But the day went smoothly. Customers were in and out, not one negative comment—perhaps the bigots were just not coming into the store anymore—and I began to think that my worries were for nothing. After all, Sam’s mother had grown up in Fleetbourne, had attended the local schools, and knew a lot of people, all of which made her perfect for giving directions and sailing tips and weather predictions. She was outgoing, liked to chat, and was happy to see people she knew from years ago. She had common sense and was good at fielding questions.
One lady wanted to order four pair of eclipse glasses for the forthcoming eclipse.
“No glasses,” Mrs. Ahmadi said firmly.
“I need four pair,” the customer insisted.
“It’s a partial lunar eclipse,” Mrs. Ahamadi explained. “You don’t need glasses at night to look at the moon.”
I was pleased she was able to take care of things. She even took care of Mrs. Skipper, who had come in alone and stopped in her tracks when she reached the counter. “Where’s Miss Shay?” she asked, surprised.
“She’ll be out for a while,” I replied. “This is Mrs. Ahmadi.”
She knew Sam’s mother right away. “Of course! You’re one of the Reyes girls!” Mrs. Skipper immediately exclaimed. “There were three of you. Phyllis stayed on; Margaret got married and moved to Long Island; you’re . . . Dorothea! My, you’ve been gone a long time.”
“Almost fifteen years,” said Sam’s mother.
“Well, it’s very nice to see you again,” said Mrs. Skipper. “I remember you when you were a sweet little girl.”
“Actually, I was the smart and pretty one, Mrs. Skipper. My sister Phyllis was the sweet one and Margaret was the athletic one who juggled oranges in the high school talent show.”
“Wonderful, dear. I’ll have two cherry Danishes, please, and make sure they’re the freshest.” Mrs. Skipper pushed her day’s grocery items across the counter. She paid no attention to Vincent, who was sitting up in his doggie bed, staring at her and wagging his tail. She didn’t pay much attention to me, either, though I had also been a sweet—albeit crazy—little girl.
Mrs. Ahmadi finished the transaction and I was pleased that it had gone well. She turned to me after Mrs. Skipper left the store. “I’m surprised that she comes in here, Aila. Especially after all that business with your grandmother.” She put her hand on my arm. “I’m pleased she knows that forgiveness is the best path to a good life.”
“Forgiveness?”
She wagged her finger at me. “I’m not one to gossip,” she said. “So I’d rather not say, but it involved your grandmother and The Skipper.”
I was shocked. “What involved them?”
“I don’t spread gossip,” she said, “but maybe you should ask Lorna Hummings. She’s much older than I am and she always gets all the good details.”
“The town clerk?”
She nodded. “Lorna knows everything.”
It seemed Mrs. Ahmadi wouldn’t spread gossip but didn’t seem to have an aversion to listening to it.
* * *
It was mid-afternoon when Shay called. After many questions and reassurances about how she was feeling, how well she was resting, and how many baby names she had gone through, we got to her reason for calling.
“Larry just called. He’s coming over tonight, if you want to meet him before you meet him. We plan to walk around P-town, because if I don’t get out of the house I will go crazy from boredom. Terrell rented a wheelchair for me.”
“You’ve only been home one day; how can you be bored?”
“I don’t know. I might have to make a few dozen bacon and egg sandwiches to feel normal,” she replied. “I can’t imagine staying home with two babies. I think I’ll go crazy.”
“Well, I can take one since you’re going to have extra,” I offered. “That might make it easier.”
“Never mind,” she replied. “I have a funny feeling Terrell might object.”
* * *
Mrs. Ahmadi stayed until closing time, standing patiently next to Vincent so I could show her how to lock up the Galley for the night, just in case. The cameras were turned on as well as the motion detector lights; the front door was locked and the gate pulled across and locked, too.
“I think you have more security than we had in Jordan,” she said after watching the whole routine. She pulled the keys to Sam’s truck from her purse. “Well, Sam is at the beach. He’s been working on the boat all day. I’m going to pick him up and bring him home for dinner.”
“Tell him I said hello. And that I have an appointment tomorrow with the attorney. He’s still welcome to come.”
She paused and turned to face me. “You don’t understand,” she said, her voice deadly quiet. “He’s fragile. He’s not strong enough to fight. I have to protect him and I don’t want him to get involved with an attorney. It could set him back.”
“I do understand,” I said, though I really wasn’t all that certain where it was going to set him back to.
* * *
Vincent and I left for home. I hated leaving him alone for the evening and he sensed it. As I showered and dressed, he followed me around carrying his favorite toy, a big blue stuffed elephant—former elephant, actually, due to the fact that its trunk had been chewed off and its body leaked white fluffy foam entrails everywhere. I gave him a quick pat, wishing I were the one hosting; then we could all be together, me and Vincent and Shay and Terrell and their guest, Lawrence LaSalle, LLD, and sit on my back deck and watch the bay and eat. I had hosted Shay and Terrell a thousand times over the years, but with Dan gone, it felt lopsided.
Maybe I was the one changing. Does it matter if a boat slowly drifts in the water, gently riding the tides to a new location, or if it stays in place barely moving and everything around it is transformed?
Either way you can get lost.
Chapter 26
The scent of flowers was so strong, I probably could have driven to their house on Beach Fourteen with my eyes closed. Every summer Shay and Terrell move back into her late grandmother’s house, having brought it back from disrepair, and Shay turns her combination of ambition, high metabolism, and flower worship into a one-woman beautification program by placing pots of color-coordinated petunias and carnations next to every mailbox, street lamp, and traffic sign on her street. Of course, her own house gets extra-special treatment. She practically smothers it in brilliant red roses and white geraniums. They line the brick walkway, hang from crevices, and fill the gardens, along with a generous helping of basil, mint, and oregano that punctuate the air with a nice vegetal base.
* * *
Her yellow Fiat was in the driveway; Terrell had pulled his own car right up to the garage door to allow room for what I guessed was Lawrence LaSalle’s car, an old blue Chevy that hosted more dings than a doorbell. I was surprised that a Boston lawyer drove such an unprepossessing vehicle; I had expected something more posh. I crept my car into place next to it and got out. Their cat, Dude, ginger striped and overweight, was sitting on the front step meowing hello. He stood up and stretched his front toes as I rang the doorbell, then raced inside as soon as Terrell answered.
“Hey!” Terrell said as we gave each other hugs. “So glad you could make it. Shay is afraid she’s getting fat from sitting around for one day. Come on in.” He led me through the living room and into the kitchen. Shay was sitting at the table with a glass of lemonade.
It had been less than forty-eight hours since I’d seen her, but something had changed. The lines around her mouth had softened; her brow was relaxed; her face was filled with peace and contentment. In one day, the imprint of work and pressure from the Galley had been erased.
“Wow, Shay,” I said. “You look positively radiant. How are you feeling?”
“Much better,” she said, turning her face up as I bent over to kiss her cheek. Sitting across from her was a pleasant-looking man smiling at us. He was dressed casually, jeans and a white polo. I guessed he was Lawrence LaSalle, L
LD.
She waved her hand to include him. “Aila, this is our friend Larry. I know you’ve been talking.”
He stood up to greet me, leaning across the table and extending his arm. “It’s great to finally meet you, Aila,” he said in a rich baritone that took over the kitchen. He was tall and chunky with a thin mustache, a handsome man, darker than Terrell, with penetrating, mischievous eyes and a warm, gentle smile. He took my hand in his and though he gave it a brief, formal squeeze, his demeanor was cordial.
“He’s the man,” Terrell added.
“That’s only because he lets me sing with him,” Larry said.
“My best friend.” Shay nodded toward me.
“That’s only because she will eat my crazy Sandwiches,” I said.
Larry nodded. “Ah, yes,” he said. “The Sandwiches. I hope to partake of one soon.” He was so completely confident and self-possessed that I suddenly felt shy. Terrell put a glass of lemonade on the table in front of me.
“To best friends.” Larry raised his glass to mine and we clinked.
“Hope you don’t mind; the boys feel like walking around P-town,” Shay said. “They promised an evening of fun food. Terry rented a wheelchair for the duration of my pregnancy, so I can get around.”
“Great,” I said as Terrell left the kitchen and returned, pushing a wheelchair. It was smaller and lighter than the one I saw at Sam’s house. “Get in the chair, woman,” he said to Shay.
Shay stood up carefully. “Let’s roll.”
* * *
Terrell drove and Shay sat next to him while Larry and I sat in the back of their car.
“So, the Galley,” Larry said to me. “Tell me about the Galley.” His demeanor was probing and intense, which I supposed made him a very good lawyer.
“It’s just a little general store that was passed down from my grandparents. My parents ran it for years until—” I stopped. I had led myself right into a place I didn’t want to go. “My father. . . left it to me.”
“Oh yes, I’m sorry,” he said gently. “Shay told me. That must have been very hard for you.” I gave him an appreciative smile. “I hope to visit your place tomorrow,” he added, “if that’s all right.”
“Absolutely,” I replied. “It’s the home of the Sandwich. I’ll even make you one.”
“Deal!” he said, extending his hand again to me. We touched fingers, and when his gaze lingered on my face I didn’t look away.
* * *
Terrell and Larry had made dinner plans of a sort. We wandered up and down the streets of P-town, taking turns pushing Shay and eating, in no particular order, cups of clam chowder, clams on the half shell, fried clams, minced clams and onion rings, French fries with clam dip, stuffed clams, clams casino with bacon, and, for a change of menu, hot dogs.
We were greeted effusively by the drag queens on Commercial Street and invited to their new show, “It’s the best one since our last show!” a green-feathered Pam Cakes exclaimed, draping herself across Larry. We were serenaded by a street band and amazed by a magician. It was P-town up to its old wonderful tricks.
Larry tried on and bought red sneakers at a shoe shop, which he immediately wore, tossing his old ones in the trash. Terrell bought a light blue jacket with the usual humpback whale logo on the front, and when Shay admired a pair of small, flower-shaped amethyst earrings Terrell bought them for her as a pregnancy thank-you gift, which brought a lump to my throat.
“On to the last course!” Larry led the way to a small street shack that featured lobster tails.
“This is what you get when you let the guys choose the dinner menu,” Shay sighed happily, swallowing the last of her butter-drenched lobster. “I hope my babies aren’t born looking like crustaceans.”
“Speaking of shells.” Larry pointed to The Blue Cowry, a little shell shop tucked away in one of the colorful buildings. “Ever been in there?”
I had, when I was younger, but not recently. Terrell folded up Shay’s chair and led us all inside.
* * *
There were dozens of large wooden barrels filled to the brims with shells. Every shell imaginable, of every color, with neat signs overhead that identified them. Boxes of shells were stacked on glass shelving, and jars of shells were stored in the big front window. There were wind chimes and crystals and wreaths made of shells and pinecones.
“Fascinating,” Larry said, running his fingers carefully through the iridescent and fragile structures as he gazed around at the displays. “So this is where the shells go after we eat.”
“Hardly,” I said. I put my hand down gently on a pile of shells in a cardboard box labeled RARE. They felt cool and glassy smooth, some covered with the thinnest filament-shaped channels, some with rounded swirls. Shells from exotic locations far from Cape Cod, a few dozen delicate, flat white baby ears that resembled their name, a handful of long white angel wings that could have graced the smallest of sea angels, and next to that several rare Antilles Glassy Bubble shells that were so transparent I could see my fingers on the other side.
I stood there, transfixed. These were the most exquisite of shells, hundreds of variations; what was wrong? I couldn’t find the heart to admire them, though they were graceful and polished, with the most subtle pinks and yellows, some that darkened into the deepest rose, or glowing golden browns, mysterious ambers, burnished ebony black cowry shells, some midnight blue, a dozen or so paper white fig shells in perfect copy of the fruit.
And then I realized, with a sickening feeling, that this was a graveyard. The whole shop was a graveyard. There was no way these shells could have been collected naturally. They had been scooped up by trawlers dropping huge nets along the ocean floors and ripping them from their homes, hoisting them into giant vats where they were steamed and stripped of their creatures. Not for sustenance, but because they were pretty. Because they would fill a collection. Trophy hunting from the seas. I had a sudden sense of death. Of pain. Had Dan and my father suffered? I had never allowed myself to think of it, but here, surrounded by a million reminders of senseless death, I was overwhelmed.
“I am going outside,” I mumbled to Terrell. “I can’t bear this.” Shay, who was holding a shell in her hand to examine it, turned around and looked over at me questioningly.
“It’s not right,” I said to her. “It’s all death.”
“Oh God, I never thought about it,” she said softly. “You’re right. There’s so many.”
We looked at each other for a moment, and she followed me out. I opened up the wheelchair for her and she sat down.
“We used to keep a box on the counter,” I murmured, thinking back. “My father always kept a box to sell. I think he bought them from here, except I sometimes added the ones I found on the beach.”
“I remember,” she said quietly.
You can’t fix the things you used to do wrong, except to stop doing them.
“I didn’t realize,” I said, and she nodded in agreement, “but I’m not going to sell shells anymore.”
* * *
Larry and Terrell were still hungry. “These fools want pizza,” Shay announced, and in honor of junk night they found a nearby shop and, over our protests, ordered two large pies. “One for each of us”—Larry jokingly pointed to himself and Terrell—“since the girls appear to be full.” We seated ourselves at a table outside to wait for our order.
* * *
The evening slowly enfolded us and I leaned back in my chair, enjoying the conversation. Of course Shay and I had pizza. It was all as easy as floating on a raft in the bay. No direction, no special topics, no destination. Just good food, a glass of wine, rolling with the tide, letting it carry us from thought to thought, stopping just long enough for one of us to contribute something, a comment, a corny joke, a remembrance. I felt an ease I hadn’t felt for a long time. I knew where the water had been and where it was going; we were suspended on a gentle tide of friendship. Every once in a while, I caught Larry staring at me. Sometimes our eyes met and
he gave me a quick wink. He was brash and booming and fascinating.
I learned that Terrell and Larry had been roommates at college and played in the Chess Club, mostly against each other. That Larry had broken his leg skiing five years in a row and let Terrell talk him out of a sixth ski trip for safety’s sake but managed to slip on ice in front of his office that winter, resulting in a broken leg anyway, and was so incensed that he closed his office and moved to New Orleans for years, married, divorced, and moved back only recently. Shay and I smiled at each other as the two men laughed heartily at the memories.
We ordered ice cream for dessert.
Larry turned to me, between spoonfuls of his pineapple sundae, and proudly announced, “So I heard our two best friends are going to use our names for the babies.”
“I didn’t know that,” I said, startled. “I’m thrilled.”
“Lawrence will be a middle name,” Terrell corrected him. “We have a whole bunch of people we have to honor.”
“And we still have to find a masculine version of ‘Aila,’” Shay added.
“Don’t try very hard.” I laughed. “I never liked my name.”
“Well, I want my name used for the best-looking baby,” Larry directed. “I never had kids, so somebody’s got to name a kid after me. I can’t imagine the work involved raising two of them! But as your attorney, I should warn you to get your ducks in a row.”
“What kind of ducks are you talking about?” Shay asked, puzzled.
“Well, for one thing, guardianship,” he replied, “just in case of emergency.”
I raised my hand. “I volunteer,” I said. “I would be honored to take care of your children.”
Terrell laughed. “Larry, you are really getting lawyerly now, jumping the gun.”
Larry ignored him and turned to Shay. “Shay, your parents are retired and Terrell only has his mother and she has very bad arthritis. I hope you never need to choose a guardian, but you don’t have siblings and his one brother lives in London and, the youngest, isn’t even married.”
Shay glanced over at Terrell and raised her eyebrows. “Well, actually,” she started, “we were going to ask my cousin Joralynn to be guardian if we ever needed one.”
And All the Phases of the Moon Page 16