Enough was enough. Who was she kidding? Caroline was a landlubber, unsuited to exploring the mysteries of the sea—except for maybe from the comfort of her own living room, where she could watch Jacques Cousteau documentaries. She had plenty of photos for her article. There was little point of prolonging the dive—or her discomfort. She motioned to Javier and pointed back to shore. He shot her a thumbs-up before holding up ten fingers to indicate he wouldn’t be much longer. She waved before kicking off.
They liked to joke that the Kahlil Gibran saying about maintaining “spaces in your togetherness” was the key to any good relationship. But Caroline believed in it, just like she believed in the restorative power of summer vacation or the medicinal punch of a red sauce for a cold. She and Javier enjoyed many of the same things, but it was also fine—and necessary—that they had their own interests. Snorkeling, Caroline decided as she flippered back to shore, was one hobby that Javier could keep for himself.
9
Abby dug her toes into the soft pink sand and wondered if she’d ever grow tired of Bermuda. It was hard to imagine. The abundant sunshine, the slower idle of island time, and that marvelous turquoise water. She tried to envision herself as a lady of leisure, drifting in and out of her days, no schedule to hew to, no children to take to and from sporting events or orthodontist appointments. It sounded tempting. But, as with all good things, there would inevitably be something to complain about—maybe the unrelenting heat or how there was seldom a rainy day. The chance of a rogue hurricane sweeping through.
She dug out the novel she’d brought along, one of her all-time favorites, George Eliot’s Middlemarch. It was, admittedly, a bit of an odd choice for vacation, but Abby was revisiting the classics this summer. Already, she’d polished off The Great Gatsby and To Kill a Mockingbird. Next up was George Orwell’s Animal Farm.
She opened the book and began to read: Miss Brooke had that kind of beauty which seems to be thrown into relief by poor dress. What a wonderful opening line! Abby kept reading, perfectly content to be alone while Sam bodysurfed with the boys. Every so often, they would race out to pat the salt water from their eyes, and Abby would offer a small wave of acknowledgment. It seemed to be all that was demanded of her at the moment. Heaven.
She continued reading, but found herself growing impatient with the book’s main character. Even after all these years, Dorothea Brooke was making the same dumb mistakes when it came to men. Intellectually, Abby understood that this was the same novel she’d read in college, and so nothing, really, could change. Intuitively, though, she thought of Dorothea as a friend (as she did all her favorite characters), and so there was a part of her that had expected Dorothea to learn from her past mistakes, just as any smart woman would. That Dorothea was falling for the stuffy Casaubon all over again was disheartening. Abby wished she could reach through the pages and centuries and shake some sense into her.
Just as she was about to set the book aside, a shadow fell across her page. She glanced up to find Caroline, standing in front of her and shaking her hair out. She dropped her snorkeling gear in a heap on the sand.
“Well, hello there. How was it? Have fun?” Abby marked her place in the book and tucked it back in her bag.
Caroline gave her hair a final wring, sending a small ripple of water down onto the sand. “Well, I survived.” She grinned. “We actually saw some beautiful fish. Javier’s still out there. Where’s the rest of the gang?”
Abby’s eyes skimmed the water. “Let’s see . . . Lee and Lacey went in search of snacks. Sam and the boys are those three little heads bobbing in the waves over there.” She pointed, and Caroline squinted in the same direction. “They’re bodysurfing.”
“If you say so,” Caroline said with a laugh. “They look like gulls or maybe buoys to me.”
Abby patted the towel next to her. “Here, come sit with me. Keep me company.” Caroline collapsed beside her. Abby waited a moment before diving in. “So? How are things with you and Javier? Good?”
“Ha!” Caroline held one arm out in front of her and stretched it across her chest, as if snorkeling had given her a cramp. “I knew it was a trick. Invite me to keep you company and then grill me about Javier.”
“Got me,” Abby conceded. “But that doesn’t change anything. I still want to know how things are between you two.”
Caroline pulled her knees up to her chest and rested her chin on her hands. “Honestly? It changes from day to day, hour to hour, even. We’re having fun. The cruise has been so nice—it’s good to hang out with you guys and get away from work. We’re relaxing, you know? Beyond that? I’m not really sure.”
Abby leaned back on her elbows. “What are you going to do? Any more thoughts about the ‘getting married’ part?” Caroline had confided to her before the trip that if Javier didn’t propose over vacation, she was going to suggest they take a break. It struck Abby as an odd time to suddenly declare an ultimatum, but then again, she understood her friend’s impatience. Three years seemed ample time for Javier to know if Caroline was the One. What was he waiting for? Apparently, Caroline had dropped a few hints before the cruise.
“Not really,” Caroline said after a moment. A huge wave crashed onto the shore, and Caroline watched the surf tumble back out to sea, leaving behind long, winding twists in the sand. She’d been so sure that this would be the trip where she and Javier would lay the groundwork for their lives ahead together. But Javier had yet to make any reference to tying the knot, and Caroline was beginning to resent the fact that she might have to be the one to suggest it. Ironically, she’d written an article for Glossy about how, if a man was dragging his feet, a woman should feel free to propose to him. But Caroline realized now that it was different in practice. She didn’t want to be the one to initiate a proposal. A part of her was still old-fashioned; she was waiting for Javier to ask.
She thought back to when she and Javier had first met. At an art show in Manhattan. His company had been supplying the wine, and a writer friend of Caroline’s whose husband owned the gallery had invited her. The paintings had been truly awful, abstract splashes of paint that Caroline could never make sense of, except these had seemed unusually forbidding. Huge canvases of gloomy blacks and moody grays, as if the artist had been working through an argument in his studio.
Caroline stood in front of a painting, her head cocked in mock contemplation, when Javier came up beside her. He leaned in, fished his glasses out of his coat pocket, and read: “Mother with Child.” For a moment he was quiet before stepping back and saying, “I don’t see it, do you?” Caroline stifled a laugh and shook her head. It was exactly what she’d been thinking, searching for any suggestion of a mother or a child in the bold splashes of paint.
“Not really. But I never was good at art.”
“But no one is good at art, per se, right?” he challenged. “It’s all about the effect of a painting on the viewer. If it doesn’t resonate with you, then the painting is not a success.”
She’d never really thought of it that way before, that it was up to the painting to evoke a meaningful response and not the other way around.
“In any case, do you think it’s supposed to be a picture of a woman with child or of a mother and her child?”
Caroline peered more closely. “I hadn’t thought of that, I mean, that the woman might be pregnant.” She’d been searching for a small child, holding her mother’s hand.
Slowly, she let her gaze wander over to the talkative stranger and was surprised to see that he was handsome, with thick wavy hair, olive skin, and some of the brightest blue eyes she’d ever seen. Men hit on Caroline often, largely because that was what men in New York did—it was part of the urban caveman culture, as if securing a woman’s interest branded a capital M for Masculine on their chests. Caroline understood that she was pretty enough, but certainly not stunning in the way that so many Manhattan women were—tall, blond, waifish. She allowed herself to be starstruck for a moment until another thought hit her.
/>
“Uh-oh,” she said, panicking suddenly. “You’re not going to tell me you’re the artist, are you?”
His eyes crinkled. “Not a chance. It’s not my thing. Wine, however, that I could probably tell you a thing or two about.” And he lifted his glass, as if to bid farewell, and walked away.
Later in the evening, after she had enjoyed a few more glasses of wine, he found her again, sitting on a window bench with a view of Central Park and wondering how much longer before she could leave without appearing rude. He sat down next to her. “The paintings? So-so. But the wine?” His eyebrows danced above his bright blue eyes. “Delicious, right?” It made her laugh. Even back then, he’d been charming. He confided that his company was furnishing the wine for the gallery show that night.
“Really?” she asked, suddenly emboldened. “In that case, you’ll have to teach me about a proper vintage.”
“How long do you have?” he teased.
“As long as it takes.”
A few weeks later, they were officially a couple.
She turned to Abby now and sighed. “I was so sure that he was going to propose on the cruise, and if he didn’t, I was going to bring it up.”
“But he still can! It’s only Monday,” said Abby. “Have you? Brought it up, I mean?”
Caroline’s shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Not really. What’s that saying, again? You can’t hurry love?” She traced lazy circles in the sand with her finger. “I just keep hoping that he’ll do it without prompting. I mean, if he can’t get his act together now, when will he? Lee thinks I’m being unreasonable. That I can’t expect him to read my mind. But, honestly, if the man hasn’t figured out I want to marry him by now, then maybe he doesn’t want to get married. At least that’s my worry for today.” She laughed. “I’m sure by tomorrow I’ll have a different one.”
Abby didn’t know what to say. It did concern her that Javier hadn’t asked her what kind of engagement ring Caroline might like. But then again, Caroline was the kind of person who’d probably already drawn him a diagram of the exact ring she wanted. It was possible that Javier was one of those guys who wanted to spend his life with Caroline but was averse to getting married. Abby knew a handful of men like that.
She sighed. “I’m sure you guys will figure it out,” she said finally. “There’s still plenty of time left in our vacation. And, hey, if he doesn’t propose this week, maybe he will when you’re back in New York.”
“So you’re saying I should give him an extension if he doesn’t propose on the cruise?” Caroline secretly wondered if she’d be brave enough to end things if Javier didn’t meet her deadline.
Abby thought back to the loving way that Javier had placed his hand on the small of Caroline’s back at dinner the other night, or the way Caroline lit up whenever he walked into a room. Javier had done countless sweet things for her friend, like filling their apartment with tulips, her favorite flower, on her birthday last year. “I think it’s worth considering,” Abby said finally. “I also think you might want to talk to him sooner than later. Just in case he doesn’t know that you’re, you know, expecting a proposal.”
Caroline was quiet for a moment. “It’s funny,” she said. “When I was talking with Lee about it earlier, I was so sure of myself. Javier better propose or else . . . But now talking with you, I don’t know. Maybe I’m missing the whole point of this companionship thing.” She dug her toes into the sand. “I guess I sound pretty pathetic for a modern woman, huh? Why should I care so much about getting married?”
Abby arched an eyebrow. She so wanted Caroline to be happy. The question was, What exactly would make her happy? “Maybe because you love Javier so much,” she said now.
There was an awkward lull in the conversation, and Caroline swiped at her eyes. “Yeah, well, hey,” she said, changing the subject. “Two more days and we’ll be back here for your vows ceremony. Do you need help with anything?”
Abby exhaled, happy to table the Javier discussion for later. “Thanks, but we should be all set. Nothing fancy, just a little ceremony on the beach at noon. That should give us plenty of time to enjoy lunch and still make it back to the ship before the sail away at five.”
Caroline flipped over on her stomach and gazed out on the ocean. “You’ve found the perfect spot for it, Abby. Truly. The ceremony will be beautiful.”
But as she sat there, conjuring up a picture of her best friend and Sam on the beach, Caroline’s vision kept getting interrupted. She couldn’t help it—it was an image of herself in a flowing white gown, her hair done up with tiny island flowers. And Javier, tall and tanned in a pale linen suit, standing across from her.
10
When they returned to their cabin, the room had been miraculously transformed. Dirty towels had been whisked away, the beds turned down with mints on the pillows, and the lights dimmed to evening setting. The air smelled faintly of cleanser with a hint of lavender. Abby threw herself on the bed, a princess who needn’t lift a finger.
It felt good to be spoiled for a change. It used to drive her nuts when the boys were little and Sam would walk by their discarded toys or shoes in the living room, as if they were invisible. As if she was the only person in the house whose eyes could focus below waist level. In the scheme of things it seemed trivial now, laughable even. But it had stuck with her all these years. If only life could grant her a kind of quid pro quo—the number of times she’d bent down to retrieve a toy truck or an abandoned sneaker from the floor rewarded by an equal number of years to live. Surely, it would stretch into the hundreds, if not the thousands.
Sam had stepped into the bathroom, and she could hear the tepid spray working in the small shower stall. Abby stretched out on the bed, exhausted. Every pore in her body ached. The sand in her swimsuit itched. Her doctor back in Boston had cautioned her not to overdo it, but she hadn’t given a second thought to a slow, relaxing day under an umbrella at the beach. Fortunately, all that was demanded of her for the remainder of the day was a shower and a quick trivia challenge before dinner.
She rolled over and flipped on the television with the remote. The kids had already complained about the paltry choice of stations, and Abby saw now that it was true. There was Fox News, a few other stations, and a movie channel that appeared to be stuck in the eighties. At the moment, Footloose was playing. She unwrapped a mint and popped it in her mouth while Kevin Bacon strutted across the floor of a high school gym. He was cute in a way that guys in high school who were cool but not necessarily handsome were cute. My boys still have so much to look forward to! The thought ran scattershot across Abby’s mind, making her heart contract into a tight little fist. Would she get to see it all?
So much had already rushed by! From those first days of kindergarten, when Ryan had stood outside the front door and cried until the principal took him by the hand and led him to class (Abby still had a special place in her heart for that kind woman, Mrs. Henderson), all the way to fifth-grade graduation. Abby’s mind swam with the myriad rites of passage in between: the struggles over recorder practice and multiplication tables in third grade. The state capitals in fourth. Robotics in fifth. Though she’d hardly noticed each individual passage at the time—she’d been too busy living it.
Her breath caught, her thoughts spiraling down the rabbit hole that she desperately tried to avoid these days. The boys were sixteen now! Who would make sure the twins’ boutonnieres matched the colors of their dates’ dresses? Who would help them plan a “promposal,” those ridiculous public displays of affection that boys were now responsible for? Who would their dates be? Chris wouldn’t have a problem—he had a different girlfriend every few months. But Ryan? Ryan struggled to be himself around girls. What if he couldn’t find anyone? What if no one said yes?
She climbed off the bed and went to the dresser, searching for the cream leather journal that she’d tucked beneath her T-shirts. She’d yet to open it this vacation, but her intention had been to write things—important things—down as the
y came to her. Stuff that the boys might need to know. Just in case. She fiddled around the desk for a pencil and landed on a pen in the top drawer. She flopped back down on the bed, flipped open the book, and began to write. If you go to prom (and know that it’s OK if you don’t!), please remember these few things . . .
In some ways, she felt as if they’d already left her and she’d taught them all she could. But on other days, in her weaker moments, she worried that she still had so much knowledge to pass along. Would there be enough time? They’d graduate in two more years, and then they were off to college. Did they know right from wrong? Had she taught them to value kindness over all else? To help those whom they could and encourage those whom they couldn’t? Did they know what love was and what it was to be loved?
Yes, those things she thought they carried with them, whether or not she was there to remind them. But what about the other stuff? The ups and downs of jobs, of life, the disappointments and joys of marriage, the unspeakable love that came from being a parent. How could she list all that here? She sighed. Those were life lessons, she supposed. Things they would have to learn for themselves, over time. She prayed she’d given them the courage to get through them with grace.
She was still writing when she heard the shower click off and then back on, as if on second thought. Abby waited and cocked her head toward the door. The bathroom door opened a sliver. “Honey?” Sam called out. Little tendrils of steam spiraled toward the ceiling. “Did you want to get cleaned up?”
The Summer Sail Page 10