Distant Shores (12 page)

Elizabeth understood perfectly; it was exactly the kind of thing she would have said. She had a sudden urge to warn Sharon, to let her know how easy it was to get lost in marriage. It started simply, too, in a decision that couldn't be made alone. “Don't worry. I haven't gotten a ton of calls. There aren't a lot of people who want to live this far out of the way.”

Sharon moved forward. “It must be difficult to leave this home. You've obviously loved it.”

Elizabeth's composure wavered. “Thank you for coming by. I'll look forward to hearing from you.” She led Sharon to the door and said good-bye.

“My God,” Meg said when she was gone, “she's a
child
. Is that what's happening out there now—children are renting oceanfront houses?”

“Careful—you sound like a senior citizen. Now, open that wine before I scream.”

“That's why I'm here, Birdie. So you can scream.”

“Open the wine.”

Meghann went into the kitchen, grabbed two glasses, and poured the wine. She handed a glass to Elizabeth. “Did you and Jack ever have that talk?”

Elizabeth sat down cross-legged on the hardwood floor in front of the cold fireplace. Scooting backward, she leaned against a packing box. She didn't see the point in talking about this, but that was the problem with confession. Once you shared a problem with a friend, you had to keep talking about it forever. And if your best friend was a lawyer, well, in the immortal words of Tony Soprano,
fuggedaboudit
. She nodded. “In our way.”

“He's unhappy, too?”

“Not since he got this job. He's like a parolee with money in his pocket. Supposedly, this job—and New York—will change everything for us.”

“Maybe it will.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

Meg stared at Elizabeth over the rim of her glass. “Did the support group help?”

“They think I should try painting again.”

“I've been saying the same thing for years.”

Elizabeth sighed. She really didn't want to have this conversation now, with boxes all around them and the move looming overhead. “It's not like riding a bike, Meg. You can't just jump on and ride away. Art needs … fire, and I'm cold.”

Meghann studied her. “Maybe Jack is right. Maybe New York is a good answer. You're sure as hell stuck in a mud-rut here.”

“Let's talk about something fun. Tell me about your life. Who's the new guy?”

“What makes you think there's a new one?”

“Every year you make a New Year's resolution to quit dating children, so for a few months, you date men without hair.”

Meghann laughed. “Jesus, that's pathetic. But as it happens, I'm dating a very nice accountant. It can't last, of course. You know I never date a successful man for long. It jeopardizes my professional standing as a loser magnet.”

“I hate it when you talk about yourself that way.”

“We're a fine pair, aren't we? One has no guts; the other has no hope. No wonder we're best friends.” Meghann lifted her glass in a silent toast. “I'm going to miss you, Birdie.”

“I guess we'll have to go back to the Thursday night phone call. We did that for a lot of years.”

“Yeah.”

“It'll be fine. We'll still talk all the time.”

But they both knew it wouldn't be the same.

ELEVEN

In the last week of January, the weather turned bitterly cold. The sky gave up all trace of blue and hunkered down as if for battle. Trees shivered along the shoreline, waited for the freezing rain to turn to snow.

Elizabeth made her last trip to town. The two-lane coastal highway curled lazily along the rim of the cliff. To her left lay the mighty Pacific, on the right, a wall of old-growth forest whose trees were among the biggest in the world. Locals claimed that herds of mighty elk lived in those woods, and when you looked into all that black and green darkness, it was easy to believe.

The road took its last hairpin curve, then rolled down to the ocean.

welcome to echo beach, where god answers back, read the sign on her left.

Downtown ran for exactly four blocks. There were no stoplights to slow you down, no sprawling resorts or chain restaurants. The nearest four-star hotel was the Stephanie Inn, miles down the coast.

Old-fashioned streetlamps stood at regular intervals along the cobblestone sidewalks. The storefronts had beautiful leaded windows and arched doorways. Shingles were on every exterior wall, their wooden surfaces aged to the color of ash. The only signs were handwrought, of wood or iron, and they hung discreetly beside the closed doors.

Even the names were different here. The Tee-it-up Sportswear Shop; the Take a Hike Shoe Store; the Hair We Are Beauty Salon. There were countless gift shops and restaurants and ice cream parlors. Brown, leafless vines of sleeping clematis and wisteria climbed along the fence that separated town from the old-fashioned beach promenade.

Elizabeth parked on the street in front of the Beachcomber restaurant (all you can eat on Thursday nights!) and ran her last few errands. She dropped off a box of clothes and paperback novels at the local Helpline House, alerted the post office to her change of address, picked up her airline tickets, and reminded the local sheriff that the house would be empty until renters were found (John Solin had been too busy to schedule a viewing, but Sharon was still hopeful).

Her last stop was the library. She dropped off a box of canned goods for the local food drive, then headed back to her car. She was halfway across the street when the rain stopped.

The clouds parted suddenly; a shaft of pure yellow sunlight spilled over the street. Rainwater glistened on the pavement. The misty fog lifted itself, revealing the ocean.

A breeze fluttered through town, kicking up wet leaves. In it, she smelled the salty tang of the water and the barest hint of beach grass.

She crossed the empty street and came to the promenade. The wide path was paved in pink-colored stone; on either side of it, evergreen boxwood had been trimmed to a perfectly square hedge. Every few feet there was a lovely iron bench. The one beside her had a plaque that read: in memory of esther hayes
.
Old-fashioned ironwork streetlamps had been carefully placed at regular intervals along the walkway. It was easy to imagine Gatsby and Daisy strolling along this promenade in their white finery while children in oversized bathing suits ran giggling across the sand.

Elizabeth stepped down onto the sand. Seagulls circled over-head, cawing out at her, diving in close every now and then to see if she was a tourist with food to spare.

The beach stretched out in front of her, miles of gray, wind-sculpted sand. Gigantic black rocks rose from the shallow water like leviathan shark fins. Waves tumbled lazily forward, licking playfully along the shore.

She walked along the beach, enjoying the feel of the breeze on her face. In a secluded cove, she sat down on a flat black rock. Behind her, beach grass swayed in the breeze.

Just looking at it soothed her nerves.

She was no one out here; maybe that was the attraction. Not Mrs. Jackson Shore, not Jamie and Stephanie's mother, not Edward Rhodes's little girl.

She drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. The air smelled of sand and kelp and sea. For the first time in weeks, maybe longer, she could breathe.

She hadn't understood until just now, this very moment, that she'd been breathing badly lately. Holding her breath. Sighing heavily. Tension and unhappiness had stolen this simple gift.

But the clock was ticking. Tomorrow morning, she'd have to board a plane and fly east toward a city that had frightened her in the best of times—and these were far from the best of times in New York.

Once there, she'd have to move into an apartment she hadn't chosen and sleep beside a husband she'd forgotten how to love.

Her last day in Echo Beach dawned surprisingly bright and clear. The ever-present clouds had scraped clean the sky, left it a tender, hesitant blue.

She woke early—she'd hardly gone to sleep, it seemed, when the alarm rang—took a shower and got ready to go. She called the local taxicab and made arrangements to be picked up in an hour, then dragged her luggage out onto the porch.

She slipped off her loafers and put on the gardening clogs that were always by the door, then walked across her yard toward the cliff.

On the beach below, frothy white foam coughed onto the sand, then drew back, leaving its faded impression behind. Nothing—and no one—made a lasting mark on the beach.

She should have remembered that.

Crossing her arms at the cold, she turned and looked back at the house.
Her
house.

Now, with the sunlight hitting the white-shingled sides, it seemed to belong in Middle Earth, an enchanted cottage tucked between a green hillside and the gray ocean.

She tried not to think about the garden, and all the plans she'd had for it.…

It felt as if she'd been standing there a minute or two, but suddenly the cab was pulling into her driveway.

She whispered, “Good-bye, house,” and went to get her bags.

By the time she reached the airport, she was breathing badly again.

The trip from Portland to New York City was like climbing Mount Everest without oxygen. It went on and on, and by the time you reached your destination, there was no sensation left in your extremities. First, there was a flight to Seattle, then on to Detroit, and finally a landing at Kennedy Airport. All that paled in comparison to the cab ride into Midtown.

By the time the taxi pulled over to the curb, Elizabeth's back was screaming in pain.

She paid the cabdriver and hurried into the building, barely nodding to the doorman. There would be time for introductions later, when she wasn't in desperate need of chiropractic care and an Excedrin.

Clutching the key Jack had sent her, she rode the elevator up to the twenty-fourth floor and found his apartment.

“Jack?”

There was no answer.

She glanced down at her watch. “Jack?”

It was only six-fifteen. He should be home in the next thirty minutes.

She set her purse down on the floor and looked around. The apartment was as elegantly impersonal as an expensive hotel room. A narrow hallway led past a tiny kitchen and into a moderate-size living room. There wasn't a personal touch anywhere. The floors were tiled in a creamy, brown-veined marble; the sofa was a sleek contemporary design, covered in taupe damask. Against either arm were glass end tables that held crystal column lamps. The coffee table was so cluttered with magazines and beer cans that she could barely see it. There were no pictures on the wall and no knickknacks on any surface.

In the corner by the window, a big black velour Barcalounger looked incredibly out of place. When she saw it, she remembered Jack's phone call last week:
I got a great piece of furniture last week from Warren. You'll love it.
She'd asked for a description and been told that it was a surprise.
But I'm sitting in it,
he'd added with a laugh.

“Nice choice, Jack,” she muttered, walking toward the chair.

It had a drink-holder built into the puffy, quilted arm.

Built in.

She sat down in the chair. A footrest immediately jerked upward and tossed her into a fully reclined position. When she clutched the armrest for support, the upholstered side flipped open to reveal a built-in minifridge. A few beer cans lined the narrow shelves.

She crawled out of the recliner seat and continued her inspection of the apartment.

The small dining room held a nice glass and stone table with four taupe-upholstered chairs. A matching sideboard stood against one wall, unadorned.

There was only one bedroom, of course. This apartment was meant to be transitional; still, it meant there was nowhere for the girls to sleep. What a lovely message to give your children:
Sorry, no room at the inn.
She wondered if Jack had even considered that.

The bed was big and plain, with ash-gray and taupe bedding. No doubt Jack had added the
Fox Sports
purple mohair blanket. She was surprised he hadn't chosen pillowcases with tiny footballs on them.

She went to the kitchen (such as it was). A quick look in the fridge told her that Jack hadn't been cooking for himself. There were three six-packs of Corona beer, an industrial-size tub of mayonnaise, and a bottle of Gatorade. A half-eaten sandwich was disintegrating into a moldy pile. In the weeks he'd been here, Jack obviously hadn't eaten home much.

In the corner of the kitchen, by a small window, stood a big cardboard box. The side of it read: memories
.
Elizabeth had written that herself. The things in that box were the mementos she couldn't live without.

He hadn't even bothered to unpack them.

As usual, the details of their life were hers. He got to throw the game-winning passes. She got to take tickets and clean the stadium.

She poured herself a glass of water and opened the cardboard box. The top layer, sheathed in Bubble Wrap, was a collection of beloved family photos. She unwrapped them one by one, and placed them on the windowsills and countertops. Anywhere she could find.

She'd hoped it would give the apartment a homey feel, but when she finished, she stepped back and surveyed the results.

It didn't help. The pictures only reminded Elizabeth of what a home should be.

The phone rang. She answered it. “Hello?”

“Birdie? Welcome to New York. Isn't the place great?”

“Oh, yeah. Great.”

“I can't wait to see you.” A pause crackled through the lines. “But I've got a meeting in fifteen minutes. I should be home in an hour and a half. Not more than two hours. You'll be okay there, right?”

It took a conscious effort to simply say, “Of course.”

“That's my girl. I love you, Birdie.”

“Do you?” She hadn't meant to ask it. The question just popped out.

“Of course. Gotta run. See you soon.”

“Okay.” She hung up. It was a moment before she realized that she hadn't said, “I love you,” in return. That was a first. In the past, she'd always been able to find the words, even when the emotion felt faraway. She wondered if he even noticed.

She walked over to the window. Outside, the world was a glittering combination of black sky and neon lights and streaking yellow cabs.

With a sigh, she went back to the cardboard box and unwrapped a photo album.

There they were, she and Jack, standing in front of Frosh Pond at the UW, holding hands.

Each picture was a stepping-stone on the path of their marriage. First at the UW … then the house in Pittsburgh when he'd played for the Steelers, then the second house in Pittsburgh, bigger than the first … then the house on Long Island … in Albuquerque, and so on and so on.

Elizabeth wandered down the photographic hallway of her married life, seeing all the compromises she'd made.

She'd moved and moved and moved.

Every time had been the same:
Another trade, another job, another city? Sure Jack.

Here she was again, waiting for Jack. It seemed as if she'd passed her whole life that way, a woman set on
pause
.

At eight-thirty, her cell phone rang. It would be Jack, she knew, calling to tell her he'd be a little later than expected.
Only an hour, honey, I promise.
And just like that, this new city would take them on the same old ride.

She fished the phone out of her purse and answered. “Hello?”

“Birdie?” said a thick-as-molasses Southern voice. “Is this you?”

“Anita?” She glanced at her watch. It was too late for a friendly call. Fear sidled up to her, slipped a cold arm around her waist. “What's the matter?”

“Your daddy had a stroke. Y'all better get down here fast.”