by Toby Devens
“That’s what he said.” But Bunnicula was baaaaack!
“Stop squinting, Nora. It’s dark, so you won’t see anything anyway. And your mind will play tricks. Jump to conclusions. I said don’t look at them.” She reached over and, with a single finger, lifted my chin so I was forced to focus on a purple spiral soaring, then spraying a thousand amethyst sequins overhead.
For the next half hour I sat glum and quiet, occasionally turning to catch an indecipherable flash of Scott and Bunny when the sky lit up. At the finale, stars of spangles and stripes of iridescence unfurled the American flag against a black velvet sky, giving way to splurges of color that erupted against a fusillade of cannon booms. From the bandstand at the end of Margate Avenue, a rousing rendition of Sousa’s “Stars and Stripes Forever” thundered over the beach. And I found myself silently weeping. Over the beauty of it, the meaning of it. How we had to fight to preserve it. And how many had paid so much over the centuries. Their lives. Their legs. It was partly about Scott Goddard, of course. Which Margo, as a woman and a friend, knew. She reached into the pocket of her hoodie and handed me a balled-up, probably used tissue.
After the lamplights on the boardwalk reset from dim to bright, and the crowd was lit sufficiently to make its way safely off the beach, the three of us stood and, in synch, Margo and I swiveled to check out the plaid blanket. Bunny was gone. But Scott was standing there, staring at the ocean, or at us, or at me. I couldn’t tell. Margo put her hand protectively around my shoulder and hugged me to her. Her tone was bitter. “I don’t care if he is a wounded warrior. Screw him.”
chapter twenty-one
There was some kind of summer respiratory virus going around. It started with a sore throat that turned to a cold that became a cough. Nasty bug. Larissa was down with it, so I taught her Tuesday morning Zumba class, made up mostly of young mothers who for an extra seven bucks could park their kids in the playroom, which Sal had fitted out with cribs, toys, and sitters.
By the time I finished with the cooldown, I’d run myself and the moms ragged but exhilarated. For me, the mood lasted as long as it took to spot the message light winking in the heap of stuff in my cubby, grab my iPhone, and punch up Scott Goddard—damn, I’d missed his call—telling me he was so sorry but he wouldn’t be able to make it to class that night. I remembered his warning me that he might cancel last minute, but still it smarted when he said he was working on a project that had turned out to be more complicated than he’d anticipated. He was up to his neck in it. His words. I’d seen the project leaning against his legs on the beach the night before and I imagined he was up to something. He signed off with, “I’ll explain when we have time to talk. Apologies again, Nora. Send my best to the gang.”
The gang was down by three that evening: Larissa, Scott, and Tom Hepburn, who was home waiting for a return call from his doctor to see if his X-rays showed pneumonia. The atmosphere was subdued as everyone squirted hand sanitizer after each change of partners. I ended class early when Morty Felcher spun himself into a coughing fit doing the Lindy Hop and Marsha was concerned he might have cracked a rib.
I got home to find the door to Jack’s room open and my son on his laptop Skyping.
“Hey, Mom,” he called me in and over. “You’re home early. I’m on with Jennifer.” When I blanked on that, he ducked away to whisper, “Sixteen’s daughter. Older one.” He pulled me into the picture to introduce me.
I gave her a smile, which probably resembled the rictus on a death mask. She gave me back a flash of perfect teeth, and the hair toss that’s reflexive with beautiful women. If the looks didn’t seize your attention, that flipping of the hair, especially sun-streaked California blond, would hijack it.
“With Dirk coming in this weekend,” Jack said, “Jen figured she’d better clue me in about her dad. You know, like how being a scientist type, he’s kind of dorky.”
Dorky Dr. Dirk DeHaven Donor Dude. Margo would relish that.
“I’m not going to pull out all the skeletons in the closet,” Jennifer said. “Whoa, look at your face, Jack. Your mom’s going to think you’ve got an ax murderer as an ancestor. Hey, every family’s got their secrets, right? I’ll let Dad tell you about”—she faltered here—“whatever he’s ready to share, whenever.”
I laughed lightly, dutifully, then said into the camera, “Well, I’ve got some reading to do. Have a good talk, you two.” We finished with the standard amenities, and when I left, Jack jumped up to close the door behind me. In the hall, I heard the scrape of his chair, then laughter, hers and his.
The next few days were spent wondering, What are we in for here? My son was obviously nervous and euphoric simultaneously. He was whistling pretty much nonstop when he was home. The same song over and over. Lon had been a big Beatles fan and Jack was weaned on the Abbey Road album. Now he was stuck like a phonograph needle on scratched vinyl playing “Here Comes the Sun.”
He was happy—I got that. But how subliminal was his choice of tunes? Was this his theme for the Donor Dude’s visit? “Here Comes the Son”?
Meet this afternoon to talk?
The text came in from Scott Thursday morning while I was loading the dishwasher. I stood for a mesmerized moment, snapped out of it, and typed, Sorry. Teaching classes this afternoon. I caught myself before I hit send and deleted “sorry” because women say sorry too often for things they shouldn’t be and really aren’t sorry for. I substituted the active, confident “Busy.” Which was true.
Larissa was still down for the count with the virus hanging around her vocal cords so she couldn’t bark, “Move, move, move. Lift the legs. Ach, lenivaya!” Which meant “lazy” in Russian and became a catchphrase among her masochistic devotees. “Lenivaya!” they’d shout at one another as they danced, laughing.
I was scheduled to teach her Zumba Toning class, a wipeout hour of cross-body workout with weights. That was at one. At three, I’d get a respite, her Golden Zumba class for the senior set. Low-level, low-impact, it provided a decent cardio workout and revved up the metabolism.
I could have fit the colonel in at two. Why was I postponing? Why didn’t I meet him and get it over with? A few minutes of ending it and we could pick up where we’d left off a few years before. Just dancing.
There’s a sacrament in the Catholic Church for penance and reconciliation, and my instinct said that’s what Scott Goddard was setting me up for. First he’d report reconciliation—as in he and Belinda were back together. Then he’d ask for forgiveness for leading me on. I’d hand out penance, two Our Fathers and two Hail Marys, absolve him of his sins, and send him home to work out the details of his deal with the devil.
Except I wasn’t in the mood to hear confession. Or maybe he just wanted to let me know he was dropping the Tuesday night class. I didn’t want to hear that either.
A trill signaled his next incoming: Understood. We’ll catch up soon.
I let him have the last word and was grateful for the distraction of Larissa’s two classes so I didn’t have to think about my past, present, and lack of future with Scott. Home by four thirty, exhausted, I rummaged through the bookshelf in the great room and picked up one of the two copies of the book Emine and Margo had each given me for Christmas. I finally decided I needed to read Embrace Your Fabulous You. I probably should have read it on New Year’s Eve instead of drinking a split of champagne solo with my Lean Cuisine and falling asleep right after Jeopardy!
It was a gorgeous afternoon. I hit the deck, stretched out on the lounge chair, my ancient boom box on the table beside me playing my favorite tapes, while I slogged through the chapters entitled “Why Me and What Next?,” “Self Sabotaging: How to Stop It,” and “My Body Beautiful.” I’d just turned the page to “My Magnificent Brain” when I thought I heard the doorbell gonging through Sarah Vaughan’s “Tenderly.” I muted the music and tuned in to the crunch of bushes parting and the crackle of twigs from the path that ran
along the side of the house. Before my magnificent brain was able to register a visitor, he materialized.
“Nora?”
He might have shouted, “Surprise!” and thrown confetti for the way my pulse bounced with astonishment at seeing him. Scott Goddard had one foot planted on the bottom step of my deck and was leaning toward me, scanning my face.
“You okay? I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You didn’t,” I lied. “You just surprised me.”
“I rang the bell. A few times. No answer, so I figured you weren’t home. And then I thought as long as I was here, I’d get a look at the beach view you raved about. When I heard music coming from this direction, not Jack’s kind either, I made enough noise so you’d hear me—well, you’d hear someone—coming.” He gestured toward the path with his water bottle. “That pyracantha could use a good trimming. And you might want to have someone clear out the underbrush. It’s smothering your impatiens.”
The first curl of a smile dared to form at the corners of his mouth. “Now, if you were the enemy, I would have approached in stealth mode. But we’re friends.” He paused the unscrolling of the smile. “We are still friends, right?”
The sun had caught him in a blinding spotlight. I let him bake in it for a moment. “That depends,” I said.
“On?”
“On your definition of ‘friends.’”
He thought about that for a moment. “Fair enough. Sounds like we’re due for a talk.”
Another talk. The recent ones had featured reports that had shaken up my life. These days, I seemed to have my own personal CNN, news twenty-four/seven. But Scott was another story. One I might not have wanted to, but needed to, hear out.
He darted a glance to the second floor, scouting for spies, I supposed. “We could walk on the beach . . .”
The sun was waning. A high-wind forecast for evening was already stirring. The stretch of sand fronting the private homes on Surf Avenue, from Mooncussers Rock to the gull rookery, was rarely crammed, but now it was almost deserted. Every slice of summer day here offered pleasure, but this hour was one of the most delicious.
Scott looked at me, hat in hand, a Greek fisherman’s cap that he’d swept off politely when he first saw me and now nervously fingered around the braid.
“Sure,” I said.
He slapped on his white cap and followed me down the steps and onto the narrow path. When we were on level sand, we walked side by side. He wanted to talk, he’d told me, but for a while we ambled in silence, just letting the scene happen around us.
Finally, Scott said, “I heard Belinda ran into you on the beach the other night.”
I let that statement steep for a minute like green tea, and pulled it just before it turned bitter. “Not exactly ran into,” I said. “We didn’t say hello. She stopped just long enough to piss off my friend Margo.”
He licked perspiration from his upper lip. “Pete Manolis’s wife, right. Belinda doesn’t like her. She thinks Margo’s got a smart mouth.”
I wasn’t about to give Bunny’s assessment a pass. “Margo’s smart in a good way.” I defended my friend.
He nodded. “Belinda didn’t mention seeing you two until I was driving her to the airport this morning. That’s when I started adding things up. Did Pete tell you we bumped into each other on the boardwalk? Yeah, of course he did. And then I find out you saw Belinda on the beach. I was concerned you may have put two and two together and come up with six.”
“She outed you.” My laugh was weak.
“Wrong. I haven’t been hiding anything. There’s nothing to hide.” He stooped to pick up a sand dollar, brushed it off, and pocketed it. He was marking time, I thought, measuring out his words before he let them go. Once said, never unsaid. “It may be too late, Nora, but you should know the truth.”
I crossed my arms in the universal signal of self-defense.
He was a soldier; he soldiered on. “You know my mother-in-law, late, ex, whatever, died a couple of years ago. Nice lady. Belinda’s an only child and she inherited everything, including the house. It was on the market for a long time and it finally sold last month. Belinda came up from Florida to clear it out. She asked me to help, and the truth is, I try to keep the peace. It’s easier and I have the kids to consider.”
I knew about considering kids.
“In fact, my daughter drove in from Baltimore to lend a hand. She’s good with her mother, but in small doses. So Liz stayed with me. Belinda slept at the old house.” A factoid inserted for my benefit, I thought. “The three of us were supposed to go to the fireworks together. Then Liz opted out last minute. But we were already set up on the beach, so . . .”
“Yes, you looked pretty chummy on that blanket, you and Bunny.” Oh, what the hell? Did I really have anything to lose?
“What?” He stopped, I stopped, and he spun to face me. “Nora, I don’t know what you think you saw, but nothing ‘chummy’ happened. I don’t do chummy with Belinda.”
It had been dark. I hadn’t been sure.
He went on. “Not that I wouldn’t put it past her to try to make you jealous. You’ve been a thorn in her side since the day you two met. Which is understandable, given your, well, assets.”
Or maybe Bunny was a mind reader, I thought as Sister Loretta nudged a cloud of guilt down from the pearly gates. It drifted off almost immediately.
“Listen,” Scott said, “the thing is, I was trained to impart information on a need-to-know basis. But I think I miscalculated this time. I should have laid this out for you earlier. Before . . . before that last dance.”
His blue eyes grew somber. “There’s nothing between Belinda and me. Whatever it takes to make a relationship hasn’t been there for years. Except for the legal connection—and that’s ended—and the kids, of course, which never ends, there’s been nothing. In either direction,” he said pointedly. “That’s all behind me. I thought—I hoped—you and I were ahead.”
Okay, maybe only one Hail Mary and an act of charity.
“She’s gone for good?” With vampire Bunniculas, you had to be sure they wouldn’t rise again to suck the life out of you if the occasion called for it.
“For good. The house is cleaned out, the settlement’s signed, and”—he checked his watch—“she arrived in Orlando at noon. I probably won’t see her again until Liz’s wedding, and that’s a year from September. Her fiancé’s an Annapolis alum so it’s a big wedding in the Naval Academy chapel.” And then, out of the wild blue yonder, Scott asked, “Wanna be my date?”
I flashed him a look to see if he was teasing. His eyes were twinkling. But maybe he was serious. Either way, I had to laugh. Had to, as in could not contain my laughter. Joke or genuine, the invitation deserved it, and with the release of all my bottled-up resentment and disappointment over Bunny on the beach, a crazy joy bubbled up and out. Scott reared back to watch me, one eyebrow raised, which struck me as hilarious, and I cracked up completely, which set him off, and we leaned against each other, laughing helplessly for at least a minute. After we quieted, he turned and nodded, ready to move on.
It was five o’clock, I could make out from his watch. The arsenic hour, we’d called it when Jack was a preschooler and got fussy. Everybody’s sugar dips in late afternoon. But my dopamine, the happiness hormone, had to be off the charts, and I was suddenly starved. I had cheese in the fridge and crackers in the cupboard and an invitation of my own to issue. No wine tonight, though. The way I felt—way too reckless—wine was dangerous. I offered Scott lemonade, a simple gesture of hospitality. He accepted.
He took my hand as we walked back to the house and was reluctant to break the link as he settled in a chair on the deck. “I have to let you go so you can get the lemonade, right?” He was grinning. “Why don’t we forget the lemonade?”
He was tugging me into his lap as Jack hollered from inside, “Mom, you home?�
� It sounded as if he was calling up from the bottom of the stairs. He must have spotted my handbag on the hall table.
Scott dropped my hand. “I’m on my way,” he said, up and out of his chair. I had to laugh—I’d never seen anyone go vertical faster.
“It’s okay.” I decided my son would learn to deal. Finally something was nudging me to get back in the game.
“No need to rush,” I said to Scott (and maybe to me). “Really. Stay.”
He sat down, but gingerly, positioned to jump up and make a break for it if necessary.
“You sure you’re okay with this?”
I answered by calling, “We’re out here, Jack,” and plunked myself down in the chair next to Scott’s.
The screen door slid open with a creak that told me it needed a shot of WD-40.
Credit to my son, he didn’t lose his cool when he emerged to see the two of us seated side by side. I turned to show him my eyebrows raised in a classic “don’t mess with me” expression, one I used sparingly and, like my hisper, made the point.
“Hey, Mom.” If he felt anything beyond mild surprise, he contained it. He bobbed an acknowledgment as he added, “Colonel.”
“Make it Scott,” my visitor said, establishing territory with familiarity.
“Sure. Scott. Just stopping by to grab my Coneheads apron. You want me to bring home a couple of gallons of rocky road?” he asked me. “We’re almost out.”
“One gallon of rocky road. And one vanilla.” You never knew when someone vanilla might drop by.
Then Jack was gone with a wave. No scene. No attitude.
The next thing Scott said was generous, considering that the slam-bang of the window last week had been their introduction. “Good kid you have there.”
I thought of those men and women who at nineteen had given, or were prepared to give, limb or life for their country, and I said, “Good, yes. But still a kid.”