Sweet Waters (36 page)

Authors: Julie Carobini

BOOK: Sweet Waters

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My breathing slows from a sprint to a jog. I can feel the patter of my heart. “You . . . you remember my . . . laugh?”

“Oh, yes. Your father always said it sounded like happiness to him.” He pauses. “He depended on you for that.”

The breeze cools my face, my breathing close to normal. Soberness wraps me in its oversized blanket as memories of our world here continue to catapult me into the past. The clowns fade away and in their place I'm lost in yesterday until Nigel pulls me forward.

“Excuse me, Tara dear. Would you take a look at this program? I neglected to bring my reading glasses with me and I cannot find Josh's name here. Surely he will take part in the ceremony.”

Dread fills my chest. I peek at Nigel and then at the program in my hand. “Certainly, Nigel. Okay, let's see.” I scan the paper, but despite my own 20/20 vision, Josh's name does not appear. “Apparently Josh is not part of the program today.”

Nigel's eyes widen. “No? Dear me. Perhaps it is just a terrible oversight. Joshua would never miss such a fine celebration to honor his father.”

Not unless he's too tired of the charade to care.

We watch as members of the community pour in, spilling into the seating area. Cheryl, our realtor, wiggles five fingers at me in a friendly greeting. Nigel and I wave to Tina, who's on maternity leave. Contrary to how we parted, she now appears serene and motherly as she tends to the newborn in her arms. The clowns disappear and, in distinct contrast, a violinist appears onstage dressed in shimmering peach. Voices hush and she begins to play, the music a soothing accompaniment to the distant crescendo of pounding waves. I push Josh's absence into the farthest corners of my mind.

The emcee takes the stage and I recognize him as the choirmaster at church. He stands at the front, meaty hands folded across his middle-aged belly, a patient grin on his mouth, waiting. When the resumed chatter and background music stops, he waits a beat, then begins.

“Welcome, beautiful citizens of Otter Bay . . .”

A latecomer takes a seat to my far right. It's Billy, walking with a hunchback, as if sadness weighs, like an oversized feed sack, on his shoulders. He slides in next to a group of men I don't recognize. Hm. Other firefighters, maybe?

“And we have much to be thankful for here in our community . . .”

A Vanna White look-alike takes the stage, just to the left of the emcee. She's holding a stack of papers, certificates presumably, and looks as if she's about to confer diplomas on the graduates.

“Our first recipient today, for his achievement in keeping our community lit well throughout the winter . . .”

The honoring has begun and no Josh in sight. A squirrel darts through the grass, setting off a cacophony of muffled squeals. Another recipient receives an award, this one for the seasonal light-post dÃ©cor on Main Street. An especially boastful wave hurls itself onto the rocks, flicking sea spray into the far section of the crowd.

Programs crack and rustle as the line of honorees dwindles. Pete's honor is saved for last, the icing on the cake of this celebration. In the past hour I've learned just how much Otter Bay loves to honor its champions, in everything from town beautification to heroic rescues.
Did my parents love the quirks of this town as much as I've come to love them?

Josh's absence grows ever more obvious, and I swallow back my sinking heart.

“And now, it is my pleasure and honor, to introduce to you this year's recipient of the OBECAâthat's the Otter Bay Exemplary Citizen Awardâfor his many years of faithful service as our town's Mayor: Pete Adams!”

The applause begins, joined by people on their feet and children standing on chairs, the gentle roar surprising and uplifting. Pete climbs the stairs from where he'd been waiting with Shirley, his gait confident, his smile wide. I only wish . . .

I blink. From the left of the stage, my wish comes true. Josh appears just as his father shakes hands with the emcee.

“I have invited our very ownâand in my humble opinion our next Battalion Chief candidateâJoshua Adams to say a few words.”

Josh strides across the stage in his blue uniform, taller than I'd remembered, purposeful. His hair shines lighter than his father's and has that same I-don't-do-a-thing-but-it's-beautiful-anyway wave in it. He shakes hands with both men, lingering slightly over his father's greeting.

When Josh faces the crowd, he looks more assured and more determined than I've ever seen him. And yet gentle as a shore bird. He leans one hand onto the podium and my eyes cannot look away.

“Life,” he says, “is full of dysfunction . . .”

Oh, Josh.

His expression is not without emotion. “And it starts with me.”

There's a catch in my throat.

“I'm honored to be here with you all today”âhe nods at the honorees in row oneâ“and with my father.” Josh's intense eyes scan the crowd. “I've been doing some reading lately, reminding myself of things from the past, and one of the worst things that can happen, I've come to believe, is to allow history to repeat itself. Especially in my own life.”

Even the children sit quietly.

“You see, the Israelites who wandered in the desert all those years ago, well, they made a lot of mistakesâweeping and gnashing of teeth, if you will.”

Snickers of agreement travel through the crowd. Some of the older women are nodding their heads.

“The Lord appeared to them anyway and promised to build them up again. He told them they would be fruitful and filled with joy.”

A voice from the crowd calls out, “Amen!”

“What He didn't say was that the people would suddenly become perfect. Some were still lame, some blind, allâin my opinionâornery at times.” A slight smile curls up the corner of his mouth. “But they would come together, gathered by God's hand, even as some wept, unable to clearly see the blessings He laid out for them. And as they prayed, the Lord promised to lead them beside streams of water. He promised that their path would be level; that they would not stumble.”

Something twists inside my heart.

“I've been stumbling around a lot lately, but I've been reminded that it's time to stop and accept the rewards of this life graciously.” He looks to Pete. “My father's not a perfect man.”

I hold my breath. Does anyone else around me feel a swell of air within their own chests?

“But he's taught me everything I need to know.” He pauses. “Like how to carve an outstanding frog from a wedge of soap.”

The woman in the chair next to mine sends a loud clap into the air and drops her head forward, laughing.

“He's taught me the wisdom of remembering to bring the toilet paper on a campout.” With a tip of his head, Josh acknowledges his mother. “By the way, thanks again, Mom, for not being sore that I once came back with the sleeves of my flannel shirt missing.”

Roars of laughter spike the air. Giggles hopscotch through the audience.

Again, he pauses. “He taught me that there is great reward in hard work and toughness and fighting fires, both literally and figurativelyâbut that it must be balanced by pursuing faith, chasing after it when necessary. Especially when one's head is of a particular thickness.” His smile is wry, conciliatory. “He's impressed upon me the idea of hope, only it's not just an idea, but a reality to be cherished. Today I read in the Bible: âThere is hope for your future . . . your children will return to their own land.'”

I'm taken aback. The words sear into me, deeply, with permanence. As if they are meant specifically for my sisters and me.

“God was talking to the Israelites, of course, but He left those words behind for a reason. I don't know about you, but I'm glad for His promise of hope. And I'm glad for this land.” He sweeps one arm from left to right. “This land
is
my own; it's become a part of me that I never want to leave. And you all have become significant in my life.” He turns then and faces his father. “Thank you, Dad, for spending your life protecting this town and these people. And for teaching me all that is really important.”

As the townspeople leap to the ground, clapping and whistling, Pete, obviously overcome, crushes his son to himself. Even Nigel rises up, careful to place his cane firmly in front of him. Warm, salty tears stream down my cheeks. Contained within them is a mixture of appreciation, revelation, and another obvious ingredient, the one I'd diligently avoided acknowledging until now.

Love.

Chapter Thirty-five

“I hoped you would come.”

Josh looms next to me, bigger than life, his voice all at once soothing and thrilling. My “date,” Nigel, reclines beneath the shade of a pine talking with Tina. “Well, after you stood me up, I had so many suitors clamoring to escort me, I figured âwhy not?'”

Josh clutches his heart. “I'm grieved that you'd think I would stand you up. But, you're a traditionalist. I love that about you.” He pauses and watches me for a moment, as if wondering whether I could seriously forgive him. “Can we talk somewhere . . . somewhere quieter?”

“What kind of woman would I be to just run out on my date?”

A grin alights his face as he glances at Nigel and catches him politely stifling a yawn. He looks back to me. “Merciful?”

I giggle. “You're funny. You really are very funny.”

Josh quirks a brow. “You say that like you're surprised.”

I smile, coyly. “The tide's out.”

He returns the smile and offers me his arm. “I can always rely on you for accurate maritime information, can't I?”

We walk along the section of beach just below the event grounds. Here the sand is finer and softer to the touch than other beaches in the area where pebbles dominate. With each step my toes dig deep into the massaging smoothness. Josh's strong arm firmly hugs my waist as we walk in silent contentment.

I breathe in. “That was one amazing speech you gave back there.”

He tenses, slightly, before relaxing back into me. “I meant it. All of it.”

I stop. “It touched me more than you know. It felt like a confirmation of what I've been feeling about our move out here.”

“You've been questioning that?”

I nod. “All along, especially considering all that we've learned aboutâwell, you know. Prior to coming out here, I'd been so restless. The other night, though, I sensed that it truly was the right decision, only now it feels like more than that, almost like a call. It's like God's telling me that not only was this the right move, but that there's hope for the future as well.”

He sighs, looks into the sky, and pulls me into his embrace. I breathe him in, his scent warm and familiar. “There is hope,” he tells me. “It's always been in front of us, but sometimes our fears make us blind.”

I think about Dad and how he embraced faith while here on earth, but never really got to experience all the peace that comes with it. Such a shame. It's difficult to admit this to myself, but Dad made some bad choices. Terrible ones. Maybe this is one of the answers to the questions I struggled with the other night, as Camille and I lay on the floor, staring into the knotty pine planks above. Our choices bring on consequences that we have to deal with, or in Dad's case, run away from. Either way they can work against God's plans for us.

I raise my head from his chest. “Is that why you had a change of heart about your dad's honor?”

“That's something I want to talk to you about.”

I pull myself back a little more, so I can see his face clearly. “Okay.”

“Peg told me about your offer to pay her back the money.”

It takes a few slow seconds for his announcement to filter through my ears and to my brain. “She did?”

“That's one of the most selfless things I've ever heard.”