Barefoot Beach

by Toby Devens

  “You have it on your phone? Oh dear God, why didn’t you say so in the first place?” Margo was frothing, or that white mustache above her upper lip was the last of the foam on her macchiato. “Give it here,” she commanded.

  She and Emine leaned in so their heads touched, blond to brown. A hand from each shared a grip on the rim of the screen. After a moment of peering silence, Em pronounced, “He looks kind.”

  “He looks rich,” Margo said. “Check this out.” She turned the image toward me and tapped DD’s wrist. “The watch is a Mont Heurigné. Older model. Collector’s item.” Margo knew her jewelry. “I’d tag it at thirty thousand dollars. Maybe more. He either inherited it or he makes a ton of money. I assume he’s in private practice?”

  I shrugged my ignorance. “What I know is Dirk M. DeHaven, MD, FACS, is a department head at Gilbreth Medical Center. Cardiology.” A heart surgeon, which carried its own freight of irony.

  “You Googled him, of course.”

  “He’s one of the top docs in his field. Pediatric cardiology. Much published. Of international repute. He treated a prince in the Dutch royal family and operated on the nephew of the emir of Qatar. Consults occasionally on medical issues for CNN.”

  “So he’s a macher.”

  I knew what that meant. Back in college Margo had taught me some Yiddish. Hell, I was probably the only half-Irish, half-Italian American woman with a house on the ocean who could tell someone, in beautifully articulated Yiddish, to go shit in it. Gay cocken offen yom. So macher was a snap. Maker. A major player.

  “And the personal life of this jet-setting healer?”

  “Divorced. Didn’t say how long. That’s from the email. He also wrote, ‘There’s lots more, Jack, but I don’t want to overwhelm you with information in our first exchange.’ Something like that.”

  “I like him already.” That was from Emine, of course. “And how old did you say he is?”

  “Forty-eight,” I muttered reluctantly.

  Muttered and reluctantly because I’d predicted what was coming next and from what source. Margo was shooting sparks from every pore. “Single and couldn’t be more in your age range, the bio progenitor of your only child. If Shakespeare had been born in the twenty-first century, he would have written this play.” I didn’t ask, tragedy or comedy? “Oh God, I feel a heat wave coming on.”

  “Order an iced macchiato,” I snapped.

  “No more coffee for me. All the caffeine is sending my bladder into spasms.” She slid out of the booth and onto her feet. “I’m heading up to pee.”

  Margo had a thing about public restrooms, which she declared were germ-infested cesspools, even the one offered at the Vatican when she and Pete had had an audience with the pope. Who knew what cardinal had committed what sins before planting his behind on what seat? She generally insisted on using a bathroom in the Haydars’ apartment above the store.

  Em said, “I cleaned the ones down here myself half an hour ago. Nobody’s used the ladies’ room since then.”

  “Fine. But don’t you dare discuss anything important until I get back. CNN announced a comet coming on a path so close to earth it could wipe out the human race. Chat about that.”

  As she sashayed across the room, I figured we were safe.

  I turned back to Emine. “Did you have your talk with Adnan after the party?” I noticed the tremor in her hands and laid mine over hers.

  “I gave him bloody hell for letting Merry out of his sight. What was he thinking?”

  The sun in the café was splintering into shadows. It was nearly five, slow time at a coffee shop. The crowd would pick up again for dessert after dinner. Adnan was lettering the menu board for the evening’s special, pomegranate cheesecake. When he saw me look his way, he waved with the marking pen. I waved back, wondering if he knew we were talking about him.

  Emine’s voice lowered as she replayed her telling him about the scene in Margo’s kitchen. “The skirt rolled up. How the boys were clapping and laughing. You know what he said?” She turned a pinch of index finger and thumb against her lips as if she were twisting a key. “Nothing. For half an hour, nothing. He sits in front of the computer, staring at a soccer game from Turkey. Then he follows me into the bedroom and he tells me he has the answer. Definitely the answer for the problems with Meryem.”

  Margo had peed fast, not wanting to miss anything. Em, across from me, was facing in the opposite direction and didn’t see her trotting on the return. I gave my head a quick, subtle shake, but Em missed it. She was saying, “And then he tells me that—”

  “Who tells you what?” Margo loomed over us.

  I intervened. “Wolf Blitzer tells her that if the comet does hit the earth, he hopes it lands on your back lawn.”

  “Very funny.” Margo plunked herself down across from Em, eyes narrowed. “So, what’s the big secret?”

  Emine knew it was useless to resist, and she was up to the part she was eager to share. “Adnan wants to bring his mother here.” She paused to let that sink in. “For the summer, at least.” Another pause. “To keep an eye on Meryem.”

  Margo said, “Oh shit. Selda’s coming to Tuckahoe? But she was here just three years ago and you haven’t recovered from that invasion yet.”

  “This visit has a purpose, Adnan says. Meryem has become more difficult over the past months.” Em dashed a look at me that I knew was a reminder to keep the secret of the events in the kitchen. My head bobbed my guarantee. “He believes Selda can guide Meryem away from trouble. She has a strong hand, he says.”

  “And a big mouth, did he also say?” Margo snapped.

  “To him, his mother is an expert at setting limits. At setting fires, I answered back.”

  Margo grabbed a handful of pistachios from a bowl on the table. “So Selda would apply some Turkish muscle, huh?” She cracked a shell between her perfectly aligned, brilliantly capped teeth. “Well, think about it, Em. It might not be the worst idea in the world.”

  “It is the worst in the universe.” Emine bristled. “You know my mother-in-law plays the queen, wanting everyone to bow to her. Me first. She hates women. She never had a daughter. Four spoiled sons but not one daughter.”

  “She really does have the people skills of a boa constrictor,” I added.

  “She’ll drive me crazy. Meryem will go—what does she call it? Ballistic. My mother-in-law is always seeing problems. Merry eats too much sugar. Her face will break out. Her feet are too big. Her voice is too loud. And Selda hasn’t seen her in three years. She will be shocked at what she finds. Everything will be my fault, of course. It always is.” She pulled a sigh. “I know she will only add to the trouble. I have told Adnan absolutely not, but he refuses to give up. He wants me to think it through. Then we will talk about it calmly and I will see his side. This is what he tells me. He doesn’t realize I am putting my foot down on this.”

  We all lapsed into a moment’s silence in honor of Em’s foot.

  “I’ve come to a conclusion,” Margo finally drawled. “Men are idiots. Irresistible idiots, but idiots. Or maybe we’re the idiots, because we don’t understand the entire gender and we still give them so much power.”

  At which point, as if to underline her theory, Emine’s iPhone sounded, playing a sweet Turkish melody that signaled an incoming email.

  She looked at the screen curiously at first. When she gave me a sly smile I had the feeling it was something more than an ad from Zappos.

  “We just had a new online sign-up for tomorrow night’s class,” she said, her voice singing a light melody.

  “I thought you already closed class,” I said. “We’re only twenty-four hours away.”

  Em said, “I removed the sign-up sheet from the front desk, but with all that is going on at home, I forgot to pull it off online. But I don’t say I’m sorry. Take a look.” She handed me her phone.

  “Wh
at? Who?” Margo leaned so close we brushed shoulders, blending our vapors of Poison and Eternity. “Oh . . . my . . . God.” She swept the fringe of bangs back from her eyebrows and squinted as if she hadn’t read it right the first time. She inhaled theatrically and on the exhale murmured, “Scott Goddard.” She turned to me. “Scott—the handsome hero—Goddard. Well, well, well. Now, what do we make of this, Nora?”

  My skin, the perpetual traitor, gave away that I made something of it. Redheads wear their emotions on their faces in neon pink.

  Margo took in the splash of color and pounced. “For two years no one sees hide nor hair of him and suddenly he pops up without warning. What’s that all about? I wonder.”

  I hadn’t told her about the brief encounter at the farmers’ market. The last thing I needed was Margo analyzing green beans as if they were tea leaves. She knew, or suspected, too much already.

  But it had to be more than a coincidence, I told myself, my running into Scott on Saturday and him enrolling in my ballroom class on Monday.

  “Also, notice please,” Margo was barreling on, munching pistachios for fuel, “he didn’t sign up as the Goddards. Or as Mr. and Mrs. Goddard. Or as Scott and Bunny Goddard. Just him.”

  I had noticed. Immediately.

  “We’ve got a mystery,” Margo exulted. “Scott solo. No Bunny.”

  “No mystery.” I tried to put the skids on her. “Bunny hated that class.”

  I remembered my conversation with Scott at the intake interview. He was there because one of his docs at the VA hospital had recommended ballroom dancing to improve his balance and coordination on his new leg. His wife had agreed to come along, he’d told me, but she wasn’t thrilled about it. She might change her mind, I’d responded. It was fun. And from my experience, dancing together was good for a marriage. Leading, following, anticipating moves made you sensitive to your partner’s feelings. Scott had shrugged. “I suppose anything’s possible.”

  Margo said now, “Didn’t she tell Bobby that dancing with her own husband was bad enough, but the idea of partnering with the other students made her skin crawl?”

  “Her exact words.” I paused, stopped by the weirdness of what I was about to say. “And she hates music.”

  “She hates music? Which kind? Opera? The rap?” Emine asked.

  “All music.”

  Em’s jaw dropped to the rim of her glass. “What person hates all music?”

  “Someone with no soul,” Margo said.

  I shrugged. “Of course, she also hates me, probably more than music.”

  “I wonder why.” Margo again, using her most slithery tone.

  I ignored all her pointed wondering. “She probably said to Scott, ‘You want to go to that crap class, you go. But count me out.’” I took a sip of water to calm the pounding of my heart and pronounced with more confidence than I felt, “Mystery solved.”

  “Maybe it’s that simple.” Margo raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Maybe not.” She grinned devilishly as she added, “I hope not.” Then she turned to Em. “As for you, missy, don’t let Adnan steamroll you into two months in hell with that bitch. How do you say ‘bitch’ in Turkish?”

  Em choked out, “Kaltak.”

  “With that kaltak, then. Don’t you dare cave.”

  A slow smile curled Emine’s beautiful lips. “Yes, I think of her that way in my mind. But to say it aloud”—she released a puff of air—“feels good. Thank you, Margo. I will not cave in on this. You give me courage.”

  “That’s what I’m here for,” Margo said. “We,” she corrected. “That’s what we’re here for. Right, Nora? For each other.”

  Oh, for heaven’s sake. As if I couldn’t see the setup. Next she was going to ask me for my take on Pete’s behavior at the party yesterday. Had I seen signs of his cheating? No. Not definitive ones, anyway.

  “That we are,” I said, reaching for something and landing in the pistachios. “For better or for worse. Till death do us part.”

  Margo shot me a nasty look as she drained her glass. “Kaltak,” she said.

  chapter eleven

  Maybe he’d accidentally left off the s in “Goddard” when he registered, I told my reflection in the locker room mirror five minutes before the start of the summer’s first Tuesday night class. Should I steel myself for two hours with Bunny, her pink nose twitching distain for me, or with Scott on his own? As I slipped into my Capezio dancer’s heels, I couldn’t make up my mind which possibility was more nerve-racking.

  To the point that I’d worked myself into something akin to stage fright. My palms were sweaty, a condition not recommended for a sport conducted hand in hand. Deep breath, slow breath, I instructed myself as I pasted a smile on my face and entered the studio, already milling with a chattering, laughing crowd.

  All that agita for nothing, I thought as I made the rounds. Welcoming everyone personally, oohing and aahing over photos of the newest grandchild, or boat, or remodeled deck, I silently ticked off seven of my eight registrants present and accounted for. Scott Goddard was AWOL.

  Tom Hepburn had been a helicopter pilot in Vietnam, and as the father of five daughters not much got past him. He must have caught my fascination with the door.

  “Nora,” he said, as he moved in to clasp my hand. “You get prettier every year. Black becomes you. Sexy but classy.”

  I always wore a dress to teach ballroom, one with a skirt that swirled, but not too high, on the turns. Observing my positioning from the knee down helped my students mimic my steps. Besides, I had good legs and I liked to show them off.

  Yes, I’d made an extra effort to select something special for the first night of class. Your first impression is the lasting impression, I’d quoted Sister Loretta to myself as I’d combed through my closet. That was the reason for the pile of rejects on my bed. Not Scott Goddard, the married man. And not searching for sexy, despite Tom Hepburn’s cheeky compliment.

  Did I hear a snort emanate from the far side of heaven, where the vigilant nun was keeping God’s ledger and a wary eye on me?

  “Like the new hairstyle, too,” Tom said.

  I’d drawn it away from my face into a chignon of curls at the back of my neck, but left a few coppery wisps to frame my face.

  “With your hair pulled back that way, you look a lot like my second wife, and she was a knockout. Really, she almost knocked me out. Permanently. I had two heart attacks during her reign of terror. But she was beautiful.”

  Single at seventy-five, with a fan following of widows, he liked to practice his flirting on me.

  “Tom,” I said, “charming as always.”

  “Okay, we can put the shovels away now,” he replied, eyes twinkling.

  For a moment, I was distracted by noises coming from the hall. When the footsteps faded, I turned back to Tom, who said, “I wouldn’t hold up the proceedings for Colonel Goddard. He phoned me this afternoon to tell me he was running late.”

  Ah, right. Tom and Scott both hung out at Tuckahoe’s VFW hall. There was a three-decade span between their ages, but the country had been entangled in enough wars, military interventions, and skirmishes over the last half century to land the two vets in the same place at the same time. I’d heard they were buddies. I just didn’t know how close.

  “He asked me to make his apologies, in case he doesn’t make it.”

  “He’s okay? I mean the leg is?”

  “Leg is fine,” Tom said. “There was some kind of adjustment last winter, but that’s working out. No, he had some appointment near D.C. today. Drove up this morning with the best intentions of making it back in time. But you can never predict traffic on the Bay Bridge from June on. He wouldn’t want you to hold things up for him.”

  Him, I said to myself, just him. Remembering my manners, I asked, “And Bunny, she’s all right?”

  “I expect so. You do know her mother passed?
In January at the Coastal Hospice.”

  “I didn’t know,” I said. “But I am sorry. I heard she was a nice lady.”

  “Very. The mom.” Tom made the distinction clear. We exchanged knowing smiles.

  “So, I guess she’s still in mourning. That could be why she’s not taking the class. Bunny, I mean.”

  Tom threw me a puzzled look. “Taking the class? Under the circumstances, I’d doubt it, wouldn’t you?”

  “Right. Dancing was like torture to her.” And I was the torturer with the leg irons and the thumbscrews.

  “Oh my, you are out of the loop,” he said. “I thought you would have at least—”

  He never got to finish the sentence, because at that moment my assistant Bobby DeCarlo glided up and slid between us tapping his watch. “At ease, Major,” he barked at Tom. To me: “It’s twenty past, sweetheart. This chatty little crowd will schmooze forever if you let them. Another five minutes, they’re going to want coffee and Danish.”

  “I’m ready.”

  “Then let’s herd the cats.” And he was off, clapping for attention.

  “Save me a foxtrot, my dear,” Tom Hepburn said.

  I squeezed his hand. “Consider it saved.”

  He stared at me, eyes narrowing, mouth a cryptic curl. “Then again, he could show up,” he said. “You never know.”

  I stretched my hands in a wide air embrace of the lineup in front of me. “Hello, brave souls,” I said. My glance skipped from face to face, almost all of them familiar.

  The Powells, who’d been in my very first class and had re-upped for every session since, were beaming. “Some of you are old hands at this,” I said.

  “And old feet,” Morty Felcher rang out. “Four years and counting for us and we love it more every year. Right, Marsha?” His wife nodded.

  “Next year Morty’s going to take over teaching the Latin dances,” I joked. “And then we’ll all join him and Marsha on a cruise to the Bahamas.”

  A few years back, their turns polished by twice-a-week private lessons, the Felchers had won a rumba trophy on the Princess of the Seas. The story of their triumph made the Coast Post. It was a big deal for them.