Snapshots

by Pamela Browning

  When I crept down the staircase, Martine was collapsed on the couch, Sobbing her heart out. Rick bent over her, and I wasn’t sure if he was angry or attempting to soothe her. Other people might have stuck around for the fireworks, but as I’ve told you before, I sometimes zig when others would zag. I was certain that I was doing the right thing by removing myself from the scene, and neither of them noticed as I walked slowly to the door and let myself out.

  As I stumbled blindly down the path toward my car, Dog bounded out of the shrubbery, and with tears streaming down my face, I knelt to pet her for the last time.

  “Be good, Dog,” I told her. “I hope your ear heals well. And if you hang on until summer, maybe Rick will find you a nice family with some kids to play with.” That seemed her best hope for the future, since Tappany Island was still a family place and children could be persuasive in determining whether or not a pet was adopted. I hugged Dog as she bestowed sweet sloppy kisses across my cheeks, and then I spared the cottage one last look.

  When I’d arrived at Sweetwater Cottage a little over a week before, the house had been dark and shuttered, the inside dusty and dank. But now the house was lit from the inside. It was a home again. From the path where I stood, I could see into the seldom-used dining room where Lilah Rose’s china graced the big mahogany breakfront. The rooms that Rick and Martine had occupied last night were also visible behind the sheer curtains, and the Lighthouse, where in my haste I had forgotten to extinguish the lamp, shone its benevolent golden glow over all. I didn’t have my camera, but I didn’t need one. This was a view of the cottage the way I wanted to remember it, the way I would remember it. Forever.

  I had never before left Sweetwater Cottage as I was leaving it on this night, feeling bereft and miserable. Being there had always regenerated me, but now I felt drained and spent. I had no more energy to give to the two most important people in my life, and guilt lanced through me as I considered going back inside and taking up where I’d left off. Just as quickly as the notion entered my mind, it evaporated. For my own sake, I needed to let go.

  I had done everything I could for both Rick and Martine. Now they were on their own. And so was I.

  Chapter 17: Rick

  2004

  When Rick woke up the next morning, Martine had gone. So had Trista. He’d been slightly aware of movement in the background while he and Martine had been having it out, but he hadn’t focused on what was happening at the time. Trista’s absence hit him like a blow to the gut, and all he could think about was apologizing for the ghastly scene of the night before.

  First he tried dialing her cell phone. She didn’t answer. He called the TV station, but she wasn’t there. And then he realized that she probably wouldn’t want to see him. He was filled with remorse, but considering their long history, he had to believe that eventually he’d be face-to-face with her again. Until then, it was up to him to hold himself together, to make the best of life as it was. He could have gone around half-crazed because he had let this jewel of a woman slip through his grasp, but nothing would be served by adopting that attitude, and he wasn’t about to give up his hard-earned emotional stability.

  That day and the ones afterward, he threw himself into repairing the cottage. Never had he worked so hard. He fell into bed exhausted every night, got up and began anew every morning. By the end of the week, the shutters all hung straight, railings had been repaired, porch steps did not wobble. He called his brother and told Hal not to worry about maintenance. Rick would take care of it.

  He also informed Shorty that he wouldn’t be resuming his previous life in Miami. Rick wasn’t yet sure where he would end up when he chose a new direction, and Columbia was still a possibility. But living in Columbia, watching the evening news where he would see Trista every night—well, he wasn’t sure he could handle that. And despite all the messages he left on Trista’s home answering machine and her cell phone, she never returned his calls. He couldn’t imagine what she was thinking, and when he didn’t hear from her, all his insecurities began to surface. But he let them go because he had learned that no higher purpose was served by hanging on to the negative aspects of his past and letting them drag him down.

  At least Martine was out of his life now, and that was to the good. They’d talked almost all night after she admitted to him what she had done to their baby. He had cried; she had cried; and in the end, he’d forgiven her, which was one of the hardest things he’d ever done. After they’d said all there was to say, exhausting themselves in the process, she had gone to her room. He slept on the couch.

  He had no idea if he’d ever see Martine again and didn’t care. Right now he wanted to find his own direction and get his life back on track. When Alston Dubose called him one day at the cottage, he was surprised. Rick didn’t know how Alston could have found the unlisted number, but Alston told him that he’d checked an old address book and discovered the number of Sweetwater Cottage scribbled beneath Roger Barrineau’s name as one of the places to contact him on summer weekends if he wasn’t at home.

  “Rick, if you don’t want the position in our international-law department,” Alston said, “I’ll understand. But at least come and talk to us about it. You don’t need an appointment.”

  One of Rick’s options was to go on living indefinitely at the cottage, where expenses were minimal. Or he could begin to search for another job. Yet the firm of Barrineau, Dubose and Linder had been part of his plans for such a long time in his youth that he hated to brush them off. He was ready to find out exactly what they had to offer.

  So one day three weeks after Easter, he headed for Columbia. At the last minute, he held the car door open for Dog, who pushed all his guilt buttons by wagging her tail and whining pathetically as he prepared to leave. With a yip of excitement, she jumped in, and they set off.

  If someone had asked him, Rick wouldn’t have been able to say why he took her. Perhaps it was merely the thought of the drive ahead and the loneliness of going it alone. Or maybe it was something more than that.

  “I want to see you.”

  Trista, wonder of wonders, had answered her cell phone, possibly because the unfamiliar number of the pay phone in downtown Columbia hadn’t rung a bell when it popped up on her caller ID. He thanked the fates for allowing his cell-phone battery to die en route and for providing a phone kiosk in the parking garage of the building that housed Barrineau, Dubose and Linder.

  “Rick?” Trista sounded surprised, but he could read nothing else into her tone.

  “I want to see you,” he said again, more forcefully.

  This statement was met with silence.

  “Don’t put me off like this,” he said, willing to beg but hoping it wouldn’t be necessary.

  “I haven’t heard from Martine since she went to Mexico,” she said.

  “Martine and I have nothing more to say to each other. I’ve talked with Alston Dubose about that job at the firm. It’s a good one, but I don’t want to say yay or nay to his offer without speaking with you, Tris.”

  A long silence. “I’m at the station. I’ll be home after the evening news.” She sounded tense and strained.

  “I still have the key you gave us when we stayed at your place.”

  “Great. Go on over and make yourself comfortable. You’re at a hotel?”

  “Shaz and his wife offered me a bed, but I told them not to expect me until they see me.”

  “Okay, Rick.” A muffled noise, and then she said, “I really have to hang up.”

  She clicked off, and he stared at the phone in his hand for a moment before hurrying to the car. “She wants to see us,” he told Dog, who had waited patiently while Rick was talking to Alston. And then he started the car and headed for Trista’s condo, but first he stopped off and bought groceries. As he put them away, he smiled to himself over the big pitcher of red Kool-Aid in the refrigerator.

  He walked around the apartment scanning the titles of the books in Trista’s bookcase and admiring a favorite p
ainting that Martine had given her. Propped on the desk in Trista’s study was the framed picture that the man on the beach had taken of them together on Easter, both of them wreathed in smiles. Next to it she had set the perfect sand dollar that they had found on the same day. The pretty display encouraged him; Trista must still have special feelings about their time on the island together.

  She was later than he expected, and when the door opened, Dog erupted into a frenzy of glee. Trista was so surprised to see her that she took a couple of steps backward, and then she dropped to her knees while Dog cavorted about and finally quieted herself so that she could be hugged.

  “I can’t believe this!” Trista exclaimed. “Dog! I never thought you’d bring her.”

  “She’s missed you,” Rick said, thinking how nice it was to see them reunited. “She hasn’t been the same since you left.”

  As Trista rose, he slowly went to meet her. She was wearing a business suit, and her hair was swept back behind her ears. It was a new hairdo for her and one that he found very becoming, but there was a tension about her mouth and an indefinable sadness in her eyes. It cut straight to his heart because he knew that he was probably the reason for it.

  She gave him a peck on the cheek. “What are you cooking? I smell food,” she said as she went to her study and tossed her briefcase on the daybed. When she came out she was untucking her blouse and kicking off her shoes.

  “My famous spaghetti sauce,” he told her, retreating to the kitchen. “Care for a glass of Chianti?”

  She accepted the glass and lifted the lid on the pan where the sauce was bubbling merrily. “Smells wonderful,” she said.

  “Mom’s recipe.”

  “How are your mother and father?”

  “They’ll be back at the end of the summer.”

  Trista leaned against the counter, and Dog sat down beside her feet, tail thumping joyfully on the hardwood floor. “I’m sorry I was late getting here,” she said. “We had a big brouhaha at the station today, but the upshot is that Byron is leaving and I’m going to be the sole anchor of the evening news.” Her expression was animated, and her eyes sparkled.

  She was more beautiful than he remembered, and though he preferred her in the bright light of the sunshine on Tappany Island, walking barefoot beside him in the sand, he wanted nothing so much as to keep on looking at her. “Congratulations,” he said warmly.

  “Thanks. Apparently Byron figured out that he wasn’t going to be able to nudge me out of position, so he went job hunting far afield and will be taking over the anchor spot at the biggest station in Denver.”

  “That means you can stop considering a move to Atlanta or Richmond,” he said.

  “Yes, and that’s a relief.” She paused before asking carefully, “When will you let Alston know about the job?”

  “Tomorrow, I hope.” He poured a glass of wine for himself.

  “Let’s go in the living room. I’d like to wind down from a very eventful day.”

  “I can imagine.” He followed her to the couch and sat beside her. She got up again to open a package of salted pecans, which she poured into a red glass dish that he remembered from the Windsor Manor house. It was all he needed to remind himself that he and Trista had a long history, and it wasn’t by any means over between them yet.

  He was so happy to see her that he couldn’t stop looking at her. Watching expressions flit across her features, listening to the rise and fall of her melodious voice, took him back to a simpler, happier time. It was as if they had never been apart, as if that awful night at the cottage had never happened. As if all the years had fallen away, and they were starting anew.

  She asked if she could help when he got up to boil the water for the pasta, but he told her that he wanted to do everything. She’d had a hard day, and he wanted to treat her the way he would have liked if he’d had a similar day. While he worked in the kitchen, she played with Dog, producing an old tennis ball that she threw the length of the apartment. And while Rick was draining the pasta and grating the Parmesan cheese, Trista disappeared into her room and later emerged relaxed and refreshed, wearing a flowing blue silk caftan.

  Rick hoped his eyes expressed his appreciation for her beauty. Her beauty, which was inner as well as outer. Trista noticed him staring at her, and a faint blush rose along her neck to her cheeks. The sight of it sent a small tremor rippling through him because it meant that she was still aware of him in that way that he had hoped she would be—as a man, not only as a friend.

  “Dinner’s ready,” he said, though the last thing he wanted to do was eat it. But they sat at the table, and he doled out the spaghetti onto each of their plates, and she exclaimed that the salad was delicious.

  “This is one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me. I’m not accustomed to such a warm welcome,” she said, her gesture encompassing the table and the food. She took another sip of wine and leaned back, smiling at him across the table. He’d found a small candle in one of the kitchen drawers, and the glow lit up her face.

  “It’s a simple dinner,” he said. “Nothing special.” He thought about the long years of his marriage, of the tension in his house and how the strain had grown commonplace in his everyday life. He didn’t want to live that way again. After such an experience, some men might swear off marriage or women in favor of an easy freewheeling lifestyle, but he wasn’t that type. He needed a partner, a companion, someone who cared about him. Someone to whom he couldn’t wait to return at the end of a long day. He had found her, he cherished her, but there were still questions to answer.

  “Why did you leave that night?” he asked quietly, steeling himself for her answer.

  Trista regarded him for a long moment before answering. “To allow you space and time,” she said. “You and Martine.”

  He reached across the table for her hand, which she gave freely. It was warm within his, and he raised it to his lips and kissed it. “It wasn’t because of me? Because you were angry, or because you thought I still loved Martine, or—?”

  She shook her head vehemently. “No. I didn’t belong there. Not then, not while you were talking about—that.”

  A wave of relief swept over him. “I was so afraid you left because of me. I know I wasn’t the easiest person to be around when the two of us were alone together at the cottage, but you got me back on track. You made me see that I couldn’t go on like that. I was falling apart until you arrived. Drinking, and not eating properly, and hating myself and everyone else—my life was slowly trickling down the sewer, and you saved me.”

  “You saved yourself, Rick, by opening up to me.”

  “Maybe so,” he agreed, but he knew he wouldn’t have found it within himself to take the necessary steps toward recovery if it hadn’t been for her prodding, her insistence, her caring.

  She looked so young and beautiful that he had to remind himself that they weren’t eighteen anymore. Holding her hand fast, he said, “It’s a lovely night. Let’s go out on the balcony.”

  Together they walked across the living room and opened the glass sliders to the balcony stretching across the whole front of the apartment. Their vantage point on the fifth floor offered a panoramic view of lights winking on and off in the distance. Across the tops of the leafy trees, they could see the South Carolina state Capitol dome. The breeze was balmy, the moon full.

  Rick drew Trista closer so that her temple rested against his cheek. “I remember another lovely spring night,” he said. “You had treated the cut on my forehead and rinsed out my shirt. The satin of your dress felt smooth beneath my hands when I put my arms around you.”

  “But I was also wearing a bra with miserable stays that cut into my skin and left scrapes that were sore for days,” she said, her breath sweet on his skin. Her lips curved into a smile against his neck.

  He moved his hands upward, sliding them across her ribs one by one. “No bra tonight,” he said. “I can tell.”

  “Mmm,” she said, leaning into him. “Is that impor
tant?”

  He gazed up at the stars for a moment. “Maybe,” he said.

  “I’ve thought about us a lot. Rick, I’ve avoided talking to you since I left Tappany Island because I needed the time and space to decide what to do. I prayed for a sign, something that would let me know that we’re supposed to be together. If I didn’t get one, I’d bow out gracefully from my job at WCIC and pursue some of the job offers I’ve had in the past. Atlanta, maybe, so I could live closer to Mom and Aunt Cynthia. Or somewhere out West where I could sink down new roots, California, perhaps, or Arizona.”

  “Would you be happy so far away from the South? It’s in your blood, as it is in mine.”

  She looked thoughtful. “Something would draw me back every year, a homing instinct. I love Tappany Island, Rick, and the cottage. It’s a way of life that I couldn’t relinquish easily.”

  “Nor could I,” he replied reflectively.

  “Anyway, today I got my sign. Two of them, in fact. When Byron announced that he was leaving WCIC and I learned that I was going to be the sole anchor of the evening news, that was the first. The second was when you called and told me you were here. In Columbia. And wanted to see me. That changed everything.”

  “Did it?” he asked, drawing back so he could study her face. “Did it really?”

  “Really,” she said, the word only a murmur.

  He kissed her then, thinking of how much this woman had meant to him over the years. Thinking of lost opportunities, and wrong decisions, and hurt feelings, and how love was almost impossible to find. Yet like the perfect sand dollar, once found, it was to be appreciated for its beauty.