Destiny Lingers

by Rolonda Watts

  “Gon’ be good with some coleslaw, and Texas Pete, and a Pabst Blue Ribbon beer!” the old man exclaims with wide eyes and a toothless grin. “Gon’ be mighty good,” he reassures. We both laugh at the pleasure of sharing this wonderful, sacred life on the beach.

  “Well, good luck!” I wave good-bye and start heading home again. Suddenly, I am frozen in my tracks by another human being on the beach. I see what looks like a vision of Adonis running toward me. In the late afternoon sun, this man looks like a dream. Orange and red sun rays beaming down on his bronzed skin and sun-bleached blond hair, make this incredibly beautiful man seem surreal. I feel as if I am watching a Coppertone commercial or witnessing a mirage in slow motion. His ripped stomach muscles glisten with sweat in the sunshine as he plows his way through the sand and surf. Big thighs; strong, shapely arms; and broad shoulders you want to cry on. He looks like a golden thoroughbred in motion.

  Our eyes connect. They lock for what seems like an eternity as I continue my slow stroll, and he continues his steady run, both of us moving closer and closer, still locked in each other’s gaze. I feel something weird, like a laser searing right through me. And as uncomfortable and as unnerved as I feel, I still cannot unlock myself from his gaze, nor from the oddly familiar warmth I find in the sparkling sea-green eyes of this beautiful bronzed being on the beach.

  “Afternoon,” he says with a bright smile as he pushes past me.

  “Afternoon,” I reply with a brilliant smile of my own.

  We pass each other, yet I can still feel his electricity. I close my eyes, wanting to remember every aspect of this sudden and uncanny encounter. I smile to myself and turn to look over my shoulder for one last glimpse of Adonis, and as I turn, so does he. As he runs and I walk, moving in opposite directions, our eyes lock once again. He smiles like he knows me. I wave like I want him to.

  He continues his run down the beach.

  I keep walking home as the sun, in all of her amber splendor, begins to set over our Topsail Beach, preparing for nightfall and another day.

  Chapter Ten

  I get back to the beach house, feeling guilty that another man captured my attention, but the guy was beautiful—and attentive. That one moment of exchanging glances with a stranger was rather nice and innocent enough. I wish my husband’s gaze was still that powerful. I know I should be fighting for the survival of my marriage right now, not looking over my shoulder at a beautiful bronzed boy on the beach, but for some reason, I couldn’t stop myself today—and obviously, neither could he. It seems as if I know him from somewhere. Who knows? Maybe in another life.

  As I reach the beach house and make my way up the stairs, I am determined to take this pent-up sexual passion to my husband—where it belongs—for a little late-afternoon delight. I pray he’s still snuggled in bed, watching the game right now, waiting for me. I slip past my parents, both deeply engrossed in an old movie. Aunt Joy is sound asleep; her novel still nestled in her lap. I slip into our bedroom to seduce Garrett.

  The lights are out. Shades drawn. Perfect. I slip out of my clothes and climb into bed with my husband, wrapping my legs around his, trying to ignite a bit of passion. My body is on fire, but Garrett just lies there, a lump of cold flesh, breathing deeply, with his back turned to me.

  “Garrett,” I whisper as I rub his back. “Want to mess around a little bit?”

  No answer.

  “Garrett?”

  My husband’s deep breathing turns into a snore. This is a long cry from the times when Garrett couldn’t keep his hands off me. The sexual energy between us was undeniable, so much power in our longing for each other. We had to restrain ourselves in public. I miss those days.

  Garrett chooses to sleep through dinner. I lie and tell my folks he’s too exhausted to eat after our long drive and might be coming down with something.

  We keep dinner simple. I nibble on a leftover croquette, some shrimp salad, and a piece of corn bread. My folks and I chat about the many new changes and booming real estate on our growing island. Night falls gently. The sound of chirping crickets are a pleasant change from New York City traffic. And I’ve forgotten how much I miss lightning bugs until I see them glowing against the black southern sky. I say my good nights and turn in early, climbing back into bed with my snoring husband.

  I feel so small still lying here behind this big mountain of unmovable flesh, staring into the darkness, wondering where we are headed. I remember how I used to stare longingly at Garrett while he slept, feeling a sense of safety in his presence and sweetness in his slumbering soul. But I don’t feel that serenity today. I feel Garrett’s falling into slumber is yet another sign of his falling out of love with me.

  I toss and turn as day turns into night, lying in this bed next to my husband, unable to rest or make love. The ocean crashes outside, and the house quakes inside. I hear the frantic brushes of the long stalks of sea grass, entwined and entangled in the ocean breeze. I wish my husband and I were entangled now.

  As the sun rises over the ocean, I feel that I have finally found a friend in this vast darkness between night and day. I also feel sad, having spent another day and night alone, without Garrett, even though he’s lying right here next to me.

  While everyone else continues to sleep soundly, I feel an urge to get up and out of the house. Perhaps doing something traditional will make me feel better now that I’m back home. Ever since I saw that fisherman’s fresh fish flopping around in that pail, I have had a craving for some fried spots, grits, and buttery biscuits, just like I enjoyed on so many summer mornings growing up here. I figure if I get to the fishing docks early, I can get a few fish to fry up for a big family breakfast. I know everybody—even Garrett—likes spots, and so, in hope of making peace this weekend, I’ll head to the docks on this breaking dawn.

  I slip out of bed and throw on some loose linen pants, a tight tank top, and one of Garrett’s big button-down shirts. I slip into my flip-flops, being extra quiet so as not to wake Garrett or anyone else in the house. I love these early morning hours when no one else is awake, when there’s no one else’s agenda or energy to deal with—nobody but myself to please. Plus, every beach body knows that the best catches come in during the wee hours of the morning, after the fishermen have been out at sea all night. I am determined to make my husband, my family, and myself very happy this morning. And I believe frying up some fresh spotted gifts from the sea is sure to do it.

  I arrive at the docks and drive up the gravel driveway. An old hound dog lying on the wooden storefront porch lifts his droopy head. Finding me not to be a threat, the old dog nestles back down into his sleeping position as I park the car under a weeping willow tree.

  “Mornin’!” calls out one of the fishermen, cleaning out a large catch in an old free-standing sink. “Can I help ya today?”

  “Yes, sir, looking for some spots,” I say as I crunch my way across the gravel.

  “Well, ya might be too late for them this mornin’. Young fella inside just asked for every spot we got in the house.”

  “What?” I exclaim. “Every single one of them? All of them? You sold them all to him?”

  “Sure did. Fella wanted ’bout a hundred o’ them spots.”

  “Can’t he share—maybe like, a dozen?” In my disappointment, I sound like a whiny little girl.

  “Well, now, you’ll have to ask him that. But he’s a real nice fella. I bet he’ll share with you.” The man squinches his sun-beaten face on one side up into a long, wise wink at me and nods his head. It’s as if this old salt understands how much this is threatening my beach breakfast bliss.

  “C’mon,” he says as he rinses off his hands and wipes them on his towel. “Let’s see what’s going on in the fish house.”

  We walk into the fish house, which is more like an oversized ice garage. Workers are counting and wrapping up bushels and bushels of spots in brown paper and then tossing the
m into empty baskets before scooting them out to a waiting car—a police car? Why in the world are they putting all these fish in a police car? So it’s some greedy cop nabbing all the spots, huh? Figures. And then I notice the words stenciled on the back of the patrol car: “Surf City Police Department: To Protect and Service.”

  Service? I muse. Shouldn’t it read “to protect and serve”? I have to do everything I can not to burst out laughing. My cop buddies back in New York City would have a field day with this one. The fisherman notices me gawking at the police car.

  “You notice anything funny about this car?” I chuckle, holding my inside joke.

  “Yup,” he replies. “It’s filling up with fish.”

  We laugh.

  “Yeah, your spots look like they’re under arrest,” I say as a worker puts another bushel of fish in the backseat.

  “Yup, well, the police chief’s the one’s buying out the store!”

  “What for?” I ask.

  “There he is. Why don’tcha ask him.” The old man motions over my shoulder.

  I turn around, and the chief is walking toward me with his head down, his big, black patrol boots crunching through the gravel.

  “You’ve got quite a lot of spots there, Chief,” I say, my friendly tease bordering on perturbed sarcasm.

  The chief looks up and squints in the sun. He pushes back his police hat. I cannot believe my eyes as they slowly reconnect with his, and we both smile. It is actually him—Adonis. Dreamy Adonis running down the beach is actually the police chief? I wonder if he can detect how stunned I am. He smiles that Adonis smile and removes his chief’s hat.

  “Mornin’.” He gently nods my way and then turns his attention to his car. “Yeah, got quite a lotta fish all right. Gonna have to ride with all my windows down, I reckon.”

  “Maybe you oughta fire up your siren too so you can get there quicker,” I reply. We share a neighborly chuckle.

  “The lady’s hoping you’ll sell her a couple of them spots you got there, Chief,” says the fisherman. “She looked all dreary-eyed after I done told her you done bought up every last one in the house.”

  “Well, I’d be most happy to share with the lady.” The chief smiles that warm and charming smile at me again. “Better yet, why don’t you just come to our big fish fry tomorrow, and you can have all the fish you can eat there, and you won’t have to cook a one. Every year our island police department throws a big fund-raiser. Most of the money goes to our local battered women’s shelter. We’ll have hush puppies, North Carolina barbecue, baked beans, coleslaw, and plenty of fresh baked pies too.” He smiles that smile again.

  “Delicious,” I say, knowing subconsciously I am referring to more than the food. “I’m a huge supporter of any efforts to fight domestic violence. Count me in.”

  “Well, I thank ya, ma’am!” he says. I find his inflection, with the emphasis on the “thank ya,” both interesting and endearing. He seems to be such a southern gentleman. I forgot how special they are down here.

  “You know something?” The chief squints those sea-green eyes at me. “You sure look darn familiar somehow. You from around here?”

  “My family has a beach house here, but I live in New York.”

  “Woo-wee!” the chief spurts. “New Yawk City! Ain’t that how y’all say it up there in the Big Apple?”

  “Uh … yeah, well, something like that.” Even though the chief seems to be genuinely fascinated and cordial, I am still very aware of the animosity some of these southerners hold for New Yorkers, as if the Civil War is still not over. I didn’t even know “damn Yankee” was two words till I left the South.

  “New York City …” the chief muses. “Now, I tell you, that is one fast place.”

  “Yes, it’s nice to come home and slow down a bit.”

  “Well, you sho’nuff gon’ slow down ’round here,” interjects the old fisherman. “Nothing to do but enjoy the fat of the land and the fruit of the sea.”

  “You also saw me yesterday, out on the beach. You were running; I was walking …” I suddenly sound silly.

  “Oh, wait a minute. Oh, yeah!” The chief suddenly remembers with a bright smile. “You were hitting up some old man on the beach for his fish too, right?”

  Totally busted, I blush.

  “Dag, girl, what are you? Some kind of fish-nabber?” the charming chief teases.

  Even the old fisherman, standing by observing us, snickers. “You gon’ end up in his police car,” the old geezer guffaws. “He’s gon’ arrest ya and throw ya in the back of that police car with all them smelly spots!”

  “Hope I’ll see you at the fish fry tomorrow,” the chief calls over his shoulder as he heads back to his patrol car. “We’ll start around four. Come comfortable and ready to eat and dance all night. Oh—and enjoy these on me.” The chief tosses me a brown-papered bundle of spots. I catch it like a football. “Leave those poor fishermen on the beach alone, will ya?” he teases.

  Chief “Adonis” starts his police car engine and slowly pulls out the gravel driveway. I can barely breathe as I cradle his package of fresh-caught fish like it’s a newborn baby. How nice, I silently muse.

  And on a cloud, I float home in my car, to enjoy my first meal on this new day.

  Hail to the chief!

  Chapter Eleven

  I am halfway done cooking breakfast when I hear the first sounds of the family starting to rise. I look up, and Aunt Joy is standing there with a big smile on her face.

  “Whatcha got cookin’, good-lookin’?” she teases.

  “Something delicious that reminds me of home.” I flip over a big spot, frying golden in the big cast-iron pan. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

  “Please do,” Aunt Joy happily accepts as she slides her round body into a chair and pulls up to the kitchen table with a hearty “Whew!”

  “Feeling any better this morning?” I ask her, still worried about how she became so weak so fast while walking on the beach yesterday.

  “Oh, I’m okay.” She shoos away my concern. “Don’t you fret over me now. Ooo! Boy, that fish sure looks good. Nice and golden brown, just like we like it. I sure do miss your breakfasts, kiddo.”

  “Yes,” I reply with a sigh. “Everybody does.”

  I can’t think of the last time I prepared a home-cooked meal for anyone. I forgot how soothing, therapeutic, generous, and loving it can be. Perhaps I’ll cook more—prepare another special meal when Garrett and I get home, just for us, to express my love. But I know it will take a lot more than home cooking to save our marriage.

  “Where’s Garrett? Still sleeping?” Aunt Joy is nibbling on a crunchy fish tail she must have stolen when I wasn’t looking.

  “Yes, he’s still asleep. He’s been working really hard lately.”

  “You both have.” Aunt Joy looks up at me. “Is he sensitive to how hard you’ve been working up there in that dangerous city, putting your life on the line while trying to save others?”

  “I think so …” I try to busy myself with my spatula, taking the sizzling fish out of the pan and draining it on a brown grocery bag.

  “How are you two getting along?” Aunt Joy leans in. “Still enjoying newlywed bliss?”

  I look at Aunt Joy, and she seems to have a look of knowing all over her face.

  “We’re struggling,” I admit. “But we’re trying.”

  “We are?” Aunt Joy asks.

  “Yes, we. We’re trying.”

  “Hmm. I certainly hope so. I just want you to be happy, Destiny,” she says softly. “You are my concern. You deserve to be happy. You’re my kiddo, and I care about you.”

  Aunt Joy winks.

  I flip another spot.

  “Well, well, well. What’s for breakfast?” Mother suddenly flows into the room wearing one of her many colorful caftans as she carefully eyes my meal. M
other loves her caftans. They make her look and feel as regal as a queen. She also loves running the show. “I’ll set the table,” she offers. “I’ve been dying to use your grandmother’s old china and linens for a special occasion anyway. And Destiny, your cooking breakfast is indeed a special occasion. What in the world’s gotten into you?”

  “Well, look here! It’s our baby girl, cooking the family breakfast on this fine Topsail morning.” Daddy sleepily saunters over and plants a big kiss on my forehead. “Oh, my word—look, Mother. She’s frying spots!”

  Mother makes a big fuss over setting the table. Every fork, knife, spoon, and seashell-embroidered cloth napkin is in its proper place. Daddy and Aunt Joy sit on the front-porch rocking chairs, sipping coffee, looking out over the ocean, and again talking about how much the island has changed with construction bustling everywhere and the beaches finally integrated today.

  While the family moves in its natural order, there is still no sign of Garrett. Why does he not get out of that bed and come spend some time with the family? Is that really so hard to do?

  “Wash up, everybody,” I call out as I head back to the bedroom to wake up Garrett. I find him lying across the bed, reading.

  “Well, good morning,” I say, a bit of sarcasm leaking into my voice. “I didn’t know you were up. Why don’t you join us?”

  “I’ll be out in a minute.” Garrett keeps reading.

  I try again. “I fried some spots, and I have some grits and biscuits too—”

  “I said I’d be out in a minute,” Garrett snaps and then turns back to his reading.

  I feel so rejected by Garrett right now that I could scream, but instead, I quietly back out of the bedroom. I take a deep breath and hold back the tears that are stinging behind my eyes before facing my family with a fake smile on my face. Why does he insist on being so damn difficult? Is he purposely trying to piss off every member of my family—before noon?