Snapshots (12 page)

Rick's trademark smile had always started in his eyes and worked its way down; there was no sign of it now. “Chicken pox. Sounds miserable.”

I murmured something in agreement, making a giant effort to collect myself.

“Is your car unlocked?” Rick asked. “I'll get your suitcase.”

Mutely, I dug the keys out of my pocket and tossed them to him.

“Be right back,” he said with a curt nod.

Feeling more and more as if I should give Lindsay's suggestion that I go back to Columbia serious consideration, I threw open the draperies to admit more light into the living and dining rooms.

“All right,” Rick said, entering through the front door and carrying my duffel. “I'm going to take your things up to the Lighthouse.”

“You've always slept there,” I protested in surprise.

“I've settled into your room,” Rick said, his expression a little too blank to make me believe that he liked that room better. I followed him silently through the living room and up the spiral iron staircase.

At least no curtains were drawn in the circular tower, where window abutted window to provide a stunning, wide-angle view. As dusk crept up from the horizon, the sea was a sheet of silvery silk rippling gently to the shore, where it broke into a rim of white froth. From this high vantage point, I spotted a sailboat scudding south, and below, a couple walked hand in hand in the sand, their flop-eared spaniel gamboling in and out of the water ahead of them.

Rick set my suitcase on the plump blue-and-white-striped cushion of the window seat. “You know where everything is,” he said, jerking his head in the direction of the built-in cabinets below the tall windows. “Drawers, TV, bathroom, bed.”

Not that the bed would be easy to miss. It was a magnificent mahogany four-poster, its posts carved in representations of the rice plant, a Low Country crop that had been the staple of the region's economy before rice became too expensive to grow. Lilah Rose's deft decorating touch was evident in the blue waffle-knit eyelet-edged coverlet and the canopy of sheer white fabric that fell all the way to the floor and was tied to each post with a scrap of moiré ribbon.

“You'll find more blankets, pillows and so on in here,” Rick said, indicating a sea trunk near the foot of the bed.

“Thanks, Rick,” I said.

He ran a hand up the back of his neck. “What's for dinner?”

“Shrimp and cheese grits and a big mess of collards like Queen used to make, what else?” I replied in an attempt at lightness.

“Sounds great,” he said. He turned and clattered down the metal stairs, whistling tunelessly between his teeth.

This new headed-for-dereliction Rick was a surprise to me. Clearly, Lindsay, Peter and I were going to have to confront him and make him understand that Martine's exit from his life didn't mean it was over. I did not for one minute believe that I could handle this task alone, since I was a bit too close to the problem for comfort. I felt in some way responsible for Martine's behavior. Logically, I knew I wasn't, but she remained my twin, my sister and my friend. However, she certainly wasn't confiding in me now.

After I cooked our dinner, I heaped sautéed shrimp into one side of a divided platter and spooned creamy cheese grits into the other. The collards went into a bright yellow bowl that Lilah Rose had always prized. We seldom used the dining room at the cottage, and the kitchen wasn't exactly neat after I finished with it, so Rick and I carried our plates and silverware onto the wide porch overlooking the beach and sat at the round patio table, where we'd eaten so many meals in the past. The weather was cool enough so that I needed to wear a sweater, a loose pullover almost the exact blue-gray shade as the ocean at this time of day. It was the color of Rick's eyes, as well.

Rick had disappeared into his room earlier and returned wearing a polo shirt and boat shoes with his shorts, and he'd somehow subdued his wild hair. I was relieved that he'd pulled himself together and, though still remarkably detached, was making an effort to converse.
If
you could call his short replies to my questions conversing, and by the time we reached the end of the meal, I wasn't sure I could.

Rick spoke in a series of grunts and indistinguishable syllables. I struggled for things to say, which had never been a problem before. Relating stories about my work that I considered humorous seemed like my best bet, though the telling of them fell flat. I consoled myself that I was trained to deliver the news, not engage in comedic entertainment of an audience of one, who, at the moment, couldn't have been more unresponsive.

When I started asking him questions about the deplorable condition of the house in the hope of sparking conversation, he did no better. Though I mentioned the porch's missing a couple of sections of railing, he merely mumbled something about having discussed it with Hal, and the rotten steps apparently caused him little concern.

“Nobody visits, anyway,” he said, shrugging it off.

“It doesn't matter,” I argued. “Hal's not going to like it when he sees this place.”

“No need to dump more guilt on me,” Rick snapped. “I've stockpiled plenty of it from other areas of my life.”

“You feel guilty about Martine?” I asked skeptically. “When she's the one who left?” I didn't stop to think about what other guilt Rick might be feeling. I was only interested in his relationship with my sister, wanting his point of view. She'd clammed up about her reasons for their divorce and wasn't confiding in me at all about Steve Lifkin.

Rick regarded me morosely. “Stating the obvious,” he said, “she left because I was a lousy husband. I wasn't providing what she needed in the marriage.”

“Martine couldn't have asked for anyone better,” I told him. I fervently believed this, but Rick only glowered at me for a moment and went back to eating.

The rest of our dinner dragged along in silence while I tried to reconcile the Rick I'd always known with the angry lost soul sitting across the table from me.

I wondered what he would have thought if I blurted that I'd had illicit dreams about him over the years, the kind that wake you up in the middle of the night and won't let you go back to sleep. I glanced over at him surreptitiously, trying to detect a glimmer of the boy I'd known. That boy was there, all right, in the planes of Rick's cheeks, the curve of his brow, but his man's face reflected wounds to the spirit. I felt a rush of tenderness toward him, a yearning for the simpler days of our youth. Right after that, I remembered that I'd come to the island to help Rick heal, and that was what I must do. It seemed a daunting task.

My appetite had disappeared by this time, and it was futile to try to eat any more. “Here, Rick,” I urged, trying to return to some semblance of normality. “Finish off the shrimp.” I shoved the platter toward him.

“Okay,” he said as he dumped the rest of the shrimp onto his plate. End of topic. End of discussion.

Finally, Rick pushed his chair back from the table. “You cooked. I'll clean up,” he said.

“I'll help.”

“Whatever.” Rick stood and started piling dishes on a tray.

I took my time gathering the extra silverware and salt and pepper shakers before following him inside. I adopted a brisk tone, the one that Martine used to complain was bossy. Never mind, it got the job done, and Rick was used to it, or had been once. “Tomorrow you and I can be our own cleaning crew,” I said as I skirted the mess in the living room. “That way everything will be spiffy when Lindsay and Peter arrive.”

“Why bother? Maybe they won't show,” Rick said. He sounded as if he'd be happier if they dropped off the world somehow, and this surprised me. Rick had always been loyal to his friends.

“Oh, you can count on those two unless they absolutely can't make it,” I said with more conviction than I felt. I was certainly ready for reinforcements.

“Uh, right.” Rick began to stack dishes in the dishwasher.

“And Lindsay loves to bake, so we can probably count on her for some of those delicious snickerdoodle cookies she makes, oh, and maybe some fresh-baked bread that she'll bring from home. I was thinking of making chicken tetrazzini, since you like it, and—”

“You don't have to become a talking menu,” Rick said, interrupting me. “It doesn't matter what we eat.” He slammed the upper dishwasher rack in so hard that a spatula slipped through and bounced onto the floor.

I stared with my mouth open. I'd never known Rick to be deliberately rude, and I'd only wanted to help. Suddenly, I was tired of the whole charade that had commenced the moment I set foot in the cottage. “Personally,” I said with equal snarkiness, “I think you should be interested in hanging out with your best friends, but hey, that's just me.”

“Of course I'm interested,” he shot back, though his stance, his attitude and lack of eye contact belied that statement.

“You could have fooled me,” I retorted. When he didn't comment, I started passing dirty dishes to him, and he loaded them, the silence between us growing heavier with each moment. Every small sound was magnified—the clink of the dishes, the metallic clang of silverware as Rick chucked it into the basket, even the steady tick of the old schoolhouse clock on the wall. The tension continued to build. After I'd finished, I turned off the water and wearily dried my hands on a paper towel, wondering if I should just bolt toward the stairs to the Lighthouse or take the time to murmur a quiet good-night.

Just when I'd decided on bolting, Rick slammed the dishwasher door and leaned on the counter, effectively blocking my way out of the kitchen. For the first time all evening, he looked into my eyes.

“Listen, Trista,” he said uncomfortably.

“I'm listening,” I answered, though not without trepidations.

Rick tightened his lips, then gazed out the window, where the porch light illuminated the oleander hedge. “Things aren't the same now,” he said, looking back.

“You didn't have to tell me that,” I said quietly. “I'm aware of it.”

“I mean, I'm different since…
since.
I can't be the same person I was before Martine left.”

I truly couldn't summon a reply. Anything I could say seemed inadequate. I was treading on dangerous ground here, and my emotions made it a quagmire.

“I—understand,” I said helplessly.

“I hope so.” He appeared undecided for a moment, then heaved a giant sigh. “Tris, I know I haven't been good company, but why don't we go for a walk the way we always did on our first night here. Are you up for it?”

It struck me that no matter whether I wanted to go or not, if I didn't try to connect with Rick in a meaningful fashion, there was no point in being there at all.

“I'll put on my beach shoes,” I said, and I fled to my room. Once there, I sat on the edge of the bed to buckle my sandals, taking my time about it. I reminded myself that I'd understood from the outset that Rick required careful handling, and I resolved to allow him a bit of leeway. I couldn't expect to put things to rights in a matter of hours. I needed to give him time and, apparently, a whole lot of patience.

Rick offered a tight smile when I descended the staircase. It wasn't his old smile, full of warmth, but it would do. “Let's go,” he said, and I followed him through the French doors and down the outside stairs.

The beach was deserted at low tide, the shore adorned with shells, seaweed and bits of driftwood scattered at the high-water line. We wended our way through the clumps of sea grass on the dunes. Automatically, because it was always the preferred direction for our walks, we headed north into the soft evening wind, keeping a reasonable distance between us. Rick walked swiftly, hands stuffed deep into his pockets. From one of the houses floated the sound of reggae and a peal of laughter, and ahead of us I caught a glimpse of two people sitting on lounge chairs inside a portable cabana. The man spoke as we passed, and the woman murmured an inaudible reply as their shapes merged into one.

Rick plowed ahead, his long legs outdistancing mine. Masked as it was by facial hair, his expression was inscrutable. I wondered how I could get him to shave the beard, then decided that it wasn't an important issue.

“Hey, McCulloch,” I called, striving for the old compatibility. “Wait for me!”

Rick slowed his pace. He turned and walked backward for a few steps as I jogged to close the space between us. “What's the matter? Can't keep up?”

I drew even with him. “After a few days, I'll be racing you down the beach.”

“In your dreams,” Rick scoffed, but I caught a foreshadowing of his familiar grin.

“Do you still run every day? Work out?” I asked.

“The only time I run these days is if someone's chasing me, which hasn't happened lately.”

I slid a sideways glance at Rick's profile. I forced my eyes front again and wished I'd worn something heavier than a sweater. The wind had freshened, blowing a hint of chill along with it.

I wanted to keep Rick talking but not to chatter so much that I turned him off as I had earlier. Finally, I settled on picking up where we'd left off a few minutes ago. “Rick, if you don't socialize and you don't exercise here on the island, how do you occupy your time?”