I feel a sting of guilt that my own mother could be so mean. Chase must have been among those poor barefooted children across the street that my mother warned me to stay away from, claiming they were teaming with ringworms, lice, and all sorts of other horrid maladies. “Plus, they smell like wet chickens,” she’d caution, much rather having me fear them than play with them. And their parents, reportedly describing us as “uppity porch monkeys,” would rather their kids avoid us like the plague as well.
The more I get to know Chase, the more I see what a horrible shame that was. We are so much more alike than different. And as we share story after story, we find that we have enjoyed so many of the same pleasures on the tiny island we both love. Why could we have not openly shared this friendship all of our lives? Why were we not allowed to share love?
Bellies full, Chase and I join the crowd that is eagerly heading toward the beach, now that the sun has set. Country folks, with their plastic lawn chairs and quilts and blankets underarm, make their way to their favorite spots on the sand for what Chase describes as “one of the greatest fireworks shows on earth—country style.”
“Every year, Farmer Jones floats out that big barge that he and his workers made, and they blow off fireworks that rival Gucci’s up there in New Yawk.”
“Grucci,” I automatically correct. “It’s actually Grucci fireworks, after the Grucci family.”
Chase shrugs, unconcerned. “Gucci, Grucci—whatever, Farmer Jones’s fireworks are spectacular—at least to us country folks. Just you wait and see.” Chase looks up at the orange and golden sky in great anticipation. He looks so much like that innocent little boy again, so full of wonder and surprise—raw, real, and, as always, extremely charming.
I feel that even though time has moved on, I have known Chase all my life. I feel as if we are meant to be together. We fit. Just like from the very beginning, it feels right.
“C’mon, let’s head this way.” He nods toward a clearing in the crowd. He grabs my hand as we dodge our way toward the shore and over a big sand dune. His hand feels bigger than I expected and stronger; his fingers are thick, his palms callused. “I want you to meet some friends,” Chase throws over his shoulder as he hastens his steps. I follow, admiring the back of the police chief’s perfectly sun-bleached hair and tanned neck.
Across the beach, a group of young people gather around a huge quilt. They seem to be close friends; laughing and teaming with excitement as they glance at the darkening sky in anticipation of the big fireworks show ahead. Everyone is charged as day gives way to night.
“Hey! There’s Chase!” a chubby girl in the group squeals. Everybody turns and bursts into a round of cheers. “Woooo-hoooo! Chase! Chase the clown! Chase the clown, and we watched him drown!” They whoop and holler and slap high-fives. They applaud and then chide a humble Chase, with pats on the back and congratulations for having the nerve to play that crazy, caged clown and getting dunked. Chase takes the friendly fire with humility.
One burly fellow turns to me. “Hey, aren’t you the gal who dunked him?” he asks, his grin widening over his sunburned face.
“Well, yeah, that was me,” I say, now feeling like the one on the hot bench.
“Hey, Chase,” he yells out. “Arrest this woman for cruelty to clowns!”
Chase and his pals howl with laughter. It’s so contagious that I cannot help but join in.
“Awl-right, everybody!” A fat man in a Lacoste shirt, plaid Bermuda shorts, Topsiders with no socks, and a straw plantation hat, holds a megaphone to his mouth. He is standing on a crude wooden platform, apparently built just for this special summer occasion. “It’s time for the big show, y’all,” he continues. “Farmer Jones is promising some mighty spectacular surprises this year, so sit back and relax and enjoy the fireworks! But first, I want to thank all of y’all for coming out with your families and friends—and hey, maybe you even got to meet some new friends.”
Chase and I exchange a warm glance. He is my new old friend, for sure.
“Y’all having fun yet?” The man behind the megaphone eggs on the crowd, and the people respond with more whoops and hollers and whistles, removing any doubt that these country beach folks are having a blast as the local bluegrass band strikes up again.
Chase nudges me. “You having fun yet, New York?”
“Yes, Chief,” I respond. “I’m having a ball. It’s so nice being home, connecting. Seeing you again after all this time is amazing. It’s nice seeing so much of where I grew up—the things I forgot I missed, being so busy with my career and all.”
I feel the blood rush to my face.
“Well, you have truly been missed, Miss Dee,” Chase says.
“Well, I thank ya, sir,” I jest, mimicking his distinct cadence.
Then suddenly, there’s a loud boom! And the night sky is filled with brightly colored ribbons of fire. Farmer Jones’s famous fireworks show has begun. Chase and I laugh and nudge each other, gawking like children at each brilliant blast.
When the show ends, Chase offers to walk me to my car.
“Chase, why did we call you Chip back in the day?” I ask. “And when did you become Chase?”
“Well, it was just a nickname. You know, like, ‘Chip off the old block’?” Chase explains. “That was till I grew up and wanted nothing more to do with my old man, who started using me and my mom as his punching bags. He was one mean, alcoholic son of a bitch.”
“And one mean racist too, I hear.”
“Yep. That too.” Chase shakes his head and looks down at the ground. “He certainly was that too. He was a lot of things, Dee. He did and said some terrible things to people, including to my mom and me. But when I came of age, I swore I’d never be like him. And after he got so drunk that he beat my mama to the point of death, I swore it’d be the last time. After that, I wouldn’t have anything to do with him. That’s when I switched back to my real name, the one my mama gave me: Chase Monroe McKenzie.”
We stand here looking at each other in pregnant pause.
“It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?” Chase asks in a hushed tone.
“Yes, it has been,” I reply. “Way too long. I hate that I have to leave in the morning. There’s so much more of the island I’d like to see. It’s been so long.”
“Listen to me.” Chase takes a deep breath and a step closer. “I want you to know that I never really forgot you, Dee. I don’t know what all happened way back when—what all our folks and the world did to keep us apart. All I know is that one day we were finally getting close and then you were just gone. You stopped coming back. Miss Joy said you’d gone away to college, then grad school, and then you went off and got married. I thought I’d never see you again. You have no idea how many times I have thought about you over the years, passing by your beach house, wondering where you were, how your life turned out.”
“I wish I could say it turned out fine, Chase. But it hasn’t.” I’m taken aback by how easily my mouth spewed out my sad truth.
Chase nods his head as if he understands. He purses his lips, perhaps detecting how jumbled up my feelings and life must be right now. I hang my head, unable to speak.
“So who’s the other man making fireworks go off in your life, DeeDee? Still married to him?”
“Yes,” I reply. “At least, I think I am. We’re working on it.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Chase says. He seems melancholy. “We’re working on it too, I guess.”
“You got married too?” I ask.
“No, but certainly being pushed in that direction.” Chase releases a deep sigh. “Her name is Missy. We’ve been seeing each other for a little while now, but … well, she’s a nice girl, comes from a good family and all, but I’m just not convinced she’s the one I should marry.”
“Why not?”
“Just not the right one. My detective head tells me she’
s got another agenda going on, but I just don’t know what it is yet. Time is on my side right now. I just want us to get to know each other a lot better before rushing into marriage. Just don’t want to make a lifelong mistake, you know.”
“Trust me—I know. That makes a lot of sense. Take your time, Chase. Everything’ll work out for both of us, I’m sure.”
“Yeah, I believe you’re right.” Chase takes my hand and steps closer. “And Dee, you deserve a man who loves you and treats you right. You are a wonderful woman. Make sure that man of yours treats you right.”
“I’ll do my best, Chase. Thank you.” If he only knew the drama that awaits me back in New York.
“I’m always here for you.” Chase squeezes my hand. “Your mama may not like that, but I am. I promise I’ll keep an eye on the house and your aunt Joy while you’re up in New Yawk!”
“I appreciate that, my friend.” I give Chase a warm hug. “And again, thank you for everything. This fish fry and this time to reconnect with you were simply wonderful.”
“Get home safely now,” Chase says tenderly. I can feel his energy radiating from his body through mine as he hugs me back. “Be careful up there in Sin City. And promise me you’ll get back to Topsail real soon.”
“I will. Good luck to you, Chase. Hope everything works out the way you want.”
“Yeah, you too, lady.”
“And promise me you’ll get that wording right on your police car,” I tease.
“Oh, you caught that, did ya?” Chase shakes his head and chuckles as his face turns a bright red. “I will surely get on that, Miss D, first thing in the morning!”
I have to force myself to unlock eyes and energy with Chase. Vacation is over. Time to get back to my work and the harsh realities waiting for me back home.
I pull out of the parking lot and turn onto the little highway, heading back to the beach house to pack up so I can catch my plane to New York first thing in the morning. While I’m sad to say good-bye to my family, Chase, and Topsail Island, I must return to another island—the island of Manhattan, where the looming mysteries surrounding my life, career, and marriage remain unsolved.
Chapter Sixteen
Garrett and I are back in the New York City news rat race again. I am looking for another big story, as the one about Thomas has long been buried by other breaking news. Garrett and I have barely spent any time together since we got back earlier this week. He seems to be avoiding me, always racing off to get to the assignment desk. We still have not talked about the distance between us and the future of our strained marriage or about all of the family tension we experienced at the beach. Perhaps we will make the time to be together this weekend to make things right. I’ll get off work and get home early this Friday night, just as Garrett’s waking up to a new weekend. I plan to steal some time with my man.
Garrett is whistling his own rendition of “Volare” when I enter our home. The television is blaring, and dirty dishes are piled in the sink. The scent of the fresh Irish Spring from his shower and the Polo cologne still hangs in the air, and I know my husband is up and running.
“Hey!” I yell out as I enter through the door. “I’m home!”
“In here!” Garrett calls back from the bedroom. I drop my things by the door and pick up a pile of mail as I follow his voice. He is standing over our bed, packing a suitcase full of clothes.
“What are you doing?” I asked, stunned. “Are we going somewhere?”
“Didn’t you hear about that riot in Boston?” His mind is already at work. “They say it’s a race thing. The brass wants me to fly up there this weekend and check it out.”
“Great,” I say, disappointed that yet another weekend will come and go without our spending crucial time together.
“Baby, don’t look so sad,” he says, planting a hard peck on my cheek. Garrett grabs his socks off the dresser and turns back to his packing. “It’s a big story.”
“I know,” I reply.
“So look,” he continues nonchalantly. “I’ll probably just stay up there over the weekend.” Garrett flips his toiletry bag into his duffel, zips it closed, and prepares to leave.
I certainly was not expecting this.
“I’ve got a lot of work to do,” he continues. “And then I thought I’d visit with Jen and her new boyfriend. She lives up there, you know.”
“Yes, I know.” Duh. Like I don’t know where his sister lives?
“So, gotta go, baby. I’ll call you.”
And with that and another peck on the cheek, my busy husband is gone.
I refuse to allow my haunting suspicions to flare up again, so I try to consider the bright side. A weekend to myself might not be such a bad idea. I could always cook a big southern meal and invite my girlfriends over for a pig-out slumber party. I could take a long, luxurious bubble bath or catch up on my reading. Maybe I’ll clean the house and get it shipshape before Garrett gets back. Maybe it’s all for the best. Garrett needed a breaking story of his own anyway.
And perhaps he does need to bond with his sister. It’s been a while since we’ve seen Jenny, especially since she met Bradley the Buppie, her new live-in lover. Maybe Garrett is just doing his big-brother duties by checking in on her to make sure she’s picked the right guy. That’s my Garrett. He adores his little sister, and I’m sure he’s looking out for her. Let him be.
I feel guilty for feeling anything other than pride about Garrett’s trip to Boston, especially after he was so supportive of me during my hostage story. We have both been under a great deal of stress and pressure lately. I will not take Garrett’s sudden absence personally. Instead, I will make the best of this time alone—by not being alone. I’ll call my girls.
I need the close comfort of my girlfriends. I miss their company, so I invite the girls over for a Saturday-night dinner and sleepover. I buy lots of wine and vodka, so we have plenty to drink to keep our spirits high and the conversation flowing. I figure I’ll treat the girls to my famous fried chicken and whip up some collard greens, wild rice and gravy, my grandmama’s melt-in-your-mouth sweet potato casserole, and a batch of delicious homemade jalapeño corn bread, and a pitcher of sweet tea with mint and lemon, just like we do it back home. My New York friends love it when I cook a big down-home country meal, and this Friday night will be the perfect time to forget about our hips, hounds, and husbands and just splurge over our friendship feast. In the spirit of letting it all hang out, I think I’ll bake up a nice peach and berry cobbler too.
Perhaps it is in respect to that age-old adage about keeping your friends close and your enemies closer, but I have decided that I also want Eve here among our circle of friends. Eve, Kat, Hope, and me—the four of us, just like we were in the good old days. Maybe I have been hallucinating all this time, convinced that Eve is having an affair with my husband. I have hunches but no solid proof. I admit that I miss her friendship and the way things used to be among us four girls. I would hate to be so insecure that I am wrong about my suspicions and then lose her friendship forever. Maybe I can get a better read on what’s really going on during dinner. Maybe it’s just my imagination. Sometimes I feel horrible suspecting the two people I love most of possibly causing me the most harm. What if I’m wrong? Even worse, what if I’m right?
Kat sounds so excited over the phone as we make our plans for our four-girlfriend weekend.
“Let’s start early,” she suggests. “I love your fried chicken, and the sooner I get to it the better!”
“Garrett’s out of town, so come any time. Wanna say four o’clock cocktails and dinner at six?”
“Very cool. I’ll beat the drums and let Hope and Eve know. See you early for cocktails tomorrow, snookums! Can’t wait!”
“Neither can I,” I reply. “I so need some girl time.”
I hang up the phone and start the plans for our all-girls feel-good southern feast.
&n
bsp; Chapter Seventeen
I am pulling out the last batch of fried chicken when the doorbell buzzes. I take a quick look around the room to make sure everything is right. The tulips and tuberose I purchased from the corner bodega are opening up nicely. The first round of martinis is waiting. The dinner table is set for the fabulous fearsome four. We are about to have a blast!
“Hurry up!” an impatient Kat demands as I hear bustling at the bottom of the stairs. “Open up that door. I smell something good!”
Kat is a woman who knows what she wants. I chuckle at her demanding yet delightful antics, race to the door, and swing it open.
“Hey, girl!” We squeal our delight and excitement that our special night has officially begun. Kat squeezes past me and heads straight to the kitchen. “Where’s that fried chicken, girl?”
Hope and I laugh as Kat scurries by. Eve must be coming late—as usual. Hope and I hug each other tightly. Oh, how I have missed these good girlfriend hugs.
“Come on in, Come on in. Dinner is just about ready,” I say. “Put your things down over there.” I motion toward the “briefcase place” next to the couch.
The girls make themselves at home, pouring themselves some stiff martinis before settling down, barefoot and cross-legged, on the couch in front of our bay window. We chitchat about the latest fashions and the cutest movie stars. We dog-out men, share our latest bargain-hunting heroics, and laugh until our insides hurt. Kat spills the beans on her latest date from hell, as I continue stirring the pots, preparing our thanksgiving dinner. I glance at the stove clock once again. It is almost six o’clock now—two hours after start time—and Eve is still not here. She hasn’t even called to offer her typical explanations.
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