by Nan Rossiter
Sailor sighed. How many times in her life had she felt like Harold? Too many to count, she was sure, but as she laid the pictures across the floor, she knew Maude was right. Life was too precious to waste, and she, too, would find someone to love again. Just, maybe, not so soon. Maybe the fact that she’d started seeing Josiah before the ink was even scrawled across her divorce papers—never mind dry—combined with everything else that was going on, had taken the wind out of her sails. Maybe her divorce bothered her more than she realized. After all, how could you be married to someone for thirty years and not be a little upset when it ended? “Ah, trouble,” she murmured with a sad smile.
She gazed at the photos, trying to decide the best way to hang them. Finally, she determined it would be easiest to start in the center and work out. She picked up a photograph—one in which they all looked like they were in their late thirties—all except Piper, who never aged, and who, in the picture, was wearing a Red Sox cap. Funny, she’d never noticed her wearing that cap before. As she gazed at it, another photo—one of a much smaller Red Sox cap that had washed up on Nauset Light Beach—filled her mind. The photo had been in the newspaper after Easton had gone missing. The heartbreaking headline had read:
EIGHT-YEAR-OLD EASTHAM BOY STILL MISSING—FEARED LOST
Sailor had found several copies of the clipping in her mom’s Bible and she’d slipped one out and tucked it away, and although it had been years since she’d seen it, she could still picture it. Tragically, two days after that headline was in the paper, the owner of the Beachcomber Inn had found a young boy’s body washed up on Cahoon Hollow Beach—eight miles from where they’d been hiking.
Finding Easton’s body had been both a blessing and a curse. It had given her family closure and a body to bury, but it had also made her brother’s death real. Their sweet, fun-loving brother was never coming back. He would never again make them laugh or lift their spirits with his winsome smile. He would never again make their family whole.
Sailor found the center of the wall, tapped a nail through a hook, hung the picture, and stepped back. She reached for her coffee, took a sip, picked another picture, tapped in a nail, and hung a second picture beside it. As she hung each picture, she thought about where they’d been in their lives at the time, and as she continued to work, she began to feel the easy satisfaction of accomplishing something. Surely, she’d once again feel—as her father used to say—fair winds and a following sea. She just had to get through Friday—even if it took a double dose of Prozac!
She hung the last photo and stepped back. The pictures, hanging side by side, were an amazing collection. They belonged in an art show! She’d always had an eye for composition, but when she’d hung the last photo, she realized one spot looked a little empty. She sighed—she’d have to fix it later, because right now she was hungry!
She reached for her empty coffee cup, turned up the radio so she could hear it in the kitchen, and headed down the hall to see what there was for lunch. She filled her cup with sudsy water, turned off the tap, and heard Frank Sinatra’s voice drifting down the hall. She leaned against the counter, picturing her parents dancing around the living room to “Summer Wind.” The kids had stood watching and giggling as their handsome dad had swept their mom off her feet; even seven-year-old Easton had pulled five-year-old Piper out onto the middle of the rug, too. She smiled wistfully, remembering. Then she shook her head. After Easton died, they never saw their parents dance again, and suddenly, it dawned on her why there seemed to be an empty space on the wall of pictures.
CHAPTER 33
Remy emerged from the doctor’s office into the bright sunshine and blinked back tears. Everything was fine! She was fine!
Even though she’d felt reassured when Birdie suggested walking as a possible reason for the blood in her urine, by the time she’d gotten home, she was worrying again. And over the weekend, no matter how many times she murmured, “All will be well . . . all will be well . . . all will be well,” she couldn’t bring herself to believe it, and she felt guilty because her faith was so easily shaken. “I’m sorry I didn’t trust You,” she whispered. “Thank You for making everything okay.”
With a much lighter heart, she walked to her car. She started it up and rolled down the windows—it was hot!—and for the millionth time, she wished that her air conditioner worked. Here it was, summer again, and she still hadn’t taken it in to be fixed, and she dreaded the thought of going through another summer without it—especially since traffic on the Cape in the summer often slowed to a crawl, and you just sat there, sweltering. She sat in the parking lot, tapping her steering wheel and gazing at the odometer—the old car had 182,046 miles on it! How in the world had she racked up so many miles when she never went anywhere?
Finally, with beads of perspiration trickling down the sides of her face, she put it in gear and pulled out of the parking lot, but instead of turning left, toward home, she turned right, toward Hyannis, and forty-five minutes later, she pulled into the parking lot of BMW of Cape Cod. She parked her old Subaru, got out, and wandered over to a small group of MINI Coopers that were parked side by side at the end of the lot—they certainly were cute! In fact, that dark gray one on the end was really nice. She continued to look them over, wondering why some models had vents in their hoods while others didn’t. Did Birdie’s and Sailor’s have vents? She couldn’t remember. And why did the one with the 2008 sticker cost less than the one with the 2003 sticker? She didn’t know a thing about cars—never mind buying one—and now, here she was, at a car dealership, wishing she’d brought someone with her. Birdie and Sailor would know what questions to ask, and they wouldn’t let some sleazy salesman take advantage of them. What had she been thinking, coming all the way down here by herself? Why was she always so foolish?
She peered inside the one that looked like Birdie’s, trying to remember what the model was called. Birdie’s was light blue, but this one was orange.
“Good morning,” a voice said, startling her.
Remy turned around and saw a tall gentleman with white hair walking toward her. “I’m just looking,” she said, hoping he would walk on by.
“That’s fine,” he said. “It’s always fun to look.”
Remy smiled. The man’s face—and voice—made her think of Jim. How funny, she thought, that God would send a car salesman out who looked—and sounded—like her husband.
He extended his hand. “James London.”
Remy stared at him as if he had two heads, and then, remembering her manners, reached out to shake his hand.
“What’s the matter?” he said, smiling. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
“I . . . well . . . I feel like I am seeing a ghost! My late husband’s name was Jim Landon . . . and if he hadn’t died, he would’ve looked like you in his old age.”
James laughed. “Do I look old?”
“Oh no,” Remy said, flustered. “I didn’t mean it that way! You don’t look old . . . it’s . . . it’s just Jim died young . . . and it’s hard for me to imagine how he would look now.”
James nodded. “I understand . . . and I’m sorry for your loss.”
“It’s okay. It was a long time ago,” Remy said awkwardly. “But thank you.” She looked away, feeling herself slip into her social misfit mode—her natural state in almost every situation.
Remy had always felt she was a born social misfit—she was famous for starting to speak at the very same moment someone else started to . . . and when she did manage to contribute a thought to a conversation, she spent the rest of the evening—even the next day—ruminating and regretting what she’d said or how she’d worded it. Long ago, she’d decided it was better—and safer—to keep her mouth shut.
“Well, since you’re only looking, I won’t bother you, but if you have any questions, I’ll be just inside that door—where it’s air-conditioned,” he said, smiling as he wiped his brow.
Remy nodded. “Thank you.” She watched him walk away and then t
urned back to study the spec sheet of the 2013 Spice Orange MINI Cooper Clubman S.
She wondered what the S meant.
CHAPTER 34
Birdie listened to the fully fledged ruffed grouse banging its wings against the inside of the box. They were standing in the wooded area on the far side of Great Pond, well off Cahoon Hollow Road, the winding thoroughfare on which the injured juvenile had been found, and they’d just found evidence—pellet-shaped droppings—that other grouse were in the area. “She’s going to reinjure her wing if she keeps banging around in there.”
David knelt down, opened the box, and gently turned it on its side. The dappled, reddish-brown bird tumbled out, blinked at them, and flew away, its wings filling the silent woods with drumming. Birdie watched and prayed—as she always did—that the released bird would not only survive, but thrive.
“Want to go to the Beachcomber for steamers and drinks?” David asked as they walked back to his Volvo.
Birdie frowned. The Beachcomber was steeped in history . . . and it was one of David’s favorite spots. The old building—currently the home of a popular restaurant and bar—had originally served as the Cahoon Hollow Lifesaving Station. Built in 1853, and rebuilt after a fire in 1897, it was the only lifesaving station, of nine—Monomoy Point, Chatham, Orleans, Nauset, Cahoon’s Hollow, Pamet, Peaked Hill Bars, Highlands, and Race Point—that still stood on its original site.
Since well before the 1800s, the treacherous water along the Outer Cape had become the graveyard for over three thousand ships, and the men who’d manned the nine stations since the 1800s had saved over a hundred thousand lives. David had read every book on the subject, and when the Whydah Museum opened in Provincetown with a collection of artifacts and treasure from the famous Whydah Galley—a slave ship captured and captained in 1717 by the pirate Sam “Black” Bellamy, but shipwrecked two miles south of Wellfleet—they had been among the first to visit.
As much as David was drawn to the historic station, Birdie was repelled by it. Easton’s body had washed ashore on Cahoon Hollow Beach—a fact David knew—so whenever they went to the Beachcomber—which wasn’t often—it always brought back the vivid scene of her brother’s body, covered by a sheet, being carried up the steep incline and placed in a waiting ambulance.
“If you want to,” she said, trying to shrug off the memory. Drinks and steamers sounded good—especially the drinks part.
They parked behind the old building, walked around to the entrance, went inside, and discovered there was already a line. David gave the hostess their name, took the beeper she handed him, and followed Birdie past the T-shirt stand out to the patio.
“What are you having?” he asked.
“My usual.”
David walked over to the bar—which was really a window in the side of the building—and ordered a merlot and a beer, and while Birdie waited for him to come back, she watched a little boy run across the sandy parking lot toward a woman who’d just come up from the beach. “Look, Mom!” he shouted. “I found a heart stone!” The woman knelt down and he held his hand out. “You can have it,” he said, his face beaming.
Birdie couldn’t hear the woman’s reply, but she could see the smile on her face as she pulled him into a hug.
“Hold him tightly,” she whispered, hot tears stinging her eyes. “Never let him go.”
“What’d you just say?” David asked, coming up behind her with their drinks.
Birdie blinked back tears. “Nothing,” she said. “Just talking to myself.”
“Again?” David teased, handing her a plastic cup, filled to the brim.
She nodded. “Yes. You know—because I’m the only one who understands.”
“Yes, I know,” he said with a wry smile. “Well, cheers!” he said, holding up his cup.
“Cheers,” she said with a nod.
By the time a table became available, Birdie had finished a second glass, and when they were seated, she ordered her third.
“An order of steamers, too,” David said, and then looked at Birdie. “Anything else?”
Birdie quickly scanned the menu. “Scallops?”
“Sure,” David said agreeably.
The waitress nodded. Moments later she came back with Birdie’s wine and a mountain of steamers with bowls of both broth and melted butter.
David reached for a clamshell, pried it open, and pulled out the clam. Then he pulled off the black membrane, dipped it in the broth and warm butter, and dropped it in his mouth. “Mmm-mm,” he said with a grin as he wiped his lips with his napkin. “I can’t remember the last time we had steamers.”
“Probably last summer,” Birdie mused, sipping her wine. She put down her glass and picked up a clam, but when she tried to open it, it slipped out of her hands and rocketed like a projectile over to the next table. Her face turned bright red. “I’m so sorry,” she said, getting up to retrieve it, but when she did, she accidently knocked over her drink. David quickly picked up the glass, but it was too late, the red wine had already streamed onto his white slacks.
“Damn it!” she muttered, plunking back down on her seat as the little girl from the next table brought the wayward clam back to its rightful owner. “Thank you, dear,” Birdie said kindly, but after the little girl had returned to her table, she muttered, “I’m such a damn fool!”
Seeing the commotion, a waitress quickly appeared with a cloth and wiped down the table. “Can I get you another?” she asked.
“Please,” Birdie said. Then she looked up and saw the look on David’s face. “Oh, don’t start,” she said coolly.
“I didn’t say a thing.”
“You don’t need to,” Birdie said with a sigh. “You have no idea how much I hate coming here,” she added bitterly.
David frowned. “You’re right. I didn’t know. If you’d said something, we wouldn’t have come.”
“I shouldn’t have to say anything,” Birdie said, her voice rising.
“We’ve been coming here for years.”
“Not willingly.”
“Honestly, Birdie, I didn’t know it was a problem. I’m not a mind reader.”
“It doesn’t take a mind reader to put two and two together. I only come here because you like it.”
David slumped back in his seat and stared at the clams and the basket of scallops. He’d suddenly lost his appetite.
Birdie shook her head. “How could you not know?”
“I don’t know,” David said with a resigned sigh, shaking his head. “I guess I should have. Shall we go then?”
“No, eat your food.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Birdie took a sip of her wine and then reached for the same clam and tried to open it again. When she still couldn’t get it open, she threw it back in the bowl, unrolled her napkin, pulled out her plastic fork, and stabbed a scallop.
As they drove home from Wellfleet in silence, Birdie felt as if the end had finally come. They didn’t know each other as well as they thought, and if they didn’t by now, they never would. She sighed. It had finally happened—she’d lost all patience with David. He had been the only person left—besides her sisters—whom she could tolerate for more than ten minutes, but she guessed their relationship had run its course. She decided she’d be better off living alone, with no one to bother her.
CHAPTER 35
“Has anyone heard from Sailor?” Remy asked as she sat down across from her sisters. It was Friday, and although it was Sailor’s turn to host, her trip to Boston had resulted in a change of venue. The meeting with Frank and their lawyers was scheduled for two o’clock, but she had no idea how long it would take or how heavy traffic would be coming back. Sailor had suggested postponing but Remy had reminded her that she’d be in Vermont the following Friday—which would mean, if they postponed for her, as well, three weeks would go by. In the end, Remy offered to switch and Sailor happily agreed.
“I haven’t,” Piper said, looking over at Birdie—who shook her head. Piper shrugg
ed and turned back to Remy.
“I can’t believe you bought a new car! Are you feeling okay?”
Remy laughed as she scooped some of the dip she’d made. “Well, the salesman was so nice and helpful, and he reminded me of Jim,” Remy said. “I know that makes me sound gullible, but with my trip to Vermont coming and no AC in my Subaru, I decided it was time.”
“That is so unlike you,” Birdie said, taking another sip of her wine.
“That’s for sure!” Piper said. “I love the color. What did you call it?”
“Spice Orange.”
“I guess we can’t call you vanilla anymore,” Piper teased.
Remy chuckled. “I guess you can’t.”
“Has Sailor seen it ... or does she know about it?”
“Not yet. I was hoping she’d get home in time to see it tonight.”
“She’s going to fall off her chair,” Piper said.
“Is Dr. Sanders still going to Vermont with you?” Birdie asked. It seemed utterly implausible to her that John Sanders, the doctor they’d been going to since they were young women, was suddenly going away for the weekend with Remy, of all people!
“He is,” Remy said. “I stopped by to show him the car—which he loved—and he said he was really looking forward to it.”