Authors: Hope Navarre
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Five months later
C
ASSIE
SAT
IN
a beach chair on a blanket under the shade of an umbrella that Peter had hauled down to the beach for her. This last chemo session four days ago was the roughest yet. She'd taken the week off. Peter had managed to get the day off, too, and was willing to do whatever she wished. This morning, she felt strong enough to try the beach, as long as she stayed in the shade before the sun rose too high. Peter called Brian, who met them for the quick morning surf. Already the narrow beach along the cliffs was filling with sunbathers and surfers.
Cassie wore a long-sleeved, gauzy white cover-up over her red bandeau bikini to cover the port in her chest and to protect her from the sun. Her hair was gone. She'd cut it short, sent the curls in a long ponytail to the charity. After the first few chemo treatments, her hair started falling out in tufts, then handfuls. Finally, Beth took a razor to what was left.
At first, she felt awkward and ugly without her tresses. Dealing with the look of pity in people's eyes proved toughest of all. After the first month, she cared less. Actually, being stripped of the accessory of hair to frame her face, she'd discovered a profound sense of humility as if she'd been laid naked to the world to either point at her and laugh, or love her because she was still beautiful...deep inside.
She began to admire her well-shaped skull and was amused to finally be able to see the one dent on the back of her head from where she had fallen as a kid. With soft eye makeup, blush and a smear of lip gloss, she could pull off a decent look but there was no kidding herself. Bald and missing eyebrows clearly stated she was sick. Women usually didn't choose to shave their heads. She'd also lost eight pounds she really couldn't afford. No chance in hell did she feel like eating the following two to three days after chemo. Then when she did, she craved strawberry milk shakes and Chinese food. Oh, and grapefruits.
What she ate didn't seem to be enough. The gaunt look didn't suit her. Tough to avoid when you ended up puking five to ten days a month. Concerned her chemo-state, as she called her condition, would be off-putting to patients when she worked in the E.R., she was surprised to find folks seemed reassured by her confidence, that even caregivers might need a bit of medical assistance from time to time.
Today, she wasn't feeling so confident. She was exhausted. Food tasted awful. She had sores in her mouth. Ice chips rocked. The more water she drank, the faster the effects subsided, so she never was far from a bathroom. When Peter wasn't working twelve-hour shifts, he was at her side. Cooking and insisting she eat his homemade chicken soup, veggies and rice, baked chicken, easy on the seasoning. He helped her bathe, rubbed lotion into her skin, held her when she cried. Guarded her when she slept.
He was wonderful.
Yet, something about his constant presence tapped a flight response in her. The intense attention Peter gave her was exactly the type she gave to critically ill patients who had been rushed into the E.R. fighting for their lives. She didn't want to think of herself as critical. Already in a chemical daze from the treatments, she needed to come from a position of strength to kill her cancer.
Fighting to keep an upbeat attitude was hard when she felt so vulnerable. Add to the mix, her dad was relentless with his attention. Shortening fishing trips. On her doorstep at the crack of dawn. Making her breakfast or bringing bagels. Coming back at night to check in before bed. A few times it had been awkward when Peter stayed over, but Cassie figured Dad was happier someone was actually in the cottage with her instead of his daughter being alone.
More than anything, she hated feeling so weak. She constantly gave herself pep talksâand was truly grateful that her cancer had a decent cure rate. Pushing herself to rally on workdays, she found satisfaction in the distraction of routine and being around her friends, only to collapse into sleep as soon as she stepped foot through the door at home.
She'd wake up to find Peter right there. Or Dad. Or Mom shooing both men out so she could spend time with her daughter. When Mom stayed with her, Cassie felt herself calming. Feeling more able to deal with her illness. Slowly, Cassie was realizing that no matter how well they concealed their worry, Peter and Dad coddled her way too much. She appreciated the help when she truly needed it, but their constant attention was stressing her out.
She had enough worries of her own. She couldn't focus on assuring Dad and Peter that she wasn't suffering. Damn it, she was. She was healing, too. She had to be or this chemo poisoning her body to kill her cancer would very well kill her.
She'd have to tell Peter and Dad to back off.
The warm breeze off the ocean soothed her skin. Summer still lingered and felt divine. September weather was perfect in Montauk, especially now, because she couldn't escape the constant chill in her bones. The dog days of summer were cherished by most everyone on Long Island, but Indian Summer was exceptional.
She shielded her eyes against the glare from the water to find Peter and Brian out on the waves. Brian was riding in on a shore break. Farther out, Peter straddled his board as he talked with a blond man on a long board.
Jimmy Buffett, the musician. Jimmy was Montauk's most playful celebrity. He lived a bit east of Montauk, and always drove his big old refurbished '55 Chevy to the beach to surf. The one chance Cassie had to meet Jimmy, she had asked him what he was doing this far north. His answer: “Well, the way I see it, Long Island is the northernmost key. I tend to migrate in this direction.”
Cassie couldn't help but grin. Coming from the Los Angeles area, Peter probably saw his share of celebrities. Jimmy Buffett was one of the few famous people who was willing to interact with the community and his fans, who were known as Parrotheads. She was pretty sure Peter would brag about his one-on-one with the balladeer.
Peter and Jimmy split company to ride waves. Cool how in these few short months Peter had ensconced himself in Montauk's lifestyle. Those who knew him took him under their wing. Peter, in turn, dove right into helping out his new friends, or dropping in at Dave's Grill to have a beer and chat with Brian. He and Dad had started spending time together, too. She suspected Peter was curious about the
Lady Beth,
but was staying away from the boat for Cassie's sake.
So, why was she feeling so much angst about their time together? Peter was wonderful. Attentive. His easy grin so reassuring when she felt angry or irritable. His bedside manner, impeccable. She loved the smell of his skin when he held her. His corny jokes. Although she understood the dangers of chemotherapy, she also knew that she needed this chemical game of Russian roulette to combat her illness. Peter understood this, as well. His concern lay heavy in his eyes every time he thought she wasn't watching him. Outside pressure she couldn't put her finger on had her feeling as if she needed to circle her wagons against a siege. Her gut told her the siege was rising from the people she loved.
It made no sense. She had fallen in love with Peter. This fact she'd accepted readily, but she was too ill, and today, too afraid of dying, to even consider the sanctuary of his love. She knew what it was like to be left vacant and adrift when the love of your life died. Kyle's memory was as much alive for her today as he had been that summer morning he had set sail on the
Lady Beth.
Then it hit her.
Today was the anniversary of Kyle's death.
For the first time in years, her body physically reacted to his loss. Her chest squeezed so tight, she inhaled a ragged breath. She knew exactly how much Peter had fallen in love with her. Was it selfish of her to love him back if she might leave Kyle behind? She needed this quiet time alone on the beach. She had some soul-searching to do.
With the Atlantic spreading before her in all its blue majesty, crashing waves on the rocky beach and the buttress of the Montauk cliffs behind her, she could no longer run from the emotions that had been biting at her for these past weeks. She adjusted her chair to a reclining position. Pushing her aviator sunglasses onto the bridge of her nose, she inhaled the warm, briny air, closed her eyes and imagined herself flying among the clouds drifting lazily in the brilliant azure sky on the other side of the umbrella.
Without vision, her hearing became more acute. The percussion of the surf hitting the beach, the rumble of rocks rubbing smooth as they washed against each other. Seabirds squawking in odd syncopation. A prop plane passing over the water. Girls laughing on a nearby blanket. A female rock star wanting somebody's love in aggressive rhythm through an iPod.
Her concentration zeroed down to the breeze on her body. Across her face. A prickly sensation rose on her skin from the caress of salt air. She let her mind drift. Rising. Riding the breeze upward. She was so tired. Fatigue fell and she drifted into sleep. In the quiet, someone's fingers intertwined with hers. She remembered that touch.
Kyle.
“Cass.”
“Kyle. You left me.”
“I know, baby. I didn't want to.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes. I'm just not here.”
“I miss you so.”
“I will always love you, Cass.”
“Please don't leave me.”
“I'm sorry, honey. That's not how it goes.”
“Help me.”
“You're strong.”
“I'm not!”
“Live, Cassie. Don't stop living.”
Her eyes shot open. She bolted up, a sob catching in her throat. Peter stood before her, dripping wet, his board already standing in the sand. Blinking through her tears, she registered somewhere in the back of her mind that Peter looked so beautifully alive in his rash guard and board shorts, his hair falling all over his forehead. The shock filling his face stung her back to the moment.
He dropped to his knees on her blanket.
“What's wrong, Cassie?”
Taking off her sunglasses, she swiped tears from her face, pressed her palms against her eyes. She couldn't stop crying.
“Cassie! Sweetheart...”
Peter eased her into his lap. The dampness of his rash guard, the crisp wetness of his skin in his enfolding arms, helped cool the burning she felt inside.
He rocked her slowly. “Did I make a mistake bringing you here?”
She shook her head, sobbing like a baby.
“Are you in pain?”
Too upset to speak, she shook her head once more. Oh, God. She was so embarrassed.
“Can you talk?”
She exhaled a breath. “Yes... One sec.”
He caressed her head. “Take your time, love.”
She couldn't tell him about her dream. She'd worried that the chemo treatments might affect her mind. Her worldview. Her relationship with Peter. Now, one thought rang true. Kyle still owned her heart. Aching for her deceased lover flooded her with guilt for feeling emotions for this wonderful man, vital and alive, his heart beating beneath her hand that rested on his chest. How could she be in love with a dead man and give her herself to Peter the way he wanted? Oh, God. And she was so sick. If she were to die, could she break his heart the way Kyle had shattered hers? Through her tears she whispered, “I think...I'm just...tired.”
He kissed her forehead. “Let's get you home.”
* * *
A
FTER
A
QUICK
change into shorts and a T-shirt, Peter opened the trunk beneath the window in his bedroom. He and Cassie had known each other only six months, but Peter felt sure the time was right for a new phase in their lives. He also wanted to give Cassie another reason for recovery.
He'd felt so helpless finding her crying on the beach. While insisting the solitude had been wonderful, she had stayed silent the ride home. At his gentle prodding, she refused to talk about the tears. Assessing what he could from watching her, he understood she wasn't in pain, so decided the enormity of her ordeal was getting the better of her. With silence as the only balm to offer when he knew she needed more, he felt useless.
Beth and Bobby saw him guiding her to the cottage and bolted out the kitchen door to ask what was wrong. It took Beth all of two seconds to realize Cassie was on overload. Ignoring his protests, she demanded Peter and Bobby go find something to do. She would put Cassie to bed. Peter didn't like being shooed away like an errant child. He couldn't bear to leave Cassie, especially distressed as she was.
All this drama and the noon fire whistle hadn't even sounded yet.
Rummaging to the bottom of the trunk, he pulled out the small, powder-green steel lockbox. The key, lost long ago, no longer mattered. He sat on the bed, pushed the latch with his thumb.
Passport. Social Security card. Birth and baptism certificates. Draft card. A thousand dollars in cash in an envelope. A pair of ugly gold cuff links given to him by his dad. In the corner of the box sat a small, purple velvet pouch cinched by a white silk chord.
He opened the small bag. Dropped the contents into his hand. An antique solitaire engagement ring glittered in his palm. Grandma's. She'd tucked the two-carat jewel in his hand a few years before she had passed away. “Save this for the love of your life, Peter. Use it well because I only have one to give you.”
Grandma. Permed hair. Plump. Always smiling and wearing dresses with little prints on them. She and Grandpa used to play cards at the kitchen table and laugh all the time. Memories rose of warm, sweet homemade chocolate chip cookies melting on his tongue as he laid on the flower-hooked carpet in her living room watching
Atom Ant
cartoons with Gil. Or, riding to the movies in the backseat of Grandpa's blue Buick, he and Gil eating gummy bears and drinking from juice boxes while Grandma argued with Grandpa that it was totally appropriate to take them to see a movie where a scientist father shrinks his own kids. All good stuff before life got crazy.