Ties
Page 4
I don’t get the best feeling from Bex, but I’ll have to trust my gut when it comes to racing and use my head when it comes to investing. Darryl is a totally nice guy: he doesn’t have the backing to put me into the big leagues. I need Bex. And I know how to be careful.
“I’m in.”
His smile is slow and cool, and it coats my guts in ice. I have a flash of regret, like maybe I should back up, go out on the waves and just think where I think best. But then he’s shaking my hand and ushering me out of the office.
“I’ll be in touch after I iron out the rest of the team. I’m glad you’re on board.”
He claps his hand onto my back, walks me to the door, and shuts it firmly in my face.
4 HATTIE
I pace back and forth in the hallway, waiting for the knocking at the door to stop. Is it bad form to answer someone else’s door when they aren’t home? Or is it worse to leave the person out there knocking without an answer?
Shit.
This should not be so complicated.
I’ve been sleeping at Marigold’s place for two weeks now and bonding with all of them was simple and immediate.
We’ve curled up on the couch like a pile of puppies, watching adorable home movies starring Deo as a freckly, skinned-kneed kid that made Whit gaze up at him with total adoration. With that kind of love in the room, it’s hard to feel angry that I missed out on a childhood with my brother, but it still pricks at me sometimes.
I’ve baked cakes with Whit in Marigold’s kitchen, the two of us allowing Marigold only the most basic tasks--like adding extra vanilla or setting the timer or putting on another Joan Baez album to jam to--so the cakes would actually wind up tasty. And free of flax seed.
I’ve shaken my hips and thrown up my hands during late night, impromptu, wine-fueled dance-a-thons with all of them and stayed awake until the sun came up exchanging childhood stories and looking through old pictures.
I have officially weaseled my way into this family.
I belong.
But I never got a basic rundown of the house rules, so I have no clue what to do now.
I tiptoe to the door and the relentless knocking continues. It could be a deranged hippie killer right? California is full of murderers.
And hippies.
I hold my breath and peer through the peep hole. When I fling the door open, instead of a Charles Manson look alike, I find a tiny brunette with one hand planted firmly on her hip and the other mid-knock.
“You must be Hattie,” she says by way of introduction.
It’s beyond strange to be in a place surrounded by people I’ve never met in person, yet they all just know me. Whit pinpointed me based on an old picture and my eye color, and now this girl knows me by name when I’m positive I’ve never laid eyes on her in my life.
“I am. And you are?”
“I’m Gen, Cohen’s sister? Adam’s wife? Does any of this sound familiar?” she chatters with an easy smile, already pushing past me and into the house.
I nod as I follow her in, wracking my brain for her and her husband’s face. I’m not quite sure I pull it up. Then she turns, and I have this flash of her in a gorgeous lace veil.
“Right! Genevieve! I met your brother Cohen the other night at dinner, and he showed me a picture from your wedding. It looked gorgeous. I love peonies.”
She whirls around, her big gray eyes so wide they look like they might pop out of the sockets.
“I knew you and I were just going to connect. Knew it. And I realize you just got here, but I get that Deo and everyone had to go to work and kind of leave you stranded, so I’m here. Because I only had one early class and I made way too much zucchini baba ganoush. I left a whole plate for Adam and still have all this.” She pops open one side of a picnic basket and a truly heavenly smell wafts out. “There’s this beach not far from here...it’s so gorgeous, especially during the week when it’s not crowded. I’m taking you there for a picnic, no arguments. I’ll wait for you to change into your bathing suit.”
It’s hard to argue with Genevieve because she’s so cute and smiley and strangely intimidating as she tells me what to do. I’m usually not great with bossy women, but she kind of reminds me of Mei.
If Mei wore five inch rhinestone heels and knew how to cook.
I go to my room and pull on my simple black bikini, throw on my black cover-up, grab my sunscreen and sunglasses, stuff them into my purse, and let Genevieve know I’m ready. We head out to her car.
“Sorry about the state of the Jeep,” she says as she moves textbooks off the passenger seat and tosses them into the back. “Adam and I are saving up for something more reliable. Our last car just gave up right at two hundred thousand miles. I think he was actually excited to get a Jeep, since my brothers give him such a hard time about not surfing and playing baseball. I guess this makes him feel manly.” She giggles, and there’s this whole love-struck look to her face that makes me wild with jealousy.
“Your husband isn’t into athletics?” I ask the question more to fill the awkward silence we’ll sink into if Genevieve doesn’t keep chatting her head off than because I want to know all about Adam’s hobbies and activities.
But Genevieve lights up talking about her husband.
Nauseatingly adorable.
“He isn’t. Not much, anyway. But he’s trying because he wants to fit in with my brothers,” she gabs as she pulls onto the highway and takes a deep breath of the salted air that whips around us. “He grew up in Israel, so there wasn’t a huge surfing population. Or baseball population, for that matter. His thing is science. He’s crazy smart.” She says it with a little sigh, like she can’t handle how damn romantic his big brain is.
I love that.
“Science?” I nod. “I was going to major in bio-chem when I was a sophomore.” I let my hair down from its loose bun and enjoy the way it picks up and flips back in the wind.
“Did you change your mind?” she asks.
“I made it my minor, just because I love it,” I admit, not sure why I feel a little embarrassed. “I switched to computer science as my major. I’m happy with it.”
“That’s awesome,” Genevieve says, and she sounds genuine.
“And you? Are those your books?” I point at the sociology textbook I moved to the back.
She lets out a short laugh and waves her hand.
“Yep. Mine all mine. Don’t ask my major. One of the perks of Adam’s job at the university is that I get reduced tuition. He encouraged me to take a few different classes so I could make sure I was pursuing what I truly love.” She lifts her shoulders in a half-shrug. “Problem is, I’m falling in love with, like, six different disciplines right now. So flaky.”
“Not flaky,” I argue, even though it does seem a tiny bit flaky. “Just passionate.” That’s true. “I love my major and minor, but I had this crazy desire to major in Asian Studies. My school has one of the best departments in the country.”
“Why didn’t you at least minor in it then?” Genevieve asks as she pulls into a parking spot by a roaring beach.
I take my very first look at the Pacific Ocean and have to grasp around for my voice before I answer, weakly, “Um. I’m Filipino. My mom laughed at me when I suggested majoring in Asian studies. She said, ‘What could they possibly teach you that you weren’t born knowing?’”
Gen hops out of the Jeep, picnic basket on her arm, and watches me watching the ocean. “This your first time?”
“I’ve seen the Atlantic,” I manage.
“Totally different ocean,” she answers back softly.
I open my mouth to argue, because that’s my go-to way to respond. But what the hell would I be arguing?
She’s right.
This is a totally different ocean. From the explosive waves crashing on the jagged rocks to the tangles of intricate, multi-colored seaweed littering the shore, this ocean is basically the same and simultaneously nothing at all like the ocean on the other side of the country.
“Yeah,” she says, her voice a little shy, like she’s a proud mother showing off her baby. “C’mon. You can barely hear the waves back here. Let’s go down a little further.”
She leads us to a sandy patch that’s close to a jutting rock formation. The waves crash, hiss, and splash in a rhythm that begs me to dive into the water. Like she can sense it, Genevieve laughs, “Go! It’s not just for looking.”
I peel my coverup off and leave it in a heap next to the blanket, then jog down to the water’s edge. I only mean to wade out. I only want to feel the scratch and pull of the sand between my toes and let the curling, foaming water scrape against my calves. But I go deeper, until my knees bend underneath the swell.
The water swirls and bobs around me, and, before I think it through, I jackknife my body and let the cool water suction me under. My ears are plugged in the roaring stillness, and I open my eyes to gauge where I am, but have to close them a second later because the salt stings so badly. My hair picks up, light as dandelion fluff, and waves like tentacles around my head.
Even though my mouth is pinched tight, I can taste the tang of salt on my tongue. I kick and paddle; surprised at how fast I shoot forward and how amazing my limbs feel in the buoyant warmth of the ocean.
I dart ahead until my lungs press, tight and uncomfortable, under my ribs. My cheeks puff out, and my nostrils threaten to unplug and search for oxygen. I kick up and gasp as I break the surface. When I turn, the shore and Genevieve are far away from me.
I know I should swim back. Gen might be nervous. She made lunch. She may want to talk. I have a responsibility to be an entertaining and conscientious guest.
But I don’t go back.
I float, lying back so my body is horizontal in the Pacific. I think about what’s below me. I’m not far enough out for the vastness I imagine, but I like to think about all the sea life, the dolphins and whales, the fish and squids, shells, sharks, coral, turtles, all darting and stalking below, oblivious to my tiny human alienness in their midst.
I only let myself think like that for a few minutes before I go vertical and paddle back to the shore with clean, determined strokes.
I feel silly when I lie back and dream like that. It was weird enough to do it when I was a kid: now it’s just indulgent and stupid. I ignore how freaking amazing it felt to let those feelings wash over my body as I stand up in the surf, no longer a drifting oceanic interloper, but a grounded, sensible woman once more.
“Did you have fun?” Genevieve calls, not worried in the least.
I walk to her side and thank her for the towel she offers me. “It was awesome exercise. I forgot how good it feels to swim.”
“This part of the beach is like magic, right?” She sets out plates and silverware, and I examine her to see if she’s teasing me, but when she hands me my food, her face is sweetly serious.
“It is,” I finally agree, digging in. “Magic.”
I don’t know what I’m identifying as magical. The way I barely know her but already feel so comfortable? The call of the ocean and my response? The food she pulls out of the basket that melts on my tongue and makes me feel full in a way that has little to do with stomach capacity or calories?
All of it, I decide.
Magic.
Just for this summer, just because it’s fun to play with what’s real and what’s not sometimes. Magic for right now, reality later. I promise.
5 HATTIE
Genevieve’s voice comes from the sleepy place right before a dream.
“Go. Your restlessness feels contagious, and I don’t want to catch it when I’m trying to nap. Go, explore.”
“Do you want some sunscreen?” I ask, looking at her long, caramel legs, exposed to the sun without a care or worry.
“I’m--” She pauses to yawn, not bothering to cover her mouth. “I’m Mexican, Hattie. I’ll be...toasty.”
I wait for her to say something else, but she snores very lightly instead, so I decide to walk only as far as the piers. I can still see her from there. Genevieve has this adorable idea that nothing bad ever happens to anyone, and she tells me she tucked her money, i.d., phone, and credit cards in her bikini bottoms.
She actually said she put them there for safekeeping with zero sense of irony.
“I’ll be back,” I say to sleeping Genevieve. She snores again.
The pier is largely deserted. A few older people lounge on the decks of massive yachts, calling to one another like they’ve been neighbors for decades. Maybe they have been. Gulls float on the breezes that flap hundreds of different flags and sails, making a snapping cacophony that sounds official and crisp.
Above the swell of the wind and the chatter of gulls is the low, mournful whistle of “Danny Boy.”
My maternal grandfather joined the navy just before World War II and got stationed with a bunch of Irish sailors who cemented his love for dark ale and melancholy ballads. I remember him singing me “Danny Boy” when he pushed me on the swings as a kid. The memory of that feeling--my feet swinging high above my head, my stomach catching and rushing up into my throat as Lolo’s strong hands pressed at my back, his gruff laugh tangled with my high, half-scared squeals--is all tied up with this tune.
At first I’m happy enough just to hear it, but then I get the urge to follow it too.
Maybe I swallowed too much seawater, because I go ahead and let myself get led by the haunting melody, apparently not concerned if the person whistling is someone who might abduct and murder a stupidly curious woman wandering a near-deserted pier.
I find the lips where the whistle is coming from and all thoughts of doom slide away.
They’re really good lips.
Lips that look soft and capable, set off by a strong jaw in a tanned face. The guy is probably my age, maybe a little older. He’s hunched over, scrubbing the deck of a boat like he’s a pirate king and this is his prized vessel. There’s a thin cotton shirt draped over the deck bannister, and his naked back glistens with sweat and moves in a complicated jigsaw of gorgeous muscles that pop out and recede as he stretches his long arms in one direction, then another.
The curve of his spine is like a bow, his arms are taut as strings, and I can see the promise of abs in the shadows curled under his body. He has dark messy hair, just overlong enough to fall into his eyes now and then and slightly matted like he’d been swimming in the ocean. I want to see his eye color. I want to listen to him whistle forever.
He finishes the song, sits back on his heels, wipes his brow, and looks my way, his face brightening suddenly. He puckers his lips again, and I bristle, waiting for a wolf whistle, but he whistles “Siúil a Rún” instead...the song my grandmother learned to sing for Lolo. It made him cry every time she belted it out.
“That’s a woman’s song,” I inform him.
He has to stop whistling because his smile breaks his pucker. “Is it?”
His eyes are a deep, clear blue-green.
“I mean that the song is from a woman’s point of view. She--the woman--sings it about her lover who’s gone off to war.”
I clamp my mouth closed and wish I’d put my cover-up on, but my suit was still wet, and I didn’t expect to run into anybody else. His eyes take a quick inventory. I appreciate the fact that he’d clearly like to run a longer examination but doesn’t.
“My mother would love you. She cried when she found out I dropped my Gaelic lessons.” His grin is very tempting, but I’m excellent at resisting temptation.
“My grandfather has a thing for Irish ballads.”
Correction: I’m excellent at resisting some temptations. I don’t come closer, I don’t return his smile. But I can’t help chatting.
“My mother cried when I told her I couldn’t remember how to speak her ‘weird talk’ anymore. I spoke nothing but Tagalog until I was three. Now I hardly know any of it.”
“Tagalog?” he asks.
“My mother’s
family is from the Philippines.” Why am I giving this guy so much personal information?
“No kidding. My parents honeymooned in Manila. My dad had all these plans to go back for one of their anniversaries.” He wipes his hands on his shorts and holds one out to me. “Ryan Byrne.”
I shake my head and pull back before I get myself any deeper in.
“I’m just passing through. I didn’t mean to bother you.”
“Wait a minute!” he calls as I walk away. I’m relieved he doesn’t attempt to follow.
“Sorry. No. I should have just kept going. Forget I stopped!” I call.
He throws his hands up and laughs. “So you ogle me and enjoy my whistle, but I don’t even get to know your name?”
I stop dead in my tracks and whirl around.
“Ogle you?” I stomp a few steps closer. “Listen, Ryan Byrne, I wasn’t ogling anyone. I’m sorry you feel the need to work half-naked and then entertain the delusion that everyone is drooling over your body. I was, in fact, only interested in the song you were whistling, which was my grandfather’s favorite. That’s it. Just some innocent childhood memories of my lolo singing Irish ballads to me. Please get over yourself.”
With my (totally lie-filled) monologue complete, I’m ready to head back to the beach, but Ryan Byrne has jumped up on the pier and is trailing me from a slightly uncomfortable distance.
“I’m over myself. I am, I swear. But I don’t know if I can get over you. How ‘bout just a name? Just a first initial? You can’t leave me hanging with absolutely nothing.”
“Actually I can. And will.” I walk carefully, because nothing would make this moment suck more than me losing my footing and face-planting in front of him. “This is exactly the reason smart girls don’t stop to talk to random whistling strangers.”
He stops closing the distance between us, but doesn’t stop following me.
“Fair. You have no idea if I’m a creep. In order to prove that I’m not, I’ll buy you a drink in a very public place. All I want is to talk. Or whistle. I know so many Irish ballads, it would blow your mind. Is your lolo still around? I can teach him some ear-singers.”