Sunrise Fires (17 page)

And it didn’t stop over the next series of days. I reacquainted myself with my family and with my house and the pool. Readjusting to the weather would have been impossible without the oasis in the backyard. I couldn’t get enough of my family, and they were happy to see me again, too. We all stayed at the house. This time I stayed in Kelsea’s old bedroom, now converted into the guest room. She and Blaine had, of course, taken up residence in the master, and Zion stayed in his room when he wasn’t rooming downtown. It felt like we had returned to our old footing in just the first few days. I felt loved, welcomed, and cherished. I knew I was home.

I knew I needed to follow up with some other business, so after a few days of sunning myself, swimming, reading, and other completely indulgent relaxing activities, I set about handling those things.

Huntington’s. Chris. I arrived at the store on a Thursday morning and wandered through it as any customer would. He had done well. The place was immaculate, and the end caps and feature displays were spot-on. I wondered if he’d still be on crutches when I saw him, if he’d even recognize me after a year, if he’d talk to me even though Ryan and I were no longer together. I took deep breaths and thought about the days that we sat watching the guys ride, chatting about life, women, and riding. Such a good kid.

He wasn’t easily found. A manager not often on the sales floor is a rarity. I headed toward the warehouse, but that turned up nothing, too, except a few warehouse workers pissed that a stranger had just strolled right in.

“Well, actually I am looking for Mr. Jacobs. Do you know where he is?”

“Managers don’t answer to warehouse staff, ma’am. But I know we’ll have to answer to him if he finds you back here. I’m gonna need you to go.”

“Well, if you see him, will you let him know that Jen came by.”

“If I think of it, ma’am. Sure will.” He rolled his eyes at my apparent audacity.

I spent another hour in the store testing out the camping chairs for comfort, sitting in front of a tent and pretending I was at the beach, and checking out the newest in crossbows and hunting knives. The American displays were so different than what we’d done in Germany—more aggressive and garish.
Yep,
I mused to myself,
I’m back in the good ol’ USA.

Chris neither showed that day nor in the two other times I checked back. It was strange, but I thought that maybe I just wasn’t meant to meet up with him. I considered calling Dullberth to see what he knew of Chris—taking the opportunity to gloat—but it wasn’t worth it to hear that man’s snippety attitude again.

I drove by the house, the one Ryan and I had shared. There was a car there I didn’t recognize. I wept as I relived some of my favorite memories. I dared not stay more than five or ten minutes; I can’t imagine what the neighbors would think as they saw me lurking along their street in my car, crying on apparent ‘stakeout.’ I said good-bye to that life as I drove away, and I felt a weight lift as I did. Somehow, seeing someone else’s car at the house made me comfortable in the assumption that Ryan had moved on. That single image was enough to make it okay that I do, too.

That still left one more decision: Ryan’s parents.

I struggled with whether or not I should stop to see them. I loved them dearly, and surely, his mother deserved some of my time. But I feared seeing Ryan or being asked tough questions I could not answer. I began to dial their number on multiple occasions, and once even let it go to voicemail, but what could I possibly say to them? What business did I even have contacting them now that Ryan had cast me aside? His mother was amazing. Being here in Vegas again and thinking of how life used to be was really difficult. There were so many reminders and so few of them that didn’t come with the stab of grief or bittersweet nostalgia over what I no longer had. She was part of that feeling. I still remember her voice in my ear when I last saw her.
“He loves you,”
she had said.
“Remember that when it is difficult when you’re apart.”
And she had called me her unofficial daughter-in-law.

It was definitely time to leave. I needed to be away from all the melancholic sentimentality that surrounded Las Vegas. After enjoying the Fourth of July fireworks out at Red Rock with the kids, I packed up the car. I was happy to leave for San Diego before the full heat of August lit Vegas on fire; the sweltering heat of the city was already wearing me down. The San Diego corporate offices had just been opened to handle the international expansions. We had new stores planned in England, France, and Italy within the next five years, and I was to coordinate the rollout, find and organize the initial flagship stores, and help select the managerial staff for each new location. I expected to travel quite a bit, so I purchased a small beachside condo. When I was stateside, I wanted to be comfortable, and the beach was certainly that for me.

Chapter Fifteen

I
drove away from Las Vegas and left that old life behind. As I reached the outskirts of the city, I caught a glimpse of the San Diego offices of Ryan’s package delivery company; I didn’t even flinch. A new life awaited me here, and it began at the beach. I checked in on my condo first, ensuring that closing was still on schedule for three days from now. And then I went to the beach. I did have a hotel room, but I only went there when the chilly California night air chased me from my respite on the sand in front of the ocean. The sound of the waves was cleansing and soothing. They would become the backdrop to my personal peace.

I spent those three days on the beach under an oversized umbrella. I suppose that as I walked out onto the beach, people thought I might be lost carrying an umbrella nearly the size of the ones that go in the center of yard furniture dining tables. I’d bought it especially for the beach, though. It was colored like a traditional beach ball: red, yellow, blue, interleaved with white. It made me happy to sit under it and let the sun work its way around me while capturing and amplifying the ocean in its concave top. I arrived at the beach mid-morning each day and spread my blanket, and then set up my umbrella, arranging it for the best sun blockage. I was able to set the umbrella on the ground so that it was partially a sand blocker as well. It created a little cavern of tranquility for me to spend the day. I read books and wrote. I sat for hours and simply listened to the ocean. I’d snack on trail mix or a sandwich I’d brought, and then I’d nap—the best most decadently battery-recharging naps I could possibly envision.

And maybe I’d wade in the wet sand, just letting the waves lap at my feet and ankles, taking in the sun and the breeze, and watching others walking or playing along the beach as well. If people were too numerous, I’d make a note to try a different beach the next time so that the ocean and I and the gulls could have some private time. Usually, though, it was a perfect mix of people, sun, sand, breeze, gulls, and waves. And by the time I was seeking solitude, people were leaving for dinner. I’d leave, too, but come back after I had eaten or maybe come straight back with dinner in hand. Then I would leave the umbrella in the car and simply walk along the beach with my windbreaker on, enjoying the sound of the ocean surging in my direction, only to lightly caress my feet.

Sunsets were breathtaking. I’d learned to appreciate them the same way that I used to love the beach sunrises with Ryan. The hues of red and orange changed the entire beach ambiance; they indicated that the day was ending, that the sun was slowly sinking away. It was as if the colors clung to the sky, holding on for as long as possible and finally fading to twilight’s blues and purples before the sun eventually lost the fight to the night. The gulls sought silent refuge and left me alone with the waves and the sand, now quickly chilling to something far less inviting. At last I would give up, too cold to stay another minute and too tired.

Even after I closed on my condo, I kept up the ritual when time and scheduling allowed. The beach was my best new companion. Sure, there was work and, yes, dates too, but the beach had become my muse.

Work was a willing and insistent companion and would take all my time if I let it. The offices in San Diego were barely even rented when I arrived, so there was furniture to order and janitorial staff to hire, office supplies to purchase and signage and logos to hang. If this were to be our international corporate office, I would make sure that clients would not be disappointed when they come through these doors.

When it came to spending time with people, I found that the good ol’ American boys whom I thought would be able to win my heart were as disappointing as the dates I’d had in Germany. Small talk was too small and empty. Intelligent conversation fizzled to talk of work and other trite topics. Awkward silences were common, and I was quick to refuse a second date. Maybe I needed time to just be by myself. Maybe I was destined to be single.

*   *   *

For the first few weeks, I lived in my condo with nothing more than an air mattress and my suitcases. It didn’t matter; I was happy there. From my parking lot, I could smell and hear the beach. And one flight of steps later, I was stepping into my flat. As the door opened, the entire place really lay out in front of me.

From the front door, I could see directly through the living spaces and right out the balcony to the ocean. It was the selling point of this place for me. I sat on that balcony most nights and let the ocean sing my lullaby before reluctantly traipsing off to my air mattress to sleep just enough so that my work would not suffer the next day. My first purchase for the new place was actually a set of balcony chairs and a small table to set between them.

While I was in Germany, I’d given Kelsea a short list of “mandatory amenities” to be aware of as she looked at all the listings I emailed her; one of them was a balcony with an ocean view. She had done exceptionally well in that department. And even though I purchased the place for the beach location and loved the balcony the most, the rest of the condo was truly well-appointed as well. I felt lucky to have found such a place. The kitchen, tucked in to the left by the front door, had mahogany cabinets, granite countertops, and a stainless steel sink and appliances. The sink was in a kitchen island that doubled as a breakfast bar, allowing the kitchen to be open to the remainder of the condo. And the living/dining area was carpeted in Berber and capped with crown molding. The bedroom sat off to the side through a door cut in the wall between where the dining room and living room would roughly be split. There was, of course, a guest bath and laundry, and it even had a built-in desk nook near the front.

I shopped over the next series of weeks and bought a living room set, a dinette, and a master bedroom suite. Each set of furniture was modest and within my budget, just something to furnish the condo.

In all, I had found my solace, my paradise at the beach.

*   *   *

When the boxes arrived from Germany a few weeks after I moved in, I was excited to give the condo a homier feel. The walls were bare and the place felt Spartan. I was ready to add signatures from my travels and make the space a reflection of myself.

I opened the ‘functional’ boxes first: books and bathroom items, the things that I already had space set aside for. I put things away and flattened boxes as I went. I was surprised at the effect unpacking had on my mood. I was nostalgic about the time I had spent in Germany. Europe was an unforgettable place, and one that I looked forward to visiting over and over again. It was nice to revisit some of the things I had bought while I lived and touristed in that fairy tale playland. Each piece that I unpacked found a space in my new existence. They got a new start just as I was getting one. As I pulled even these basic items out of the boxes, I felt a tug at my heart pulling me back to my flat in Germany and to the memories I had made there.

By the time the bathroom and bookshelves were stocked, I felt a sense of warmth and peace. Going to Germany was the right decision. It was a wonderful experience professionally and personally. And the part of it that Ryan owned was simply a part of life. Maybe he and I were never meant to be. Maybe we would have eventually broken up anyway. Well, maybe not.

I giggled a little at my own self-talk and dragged another box off the stack, tearing the top open. It was from my bedroom. My heart stopped and, for a second, time stood still. My hands were suspended, gripping the edges of the box lid. And my eyes were glued to the few items at the top of the box: bedding, clothing, and my bedside lamp. Why was I instantly so close to tears? I shook my head, and then my body moved like a dog climbing out of the tub after a bath.
Bah! Stop it, Jen,
I chastised.
It’s just stuff.

I pulled the bedding out and looked at it. Just seeing it filled me with melancholy. I felt a deep core sadness, a desire to climb in bed, curl up, and cry. These sheets and comforter represented hours upon hours and days and days of crying, weeping, and mourning. The pillowcase was speckled from an accidental overbleaching once, and I swore that the pattern looked very much like the tear stains from my pants that day in Venice. No, the sheets needed to go. I needed something more beachy and bright anyway. These colors were too heavy and drab. I tossed them into an empty box.

My clothes came next. I stacked them into piles:
now
, for clothes I could wear any day;
winter
, for clothes I might wear again but not until it gets much colder; and probably
never
, for heavy parkas and clothes that I was no longer interested in. This last pile would go to the Goodwill early this coming week. I took the rest of the clothes and put them away in my new dresser or back into a box deep in the closet.

I was down to the final few items in this box, the ones that dripped with bittersweet nostalgia. First was my journal at the bottom of the box, sitting alone, surrounded by writing utensils of varying types and styles. The pens and pencils lay there, aligned like a mass grave of the massacre hidden in the journal’s pages. I picked up the book, tear-stained and maltreated from countless nights of furious scribbling and crying, lamentations and rants, all bearing my pain in grueling detail. I held it in my hands, feeling the worn leather cover and binding. I thumbed through it, listening to the crackle of the tear-drenched and then dried pages. If I thumbed through fast enough, it sounded like applause coming from a distance. I didn’t care to read it; holding it was enough. The weight of it couldn’t have been more than a couple of pounds, and yet it felt so heavy that holding it made my shoulders sag and my breathing more labored. I got to my knees and grabbed all the pens and pencils in one determined fist. Moving quickly and with purpose, I took the book and the utensils that scribed it and banished them to the closet with those winter clothes.