“Think your brother’s going to be careful with the car?” Brenda asked, surprising Macy. At home they never spoke of Max’s escapades. But Macy was starting to figure out that things at Sunset Beach weren’t going to be like things at home. Which was a good thing.
Macy shook her head with a wry smile. “Probably not.”
Brenda laid the book down. “I worry about him. That he’s never going to recover from your dad’s death. It seems like he’s carrying some guilt over it —and he keeps punishing himself by doing these self-destructive things. I wish I knew how to help him. Pretending like it’s not happening isn’t working.” Brenda traced her finger along the edge of the sheet.
Macy thought about her own guilt —the little memories of things she could’ve or should’ve done differently, especially that last summer they were all together in this house when she’d been a selfish, moody teenager intent on giving her parents a hard time, foolish in her belief that having two parents who loved you was a given, a right. She hadn’t thought about Max feeling guilty, hadn’t imagined he was capable of that particular emotion.
“Maybe being here will help him,” she suggested.
“That’s what I’m hoping.” Brenda picked up the book again. “I’m hoping it helps us all.”
She thought about the guest book and her decision to figure out who the mystery artist was. She gave her mom a little wave.
“Don’t wait up,” she teased her mom.
“I can’t,” Brenda replied, fluffing her pillows as she slid further down under her covers and turned her attention back to her book.
Macy shut the bedroom door quietly, hoping Emma didn’t wake up while she was gone. She paused by the front door and slipped on her black-and-white polka-dot flip-flops. As she reached for the doorknob, she could almost hear her father coming through the door whistling “Time in a Bottle.” And as she left the house, she found herself humming the familiar tune, the lyrics running through her head. She thought about saving time in a bottle and then giving it to the people she loved like a treasure. She wondered, as her feet carried her to the beach, what times she would save and to whom she would most like to give them. Funny how a nameless, faceless boy was the first person she thought of.
She walked across the street and followed the long public-access boardwalk that would take her out to the beach, the moon providing plenty of light for her to see the way. She took in the sea oats waving on the dunes, the light bouncing across the waves, the dark shapes of other people out for nighttime walks. Macy imagined lovers out walking: the feeling of being half of a whole, fingers laced together, steps in tandem. No matter how often she told herself she didn’t want that — didn’t need it — her heart betrayed her, aching with longing as she stepped onto the sand. Sometimes the ache was strong enough to persuade Macy that anyone would do — even Chase. But coming here reminded her of the one person she’d once wanted to share her life with.
She found herself wishing she could walk with the artist on the beach, hold his hand, time his steps with hers. Other than the photo of himself he’d left for her with his first drawing, she’d never seen him. But she could dream of what he might look like now, a grown-up version of the boy in the photo.
She’d always wished he’d left her more than just that one photo, but he’d kept his identity a secret for reasons she never understood. Sometimes she would make eye contact with a man on the street and—for a moment—she’d wonder if the man’s eyes were the same ones that stared out from the photo of a smiling little boy holding a sand dollar —the sand dollar he’d drawn for her in that first picture —flexing his muscles and hamming it up for the camera. She remembered his eyes were the exact same shade of brown as his hair.
Macy stood by the ocean, the bright moon overhead illuminating the waves in silver shimmers. Later she would try to capture this scene from memory, using oil pastels to recreate the play of light on dark water. But for now she just stood at the ocean’s edge, marveling at its vastness and her smallness. Her problems, though many, seemed less significant as she watched the waves crash on the shore and pondered the distant horizon. She shivered a little as the wind picked up, thinking of what her dad used to say whenever she shivered: “Someone’s thinking of you.” She wondered if it was possible that the artist was thinking of her as she was thinking of him. She smiled at herself, at the way her thoughts had run away with her, like she was a silly schoolgirl.
She looked up at the same stars she’d watched from her window—the stars she’d wished on — and thought of something else her dad always said: “Wishing won’t get you anywhere, but praying will.” Her mouth turned up into a half smile. Leave it to her dad to inspire her to seek God even after he’d gone to be with Him.
Standing there beside the ocean, Macy felt closer to God than she’d felt in a long time. And yet she had made such a mess of things. She wanted Him to hear her, but was that too much to ask? She wanted Him to answer her prayers, but what right did she have to even utter them after her long absence?
The pictures in the guest book were nothing more than a childhood fascination, and she was simply a silly woman with romantic notions about a person who was most likely married by now and no longer visiting this beach. It was an impossibility to think of finding him after all these years.
And yet, hope stirred somewhere deep inside of her, sprouting after years of dormancy underneath the protective layers she’d let form over time. Underneath the vast, starry sky, the ocean waves pounded out an ancient rhythm, her mouth spread into a full smile, and she began to speak out loud to the God her father told her would always be listening, no matter when she was ready to speak. Her dad believed God loved her that much. Macy hadn’t believed that in a long time, but perhaps it was time to work on believing again — in more ways than one.
Her voice was weak at first, but grew stronger with each word she uttered. “Well, God, I’m here on this beach, talking to You for the first time in a long time. And I think You saw what happened back there in the beach house.” She laughed a little. “I mean, You see everything, so of course You did. You saw Max and Emma and my mom and me. And You saw the picture I found. And I guess that’s what I’m here to talk to You about.”
She traced a line in the sand with her foot, her eyes scanning the stars as if the heavens might open. “The thing is, I know I have no right to ask You for anything. But … I’ve been thinking a lot about my dad. Being back here and … thinking of him makes me think about You.” She smiled a little, thinking how much her dad would like knowing that. “So what I want to ask You is if You could maybe find someone for me. Someone I think I’m supposed to meet. You know the person who drew pictures for me in the guest book all those years ago?”
She shook her head. “Who am I kidding? Of course You know the person.” She scanned the sky again, wishing God would spell out this man’s name with stars or somehow make this easy. “The problem is I don’t know who he is. But I’d really like to. So could You send him to me, maybe? Like soon? I mean, I’m not trying to tell You what to do or anything. It’s just we’re only here for two weeks, so … I mean, anytime in the next two weeks would be fine.”
She sat down in the sand, bowing her head so it rested on her knees. “I would really, really like to find out who he is. And maybe even see if there might still be something between us. Because it’s always seemed like there is. Or there was. Who knows what it would be like now. I mean, except You, of course. You know.”
She sighed. “I guess I’m a little rusty at this praying thing. I’m afraid I’m not making any sense.” She sat quietly for a few minutes, thinking about what she was really trying to say to the God of the universe, what she really wanted. “I guess I just want to find love. And I think I could find that with him — except I don’t know who he is. And now so much time has passed. It’s really going to take a miracle. But my dad always said You make miracles happen. And never to be afraid to ask for one. So this is me asking You for my miracle. And t
rying to believe that You’ll give me one.” She smiled again, allowing hope to swell inside her. “So I guess I’ll just keep an eye out for him?” She nodded to herself, affirming her plan.
Tears filled her eyes as she closed out her prayer with one final, heartfelt request. “And God,” she added, “if You see my dad, could You tell him I said hi and I love him and miss him very much? That would be good too.”
Macy stood up and headed back to the beach house, trying to hold on to the feeling of God’s nearness, images from the guest book filling her mind like a slide show as the ground changed from sand to boardwalk to pavement to the steps of the beach house called Time in a Bottle.
ten
It was lunchtime before Max joined Macy, their mom, and Emma in the dining area. They had just come in from the beach when he slunk in and sat down at the island. He smiled ruefully when Macy caught his eye and gave him a look, then rubbed his eyes and yawned.
“Hey, Mom. Got any coffee?” he asked, heading around the island and into the kitchen to rummage through the cabinets.
Macy shook her head and turned her attention to Emma, who was nibbling on a peanut-butter sandwich. She reached over and took a chip off her daughter’s plate, crunching happily despite Emma’s protests.
“That was my chip!” she said, planting her small hands on her hips.
Max grabbed more chips from the open bag on the counter and put them on Emma’s plate, kissing his niece’s head as he sat down with his cup of instant coffee. He sipped it and grimaced. “Starbucks it is not,” he said.
“But it’ll do the trick,” Macy mused aloud, glancing at him with a challenge in her eyes. He wouldn’t meet her gaze, blowing on the coffee and staring into the cup instead. It didn’t take a genius to recognize that Max was nursing a serious hangover.
“Yeah, it’ll do the trick,” he mumbled. He took another sip as Emma finished her lunch.
Outside, someone was hammering on the roof of the house next door, the house Macy remembered being Buzz’s house. She wondered if it was still her dad’s friend Buzz’s house, then remembered him saying he planned to die there. The banging had been getting louder as the day progressed. Macy rolled her eyes. She’d been planning to have Emma lie down for a bit after lunch, but all that racket would prevent her from sleeping. Maybe the workers would take a nice long break for lunch. So far they’d been hard at work without a moment of rest. Buzz — if it was still his house — was certainly getting his money’s worth.
Emma scampered to her room and returned with a drawing pad and markers, setting up next to Max at the island, pushing everything out of her way, already intent on whatever it was she was drawing. Max looked at Emma, then at Macy, before smiling with amusement. He hitched his thumb in Emma’s direction.
“She sure takes after you,” he said.
Macy smiled back as she rose from her place at the island and began cleaning up from lunch. “I’ve heard that more than once.”
Max reached over and palmed Emma’s head as Macy busied herself with cleaning. Macy knew he was trying to catch her eye, but she didn’t bite. Emma, already distracted by a new idea, raced back to her room, leaving Macy alone with Max, who finished his coffee.
“I was thinking this morning about that time you told me I wasn’t ever going to be invited to your wedding. Do you remember that?”
Macy glanced his way. “Of course I do,” she said, raising one eyebrow.
He chuckled. “I beat you at finding the best shell in that contest Dad had that one time. Remember that?”
Macy frowned. “You were such a bully.”
“Don’t tell me you’re still mad about that all these years later.” He shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. “We were just kids.”
Macy mimicked him, crossing her arms over her own chest and glowering at him. “We were not just kids. I was just a kid. You were old enough to know better.”
“Gee, Mace. Didn’t know you still held on to this resentment. Might need to see a counselor about that.” He laughed.
She thought about how hurt she’d been when Max showed up with the best shell. She remembered her dad’s comforting words, the way he had distracted her with drawing in the guest book with her second-place prize of colored pencils, and how ultimately that had changed everything and, in a way, led them here. A smile flickered across her face as she recalled standing by the waves the night before asking God to send her the creator of those pictures.
In the light of day it all sounded like foolishness.
Macy resumed her mock angry stance and narrowed her eyes at Max. “I had every right to be angry,” she countered. She bit the inside of her lip to keep from smiling. She wasn’t angry at Max anymore. But pretending to be was fun.
Max looked at her oddly for a moment. There was a hint of amusement but also something else, something deeper. Macy recognized it as regret.
“I’m sorry I was so mean to you when we were kids. You were a good little kid. And I made your life pretty miserable every chance I got.” He smiled at her. “I was pretty jealous of you. Jealous of the attention Mom and Dad gave you. I wanted to be their little princess.” He caught himself. “I mean, not actually their princess but — “
She couldn’t contain her smile any longer. “Ooohhhh, Princess Max. Princess Maxine.”
He closed his eyes and shook his head. “You know what I meant.”
Macy grinned at him and nodded. “But you know I couldn’t just let that one go.”
He ignored her. “I remember that after you told me you weren’t going to invite me to your wedding, I felt really sad about what I’d done. ‘Course, I couldn’t let on to you or Mom or Dad that I felt bad. Once I decided to do something I had to see it through.” He looked around the room. “Something about being here is bringing back all these memories. Ya know?”
Macy looked away, out at the back porch where the swing stood, swaying slightly in the breeze. She could almost see two people sitting there.
“Yeah,” she agreed, a wistful tone in her voice. “I sure do.”
Macy looked up from the book she was reading to find Emma standing in front of her. “I can’t rest,” she said. “That banging is too loud. It’s right by my window.”
Macy sighed and laid the book down, having read a record five pages in a row. She knew requiring Emma to have rest time in the afternoons was probably wishful thinking, but she so wanted some downtime built into the day. She’d hoped that breaking up the day with some rest would prepare them both for a fun afternoon spent on the beach. But no rest was happening, thanks to the construction crew doing who-knows-what to the house next door.
Exasperated, she hopped up from the couch and headed out the front door, her hand shading her eyes from the stark brightness of the midday sun. She trekked over to the house, picturing Buzz tossing a beer can into the yard, wearing his trademark bright yellow swim trunks and a wide grin. She stopped short and watched the crew of men working, hammers pounding so loudly none of them noticed her approach.
After a few minutes, one of the workmen leaned over the edge of the roof and drawled, “Can I help you, ma’am?” He had a hard hat pulled down low on his head and was covered in sawdust and sweat, but she still noticed how handsome he was. As if he knew what she was thinking, he smiled at her. Maybe her reaction was one he always got from women.
“I hope you can,” Macy said. “I’m staying in the house next door, and we’re … well … we’re on vacation.”
He smirked at her again. “And I guess all this working going on here is disturbing your vacation?”
She mustered a smile for his benefit. It was best to appear pleasant. You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar and all that. “I guess you could put it that way.”
She glanced over at Time in a Bottle and saw Emma standing on the front porch, watching her.
“Actually, it’s not so much about our vacation, per se. It’s really more about getting my daughter” — she pointed in Emma’s
direction — “to lie down for a bit. She’s having a hard time getting settled with all the noise.” She looked back at him and smiled again for punctuation.
The man looked over at Emma, waved at her, then looked back at Macy. “Ma’am, if you don’t mind me saying this, isn’t your daughter a bit old for naps? I mean, after all, it’s a vacation for her too. She’d probably like to spend her afternoon out at the beach.” He looked at Macy meaningfully.
The other men, she noticed, had stopped hammering and were watching the exchange with amused smiles on their faces.
Macy’s own smile disappeared. “Well, I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but what I do with my daughter is none of your business.” She crossed her arms in front of her chest and glared up at him. “All I’m asking is that you guys maybe ease up for an hour or so.” She dropped her arms and opted for kindness again as her flare of anger died out. “Please,” she added politely. She forced herself to smile at the obnoxious man.
He pulled off his hard hat and crouched down to squint at her. His hair was wet from sweat, and his face was streaked with sawdust. He looked like he belonged in a calendar of hunky construction men. “Well, it just so happens you’re in luck,” he said. “We were just about to break for lunch. Think your daughter can finish her nap by the time we get back up here?”
Macy’s smile turned from forced to genuine. “Sure.” She exhaled loudly. “Sorry about asking you guys to stop doing your job.” She paused, glancing over at Emma, who had climbed down the porch stairs and was crossing the yard to join her. “And sorry I got mad.” Emma reached her and wrapped her arms around her.
“You’re protective of your daughter,” he said. “You gotta admire a mom like that.”
The front door of the house opened, and a man walked out onto the porch, peering at Macy as his eyes adjusted to the bright light. “What’s going on up there, Wyatt?” he asked, keeping his eye on Macy as he did.
The Guest Book Page 7