Barefoot Beach (19 page)

“So you can't sell Calvert Street. But you have a portfolio, right?”

“No, darling,” I said. “People like you have portfolios. I have investments. In my case, lousy ones.” I'd put Lon's life insurance payout into what seemed like safe mutual funds, but nothing had been safe in the last downturn and I'd lost most of it.

“The only way Jack's been able to go to Duke is because my father started a college fund for him. Dad banked a year and a half's worth of tuition before he went into assisted living, which gobbled up whatever resources he had left. Still, I figured between what I earned from Vintage, the vet therapy gigs, the psych hospital, whatever savings I had, and what the dance studio brought in, with Jack's scholarship and loans, I could squeeze out the other two-plus years. But now—now I'd better land a job stat or I'm screwed. More important, come January when the college fund runs out, Jack's screwed.”

I'd exhausted myself totaling all the work it took under normal circumstances to keep our heads above water. Without the Vintage contract or something to replace it, we'd go under.

From my seat on the sofa, I could see the ocean, which, under the last of the light, looked still, black, and—for the first time ever for me—dangerous. Light-headed, I sucked in air that suddenly seemed too thick to breathe.
So,
I thought,
so . . . this is what it feels like to drown, with your lungs fighting to gasp, your brain deprived of oxygen struggling to make sense, make plans.

Margo was saying, “Nora, get a grip. There are options if you'll listen . . .” That hauled me back to the surface.

“No way,” I said, knowing what was coming next. For a self-defined free spirit, Margo was predictably predictable and invariably generous. I was touched, but I was also intransigent. “I will not take a loan from you because that would be like sticking a Band-Aid on a hemorrhage and even more because it would ruin our friendship. Yes, it would”—I could see her lips trying to form a protest—“money always does.”

I heard the huffed dragony breath. “Fine. Be that way. I'm not going to worry about you. You'll figure something out.”

Oh yes, I wound up telling her about the date with Scott anyway because it was inevitable and it made sense to get all the catastrophic breaking news out in a single broadcast.

I did the BFF thing and detailed the evening, including the mussels, the kisses, the dancing on the path, and Jack's insulting reaction.

“He's a great kid, but you spoiled him rotten.”

I forgave her. She'd never been a mother, didn't have the experience or the instinct.

“All that crazy guilt you concocted over Lon. And poor Jack, God forbid he should feel any more pain.”

“I sent his father off to his death.”

“And you think I'm dramatic. Lon was acting like a first-class putz that summer. Driving everyone crazy with his writer's block. No noise in the house. Jack couldn't have friends in to play. He was even short with you. So you told him to accept an invitation to speak at the conference. Doesn't sound like a death sentence to me. It sounds like a brilliant plan.”

The annual Jack London Fanfare Conference in San Francisco. Lon had declined when the organizers first asked him in April. A week before the symposium, I pushed him to call them back and see if there might be room for him last minute. They were thrilled.

Margo was saying, “Lon would bask in the adulation of his fans, take time away from the book, and reboot his brain. It was a good idea, Norrie.”

“An idea that killed him. He asked me to go with him. I told him no.”

I hadn't wanted to pull Jack out of his day camp tennis program. And the truth was, I'd needed a breather from my husband. He'd been a bear to live with for two months.

“If I'd been there . . . ,” I began.

“You might have saved him. Yes, I've heard it before. The man died of a heart attack in a hotel room, in bed, maybe in his sleep. But if you'd been by his side, it never would have happened. You do know that's delusional thinking.”

There was something else. We'd been arguing on the morning of his flight to California. He was pissed at me for not going along. I was pissed at him for being pissed. At the door with his suitcase, he'd pecked my cheek, an ice cube of a kiss. I'd wished him safe travels, but no “I love you.”

“You've been eating your heart out over this for eight years. And treating your son like glass because of it. That didn't do Jack any favors. And now you're learning that you reap what you sow. That window-slamming tantrum? With no apology? The kid should have been grounded till his first Social Security check came though.”

“He's nineteen, Margo.”

“Not when he's acting twelve.”

After returning from his overnight with Ethan Winslet, Jack had stayed out of my way. The rare times we found ourselves together, we exchanged tight smiles and few words. It was uncomfortable, but for once I wasn't going to buckle. Maybe Margo wasn't that far off the mark.

Her final lines: “Hang in there, baby. You're like a cartoon cat shoved off a cliff. Right now, you're spinning around in midair, working on your
eighth and a half life. I guarantee you'll land on your feet. You always have; you always will.”

No one did best friend better than Margo. But for once, the woman who won a Rising Star nomination for an off-off-Broadway production of
As You Like It
and a Bancroft for her role in the Driftwood's
Three Sisters
sounded as if she was overacting.

Another day passed before I heard from Scott. He had my cell phone number. He could have called, but he texted:
Enjoyed other nite. Hope U did 2. C U Tues. Happy 4th.

I reread it, trying to prod intent from the words. On my way back from the studio, I stopped off at the Manolises' to show it to Margo, who hustled me out to the veranda. Under a green-striped awning that protected her delicate skin, surrounded by air suffused with the vanilla fragrance of her favorite milkweed flowers and pepped up by the ginger-flavored iced tea she swore was better than Red Bull for a burst of brain power, we huddled together on a wicker swing for two, like CIA code breakers out to save the free world.

Margo inspected the text through one of the pairs of magnifying eyeglasses she bought in batches at the Tuckahoe flea market. She squinted. She bit her lip. She pushed her specs up on her nose. “Well, he got back to you, which says something.”

I'd thought about that, but he really had to, I'd concluded, or it would have been awkward in class, especially since there he had to hold me in his arms. Then again, he could have quit class and he hadn't. So far. That was a promising sign.

“It's not exactly poetry,” she said. “He's not gushing undying love. But remember, he's a military guy. They talk in stripped-down sentences.
Hooah. Bravo Zulu. High and tight. Pete uses that one. He won't tell me what it means. It sounds sexy, but it probably has something to do with marching in formation.” She stroked Scott's text message with one lavender-polished fingernail. “Now, I like this part: ‘Hope you enjoyed it too.' That sounds like he cares.”

We should have been having this conversation in middle school, not in middle age.

“Scotty Goddard looked at you in English class.”

“He did not.”

“He did too. I saw him. And he kind of, like, smiled.”

“OMG!”

“But,” I said, “does ‘see you Tuesday' mean just in class or is he reminding me of the Thai place on Patuxent Point he mentioned at dinner?”

“OMG, we're going to be late for third-period algebra. Don't you dare tell Scotty I have a crush on him.”

“Well”—Margo handed me back the phone—“I'm not a Talmudic scholar, and even they spend centuries interpreting the word of God or some medieval rabbi, and he didn't give us much to work with, so it could go either way. I would have felt more confident if he'd phoned. Maybe he was afraid Jack would pick up.”

“It's my cell number. Who picks up other people's cell calls?”

She ducked her head in mock shame.

“You pick up Pete's calls?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes I just check out the ID. Don't give me that look. It could be an emergency. I do it as a service when he and the phone are separated. He doesn't carry it with him everywhere.”

“Which means he's not cheating on you or he'd be glued to it. It's impossible to conduct an illicit affair without electronic devices.”

“Oh, please. Fred was cheating on Wilma with Betty back in the cave. It's gone on forever.”

“I assume you check the previous phone numbers and names as well.”

“Which he obviously deletes as soon as he hangs up. Along with any incriminating emails and texts. The girlfriend must have taught him how.”

Incredulous, all I could do was shake my head.

“Hey, I'm trying to save my marriage here.”

She took a sip of her iced tea and stared at her garden. The day was overcast and the winds were rough, the way I felt. Daylilies swayed on their stalks and hydrangeas shivered in the gusts. She put down the glass and stared at her hands, which she smeared before bedtime with age-spot-fading cream. Even back in college, she'd worried about growing old. “With men, it's all about fresh and new. And young.”

“Not all men,” I said. “Scott and I are only a year apart in age.”

“Another thing that makes him a hero in my book. So he's a good kisser, huh?” Margo tossed off the question casually, but it was the only casual thing about her and it was false. The diamond stud earrings were real. The taupe silk slacks and cream-colored eyelet blouse were designer. That she could weave her fingers, with the six-carat engagement ring, the endless diamond wedding band, and two jeweled pinkie rings, into an expectant clasp defied anatomical limitations.

When I hesitated, staring at his text message on my phone, she snapped her fingers. “In the moment, please. Kiss. Tongue?”

“Oh, for heaven's sakes.” I looked up. “Do I ask you about your sex life?”

“No, but that's different. Marriage is a sacrament. Isn't that what Catholics believe? So what goes on between a husband and wife in the bedroom is protected by the . . . I don't know, the pope or something. But dating is fair game. Besides, I'd tell you if I thought you were interested. In fact, I'll tell you anyway.”

I cast a glance toward the house behind us.

“He's not home. As I was saying, my husband—who has not been performing his conjugal duties with the appropriate frequency, enthusiasm,
or—what's a fancy word for hardness?—that same man actually woke up with a major woody and proceeded to ravish me this morning. I always wondered what ‘ravish' meant, and, girl, did I find out.”

I shot her a TMI look and tried to stop the torrent of images leaping like horny salmon over the privacy dams in my brain.

Margo had no brakes. “The man actually climbed on top of—”

“So now you know he's not getting it on with this imaginary girlfriend you've fixed him up with.”

“Au contraire,
mon amie
. I don't remember the last time he's been that sturdy for that long. And this morning he did stuff he never . . .” She ignored the hands I clapped over my ears and raised her voice to get through. “Stuff he's never done before. Very acrobatic. Incredibly creative, and”—she sniffed—“highly incriminating. I didn't teach him those moves.
She
must have. And he was practicing on me. Picturing her while practicing on me.” Her eyes welled with tears.

“Oh, Margo,” I said. She laid her head against my shoulder and I stroked her hair for comfort, the way her mother hadn't in her childhood. After a while, she shook herself to her feet.

She had a charity meeting to chair and I had a phone call to make to the NADMT to see if my professional association knew of any job openings in Baltimore.

Margo's words at the door: “Respond to his text. Pay no attention to what your mother told you about playing hard to get. Play hard, get nothing. This is like dealing with royalty. You don't initiate contact, but you should answer. Keep it light, bright, and breezy. You'll see him at the parade Monday, but he'll be on a float, so probably only from a distance. Definitely add good wishes for the holiday. Better run it by me before you send it.”

The thought of Margo Wirth Manolis vetting my texts to Scott Goddard made me laugh. My conversation later with the receptionist at the National Association of Dance Movement Therapists, however, made
me want to cry. She'd send me a list of opportunities in the area, she said, but the pickings were lean for part-timers. Good-bye and good luck.

The next mention of Lieutenant Colonel Goddard came from an unlikely source. After my Friday morning Zumba class, I hung around in my office making sure accounts were up-to-date and entering personnel scheduling. I was nearly finished when Sal Zito sauntered in and planted his hard ass—his glutes, he bragged, were like two raw potatoes, which was not an appetizing thought—on a corner of my desk to announce that a fifteen percent increase in rent for studio space was kicking in September first.

“Sal, my finances aren't in great shape right now. I'm not sure I can swing that.”

“Gimme a break.” He leaned in and I backed up. After his weekday schedule of two spinning classes, two lifting sessions, and no shower yet, he smelled more than ripe.

“I mean, really, come on.” He splayed his fingers. “Your husband was a famous writer. I even read his books and I'm not a reader. And there's always some story on TV about Stephen King or Grisham getting multimillion-dollar contracts. Then they sell the book to the movies and more dough rolls in. You can't be hurting all that much with that mansion you got on the ocean.”

“It's not a mansion. Lon bought it thirty years ago when Tuckahoe was a backwater, literally. Even when his books were selling, and they're not now, he never got those kinds of advances.”

“Yeah, the poor widow. My heart bleeds. Hey, take it or leave it. I got two waiting on line. A Vietnamese massage lady, strictly on the up-and-up, no funny business; she's got a degree. And a kids' ballet school. Listen, you're a dependable pay and Carmela thinks you're okay and I trust her vibes, so I don't want to lose you, but there's no one that can't be replaced. You think about it. I gotta know mid-August and that's cutting you slack.”

My mood, as I made my way out, was as sour as the odor of Sal's sweat. But as I passed the dance studio I got stopped by the lure of the recorded
darbuka
music, wild drum rhythms, spilling out of Emine's belly-dancing class. So I stopped in because her sessions always gave me a lift.

Margo once punned that in Em's classes the bulk of the women were really big. She was right, and even Margo, whose body dysmorphia was legend, admitted that the more zaftig bodies looked better than the skinny ones when doing the Turkish dances. “They've got a lot to shimmy. Plenty of belly to roll, and their cleavage looks fantastic in the tasseled bras. More bounce to the ounce.”

Some of the women wore leotards with jingly hip scarves, but many had taken a cue from their teacher and suited up in authentic belly-dancing costumes, which Em bought wholesale from a manufacturer in Istanbul and sold at a small profit. The outfit she wore that day had been designed especially for her, a confection in lavender, the bra set with stones and hemmed with beaded fringe. In Western mode, Emine was pretty, but dressed and made up to dance, she was stunning. Her geography had all the right hills and valleys so that when she undulated or shimmied or hip snapped, everything came together to convey exotic and sensual. With her flat belly and her breasts pushed high, she definitely didn't come off as the mother of two kids, one a fifteen-year-old who kept her up at night worrying. She loved to dance and she loved to teach. She'd told me once, “The café, the baking, the catering,
that
I do for our bank account. The dance I do for my soul.” The message came back to me now with Sal Zito's timeline ultimatum still fresh, and it tightened my chest. If I allowed We Got Rhythm to go under, what would I be doing to Emine's soul?

As I watched from my seat on the ledge of the studio's panoramic window, shades drawn to keep out the stares of the curious, I realized this class would be an especially painful loss if the studio went under. My Zumba and ballroom students could find other schools up and down
the coast, but there wasn't a class like Emine's for fifty miles. And these women, yes, they benefited from the exercise—belly dancing burned a lot of calories. More important, I suspected, was their feeling beautiful because of, not despite, their extra pounds.

“And that is it, ladies,” Emine was saying, winding down with a sinuous inward figure eight. “Good job. Thank you.” She clapped for them and they applauded her and one another. A gloss of perspiration glowed on her cheeks. She swabbed her neck with a towel and sat down on the ledge next to me.

She said, “You know this is the biggest turnout we've had so far. Five more than last session.”

“Word of mouth. Which says something about you.” At that moment, I wished with all my heart I could offer her a raise.

“You look—I don't know—sad? Depressed? What is bothering you?” she asked.

Margo claimed Em had a third eye, like one of the Turkish anti-hex symbols, the
nazar boncuğu
, but planted in the middle of her forehead. “She knows when I'm constipated, for God's sake. I think she can read my entrails, like the witches in Macbeth.”