Tomorrow There Will Be Sun

by Dana Reinhardt

  “There are so many things wrong with what you just said.” Peter is pacing now. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

  Clem sighs. “Whatever.”

  “Don’t say something incendiary like that and then follow it up with whatever. That’s just lazy.”

  Clem and Peter rarely argue. They have a typically uncomplicated father-daughter relationship. She doesn’t get under his skin. He doesn’t embarrass her nor does he frustrate her with his hovering. They mostly bond over a shared love of Szechuan food, the spicier the better—digestive consequences be damned—and a shared disdain for the kind of sentimental movies I adore. So when they spar like this, I find it fascinating to watch, and maybe just the tiniest bit gratifying, too.

  “Well, Dad, what I mean to say is that Malcolm is black. And because he is black, and because he is Solly’s son but not her son, Ingrid doesn’t trust him.”

  “First of all, Malcolm isn’t black.”

  “He’s not?”

  “He has a black mother, yes. But he also has a white father.”

  “Dad. What planet are you living on?”

  “You know, Clem, you’re always so quick to remind me all the time about how gender isn’t binary, and how we should stop thinking of everyone as either male or female, so why are you suddenly applying a singular identity to Malcolm? How come when it comes to his race he is one, but not the other?”

  I can’t quite figure out why Peter is tangling with her this way. Yes, I know that there are times he gets annoyed with the aggressive progressiveness of the private school we scrape together the money to send Clem to, with its gender-neutral bathrooms and the way they use their instead of his and hers. But the thing is, Peter is progressive and these are his values, even if he’s not totally made his peace with the gender-neutral new world order. I guess there are some ideas, some movements, it might take a fifty-year-old man a little bit longer to catch up to. But I know that Peter doesn’t really want to fight about whether Malcolm can choose to identify or to be identified as black. This is not the Peter I know. Why is he so agitated?

  Before Clem has a chance to respond, Peter continues, “And second of all, Malcolm is Ingrid’s stepson, and she loves him, and he is a part of her family, and to imply anything else is just way off base.”

  Peter sits back down. Clem isn’t looking at him anymore—she’s gone back to her phone. She’s given up. Or at least lost steam. “Fine,” she says. “Sorry.”

  I try not to let it bother me that she offers her father an apology when she didn’t owe it to him, and she has never offered me an apology on any of the multitude of occasions I’ve rightfully deserved one.

  There’s a heavy beat of silence before I break it. “Okay, team. This is our vacation. Let’s go get some breakfast, shall we?”

  * * *

  • • •

  BY LATE MORNING, a peace and conviviality has returned to our group. Malcolm, Clem and Ivan are all in the pool, playing some sort of waterproof racquet game they found in a closet full of toys. The men have gone for a walk down the beach because Solly read something about a fishing vessel that pulls up into shallow water where you can wade out and buy fish directly off the boat. He’s already cleared his plan with Luisa, who is going to turn their haul into our dinner tonight. I’m sitting with Ingrid, watching the kids and a horizon of nothing but blue skies.

  Ingrid is reading the runner-up to this year’s Newbery Award winner. Clearly she’s reaching for the stars with her middle-grade work in progress.

  “How is it?” I nod to her book.

  “Oh, you haven’t read it? It’s fabulous.”

  “No. I don’t read much middle grade. Or even YA for that matter.”

  “How can you not read YA? Don’t you need to know about what else is out there? Research the competition?”

  “I guess that’s not how I think about writing. I don’t think about my books as competing with others. I just think about the stories I want to tell and I do my best to tell them in a way that won’t bore readers.”

  I’m sure Ingrid sees right through my bullshit. Of course I care about the competition. I don’t read much YA because it makes me insecure about my own writing and I prefer to evaluate myself as a writer in a carefully constructed and protected vacuum of denial.

  “Your books are never boring,” she says. “And I read a ton of YA so I can tell you, for what it’s worth, that I think your books blow most of the competition away. I don’t know why they aren’t mega hits.”

  “That’s nice of you to say.”

  “I mean it.” She puts her book down on the table between us. She adjusts her chair so that the umbrella blocks out the little sliver of sun that had been creeping up her arm. “Especially your first book.”

  What a writer struggling to finish her fourth book does not need to hear is that her first book, the one that came out nine years ago, was her best effort. That it’s all been downhill since then. Obviously Ingrid would have no way of knowing this since she’s never published a book. Maybe I should say something about how the first necklace she designed was her most lovely piece of jewelry. But that would be spiteful. And it would be a lie. And also, she’s not even designing jewelry anymore.

  “So how’s your project coming?” I decide there’s no way out of this conversation, and anyway, I figure maybe we can get into a halfway decent back-and-forth about craft and process, that maybe it will help light a spark that sends me back to the blank page.

  “Well, like I said, since I’ve been on this new plan with my nutritionist I’ve been thinking more clearly and I’ve got more energy and it’s really helped me work through the second act of my book.”

  “So you have your book organized into acts?”

  “Oh, yeah. Sure. Of course. Classic three-act structure.”

  I have never broken down my books into acts. I’ve never written an outline. Never made character sketches. I don’t storyboard or clip images that inspire me from magazines or websites. I’m not a plotter, I’m a pantser—I write by the seat of my pants, which are currently frayed and torn. Maybe if I bothered with acts and structure, maybe if I started a fucking Pinterest page of inspiration, I wouldn’t be so stuck.

  “Tell me about your book,” I say.

  “Come on, you don’t really want to hear . . .”

  “Yes, I do.”

  She tells me the plot of her novel. It involves a boy whose father has gone missing. His mother, and everyone around him, believes that he ran off with another woman to start a new life, but the boy believes his dad is on a secret mission for the private space exploration company he worked for, and that he’s in grave danger. The boy and the two misfit friends he’s recruited try to work the interstellar communication device his father spent years building in their garage, certain that the father is transmitting a call for help. Meanwhile, the boy and his friends try infiltrating the company, run by a Russian billionaire, to get some answers. It is a classic tale of kids who believe in the impossible, kids who ignore the wisdom of the adults around them, kids who ultimately save the day. It’s a complicated story, full of plot twists, big action sequences and elements of science fiction. I write contemporary YA, typical coming-of-age angsty tales of love and friendship, so none of what Ingrid is writing is anywhere near my wheelhouse, but I do have to admit . . . it does sound kind of great.

  “If you want,” I say to Ingrid, “I’d be happy to take a look at it for you. But only if you want. And whenever you feel ready. But seriously, no pressure.”

  Malcolm is carrying Ivan on his shoulders. They’re engaged in a battle against Clem, some sort of gladiator fight where they try to knock each other over in the pool with brightly colored foam noodles. I can tell Clem is letting the boys off easy.

  “Would you really?” She sits up straighter in her lounger and turns to face me. “That would be amazing.”
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  “Happy to do it.” Why shouldn’t I give Ingrid some feedback? It doesn’t mean I have to send her manuscript to Laurel; I still draw the line at that. Laurel is my agent, not my friend. She doesn’t owe me any favors. But I do know something about writing for young readers, I’m good at it when I’m not failing at it and I’m sure I can be helpful to Ingrid. I didn’t have anyone to turn to when I first got started, and it would have been nice if I had.

  “You’re a great friend, Jenna,” she says. “A truly great friend.”

  * * *

  • • •

  I REMEMBER the first double date Peter and I had with Solly and Ingrid. Still full of indignation on behalf of Maureen, I went along reluctantly. I’d somehow convinced myself I might get away with icing out forever the woman whom Solly had already announced he planned to marry.

  “We’ll have nothing to talk about,” I told Peter.

  “I’m sure you can find some common ground,” he said as he ran his electric razor over his chin. “Who knows—you might even like her.”

  Peter had already met Ingrid a few times, including an evening of drinks at the Beverly Hills Hotel before Solly had come clean with Maureen—and before Peter had shared Solly’s secret with me.

  “I doubt it,” I said. “She’s obviously just after his money. What else would someone her age see in Solly?”

  Peter unplugged his razor and tucked it away under the sink. He looked at me in the mirror of our double vanity.

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “I don’t?”

  “You know what women see in Solly.”

  He was right. I did and I do. But still.

  I leaned in to apply my lipstick.

  “By the way, you look smoking hot tonight.” Peter sidestepped closer to me and put his arms around my waist. “Ingrid has nothing on you.”

  “You’re just trying to make me feel better. And probably trying to make tonight go smoothly.”

  “I’m saying it because it’s true. And because I’d never leave you for someone I hired to design jewelry for you.”

  “Ha. Easy for you to say as you’ve never hired anyone to design anything for me.”

  “You’ve got a point.”

  I turned around to face him and he kissed me deeply on my freshly lipsticked mouth.

  The evening went better than expected, which tends to happen when you dread something so completely. Just like the way the things you look forward to rarely go as perfectly as you’d imagined.

  I remember when we came home that night, full on an overly rich multicourse meal and drunk on expensive wine, Peter made love with an outsize exuberance and energy as if he had something to prove; to me or to himself, I wasn’t sure.

  * * *

  • • •

  SOLLY AND PETER don’t get back until we’re finished with lunch, which we had served to us poolside. They’re loaded down with plastic grocery bags filled with fish packed in ice.

  “We have returned!” Solly holds his bags high in the air. He’s dripping water everywhere. “We trust you’ve spent these hours stitching hides together for our shelter, or weaving baskets to carry our water, or whatever you’re supposed to do while we’ve been out hunting and gathering our motherfucking dinner!”

  “Solly!” Ingrid points to Ivan, who isn’t listening because he’s too busy beating Malcolm at Ping-Pong.

  I get up to help them bring their bounty to the kitchen. It smells like fish. They smell like fish. I imagine the label Peter might have designed at his old job for this distinctive men’s fragrance.

  We put the bags down on the center island where Luisa is already at work, with Enrique’s help, hand making tortillas. Roberto is at the table folding the colorful cloth napkins from last night’s dinner.

  Luisa peeks inside the bags. She reaches around, digging through the ice and manhandling all the fish. She says something to Enrique in Spanish.

  “This is it?” he asks us.

  “What, that’s not enough fish for seven of us?” Solly runs his fishy hand through his hair. “Actually we’re only six. Ivan won’t eat fish.”

  Luisa is still speaking to Enrique.

  “No. Is enough. I ask—this is the only kind of fish you buy?”

  “Yes,” Solly says. “That’s what they had. They caught it this morning. It’s super fresh.”

  “Es bonito,” Luisa says. “Es solo bonito.”

  Solly grins and slaps Peter on the back. “It’s beautiful. She says our fish are only beautiful. Now let’s go get our margarita on. We’ve earned it.”

  Roberto stands at the mention of margaritas. “I will make for you. But then, if it is okay, we go to town for one hour. We will leave you. For one hour only. Is this okay?”

  I jump in. “Of course it’s okay. You can come and go whenever you want.” I knew it might be a little uncomfortable navigating a full-time staff, but I didn’t imagine I’d have to remind them that they are not actually enslaved to us.

  “Yes,” Roberto says. “I know. We are here for work all day and for all meals. But it is Semana Santa, and today it is Palm Sunday. It is an important day. It is a day we go to church. We will only be gone one hour.”

  “Go, go! Of course.”

  “We come back and make the dinner and the appetizers.”

  “No hurry,” I tell him. “We can eat later. It doesn’t have to be as early as last night.”

  “It is beautiful the Church of Our Lady of Guadalupe. It is special day. It is in town. If you like to go, I show you.”

  “That sounds cool. I’d like to check it out.” I turn around to see Malcolm standing in his bathing suit. I hadn’t noticed he’d entered the kitchen.

  “Buddy,” Solly says. “It’s church. You don’t go to church. You’re Jewish.”

  It is true that Maureen went ahead with having Malcolm bar mitzvahed despite not being Jewish herself. When she was still pregnant she promised Solly that they’d raise the child in the Jewish tradition, having no idea of course that she’d end up doing it on her own. I’m not sure I’d have kept that promise to Solly given the ones he broke, but Maureen got into it. She found a synagogue that served a diverse community and ended up joining the board. We all went to New York for the service and the party. It was the only time I’ve ever seen Maureen and Ingrid in the same room. They were equally adept at faking warmth for each other.

  Malcolm gives Solly the kind of look I know well from Clem. It’s the you don’t know anything about anything look. “I’m just interested, Dad. We’re here in Mexico. During an important holiday. It sounds like something worth seeing. An opportunity to experience some of the real culture.”

  Roberto has the uncomfortable look of someone who fears he’s said the wrong thing. He puts his stack of napkins away in a drawer and pulls out a map.

  “Here,” he says to Malcolm. “I will show you where is the church. It is not a long walk from here. You will go if you wish. But it is not necessary.”

  “Cool,” Malcolm says and they hunch over the map together, Roberto drawing the path he should walk with his fingertip.

  “Maybe you should see if Clem wants to go,” Solly says.

  “Ha!” They all look at me. I worry that Roberto and crew think I’m laughing at them, at their invitation to church, when I’m only laughing at the idea of Clem showing the sort of curiosity that would require she put on comfortable walking shoes and hoof it nearly a mile in midday heat. “Good luck with that,” I say. “Clem’s idea of exercise is rapid scrolling through her iPhone.”

  “That’s rather ungenerous of you,” Peter says. Funny coming from him when just this morning he showed no generosity for his daughter’s perfectly reasonable position about Ingrid and Malcolm.

  “It’s not ungenerous, Peter. It’s simple truth.”

  Like she’s been summoned, Cle
m appears in the kitchen. Also in her bathing suit. No pink cover-up from the juniors department for her. Was that bikini that small when we bought it together last week? Did she swap it with a smaller one while I searched through my wallet for my Nordstrom charge card?

  “What?” she asks. She must have sensed we’d been talking about her. That, or she’s responding to the way I’m looking at her suit.

  “I was just telling Malcolm that he should see if you want to go into town with him,” Solly says. “To go see the church. It’s Palm Sunday.”

  She shrugs. “Sure. I’ll go.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, Mother. What’s the big deal?”

  * * *

  • • •

  PETER AND I go back to our room for a siesta. At some point today, someone has come in and made our bed, replaced our towels, and put fresh flowers on the table by the window. I’m not sure who’s responsible for the cleaning. Luisa has her hands full with all the cooking, and yet, given my personal experience with men, it’s hard for me to imagine Roberto or Enrique having made this bed so expertly.

  Before I’ve even kicked off my flip-flops, Peter says, “Jen. I gotta tell you something.”

  I sit on the bed. I try to exude calm, but nobody, ever, in the history of the world, has enjoyed a conversation that begins with that opener.

  “Okay . . .”

  “Last night. The phone call. The one I took before dinner. It wasn’t from Jonas. It was from Gavi.”

  Gavi. Gavi? I’ve never heard him refer to her as Gavi.

  I don’t say anything.

  “I know you told me you didn’t want her to call on this vacation, and I get that, I do. This is your vacation and I know you want a break. You need a break. From your own stresses and anxieties. About your writer’s block. About the cancer scare. I also know that those are the things that are really bothering you, not this nonsense with Gavriella.” He reaches out and he takes my hand. “But we had a crisis at work. A legitimate crisis. And I simply had to deal with it. I’m sorry.”