Rick and I stared at each other. “So much for our plans,” he said. “Who would have guessed?”
I searched his expression for any hint of discombobulation at the appearance of his ex-wife. I found none.
“I suppose I might as well turn in,” I said too brightly. As I brushed past Rick, who by this time was standing between me and the stairs, he grabbed my arm. “If I had my way,” he said, “we’d be in the shower now. Together.”
Somehow this was difficult to hear with Martine only a few rooms away. “We’ll save it for later,” I said, attempting a smile.
“Let’s not scrap all our plans,” he said softly. “We can manage this, for instance.” He slid his hand down my arm to my hand and pulled me onto the couch. Moodily, I settled into his lap and rested my head on his shoulder. Where my hand rested on his chest, I felt his heart beating strong and steady. I tried hard to summon the will to remain distant, to remove myself from his arms and go upstairs where I belonged. I failed utterly. Rick smelled of sun and sand, of the island and the cottage, and his bristly beard stubble rubbed against my forehead. It was bliss.
He kissed me, and I melted. I wanted to keep doing it over and over again, but there was the slight matter of his former wife, who also happened to be my sister, only yards away. No matter how I wished I could recapture our previous mood, it was futile.
His hand stole up to cup my breast, but I wriggled away. I spilled out of his lap, landed on my feet, inserted a room length between us. “We can’t do this now,” I said.
“Great. I finally make progress toward getting you in the sack, and this happens.” He smiled as he said it.
“Let’s establish a few ground rules,” I said. “First, no sneaking around in the night.”
“Agreed,” Rick replied, though he appeared less than happy with that restriction.
“And we reconnect after Martine is gone,” I said. “Let’s make an appointment. One hour after she’s out of here?”
“One minute,” Rick said, straightening his clothes.
“Make that two, and you’re on.” I smiled tremulously, and he stood and swept me to him for one more kiss. I still tasted him on my lips as I ran up to the Lighthouse.
“I guess Rick’s pretty mad at me,” Martine ventured as we sauntered down the beach the next morning. Rick had made himself scarce; his car was gone from its customary place under the oak when I woke up.
I said nothing but picked up my pace. The sun was barely over the horizon, and the air was chilly and damp. The incoming breakers crashed on the shore in great, noisy, foaming white waves.
“Tris?” Martine said. “What about it?”
“Probably,” I said. I had no intention of saying anything more, particularly if it would hint at the new direction of Rick’s and my relationship.
“Does Rick ever talk about me? I mean, about what happened?”
“About the end of your marriage?”
Martine sighed. “Yeah. About his feelings for me.”
I selected my words carefully. “I’m sure he’s disappointed that the marriage didn’t work out. And hurt. And—well, I’m not comfortable with the topic. Why don’t you talk with Rick?”
“I’m so far from where I was when we were married that it would be pointless. I just wondered, that’s all.”
Fortunately, Dog chose that moment to run up behind us, expecting me to toss the Frisbee, but since it was so windy, I hadn’t brought it. She yipped joyfully as a wave ruffled over her paws, then scampered in circles around us.
“How can you stand that stray mutt hanging around?” Martine asked irritably. She picked up a shell and lobbed it in the general direction of Dog, who veered off toward the dunes to chase gulls without appearing to take offense.
“I like her,” I said, hugging my sweatshirt tighter around me.
“She smells.”
“She does not,” I said emphatically, jumping to Dog’s defense.
“Maybe you didn’t get as close to her as I did this morning when I went out to the car to get my cell phone. She’s rolled in some dead fish or something.”
Now that Martine had mentioned it, I did detect a rank fishy odor about Dog. “She could use a home,” I said.
“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”
“I was hoping maybe you’d want her,” I said, optimist that I am.
“I take after Mom. I don’t like animals in the house. Anyway, while I’m in post-divorce mode, I don’t want to tie myself down.”
Rick had said the same thing, more or less. I let out a long sigh.
“I’m breaking up with Steve,” Martine said suddenly. “It’s over, but he doesn’t know it.”
“So why are you delivering his SUV to him?” I asked. As far as I knew, that’s why we’d arisen at first light, forced down a dry bagel and immediately embarked on our walk. “How about that vacation you and Steve are supposed to take together?”
“After he left on this trip, I realized I’m a lot happier when he’s not around. I’ve got plane tickets out of Dulles for Mexico City three days from now.”
“Mexico City!” I exclaimed, gawking at Martine in amazement. “Why?”
“I don’t expect you to understand, Tris, but I’ve longed to bum around the world for ages and ages. Just me and a load of art supplies in my backpack, painting this and that and sleeping wherever and with whomever suits my fancy.” Defiance was evident in the way she planted her feet in the sand and in the firm set of her jaw.
“I’m surprised,” I murmured. “I thought you and Steve…” I let my words trail off.
“Steve was a way to leave my marriage. No more, no less. I’d wanted out for a long time. But,” she continued with a little half laugh, “he left a message on my cell phone last night that he caught the flu when he was visiting his kids. He’s decided to hole up in a hotel until he feels better. I don’t have to leave here today, really.”
“Oh,” I said, hoping I wasn’t the one who was going to have to ask Rick if Martine could stay longer.
“The worst part about delaying my meeting with Steve is that I rehearsed the breakup speech over and over on the drive up here, and I won’t even see him until day after tomorrow at the earliest.”
Distracted, I said, “Is that Standard Breakup Speech Number One? ‘It’s my fault that our relationship hasn’t worked, not yours, I’ll always care about you and about what happens to you, and I hope we’ll always be friends.’”
“I’m planning on some version of that one for sure,” Martine assured me, and we grinned at each other. “Hey,” she said. “I know my being here is awkward for Rick, so I’ll talk to him about staying over an extra night.”
“Good idea,” I said.
“I may have already worn out my welcome.” Her words were rueful, and I kept my gaze focused on the sand in front of us.
I changed the subject. “I was going to invite you to Macon in May so we can celebrate Mom’s birthday with Aunt Cynthia,” I said. “I guess that’s out now that you’re going to Mexico, right?”
“Totally. I don’t have any idea where my adventures will take me, so you’ll have to give them a big hug from me.” To her credit, she did sound regretful.
“I wish you luck, Martine,” I said with the utmost sincerity. “But please always keep me informed about where you are and where you’re going. I’ll miss you and will worry about you.”
“Of course,” she said, flinging an arm around my shoulders. I slipped mine around her waist, reassured that going away didn’t mean growing away. She was still my sister, my twin, my other self.
Rick didn’t come home all day, and not knowing if he’d be there for dinner or not, Martine and I fixed oysters Rockefeller, the oysters fresh from a late afternoon provisioning at Jeter’s. I cooked a batch of red rice. It was one of Rick’s favorite menus, but when he came in and found Martine still in residence, he went outside again before she had a chance to ask him if he minded her staying over. Clearly, he did. What Martine
would do about the situation, I couldn’t imagine. I stuck to my resolution to stay out of it.
During dinner, we spotted Rick on the beach tossing wood scraps and rubbish into a heap. Afterward, when it was apparent that Rick had no intention of joining us, Martine and I cleaned up the kitchen, and later she sat down to flip through Lilah Rose’s photo albums. This provided a welcome diversion for both of us, and I brought more from the closet shelf where I’d relocated them. Martine pulled a white one, larger than the others, out of the stack.
“This is our wedding album,” she said, sounding less than pleased to be confronted with it. “Imagine Lilah Rose’s keeping it at the cottage.”
“Rick mentioned that his parents stored a lot of things here when they rented their Columbia house,” I said, though the sight of myself in those wedding pictures, my expressions forced and my smiles false, pained me.
As Martine continued to page through the album, the back door swung open and Rick came in. “Just stopping in to grab a jacket,” he called.
As Rick stalked across the living room, scooping up a packet of matches from the mantel as he went, I stood and yawned elaborately. “I’m going to turn in soon,” I said. “Breakfast in the morning, Martine?”
“Sure, and then I’ll be on my way,” she said, aiming a worried little glance at Rick.
“Trista, can you give me a hand?” Rick asked.
Martine didn’t comment as I followed Rick outside. “What’s going on?” I asked as we descended the porch steps to the dune path, glad that we could share a bit of time.
He strode ahead of me for a few moments before turning and taking my hand. “I’m going to build the bonfire, get rid of the scrap lumber lying around. You can help.”
I was agreeable, and we quickly gathered enough tinder and kindling so that before long Rick had a sizable blaze going. We stood back and watched it grow. Mindful of the cool wind and the fact that I hadn’t worn a wrap, I held my hands over the flames to warm them, Rick standing silently beside me.
I don’t know how long we stood there, the flames flickering across our faces, the dunes separating us from the cottage and Martine. The scent of dried seaweed and sun-baked sand and salt swirled around us along with the golden sparks from the fire, and I felt myself calming inside.
Suddenly, the slam of a door shattered the quiet. I turned my head toward the cottage to see Martine marching along the dune path carrying something large and bulky.
Beside me, I felt Rick stiffen. “Here’s something for your bonfire,” Martine said to Rick, her voice strained.
“Wait a minute,” Rick said. “What is that?”
“Our wedding pictures for one thing,” Martine said, biting the words off sharply. Her hair, so carefully coiffed when she arrived, blew around her head. Cast in the orange light from the flames, it appeared as if it were on fire. Mesmerized by the tableau before me, I froze in place.
“You want to burn them?” Rick said, delivered incredulously.
“Sure, why not? The marriage is over.”
“You know how much her photo albums mean to my mother. You don’t have the right—” But before he finished the sentence, Martine drew her arm back and hurled the book into the fire.
“Martine! What the hell—?” Rick reached out to grab her, but she eluded his grasp.
In the dark, I hadn’t seen the other albums Martine carried. “There’s more, too,” she said before starting to pitch them in. Horrified, I watched as another one ended up in the flames. Pictures spilled from between the pages, and I spotted the one of Rick and me on the tandem bike. I couldn’t bear for that one to burn.
“Stop!” I cried. I whirled around, my eyes trying to adjust to the gloom outside the fire circle.
I noticed a long stick that had recently washed ashore, a rusty nail protruding from one end, and I grabbed it, thinking that I could stab the picture and perhaps the albums and pull them to safety. It worked, but I wasn’t able to save the wedding pictures, which were now burning rapidly. The fire was leaping so high that I couldn’t remain close to it. Frantically, I retreated and tossed sand on the rescued albums to quench the flames.
Martine turned on me then, tears spilling from her eyes. “All these pictures, all this tradition that you love so much.” She spat out the word as if it had a bitter taste. “It’s pointless. What is it for? Why do we care? It hobbles us to the past, and I hate it.”
Stunned, I could only stare. I loved the comfort and familiarity that tradition and remembrance lent to our lives as we each traveled our separate personal journey. On a larger scale, tradition is part of our Southern culture, our legacy and our heritage. Some of it is folklore, some is myth, and of that I was well aware. But also, some of it is truth.
Martine focused her gaze on the spectacle of the white wedding album and its contents still curling and burning in the fire’s depths. “This was something I had to do,” she said brokenly. With that, she walked swiftly toward the house.
Still shocked, I bent to retrieve the albums I’d pulled out of the fire. The one with the red cover was black and curled, and inside, some of the photos were singed. The other had barely been touched by the flames.
“I’d better go talk to her,” I murmured, clutching the albums and the precious memories that they represented to my chest.
Rick paused in his gathering of the other albums, which had been dumped on the ground but appeared unharmed. “Trista, thanks,” Rick said. He squeezed my arm. I nodded and kept walking.
As I approached the porch, I spotted Martine pacing in the living room. She was smoking, a habit that shocked me almost as much as her burning of Lilah Rose’s photographs. I’d never known her to smoke since our clandestine teenage caper out on the widow’s walk of the Lighthouse.
She swiveled as I opened the door, her voice dead calm. “I’m sorry if I scared you, Tris. But I’m not sorry I burned the pictures.”
“Oh, Martine,” I said sorrowfully. I waited to hear what else she might say, but she remained silent.
“You must harbor some seriously bad feelings about the marriage,” I offered haltingly as I set the ruined albums on an end table. Our smiling young faces, only slightly scorched from the ordeal, gazed up at me from the open pages.
My sister’s expression softened. “I’m over any resentment I had about Rick, but I’m still angry with myself. We never should have married, Tris. When Rick and I decided to become engaged, I was caught up in all the excitement of graduating from college, and my friends were racking up engagement rings one after the other, and—well, it was immature of me to set my sights on him. Then when Dad died, I settled into a depression that wasn’t helped by moving to Miami, and things headed downhill from there.”
“I’m so sorry, Martine,” I said, genuinely distressed. We all do stupid things when we’re young, and sometimes it takes a while to set things to rights. I wasn’t proud of the Graham debacle, believe me.
Martine, using a shell for an ashtray, stubbed out her cigarette. She walked over and hugged me. “One thing, Trista. You’ve always come through for me in times of trouble. Thanks for being such a good sister. Just talking with you today made me feel better.”
“I didn’t do anything,” I objected, holding her close for a long moment.
At that point Rick burst through the French doors, and we both spun around. “Martine,” Rick said. “We need to talk.”
“No, Rick. We’ve said all we have to say to each other, and I’ll be out of here once and for all tomorrow morning.”
He glared at her. “You think it’s that simple?”
She rested a placating hand on his arm. “I forgive you for any problems you ever caused me, and I hope you’ll do the same.”
He walked to the fireplace, braced his hands against the mantel and stood facing it for a long moment. When he turned, the finely etched lines around his eyes seemed to have deepened, and the eyes themselves held the misery of the ages. His voice was deceptively soft. “What about the ba
by, Martine? The one you didn’t have?”
Martine’s jaw dropped. “I—I—”
Rick strode across the room until he stood directly in front of us. “I found the pregnancy test you used. It was positive. For a while I was in denial. I wanted to believe that the test was the housekeeper’s, though I found it odd that she’d use it at our house while she was cleaning. But Esmelda didn’t start showing her next pregnancy until a year later.”
Martine’s eyes didn’t meet Rick’s, and I held my breath, wishing that I were anywhere else but in that room with those two people.
“Yes, the test was mine,” she whispered, and my heart sank even as a shiver ran up my spine. I’m all for honesty, but in this case, I couldn’t help thinking briefly that a lie would be kinder.
“You didn’t miscarry, did you?” Rick asked abruptly. “You did—something else.”
Now my sister looked him squarely in the eye, and her shoulders slumped with weariness. “That’s the main thing I want you to forgive,” she said brokenly. “If you can.”
All of a sudden, I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t bear the sorrow burning in the depths of Rick’s eyes. He turned away, his shoulders heaving, and I went and slid my arm around them. He pushed me aside, and I knew then that it wasn’t in my power to make this right.
“I’m going to my room,” I said, my words falling heavily into that leaden silence. And I did, before my trembling legs refused to hold me up. As the two of them stood staring at each other over the ruins of their marriage, exposing their mutual grief and sadness and, yes, revulsion, to each other, I left them to deal with it. Left them to pick up the pieces and heave them at each other if that was their wish. I wanted no part of it. Whatever savage truths were about to be revealed, I didn’t want to hear them.
Once I was upstairs, by this time operating on autopilot, I started packing my things. Scooped my toiletries from the bathroom and tossed them on top of my clothes. Grabbed the book I was reading and a couple of items of clothing I’d strewn here and there, stuffing them into my purse. I didn’t bother to strip the bed. I didn’t intend to stick around long enough for that. At the last moment, I saw the perfect sand dollar that Rick and I had found on the beach. I paused long enough to wrap it carefully in tissue and bury it deep in my purse.
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