Barefoot Beach (12 page)

Tom turned to growl, but it was good-natured. “The hell you are. What about my permission? And you can't cut in before we start dancing. That's protocol. The rules, Colonel.”

“Yes, well, I'm pulling rank, Major.”

Tom let out a deflated sigh. Not quite believable. With exaggerated gallantry, he bowed off. “She's all yours. Lucky man.”

“Damn right,” Scott said.

Was this his version of charming? I was unimpressed.

He placed his hand on my back, I rested my hand on his upper arm, and we were off.

“Amazing,” he said as we found our rhythm. “I thought I'd forget everything I learned. It's good to be back, Nora.”

I was generating my own weather front. Cool with a chance of thunderstorms. He picked up on it, I decided, because he seemed to want to warm me up.

“Apologies again for not getting here on time,” he said. “I had two job interviews and the second took longer than expected, so I got a late start on the return trip. And here I circled the meters for fifteen minutes because there were no spots open in the garage.”

Sal Zito had spaces reserved for the gym in the garage attached to the Boardwalk Hilton. I'd seen Scott's Honda parked there, and not in a handicap spot. In one of our infrequent conversations, Bunny had whined that he refused to apply for the tags. He wasn't handicapped, he'd told her, and he wasn't going to pretend he was. Besides, there were other people who needed those spaces more than he did.

“But say I'm wearing heels,” she'd said to me. “Really high ones, which I like. And it would be great to park closer. But no, because he's sensitive about his leg. I mean, I understand, but still, that's so inconsiderate.”

My Bunny memory detoured me into different territory. She might not have been the brightest rabbit in the hutch, or the fluffiest emotionally, but she'd lost her mother and I remembered too clearly what that was like.

“Well, I'm glad you made it,” I said, my attitude softened by the realization that Scott had also lost a loved one, a mother-in-law he'd been close to, cared for, cared about. “The gang was happy to see you.” Marsha Felcher had planted a smacking kiss on his forehead. Morty had given him a backslap that would have sent a lesser man flying. The Powells had hugged him.

“Sorry that Bunny”—at the mention of her name, Scott's biceps tensed—“wasn't able to join us,” I said, feeling my mouth dry up with the effort of spewing out that huge lie.

I wasn't sorry. Not at all. And to be fair to myself, the lack of regret had less to do with my admiration or whatever for her husband than with
the fact that she was an equal-opportunity pain in the ass, nasty to all. Bad for business.

The next sentiment
was
true. “Tom just told me that her mom passed away. Sad news. I know you were fond of your mother-in-law. My condolences.”

Professional dancers keep distance between them, which creates a lovely, almost balletic pattern as they move in synch. But at the studio, I taught folks who'd be dancing at weddings and bar mitzvahs and maybe, in the case of Edgar and Lynn, singles get-togethers. My students danced socially, not competitively, which meant I cut them a lot of slack. Couples could get snug if they wanted to, and there was always a buzz of talk to counterpoint the music.

The space between Scott and me was appropriate for teacher and student. Far enough apart so we kept the limits clear. Close enough so I could see the scruff of eight-o'clock shadow on his jaw and catch a whiff of something piney that could have been cologne or car deodorizer, the latter more likely after all those hours on the road. He reared back, though, when I said, “Please give Bunny my sympathies.”

He cocked his head, bit his lip, and narrowed his focus, as if he were trying to figure out the origin of the universe. “Yes, of course. Your sympathies. I'll convey them.”

It was only after he'd moved back into position that he said, “Tom suggested you and I needed to get current. He's right.” Scott inhaled a deep breath. Then: “How about we get a cup of coffee after class?”

I blurted, “Tonight?”

“On second thought, not coffee. The Powells and the Felchers go to the Turquoise Café after class, right? Then how about ice cream to celebrate the first class of summer?” When I hesitated, he added a bonus to tempt me: “Sarge will be with us.”

Oddly unsteady on my feet, I managed a nod.

“A friend has been watching him for me all day and I really should pick him up. It's on the way. We could meet at Coneheads.”

“Uh, well . . .” That was my brilliant response, but I was trying to calculate the ethics here. Married man. Student. Butter pecan. Canine chaperone. Did that add up to Sister Loretta playing a drumroll as I got shoved into the fiery pits of hell? Nah.

“Sure,” I said.
I mean, really, what was the harm?

Coneheads, famous for its “out of this world” triple dips and rocket sundaes, started out as “Cohen's Ice Cream—Best on the Beach” in 1957 in a clapboard shack on a two-lane road. When Nathan Cohen, son of the founder, took over in 1978, he renamed it for the
Saturday Night Live
skit. Now flanked by Lighthouse Miniature Golf and a municipal dog park, it occupied a sprawling white brick building, its flat roof topped by a forty-foot waffle cone that was a landmark for miles on the Coastal Highway.

There was inside seating for the faint of heart and sweet of blood, but most customers opted to battle the lines at the six ordering windows and the mosquitoes and humidity at one of twenty tables under the sun or stars. Coneheads had given generations of college students summer employment, and half an hour after class ended, I found myself walking the crushed-shell surround and checking out the staff for signs of Jack. He normally worked weekend shifts, but on nights when one of the counter help or cashiers was out, he had to be available to fill in on short notice. Not tonight, which was a relief, because the idea of juggling two situations in which I didn't know what I was facing held all the appeal of a migraine.

Jack's friend Stewie, back from Purdue, a kid who'd been in and out of my refrigerator for years, spotted me and said, “They're leaving over there,” pointing to a table at the far end of the patio under a magnolia
tree. “You solo?” he asked. Solos taking up space that could seat four provoked a fusillade of glares.

“Waiting for someone,” I said. I checked my watch. “Any minute.” Nervous.

It was a little more than that when Scott's maroon Honda crunched up the driveway into the parking lot. By that time, I'd claimed the table, and he made an A-OK finger circle as he walked over, his gait stable on the gravel, then the crushed shells. Trotting beside him, tail wagging, was Sarge.

“Nice,” Scott said, as he slid into the seat across from me and tweaked the leash. The dog immediately sat. “Who'd you have to bribe for this table?”

“I have friends in high places,” I said, and winked. Winked! When was the last time I'd winked at a man? Probably at Lon over Jack's head when our toddler son did something remarkably adorable. But here, the lowered eyelid and bantering tone could have added up to flirting. Unintended, and I felt my ever-ready redhead's blush bloom. Oh, the hell with it. I wasn't wearing my heart on my sleeve. I wasn't even wearing sleeves. I'd changed in the locker room at Hot Bods into something more appropriate for dripping ice-cream cones and Jimmy Buffett music. Off with the dress designed with enough coverage so I kept my flesh to myself, and on with the lacy top and capri pants hanging in my locker. I'd traded my heels for sandals. Scott, I saw, had also switched to more casual: cargo chinos and golf shirt. Silhouetted against giant pictures of towering, creamy swirls of soft serve and crisp, glistening french fries, he looked like the most delectable item on the menu. A thought I hustled past my dozing censor.

Drawing the dog to him, he bent down to stroke its coat. “And I have friends in low places. This fellow's a beauty, isn't he?”

The animal did have a particular elegance about him. You could tell he wasn't a slobberer, or a suck-up. He followed Scott's moves on alert, but when he settled in, the eyes were calm and wise. “A real champ, aren't you, boy?” Scott smiled at me. “We'd better put some ice cream in front of us or we'll be evicted. Hot fudge sundae for me. With vanilla. I know
I look rocky road, but I'm strictly vanilla. Freezy Paws for Sarge”—whose ears perked at the mention of the treat. “What can I get for you, Nora?”

“Kiddy cone, low-fat.”

“You've got to kidding.”

I gave him my best wry smile. “Same as your order. But with extra whipped cream.”

“Ah, a woman after my own heart.”

Oh, come on—it was just a phrase. All it meant was we shared a predilection for vanilla, but it made
my
idiot heart pick up the beat.

Tending to Sarge first, Scott stripped the lid off the cup of Freezy Paws and laid it on the pavement in front of him. With a nod from his master, the dog went at it tongue and snout.

“You like that? Oh yeah,” Scott said. Then he straightened up, unfolded a napkin, spread the square at my place, and centered my sundae on it. He positioned a folded napkin to its left and a cup of water to the right of the makeshift place mat, everything arranged with military precision.

He sat and took a long slug from his water cup, all the while keeping a careful eye on me as I scooped a spoonful of ice cream. You would have thought he'd churned it himself from the way he hunched forward, waiting for a critique.

“Oh God, I'd forgotten how good this is. My first Coneheads of the season.” I licked my lips and Scott laughed at my pleasure, then dipped a rosette of napkin into his water and leaned over to wipe off my chocolate fudge mustache. Which could have been an intimate gesture or just neighborly. I prodded myself toward the latter.

“Well, timing is everything. Here we are June twenty-first, first day of summer.” He cleared his throat. “Lots of firsts.” When I let that go by, he jabbed his spoon into his sundae and ate half of it in four bites, emitting a soft, appreciative hum between them.

The sun had gone down while we were having our dance back at the
studio, but now a glimmering violet lingered, as if the light couldn't quite let go of the longest day of the year. I'd forgotten it was the summer solstice until he mentioned it.

He leaned down to scratch Sarge's ears. I had the feeling he was trying to figure out how to get started on the catch-up conversation. I gave him a push.

“Is Sarge a new member of the family? I don't remember your mentioning him when you were with us last time.”

“Didn't have him then. He was still in Iraq recovering from his own injury. He got hit by gunfire in an insurgent attack, the same one that killed his handler back in Mosul.”

“You weren't his handler?”

“No, his handler was a corporal under my command. Wally Gibson. He and Sarge were our elite team. The day they got ambushed, they were out front leading a patrol to clear IEDs. Corporal Gibson got hit in the chest, a fatal wound.”

Scott's expression tightened and he stopped for a moment. Ice cream is supposed to melt in your mouth, but a lump of vanilla got stuck in my throat. Scott and I swallowed, hard, simultaneously.

He resumed, “Sarge took a bullet in his flank. It tore through him. The army rated him not fit for combat, so he got retired. With honors. I have no doubt that if he'd been on active duty a couple of months later, he would have sniffed out the bomb that took part of my leg.”

I'd reviewed the colonel's medical report during his intake interview for class two years before. His injuries had been described in detail. The circumstances that caused them were only sketched out. A convoy in which he was riding was hit by an IED.

“Corporal Gibson and Sarge were close as brothers. These hero dogs bond with their handlers and I know for certain that if the corporal had made it through there would have been no question about Sarge's future.
But we never leave a buddy behind, and I was his best chance for a good life, so when I got on my feet, I went full throttle into bringing him over here. It took a while but we got him home. That's the way I think of it—home. And now he's living the good life—aren't you, fella?”

I'd have sworn that dog's muzzle stretched into a smile.

A drift of cigarette smoke from the next table reminded me there was someone else who hadn't yet entered the conversation. I imagined Bunny at the edge of it, slouched against the magnolia tree, wearing her ridiculous hooker heels and shooting death rays my way. So far she'd been persona non grata at our little table. Scott hadn't brought up her failure to show for class, a lapse I suddenly felt a compelling need to fill.

“I thought Bunny was allergic to dogs.”

At the mention of her name, a muscle in his cheek twitched. “She's allergic to a whole list of things.”

A sensitive soul, Bunnicula. Who woulda thunk it? And then the light that was dimming around us began to dawn inside me. My father used to say, mimicking an Irish brogue, “For a smart girl, sometimes you're thick as a plank, Nora.” He was right. Sometimes it took fireworks to make me see the sparks.

As in Scott leaning in and for a brief, breathtaking moment laying his hand on mine. “A lot has changed since we've seen each other, Nora.” His hand lifted, hovered, and went for his spoon. “It's been a long couple of years. I missed being in class. I really did. The people, the music, the dancing. You all helped me get my head on straight. And my leg, too, of course. Can't forget the leg.” He gave a dry laugh. “But life kind of took over and squeezed out most of the best stuff.”

Now he was nervously stirring what was left of his ice cream into pale chocolate soup. There was some kid in him. I liked that.

“You know my mother-in-law had cancer and we moved down here full-time to take care of her. I love this place, but not in winter. Then”—he caught his breath—“maybe part of it was the tension in the house,
but Mom decided to enter hospice. That opened up a lot of possibilities. And yes, I'll extend your sympathies to Bunny—actually, Belinda is the name she currently goes by—but it will have to be by email.” He chugged on, like a train trying to make it through a dark tunnel as quickly as possible. “She lives in Florida now. We're divorced.”

For a split second—or maybe it wasn't split because it felt like an eternity—I felt a rush of pure connection to Scott Goddard. Not something censored by my thirteen years in Catholic schools, or adulterated by his situation, his marriage, his wife. To my credit, the worst curse I'd ever wished on Bunny was that she'd break a leg, not two, and a simple fracture, not compound—just enough damage so she'd have to be casted for a while and have the excuse she itched for to skip class. I'd never wished her gone in the long term, not from her marriage, not to Florida.

Scott was rapping his knuckles on the table. The beat was a march. “It will be two years in December.” He wiggled his left hand to show me the fourth finger stripped of the thick gold band that had announced to the world: taken. I'd felt that ring, a cold, metallic warning brushing my skin when we'd held hands to foxtrot two years back. “Unattached,” he emphasized now, his sharpshooter eyes seeming to measure my reaction.

I didn't know what to say to that. Sorry? Past due? Congratulations? Nothing, is what I chose. Because I didn't know what I
thought
about it. Him. All those fantasies starring the unattainable married man, and now he was free and there was a possibility of something real and . . . I felt a surge of panic. The way I'd felt when Lon and I went camping in Death Valley and I stood shivering and quiet among the salt flats—too much space and no landmarks to mark the way. None for me, at least. Lost without a compass. Sister Loretta had lapsed into a contemplative silence.

Maybe Scott mistook my confusion for pity, because he added, “Hey, it's okay. I'm good with it. It was a long time coming, the breakup. Our problems go way back.” He toyed with a straw. “When she was in high school my daughter said it was a bad marriage and asked me why we were holding on.
For me, it was because of her and her brother. Well, they're out of the house now and some new problems surfaced between Belinda and me. The timing was right. We never told my mother-in-law about the divorce. Spared her that. So”—he reached for the cup of water and gulped—“you didn't ask me to revise my intake form when I re-upped for class. Now you can consider it current.”

I was as ready as he was to change the subject, and for the next half hour, as the last light faded and we walked Sarge in the lantern-lit dog park, we talked books, new movies, nothing that would accelerate anyone's heartbeat. Scott usually walked briskly, perhaps his message to himself and the world that he could. But I slowed us down, wanting to stay and stretch the moment even as I strained to repress the opposing desire to hurry home so I could pace the balcony outside my bedroom or perch on Mooncussers Rock and wonder why I wasn't breaking out the champagne at the announcement that, ding-dong, the wicked witch had fled.

We spent our final moments leaning side by side against my car, so close that his arm grazed my sleeve.

Then, because I heard him groan as he bent to pick up a trashed beer bottle rolling toward my tire, I murmured, “Long day for you.”

“It has been. All that travel. And Sarge here . . .” The dog barked recognition of his name. “I know, buddy. Mrs. Lynch did a good job watching you, but you're ready to go home, aren't you?” Scott said to the sharpening moon, “I don't really want to, though. Dancing and ice cream. A good combination. You know, we could make this a Tuesday night tradition. After class.”