Snapshots (22 page)

“This is our wedding album,” she said, sounding less than pleased to be confronted with it. “Imagine Lilah Rose's keeping it at the cottage.”

“Rick mentioned that his parents stored a lot of things here when they rented their Columbia house,” I said, though the sight of myself in those wedding pictures, my expressions forced and my smiles false, pained me.

As Martine continued to page through the album, the back door swung open and Rick came in. “Just stopping in to grab a jacket,” he called.

As Rick stalked across the living room, scooping up a packet of matches from the mantel as he went, I stood and yawned elaborately. “I'm going to turn in soon,” I said. “Breakfast in the morning, Martine?”

“Sure, and then I'll be on my way,” she said, aiming a worried little glance at Rick.

“Trista, can you give me a hand?” Rick asked.

Martine didn't comment as I followed Rick outside. “What's going on?” I asked as we descended the porch steps to the dune path, glad that we could share a bit of time.

He strode ahead of me for a few moments before turning and taking my hand. “I'm going to build the bonfire, get rid of the scrap lumber lying around. You can help.”

I was agreeable, and we quickly gathered enough tinder and kindling so that before long Rick had a sizable blaze going. We stood back and watched it grow. Mindful of the cool wind and the fact that I hadn't worn a wrap, I held my hands over the flames to warm them, Rick standing silently beside me.

I don't know how long we stood there, the flames flickering across our faces, the dunes separating us from the cottage and Martine. The scent of dried seaweed and sun-baked sand and salt swirled around us along with the golden sparks from the fire, and I felt myself calming inside.

Suddenly, the slam of a door shattered the quiet. I turned my head toward the cottage to see Martine marching along the dune path carrying something large and bulky.

Beside me, I felt Rick stiffen. “Here's something for your bonfire,” Martine said to Rick, her voice strained.

“Wait a minute,” Rick said. “What
is
that?”

“Our wedding pictures for one thing,” Martine said, biting the words off sharply. Her hair, so carefully coiffed when she arrived, blew around her head. Cast in the orange light from the flames, it appeared as if it were on fire. Mesmerized by the tableau before me, I froze in place.

“You want to burn them?” Rick said, delivered incredulously.

“Sure, why not? The marriage is over.”

“You know how much her photo albums mean to my mother. You don't have the right—” But before he finished the sentence, Martine drew her arm back and hurled the book into the fire.

“Martine! What the hell—?” Rick reached out to grab her, but she eluded his grasp.

In the dark, I hadn't seen the other albums Martine carried. “There's more, too,” she said before starting to pitch them in. Horrified, I watched as another one ended up in the flames. Pictures spilled from between the pages, and I spotted the one of Rick and me on the tandem bike. I couldn't bear for that one to burn.

“Stop!” I cried. I whirled around, my eyes trying to adjust to the gloom outside the fire circle.

I noticed a long stick that had recently washed ashore, a rusty nail protruding from one end, and I grabbed it, thinking that I could stab the picture and perhaps the albums and pull them to safety. It worked, but I wasn't able to save the wedding pictures, which were now burning rapidly. The fire was leaping so high that I couldn't remain close to it. Frantically, I retreated and tossed sand on the rescued albums to quench the flames.

Martine turned on me then, tears spilling from her eyes. “All these pictures, all this
tradition
that you love so much.” She spat out the word as if it had a bitter taste. “It's pointless. What is it for? Why do we care? It hobbles us to the past, and I hate it.”

Stunned, I could only stare. I loved the comfort and familiarity that tradition and remembrance lent to our lives as we each traveled our separate personal journey. On a larger scale, tradition is part of our Southern culture, our legacy and our heritage. Some of it is folklore, some is myth, and of that I was well aware. But also, some of it is truth.

Martine focused her gaze on the spectacle of the white wedding album and its contents still curling and burning in the fire's depths. “This was something I had to do,” she said brokenly. With that, she walked swiftly toward the house.

Still shocked, I bent to retrieve the albums I'd pulled out of the fire. The one with the red cover was black and curled, and inside, some of the photos were singed. The other had barely been touched by the flames.

“I'd better go talk to her,” I murmured, clutching the albums and the precious memories that they represented to my chest.

Rick paused in his gathering of the other albums, which had been dumped on the ground but appeared unharmed. “Trista, thanks,” Rick said. He squeezed my arm. I nodded and kept walking.

As I approached the porch, I spotted Martine pacing in the living room. She was smoking, a habit that shocked me almost as much as her burning of Lilah Rose's photographs. I'd never known her to smoke since our clandestine teenage caper out on the widow's walk of the Lighthouse.

She swiveled as I opened the door, her voice dead calm. “I'm sorry if I scared you, Tris. But I'm not sorry I burned the pictures.”

“Oh, Martine,” I said sorrowfully. I waited to hear what else she might say, but she remained silent.

“You must harbor some seriously bad feelings about the marriage,” I offered haltingly as I set the ruined albums on an end table. Our smiling young faces, only slightly scorched from the ordeal, gazed up at me from the open pages.

My sister's expression softened. “I'm over any resentment I had about Rick, but I'm still angry with myself. We never should have married, Tris. When Rick and I decided to become engaged, I was caught up in all the excitement of graduating from college, and my friends were racking up engagement rings one after the other, and—well, it was immature of me to set my sights on him. Then when Dad died, I settled into a depression that wasn't helped by moving to Miami, and things headed downhill from there.”

“I'm so sorry, Martine,” I said, genuinely distressed. We all do stupid things when we're young, and sometimes it takes a while to set things to rights. I wasn't proud of the Graham debacle, believe me.

Martine, using a shell for an ashtray, stubbed out her cigarette. She walked over and hugged me. “One thing, Trista. You've always come through for me in times of trouble. Thanks for being such a good sister. Just talking with you today made me feel better.”

“I didn't do anything,” I objected, holding her close for a long moment.

At that point Rick burst through the French doors, and we both spun around. “Martine,” Rick said. “We need to talk.”

“No, Rick. We've said all we have to say to each other, and I'll be out of here once and for all tomorrow morning.”

He glared at her. “You think it's that simple?”

She rested a placating hand on his arm. “I forgive you for any problems you ever caused me, and I hope you'll do the same.”

He walked to the fireplace, braced his hands against the mantel and stood facing it for a long moment. When he turned, the finely etched lines around his eyes seemed to have deepened, and the eyes themselves held the misery of the ages. His voice was deceptively soft. “What about the baby, Martine? The one you didn't have?”

Martine's jaw dropped. “I—I—”

Rick strode across the room until he stood directly in front of us. “I found the pregnancy test you used. It was positive. For a while I was in denial. I wanted to believe that the test was the housekeeper's, though I found it odd that she'd use it at our house while she was cleaning. But Esmelda didn't start showing her next pregnancy until a year later.”

Martine's eyes didn't meet Rick's, and I held my breath, wishing that I were anywhere else but in that room with those two people.

“Yes, the test was mine,” she whispered, and my heart sank even as a shiver ran up my spine. I'm all for honesty, but in this case, I couldn't help thinking briefly that a lie would be kinder.

“You didn't miscarry, did you?” Rick asked abruptly. “You did—something else.”

Now my sister looked him squarely in the eye, and her shoulders slumped with weariness. “That's the main thing I want you to forgive,” she said brokenly. “If you can.”

All of a sudden, I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't bear the sorrow burning in the depths of Rick's eyes. He turned away, his shoulders heaving, and I went and slid my arm around them. He pushed me aside, and I knew then that it wasn't in my power to make this right.

“I'm going to my room,” I said, my words falling heavily into that leaden silence. And I did, before my trembling legs refused to hold me up. As the two of them stood staring at each other over the ruins of their marriage, exposing their mutual grief and sadness and, yes, revulsion, to each other, I left them to deal with it. Left them to pick up the pieces and heave them at each other if that was their wish. I wanted no part of it. Whatever savage truths were about to be revealed, I didn't want to hear them.

Once I was upstairs, by this time operating on autopilot, I started packing my things. Scooped my toiletries from the bathroom and tossed them on top of my clothes. Grabbed the book I was reading and a couple of items of clothing I'd strewn here and there, stuffing them into my purse. I didn't bother to strip the bed. I didn't intend to stick around long enough for that. At the last moment, I saw the perfect sand dollar that Rick and I had found on the beach. I paused long enough to wrap it carefully in tissue and bury it deep in my purse.

When I crept down the staircase, Martine was collapsed on the couch, Sobbing her heart out. Rick bent over her, and I wasn't sure if he was angry or attempting to soothe her. Other people might have stuck around for the fireworks, but as I've told you before, I sometimes zig when others would zag. I was certain that I was doing the right thing by removing myself from the scene, and neither of them noticed as I walked slowly to the door and let myself out.

As I stumbled blindly down the path toward my car, Dog bounded out of the shrubbery, and with tears streaming down my face, I knelt to pet her for the last time.

“Be good, Dog,” I told her. “I hope your ear heals well. And if you hang on until summer, maybe Rick will find you a nice family with some kids to play with.” That seemed her best hope for the future, since Tappany Island was still a family place and children could be persuasive in determining whether or not a pet was adopted. I hugged Dog as she bestowed sweet sloppy kisses across my cheeks, and then I spared the cottage one last look.

When I'd arrived at Sweetwater Cottage a little over a week before, the house had been dark and shuttered, the inside dusty and dank. But now the house was lit from the inside. It was a home again. From the path where I stood, I could see into the seldom-used dining room where Lilah Rose's china graced the big mahogany breakfront. The rooms that Rick and Martine had occupied last night were also visible behind the sheer curtains, and the Lighthouse, where in my haste I had forgotten to extinguish the lamp, shone its benevolent golden glow over all. I didn't have my camera, but I didn't need one. This was a view of the cottage the way I wanted to remember it, the way I
would
remember it. Forever.

I had never before left Sweetwater Cottage as I was leaving it on this night, feeling bereft and miserable. Being there had always regenerated me, but now I felt drained and spent. I had no more energy to give to the two most important people in my life, and guilt lanced through me as I considered going back inside and taking up where I'd left off. Just as quickly as the notion entered my mind, it evaporated. For my own sake, I needed to let go.

I had done everything I could for both Rick and Martine. Now they were on their own. And so was I.

2004

W
hen Rick woke up the next morning, Martine had gone. So had Trista. He'd been slightly aware of movement in the background while he and Martine had been having it out, but he hadn't focused on what was happening at the time. Trista's absence hit him like a blow to the gut, and all he could think about was apologizing for the ghastly scene of the night before.

First he tried dialing her cell phone. She didn't answer. He called the TV station, but she wasn't there. And then he realized that she probably wouldn't want to see him. He was filled with remorse, but considering their long history, he had to believe that eventually he'd be face-to-face with her again. Until then, it was up to him to hold himself together, to make the best of life as it was. He could have gone around half-crazed because he had let this jewel of a woman slip through his grasp, but nothing would be served by adopting that attitude, and he wasn't about to give up his hard-earned emotional stability.

That day and the ones afterward, he threw himself into repairing the cottage. Never had he worked so hard. He fell into bed exhausted every night, got up and began anew every morning. By the end of the week, the shutters all hung straight, railings had been repaired, porch steps did not wobble. He called his brother and told Hal not to worry about maintenance. Rick would take care of it.

He also informed Shorty that he wouldn't be resuming his previous life in Miami. Rick wasn't yet sure where he would end up when he chose a new direction, and Columbia was still a possibility. But living in Columbia, watching the evening news where he would see Trista every night—well, he wasn't sure he could handle that. And despite all the messages he left on Trista's home answering machine and her cell phone, she never returned his calls. He couldn't imagine what she was thinking, and when he didn't hear from her, all his insecurities began to surface. But he let them go because he had learned that no higher purpose was served by hanging on to the negative aspects of his past and letting them drag him down.

At least Martine was out of his life now, and that was to the good. They'd talked almost all night after she admitted to him what she had done to their baby. He had cried; she had cried; and in the end, he'd forgiven her, which was one of the hardest things he'd ever done. After they'd said all there was to say, exhausting themselves in the process, she had gone to her room. He slept on the couch.

He had no idea if he'd ever see Martine again and didn't care. Right now he wanted to find his own direction and get his life back on track. When Alston Dubose called him one day at the cottage, he was surprised. Rick didn't know how Alston could have found the unlisted number, but Alston told him that he'd checked an old address book and discovered the number of Sweetwater Cottage scribbled beneath Roger Barrineau's name as one of the places to contact him on summer weekends if he wasn't at home.

“Rick, if you don't want the position in our international-law department,” Alston said, “I'll understand. But at least come and talk to us about it. You don't need an appointment.”

One of Rick's options was to go on living indefinitely at the cottage, where expenses were minimal. Or he could begin to search for another job. Yet the firm of Barrineau, Dubose and Linder had been part of his plans for such a long time in his youth that he hated to brush them off. He was ready to find out exactly what they had to offer.

So one day three weeks after Easter, he headed for Columbia. At the last minute, he held the car door open for Dog, who pushed all his guilt buttons by wagging her tail and whining pathetically as he prepared to leave. With a yip of excitement, she jumped in, and they set off.

If someone had asked him, Rick wouldn't have been able to say why he took her. Perhaps it was merely the thought of the drive ahead and the loneliness of going it alone. Or maybe it was something more than that.

“I want to see you.”

Trista, wonder of wonders, had answered her cell phone, possibly because the unfamiliar number of the pay phone in downtown Columbia hadn't rung a bell when it popped up on her caller ID. He thanked the fates for allowing his cell-phone battery to die en route and for providing a phone kiosk in the parking garage of the building that housed Barrineau, Dubose and Linder.

“Rick?” Trista sounded surprised, but he could read nothing else into her tone.

“I want to see you,” he said again, more forcefully.

This statement was met with silence.

“Don't put me off like this,” he said, willing to beg but hoping it wouldn't be necessary.

“I haven't heard from Martine since she went to Mexico,” she said.

“Martine and I have nothing more to say to each other. I've talked with Alston Dubose about that job at the firm. It's a good one, but I don't want to say yay or nay to his offer without speaking with you, Tris.”

A long silence. “I'm at the station. I'll be home after the evening news.” She sounded tense and strained.

“I still have the key you gave us when we stayed at your place.”

“Great. Go on over and make yourself comfortable. You're at a hotel?”

“Shaz and his wife offered me a bed, but I told them not to expect me until they see me.”

“Okay, Rick.” A muffled noise, and then she said, “I really have to hang up.”

She clicked off, and he stared at the phone in his hand for a moment before hurrying to the car. “She wants to see us,” he told Dog, who had waited patiently while Rick was talking to Alston. And then he started the car and headed for Trista's condo, but first he stopped off and bought groceries. As he put them away, he smiled to himself over the big pitcher of red Kool-Aid in the refrigerator.

He walked around the apartment scanning the titles of the books in Trista's bookcase and admiring a favorite painting that Martine had given her. Propped on the desk in Trista's study was the framed picture that the man on the beach had taken of them together on Easter, both of them wreathed in smiles. Next to it she had set the perfect sand dollar that they had found on the same day. The pretty display encouraged him; Trista must still have special feelings about their time on the island together.

She was later than he expected, and when the door opened, Dog erupted into a frenzy of glee. Trista was so surprised to see her that she took a couple of steps backward, and then she dropped to her knees while Dog cavorted about and finally quieted herself so that she could be hugged.

“I can't believe this!” Trista exclaimed. “Dog! I never thought you'd bring her.”

“She's missed you,” Rick said, thinking how nice it was to see them reunited. “She hasn't been the same since you left.”

As Trista rose, he slowly went to meet her. She was wearing a business suit, and her hair was swept back behind her ears. It was a new hairdo for her and one that he found very becoming, but there was a tension about her mouth and an indefinable sadness in her eyes. It cut straight to his heart because he knew that he was probably the reason for it.

She gave him a peck on the cheek. “What are you cooking? I smell food,” she said as she went to her study and tossed her briefcase on the daybed. When she came out she was untucking her blouse and kicking off her shoes.

“My famous spaghetti sauce,” he told her, retreating to the kitchen. “Care for a glass of Chianti?”

She accepted the glass and lifted the lid on the pan where the sauce was bubbling merrily. “Smells wonderful,” she said.

“Mom's recipe.”

“How are your mother and father?”

“They'll be back at the end of the summer.”

Trista leaned against the counter, and Dog sat down beside her feet, tail thumping joyfully on the hardwood floor. “I'm sorry I was late getting here,” she said. “We had a big brouhaha at the station today, but the upshot is that Byron is leaving and I'm going to be the sole anchor of the evening news.” Her expression was animated, and her eyes sparkled.

She was more beautiful than he remembered, and though he preferred her in the bright light of the sunshine on Tappany Island, walking barefoot beside him in the sand, he wanted nothing so much as to keep on looking at her. “Congratulations,” he said warmly.

“Thanks. Apparently Byron figured out that he wasn't going to be able to nudge me out of position, so he went job hunting far afield and will be taking over the anchor spot at the biggest station in Denver.”

“That means you can stop considering a move to Atlanta or Richmond,” he said.

“Yes, and that's a relief.” She paused before asking carefully, “When will you let Alston know about the job?”

“Tomorrow, I hope.” He poured a glass of wine for himself.

“Let's go in the living room. I'd like to wind down from a very eventful day.”

“I can imagine.” He followed her to the couch and sat beside her. She got up again to open a package of salted pecans, which she poured into a red glass dish that he remembered from the Windsor Manor house. It was all he needed to remind himself that he and Trista had a long history, and it wasn't by any means over between them yet.

He was so happy to see her that he couldn't stop looking at her. Watching expressions flit across her features, listening to the rise and fall of her melodious voice, took him back to a simpler, happier time. It was as if they had never been apart, as if that awful night at the cottage had never happened. As if all the years had fallen away, and they were starting anew.

She asked if she could help when he got up to boil the water for the pasta, but he told her that he wanted to do everything. She'd had a hard day, and he wanted to treat her the way he would have liked if he'd had a similar day. While he worked in the kitchen, she played with Dog, producing an old tennis ball that she threw the length of the apartment. And while Rick was draining the pasta and grating the Parmesan cheese, Trista disappeared into her room and later emerged relaxed and refreshed, wearing a flowing blue silk caftan.

Rick hoped his eyes expressed his appreciation for her beauty.
Her
beauty, which was inner as well as outer. Trista noticed him staring at her, and a faint blush rose along her neck to her cheeks. The sight of it sent a small tremor rippling through him because it meant that she was still aware of him in that way that he had hoped she would be—as a man, not only as a friend.

“Dinner's ready,” he said, though the last thing he wanted to do was eat it. But they sat at the table, and he doled out the spaghetti onto each of their plates, and she exclaimed that the salad was delicious.

“This is one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me. I'm not accustomed to such a warm welcome,” she said, her gesture encompassing the table and the food. She took another sip of wine and leaned back, smiling at him across the table. He'd found a small candle in one of the kitchen drawers, and the glow lit up her face.

“It's a simple dinner,” he said. “Nothing special.” He thought about the long years of his marriage, of the tension in his house and how the strain had grown commonplace in his everyday life. He didn't want to live that way again. After such an experience, some men might swear off marriage or women in favor of an easy freewheeling lifestyle, but he wasn't that type. He needed a partner, a companion, someone who cared about him. Someone to whom he couldn't wait to return at the end of a long day. He had found her, he cherished her, but there were still questions to answer.

“Why did you leave that night?” he asked quietly, steeling himself for her answer.

Trista regarded him for a long moment before answering. “To allow you space and time,” she said. “You and Martine.”

He reached across the table for her hand, which she gave freely. It was warm within his, and he raised it to his lips and kissed it. “It wasn't because of me? Because you were angry, or because you thought I still loved Martine, or—?”

She shook her head vehemently. “No. I didn't belong there. Not then, not while you were talking about—that.”

A wave of relief swept over him. “I was so afraid you left because of me. I know I wasn't the easiest person to be around when the two of us were alone together at the cottage, but you got me back on track. You made me see that I couldn't go on like that. I was falling apart until you arrived. Drinking, and not eating properly, and hating myself and everyone else—my life was slowly trickling down the sewer, and you saved me.”

“You saved yourself, Rick, by opening up to me.”

“Maybe so,” he agreed, but he knew he wouldn't have found it within himself to take the necessary steps toward recovery if it hadn't been for her prodding, her insistence, her caring.

She looked so young and beautiful that he had to remind himself that they weren't eighteen anymore. Holding her hand fast, he said, “It's a lovely night. Let's go out on the balcony.”

Together they walked across the living room and opened the glass sliders to the balcony stretching across the whole front of the apartment. Their vantage point on the fifth floor offered a panoramic view of lights winking on and off in the distance. Across the tops of the leafy trees, they could see the South Carolina state Capitol dome. The breeze was balmy, the moon full.