by Roz Bailey
I was happy to divert Maisy for a while, and Elle decided to come along, complaining, “I get so darned lazy sitting by the pool. Sometimes you forget that the ocean is just down the road.”
The air felt damp, and although the storm remained offshore the horizon was lined with clouds in bold shades of purple and blue, as if wells of ink had spilled at the edge of the sky. As Elle wrote Maisy’s name in the smooth wet sand and Maisy searched for the perfect shell to dot the i with, I plunged my hands deep into my pockets and faced the salty, damp wind. That morning on the train I’d set aside the manuscript I’d been editing for a few minutes and started scribbling some notes. The ideas were just images now, almost a journal entry, but I knew that every book started with something simple—an image or word, a complex emotion or a simple longing.
The seed of my novel was in my hands; it was up to me to nurture it and find a way to let it grow.
We walked the length of Bikini Beach, passing a few joggers, clusters of children, and a few windswept sand castles. The offshore storm had driven away most swimmers but a few surfers were out, and I stopped for a few minutes to talk with Skeeter, whose eight-year-old son was skimming the shallows on a thin board.
The tide was going out, revealing low-lying jetties used to protect the shoreline. Maisy found them fascinating, especially the rocks covered with moss and seaweed. “That stone has a beard,” she told me, inching forward.
“Careful,” I warned. “The rocks are slippery. Pretty sharp, too.”
“But I want to walk on them. I can do it. I have good balance.”
“Stay away from them.” Elle’s eyes grew round with horror as she squeezed Maisy’s hand and crouched beside her in the sand. “Those rocks are very dangerous. Someday when you’re older I’ll tell you the story of how I fell off them once.”
A different time and place, but the images were still vivid in my mind. I wondered if Elle was haunted by that day.
Maisy’s face brightened. “Tell me now.”
I shook my head. Although Maisy was wise for her years, four was not really the appropriate age to absorb the vivid smack of a near-death experience.
“Give it a few years.” Elle straightened and released Maisy’s hand. “Look over there, by the edge of the dunes. See that tide pool? Why don’t you go see if there are any starfish who floated in?”
“Sea stars. They’re called sea stars!” Maisy corrected her, racing away.
“Do you ever have nightmares about that day?” I asked Elle. “Does it haunt you?”
“I don’t think about the jetty, but I had to deal with the frustration that sent me over the edge,” Elle said as she watched Maisy skirt the tide pool.
“Was the water cold?” I asked. “Or maybe you don’t remember.”
“It actually felt refreshing, cold but so soft. I remember it being so velvety, the way it surrounded me and sort of buoyed me up. The guy from the Coast Guard said I lucked out. Something about a storm system changing the currents. Lucky that I got swept toward the ocean instead of into the rocks of the jetty.”
“That was one of the scariest things in my childhood,” I said. “I remember talking to the police when you were missing. Every time an adult heard what happened, this look of horror crossed their face, and I knew what they were thinking, that you were gone. But I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe any of it. I kept imagining you swimming out in the ocean, bobbing in the swells and sort of having fun.”
“That part was wild, but not so fun. Like a swirling amusement park ride where you can’t breathe. I figured I was going to drown, and I was so mad at Darcy that I thought drowning would be good, because I’d get her in tons of trouble.” She sat down on the beach and rested her chin on her knees. “God, I was pretty goofy back then.”
“You and Darcy were always on each other’s backs, always competing.”
“You guys were older and she was richer and so bratty about it. I always felt like she was winning and it killed me.” Elle sighed. “When I went off those rocks, part of me wanted Darcy to fall in and drown with me. And at the same time, I wanted her to save me—pull me back at the last minute. I wanted her to reach out and be my friend, but that just wasn’t happening.”
I sat down beside Elle as a wave crashed nearby, sending a fine mist into the air. “Darcy was pretty brutal.”
“Tell me about it. I’d pour a little cold water on her feet and she wouldn’t speak to me for a week.”
“In some ways, we were all a little bratty. But we got better. And Darcy . . .” I shook my head. “She’s changed a lot. I would never have seen that one coming.”
“You know, you should write all this down,” Elle said. “I saw your laptop with your luggage. Are you writing again?”
I covered my hands with my face. “I’m just getting started, but I want to get back to it.”
“So write about us. You’re supposed to write about what you know. Write about the girls of Bikini Beach. You can use anything you want about me . . . the fucked-up parents, the exotic locales. I’ll provide details if you want.”
“I’d probably have to put my own spin on it,” I said, “but thanks for the encouragement. You have an amazing story, Elle.”
Elle turned to me and snapped her fingers. “And you’re just the person to help me write a sexy Elle sales pitch for PerfectPair.com!”
“I’m not so sure about that. You know I don’t believe in those Web sites.”
“But I’ve seen your cover copy. You’re as good as any Madison Avenue spin doctor. Please, write me up. Maybe it’ll convince you to sign up yourself.”
“That’s not going to happen.” I had no desire to put myself out there, like a kid vying to be chosen for a game of kickball. “I’ll help you, but it’s not for me.”
“But don’t you ever feel lonely?” Elle asked. “Don’t you want someone to wake up with on a Sunday morning? The yin to your yang?”
“That sounds great.” Bringing my knees to my chin, I hugged my legs. “But I don’t see it happening for me.”
“Come on!” Elle slapped the top of my bare foot. “You sound like you’ve taken a vow of chastity. Did ya sneak off and join a convent when I wasn’t looking?”
This was uncomfortable territory for me. “You know, you try a run of celibacy and everyone tries to peg you in a category. There’s a rumor going around at work that I’m a lesbian.” I shook my head. “I guess it’s really unfashionable to carry a torch for someone these days. I’m a dinosaur.”
“Really?” Elle squinted. “Are you talking about that surfer guy?”
I swallowed. “Bear.” It almost hurt to say his name. “I know, last I heard he’d married some surfer girl from Maui. It should be over . . . and it is. He’s definitely moved on. I’m the one who can’t let go.” I thought of the way Darcy had once clung to her obsession with Kevin, how silly it all seemed . . . but this was different, wasn’t it? I wasn’t clinging to Bear for what he could do for me; I’d enjoyed being with him. Not that I was clinging much from thousands of miles away. Especially if the rumors of his marriage were true. But somehow, the memory of what we’d shared still burned bright for me, the essence of it lingering, strong enough to make any other relationships seem superfluous.
“Well, if that’s what you want, get off your butt and go. Fly to Hawaii. Track down your man.”
“If only it were that simple.” Besides the fact that I’d never mess with a marriage, I recognized the true dilemma of my dream. I was nurturing a fire that had burned years ago, a love that was past tense. “I’m holding onto something that probably can’t exist in this time and place. Look at me, Elle. I’m a relic from the past. A shell once occupied by two hermit crabs who found fleeting happiness.”
“Don’t just give up,” Elle said. “You can’t let him go.”
“Don’t I know it.” I cupped a handful of sand and let it sift through my fingers. “But the sands shift. The tides keep pushing in and out. Time marches on.”
<
br /> And some of us are left behind, half buried in the sand.
That afternoon I drove home to see Ma and drop Maisy off for an afternoon of making fudge and playing in the garden. I pulled Elle’s Jeep into a spot in front of the garage and took my time as Maisy ran into the house. But as I climbed out of the driver’s seat, I heard something, a muffled laugh, on the other side of the shed.
Sensing something amiss, I crept to the edge of the snowball bush by the shed and pressed into its fat leaves with balls of lavender blooms. Goose bumps tingled on my arms as I took a look. There they were, Tara and Steve, making out behind the shed. I felt my jaw drop. He had Tara’s arms pinned overhead so that her small breasts jutted out against her T-shirt as he kissed her neck, and Tara’s eyes were closed . . .
A PG-13 moment.
I pulled back and paused, trying to process it all. Tara and Steve. Well, it wasn’t a huge surprise, but why didn’t Tara tell me? Why were they sneaking around?
Inside the kitchen, Ma turned to me and pouted. “Darlin’, you look like you just saw a ghost.”
“Just Tara and Steve, and let me tell you, I was shocked.”
Mary Grace looked in on Maisy, who was watering plants in the dining room. “Not too much, pumpkin. That’s good.” She crossed back to the dishes. “So you’ve discovered our very own Romeo and Juliet?”
“How long has that been going on?” I asked. “Am I the only one who didn’t know?”
“Of course not. Count yourself lucky for knowing now. It’s been quite a while now. I’m not supposed to know, either, and so I pretend not to notice. I think it’s very sweet, and they seem to enjoy each other quite a bit. Though I doubt that Tara’s parents would approve. I think they still hold out hope that our Tara will meet and marry an upstanding African American man.”
I felt a twinge of betrayal. I liked the idea of Tara and Steve, but Tara could have told me. I hated being on the outside. And though I wanted to approach Tara and clear the air, for now, I kept quiet about it. If Tara wasn’t ready to come forth with this relationship, I could wait. It killed me, but I could wait.
73
Darcy
“Finding someone to go out with is sort of like walking through a ballroom full of balloons in stiletto heels and trying not to pop the balloons.” Darcy sat at a table in a frosty cool rehearsal room with the principals of Life After iPod, three other actors including Bancroft Hughes and the director, Noah Storm. “Sometimes I feel like I’ve performed a ballet worthy of a standing ovation,” she read on. “Other times . . . well, let’s say I’ve popped more than my share of balloons.”
“Let’s stop there.” Noah made a snapping motion with his hand. “Nice work, everyone. Let’s break for lunch. We’ll meet back here at two.”
“I need a salad,” someone said.
“I wouldn’t mind Thai food.” Marielle Griffin cocked her head and snapped her fingers. “A little chicken satay action, if you know what I mean.”
Darcy laughed as she gathered her script. “I think the last time I had Thai, I went into labor.”
“No way, sister.” Marielle gasped. “You are way too young to have a kid.”
“True, but she’s stuck with me.” From the corner of her eye Darcy noticed Noah zipping his portfolio and slipping out alone. “What’s his story? He never comes to lunch with us.”
“Is he painfully shy?” Bancroft slipped an arm over Darcy’s shoulder, feeling very much like the suave husband he played in the film. “Socially maladjusted? Anorexic?”
“None of the above.” Marielle tossed over her shoulder as she headed out the door. “I’ll tell you Noah Storm’s policy, because I worked with him twice before. That man just refuses to get personally involved with the people he works with. Smart policy, if you ask me.” She turned back to flash a luscious dark grin at Darcy. “But then, I never was too smart.”
That afternoon as the rehearsal continued, Darcy struggled to keep herself focused on the role of Nia. It was as if Marielle’s words had cast a spell over Darcy, drawing her eyes to Noah, making her conscious of the electricity in his gray eyes, the glory of his rare smile, the proximity of his faded jean legs under the table. Where she’d felt intrigue and mild interest before, now she felt a challenge, a need to get past the line he’d drawn around himself, to penetrate the personal life of Noah Storm.
That first day she felt sure her interest would wane with time, that she was just fixating on the impossible. But day after day, with each reading, she found herself peering behind his black Chanel frames, daring to catch the spark in his eyes or soak up the energy in the aura that surrounded him. When the production moved to a rehearsal space she welcomed the chance to get physical with him, and she wasn’t disappointed. Noah was always on his feet, almost on his toes, as if orchestrating the very vibrations among the actors. “I don’t want to overthink this . . .” he would say, extending his arms toward the actors, as if embracing them but also pushing them off to freedom. Or “Don’t anticipate the next line . . . stay in the moment.” Or “It’s just a line, not steeped with meaning. It’s details, details.”
“Lord, that man is intense,” Marielle said one day as she and Darcy sat on the floor off to the side watching Noah rehearse a scene with Bancroft. “Good thing he’s just directing a comedy. A drama and he’d make us all kill ourselves to get the severity of the mood right.”
“Mmm.” Darcy reserved comment, afraid that if she started talking about Noah her true desires would spill out, a flood of guilty pleasures and forbidden fantasies. Funny that such an average-looking guy could churn these thoughts in her mind, but something about those twilit hazel eyes and that unruly honey gold hair made her want to explore him and make the ultimate connection.
“Don’t mmm me, girl. I’ve seen the way you look at him.” Marielle tilted her head, a handful of baby dreads spilling over her face. “If I weren’t a happily married woman, I might be thinking the same.”
“It’s all a moot point, since he’s unattainable for me, at least while we’re working together.” Darcy leaned against the wall and sank down lower. “Not that I have time for a relationship, but it’s been years since anyone really caught my eye. That line in the script, about how finding a man is like walking through a field of balloons on high heels? That’s me. That’s been my life for a while now.”
“What about Ban?” Marielle said quietly. “You know, I think he likes you.”
Darcy covered her face to suppress a snort. “Did he tell you that? One of those ‘if Darcy likes me, then I might like her back’ proposals?”
Marielle’s face was lit by a smile. “No. But he’s a hottie, isn’t he?”
“Marielle . . .” Darcy planned to make a comment about junior-high scuttlebutt, but instead she burst into giggles.
Across the room, Noah seemed about to hiss at them, but he turned away when they grew quiet.
“We’re in trouble now,” Marielle said.
“Sorry, Marielle.” Darcy had to bite back another series of giggles.
“Call me Mouse,” Marielle said. “It’s what all my friends call me.”
“Okay.” Darcy felt glad Mouse considered her a friend. “I’ll bet there’s a great story behind that name.”
“Another time,” Mouse warned. “We’re in enough trouble already.”
By the time shooting began, the cast of Life After iPod had bonded—a good thing, as they shared a single trailer, the two women in one room and the men, officially, in the other. The small, air-conditioned unit was mainly to protect Bancroft Hughes, the only star of the film, from being disturbed by fans and media, but Darcy was glad there was a place to escape the soaring temperatures, currently rising through the nineties. She was also grateful for the diversion her costars provided. Without them, she knew she’d spend every moment on the set watching Noah, analyzing the meaning of his body language, searching for some sterling mysteries in his pale gray eyes. She hated this obsessive behavior in herself, but she couldn’t he
lp it—the man was fascinating.
When they weren’t needed on the set, Bancroft and his sidekick, Alton Leonard, liked to hang at the small table in the women’s quarters, where they all sipped iced tea as they played cards or watched soap operas on the small TV. Tall and wiry with dark brown skin and an ability to bend his body in amazing ways, Alton played the comic foil to Ban’s straight man, as well as the romantic interest for Mouse’s character Nell. “I’d hang outside,” Alton said, often going to the doorway and peering out on the street, “but you can’t last in this heat for long. Whoever heard of filming in New York City in the dead of summer? That’s just wrong.”
“It’s the perfect time,” Ban answered, sorting his cards. “You don’t get shut down by snow, and all the beautiful people leave the city for the local beaches or, God forbid, the icy tundra of the northeast.” He folded his cards and slid an arm around Darcy’s shoulders, a gesture that was becoming familiar since they’d fallen into an easy relationship. Although no words had been exchanged about it, Darcy sensed what Bancroft sought in her—a companion he enjoyed, a woman who would make it seem, from anyone on the outside looking in, that he was a heterosexual man. Since his rise to celebrity, rumors had circulated about Bancroft Hughes’s sexual orientation, a matter of some dismay for female fans who’d fallen in love with him in his first romantic comedy, then fallen in love with him all over again when they saw his first drama the following season. Since the object of her desires and obsessions—Noah Storm—was definitely out of reach at the moment, Darcy didn’t mind being Noah’s cover girl, especially since she genuinely enjoyed his company.
“All right, gorgeous,” Ban said, “show me your sevens.”