“Figure out something to do?” He’s so insensitive tonight. “Well, I just did, Garrett. Golf can wait. This is a special time—a whole long weekend—for us, for our family. And it’s been forever since we’ve been to Topsail.”
“How the hell is this weekend going to be ‘for us’ with your whole family down there?”
“Garrett—”
“I’m serious, Dee. Your mother hates me. Your father barely speaks to me. Your aunt Joy’s okay, but—”
“But what, Garrett? What now? What’s wrong with Aunt Joy?”
“Well, you know how she’s all into you, like you’re the baby girl she never had or something.”
“And? Come on, Garrett. Aunt Joy practically raised me. She was there for me when my dad was struggling to become a doctor and my mother was more interested in becoming a socialite than a mother. As a child, Aunt Joy was all I had, the only one who understood me and made me feel important, encouraged, and loved. She was my mother figure. I spent so many wonderful summers with her on Topsail. I have to admit—I miss her very much. I didn’t realize how much until now.”
“Well, you guys are just into that whole beach scene, and you know I’m from the Midwest, Destiny. I’m not into all that sand and water and shit. We didn’t have all that craziness in Ohio.”
“So … what? You feel left out? You can’t find something to do to be happy? C’mon, Garrett. Try something new, just for the sake of it? Okay?”
“Naw, I just hate going down there,” Garrett snaps. He’s done with this conversation.
“Baby,” I say, walking over to Garrett. I wrap my arms around his waist, nestling my head under his chin. “Please try to understand. I need this. We need this. Think of it as a time for us away from it all—time out for our marriage.”
Garrett stiffens. “Wh-what’s wrong with our marriage?” He frowns down at me.
“Honey, I just think we need time together, that’s all. I’m really worried about this distance I’ve been feeling between us.”
“Distance?” Garrett looks surprised and shocked by my admission. “What distance?”
“Sometimes I wonder if you still love me, Garrett.”
Garrett’s face turns red. He runs his big hand over the top of his forehead and back over his hair. He seems to be searching, either for words, an excuse, or an exit.
“Do you love me, Garrett?” I feel at this point I have nothing to lose, and I don’t want to lose my marriage.
“Do I love you? What are you talking about, Destiny? You’re my wife.”
“Yes, but something’s happened to us, Garrett; something has changed. Haven’t you felt it too?”
Garrett stands there looking at me with a blank stare. He blinks. We are both exhausted. Two award-winning journalists, at a loss for words.
Finally, I ask, “Are you having an affair, Garrett?” My heart can’t wait any longer.
“Wh-what? An affair? Of course not!” Garrett looks incensed.
“Tell me the truth, Garrett.” I hold him tighter, looking up into his eyes. “Please tell me the truth. You can be honest with me. Is there someone else?”
“Destiny, look …” Garrett calms his voice, takes a step back, and places his big hands on my shoulders. “Baby, you have been through a lot of stress in the past couple of days. You’re under a lot right now, and it’s got you imagining things. Plus, you’ve been drinking a little bit there, haven’t you?” Garrett tickles his finger underneath my chin. I cannot deny martinis at Hurlihey’s, but I also cannot deny those three red hairs in our private living space either.
“Yes, but Garrett—”
“Hey, hey, hey! Sh-h-h-h. I got you, baby.” Garrett pulls my body back into his. “I will take you home, if that’s what you want. Now, c’mon, go pack your bags, pretty girl, and I’ll call about our reservations to Topsail.”
“Oh, Garrett, really? Really?”
Garrett nods.
“Oh, honey, thank you—thank you so much!” I gush, knowing how hard this is for him. “I really appreciate it. I really do.”
“Yeah, baby, don’t worry about it. I’ll do it if it makes you happy.” Then Garrett looks deeply into my eyes. “I do love you very much, Destiny. I hope you know that. You just a little crazy right now, that’s all. My baby’s been through a lot.”
“I love you too, Garrett,” I say, and even with so much swirling doubt, I really mean it.
Garrett gently kisses me on my forehead, my eyelids, my temples, and my cheeks. He caresses my hair and begins to press his strong, hard body against mine. He becomes aroused, his muscular thigh rubbing in between mine. He dives his hot tongue into my mouth, and I am so hungry for my husband’s kiss that I nearly swallow it. I give up the fighting and the questions and surrender myself to him as we make our way to our bed. Thrashing back and forth, rolling over once neatly folded laundry, we make wild love. I am so starved for everything to be right between us that I squeeze him as tightly as I can—as tightly as I am squeezing my eyes shut right now, trying to hold back the tears and the traumatic truth I feel. I desperately try to suffocate the vision of that long strand of mysterious red hair stretched across my husband’s pillow, right here in our bed, where we are fucking like never before.
Chapter Eight
The two-hour jet flight between New York and Greensboro, North Carolina, goes without a hitch this early Saturday morning. It’s the little puddle-jumper between Greensboro and Wilmington that’s now got my stomach churning. The sniffling toddler behind us, kicking my seat, doesn’t help. Nor does Garrett’s constant complaining about the high cost of our last-minute tickets from New York to North Carolina.
“Fasten your seatbelts, please. We are about to take off,” chirps the perky blonde flight attendant standing in the aisle in front of us and the other dozen or so passengers at God’s mercy aboard this tiny, toy-like plane. The young woman standing there in the position of saving our lives looks more like a college cheerleader than someone with in-air crisis training.
“We should arrive in Wilmington in … oh …” She checks her dainty gold bracelet watch with a happy smile. “I’d say about forty-five minutes.” She pops her head sideways with a bounce of one of her shoulder-length curls. She’s beaming with pride, as if she’s just guessed the right answer on a TV game show. I almost want to jump up and pin a gold star on her pumped-up chest, which I notice Garrett is admiring.
“Can I get y’all something?”
Well, okay. I forgive her. At least she’s attentive.
“Sure. Some water, please.”
“I’ll have a stiff Bloody Mary,” Garrett interjects.
“Honey, are you sure? This early in the morning?” I whisper. But Garrett seems convinced that a strong drink will help calm his nerves. It’s Garrett’s dang nerve after a few drinks that concerns me right now, especially fearing how he might react if provoked by my parents.
“Oh yeah, I’m sure.” Garrett motions to the flight attendant. “Make it a double.” He then turns his eyes out the small plastic window of the tiny plane.
“O-kay …” The happy hostess smiles brightly. I take a second look at this cheery young lady with the big smile stretched across her face, who just moments ago was simply a southern belle waitress in the sky. But somehow, all of a sudden, as she smiles down at me, with Garrett’s back to us both, she feels like an ally. It’s as if she knows my story, senses my sadness, and feels my confusion, my pain, and my desperation for everything in my world to be back to what it used to be when everything was good, and I felt loved. She may forever hold my secret, as she has probably sensed and seen so many times before on this short and bumpy flight.
“How ’bout some peanu-uts?”
“Oh, no, thank you.” I smile.
“You suuure?” she drawls.
“Yes, I’m sure. Thanks so much.”
Garr
ett shoots me an incredulous look.
“You turning into a little southern belle too now?”
“What?” I shoot him back a menacing look that says, “Do not even try.”
But things certainly have changed from the bustling streets and hustling lives we share in New York City. Here, in the not so bustling South, there are men on this plane wearing checkered shirts and polyester pants. One old man even wears overalls.
“Hey, baby.” Garrett nudges me with his elbow. “You think ol’ grandpa over there might be married to one of those gals who wears a housecoat and curlers to the grocery store?” He cracks up at his own joke. “Welcome back to backcountry USA!”
I try to defend my home state. “Well, at least most people are sweet and hospitable down here. I mean, down here, a smile really does mean a smile.”
“Yeah, right,” Garrett says with a smirk. “They smile when they cut you! Then they come visit you in the hospital, bring you a pie, and ask how your mama and ’nem is. And that big ol’ smile never leaves their southern faces. Yeah, welcome back to the South, baby! Come hang with us!” Garrett laughs at his own joke.
Nuthin’ could be finer than to be in Carolina in the mo-or-or-ning, is all my heart sings.
The little plane suddenly dips and swerves a bit, caught momentarily in a strong gust of wind. I instinctively grab Garrett’s arm, and he comforts me, even though the concerned look on his face lets me know he is as startled and caught off guard as I am. My heart is skipping as I pray we’ll reach home safely. I take a long sip of my cool water, hoping it will help me chill. I am comforted by the lush green fields and miles of pine trees down below.
On the horizon, the deep green fades into an even deeper blue, and I know it is Mother Ocean not far away. The little houses dotting the fields of crops on the farms below make the land look like a Monopoly game board. The plane’s motor continues its loud humming as we glide over the miles and miles of pine trees and fertile earth toward the deep blue Atlantic Ocean. I can’t help but admire God and His works as I marvel at this bird’s-eye view of my rich Tar Heel state. It’s hard to believe that I spent so much time and energy trying to run away from this southern land. I was the only one of all the generations of my family to ever “flee North.” Now, oddly enough, I find myself fleeing right back home again to find tranquility—not only a safe, calm, and peaceful feeling, but Tranquility is also the name my grandfather gave our family beach house three generations ago. It was one of the very first black-owned beachfront properties in North Carolina. Before it was built in 1948, establishing the Ocean City section of the island, blacks weren’t allowed on the beach. The oceanfront was reserved by the law just for whites. But my grandparents joined some other wealthy black families in helping change that.
Garrett and I finally arrive in Wilmington, where we grab our luggage and rent a car to make the thirty-mile trek to the island, where I cannot wait to see my parents and Aunt Joy, who I know is going to be, as she calls it, “tickled brown” to see us. I smile to myself as we make the turn out of the airport driveway and hit the old familiar Route 50 East, the little two-lane highway to Topsail Island.
Garrett is still grumpy, despite his double Bloody Mary. “I hate that you guys live so far from the airport,” he whines.
“Aw, c’mon, G,” I tease. “Hell, getting to the Hamptons in all that New York traffic is a lot worse. Here, you get to enjoy the quaint uniqueness of the southern countryside along the way. Honey, just look out the window, please, and try to relax.” I gently rub Garrett’s hand.
The southern scenes are serene and beautiful. I get a big rush as we drive past some fruit-and-vegetable stands. Most of the hand-built wooden structures are set up on the very land on which the fruit and vegetables are grown, manned by farmers and their families right there in their own front yards. I am comforted by the gentleness of humanity down here as I watch barefooted children bagging fruit and helping old ladies to their cars. Country kids can run across anything barefooted—tobacco fields, gravel driveways, hot asphalt, and seashelled beaches, just as I did as a kid growing up here, at the beach and in the country in the summertime.
“Oh, Garrett, let’s stop at one of those stands. We can bring home some fresh fruit and vegetables for the house.”
“Now, Dest, you know good and well that your mother has already packed that fridge with enough food to feed an army.”
“I know, but it’s tradition—we have to stop and shop. Please?”
Garrett finally surrenders, continuing down the little country road until he spots another fruit-and-vegetable stand, this one situated in the parking lot of an antiquated gas station. He pulls over and parks under a shady tree in the gravel drive.
“Okay, southern belle. Here’re your plantation fruits and veggies. Shop till you drop.”
“C’mon, sweetie, we won’t be long,” I say as I get out of the car. I can already smell the sticky sweetness of fresh cantaloupe, ripe peaches, and watermelon.
“Get some of those big-ass tomatoes too, babe,” Garrett calls to me.
“You got it,” I call back in my excitement and the hope that maybe Garrett is finally coming around.
“And how about a bunch of those wildflowers for Aunt Joy too.”
“I will!” I blow a great big kiss to my thoughtful man and then busy myself with the produce, enraptured by this beautiful display of God’s natural glory. I will do everything I can to make Garrett feel at home and loved and not like a fish out of water this weekend.
I fill my brown paper bags with peaches, okra, string beans, and corn, which will all go perfectly with one of these huge, beefy tomatoes. A gigantic one catches my eye, and I know it will make Garrett’s mouth water. I can’t remember when I last saw a fresh tomato this humongous, certainly not in Harlem.
“Take a look at this one, Garrett,” I squeal, turning slowly to reveal the enormous red tomato cradled in the palm of my hand. “How’d you like me to slice this one up on your fresh little salad, Big Daddy?”
But Garrett is not there. Instead, there stands an old, snaggletoothed white man, grinning at me as he picks through the plump peaches.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir. Please forgive me,” I say, totally embarrassed. “I thought you were my husband. He was just standing here—I thought.”
“If you’re talking about that young colored fellow, I seen him over there by the station on the pay phone.” The old man nudges his head in that direction.
“Thank you, sir,” I say. Why in the world would Garrett be using the pay phone way out here in the middle of nowhere? After adding a few more tomatoes to our basket, I realize my purse is locked in the car, and Garrett is still nowhere to be found. Who could Garrett be talking to all this time?
Worried, I make my way over to the station, and I finally spot Garrett on the pay phone, waving his hands emphatically as he carries on in a heated conversation. My poor husband never stops working, even on a Saturday during a holiday weekend. But enough already—we promised we’d leave our jobs in New York and enjoy this free time together. So I march across the gravel drive, determined to hold my precious press prince to that promise if it’s the last thing I do.
As I get closer, Garrett’s voice gets louder. He does not notice me, as he is in deep conversation and his back is turned.
“I’m sorry … Look, I said I’m sorry.” I hear him pleading into the phone. “I know. I know, but it was a last-minute thing … I didn’t have a choice … No! I couldn’t get out of it. … I know you’re upset, but Evie, please!” Garrett slaps his forehead and runs his thick fingers through his freshly cut hair. He suddenly spins around in midsentence. Garrett locks his eyes with mine, with a look of complete shock on his face.
“Stevie,” he says into the phone but in a much-different tone this time and still not taking his eyes off mine. “Stevie, let me call you back later, man. But as I said, I’m sorry.
I’m not available this weekend.” Garrett places the receiver back on the hook. “Can you believe those bastards? They actually thought I would work today. I tell ya—that Stevie!”
I look at Garrett with a blank stare. I could have sworn I just heard him say “Evie,” not “Stevie.”
“Who’s Stevie?” I ask. “I’ve never heard you mention that name before.”
“Aw, he’s the new guy,” Garrett explains. “A real punk on the assignment desk. Always trying to get me to work overtime and weekends. And now, the holiday.”
“Ah, I see,” I say, but I don’t.
“C’mon, babe, let’s grab our stuff and get out of here. Everybody’s waiting for us, and we don’t want to be late for Barbara’s big brunch,” Garrett teases.
I smile. “You’re right about that.”
Maybe I did mishear Garrett. Maybe I am mistaken. Maybe I’m just too sensitive right now, overwhelmed with stress and jumping too quickly to an unfair conclusion. But I swear I’m not mistaken about the name I heard Garrett say. Still, all I know is that whoever was on the other end of that phone is very clear that my husband is with me this weekend, and that makes me glad. This long weekend on Topsail may very well change everything.
Just a few miles away from the little drawbridge that takes us across the intercoastal waterway and onto Topsail Island, I get a whiff of the fresh salt air as it boldly eases its way through the dank scent of the dark Tar Heel soil. The sides of the road have now given way to sandy banks, dunes, and tall blades of sea grass swaying in the gentle ocean breeze.
I roll down the windows as I did as a child. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, with the wind and afternoon sun in my face. I thank God for this feeling of freedom. Garrett takes my hand and squeezes it tightly.
“We’re here,” he says with a smile. The lines in his face seem to have relaxed a bit. Perhaps peace is beginning to find us here. At least, that’s what I hope comes out of our dream vacation as I pray we also come out of our nightmare and finally find tranquility.
Destiny Lingers Page 7