by Luanne Rice
“Can we meet Friday night?” he asked.
“I think so,” she said. “I’ll have to see.”
“Come to dinner at the beach,” he said. “I’ll cook.”
“Okay,” she said. “Friday night.” Then they said goodbye, and Neve hung up.
“My, my,” Chris said, gesturing at the phone with the article. “It’s all O’Casey, all the time. Tell me everything!”
Neve smiled, felt quiet and still deep inside. When she was young, she had loved to talk about the boys she liked, sharing every detail with her best friend; it had been a way of feeding the fire, keeping the emotions revved up. The more she talked about them, the more she felt them. But this was different. The way she felt about Tim today was so intense and private, something she wanted so badly it almost scared her.
“We had a really good time,” she said, in a way that didn’t invite discussion.
Chris gazed at her face with such tender happiness. “You did? I’m glad, Neve. I’m really glad.”
“He’s…” She searched for the word. But she couldn’t find one that fit Tim, at least not a word she’d want to say out loud. She just shook her head.
“I get it, honey.”
“What did Mickey say about it last night?” Neve asked.
“She was basically quiet,” Chris said. “I picked her up at the beach—she was sitting on the jetty with Shane, watching a whole flock of swans swimming just beyond the surf break. I offered him a ride, but he said he had his bike. Apparently he rides with his board under his arm…can you imagine?”
“He’s devoted to surfing,” Neve said, thinking of Mickey’s words to Shane about swans. “I have to admit that.”
“You don’t like him?”
“It’s not that,” Neve said. “It’s just…I see Mickey falling head over heels…it’s her first time, and I think she’s in love.”
“And that’s bad?”
Neve gazed at a Berkeley watercolor leaning against the wall, one of her favorites; it showed a female osprey feeding her young. She loved it for the subtlety of coloration, the familiarity of landscape, the mother-child connection. Before Tim, the picture had struck home for another reason—the mother was alone.
“Love is dangerous,” she said.
“Oh, Neve,” Chris said. “All men aren’t Richard.”
“I know,” she said, thinking of Tim.
“Then what’s wrong?”
“I just want Mickey to be happy,” Neve said. “And safe. Shane seems so extreme. They’re both so passionate about the beach, about keeping everything the same, saving the U-boat. The cause is pulling them together—it’s as if they’re magnetized. But what will happen after the U-boat is gone? After Shane’s surfing spot is ruined, and they don’t have the fight bonding them anymore?”
“Neve, why are you doing this?” Chris asked, smiling.
“Doing what?”
“Ruining it. I can tell you had an absolutely amazing time last night. You don’t want to tell me about it, that’s fine—but you’re glowing, okay? Your eyes are shining, your cheeks are pink, you look as if you have the biggest secret in the world. You’re the one falling in love, and you’re scared out of your wits.”
“No,” Neve said, shaking her head.
“Richard ran you into the ground,” Chris said. “You loved him so much—you had a storybook wedding. I was your maid of honor, remember? I was there. He was handsome and charming and so much fun, and we all looked at you and thought you had it all.”
Neve closed her eyes, thinking of “it all.” On good nights she got a call from the bartender, telling her Richard was too drunk to drive and suggesting she come to pick him up; on bad nights she had no idea where he was and lay in bed staring at the ceiling, picturing him with another woman, or imagining him dead in a ditch.
“So, how do you come back from that?” Chris asked. “Especially in a month that began with you in court, chasing him—yet again—for child support. Honey, forgive yourself for having lost your belief in love; just, please, don’t pass that on to Mickey. Let her have it for herself.”
“Shane reminds me of Richard,” Neve said. “At least, the way Richard was at the beginning. There’s something so wild and hopeful about him.”
“What’s wrong with wild and hopeful?” Chris asked, smiling. “They sound like pretty good qualities to me.”
Neve smiled back. Chris had a point. Disappointment was such a powerful emotion, and Neve had felt it for so long. Last night had sparked something she hadn’t felt in ages—maybe years: desire. And desire, at least the way Neve felt it, was the wildest thing there was, wrapped up in hope.
“Speaking of court, though,” Chris said. “We really do have to find Richard.”
“What do you mean?”
Chris paused, staring down at the printouts on Neve’s desk, as if wrestling with herself over what she should say. “There’s a class trip to Washington, D.C.,” she said finally. “Mickey mentioned it last night.”
“I haven’t heard anything about it!” Neve said.
“I know. Mickey let it slip when we were leaving the diner after dinner, and Josh Landry was walking in; he asked her if she’d changed her mind about going. When I asked her the details, she said that you didn’t have the money, and she didn’t want to put more pressure on you—or her father.”
“But she can’t miss her class trip!” Neve said.
“If Richard would just come through the way he’s supposed to, there’d be no problem,” Chris said.
“It kills me, Mickey worried about putting pressure on her father.”
“She made me promise not to tell you.”
“Thanks,” Neve said, shaking. “I’m glad you did. She’s going on that trip, if I have to pawn my grandmother’s cameo.”
“You do and I’ll kill you. I’ll chip in for the trip.”
“I can’t let you do that,” Neve said, giving her a grateful look. “Seriously, how much can it be? A couple hundred dollars—she couldn’t ask me for that?” Her mind was racing—how had Mickey kept such a big secret? Why did she suddenly feel she couldn’t confide in her mother? They could have figured it out together, found a way to come up with the money. She was so absorbed with Mickey and the issue of secrets, she barely even noticed Chris tapping the article.
“As I said earlier, all O’Casey, all the time. What’s this you’re reading about two old men? The raptor guy—that’s obviously Tim’s father. But what about this other one, Damien? He painted birds, like Berkeley?”
“He is Berkeley,” Neve said without thinking. She’d been so lost in thoughts and emotion about Tim, rattled by the news about Mickey, that she just let it slip.
“You’re kidding,” Chris said, her eyes getting bigger, just as the door opened behind her. “Berkeley is Tim’s uncle?”
“Oh my God,” Neve said, bowing her head, shocked by what had just come out of her mouth. She wanted to call it back, pull the words right out of the air, make Chris forget she’d said them. “Chris, you can’t tell a soul. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Is it true?”
“Chris, he was destroyed by the war; he never painted again. Tim told me everything, but he made me promise not to tell.”
“This is incredible,” said Dominic di Tibor, sweeping his cape off and fixing Neve with a razor gaze. “My genius, Neve Halloran—you’ve discovered the true identity of Berkeley? Let me kiss you!”
She bowed her head as Dominic grazed her lips, knowing that her own hope and wildness had just brought her to the edge, that she’d just broken a promise and made the mistake of her life, that she’d just spilled a secret that hadn’t been hers to spill.
Something was wrong with her mother. Mickey had no idea what it was, but she knew it was bad.
Last night, after “the date,” her mother had floated in, almost as if she had wings, trying to act as if nothing had happened, trying to focus on Mickey and whether she and Chris had had a good time, and w
hether she’d finished her homework. But Mickey had seen her just glistening—as if she were the princess in a fairy tale, as if she’d just fallen in love for the first time in her life.
What did that say about Mickey’s father?
The thing was, Mickey was beginning to know about love. She knew about the feeling that started in her toes, traveled up her legs, all through her skin, right to the hair on her head. It felt the strongest when she was kissing Shane—or just thinking about kissing him, but ever since that first night on the beach, she’d felt it more or less all the time.
Looking at her mother last night, she could tell she was feeling it, too. Yet it couldn’t be the same thing, not at all; for Mickey and Shane, it was the beginning, the very first time either of them had felt this way. For Mickey’s mother…well, there were all those wedding photos in the album, and that white dress up in mothballs in the attic, and there was Mickey herself to prove that her mother had already felt this way once before.
So what did that say about love?
Maybe her mother was having the same thoughts. Because one thing for sure, the way she was acting tonight was nothing like last night. Mickey watched as she sat at the kitchen table, staring at more or less nothing. Just sitting there. No smiles like last night, no kissing Mickey and being solicitous, no glancing at the phone as if she wished from the bottom of her socks that it would ring.
Just, at one point, a bombshell:
“You’re going to Washington,” her mother said sternly.
“What?” Mickey asked, shocked.
“Just, please bring me everything the school sends home, Mickey. Wasn’t there a permission slip or something?”
“Yes,” Mickey said. “But I knew we couldn’t afford it, so…”
Her mother held up a hand, very impatiently. “That’s not for you to decide. I know what we can and can’t afford. I’m your mother.”
“Yes, no kidding. Wow, I really thought I could trust Chris. I won’t make that mistake again!”
“Don’t go blaming Chris,” her mother said. “You’re the one in trouble here. When the school gives you something to show your parents, I expect you to leave it right here on the kitchen table.” She thumped the surface with her palm, for good measure.
“If I’m in trouble, why do you say I’m going on the trip?”
“Don’t you want to?”
Mickey shrugged. The truth was, she would love to go: cherry blossoms, all those alabaster buildings, getting to meet one of Rhode Island’s senators and maybe the president, staying in a hotel. But what good would it be if Shane couldn’t go, too?
“Not really,” she said.
Her mother peered at her, reading her mind. Mickey could tell—there was a little flicker of humor, and even understanding, there in her mother’s smile. “Why? Because Shane’s not going?”
“Maybe,” Mickey said, blushing, wondering how her mother always seemed to know just what she was thinking.
“Young lady, that’s not a good reason. He’ll still be here when you get home.”
“It’s too late anyway,” Mickey said. “The deadline already passed.”
“I’ll call the principal if I have to,” her mother said. “You’re going. And Mickey?”
“What?”
“I love you, honey. Just, please, don’t keep things from me. Secrets…” Her mother trailed off, and Mickey saw her eyes fill with tears. “They hurt more often than they help.”
“Love you, too,” Mickey said, kissing her mother, giving her an extra-long hug—partly because Mickey was inwardly so excited about the idea about going to Washington, even more because she sensed her mother needed it. Her mother clutched her hard, kissing Mickey’s hair. Mickey knew she smelled like salt air, from all the time she’d been spending on the beach with Shane. And she knew how much her mother loved the smell of salt air.
Now she had to figure out a way for Shane to get the money so he could take the trip, too. But first, she had to help her mother. She saw the sadness in her eyes, and it felt like a nail in Mickey’s heart. Last night, as confused as Mickey had felt about seeing her mother happy again, happy about another man, she had at least known that something wonderful was going on. Questions were questions, but there was nothing like seeing your mother happy.
“What’s wrong, Mom?” Mickey asked.
“Nothing for you to worry about, honey.”
“Please tell me.”
But her mother just tried to smile, gave Mickey another hug, and went back to staring at the table. Mickey backed away, toward her room, where she was going to call Shane, but gazing at her mother, she felt that nail going deeper. Her mother looked so worried, and if Mickey didn’t know her better, know that her mother was the best person in the world, she’d have thought her mother was being crushed by the weight of having done something awful.
Shane grabbed the phone the second it rang. His mother seemed to be on the line just about 24/7, talking to Major Dickweed down at Camp Lejeune, and Shane needed a few minutes of airtime himself. He’d expected it to be the major himself, but felt a thrill to hear Mickey’s voice instead.
“Hey,” he said.
“Guess what?” Mickey asked. “I’m going to Washington!”
“Yeah?” Shane asked, his heart falling. “I thought you said you weren’t.”
“Well, I didn’t think I could—but my mother’s friend Chris let the whole thing slip, and now my mother says I can.”
“How did Chris hear about it?”
“From Josh, of all people,” Mickey said. “When we were walking out of the diner last night, he was on his way in, and he said I should try to go. Or something. Big idiot.”
“Yeah. Idiot,” Shane said. But as he lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, he could see the whole thing in his mind: Josh getting Mickey alone in Washington, showing her how much better it was to hang out with a guy who had money instead of one who couldn’t even afford to get his car fixed. Mickey’s mom’s friend Chris had acted so impressed about Shane riding his bike with his board under one arm, but he had actually read her mind, seen her thinking “loser.”
“Josh is such a jerk,” Mickey said. “I don’t know why he even speaks to me, considering what I think of him.”
“He speaks to you because he’s hot for you,” Shane said.
“No he’s not.”
Shane saw no reason to argue with her. Mickey was so modest, it was almost funny. She was the prettiest girl in school, with the liveliest mind and the most beautiful body, but instead of acting as if she thought she was all that, she seemed the opposite—as if she didn’t think about it at all.
Meanwhile, Shane got to watch Josh salivating over her every chance he got. He watched him watch her in the cafeteria, and in the halls, and walking into class. Shane saw Josh staring at her out the window of his stupid Mercedes sports car—watching Mickey climb onto the big yellow school bus with Shane, or riding her bike with Shane—as if he knew it was just a matter of time before Mickey figured out which guy would be better in the long run: the one with a rusted old Taurus parked behind his house, or the one with the outrageously engineered German automobile that ran fast and looked great.
Hmm, Shane thought. Tough choice.
“Never mind about Josh,” Mickey said now. “The point is, we have to find a way for you to come, too.”
“To Washington?” he asked. “Forget it.”
“We have to!” Mickey said. “It’s our class trip, and I’m not going without you.”
“Look, Mick,” he said. “I see the way your mom looks at me, and I don’t blame her. When she first met me, I was on probation, doing community service. The fact she lets you hang out with me is amazing. You think I want to blow that by spoiling your chance to go to Washington?”
“But Shane…”
“Come on. The nation’s capital! Don’t you want to meet our senators, shake hands? I won’t let you deprive our senators of the chance to have their pictures taken with you.”<
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Mickey laughed, and he was glad. Steer her away from this stupid topic; now Shane wished time would fly. Let her go to Washington as soon as possible, so she could return home. He’d use the time carefully, wisely, figure out a way to make her so proud she’d come flying back to him.
“Nice try,” she said. “But I still don’t want to go without you.”
“Look, I don’t even want to go to Washington,” he said. “I hate politics and politicians. Besides, there’s no surfing there, you know? The tidal pool—forget it. And the reflecting basin, whatever the hell it’s called—dead calm and totally flat.”
“But cherry blossoms; I want to see them with you. Clouds of beautiful white flowers, petals raining down from the trees,” she said, her voice catching. He could hear the emotion even through the phone; he felt it himself, imagining seeing something that wonderful with her.
“I know,” he said. “But spring will get to Rhode Island eventually. We’ll see them here. You know I can’t leave—I have to surf the wreck every chance I get. It might be gone by summer.”
“You won’t even try to come to Washington?” she asked, sounding hurt. She believed him, Shane realized—that he would rather stay home and surf than take the class trip—and that was good.
“Nah,” he said. “It’s not for me.”
She fell silent. He could hear her breathing over the phone. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad for her to go away on the trip. Let Josh try to get her—give Mickey the chance to really decide. Being away from Shane might be good for her. It might be, he told himself, even though the thought made him hurt so much inside, he sat bolt upright on his bed.
“Tonight,” Mickey whispered, swallowing hard, and Shane could hear she had started to cry. “What’s wrong tonight?”
“Nothing,” he said.
“Not just with you,” she said. “My mother, too. She’s upset. And you; I thought you’d be excited about Washington. About the idea of going together!”
“I don’t know about your mother,” he said. “But me—there’s nothing wrong with me. I’m just…Sorry, Mickey. Washington’s just not my thing.”