by Sandra Brown
Both had blue eyes, a genetic gift. She was glad she didn’t have to look into their eyes and see Jeremy’s. Although, she had once found his dark eyes extremely attractive. It seemed another lifetime ago that he had looked at her with love and adoration. It was another lifetime ago. The last time he’d fixed his eyes on her, they’d been filled with hatred and wrath.
Pushing the unwelcome thought away, she stretched out onto her back, and, with a hand on each son so she could feel their sweet breathing, she fell asleep.
* * *
They had spaghetti for dinner. While they were eating, Amelia mentioned the beach ball to Stef. “Weirdest thing,” the young woman said, as she helped Grant twirl noodles onto his fork. “I’d thrown it away, but it showed up yesterday patched and inflated.”
“How’d that happen? It didn’t heal.”
“Maybe Bernie,” Stef said, shrugging, more interested in the mess Grant was making than in the beach ball mystery.
When they finished, Stef began clearing the table. “If you’ll do the dishes, I’ll bathe the boys,” Amelia told her.
“Are you sure? Compared with bath time, doing the dishes is a snap.”
Amelia smiled. “True. But I’ve missed the boys this week. Even when I was with them, I was distracted.”
Stef turned from the sink and said hesitantly, “There’s a write-up about the trial on the front page of the local newspaper. It mentions your testimony. I brought a copy in case you want to read it.”
“No, thanks. I’ve kept the TV off during news time, too. I know all I need or want to know about it.”
She shooed the boys upstairs. They put up token protests, but she soon had them stripped and in the tub. She knelt beside it to supervise the dispensing of liquid soap, which often got out of control.
Just before plunging her hands into the bathwater, she automatically reached to remove her watch.
It wasn’t on her wrist.
Although it wasn’t an expensive, diamond-studded model, it was the last gift her father had given her before his death, and for that reason alone she cherished it. Staring at her bare wrist, she mentally backtracked, trying to remember when she’d taken it off. While preparing dinner? Before joining the boys in the ocean had she dropped it into her beach bag? She couldn’t remember doing either.
Her thoughts were interrupted by an arc of bright-blue soap being squirted from the dispenser and landing on the front of her shirt. “Hey! Enough.”
After their bath, she was almost as wet as they were. She oversaw their teeth brushing, got them into their pajamas, and listened to their prayers. By lights out, she was exhausted.
Stef was waiting for her in the kitchen with a glass of cold white wine. Amelia took it gratefully. “I’ve misplaced my wristwatch. Have you seen it?”
“No, but I’ll keep an eye out for it.”
“I’m sure it will turn up.” Amelia sipped her wine, sighing with pleasure. “You must be angling for a raise.”
Stef laughed. “The pay is adequate, but I would like to go out for a few hours tonight if that’s okay.”
“Sure. I’ll even loan you my car.”
“Thanks! I appreciate that. It’s a little nerve-racking riding my bike in the dark.”
“Where are you going?”
“Well, as you know, choices are limited.”
The island’s only village amounted to several establishments clustered near the ferry dock: a general store; a boat-rental place that also had two gas pumps and a live-bait tank; a real estate office that was open only on weekends, when the sea island drew visitors from the mainland; and a café and bar called Mickey’s.
After the café’s dinner hours, the bar stayed open and was the only nod toward a nightlife on the island.
“Mickey’s?” Amelia asked. Stef nodded. “Meeting someone?”
Stef grinned and said with cheek, “Maybe.”
“Same guy?”
“Maybe.”
Amelia laughed. “Does he have a name?”
“Dirk.”
“What does he do?”
“He works on boats. I don’t know the specifics.”
“Is he a permanent resident? Maybe I know his family.”
Stef shook her head. “This is his first summer here.”
“When do I get to meet him?”
“We’ll see how things go.” Changing the subject, she asked, “Will you be all right here alone?”
“Of course. I’ve been staying here alone since I was eighteen and finally talked my daddy into allowing it.”
“Yeah, but you’ve had a rough week.”
“I’m fine. I may treat myself to a long bath. This will definitely help relax me.” She raised the glass of wine. “Thank you.”
“I figured you could use it.” Stef picked up her small purse and lifted Amelia’s key ring off the hook as she passed through the back door.
Amelia followed to lock it behind her. Noticing the bright porch light overhead, she said, “Thanks for changing the bulb.”
Stef paused on her way to the car. She looked at Amelia, then at the porch light, then back to Amelia. “I didn’t. The bulb just must have been loose. I guess it came back on by itself.”
After she drove away, Amelia remained standing on the threshold, one hand on the door jamb, the other on her chest where her heart had begun beating hard and fast. The lightbulb hadn’t been loose. It hadn’t come back on by itself. Because when Amelia noticed that it had burned out, she had removed it from the fixture.
* * *
As if the lightbulb and beach-ball puzzles weren’t enough to fray her nerves, she was upset over her missing wristwatch. In the utility room, she upended her beach bag and went through the contents item by item. She checked the windowsill above the kitchen sink where she sometimes placed it before doing the dishes. She even put her hand down the garbage disposal.
Upstairs, she thoroughly searched her bathroom, bedroom, and dirty-clothes hamper. The hamper yielded a piece of Lego, but nothing else that didn’t belong there.
Sitting on the side of her bed, she reconstructed her morning. She distinctly remembered pulling on her swimsuit, slipping the caftan over her head, then fastening her watch onto her wrist as she slid her feet into a pair of flip-flops.
It had to have come off somewhere on the beach.
She checked on the boys, who were sleeping soundly in their twin beds, then went back downstairs, got a flashlight, and switched it on as she descended the front steps.
The boardwalk that connected the house to the beach was only two feet wide. The planks were old and weathered. Fearing splinters, she didn’t allow the boys to walk on it with bare feet, although the soles of her own feet had been toughened on these same planks every summer for as far back as she could remember. Back to when her mother was in the kitchen humming under her breath as she peeled fresh peaches for the cobbler she would bake. Back to when her father had warned her from his rocking chair on the verandah to be on the lookout for jellyfish.
The saw grass on the dunes rustled in the breeze. The moon was still rising, but even if it had been high in the sky, it wouldn’t have shed much light. It was a narrow crescent, what her father used to call a “fingernail moon.”
The tide of nostalgia and homesickness that assailed her was far stronger than the gentle surf. The lacy foam left on the sand when the soft waves receded sparkled in the beam of her flashlight. She walked along the packed sand, searching for a glint of gold, that precious, tangible connection to her father.
Using the house as a reference point, she made a U-turn and started back the other way, going a little farther up the beach where the sand was drier. She repeated that slow, zigzagging route, moving a little farther away from the shore on each lap. Eventually she acknowledged the futility of the search. If the watch had been lost on the beach, it had probably been washed out to sea with the ebbing tide.
Nevertheless, she searched more carefully around the area where they’d set up
camp that day, even dropping to her knees at the spot where she’d staked the umbrella. She sifted handfuls of sand through her fingers.
Finally, she sat back on her heels and despondently rubbed her hand over her bare wrist. Of all the things to lose, why that? Her mother had always said that tears should never be wasted on inanimate objects. Still, the watch had held enormous sentimental value for her, and while she could buy another, that particular one was irreplaceable.
Sighing with regret, she looked out across the water, then up at the moon. She missed her mother, but that was a familiar ache because she’d been gone for a long time. The loss of her father, however, remained an open wound.
In that moment, she felt very lonely.
But not alone.
Gripped by a sudden and inexplicable fear, she turned quickly to look behind her. Seasonal residents and tourists usually cleared out by Labor Day, so all the other houses along the stretch of beach, her neighbor Bernie’s included, were dark. No campfires flickered. There was one boat anchored offshore, but at a distance, and only its safety lights were on. The breeze didn’t carry any sounds of merrymaking.
Yet, she sensed she wasn’t alone. And it was that, not the balmy wind that raised goose bumps on her arms. Grateful for the flashlight, she got to her feet and started up the boardwalk, moving swiftly, so that by the time she reached the steps to the porch, she was practically running and out of breath. She shut the front door soundly behind her and shot the dead bolt. Then she went through each room of the lower story, checking it. But for what, she couldn’t say.
Feeling a bit foolish for the unwarranted panic, she ordered herself to get a grip. Even so, she poured a second glass of wine and took it with her when she went upstairs. The boys were just as she’d left them. In her bedroom, she finished her wine while preparing for bed.
But she didn’t fall asleep. It wasn’t until much later, after she heard Stephanie come in and quietly shut the door to her bedroom, that she relaxed enough to close her eyes.
* * *
“Knock, knock?” Without waiting for an answer, the back door was pushed open and a shock of white hair appeared in the crack. “Anybody home?”
“Bernie!”
“Bernie!”
Both boys scrambled from their chairs at the breakfast table and rushed to greet their next-door neighbor. They were instantly intrigued by the large sack he’d carried in. With unabashed greed, Hunter asked, “Did you bring us something?”
“Mind your manners, young man,” Amelia scolded.
Bernie laughed. “It’s okay. I did, in fact, bring them something. But they have to finish breakfast before they can have it.”
Amelia gave him a look of thanks as the boys returned to the table and attacked their cereal bowls.
“Coffee?”
“Thank you, but stay where you are. I’ll get it.”
He had one bad hip, and the other had already been replaced. As he went to the cabinet for a mug, Amelia noticed that his tottering gait was more pronounced than usual. After pouring his coffee, he joined her and the children at the table.
“My feelings were hurt,” she told him.
He blew on his coffee. “Why’s that?”
“I thought you might have left for home while I was in Savannah.” He lived in Upper Michigan.
“Without saying good-bye? Never.”
“Your house was dark last night.”
“I was packing up and cleaning all day yesterday. Tuckered me out. I went to bed early.”
“The rental company has people who thoroughly clean the house after you’re gone. You didn’t have to do it yourself.”
“I know, but I’m fussy. Hate the thought of people seeing my dirt.”
“You should have asked Stef and me for help.”
“It looked to me like you were having a grand time on the beach. I wouldn’t have interrupted your play.”
“Grant, blot your mouth, please.” She rolled her eyes when he used the sleeve of his T-shirt rather than his napkin. Bernie chuckled. She asked him when he planned to leave.
“In a day or so. Have to get back and settle in for the long winter.”
“You could stay longer. Better yet, you could move here permanently.”
“Home’s up there,” he said with a touch of sadness. “You know how it is.”
He and his wife of decades, of whom he often spoke, had lived in the same house from the day they’d married. She had died years ago, but he continued to mourn her and refused to move away from the town where she was buried and where one day he would be interred beside her.
“Well, I’m glad you didn’t go before we could say a proper good-bye.” She reached across the table and patted his hand.
“Hey, Bernie,” Stef chirped as she passed through the kitchen carrying a bundle of laundry bound for the utility room. “You look smokin’ this morning! I like that shirt.”
It was flamingo pink and matched a stripe in his equally loud Bermuda shorts.
“Thanks. It’s new.”
Amelia hid her smile in her coffee cup. Stef’s flirting never failed to fluster the senior. After dumping her bundle in the laundry room, she reentered the kitchen and pointed to the large sack he’d left on the countertop. “What’s that?”
“A going-away present for the boys.”
“Can we have it now?” Hunter pushed his empty cereal bowl across the table for Amelia’s inspection. “We ate our breakfast.”
“Yeah, Mom, please,” Grant chimed in.
“I suppose so.”
Bernie seemed as eager as they to open the sack and reveal the surprise. With touching pride, he reached into the sack and produced a box. On it was a picture of a kite in the shape of a pirate ship. It was an elaborate thing, with multiple sails.
“Oh my gosh!” Amelia exclaimed. “Will it actually fly?”
“Can we do it now, Bernie?”
He looked at Amelia. “Can they?”
She laughed. “Of course. But get your sandals on,” she called after the boys as they charged through the back door.
“I’ll see that they do,” Stef said, following them out.
Bernie paused and looked back at Amelia. “Maybe I should have checked with you first. But I saw it in a store on Tybee, and immediately thought of them. I hope you don’t mind.”
“It was sweet of you. Thank you. Oh, and thanks for repairing their beach ball.”
He looked at her quizzically.
“You didn’t patch it for them?”
“Nope. Must’ve been Stef.”
Amelia smiled woodenly. “Don’t let me keep you from the fun.”
Grinning like a young boy himself, he hobbled out.
She tried without success to convince herself that there was a logical explanation for the ball, just as there was for the porch light. Forcibly shaking off her uneasiness, she cleared the table and put the dishes in the dishwasher. Then, taking a last cup of coffee with her, she went out onto the front porch and sat down in one of the rocking chairs.
The kite-flying was well under way. Stef was doing the running for Bernie, who was gesturing wildly and shouting instructions. The boys were running alongside Stef and were so excited watching the kite, their feet got tangled up with hers and all three of them stumbled and fell into the sand. The pirate ship crashed bow first into the surf.
But they all came up laughing. Bernie reeled the kite in and soon it was aloft again.
Amelia’s throat became tight with mixed emotions: joy in watching her boys play with such unbridled happiness; and sorrow that they were doing so with a hired nanny and an elderly neighbor rather than with their dad.
One day, probably sooner than she hoped, they would question her about him. They knew he had died, but of course they were too young to know the circumstances. Eventually, they would want to know.
She kept a picture of Jeremy on the nightstand between their beds, but she doubted they actually saw it. It was part of the furnishings in their roo
m, nothing more. They mentioned him less and less frequently, especially Grant who was barely old enough to remember him at all. Most of their memories would be of angry shouting, slamming doors, boozy breath.
In the picture in their room, he was wearing his Marine dress uniform and a stern but noble expression. The first time she saw the photo, she had teased Jeremy about it.
“You look grimly determined.”
“I am,” he’d said with exaggerated gravity. “Grimly determined to bed you and make you my woman.”
“Well, if that’s the case, I’ll surrender without a fight.”
They’d laughed and kissed and made love. Life had been good. The future had seemed bright.
She would emphasize to her sons that aspect of their father’s personality, his ability to tease and laugh. She would tell them stories about the months leading up to their wedding, when he’d courted her sweetly and with an earnest desire to please.
He’d been intimidated by the plantation house in which she’d grown up, awed by the number of statesmen and dignitaries with whom she and her father were friends. His efforts to fit into their circle had won her heart.
Friends and colleagues were impressed by his distinguished-service record in Iraq. When it was called for, he exercised a courtly politeness that charmed even the most discriminating of their acquaintances. By the time they walked down the aisle, he’d been wholeheartedly accepted into their society.
When she talked to her sons about him, she would emphasize those good times. Of course, she inevitably would have to tell them about the bad ones as well. She would wait until they were old enough to understand, but not so long that they heard about his downfall from a crueler source.
The thought of that brought tears to her eyes.
As she blinked them away, something in her peripheral vision glinted. She turned her head to see what it was and for several moments stared with incomprehension. Then, gripping the armrests of the rocking chair, she slowly levered herself out of it and walked the length of the porch to the corner of the railing.
There lay her watch, the clasp open, the band stretched out along the wooden rail, as though it had been carefully placed.