Barefoot Beach (32 page)

You had to think like Margo to get it, and no one thought like Margo. I had no idea what was fulminating in that bizarrely wired brain of hers, but for Pete's sake, I was going to find out.

“What just happened out there?” I asked, grabbing her elbow to slow her down as she sailed past me carrying a bouquet of tools and a roll of duct tape.

“What?”

“Your reaction to the bracelet. Your attitude. Pete's devastated.”

She whirled on me then, nearly impaling me with a Phillips screwdriver.

“Poor Pete. Well, fuck him and his bracelet. It's a guilt gift. I knew it and I wasn't fooled for a minute. If that devastates him, too bloody bad.”

“Oh, Margo . . .”

“Oh, Nora,” she mimicked my exasperation. “That's the simple explanation. How about the manipulative one? This was a look-how-much-I-love-you-so-how-could-I-possibly-be-bonking-anyone-else gift.”

“Really, sweetie, you need to see someone.” I'd thought this for the last fifteen years. But she'd been in therapy through adolescence, and in college she'd declared herself finished. “All therapized out,” was the way she put it. Now as an actress and director, she was afraid that a shrink playing around in her head would mess with her creative process.

“See someone? Like Laura Wasser?” She got a blank stare from me. “Don't you read the
National Enquirer
? Not even on the Piggly Wiggly checkout line? Laura is the divorce lawyer to the stars, and if she's good enough for Britney Spears, she's good enough for me.”

“I was thinking someone like Josh.” Not Josh, though; he'd heard too much about Margo from me. “Someone who specializes in”—time for a splash of cold water—“paranoid fantasies.”

A stunned silence followed. Then: “That's what you think, huh? That I'm off the deep end. Let me tell you, I've barely navigated the shallows. Secrets swim under the surface, my dear. And not just in spy novels and Lifetime movies. Half the people we know probably lead double lives. Because we don't
really
know them. We only think we do.”

As in Bunny Goddard screwing around in Florida while collecting accolades as the devoted, faithful military wife. Maybe Margo was right.

She was saying, “Soon, very soon, I'll haul Pete out of the closet and let him bask in the sunlight of truth. Because the truth—along with a multimillion-dollar divorce settlement—will set him free. And now”—she sniffed—“if you'll excuse me, I have a fake world to destroy.”

The next Saturday night, and we three—Em, Margo, and I—were huddled like chicks on the corner cushion of an elaborately carved tapestry-upholstered sofa in the Haydars' apartment above the café. A gilt-framed wedding photo dominated the living room wall across from us. The bride and groom—he in tails, she in beaded white satin—stared with complicated smiles directly into the camera. Selda had pushed for a different girl for her son—by Em's telling, a scrawny seventeen-year-old with a shadow of a mustache and compliant respect for her elders. Most important: she was from a moneyed family. But for once, Adnan had rebelled. He'd fought on two fronts for Emine. Won over her parents, who detested his family, and went up against his mother, who'd never lost a battle. His eyes in the picture were brazen with victory, and I saw a hint of triumph in the bride's tipped-up chin too.

Em followed my focus and said, “It was the last time he went against her. To him she is the
valide
, the mother of a sultan. Four sultans. All of her sons are spoiled and my sisters-in-law are terrified of her. She arrived two days ago, and already she's taken over my kitchen. Today, even the oven downstairs to bake the
pide
bread for tonight. As for Merry, I am waiting for a murder. The question is, which one will strike first?”

“And on Ramadan you can't even have a shot of raki to deal with it, right?” That was from Margo, who I knew was craving something to take
the edge off. Pete had called late afternoon to tell her he had to stay in Baltimore overnight. Apologies to Emine for missing the dinner, but this was business. Yes, on Saturday. The Orioles were playing a home game tonight. He didn't have time to explain, but Margo would find out soon enough.

She'd called me immediately after. “Business on a Saturday night. Funny business. Monkey business.” Pete had already added one entry this week to what she called her “Gotcha List.” Prowling through his cell phone, she'd found a message from the plastic surgeon's office postponing an appointment. “My husband has major cojones thinking he can get tucked behind my back. If Dr. Wu isn't doing a balls reduction on him, believe me, I will.” Now she sat fuming.

“I'm not a drinker anyway,” Em was saying, “but this may drive me to it. Allah will forgive me. He is all understanding.”

With that, the front door opened and Selda bustled in with Merry dragging behind her. Selda carried her handbag. Merry lugged two loaded shopping bags. Her face was a portrait of misery.

“Take them to the kitchen so I can greet your mother's friends,” Selda instructed.

Merry blinked what I interpreted as
“SOS”
in Morse code. Her scrunched eyebrows read,
“Rescue me.”

“You didn't hear me, Meryem? There is yogurt that needs to be in a cool place. Go!” She watched the girl trudge off; then, satisfied, she turned first to her daughter-in-law. “I got perfect tomatoes.” An hour before dinner, she'd decided Em's tomatoes were overripe. “And Meryem I gave a lesson in how to shop. How to pick the best fruit. The child knows nothing about fruit.” Her glance swept the sofa. “Full house,” she announced, not all that hospitably.

“Anne,”
Em said, using the Turkish word for “mother,” “you remember Nora and Margo.”

“Of course.” Selda pointed to me. “You are the picky eater, yes?”

“Right,” I said. “No eggplant.”

She touched her temple as if to say “It's all in your head” or maybe “crazy lady.”

“And you've met Margo Manolis,” Em said.

“Last time once. You are the Greek, yes?” She sniffed.

“My husband is.”

“You look different.” She moved until she was far into Margo's personal space. “Ahh. You had the eyes done. The lids.” As Margo sucked in an incredulous breath at her nerve, Selda said, “Me too. Last year. Why look tired and old when you don't have to?” Then she turned her back on us, calling, “Merry, you will take out the serving platters,” and barreled off through to the dining room, where she lifted a goblet to check for smudges, then whipped the swinging door to the kitchen so hard it hit the wall.

As day faded to night, Adnan came upstairs to wash. An app on his iPhone chimed the official end of the fast and he made a brief welcoming speech and explained the meaning of the holiday. Then we took sips of water and ate Medjool dates and olives to begin the Iftar break-the-fast dinner, as was the custom in Turkey.

“You will sit next to me,” Selda said to Merry, who had pulled Erol to stand in front of her like a shield. “I will teach you to eat properly. Americans make a dance with their knives and forks. You will follow what I do. It is much more cultured.” Her barbarian granddaughter's eyes glazed over. “You watch too,
kuzucuğum
,” Selda said to Erol.

“Yeah, little lamb, you too.” Merry punched her brother's arm.

“Margo, take the chair on Merry's other side, please,” Em announced. I caught Merry's soft, “Thank God.”

Em began to head for the kitchen. Selda blocked her. “Sit. All is in good hands.” Adnan tried to follow his mother. She waved him away. “Sit, my sweet boy. You worked hard all day.”

With a slam of the swinging door that shook the silverware, dinner was under way.

There were olives, soft white cheese, and pastirma, cured beef.

“It doesn't taste like the pastrami at Schwartz's,” Merry said, referring to the famous deli in Ocean City. “The kosher is better.”

“What means ‘kosher'?” Selda asked.

“Jewish halal,” Margo answered.

Selda fanned herself.

After the red lentil soup (“Meryem, don't blow breath on the spoon. This is very crude.”), Selda plated everyone's food. As she served the stuffed zucchini, she said to me, “
Kabak dolması
, it is called. Made like the eggplant, only you won't die from it.”

The “lady's thigh” meatballs and roasted lamb shank were delicious. Then a stew of nameless meat that made Merry gag on her first taste. “OMG, what
is
this?”

“
Arnavut Ciğeri.
What? You don't know this dish? Your mother never cooks it?”

“It
is
pretty gross,” Erol ventured.

“What is this ‘gross'? It is liver with onions.”

“Liver? Like from an animal?” Merry looked horrified.

“Yes, of course. Your father used to love it when he was your age. He likes the taste of the sumac in it. Makes it sour like lemon.” Adnan, who had high cholesterol, helped himself to a hefty second portion under his wife's glare.

The meal was well spiced, but over-peppered with comments from Selda: Merry must not salt her food before she eats it. She should sit up straight or she will freeze hunched over. And she can skip dessert because she is built like her mother. Here Selda held her hands spread wide to indicate big hips.

“But I love
güllaç
,” Merry protested. It was one of my favorites too, a pudding made with milk and rosewater, dusted with pistachios and pomegranate seeds.

“
Anne
, please,” Em jumped in, too furious not to. “Merry, you can have as much
güllaç
as you want.”

“Fine.” Selda sighed. “Since only once a year. But tomorrow I want to see what dress size you are.”

“Uh. Tomorrow, what's tomorrow?” Panic soared in Merry's voice.

“We go to the outlet stores. The Ralph Lauren, the Donna Karan.” Discount malls lined the highway to the beach. “Your father is driving us.”

Two voices rose at once. Em's: “Adnan!” Merry's: “But I'm supposed to go to the sand castle contest. Aunt Margo, Mrs. Manolis, I'm on her crew. . . .”

Selda waved for silence. “This is more important than the sand. I looked in your closet today, Meryem—”

“You did what?” Fire exploded on Merry's cheeks.

“Just a look. This is a bad thing? To your grandmother, you show such a mean face?”

“Her room is private,” Em said. I could tell that my most patient friend was barely maintaining control.

“At her age, nothing is private,” Selda snapped. “I looked. I saw only one dress. The rest in there are dungarees and the shorts. You are a girl. I will buy you some dresses.”

“You could go sometime during the week, Selda.” Margo was playing a new role for her: the voice of reason.

“Adnan can take time off only tomorrow—yes, Adnan?”

He nodded.

Em said, “I could drive.”

Selda shook her head, dislodging a hairpin from her French twist. “You don't understand why you have such problems? I can tell you. A child should not rule a house.”

Merry turned to Margo. “Kill me,” she muttered. “Kill me now.”

Margo squeezed her hand under the table. I heard her whisper, “Let her buy. We'll return.” Over a double portion of
güllaç
spooned out by her mother, Merry snickered; then she sobered. “But the sand castle contest.”

“Ah, there are contests and then there are contests,” Margo said. “Some you win; some you lose. Some you lose to win.”

Selda drafted Em to help her with the dishes, which was Margo's and my cue to leave, and we grabbed it. Walking through the café, we traded “horribles” and
kaltak
comments about Selda; we worried about Em and Merry, felt helpless. At the car park, Margo was reminding me to be at the beach no later than ten the next morning when her cell pinged. “Pete. He must have come up for air with the girlfriend.” She read the text.
Watch eleven p.m. news WJX

Whazzup?
she texted back.

You'll see. Don't miss it.

She said to me, “Who knows what—or who—he's gotten himself into? Don't you dare miss it, Nora.”

At home at eleven, I watched reports of a fire in Towson and a flood in Hamden, the predictably hot and humid forecast for all the Mid-Atlantic, and the venerable anchor announcing, “Now subbing for Jack Schine, who has the night off, one of Baltimore's true greats, here with sports, Pete Manolis.”

“Thanks, Mike.” Pete stared into the camera, loving it. Being adored in return. “So how do you like them Birds? They trounced the Tigers 11–2 in Camden Yards tonight.”

Margo called when it was over. She was buoyant. “This was a test. They're seriously considering him for some kind of sportscaster job. He could use a tightening under the chin and maybe some filler between the eyes, but, God, wasn't he fabulous?”