Barefoot Beach

by Toby Devens

  We were waltzing to “Rainbow Connection,” sung by Kermit the Frog, our time-honored choice for the last dance of the last class of the summer session, a get-together at the Turquoise Café to follow. For this finale evening I’d chosen, all by myself with no input from my fashion maven, a pale green halter dress that brought out the Irish in me. My hair, brushed loose to the shoulders, was freshly colored copper and as shiny as a newly minted penny. I must have been wearing a smitten look, because it wasn’t only Marsha picking up vibes. Tom Hepburn was sending us sly, fond glances. The old roué knew a romance in session when he saw it.

  At least I was trying to keep it under wraps. Scott didn’t bother to suppress his smile. “Don’t sit next to me at the party,” I said. “Seriously. You’re going to give us away.”

  “You’re just afraid to play footsie with my power leg. And ‘seriously’ back at you, why do we need to hide?”

  “Because this is my business and I don’t think it’s good practice to mix business with pleasure.”

  Which was probably a moot point anyway, because there might not be a business after tonight. On my way into Hot Bods, I’d picked up the mail in my cubby and found a manila envelope with “Now or Never” scrawled on top. Sal Zito. I’d been ducking my landlord for the last week, but he’d outsmarted me. The envelope was heavy. I didn’t open it then. Didn’t want to foul my mood. I knew next year’s contract was inside and I had no idea if I was going to sign.

  Scott, a welcome distraction, was saying, “Pleasure. You are that and so much more to me.”

  So much more. I felt that, too, as Kermit sang about lovers and dreamers and Scott drew me closer. Closer was different now. Sunday in bed had taught us things about each other that only the best sex can teach. Such as my lover was generous. Also adventurous. Which brought out a long-suppressed daring in me. I’d forgotten how much pagan a good Catholic girl could store beneath the surface. I’d never been a wild child, though in my marriage I’d followed a sensual lead. But I was all grown-up and on my own now, and what we’d seen without the artifice—and liked—had created a new intimacy between Scott and me. It showed up in the way we moved together. Perfectly, and with soul.

  Kermit sang about the Rainbow Connection, and I thought maybe—please God, one day I would be miraculously cured of this plague of maybes—just maybe, I’d found it.

  And then Kermit paused the lyrics, our background was all music, and Scott backed up an inch to say, “Okay, I was going to wait to tell you at the café, but since I’m being exiled, I’d better do it now. I got some good news today.” He waited two beats for my prompting nod. “I landed that job I’ve been interviewing for. Consultant to a defense contractor in Bethesda.” He was beaming. “It’s a great fit. Full-time, though I can work at home on certain projects that aren’t top security. And they gave me a signing bonus.”

  “That’s fantastic. I’m so happy for you.” I thought I was, but there were implications. Would that mean he wouldn’t be back in Tuckahoe next summer? Then again, would I?

  “Thanks. I’m pretty excited about it. We should celebrate.”

  “We’re going to. At the café.”

  “That’s a good-bye party. I’m talking about a new beginning here. You know how you christen a ship? You bang it with champagne.” The double entendre made me giggle. “I love your laugh.” His blue eyes went to velvet. “I’ve a bottle of Dom in the fridge and”—pause for dramatic effect—“I’ve left all the lights on.”

  Ah, another après-party party. The invitation was not entirely unexpected, and this time I was dressed for it on all layers. Whoever invented the thong should be strung up by it. Uncomfortable as hell, a vine climbing into a crack. But sexy. Somehow, inexplicably, and incredibly, sexy.

  The Turquoise Café was especially beautiful at night with its swags of gauze drifting like iridescent clouds from the ceiling and the misty light from the patio lanterns casting soft shadows on the walls. It was late on a weekday and the place was only half full. Em, working the espresso machine behind the service counter, looked haggard. When she spotted me at the head of our little parade spilling through the door, she gave her head a slow, mournful shake and slid her gaze toward the force of nature barreling toward us. Selda, the mother-in-law from hell—corset trussed in a stylish black dress at least one size too small, pearl necklace swinging—flourished a hand in greeting. “Welcome to the Turquoise Café. We’ve been expecting you.” She should have been. I’d booked our party with Em a month before.

  Selda herded us to the restaurant’s largest table. Scott slipped into the seat directly across from mine. His wink was discreet, though I heard what I thought was a whisper of aha coming from Marsha on my right. Selda handed out laminated menus decorated with line drawings of Turkish specialties. The menus with a professional polish were an innovation. Customers had always relied on the big board, chalked with the day’s features, or the carry-out trifold Adnan printed out himself.

  When the buzz of settling in didn’t quiet immediately, Selda clapped us into silence. “You are ready to hear tonight’s specials,” she informed us. I’d been scanning the menu. It listed some items I’d never seen before: tavuk adana, skewered ground chicken, and a grilled mixed-meat kebab. At least no calf’s liver with sumac. “Tonight’s special is sucuklu pide, pita bread stuffed with Turkish sausage. The sausage is homemade.” Selda touched a finger to her enormous brooch and dipped what was supposed to be a modest bow. “By me.” She pointed to the door behind the service counter. No wonder Emine was looking as frayed as an antique Turkish carpet. Selda had taken over her kitchen.

  Suddenly, its swinging door flew open and Meryem Haydar flashed an outraged glance at her mother before charging through the dining area like a rogue elephant. You could almost see steam rising from her as she worked to juggle a sponge, a trash bag, a roll of paper towels, and a spray bottle.

  “And you, the picky one, what will you have?” Selda pulled me back to the menu. She’d made the rounds of the rectangular table and I was the last holdout, unable to decide between custard and cake. She drummed a pencil impatiently against the order pad.

  I chose the kűnefe, a cheese pastry made with shredded phyllo. “With extra whipped cream,” I said. It was an “I dare you” addition. I waited for a comment on the width of my hips, but she shrugged and wrote, then couldn’t resist a minor jab. “Extra, extra everything,” she said. “Only in America.” She pronounced it dismissively, as if we were a country of savages.

  The woman had 360-degree vision and now she hissed, “First the sponge and then the paper, Meryem.” Merry was cleaning the table behind us. Teeth clenched, the girl wrung the sponge with extra fervor, as if it was her grandmother’s neck. I tried to catch her eye, but her head was down, chin resting on her chest.

  Selda gave Merry a sharp look and muttered, “‘One who does not slap his children will slap his knees.’ True Turkish saying.”

  “Who or what was that?” Marsha asked, when the battleship had sailed, leaving a froth of astonished chatter in her wake.

  “That,” I said, “was Emine’s mother-in-law.”

  “She’s the spitting image of a sergeant I had when I first joined the Marines,” Tom Hepburn said.

  “And the cleaner is the granddaughter?” Yolanda Powell said. “Poor thing.”

  That’s when I decided it was time for an intervention or two. On my way to Em, I stopped at Merry’s table. “Sweetheart.” I put my hands on her shoulders and leaned in. “What’s going on? You okay?”

  “I’m Cinderfuckingrella, so, like, how can I be okay?” She was spritzing and scrubbing. “Is she watching me?”

  “No, she just went into the kitchen.”

  She put the bottle down. “Look at me, Aunt Norrie. I’m a freak of nature, thanks to her. How do you like the hair?” Her creative spiky do, back to its natural brown and highlighted by Margo’s hairstylist at Margo
’s expense, was slicked back and reined in with a headband. “She wanted me to wear something called a hairnet, but my wuss of a mother finally put her foot down on that. And this penguin getup?” Long-sleeved white blouse, black skirt that fell below her knees. “This is what Adnan calls a compromise? Selda actually wanted me to wear a uniform. An all-white dress, like a nurse or something. She has me working three nights a week. Plus two afternoons. And I get paid squat. Less than the minimum wage. I Googled it. Now she’s talking weekends. Like Saturday nights. If she thinks she’s going to take away my Saturday nights . . .”

  Merry’s breath had become shallow and punctuated with quick little gasps.

  “Hey. Slow down,” I tried to soothe her.

  “I’m . . . not . . . allowed to . . . slow down,” she said. “I don’t know how much more of this I can take. And my mom. I don’t blame her for everything. I really don’t. Selda’s worse to her than to me, even. It’s my dad. He’s, like, bought into all this shit. He thinks his mother is some kind of god. And now she’s talking about staying forever. I swear I’d rather go to Turkey and stay with Mom’s mom, my anneanne, who doesn’t even wear lipstick. I’d rather be anywhere than here.”

  The last time I’d seen Merry cry, she was six years old and fell off a swing, skinning both knees. This wound was deeper. Twin rivulets of tears trailed her cheeks. She swiped them away.

  Selda, wearing a prune face, swept by us on her way to our table with a meze plate. “Wasting time, Merry.” The wicked witch and I traded glares.

  “As soon as I can get your mom alone, I’ll talk to her,” I said.

  “Thanks, Aunt Norrie, but it won’t do any good. She’s a lowly gelin, a daughter-in-law. The only person Selda listens to is my dad. And he’s drunk the Kool-Aid. I’m doomed.”

  I finally cornered Em on our way out.

  “I know, I know,” she said. “Merry’s right. She calls me a wimp. But I have tried. I have even confronted. It does no good. Selda has the last word. Her son gives her that. On a platter.”

  The espresso machine hissed disapproval in the background.

  “The plan was she’d be leaving right after Ramadan, and then we are back to normal. I told Merry, it’s only two weeks more. The light at the end of the tunnel. But now the tunnel is dark and stretches to eternity. Last night Selda announced she needs more time to whip Merry into shape. Whip? She says whip about your child, I tell Adnan. He says he will talk to her but that one has to handle these things carefully, with respect. She’s his mother, after all. And where’s the respect for me, your wife, and for our child, I ask. Be patient, he tells me. Well, my patience is at an end. Tonight I watched her—look now, how she is shaking a finger at Merry. What? My daughter didn’t wipe off the napkin caddy to suit her?”

  She pitched her towel onto the countertop. “That’s it. I just made a decision. If she stays, I go. And I take both kids with me.”

  “Em,” I started, but she talked over me.

  “What is the saying? Women and children first. This is who I have to save. No, my mind is made up. Adnan has one week to make up his. He tells me he will consult with the imam. He says he needs advice as to how to proceed to make everyone happy. Of course such a thing can’t be done. Perhaps the imam will bring him to his senses. If not, my husband will have made the choice. And if he chooses wrong, the next choice will be mine.”

  Outside, I took a deep breath of the salt-tanged air to clear my head. Scott was waiting for me under the streetlamp where we’d made last-minute whispered plans to reconnoiter.

  “Not good, huh? You look upset,” he said as I moved into the haloed light. “Mother-in-law problem?”

  I nodded. “Bad. And it could get worse. I wish there was something I could do, but I don’t see what.”

  “You’re there for your friend. Sometimes that’s the only thing friends can do for friends, be there for them. To listen. And, though I hope it doesn’t come to that, if it falls apart, to help pick up the pieces.” He took my hand and we started walking. “Now, what can I do for you?”

  I knew exactly what he could do for me. I told him part of it. “I could use some of that Dom Pérignon therapy you mentioned.” The other part he didn’t have to hear, the wanting to be held by him that turned into an aching need as soon as I thought it.

  Later, back at his place, we moved from champagne in the living room to something even more intoxicating in the bedroom. For at least a few hours, Scott and what we did together outblazed the crises flaring all over my life. Afterward, as I lay in his arms, my raging heat ebbed to a glowing warmth, I thought that fighting fire with fire really did work, even if it’s just for the moment.

  To make it last and because all the desire I had left was not to move from the spot, I sent my promised “don’t worry” text to Jack, telling him all was fine but I wouldn’t be home that night. He’d texted back: K. No rounded, generous O before it. Just the spiky, spindly, single K.

  He was pissed.

  chapter thirty-three

  I left Scott’s warm bed and arms at seven thirty.

  “Why so early? What’s the rush?” he murmured, lassoing me back from my reluctant crawl to the far edge of the mattress. He drew me close so that our bodies spooned under the light cover. His words were cottony, his longing clear from the way his hand traced the curve of my hips. “I’ll make you breakfast.”

  “Right, well, I know what you want for breakfast.”

  He laughed. “And lunch and dinner. Do you blame me? You’re wonderful. But afterward, pancakes. Or an omelet. I flip a mean omelet. And I have farmers’ market blueberries for dessert. Stay.”

  “Oh, I wish I could.” I turned toward him to stroke his cheek, prickly with overnight stubble, and my heart began to pick up its beat. I tuned it out and untangled myself from his gentle grasp. “But I really need to get back. I have an appointment. People coming over.”

  I didn’t give him details. My face said I wasn’t inviting questions. We dressed. Slugged orange juice. He drove me to my car with jazz tuned on the radio. I took a rain check for an invitation to Sunday breakfast. I reminded him that the Donor Dude was visiting over the upcoming weekend, but I was looking forward to trying the incredible omelet à la Goddard.

  “When?” he asked.

  “Soon,” I promised.

  “Not soon enough.”

  The reason for my rushing off was a call that had come in as I’d headed to class the night before. Flip Tarlow, Margo’s Realtor maven, was thrilled to tell me she had a possible buyer for the place.

  Yes, of course, she remembered that I hadn’t made a decision to sell yet, and she was really sorry about how last-minute this all was, but some prospective buyers had just stopped in her office. It was a walk-in, a “whim-in,” she cutesily called it. A “darling young couple from Philly,” they’d been thinking, just beginning to think, about beachfront property. Something with an existing house, if possible. When Flip told them about Surf Avenue, they were verrrrry interested, they had verrrrry deep pockets, and that combination might not occur again for a loooong time. “Worst case, your beautiful home isn’t right for them.”

  Best case, I’d thought as I nervously chewed a hangnail. I was painfully ambivalent about showing the house.

  “But at least we’ll have their reaction to help us make adjustments when you are ready to move ahead,” Flip had pressed. She hoped a walk-through at ten tomorrow would be convenient.

  “Tomorrow?” My voice had sounded hollow. The way I felt.

  Yes, they were on a tight schedule. No, I didn’t have to be there. She didn’t want me there. I couldn’t imagine the comments people made about other people’s homes. It wasn’t for the faint of heart.

  Good thing Jack wasn’t going to be around. Ethan was going to walk the dogs with him in the morning and then they were going out for the day on the Winslets’ boat.

&nb
sp; While Flip had yammered on, I’d wandered through the house in my head. Through my beautiful great room with the high ceilings and a view of the sea and the shush of the waves lulling me to nap on the white sofa. Through the bedroom with my widow’s walk and the French windows through which a gauzy Lon had drifted in. Though not lately.

  I ripped the hangnail free.

  Flip must have heard me bleeding because she’d crooned, “Darling, you’re not committing to anything. This is a trial run, though I’ve personally experienced buyers making an offer on the spot. Love at first sight. That’s rare, though.”

  She’d emailed me a checklist for the final straightening up. Windex mirrors. Mop the tile floor in entryway. Don’t worry about closets. They looked fine on last visit. As for Jack’s room, just make sure all stray food is picked up. These two were probably young enough to laugh off the standard mess of a college kid. Fresh flowers on the dining room table would be a nice touch. Bathrooms, very important. Nothing on the sink, lots of pastel towels.

  “Also, you could bake something chocolate in the morning. Makes a home smell homey. Or get the spray that smells like cookies in the oven.” She’d said that in an email that arrived while Scott and I were making love.

  Sorry again this was such short notice. But I couldn’t afford to pass anything up, right?

  Oh damn. Right.

  Margo was surprised when I called to ask for refuge on my way home from Scott’s. I didn’t put it that way, of course. I said, “How would you like company this morning?” It was opening day of the annual Tuckahoe Outdoor Craft Show. Margo was a fan of wearable art, handmade quilts, and quirky bead-and-wire sculptures.