The Widows of Sea Trail (The Widows of Sea Trail Trilogy)

by Jacqueline DeGroot

“Hey, if it works, we’re doing it for you in a few months, next Friday the thirteenth. You’re next in line,” I chided. Then I looked around for Vivienne. She was on her knees picking up something.

  “Viv, what are you doing?”

  “I just found a four-leaf clover.” She walked over to where Tessa and I stood and held it out for us to see. We looked at the tiny green sprig in her palm. Sure enough it was a genuine four-leaf clover.

  “Well, I doubt that it will help you on the next hole as that’s number eleven, but maybe you can birdie this hole with a phenomenal putt.”

  And sure enough, she walked up to the ball, wiggled her ass and hit it right into the hole.

  Chapter One

  The Face Off My mother, bless her heart, bit her lip and forged ahead, “Cat, you need to take better care of yourself, you’re beginning to look frayed around the edges.” I cringed at her brutal honesty.

  I am Cat, short for Catalina, named after the island off California’s rocky coast. I had been conceived in the back seat of a Studebaker while my parents rode the ferry to the island, almost forty-six years ago, hence the appropriateness of my name. In my adolescent years I often wondered if they thought of that carnal act when calling me from across the street, down to supper, or into my messy bedroom for a lecture.

  I sat at the kitchen table and stared at my mother who was never rude to anyone, much less one of her own. But instead of arguing with her, I appreciated the effort it had taken for her to brave the murky waters and try to revive me yet again. For I saw this as what it was, an attempt to get her daughter back to the way she had been before the tragedy of her husband’s untimely death.

  Without saying a word, I got up from the table and dumped what remained of my fourth cup of coffee into the sink. Then I walked to the opposite end of the kitchen and found a wineglass. I walked over to the refrigerator, opened it and held the glass under the plastic spigot on the bottom of the wine box my brother and sister-in-law had attacked last night. After it was filled to the brim, I closed the refrigerator door with my hip, waved the glass in toast to my mom and said, “You might be right, I’ll go check it out.”

  My mother stood and wrapped her arms around my shoulders then leaned in to give me a kiss on the cheek, “My birthday is in three months, you could give me the best present ever if you started dating.”

  “Dating?” I said the word as if it was a foreign word I’d never heard before.

  “Yes,” she said with a sardonic smile and a lift of her

  brow, “it’s when a man asks you out, you knock yourself out

  picking out just the right outfit while hoping all he has on his

  mind in getting you out of it.”

  “Oh, dating . . . I do think I remember that,” I

  mimicked her humorous tone.

  “Instead of sending me a dozen roses, go on a dozen

  dates for me.”

  “A dozen!”

  “Okay, maybe that’s too optimistic, half a dozen—

  six. Six dates in three months—that’s only two each month.

  Surely that big plantation you live on has enough single

  men that you can find one to take you out once every two

  weeks.”

  “Six, six dates will make you happy?”

  “Six dates will make me deliriously happy.” “Okay, okay. I’ll see what I can do.” I was not about

  to tell her what Viv, Tessa and I had done just a few days

  ago back home. A staunch Catholic, she would see our little

  witchcraft as more than the shenanigan it was. But I did want

  to reassure her that Merlin was going to be working on the

  problem for us.

  “No, you must promise.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yeah, otherwise you’ll just go back home and

  withdraw from living again, and for my birthday you’ll just

  send the roses.”

  “I thought you loved getting the roses.”

  “I do. But this year I want something different.”

  She reached up and stroked my cheek with the back of her

  fingers. I closed my eyes to absorb the silky sensation of

  her caress. Despite harsh detergents and years of scrubbing

  everything until it shone, her hands were always smooth and

  soft. “I want to see my little girl happy again. And from the

  day you turned sixteen that usually required that a man be in

  your life.”

  “If I remember correctly, you weren’t too happy

  about me dating back then.”

  “I had you when I was sixteen, so of course I wasn’t

  happy that boys were lining up on the front stoop. And

  neither was your father, if I remember correctly.” “You do remember correctly.” I gave her a lopsided

  smile and kissed her on the cheek. “Okay, I promise, six dates

  in three months. But no qualifiers, Sean Connery’s happily

  married and so is Michael Douglas.”

  “They’re too old for you anyway.”

  “No qualifiers,” I said pointedly. Then as an

  afterthought I added, “In fact, I think ol’ Jeter Jones up the

  street might be happy to take me out for a burger.” “He’s eighty-three!”

  “Spring chicken where I come from.” I raised my

  glass again and smiled at her. She harrumphed and started

  clearing the dishes.

  Merlin better come through I thought as I turned

  and walked down the hallway to the stairs. I made my way

  upstairs, careful not to slosh the wine on my mom’s new

  carpet then I headed directly to the guest bathroom. I shut the

  door and locked it. I remembered how I had developed that particular habit early in life. As a kid I had learned to always depress the button in the center of the chrome doorknob until it clicked. Otherwise my brother, who was known to dance a jig outside the bathroom door from waiting until the last possible second, barged in on me. No one would barge in on me now though, Mom was downstairs washing the breakfast dishes and Dad was reading the paper in front of the TV. Gimlet, my little yorkie, was asleep on my pillow in my old

  bedroom. I could primp, or not, at my leisure.

  After putting the wineglass beside the sink, I braced

  my hands on the edge of the counter and hung my head

  between them staring down at the tiny pink and blue tiles

  in the floor. Slowly I raised my head and watched, as inchby-inch, I saw a woman I didn’t know appear in the mirror.

  I had come up here for the truth, but now I was daring the

  mirror to lie, to tell me that Mom had it all wrong, that I was

  still as lovely as I had always been. The mirror wasn’t lying,

  I looked haggard and older than the woman I remembered

  being.

  I was only forty-four; I looked every bit of it and

  more. Usually I looked much younger than my true age. I

  knew it was because of the grief that I hadn’t been able to

  shake. It had been four years since my husband had died of

  a sudden and massive heart attack and even though I had

  progressed from my lethargic, unmotivated existence to a

  pathetic tolerance of zombie-like routines, I was still not

  accepting this solo life very well. During our marriage I had

  never realized how many decisions had been made jointly.

  Now, making them on my own was scary. I never felt as if

  I knew all the facts anymore. And often I was so afraid I’d

  make a mistake that I simply did nothing.

  I knew I had been hiding out, living in my head and

  cushioning my heart against losing memories and being

  careless about my appearance in a way that I never would

  have bee
n before Stephen’s passing. With one hard look I knew that unless I made the effort to work my way back soon, I would lose myself forever. It was as if I had been sealed in the darkness with Stephen when he had been interred, instead of being left on the fragrant, cool spring sod wondering why the sun was still shining full and bright. Wasn’t it supposed to rain when someone you loved was buried, and completely

  removed from your life?

  I stood staring at myself in the mirror. My mother was

  right, only “frayed” had been much too kind, “unraveled”

  was more like it. I decided right then that I was going to

  objectively examine my mother’s only daughter in the mirror

  and see exactly where the aging was coming from. Was it my

  hair, my skin, or just the light missing from my eyes? I had heard it said that the first sign of middle age

  came when the jaw line became a jowl line, or when the chin

  began replicating itself. The lower edges of my cheeks were

  still tight, and other than a few freckles at the bottom of my

  throat, my neck was smooth and firm. I turned my head left

  and then right several times; the jowls were fine, and I only

  had one chin, for now. Apparently, I had skipped the first

  signs of aging and had instead, managed to move onto the

  other ones.

  I lifted my hair. It needed coloring, and a thorough

  conditioning—it was dry, lackluster and drab, and maybe a

  tad too long. No, way too long. There were long strands of

  gray mixed in with my natural chestnut brown. The auburn

  highlights I’d put in years ago were interwoven, but the

  highlighted part was now just below my ears and the long

  neglected roots made it appear as if I was wearing a cap.

  How was it that I hadn’t noticed how bad I looked? Well, if

  I was honest with myself, I had to admit that Tessa and Viv

  had hinted about me getting a hairdresser’s appointment on

  many occasions. But I’d brushed them off with a flippant

  wave of my hand while they muttered between themselves

  that maybe it was still too soon for me to care about such

  things. I zeroed in on the eyes staring back at me. There were a

  few crinkles at the corners breaking up the otherwise smooth

  texture of my skin, but they alone weren’t the culprits for the

  over-the-hill look. I lifted my brows and wiggled them. They

  had a nice arch, but needed plucking to define them. Were

  they getting thinner? I leaned in closer to see them better.

  Yes, there were now places that would need filling in. For the

  first time in my life I would need an eyebrow pencil. Damn!

  When had that happened?

  I moved on to my nose. My nose didn’t look old;

  it actually looked kind of cute, except that it was red and

  chapped. When I cried, my nose needed perpetual blowing.

  I was still crying myself to sleep some nights and often

  allowing myself fifteen minutes in the morning to sob it out

  again. The flaky skin attested to the fact that I had not been

  so gentle with the nose blowing.

  Down to the lips, they desperately needed lip-gloss.

  They were pale, and you could tell I’d been biting them

  again, a habit I had when I let them get dry. Stephen had

  loved kissing them, so I was forever slathering them with

  something slick to keep them moist and inviting. At one

  time it would not have been unusual to find six or seven

  pots of gloss and several tubes of lipstick in my purse. I

  was pretty sure there weren’t any in there now. Okay, so

  my lips weren’t as plump as was currently vogue, but they

  were full enough, and they could have a nice natural blush

  if I just started taking care of them again. I shook my head

  and chided myself. I should have paid more attention to the

  dryness this past winter; a little Vaseline at night would have

  been the only kindness they would have needed.

  I stood back, squinted and tried to blur my face. My

  cheekbones could use some color, in fact my whole face

  could use some color. I was pale. Unusual for me as I had

  always sported a light honey-toned tan. My eyes were drawn to a faint scar under my right brow that I thought was ugly and obvious, but that no one else ever seemed to notice. It had become a habit to rub in a daub of yellow Max Factor Erase over the tiny line that never seemed to tan, before using my foundation. I didn’t even know where that tube was now. They usually lasted for years so I was sure it was in a drawer

  someplace back home.

  I looked down at the tile floor again, remembering

  all the times I had counted the tiny squares as I had brushed

  my hair over my head to give it fullness as a teen. I counted

  twenty blue ones before raising my head to the mirror again.

  I pushed my hair away from my face and sighed. Yes, it

  definitely needed some work, it was limp and lifeless and

  reached all the way to my boobs—it was way too long. I

  couldn’t even remember the last time I’d had it cut. Pushing

  it behind my ears, I gasped. And I think I actually jumped

  back. When had I gotten those granny ears?

  As long as I knew her, my grandmother had

  crisscrossing lines over the pierced holes of her ear lobes.

  Now I had them! I tugged on one lobe and pulled it down

  as hard as I could, trying to stretch it out and make the tiny

  lines bisecting the pierced hole disappear. They did not. I

  grabbed some lotion from the Pond’s pump on the counter

  and massaged it in before pulling the lobe smooth again. The

  lines were still there, fainter, but still there. Lord, even my

  ear lobes were turning against me! I resigned myself to the

  fact that I would have to wear earrings in them all the time

  now or expose those awful lines to the horrified world. Only

  forty-four and look at those earlobes, poor girl, the biddies

  would whisper. The fact that my dainty little lobes were no

  longer smooth and unflawed struck me hard. I actually felt

  despair and had to fight a desire to just give up and let myself

  go completely. Mom was right, I was seriously frayed! What

  man would want me like this?

  Is this what I had to accept after years of lotions, sunscreens, and careful diets? Could four years off undo everything? Was this what I had to contend with now, starlight clusters in the centers of both ears that matched my eye crinkles? I reached for my glass of wine. It was the first glass of wine I had allowed myself since Lent had begun. It was now Easter Sunday, and well past noon. It tasted great, I had missed this. Liquor of any kind helped to numb the pain, but I’d been careful, very careful. It would have been too easy to let myself slide into oblivion on an alcohol high when Stephen had died. So at least I knew the aging effect wasn’t due to frequent imbibing. I had been good about one

  thing at least.

  And I didn’t smoke. I was just guilty of taking four

  years off from any kind of regular maintenance on my

  body. I had done only what was required to be minimally

  presentable. I bathed daily, well almost daily—there had

  been those days when I hadn’t even bothered to get out of

  my pajamas. Occasionally I had even shaved my legs and

  underarms. I had forced myself to shampoo my hair at least

  once a week during the worst times, but had not been eager<
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  to mess with it much. I usually just secured it with a big clip

  to the back of my head. I hadn’t taken the time to blow dry or

  curl it since the day of Stephen’s funeral. And even though

  most days I forgot to use deodorant, I did always remember

  to brush my teeth.

  Suddenly I couldn’t believe that the girl who had

  spent so many hours before a date in this very bathroom,

  standing in this exact spot, could have let herself go like this.

  How could I not have cared a whit about what I looked like

  for so long? I realized then that I had let myself go because I

  hadn’t wanted to carry on. I hadn’t been ready to go on with

  my life . . . until now.

  I smiled and the face in the mirror not only smiled

  back at me, but also looked years younger. Yes, it was time.

  Mom, in her own way, had decreed it.

  Tomorrow Gimlet and I would go home, back to

  the house Stephen and I had built together. We’d had five

  wonderful months of retirement, of being on the golf course,

  going boating or kayaking, and cooking wonderful meals

  together before that awful day.

  My mind flipped back to where I was the moment

  I had heard the siren. I had been sitting on our back deck

  reading and enjoying the late afternoon sun. I remember I

  said a quick prayer. It was something I had always done;

  something all good Catholics did whenever they heard a

  siren. I said a prayer for the one in trouble. Little did I know

  that at that moment I was asking Jesus to take my husband

  into his loving and eternal care.

  It had been twenty minutes later that I thought I heard

  the doorbell. I quirked my head and listened. No, I must have

  been mistaken, I told myself. Then I heard leaves rustling,

  those same leaves that I was supposed to be raking. They were

  crunching underfoot as someone ran through them calling

  out my name. Tom, Stephen’s best friend, was as agitated

  as I had ever seen him. He ran up onto the deck and through

  panting breaths told me that my healthy, happy, physically

  fit husband had just had a heart attack while playing golf and

  was on his way to the hospital.

  I shook my head to erase the memory of that awful

  moment and stared at the woman looking back at me while