Whole Latte Life

by Joanne DeMaio

  Now and then, they step back from the work at hand and let the canvas dry. They walk on the beach, have a glass of wine, work on a plate of cheese and crackers. But always they return to the painting, their brushstrokes seeking out the texture of their friendship.

  “Owen’s what ended up saving me.” Sara Beth stands and looks out the old porch windows facing the sea. “I love Owen so much. But differently than the girls.” She leans against the sill, touching the little seagulls on the shelves. “My pregnancy stopped me from leaving my marriage.”

  “What? Leaving? Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

  “And say what?” Sara Beth asks, turning to her. “This wasn’t the life I wanted? That I fell into it because Tom was my safety? The thing is, it had nothing to do with security. Choosing Tom back then, and everything that happened this year, had more to do with Mom.”

  “Your mother?”

  “She knew me like no one else, loved me like no one else, and growing up with her, restoring that house, furnishing it with antiques she bought with me tagging along, well, it’s a connection I can’t lose, to the most special person I’ve known. Me, and a shop, are an extension of her. With Tom, I’m finding a way to do it.”

  After a moment, Rachel says, “We should all be so lucky, having that love in our lives. But why the mystery? Why didn’t you tell me this in New York?”

  “It was grief, Rach. All the furniture and treasures in that carriage house? They were a gift from Mom on my fortieth birthday.”

  “No way.”

  Sara Beth tells the story of the package delivered on the morning of her birthday and how her mother arranged the delivery with Lillian a few weeks before her death.

  “Seeing that carriage house was like Mom coming back to me. And it did something else, having her return like that. The sadness of her being gone came back too. By the time we went to New York a few months later, I’d wake up some days and cry. I remember when Mom died, I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t get a breath. And that started happening again, like I’m trying to fill up this big hole inside me. I didn’t know how else to get away from that, to start fresh somehow, without my partner filling my life with calls and visits and emails. So I ran away from it.”

  Rachel picks up the wine bottle. “That’s why Tom was devastated,” she says as the bottle tips into Sara Beth’s glass. “He didn’t realize it was about your mother.”

  “He thought I was leaving him again.”

  “Are you?”

  “No.” She sets down her glass. “Let’s walk outside, okay?”

  The late afternoon sun has faded, the tide gone out. Rachel tells her she loves this lingering time of day here, walking along the driftline, barefoot.

  “Sometimes I wonder what life would have been like if I’d done things differently. Remember Claude? My old college boyfriend?” Sara Beth picks up a seashell, then another, for her daughters.

  “Are you serious? He was so, I don’t know, hippy? Really, really into the art thing. Studio painting, right?”

  “That’s right. It was Claude’s passion that drew me to him. He was so free and unbounded, the same as I saw in my mother growing up. And in the end, his passion shaped his life, too.”

  They look across Long Island Sound, the horizon darkening.

  “I imagine it’s the Atlantic sometimes. That’s where he is, Claude. Across the pond. He’s a curator at a French museum.”

  They sit for a while, the waves lapping, the sand warm. “This is what the sea is for, you know,” Rachel says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Now I see why you said we needed time on a boat. We needed the sea to contemplate all this beside.”

  One of the important rules when painting is to know when to stop, to know if any further layers will add to the painting. If not, there’s no reason to dab your brush, wet the canvas, blot. And with Rachel dabbing the sea onto the painting Sara Beth decides this particular picture is complete.

  After dinner, Sara Beth pokes around the cottage, coming across pieces of Rachel’s new life when she walks into her bedroom. Michael’s worn boat shoes are set neatly beneath a dresser; his cargo shorts folded over the back of a straight chair. A man’s razor and toothbrush hang in the bathroom. She picks up his razor and wonders about the connection between Michael and her friend and herself. It is intensely here, some invisible thread, or wire, or rope, tying them together.

  “It’s just enough, isn’t it? This cottage?”

  “You bet,” Rachel answers from the porch glider.

  “I know you’re tired tonight. We’ll leave in the morning?” Sara Beth asks, leaning on the front porch doorjamb.

  “But we’re not done, party pooper.”

  “What do you mean? How much more can I explain?”

  “Okay fine, so far so good. You’ve earned your manicure points.” She goes to her bedroom and comes back with a bottle of coral nail polish. “Sit down and give me your hand.” And Sara Beth sets her hand on a white wicker table between them, just like old times, a lifetime of beach porches, hurricane lamps, salt air in the breeze, waves in the distance, wishing stars.

  “So tell me about this Michael dude, Rach.”

  “Wait a minute. You’re still kidnapped and I’m still feeling kind of miffed about your walking out on me in New York.” Rachel brushes a line of coral down the center of one of Sara’s nails. “Like, I could have helped you, you know.”

  “You’re a tough negotiator.” Sara Beth points to a nail not covered enough. “Fix that one.” So Rachel applies a second coat and tells her to dry. Sara Beth waves her fingers, blowing on them gently. “First tell me about your guy. I need a little gossip.”

  “How did you even know we were seeing each other? I never told you.”

  “I saw you together. In the grocery store one day, he must’ve come to Connecticut.” She takes the nail polish bottle and Rachel’s hand.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Your nails! We’ll be twins. Now hold them out,” she orders as she dips the brush. And while she dabs on color, she doesn’t say she knew they were together by the way Rachel and Michael looked at something on the shelf, and the way Michael’s hand touched the small of Rachel’s back, and how the gesture seemed intimate and Sara had to turn around and leave, dropping her basket in front of the store.

  “I guess what you need to know about Michael, who, yes, I am seeing, is that he’s behind all this. That’s the kind of guy he is.” Rachel watches her draw lines of coral polish along her nails. “Michael saw the other side of your story.” She lays her second hand out and Sara Beth continues polishing. “He saw my side. He saw me going crazy trying to find you everywhere: on the streets, stopping women from behind, grabbing their arm when I was sure they were you. Something seemed really, really wrong and all I wanted to do was help you.” The sunlight outside fades. Nearby porch lights come on, passing voices on the sandy street are hushed. “He saw me realize all the losses you’ve had recently,” she explains.

  Sara Beth closes the nail polish bottle and stands, her arms crossed in front of her.

  “But see, after all that panic, even though it still feels like you used our friendship,” Rachel begins, then hesitates, “I feel like maybe it was my fault too.”

  “Your fault? No way.”

  “Maybe I should’ve seen some of this. Or maybe, maybe I did. And I thought it would all pass with time. It would be easier to just look the other way and be busy with my own life.”

  “So you asked Michael if you could use his cottage to do this?”

  “Partly.” Rachel looks around the porch. “Someday I’ll explain how we’re here doing this, in this cottage, mostly because of him. And because of a situation that made him ask me to keep you close in my life. He’s behind a lot of this.”

  “Rach,” Sara Beth interrupts. “Stop. For a little while? Let’s take a break.” The image of a man she doesn’t know encouraging all this affects her. You can stand in one place, like h
ere on a little seaside porch, absolutely still with your pretty coral nails, and inside everything shifts, gently, the smallest wave.

  They walk down to the beach and sit in the dark on the boardwalk. “What a haven this place is,” Sara Beth says. She turns and looks at the pleasure boats corralled into the boat basin behind them. Nearly every slip is full. “Have you spent a lot of time here?”

  “Pretty much,” Rachel answers.

  “Lucky.” They watch the night sky over Long Island Sound. The cottages on the east side, up on the hill, are dark now. People are sleeping. The flag was taken down at sunset. Sara Beth sits with arms folded, leaning forward on crossed legs.

  “Just think,” Rachel says. “If you chose Claude, you wouldn’t be here now.”

  After a moment, Sara Beth says, “No I wouldn’t.”

  The way she looks out into the dark, toward the water, Rachel doubts she’ll ever believe some choices completely.

  “We should get back,” Sara Beth tells her.

  “In a minute.”

  “Oh, I get it.” Sara Beth follows her gaze to the sky. Stars glimmer behind wispy clouds. “I can’t believe we’ve been doing this every summer.”

  “I guess it’s our thing. Twenty-five years of wishing on stars. They must hold some celestial answer for us.”

  “We take death to reach a star. That’s what van Gogh said.”

  “Well,” Rachel whispers. “Then your mom’s up there. And I’m going to wish that she could see you right now, putting your life back together.”

  “Oh Rach, stop it. You’ll make me cry.”

  “That’s okay. Maybe you haven’t gotten all the tears out yet.”

  “Wishes are a mystery to me. It’s like putting your hope out there, opening a part of your heart to the constellations. Imagine if those stars could talk, and the new constellations they could make with the wishes they’ve heard?”

  “I wished for you from the top of the Empire State Building,” Rachel admits. “There,” she points to the west, “that star right there. That’s the one.”

  “You nut. How do you know? It could be any of these thousands of stars!”

  “Sure,” Rachel says as she stands and waits for Sara to come back with her. “Doubt me. No wonder you don’t get wishes.”

  In the kitchen, Rachel fills two heaping bowls with forbidden chocolate ice cream. They sit in the living room now, the porch closed up for the night.

  “What’s this for?” Sara Beth asks, taking her bowl.

  “You scored some Beach Weekend points. This one’s for food. Sinful food.”

  “How did I score points?”

  “By living your life, Sara. By being real. It took a lot of courage.” She samples a taste. “More courage than I had. I should have seen how hard it was for you when your mom died. I could’ve even helped with your shop, to keep that going.”

  Sara Beth scoops two spoonfuls into her mouth then sets the bowl on a table. She looks at the pretty cottage, smells the beach, hears the night sounds. “Look at all this. I really know now.”

  Rachel digs her spoon in and takes a huge mouthful of chocolate ice cream. “Know what?”

  “I know that you are my very best friend in every amazing sense of the word.” She stands and paces the room, walking around the sofa, picking up a wooden seagull and setting it back down, brushing the dust from an old book, touching a large conch shell on the fireplace mantle. “Sailors use these. Did you know that? For crossing signals. They have a beautiful rich tone.” She strokes it with her fingers, her back to Rachel. “Well. You say you could’ve helped, but I didn’t send you any signals in New York. No crossing signals, cell phone signals, nothing. And do you want to know something, Rach? The truth is that really, I am so sorry for what I put you through, and I have been every single day since then.”

  “Huh,” Rachel says.

  “What?”

  “That feels really good.”

  “My apology?”

  “Well I feel a lot better now that you said it.”

  “Except for one thing still completely bothering me,” Sara Beth says. “I mean, I screwed up our appointment with a shopping consultant!”

  “Like we need a consultant.”

  “I know. But still.”

  “And anyways, I’ve got that covered.” Rachel runs into the bedroom, opening and closing drawers before walking back into the living room. “Still friends then?”

  “Always were. What’s this?”

  “It’s the Bergdorf part of our Beach Weekend. And my apology gift. Open it.”

  “Apology?”

  “The more I hear your story, the more I wish I’d been there for you. Even in little ways. More antique hunts. Or coffees on Saturday mornings.” She takes a quick breath. “More really listening. If there’s anything I can do to help now, please let me know.”

  Sara Beth listens, and is quiet, because sometimes there just are no words. There is only the friendship, ever there, that current that never stops. She loosens the gold thread of a velvet bag and tips out a pair of dangling stone earrings, the stone a translucent shade of green.

  “They’re sea glass. I bought them at a boutique here.” Rachel pushes back her hair and shows the same pair in her ears. “To remember all our summers at the beach, collecting seaglass from the driftline, walking and talking, wishing on stars.”

  Sara Beth loops the gold wire through her ears. “They’re so beautiful.” But then, she stands and runs out of the room.

  “Hey! What’s the matter?”

  She comes back with the half gallon container of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream and two clean spoons. All that is between them now is the half gallon on the table. “Remember that time we picked all the cookie dough chunks out of the ice cream?”

  Rachel stabs at a piece with her spoon, Sara Beth trying for the same piece. “Hey. Finders Keepers.”

  Sara Beth pulls her spoon away and sits back, grinning at her friend. “God, I missed you,” she says.

  “Me too.” Rachel tips the carton in her direction to let her find the next cookie dough chunk. “Me, too.”

  A halo of sunlight colors the eastern sky, behind the cottages on the hill. The sandy boardwalk reaches across the beach. At the far end, they sit like they did last night, side by side, Sara Beth’s coffee mug cupped in her lap, Rachel sitting back, her cup on the seat beside her.

  “I imagined a conversation with you all summer long that was straight out of a magazine, you know? I’m facing a midlife crisis.” Sara Beth makes air quotes. “Can this woman be saved?”

  A bank of fog lifts out on the rocks. “Don’t feel bad,” Rachel tells her, sipping her coffee. “One time when I kept rattling around my house, I thought of the day as a Hallmark moment. The empty nest syndrome. I’ll bet they have a card for that, don’t you think?”

  “Probably.”

  “Then I got to thinking of all my Hallmark moments, and how I always had you instead of a card.”

  “And now Michael.” Sara Beth drinks her coffee then runs her fingertip over the rim of her cup. “You deserve this. As sorry as I am that I hurt you, I’m really glad that Michael came from it.”

  “Me too.”

  It feels like there’s something else to say, like it’s too bad things happened the way they did, that life is funny and all that stuff. But Sara knows that sometimes you have to let it all go, let the balloon float up out of your hand into the sky, diminishing in the breeze.

  “It’s going to be hot today,” Rachel is saying. “Tom pack a swimsuit in that bag of yours?”

  “I think so.”

  “How about if we sit on the beach. Afterwards, there’s this place in town that sells old cottage stuff. Maybe we can pick up something for your shop. A little treasure hunting on our Beach Weekend Out.”

  The sun rises in the eastern sky, casting sparkles on Long Island Sound. “I don’t know how I can ever thank you for kidnapping me.”

  “You don’t have to thank
me.”

  “I know. But still.”

  As the biggest star makes its way into the day, Sara Beth remembers how in all those Art History classes, she had learned to look. To find the universal human emotion in artwork. She’ll keep her eye open for a painting that says it all, something small, for her friend. In her mind, she’s jotting it down:

  Mom, Do you have any ideas? I need to find Rachel a painting, something really special, that keeps us connected always. Let me know.

  Love, SB

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  On a muggy Tuesday morning the following week, Michael walks Maggie down the ramp to the ground floor of the stable.

  “Hey Coach,” he says to the blacksmith. “We need a pair of shoes.” The blacksmith has gone through several apprentices, trying to train someone to take his place when he retires. But temperamental kicking horses and hot burning iron and hard manual labor scare off successors.

  “Michael, my man. How are ya?” Coach runs his hand along Maggie’s smooth neck, her velvet skin rippling beneath his touch. “And how’s my girl here? Okay?”

  Michael holds onto the horse’s bridle as Coach crouches and picks up Maggie’s heavy hind leg, resting her foot on his thigh. He pries off the old shoe and begins trimming the thick wall of her hoof with a knife.

  “Been going down to a cottage this summer. Rented a little place at Anchor Beach.”

  “That right?” Coach asks, filing the wall smooth.

  Michael moves beside his horse dressed in the department riding gear, the furthest thing from beach clothes: dark uniform, leather boots, the crop and helmet set on the table. Coach glances up at him, then turns the file to a rough edge on the hoof. “Nice place. Anchor Beach. Don’t suppose you been going there by your lonesome?”

  “Not exactly.”