An Invincible Summer (Wyndham Beach)

by Mariah Stewart

  Turning her face to the window, Maggie said, “It doesn’t matter now. Just drive. We’re going to be late. Emma’s going to be pacing the front porch.”

  They drove without speaking until Liddy made the turn onto Emma’s street.

  Liddy pulled into Emma’s driveway. “And there she is, as predicted. Waiting on the porch.”

  A moment later, Emma opened the rear passenger door and got in. “You’re late. Were you having a cocktail party without me?”

  “We had one little glass of wine and a couple of cheese straws. Hardly a party.” Liddy backed out of the driveway.

  “Candy Shultz has called twice wondering where we were and what we were doing. She said she was saving us seats at her table for dinner,” Emma told them, eliciting groans from both Liddy and Maggie. “That was pretty much my reaction as well, and I figured you two wouldn’t want to sit with her, either, but how do you tell someone you don’t like their company?”

  “We can live with it for one dinner,” Liddy said. “Then we hit the bar.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” Maggie turned in her seat to face Emma, who, as always, was meticulously outfitted. Tonight she wore a navy-blue dress with a wide skirt and a pretty belt, and black kitten heels. Pearl studs in her ears, opera-length pearls around her neck, and a wide gold band circling her wrist. Understated makeup and hair. Perfectly Emma, and Maggie said so. “You’re always so put together.”

  “And you always look so cool, so beautiful,” Emma countered. “And Liddy, you always look so . . . wait, are you wearing a black dress? Black, Liddy?” They’d driven into the parking lot at the Harbor Inn, and Liddy was preparing to turn over her car to the valet. Emma released her seat belt and leaned over the front-seat console and stared. “Liddy, you’re wearing a black dress. No purple. No red. No miles of colorful beads. Where’s the rainbow?”

  The three women got out of the car and convened behind it before heading toward the entrance of the restaurant.

  “And your hair. It’s so . . . neat.” Emma hadn’t quite finished her commentary.

  “It’s our forty-year reunion. I was thinking tonight was a good time to put the tie-dyes and the gypsy skirts and the love beads away. I wanted to look like an adult tonight, to show a new side of me. So tonight I’m Lydia. We’re leaving Liddy home with her mom’s old Bob Dylan and Joan Baez albums.” Liddy stopped and turned to Emma. “Tell me what you really think. About the way I look.”

  Emma took in the sight of Liddy standing with her hands on her hips, wearing a dress that was just tight enough to show off her voluptuous curves.

  “I think you look fabulous.”

  “Thank you. Maggie agrees. And so do I.” Liddy linked arms with Maggie and Emma, and together the three old friends joined the reunion.

  “But I hope Liddy hasn’t been put on the shelf permanently.” Maggie paused in the doorway. “She’s so much fun.”

  “Of course she is.” Liddy grinned. “You know you can’t keep a good woman down.”

  The room was festooned with balloons and flowers and reminded Maggie way too much of their senior prom.

  “Gah.” She tapped Liddy on the arm. “This looks like prom night.”

  “It’s supposed to. Shelly Jaffe’s idea, and since she was in charge of decorating, it was her call.” Liddy looked around. “You have to admit, she’s got a good memory.”

  “Almost too good,” Emma agreed. “Lest we forget our glory days, I suppose.”

  As if Maggie could forget. She and Brett had been crowned king and queen. She’d worn a gorgeous pale-blue strapless gown she’d begged her mother to buy when they’d gone into Boston to shop for something special. The look on Brett’s face when he’d seen her coming down the stairway in her family home had been pure lust tempered by the freshness of first love. The entire evening had been enchanted.

  And oh, yes—that was the night she’d lost her virginity. Just what she wanted to be reminded of right at that moment, when she could run into him at any second.

  She successfully blocked out the memory through the salad and main courses, but just as dessert was being served, she heard a familiar voice behind her, and the chocolate mousse she’d just oohed and aahed over suddenly lost its appeal.

  Maggie held her breath, her heart in her throat, steeling herself against the sound of hearing her name fall from his lips, but the flutter she felt a moment later was that of—dare she admit it, even to herself?—disappointment when he’d walked right past her to lean over the shoulder of Lisa Merritt, who sat at the opposite side of the table. She pretended not to notice his presence, turning to Liddy and asking her to pass the cream for her coffee. Liddy rolled her eyes and Maggie kicked her under the table. Despite her resolve to ignore his presence, she couldn’t help her gaze from wandering across the table, where Brett was still chatting amicably with a couple of classmates. The third or fourth time she glanced in that direction, she noticed a woman standing slightly behind Brett. She was a good twenty years younger than most of the other women in the room, and prettier. Her long blonde hair curved over one shoulder even as her left arm curved over Brett’s.

  Maggie put her head down and lifted her coffee cup. Out of the corner of her mouth, she whispered, “Is that . . . ?”

  “Um-hmm. Wife number three. Kayla,” Liddy whispered back.

  “She looks sort of familiar.” Maggie narrowed her eyes. “But I don’t know where I’d have met her.” She paused, trying to recall who’d been seated next to Brett at her mother’s funeral, but in that moment she’d turned around, as if sensing him there, she’d seen only him.

  Liddy snorted. Another eye roll, causing Maggie to frown and ask, “What?”

  “Seriously? You don’t see it?” Liddy made a face and leaned behind Maggie. Tugging on Emma’s sleeve to get her attention, she said, “Em, Maggie’s trying to figure out why Kayla Crawford looks familiar.”

  Emma smiled and said softly, “Maggie, she looks like you.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud, she most certainly does not.” Maggie protested a little too loudly. The woman on the other side of Emma turned at the sharp outburst. Maggie smiled at her, and the woman—the sister of someone at the table but right then Maggie couldn’t remember who—smiled back and returned to her conversation.

  Maggie lowered her voice. “Okay, she’s blonde. I’ll give you that. But Brett always liked blondes.”

  “The last two wives were blonde, too,” Emma told her.

  “That has nothing to do with me.” Maggie attacked her coffee cup, stirring in more cream in a vicious swirl.

  “Maggie”—Liddy touched her arm—“we’ve been friends our entire lives. I don’t make up this shit. All you have to do is look at that woman and you can see the resemblance.”

  “I am looking at her. I still don’t see it. For one thing, she’s gotta be twenty years younger,” Maggie pointed out.

  “There are none so blind as those who would not see.” Liddy sat up in her seat and proceeded to drink her coffee. She made a face. “It’s cold. I need to find a waiter.” She looked around the room. “Ah. I see one with a coffeepot in hand. I’ll be right back. Maggie, Emma? Coffee?”

  “I’m switching to wine, thanks,” Maggie said.

  “Me too.” Emma reached for the bottle on the table and poured into first Maggie’s glass, then her own.

  The DJ, who’d played soft music during dinner, now started to play livelier songs. Maggie watched Liddy disappear into the crowd and turned to Emma, who was now chatting with the woman on her right. She reached for her phone to see if either of her daughters had sent her a text—unlikely but it beat sitting there pointedly not looking at the other side of the table—when she had the sense she was being watched. She turned on her phone and made a pretense of scrolling through emails while trying not to look, but her curiosity got the best of her. Glancing up, she caught the blatant stare of Kayla Crawford. Maggie looked away and continued scrolling. I’m sure she’s heard my name over the years, Ma
ggie told herself, and I suppose it’s natural to want to know what your husband’s high school sweetheart looks like.

  She had to sneak another peek. Kayla was chatting amicably with Lisa, her attention diverted, which gave Maggie a few seconds to get a better look even while ignoring her own internal question of why she felt the need to. Well, she’s certainly younger, and maybe a little taller . . . and hmm, maybe she does look just a teensy bit like me. Or like the me I was years ago. Not that that means anything . . .

  Maggie couldn’t help wondering just how young Kayla was.

  “Don’t think I didn’t catch you in the act,” Liddy said as she took her seat, a pot of coffee in her hand. “Coffee, anyone?”

  Three people at the table raised their hands, and after pouring into her own cup, Liddy passed the pot to her left.

  “What are you talking about? What act?”

  “Checking out Kayla Crawford.” Liddy smiled. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist.”

  “Liddy, I was not . . . ,” Maggie protested.

  “Please. Remember who you’re talking to. Besides, I saw you. But what’s the big deal? If you weren’t the least bit curious, I’d think there was something wrong with you.”

  “But I—” Maggie was interrupted by an announcement from the DJ.

  “I’m happy to see all you folks having such a good time. Nothing like reliving your high school years, am I right?” He paused for a spattering of applause and a cheer from the other side of the room. “And how ’bout that seventies music, eh? What’s better than listening to those songs that you listened to as you drove along in your car with the windows down, singing along at the top of your lungs? Or dancing till you dropped? Or snuggled up with the one you loved? Ah, yeah, those high school days were special, weren’t they? Makes me nostalgic for you. And to bring back all those special moments, here’s your class president, Francie Peterson.”

  From the podium, Francie motioned with both hands for the applause to die down. She looked very authoritative in a high-necked, sparkly green dress that fit just a little snugly around the hips and black-rimmed glasses, her frosted brown hair tucked behind her ears. In her hand she held a sheaf of papers.

  “Thanks, everyone. What DJ Steve was saying about the music of our times is so, so true,” Francie continued. “Seventies music was magical, am I right? So let’s relive a little of that high school magic, shall we?” As the crowd cheered, Francie nodded to someone near the doorway, and the lights dimmed. “Your attention, please, to the screen being lowered at the front of the room.”

  Maggie flinched. The first slide was . . .

  “First, we have to pay homage to our state champion football team, right? Three years in a row!” A picture of the entire team flashed onto the screen. Maggie closed her eyes. “Were they awesome or what?” Francie led the crowd in enthusiastic applause. On cue, the DJ began to play Queen’s “We Will Rock You / We Are the Champions.”

  Wild hoots rang out from every corner, and someone on the opposite side of the room yelled, “Yeah! Three-peat!” Lest she appear to lack that old high school spirit, Maggie smiled and applauded along with the others at her table while avoiding looking at the picture on the screen. She knew exactly where Brett stood: back row, in the center, as if anchoring the team’s defense. Which, inarguably, he’d done. She of all people did not need Francie’s reminder of his accomplishments. All-state three years. Second team all-American his junior and senior years. A full ride to Ohio State. Drafted by the Seattle Seahawks in the second round. Eight years playing pro.

  “I understand many members of that team are here tonight. Stand up, please, so we can show our appreciation,” Francie urged as the DJ played Springsteen’s “Glory Days.”

  The appreciation was loud and long. Maggie averted her eyes even as she half-heartedly cheered.

  The cheers finally faded, the football team sat, and the screen changed to display other teams. Maggie was recognized as the captain of the field hockey and lacrosse teams, and when her name was called—“I know Maggie Lloyd—Maggie Flynn—is here because I saw her. Maggie, stand up so . . . oh, there she is”—Maggie stood with her heart in her mouth. Never one to be comfortable in the spotlight, tonight she felt she was carrying her teenage self on her back. She gave a half-hearted wave, then sat before the applause died out as Francie moved on to after-school activities. The chess, journalism, art, photography, and pep clubs. Theater. Chorus. By the time she got to the school orchestra, the applause was beginning to sound tired and forced after twenty solid minutes.

  It was all in fun, celebrating good times, until the DJ started to play the Trammps’s “Disco Inferno”—the theme of their senior prom—and Maggie’s stomach went into a knot. The first few photos on screen were group shots not focused on any one particular person. And then suddenly there it was: the crowning of the prom king and queen. Maggie in her blue gown, her hair piled atop her head, loose tendrils drifting down almost to her shoulders, Brett in his rented white tux, the two of them standing like royalty, holding hands, and beaming at each other. The next picture—and Maggie prayed the last—was the couple leading off the dancing, lost in their own beautiful world of love and glory. Maggie held her breath and waited for the buzzing in her head to stop. All she needed now was for the DJ to start playing their song.

  And then Francie was saying, “For the first time in forty years, if you can believe that, we have both our king and our queen back with us. So Brett—Maggie—start off the dancing for us.”

  Oh . . . no. Just . . . no.

  But there was no easy way to decline in front of the entire group, all of whom seemed to be applauding as Brett, still golden, still the best-looking guy in the class, walked across the room in her direction—Damn him, why hasn’t he aged a little more?—his smile only slightly less forced than hers. One hand held out to her, he asked, “May I have this dance?”

  “Of course.” She smiled for the benefit of the crowd even as she tried unsuccessfully to avoid making eye contact. They walked to the middle of the floor, her heart beating rapidly. His hand was a light presence on the small of her back when the music began to swell around them, and Maggie had to force herself to remember to breathe. She hadn’t been this close to him since she’d walked out on him thirty-four years ago.

  Annoyingly, his arms around her felt the same.

  His right arm wrapped around her, and his left hand held hers, as Ambrosia began to sing “Biggest Part of Me.” The song they’d danced to at the prom, and later that night, on the beach at the end of Cottage Street. Their song.

  God, how she hated that song.

  “Did you know Francie was going to . . . ?” she asked between clenched teeth even as she tried to ignore that it all felt so familiar. Hauntingly so.

  And she wished that at some point in his life he’d changed his damned aftershave.

  “No,” he replied. “But thanks for being such a good sport. For a moment, when I first looked at your face, I thought you were going to bolt for the door.”

  “If I’d had time, I just might have.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Not your fault, Brett. Just dance. The song’s not all that long.”

  “You can count the minutes if it makes it more bearable,” he said softly.

  “I didn’t mean it that way.” Okay, yes, I did.

  “Sure you did.” There was a touch of humor in his voice. “But it’s okay. Only one more verse, I think.”

  A moment later, he said, “I was sorry to hear about your husband.”

  “Thank you.”

  “How’ve you been?” he asked.

  “Good. Thanks.”

  “How are your kids? Two daughters, right?”

  “Yes. They’re fine. Thanks for asking.” And then, because she knew it was expected of her, she asked, “How about you?”

  “Three daughters.” He smiled wryly. “One from each wife.”

  Maggie froze in his embrace, her feet suddenly unable to move. I
f they’d been alone, she’d have slapped him.

  She pushed his arms away and turned her back on him.

  “Maggie, wait,” he said as she walked toward the table where Liddy and Emma watched. “There’s something I need to tell you.” He tried to take her arm, but she shook him off as if she hadn’t heard. “Maggie, there’s something you need to know. It’s important.”

  She ignored him and lifted the glass of wine Emma wisely had waiting for her. She took a long drink, waited to make sure he’d given up and walked away, then turned to Liddy and said, “I’m going to walk home.”

  “You’ll do nothing of the sort. Sit down for a few minutes. If you leave now, it’ll look like . . .”

  “I couldn’t care less what it will look like. I’m done.” She needed to move, needed air, needed to put space between herself and this room and the music and her memories. The feel of his arms around her, the feel of his body. The prickle of his five-o’clock shadow against her skin. The sorrow that came with remembering.

  “Come on, Maggie.” Emma stood. “Bring your glass and we’ll go for a walk.”

  Maggie nodded, kissed Liddy on the top of her head, and said, “I’ll see you back at the house.”

  “The doors are locked.” Liddy sighed. “I’ll come with you.”

  “No need. I know you’ve been looking forward to this for months, and I know how hard you’ve worked. You and your committee have done a great job. Stay and enjoy the compliments. I’ll wait on the back porch.” Knowing there were eyes on her, she forced the biggest smile she could muster and patted her friend on the shoulder.

  “Maggie, I swear to God I had no idea Francie was going to do that.” Liddy gestured toward the dance floor, which was now filling up with couples. “I’d have shot that idea right down if she’d told me.”

  “I know you would have. It’s okay. It was awkward, but it’s okay. No one died. I just need some air. And I don’t want to be here right now.”

  Maggie grabbed her bag and her wineglass from the table and glanced at Emma to let her know she was ready to go.