she knocked down a book that had been perched on one of its rolled arms: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. She looked at the cover drawing of the young hero, who reminded her so much of her son, and suddenly remembered that Ty had wanted to take the book with him on the ferry to Martha's Vineyard.