I had to face it. I blamed myself for all of these. Why shouldn’t Kathryn blame me, too?
I set down the phone, finally, and closed my eyes. I could hear the crashing of the surf outside, and I let the waves wash in—and then out—all of the day’s memories:
My excursion to St. Armand’s Circle, visiting shops, buying fudge and beach-walking shoes.
Meeting Joy, Lorelei, and Abby, making jewelry with them, and experiencing the camaraderie of a group of women friends after such a long drought.
Seeing that man from the beach and finding out that he was kind, generous, funny...and a little insecure about his artwork...and a little weird about his father. Which kept him from being too perfect.
Everything in the Circle was so new and charming.
Then having the past collide with the present on the shores of my mind—talking with my frustrated daughter, hearing news of my cheap and childish ex, being reminded of the uncomfortable realization that this time down in Florida was just an escape from my old and un-charming daily life.
It was like reading a hot romance novel or watching a humorous chick flick. When the book ended or the houselights went up or the summer vacation at your sister’s bungalow was over, it was back to reality. I had to face that as the truth. No use getting too attached to anything here. It would all disappear, like Cinderella’s fancy gown and carriage, just as soon as six more weeks were up.
I flipped on the TV, suddenly in need of noise. There was news, some weird music videos, a really tasteless sitcom, and a talk show I’d never seen.
“Christina Chats!” the placard behind the wild-looking woman proclaimed.
The Christina in question was about twenty-five, had purple streaks in her long dark hair, and was wearing what looked to be a zigzag-patterned body suit—in shades of fuchsia and lilac. I tilted my head and stared at the screen to get a different angle. Gotta wonder how a person like Joy might describe the talk-show host if, even to me, the woman looked like some kind of bizarre fusion between a zebra and a bunch of Concord grapes.
“We’re talking with my girls—Tatiana, Brandy, and Jenni,” Christina said with an enthusiastic shimmy that should be banned in at least forty-seven states. She added a fist pump, which set her abundant chest jiggling, more noticeable than ever in that skintight outfit. I wondered idly what the woman’s mother thought of Christina’s television wardrobe.
“Starting over at thirty. That’s our topic tonight!” Christina all but shouted from her faux-hardwood-floor stage as the three guests sat awkwardly behind her on a faux-brown-leather sofa. “These wonder women gave it a shot and are stoked to share their results.”
Not sure I wanted to watch this. Well, actually, I was absolutely positive I didn’t want to watch this...but I was even less inclined to watch news reports from a war zone, a dumb sitcom, or Lady Gaga singing anything.
“Jenni, I know there was tremendous heartbreak in your past.” (Cue the maudlin background music as a twenty-second video clip played on the screen just behind them all.) “You got fired from your job, your boyfriend cheated on you, your brother was incarcerated, your great aunt, who was like a mother to you, died suddenly, and even your pet Rottweiler was taken from you and put in a shelter—all within just six months,” Christina said, furrowing her thinly tweezed brows with faux concern. (“Faux” was big on Christina Chats!) “Can you tell us your story?”
Jenni, a perky little blonde, went on to describe her sad tale in well-rehearsed sound bites, ending with how she began getting, and I quote, “life coaching lessons from this awesome surfer from Pasadena” and was now planning their beach wedding for August. “It totally just took the power of positive thinking and finally finding the courage to get that cute flamingo tattoo I always wanted,” Jenni confided, flashing her lower calf where the lanky bird was etched in dark pink just above her ankle. “‘Cuz the tat shop was where I met my surfer man.”
“And that,” Christina added sagely, “was when you realized you could stand on your own two feet—or even just on one—and you went to work on you.”
The studio audience clapped wildly at this insightful connection. Jenni giggled in a series of surprised little bursts and said, “Oh, my God, I never thought of it like that!” And I found it impossible to watch even a minute more of this dreck.
Maybe Lady Gaga wasn’t so bad.
However, I managed to find my own courage and clicked off the TV instead. Then I began sifting through Ellen’s and Jared’s books on the shelf next to the DVD player.
I’d already rifled through the magazine stack, but there were novels and Siesta Key guidebooks still left unexamined. I set aside anything that might include fun and inexpensive daytrips around this region of Florida and turned my attention to the other books: A couple of Jared’s legal thrillers; some serious women’s fiction tale about friends and death; a series of historical romances set in Scotland, featuring hunky, shirtless men (wielding swords) on the cover; a few Jane Austen-inspired stories, including this odd one where the heroine has the ghost of Jane in her head, giving her dating advice; a number of nonfiction books on sailing; a collection of essays on shells; and a memoir or two.
I picked up the essay collection—Gift from the Sea by Anne Morrow Lindbergh—and flipped through it, reading random passages. Anne wrote lyrically, though with utter clarity, on topics such as how shells were the homes of various sea creatures, but how the structure of those shells fit them individually and perfectly—at least for a time. How the different shells could represent different stages in a woman’s life. How Anne herself managed to find peace and some small measure of serenity on the shores of her beach. Reflecting on her life experiences, with all of their gifts and challenges, in solitude.
I was too tired and not in the mood to read the book cover to cover that night, but Anne’s thoughtful musings inspired me to reach for my lightning whelk and roll it in my palm. What creature belongs in a shell like this one, and why did its original inhabitant leave? I felt as though I’d spent the past week trying to shed my old shell once and for all, but I couldn’t shake the uncertainty of not knowing where I belonged now that I’d left my old life behind.
Perhaps it all depended on the kind of creature I really was...or, rather, the one I was becoming. I knew I wasn’t the same woman I’d been at age eighteen, or even at twenty-eight, but starting over at almost forty—was that really, truly possible?
Somehow I doubted the producers of Christina Chats! would think so, but I also suspected—if Anne were alive and knew of my circumstances—that the wise lady would have been encouraging. That she might even have confidence in my ability to find my way. Probably more than I had in myself.
Chapter Ten
So Close, Yet So Far
There was no other way to say it: These changes sucked the big one.
On Friday afternoon, Ellen dug around in the kitchen for a snack, frowning at all of the things Dr. Cole had informed her she shouldn’t eat.
No caffeine, since it could worsen panic attacks. Say goodbye to those morning hazelnut lattés.
No alcohol either, for the same reason. Skip that glass of Pinot Grigio with dinner.
Limited sugar and fast foods. No M&Ms—dammit. And no more easy carryout for meals.
She didn’t happen to smoke cigarettes or take illicit drugs but, hey, those were off limits, too. Shocking. As if a line of blow was on par with a handful of Raisinets and a vanilla-caramel cappuccino.
Ellen rubbed her temples with the pads of her fingers and halfheartedly examined the cut-crystal bowl she’d filled with fresh pears, apples, mandarin oranges, and plums. She didn’t want to eat any of them.
Once the cardiologist and lab technician had sent in their reports, Dr. Cole basically said, “I told you so,” only not in those exact words. He was his usual very professional self and managed to speak to her without any overt snarkiness, although Ellen was sure it lurked just beneath the surface.
He informed her that she “ne
eded to make some lifestyle changes immediately” or the attacks would most likely keep happening, and maybe even intensify. Step One in the smug doctor’s Get Well Quick Handbook involved extra rest, dietary alterations, and stress management. If that didn’t work, they’d have to move on to Step Two, which included prescription meds and a psych eval. Ellen wasn’t too keen on getting promoted to Step Two.
“If you have any vacation days coming to you,” the doc had said, “you should consider using them.”
Ellen laughed aloud at this. She’d been working almost nonstop since she was twenty-three. She had about four years’ worth of vacation days coming to her, and she told him so.
“That’s very fortunate,” Dr. Cole shot back. “Then you have the time available to go somewhere relaxing for a week or two. Learn yoga. Or T’ai Chi. Add in forty-five minutes to an hour of aerobic activity every day. Perhaps do some walking, biking, or swimming. Maybe take up a craft—like knitting.”
“Knitting?” she’d sputtered. “Are you joking?”
From the unsmiling look he gave her, apparently not.
She’d returned home with a bunch of organic produce (what the hell did people make with kale?) and a brand new “T’ai Chi for Novices” DVD. She was not, however, ready to do anything daring with either.
3:51. Or so read the digital clock in the kitchen. Jared was finishing up at an onsite meeting with a client and said he’d be home early today. Probably by four. She sighed and studied one slightly speckled pear more closely. Went so far as to pick it up, roll it in her hand, squeeze it, and sniff it. Hmm. Maybe if it were poached in rum and drizzled with a nice dark-chocolate sauce...
But it wasn’t, and she knew the time had come to finally talk with her husband about all of this. No doubt he’d wonder at the sudden appearance of pears and plums on their countertop otherwise.
Ellen set the fruit back in the bowl the second she heard the squeal of the garage door opening.
“Honey, I’m home!” Jared said when he walked through the door a few moments later, posing by the banister with his briefcase in one hand and his umbrella in the other. Waiting for her to laugh, as was their custom, at his delivery of this line. “How was your day, dear?” he added for good measure, knowing this would earn another chuckle from her.
“Wonderful, darling,” she responded promptly and with TV-show sincerity. “The meatloaf is in the oven, and I’m fixing homemade mashed potatoes and gravy right now.” With a side of kale.
Jared’s laugh rang out as he stashed his umbrella in the closet. He’d grown up with “two dads” in a western suburb of Boston. His family life had been far closer to La Cage aux Folles than Leave It to Beaver—but no one could have been more comfortable with that than he was. Jared did, however, get an insatiable kick out of playacting traditional roles, so he added, “Will there be corn on the cob, too? Some freshly made apple pie with whipped cream, perhaps?”
“Why, of course, dear,” she said cheerfully. “Let me just fix you a dry martini first and grab your slippers.”
At that, he dropped his briefcase, strode into the kitchen, wrapped his arms around her, and said with a grin, “You’re cute. What are we really having? Leftover Thai? Maybe sandwiches with those Swiss slices and the garlic roast beef from the deli? Or do you want me to make a reservation at that new Italian place?” He eyed the pears in the bowl warily. “Did somebody at work give you a fruit basket?”
She hugged him tighter and buried her head against his firm chest. He was a successful corporate accountant with a Harvard MBA who’d gone through a weightlifting phase when he was a teen that had lasted, maybe, two weeks. He wasn’t one of those big bulky men, but he was taller than she was and his chest was broad enough to make her feel reassuringly safe when she rested her head against it. “No. I went, um...grocery shopping,” she admitted.
“You did what?” His eyes danced with amusement as he pulled back from her and placed his palm against her forehead. “Running a fever or something?”
She glanced up at him, but then had to look away. Damn.
“Hey, Ellen.” The joking came to an abrupt halt. He caressed her cheek until she turned back to meet his gaze. “It’s okay. Tell me what’s going on.”
In a flood of monologue, she let it all spill out. She told him about her two recent panic attacks at work, going to see Dr. Cole, the tests of the last couple of days. “I didn’t want to say anything to you until I knew for sure what was wrong. But now—”
“But now what?” he asked. “What can I do to help?”
She sighed. She’d been thinking about this and it was overwhelmingly her problem. “Not a lot, actually. I’m the one that needs to change my habits. Sleep for at least eight hours each night. Take Vitamin C...and D...and B-complex. Eat fruits and vegetables.” She wrinkled her nose. “Dr. Cole even suggested a vacation.”
He kissed her forehead and drew her into the living room so they could sit down on the black leather loveseat. “We could do that. We haven’t gone anywhere exotic for a while. I think we’re due for a break.” He pulled out his iPhone and checked his calendar. “I’ve got a light week coming up in mid-August. Maybe we can go to Tahiti? It’s a long flight, but it would be pretty relaxing once we got there.”
She considered this. Tahiti would be really nice, but August was a little too far away, especially given Dr. Cole’s sense of urgency. She tried to explain this to Jared.
“Look, Ellen, you don’t have to wait for me to take a trip.” He slipped his arm around her and squeezed her shoulder. “You know how I had that conference in San Diego in January?”
She nodded.
“And that investors’ event in Lisbon back in November?”
She nodded again.
“I was gone for a week both times. So, now it’s your turn. Go somewhere you’d like to go, and we’ll just pretend you’re on a business trip. One where you skip the boring meetings and just practice your windsurfing or something.”
“Or learn to knit, if Dr. Cole has his way,” she said with a laugh. “But would you be all right?”
“Well, I’ll miss you, of course, but I’ll manage.”
She sent him a disbelieving glance.
“Ellen, I promise I won’t starve or stay at work until midnight every night just because you’re not home to meet me, okay? I mean, yes, I’ll probably order carryout for every single meal and play Sparkwave on my phone in bed because you won’t be here to stop me, but I can survive for a week or two alone. Really.”
Perhaps he could, but could she? She’d gone on a hundred weekend getaways with her husband over the years, but it occurred to her that she’d never gone somewhere just by herself. The idea held shockingly little appeal.
“Maybe I’ll just stay home,” she said, glancing around the room. There was so much she could do in the house. She’d wanted to rearrange the shelving in the den for months. And spruce up the downstairs bathroom. “I could take time off from work and—and master T’ai Chi.” She pointed to her new DVD. “I could probably learn that in a week, with all the time I’d have, don’t you think?”
Jared gazed at her with the eyes of a man who knew almost every one of her quirks. Almost every hope. Almost every fear. “Why don’t you go somewhere with a friend?” he suggested. “I think you’d have more fun with another woman than you’d have alone.”
She thought of her friends. She had a cadre of female associates that she enjoyed meeting up with for the occasional lunch date or happy hour. There was a smaller handful that she’d see outside of the work week. Maybe they’d take in a movie together or chat over cocktails at a holiday party. Not one of them would she go on vacation with for an entire week, though.
“Or what about your sister?” her husband said. “Isn’t she at the bungalow right now? You should fly down to Sarasota and spend some time with her.”
“What? No!” Ellen said, shaking her head for added emphasis.
“Why not? You like your sister.”
“
I love my sister,” she clarified. “Doesn’t mean it would be a great idea for us to spend a week together at the beach.” She shuddered. How many days would it take—or, hell, how many hours—before they were bickering like teenagers again?
“When was the last time the two of you spent any quality time with each other? Not some quick holiday visit,” he said before she could mention her trip to Mirabelle Harbor at Christmas to see Marianna and Kathryn. “Think about it. You love Siesta Key. It’ll be hotter now than when we usually go but, with you and Marianna together, it would be like a long sleepover party. Or like summer camp. You always told me how much you liked that.”
Yeah, she’d liked Camp Willowgreen—a lot, actually—but it mostly had to do with how much she loved getting away from home and her parents.
“Just think about it,” Jared said again. “You’re always relaxed when you’re on the beach. You could walk every day. And swim. It’s a place you know well, so there wouldn’t be the stress of trying to figure out how to get around in a new locale. But it’s also a place where you wouldn’t be as tempted to reorganize the cabinets or anything because there just isn’t that much stuff there. Life is pretty pared down in the bungalow. It’s uncomplicated.”
He had a point.
“And,” he continued, knowing he had her full attention, “you and Marianna could help each other if you needed it, or stay out of each other’s hair if you didn’t. Why don’t you give her a call tonight and see how she’s doing? Might help you decide if that’s something that would work for you both.”
Ellen shrugged. “I could, I guess,” she said, but she was already warming to the idea. In a blink, she could imagine herself on Siesta Key. Basking in the sunlight. Kicking at the waves. Practicing her new stress-reduction techniques... She supposed if she absolutely had to learn to meditate and to recite absurd positive affirmations to herself, it would at least feel less phony in Florida.
And she had something to celebrate with her sister, after all. She wasn’t dying—there was that—at least not at a rate faster than expected. And she wasn’t even menopausal.
Stranger on the Shore (Mirabelle Harbor, Book 4) Page 10