Authors: Julie Carobini
Sweet Waters (13 page)
Meet me at Surfer's Ridge.
So much for Camille sleeping in on this fine Sunday. Other than the syrup-coated plate and fork she left in the sink, and her rumpled bed, our cottage stands quiet, giving me more than enough space to ruminate on all that's happened this week. I consider slipping into flip-flops and heading out to meet Camille, but opt instead to find answers.
With a click of a button, I switch on my laptop, and log in to Camille's Facebook. If I can't reach her by phone, then it's time to find other means. Mother's been spotty in her reply to my e-mails, but I notice that she's better about updating her status on Facebook. Her posts always sound so cheery.
Saw the royal family . . .
Ate at a Paris café . . .
Toured chapels in Belgium . . .
Sigh. Hopefully she's not off on some mountain peak now, and unable to check her computer. I send a note to her inbox asking if we'd ever attended Coastal Christian and telling her I
really
need to ask her something, then click shut the lid and hope for the best. Glancing around the living room, I wrinkle my nose. While this oft-rented cottage with its vintage furniture suits laid-back Camille and busy me just fine, it'll never do for Mel. And wait till she finds out that there's no major department store for miles.
really
need to ask her something, then click shut the lid and hope for the best. Glancing around the living room, I wrinkle my nose. While this oft-rented cottage with its vintage furniture suits laid-back Camille and busy me just fine, it'll never do for Mel. And wait till she finds out that there's no major department store for miles.
My cell phone buzzes. It's a text from Camille:
Where r u?
Where r u?
I text her back that I'm on my way, and with a cluttered mind, head back out the door. Ten minutes later I'm standing behind her.
“You're so amazing, Shane!”
Camille's fawning over a bleach-blond surfer with a Cheshire-cat grin. He's about to make his move when he sees me, stops for a brief second, then goes back in for the kiss before I have a chance to say hello.
I cross my arms, and Camille spins around, laughing. “Hey, Tara. Shane, this is my sister.”
He jerks up his chin, eyeing me. “'Sup?” His speech is drawn out, lazy.
Rolling my eyes is a bad habit, but one I can't avoid at the moment. I look at Camille. “I've got to work this afternoon.”
“First church, and now this! You're such a fuddy-duddy, Tara. Sundays are for lying on the beach!”
Shane cuts in. “Among other things.”
I don't even want to know. “Mel will be here tomorrow. Maybe we could run into town and see if we can find anything to decorate her room.”
Camille grabs my hand and pulls me down beside her. “Would you relax already? The waves are perfect today, and I want you to hang with me, okay?”
I glance around. She's right, the waves curl long and slow, making a perfect ride for surf maniacs. I stretch my legs out in front of me, and stick my fingers deep into the pebbled sand, reveling in the sensation. Unlike those famous Caribbean beaches, the sand's not fine around here, but grainy and interspersed with flat, smooth rocks called moonstones. I pick one up and rub it with my thumb, the motion easing away the tension that's been with me for the past two days.
“There, see? You look more relaxed already.”
Shane's on Camille's blanket with her. “Mmm. I like relaxed.”
Camille giggles while I try not to gag.
He turns to me. “So, Tara, you up at Coastal Christian today?”
I turn to him, my gaze questioning.
“Been there. Lots of dudes go there early before climbing into the waves. The pastor surfs.”
Really.
“So have you been attending there long?”
“So have you been attending there long?”
“Nah. I don't go on Sundays or anything. Just when they have their Friday night barbecues.”
“Ah.”
Camille playfully shoves Shane and he feigns hurt. “He's in a band. He plays the guitar, Tara.”
Of course.
She flips one long curl over her shoulder. “We should go see them. Oh, and Shane's cousin Jo-Jo plays tooâyou'll like her, she keeps the group organized.”
Why is Missouri suddenly sounding so good?
“So, Shane, you live around here?”
“So, Shane, you live around here?”
“Yeah. My buddies and I share an apartment in the village.”
“And what do you do for work?”
Now Camille's rolling her eyes at me.
“I'm a painter.”
Great. An artist.
“Yeah, I get work from contractors around here all the time, but all of 'em know I'm not available until after eleven most days. I tell 'em I'm at a board meeting.”
Camille giggles. “Get it? A âboard' meeting? As in âsurf' board? You're so funny, Shane.”
Oh, brother. But at least he's got a real job and isn't some hungry artist making his living off oils and a tin cup.
Shane watches the waves, his arms resting on bent knees. “You two over on Fogcatcher Lane, right?” He shakes his head, still gazing seaward. “Man, that's sweet. I might have a job up there if the Horton house ever gets opened up.”
My hands continue to fiddle with the coarse sand. “Which one is that?”
He cocks his head toward the cliffs. “The burned-up one on your street. Thought they'd tear it down, but nope, plan is to fix her up and get the owner back in there. Don't know when it's gonna happen though, but when it does, I'll be takin' my lunch breaks right here.”
As if the surf has suddenly called out his name, Shane stands, pulls Camille to her feet, and I watch them take off into the tide, my cousin squealing like a teen. For a moment a tinge of jealousy threatens to overtake me. If Eliza were here, she'd strip off her sweats to expose a Porsche red bikini fitted over her tanned and toned body. She'd laugh gaily as she romped in the water, easily shrugging off the burdens of the week.
Maybe someday I'll be that girl. Not now, but someday.
I allow my fingers to take one long lunge back into the pebbled sand before hoisting myself up and smoothing the earth from my bum. While a part of me longs to enjoy the beach longer, I'm still too keyed up over meeting Beth this morning. Something about her timid demeanor coupled with her obvious interest in Josh has my mind spinning. That and Peg's accusations, which I've no intention of accepting, but must deal with nonetheless.
“YOU THE SWEET GIRL”
I've been at the inn for two hours, watching relaxed travelers leave, and the harried arrive. The old man towering above me sounds ornery, but there's a twinkle in his eye.
“Yes, sir. What can I do for you?”
“If I were forty years younger, I'd tell you.”
Well.
He taps his fist on the counter. “Heard you were asking around about your family this morning at the church.”
“You attend Coastal Christian, then?”
“Darn tootin'! Been there through the last eight presidents, although some of them were repeats. Served on the church council in the seventies, the elder board in the eighties, the compassion ministries in the nineties, and now I'm an usher. During first service.”
“So . . . you remember us?”
His gaze runs down one long, narrow nose. “Might. Burton Sims.” He shakes my hand. “Thought you folks moved east after the scuttlebutt.”
My hope sinks. “You know about that then? Can you tell me more?”
“Maybe. Could use a cup of coffee first. You have cream and sugar, I hope.”
I pour him a cup, thankful I'd had time to brew another pot between check-ins. When I turn back, he's already grabbed two of the welcome cookies from the tray on the desk.
I hand him his coffee. “Would you like to sit down?”
He mumbles that he would. As he takes a seat on the couch in the lobby, a dripping wet boy in swim trunks traipses in. “I need a towel.”
I hand him two and follow him out, mopping the entire way.
“Your dad still an accountant?” Burton has downed both cookies.
I straighten. “My father passed away, but he worked almost until he died.”
“My condolences then. He was good with numbers. Helped us out on the church council sometimes.”
“Really?”
“Your mom still a looker?”
I smile. “She is.”
“Never knew why those two had so many problems . . . a good-looking couple like that should be immune in my book.”
I'm back behind the counter now. “Oh, they didn't have any more than most couples do, I think. They took good care of us, and, well, they'd still be together if Daddy hadn't gotten so sick.”
“I'm sorry to hear that Robert got sick. After the wringer that ol' Peg put him through, he deserved better, I thought.”
His words land a crushing blow. “So . . . it's true. Everything Peg said about my father . . . is true?” I inhale a jagged breath. How could this be?
“It's true, but he who is without sin, let him first cast a stone. Or something like that. I remember that one from Sunday school when I was a kid.”
I make my way into the lobby, hoping that no guests will choose this moment to arrive, their faces cheery and hopeful, and find a chair to lower myself into. “What do you mean by that?”
Burton swigs another sip, his gaze flickering off into the distance. “So he's a man who made some mistakes? Don't we all. But that one”âhe points through the window, toward the diner next doorâ“that one was like a burr in his saddle, and I've always believed he had no choice but to pack up his young family and head out of Dodge.” He sets his cup down and shakes his head. “Too bad too. He was one fine choir member.”
I sink deeper into the chair, like a feather turned to stone. Weighted. Almost breathless. And yet, unlike a stone, a hint of life prevails within me. It makes itself known by the straining twist that wrenches my heart.
My mind searches for any recall, for any memory of what I'm learning about my father. And there is none. Yet, from some deep place that I cannot fully grasp as I sink further into this loathsome chair, an itch, like a gnat on the skin, unsettles me.
If only scratching at it would make the sensation stop.
Chapter Thirteen
I'm unprepared for what awaits me back at the cottage. Nine suitcasesâall shapes and sizesâand three large moving boxes lie haphazardly on the front porch, leaving only enough room for one person to stand. If that. A yellow moving truck idles at the curb and, as I stare gape-mouthed at the mess on the porch, a heavy man with moppish hair hops out.
He takes a pen from atop his ear. “You Mel?”
No, me Tara.
“Noâis this all for Mel? Mel Sweet?”
“Noâis this all for Mel? Mel Sweet?”
“Yup. Sign here.”
I take the pen. “Can you help me move them indoors?”
“Nope.” He rips off a yellow copy of what I've just signed and hands it to me. “Company policy says we drop off at the door. No exceptions.”
Alone, I squeeze through the screen door's narrow opening and enter the cottage. Why isn't Camille home yet? We'd talked earlier and she had planned to buy pierogies and sauté them up for dinner. With my work schedule and all her free time, we'd decided to divvy up the duties more. The screen door slams shut behind me, sending the smell of dampened wood into the room. I fumble for the light, my mind and heart a cloudy mess.
The old lightbulb from the table lamp sends a sallow cast throughout, doing nothing for my state of mind. After Burton Sims corroborated Peg's story, I moved through the rest of the afternoon and evening just a shell of myself. My hands may have handed out room keys, but my heartbeat felt more like a thud in my chestâa steady, but labored thump.
Although there's no sign of buttery onions or sautéed pierogies in the kitchen, the room has been cleared of the morning's mess. All except for a stash of Camille's magazines and an explosion of yarn that litters the cozy booth at the end of the room. I shove her things aside and sit down. Just then, laughter perks my attention. Three doors slam simultaneously, followed by Camille's giggles mixed in with other voices.
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