The Ocean Between Us (6 page)

“It’s beautiful here, isn’t it?” she said.

“I wish we lived closer to the water,” Katie said, never wanting to make the mistake of being in complete agreement with her mother. “The base isn’t pretty at all.”

“Bases aren’t supposed to be pretty,” Grace said.

“When I leave home, I’m going to live in one place and never, ever budge,” Katie declared.

“Not me,” said Emma. “I’m going to live everywhere.”

“Just don’t forget to write,” said Grace. She was tempted to broach the topic of college, but decided to wait. It was hard to resist pushing, though. Emma had barely touched the stack of glossy catalogs and brochures that flooded the mailbox all summer.

“I want to live there,” Grace said, speaking out before she’d fully formed the thought. She gestured at a house on the water side of the road, with a fussed-over garden and painted gingerbread trim. Like a stately tall ship, it commanded a view of the shipping lanes and mountains. It was a restored Victorian, the kind built by fishermen from Maine who’d relocated to Whidbey a hundred years ago.

“How about this one?” asked Emma. Without waiting for an answer, she pulled off the road and parked on the gravel shoulder in the shade of a huge cedar. The driveway was marked with a realtor’s tent sign and a bouquet of balloons imprinted with Open House.

Automatically Grace checked her watch. By habit she was a schedule person, but on this sunny Saturday afternoon they were in no hurry.

Visiting open houses was a hobby she’d fallen into years ago. Emma and Katie shared her fascination. There was a sort of vicarious pleasure in stepping into someone else’s world. It was a guilty thrill. Walking through other people’s homes made Grace feel as though she was visiting a foreign country with customs and habits she barely understood. She loved to study the gardens with perennials, displays of family photographs showing generations growing up in the same place. She was intrigued by the permanence of their way of life, and she studied it like an anthropologist researching a different culture.

She wondered what it would be like to live in a place where you could plant a garden and still be around to see how it turned out.

This was definitely a girl thing. Steve and Brian couldn’t stand open houses. But for Grace and her daughters, the fantasy began as soon as they stepped onto the driveway of crushed rock and shells.

The house was a disappointment, an ugly stepsister to the Victorian masterpiece down the road. Despite an impressive arbor of old roses, the garden was an uninspired mix of perennials, rhododendrons and low, leafy shrubs. Worse, someone had tried to give the place a nautical flavor by heaping driftwood in a self-conscious arrangement, creating a rope fence. A wooden seagull was perched atop the post next to the front gate. Over the door arched a driftwood sign: Welcome Aboard.

The girls walked in through the open front door, heading for a hall table laden with bakery cookies, a coffee urn, a pitcher of lemonade and some real estate flyers.

Grace hesitated before she entered the house. Unbidden, a quiet stirring occurred deep inside her. It was just a strange day, she thought, beginning with the shock of meeting her real self in the dressing-room mirror.

She could feel the fresh sea breeze rippling across the yard and stirring the tops of the trees. Murmurs of conversation drifted through the house as little knots of people inspected the unnaturally clean rooms. Her awareness of everything heightened, and for some reason, she held her breath the way she used to in church each Sunday morning, just before genuflecting.

In the blink of an eye, the peculiar moment passed. She stepped over the threshold into a stranger’s house. The spongy gray carpet beneath her feet had seen better days, and the walls were an oppressive putty color. Sometime in the distant past, a smoker used to live here. Bowls of potpourri barely masked a cindery hotel room odor. But still, the plain-Jane house cast an odd and mesmerizing spell on her.

Grace smiled and greeted the listing agent, accepting an information sheet on the house. She was a looky-loo and never pretended to be otherwise. An experienced agent could see that a mile off.

Grace strolled through an outdated kitchen with harvest-gold appliances, oversize vegetables on the wallpaper, phony redbrick linoleum on the floor and Formica countertops with the classic boomerang pattern, faded in places from scrubbing. The study was
the only modern segment of the house that she could see. It contained a well-designed workstation and a state-of-the-art Mac computer surrounded by scanners, printers and devices Grace couldn’t identify. Clearly, this was the domain of a computer whiz.

One set of lookers was in the corner snickering over a collage made of seashells, which framed a chalkboard. Ignoring them, Grace passed through to the front room, and there, finally, she understood the magic of this place. The living room was oriented like the prow of a ship, with sliding doors leading out to a deck. The windows were covered by heavy pleated drapes, though someone had had the sense to thrust them wide apart. The view made Grace forget every unfortunate aspect of the little house on the bluff. It was a view that encompassed the length of Puget Sound, from the uneven teeth of the snowcapped Cascades to the dimpled blue peak of Mount Baker. The Sound was at its liveliest, as though every schooner and ferryboat, every barge and pleasure boat, put out to sea just for her viewing pleasure.

The girls were out on the deck, eating cookies. Grace pantomimed “five minutes” and headed for the stairs. The two bedrooms at the top of the landing were poky and nondescript. But the master bedroom commanded the same view as the living room downstairs.

Standing in this place, Grace felt a painful tightness around the heart. It was the sense of wanting something she could not possibly have.

She was about to leave when she became aware of a murmuring voice.

“But I thought the shipper wouldn’t schedule me until the house sold,” said a woman’s tense voice. “I can’t possibly be ready before then.” A pause. “I understand, but—” Another pause. “And what’s the charge for that? I see. Well, it’s not in my budget. I don’t know…”

Grace waited until she heard the bleep of the phone, followed by a shaky sigh she could relate to. Then she approached the woman, whose lower right leg was in a walking cast. She was an
older lady whose pleasant face was trembling and swollen with unshed tears of frustration.

“I couldn’t help overhearing,” said Grace. “Sounds as though your shipper is trying to move up the date on you.”

The woman nodded glumly. “Yes. It’s horrible. I had an offer on the house, but the loan fell through, so it’s back on the market again. Now the shipper wants to stick to the original schedule or charge me a huge extra fee.” She shook her head. “You know, I can design and launch a Web site, but dealing with a moving company is totally beyond me. My name’s Marcia Dunmire,” she said. “I’m a digital engineer.”

“Grace Bennett. I’m a Navy wife.”

“Oh. Then you’ve done this a few times before.”

“I don’t mean to be nosy, but maybe I can help. Do you have a copy of your contract?”

“Right here.” The pinched expression eased from Marcia’s face. “I’d be grateful if you’d look it over. I’ve never used a moving company before, ever.” She handed Grace a carbonless copy that looked very familiar.

“Some shippers move dates around if they have space in a truck that’s ready to go. And unfortunately, some agents try to tag you with extra charges and kill fees.” Grace glanced over the information. The estimated weight was grossly inflated—40,000 pounds. In reality, the contents of this house amounted to no more than 20,000 pounds. The inequity didn’t surprise Grace but set her teeth on edge.

Paging through the boilerplate sections of the contract, she found what she was looking for. “You’re okay,” she said. “They can’t charge you for rescheduling so long as you ship within sixty days. I’ve been a relocation ombudsman for the Navy for years. I could make a call for you, if you like.”

Marcia handed her the phone. “Be my guest. I’d love some help.”

Grace hit Redial. She and Marcia moved aside as a young couple came to the master bedroom. Like Grace, they were instantly drawn to the view from the wide front window. Go away,
she wanted to tell them. This is my house. The clarity—and the absurdity—of the thought startled her.

“Yes,” she said when she finally got past the receptionist. “Terry, is it? Hi, Terry. It’s Grace Bennett of…Executive Relocators.” She tossed out the name from a well of fantasy inside her, claimed Marcia as a client and plunged in. It took no effort at all. When Grace discussed business, a certain confidence came over her. She stood up straighter, spoke with authority.

“Thanks for the info, Terry,” she said. “Then I guess I’m confused. According to Mrs. Dunmire’s contract, she has sixty days to reschedule. Yes, yes, of course.” From the corner of her eye, she saw the girls come in. When they spotted her with contract in hand, phone to her ear and the older lady watching with hands clasped in hope, they rolled their eyes and went somewhere else. They were used to seeing their mother in ombudsman mode.

“Let me check with my client on that, Terry.” She pressed the mute button on the phone. “He says you didn’t say you’d ship within sixty days.”

She sniffed. “I didn’t get a chance to say anything. But the extra time would solve the problem. I’m sure of it.”

Grace went back to Terry. “I’m a little concerned about this weight discrepancy here, too, so maybe you should send another agent out to redo the estimate.” She honestly liked doing this—sticking up for people. Whatever floats your boat, as Steve would say.

A few minutes later, she hung up the phone. “Well,” she said, “that should help some.”

Marcia rolled her walker toward the door. “You have no idea. Good Lord, I’m a babe in the woods. Since my husband died I’m finding new areas of incompetence every day.”

“No,” said Grace. “You’re finding new challenges. And new ways to shine.”

“You’re very wise for such a young woman.”

“Bless you for thinking I’m young,” said Grace, remembering the dumpy housewife in the mirror. “And wise. Actually, I know
there’s no comparison to being widowed, but every time my husband goes to sea, I find myself having to deal with things on my own. Moving seems to be my specialty.”

“Are you really an executive relocator?”

“No, I just said that on the spot, to sound more official. I’ve done it unofficially for years.”

“You’re very good at it. You should charge for your services.”

“So I’ve been told. But my clients are all Navy families. I work pro bono. Sometimes I think about doing this professionally, though. But…”

“It’s a great idea, especially for this area. Boeing, Microsoft, Starbucks, Amazon… It’s the land of the high-profile multinational company.”

The notion teased at Grace, but she pushed it away. “Do you need help on the stairs?”

“No, thanks,” Marcia said. “I keep another walker downstairs. Blasted ankle. I broke it playing volleyball.”

Grace spotted her daughters out on the lawn, pacing. “I’d better be going. The natives are getting restless.”

“Of course. I didn’t mean to keep you.”

“It was my pleasure. I love your house.”

“Do you? We bought it in the sixties when it was all we could afford. I just couldn’t deal with updating it only to put it on the market. Are you planning to buy a house?”

“Some day,” Grace admitted. “But it’s a long way from the wish to the deed. Steve and I always said that when we were stationed in a place we liked well enough, we’d talk about buying a house.” Although most Navy families did buy homes, Grace and Steve had agreed long ago that a permanent home and mortgage didn’t fit their way of life. But for a while now, she’d been having second thoughts about that decision.

“I’ve heard people in the service are able to retire young and start a whole new life for themselves.”

Grace smiled, even as she felt the terrible tension between fantasy and reality. “I’ve heard that, too. But not from my husband.”

“Well, you could pick a worse place than this to make a permanent home. It’s beautiful and peaceful, just a ferry ride to Seattle, yet far enough from the city to feel safe and quiet.”

“It’s pretty ideal,” Grace admitted.

“I’ll tell you what,” Marcia said. “Since you won’t let me pay you for your help, let me do something I’m good at.”

“You don’t have to—”

“What I’d like to do,” Marcia said, overruling her, “is design a Web site for you. That’s what I do for a living. I’d consider it a privilege.”

“That’s incredibly generous of you,” Grace said. “But I don’t have the first idea of what I would do with a Web site.”

“It can be for anything. Your family, your kids, your husband.”

“My husband already has a site. It’s called navy-dot-mil.”

“Oh, my. Well, I can’t really compete with that. But something for you, personally. We can create a Web site for your hobbies—knitting, gardening, songwriting, what have you.”

“My hobbies?” Grace grinned. “Most days, that would be car-pooling and family finance.”

“Give it some thought.” Marcia handed her a business card. “Call me. It’ll be fun, you’ll see. I really do owe you, big-time.”

Grace was quiet as they drove away. On the seat beside her lay the various receipts and flyers she’d collected. She had two things to show for her day. Two impossible dreams. A perfect body and a home of her own.

After the day’s final briefing, which was anything but brief, Steve Bennett knew the exact date and time he’d be leaving his family. Again. Sure, he was a patriot; he’d spent his career serving his country. Yet he felt alternately harried, preoccupied and distracted by his myriad duties. A part of him missed the glory days of flying, the constant brushes with danger and the heady rush of cheating death. But he was a family man now, and he’d reached the stage of his career where he was ready for his own command.

And that didn’t happen without compromise. Even if it meant putting up with rule-book blowhards like Mason Crowther, his immediate superior.

When he walked through the door, he deep-sixed the burdens of the day, shutting his eyes and inhaling the smell of baking chicken. Like magic, the aromas and sounds of home lifted his spirits. Then he took off his cap and tossed it Frisbee-style to a hook on the hall tree—a little stunt that drove Crowther nuts and often prompted him to remind Steve that replacing a damaged cover would set him back two hundred bucks.

Feeling decidedly better, he went in search of his wife.

Grace stood at the counter, tossing a salad. He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Smells great,” he said. “Do you need some help?”

“No, thanks. We’ll eat just as soon as you get washed up. The kids want to go out tonight.”

He aimed a wounded look at Emma, who was setting the table. “You’re ditching us?”

“It’s the last Saturday night of the summer. Our last night of freedom.”

He washed his hands at the sink. “Yeah? So what are you up to?”

Emma shrugged in a way that made him grit his teeth. His elder daughter was not uncommunicative, but she definitely had her own set of private signals and gestures.

“Translation, please,” he said, trying to keep the edge out of his voice. He knew this was a particularly difficult move, uprooting the kids for their senior year and thrusting them into yet another “hostile environment,” as they liked to call it.

Steve knew it wasn’t his fault. But it sure as hell wasn’t his family’s, either.

“Some of the kids are going down to the beach at Mueller’s Point.”

“Bonfire and fireworks,” Brian added, ambling into the kitchen. Without being asked, he started filling the water glasses from a chilled pitcher.

“Excellent,” called Katie from the living room. “That means I can go, too.”

Both Emma and Brian snapped to attention. “In your dreams, dork,” Brian said. “It’s bad enough I have to drag Emma along—”

“Drag Emma along?” she said with an arch look. “Hey, if it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have any friends at all.”

“If it weren’t for me,” Grace said, tapping her arm with a spatula, “you wouldn’t have any dinner.”

They all sat down and Steve asked the blessing and then wondered why he bothered to ask. This family was all he needed and more.
This
was what he lived for, these moments of simplicity
when they sat down to share a meal. He wondered if they had any idea how much it meant to him.

“So,” said Grace, passing the bread. “How was—”

“Your day, dear,” Katie finished for her. “You always say that, Mom.”

“Well, I always want to know. Don’t you?”

“I already know. He filled out some forms, answered a zillion e-mails, had a planning meeting with the senior staff and did all the stuff Captain Crowther didn’t want to deal with, because that’s what the DCAG does.” Katie pushed her glasses up her nose. “Right, Dad?”

“Pretty darned close, Miss Smarty-Pants.” He caught Grace’s eye. She looked distracted tonight, maybe a little tired. “Thanks for asking.”

This was his opening to announce the upcoming trip to the Pentagon and then the deployment in November. Not now, he thought. He’d save the news for another time. With school starting Monday, everyone had enough on their minds.

But was there ever a good time to tell the family you were leaving them? He’d done so many times, but it never got easier.

He looked around the table and his heart filled up. Although he could command a squadron or air wing, he was helpless when it came to his family and helpless to know whether or not he was doing a good job at home. His background, which included more foster homes than he’d ever bothered to count, hadn’t prepared him for the powerful tenderness of family life. His instincts told him how to land a plane on a carrier deck at night in a storm, but they couldn’t tell him how to talk to his daughters.

Emma was so pretty she could break your heart with a single blink of those Caribbean-blue eyes. Steve ought to know—she’d broken his often enough. Every time he said goodbye to her, from the time she was old enough to understand what goodbye meant, she had broken his heart. Yet oddly, with all the moving they had done, Emma seemed to adapt the easiest. She actually liked making
new friends, and found her place in school with seemingly little fuss or effort.

Brian was his trophy son, and he appeared to like playing that role, bringing home honors in track and baseball, earning decent marks in his classes. He was a prime candidate for any number of colleges, and the Naval Academy was at the top of his list.

Then there was his little Katydid, so quick you’d miss her if you didn’t keep your eye on her. She read a book every day or two and was so smart she had her teachers scrambling for material, trying to stay one step ahead of her.

And Grace. The architect of it all. She built this family brick by brick, fashioned it out of hard work and a vision he hoped like hell they both shared. In the upheaval of the move this summer and taking on his new duties, he’d barely had time to sit down and talk to her about anything.

She used to make time, carving a quiet half hour out of the day so they could discuss whatever was on their minds. He’d never told her how grateful he was for that; he figured she knew. But lately, even she’d been sucked into the breakneck pace of their lives, and those half hours had fallen by the wayside. He missed their time together, but didn’t know how to tell her so.

It wasn’t his fault, and it sure as hell wasn’t hers, but a hairline fissure had appeared in their marriage, seemingly out of nowhere. Or so he thought. He was almost afraid to mention it for fear of giving it a name and making it real. But he had to trust that things were fine, or nothing else in the world made sense. Grace was different from women who walked away from Navy men. She wasn’t going to bail on him.

He stabbed his fork into a second helping of chicken. “There’s a barbecue at the Crowthers’ next Sunday,” he said. “The whole family’s invited.”

“I’m busy,” Katie declared.

“I’ve got practice,” Brian said.

He noticed Emma had no objection. The Crowther boy was her age, and he’d called at the house a couple of times, looking
for her. “The whole family,” he repeated. “He’s the CAG, and he wants everybody to have a good time.”

“Then he should count us out,” Katie said.

“Maybe buy us tickets to a Mariners game,” Brian suggested. “That’d be a good time.”

“You don’t have to stay long,” Grace explained in her ever-patient tone. But even she sounded a little weary of social obligations. She used to love dressing up, going to official functions and informal gatherings. “Just say hi and eat some barbecue and take notes, because—”

“Because next year, Dad’s going to be the CAG,” Katie finished for her.

“Such a bright child,” Grace said with a wink.

“I heard Mrs. Crowther is a Grade-A, certified b— uh, pill,” Katie said in a gossipy tone. “Brooke Mather says she has these horrible teas and stuff for the wives, and gets all mad if you don’t come. And my friend Rose Marie says that in the winter, you can’t wear a fur to any function, because Mrs. Crowther doesn’t have a fur.”

“Even if it’s a really ugly fur?” asked Brian.

“That’s enough,” said Grace with a gleam of suppressed amusement. “We’ll all go, and we’ll be terribly polite and charming and they’ll think the Bennetts are the nicest family in the Navy.”

Steve had been dealing with Crowther all day, and he yearned to change the subject. He turned to Brian. “So have you had a chance to look at the admissions packet from the Academy?” he asked.

“You bet,” Brian said. “I can’t wait to roll up my sleeves and start filling in all those bubbles with a number-two pencil.”

Steve grinned to hide a twinge of annoyance at his son’s sarcasm. Brian was a star athlete with bright prospects, yet he spent every spare minute creating intricate, almost hyperrealistic drawings of some fantasy world. He claimed to be working on a graphic novel, which was beyond Steve’s comprehension. Still, Brian had a serious desire to excel, and Steve hoped he’d choose to do it at the Naval Academy.

“It’s a little early in the year to burn out on the application process,” he pointed out.

“I looked at that stuff,” Emma said. “It’s not that different from a regular college application.”

“Except for the blood test, urinalysis, dental X rays, physical aptitude exam…” Brian counted them off on his fingers. “Oh, and they’re not going to like my tattoo and body piercings one bit.”

“What tattoo and body piercings?” Katie demanded, craning her neck to study her brother.

“The ones I might get one of these days,” he said. “Now that I’m eighteen, it’s all up to me.”

Clearly bored with her brother, Katie turned to Steve. “Can we get a dog?”

She had been asking all summer. She asked every summer, he remembered. “We’ve talked about this before. A family pet is—”

“One more thing to worry about,” Katie interrupted, exaggerating his Texas accent.

“It’s one more thing to love,” said Emma.

Steve and Grace exchanged a look. Both knew better than to take the bait. The conversation was in danger of turning into a squabble that had no resolution. With characteristic skill, Grace steered the topic around to other matters and brought the meal to a successful conclusion. She did this all the time, he realized, watching her pump Katie for details on the bike trip she’d made with her two new friends today. Grace smoothed out the wrinkles, anticipating trouble before it appeared.

“I’m proud of you for making friends so quickly this summer,” she told Katie.

“Like I have a choice,” Katie said.

“You don’t,” Grace said, getting up from the table. “None of us do.”

Maybe it was his imagination, but Steve sensed a subtle tension in the air. It was probably all in his head, he thought, watching Grace serve a dessert of strawberries in little glass bowls.

Sometimes he was so grateful for his family, it made his chest ache. That was the hell of having a job like his—he missed crucial moments in their lives. And even the periods of deepest content
ment never lasted. But maybe, he conceded, the job made them sweeter, made him appreciate them more. Grace used to tell him so all the time, but she hadn’t mentioned it lately.

After dinner, the kids got ready to go out. Steve could hear Brian and Emma upstairs arguing. The two of them shared the Bronco II, and if their plans for the evening didn’t happen to coincide, they sank into one of their legendary disputes. He wondered why, after all these years, they still bothered. It was a bit like shadowboxing.

The twins were so alike, blond and athletic, with identical blue eyes. They had the sort of looks older women fussed over in grocery stores. When they were little, Grace used to push them around in the “double wide,” a dual stroller she took everywhere. By the time Katie came along, that stroller had a lot of miles on it. Katie occupied a slinglike compartment in the rear of the contraption. She was such a quiet, unobtrusive little soul. One time—Grace swore it was only once—she had actually set her diaper bag on top of the baby, having forgotten until a little kitten mew of distress alerted her.

The expected squabble subsided without intervention, and Steve let out the breath he’d been holding. The twins had entered a phase of their relationship in which they were starting to like each other on a selective basis. Perhaps as the concept of leaving home became ever more real to them, they decided to explore the deep and mysterious heart of their twinship. Whatever it was, Steve would not complain. Especially since Katie, his awkward colt of a daughter, seemed to be experimenting with her own brand of rebellion here and there.

At the moment, Katie was stretched out on the sofa, reading a book. Her long, skinny legs—Olive Oyl legs, she lamented—were draped over the backrest, her head hanging off the side at an impossible angle. She read with deep concentration, seeming to inhale the story through her eyes. Steve walked over and mussed her hair playfully, earning a we-are-not-amused glare. He bent
down to see what she was reading. “
Beneath the Wheel
by Hermann Hesse. The feel-good book of the year.”

“At least it makes my life seem less depressing.”

“Since when is your life depressing?”

“Since Brian and Emma get to go out tonight and they’ve already got tons of friends and not one person even cares if I exist—”

The phone rang. “I’ll get it,” she shrieked, flinging aside the book and clearing the coffee table in a single leap.

“She ought to go out for the track team. I’m thinking hurdles.” Steve’s gaze followed her as she streaked from the room. “What’s this about her depressing life?”

Grace smiled as she wiped down the dining room table. “Wait five minutes. Her mood will shift.”

It took less than five minutes. Portable phone in hand, Katie rushed back into the room, bursting with smiles. “I’m going to the movies with Brooke Mather,” she announced. Then she locked eyes with Steve and cleared her throat. “May I go to the movies with Brooke Mather? The eight o’clock show at the Skywarrior?”

The base cinema was crowded with teens each summer and had been for decades. Steve wondered idly what it would be like to watch the decades slip by in one place.

“Who’s driving you?” asked Grace.

“We can ride our bikes.”

Grace threw the sponge into the sink. “Nice try, kiddo.”

“We can.”

“Of course you can. But you’re not going to. You know the score, sweetheart. The base is—”

“I know. I know. Too crowded with clueless drivers who don’t watch for bikes, especially after dark.”