The Seacrest (23 page)

She wore her copper hair cropped short on one side, died pink on the other. Multiple piercings covered her ears, eyebrows, and nose. I tried to hide my revulsion for the body art. I hadn’t yet learned to appreciate such things, although it certainly was popular with most of my generation and the younger crowd. I noticed Jenna had a tattoo on her upper arm—blue, pink, and purple flowers and berries surrounded the name, “Berra.”

She saw me looking, and moved closer to the slim Jamaican lady who had once shared my brother’s bed. “Yeah. We’re together now. Been with each other for two years.”

I shook off my surprise, looking from one to the other. “Really?” I took Jenna’s outstretched hand. “That’s very cool. Congratulations.”

Berra looked uncomfortable, but when I’d congratulated her she seemed to relax. “We came down from Provincetown for the weekend. Visiting my folks.”

I nodded, somehow happy to have discovered that Jax’s ex-wife was gay. It pleased the sardonic side of me, knowing his wife had turned to women after being with him. Or something like that. It must’ve really ticked him off when she left him.

“Are you happy?” I asked Berra, seriously hoping the answer was yes.

She flushed, glancing sideways to Jenna. “Very. We run a little shop up in Ptown. You should come up and see us sometime.”

“What do you sell?” I asked, curious now. It was a long time since I’d visited the infamous P-town.

Jenna answered first, holding up her wrist. “We make silver jewelry, like this.”

Berra laughed. “Well, Jenna’s the artist. She designs everything. I do the business side of things.”

I examined the bracelets on her slim wrist. “Wow. They’re beautiful, Jenna.”

Jenna smiled with pride. “Thanks.” She touched my sleeve. “Please. Come up to see us. We have our shop in the house, we live right in the building. It’s called
Hi-Ho Silver
.”

I smiled, starting to forget about my own troubles, happy to have run into one of the few people I’d thought of as a friend in high school. “I will. When are you going back?”

Berra answered. “Tomorrow. We’re opening up again at ten o’clock. Why don’t you come up for the day?”

My usual reticence threatened to flare, but I pushed it aside and nodded. “Okay. It’s a deal. I’ll be up. Probably around ten or eleven. Can I bring my dog?”

Jenna grinned. “Of course. Mr. Jingles?”

I laughed. “No, he’s been gone a long time. Now I’ve got a German Shepherd, Ace. You’ll love him.”

“I’m so glad! You’ll have lunch with us, then. It’s all settled.”

Feeling decidedly lighter in the heart, I said goodbye and began to choose through a collection of plump black plums. It felt good to see people who were actually happy. Now that my life had gone to hell in a hand basket again, I needed to know it was possible. Just possible.

I chose a bundle of red beets, then turned to the lettuce bin and picked out two big heads of Iceberg. After grabbing a box of yellow rice, I headed for the fish counter. I needed a nice piece of fresh cod tonight to go with the bottle or two of Riesling I intended to drink—all by myself.

Chapter 52

September 7th, 2001

9:30 A.M.

T
he drive from the Cape to Providence, Rhode Island only took an hour and a half in good traffic, but my parents encouraged me to live near the campus when I started my classes at Brown that fall, instead of commuting. Since there was no such thing as good traffic any longer on the Cape, I had to agree with them and was glad we’d made the decision to rent near the university.

My loft apartment was hot and stuffy at first, but once I’d installed a fan in one window and opened the other windows on the opposite side of the studio, it became tolerable. The old wooden floorboards weren’t finished, and I had to duck to get to my twin bed in the corner, the toilet was slow to flush and hot water in the little shower stall took forever to warm up, but there was plenty of room to set up my easel and supplies and it was only a ten minute walk to the campus.

Mostly I wanted light. I needed the beautiful sunlight that streamed in the windows every morning and afternoon, and the place was a perfect artist’s studio from every sense of the word.

Quiet, remote, bright, spacious—it had everything.

The only real drawback was the stairs.

Trudging up now with fresh supplies of canvas and acrylics, I slung the bag over my shoulder and made my way up the three flights of stairs in the old Victorian home. The owners—two elderly sisters—had been sweet and although they charged a pretty steep price for the lodging since it was so close to the university, they had been kind and generous so far, offering me muffins and coffee several mornings and sharing their hotdogs and homemade Boston baked beans last night. I had a small microwave and an ancient fridge, but no stove or cooking facilities. Leftovers that could be heated up were my salvation, and I happily accepted them.

I’d started classes that week and loved my art teachers, had already learned some new brush feathering techniques, and had created a few passable watercolors in class.

Today was Thursday, and my schedule was clear since I’d already been to my class on ancient Greek history that morning.

I opened a can of tuna, adding Miracle Whip, celery, sliced almonds, and flax seeds, and slapped together a sandwich.

Between bites, I set up my new canvas in the strong morning light near the east windows. I knew what I would paint today, and in the tradition that had become obsessive, it would be another portrait of Libby.

I’d been entitling them “Sassy on the beach” with sequential numbers, imagining that someday I’d give them to her. I preferred to use the nickname instead of her real name, because somehow it helped me preserve the best memories of the days when I didn’t know who she was, when she loved me unconditionally, and when I’d first made love to her in the cove.

Someday, when she finally granted me the chance to talk with her, I would present these gifts from my soul.

At least that’s what I told myself.

I realized it was bordering on crazy. Libby hadn’t spoken to me since high school, and here I was in my junior year of college. I’d caught glimpses of her father in the big black sedan occasionally being driven through town by his chauffer. His eyes would stay stony and he’d look away when he saw me waving.

I hid my obsession from my parents and of course, from Jax, who I rarely saw any more. The only one I talked to about her was my grandfather, who still came up to see us on a regular basis, and who I’d be seeing this weekend when I went home for my usual weekend visit. I looked forward to our discussions, because of all the people in the world I knew, Gramps and I connected on a level that was almost scary. It was as if he could read my thoughts. No. Not just my thoughts. It was as if he knew my heart, my innermost feelings. And he didn’t judge me, no matter how kooky I sounded, even to myself.

I set aside one last crust from the sandwich to give to the old yellow lab who lived with the ladies downstairs, and picked up my brushes, inspired by my visions of Sassy and our youth, of the surging green sea, of her hair blowing in the wind, of the sweet teasing expression in her eyes.

Two hours later, covered in paint and exhausted, I gently set the finished painting against the wall by the window and slumped onto my bed. The old springs groaned. Inside, I was spent. My heart wrenched with love and hurt and in spite of my strongest desire not to give in to the sadness, I felt tears choking me.

Sassy.

She sat on the jetty rocks, knees pulled up to her chin, her eyes shining beneath long lashes. The sea glimmered in the background. At low tide, the ripples on the wet sand stretched for miles toward an azure horizon. I painted her hair silky and blowing in the wind, one of the new techniques I’d learned from my class already this week. I’d daubed seagulls into the background, and added a bit of turquoise and tangerine to the horizon line where the sea met the setting sun.

Now I almost smelled the musky scent of low tide, the muddy sand, the debris of crab shells and seaweed. I heard the screech of the gulls, and felt her soft hand on mine. In a near self-induced trance, I imagined her voice, her lips kissing mine, her body pressed close to me, her legs encircling me.

I woke an hour later, still tired, but happier for the delusion of having been with my Sassy, the only woman I’d ever love.

I rolled to a sitting position, rubbed my eyes, and seriously wondered about my sanity.

Chapter 53

July 22th, 2013

10:15 A.M.

I
decided to take route 6A up the coast to Provincetown, knowing I’d have lots of stops in little village crossroads, but preferring it to the monotonous highway. On one side, the quiet bay beaches glistened, hidden behind clusters of historic old homes with white picket fences covered with the heavy blooms of blue hydrangeas. I never tired of the view, and drove with open windows, enjoying the sea breeze. Ace sat beside me, his head hanging out the window, his eyes closed in delirious happiness with the wind ruffling his coat.

I reached sideways to pat him. “Gorgeous day, huh, buddy? Can’t beat it.”

With conscious effort, I decided to put thoughts of Ian out of my head. He wasn’t there yet, and before he came home in a few days, I’d get Libby alone to talk, to really talk. I’d convince her that everything we did together was in absolute innocence and good conscience, since we believed Ian was dead.

Everything would be okay, I would make certain of it. And when Ian came home, I’d assess the situation, wait a conservative length of time, and encourage Libby to tell him she wanted a divorce. I’d tell him we were in love, if it came to that, and he’d just have to lump it.

Guilt slid down my throat.

Sure, you’re gonna tell a war veteran who’s probably injured that you’ve stolen his wife and you both want him to just quietly slink away.

What if he’s disabled? Paralyzed? What happens then? Will you ask her to leave him alone and helpless? In a home? In her home?

No.

It wouldn’t go down that way. I forced myself to think positive thoughts. We’d work it out. We would.

I reached the town of Orleans and passed the Emack and Bolios ice cream stand, where a white building stood fronted by a green awning with inviting tables and chairs clustered beneath it. “Ace, we might just stop for a white pistachio nut cone on the way home.”

We moved through the intersection of Route 6A and 28, and continued toward the tip of the Cape, where shortly we merged with Route 6, and now all three roads combined into just one. On the left, The Lobster Claw’s red and white building beckoned, next to the Fish Market. I started to crave a nice big lobster roll, maybe with some crispy, light onion rings and a big cold iced tea.

The Cape had grown overcrowded and far too expensive in the past thirty years, but I still loved it. On mornings like this, however, when I was headed toward Provincetown on the less traveled road early in the morning, it was an easy drive.

I approached Eastham and pulled into the Sunoco station to fill up. In the craziness of the week, I’d forgotten to top off the tank. I used a credit card that just arrived in the mail—arranged by Sawyer to access one of my new checking accounts where he’d deposited a good chunk of Jax’s money. My money.

It was the first time I’d filled my tank without worrying whether or not I had enough in the account to make it.

Such a strange feeling. I didn’t know how long it would take me to get used to it.

Ace waited patiently, watching me screw on the gas cap.

“Good boy. You stay right there, I’m almost done.”

The dog was the smartest I’d ever known.

He listened to me with his big head cocked to the side and uttered a low
woof
.

En route again, we passed a classic white colonial with black shutters, probably dating from the late 1700s. A stately home, it featured a widow’s walk and cupola on the top of its flat roof, and I pictured many a wife walking and watching, waiting and hoping for the return of her sailor. Its windows gleamed in the early morning light, and with a sudden start of decision, I realized I wanted my home to look like this—well-tended, clean windows, mowed yard. I decided to throw myself into fixing up the property when I got back, and I’d start with the windows.

The land narrowed, hugging Route 6 on either side. We passed the sign for a campground, and I remembered the summer my parents, Jax, and I had camped there. We’d had a ball. Pleasant memories flooded my brain, pushing away the bad.

At North Truro, the shore road, Route 6A, separated from the main route again, and I swung onto it to get away from the busier traffic on Route 6. The shore glistened on my left as we rolled along the sandy-sided narrower street. Hotels and motels began to crop up in earnest now, and more and more people on bikes filled the roads as we approached Provincetown.

I wound my way down narrow lanes until I found a public parking area. I paid my five bucks for the privilege, and walked with Ace toward Commercial Street, past the wharf, weaving in and out among the throng of flamboyant pedestrians. I loved that people here didn’t have to hide who they were, could be their own colorful selves in all facets of the rainbow. I also enjoyed stopping along the way to let children pat Ace. We reached the quaint shop
Hi Ho Silver
just before ten o’clock and turned to go inside. 

Chapter 54

June 4th, 2003

10:30 A.M.

I
n June of my second year of graduate school, I landed a job at the university as an assistant teacher for the summer session. The class was called “Structural Drawing,” and today I would meet up with the new students for the second time, taking over the class for the professor, who was notorious for leaving the instruction to his assistants. Rumor had it he hung out at the local coffee shop to pick up women instead of teaching, but I didn’t mind. I loved working with the undergraduates.