The Weekenders (5 page)

“You were crazy about him,” Parrish insisted. “Totally gaga for the guy.”

“I mostly asked him to piss off Mama,” Riley said. “Anyway, the night of the ball, I'm standing around the ballroom of Carolina Country Club in Raleigh, wearing my fluffy white dress and elbow-length gloves.…”

“I remember those gloves. And that dress,” Billy said dreamily. “I might have borrowed them for my first drag performance my junior year at UVA.”

Riley stared at her brother. “You wore my deb dress to a drag show? Really?”

“I had my very own coming-out party! But I did have to cut it down a little,” Billy admitted. “Lucky for me you were always kind of, um, flat-chested.”

“I bet Evelyn doesn't have a silver-framed photo of
that
on the baby grand at Shutters,” Parrish said. She waved at Riley. “Continue, please.”

“There's not much more to tell. Nate pulled the classic show-up-and-throw-up stunt. There we were, all lined up, ready to take our bows, and I kept looking for him, but nothing. I was so upset, and Daddy felt so bad, he shared his flask of Maker's Mark with me. When Nate finally did get there, he was falling-down drunk. The first dance, he took me in his arms—and blew chow all over my white dress.”

“I took her in the bathroom and managed to mop most of it up,” Parrish said, “but Evelyn went all to pieces and ordered him to leave.”

“All the other girls felt sorry for me, and they made their junior marshals ask me to dance, which was even more humiliating, so I spent most of the night in the ladies' lounge, doing Jäger shots with Sarah Catherine Coomer.”

Despite her glib exterior, Riley suddenly felt hot pinpricks of tears at the memory of the long-ago disastrous evening. She looked out at the water, rapidly blinking them away.

“Dateless at the deb ball,” Billy said. “Kinda sounds like a Neil Sedaka song. But I don't remember any of this. Was I even there?”

“I've managed to block the entire night—the most humiliating in my life—from my memory—right up until now,” Riley said. “You would have been fifteen then, right? Oh, wait. Was that the year they sent you to that ‘alternative school' in Arizona?”

“Yup. It was billed as a drug rehab, but I think Daddy really thought they'd cure me of being queer. Poor Daddy. Little did he know that my cabin counselor was a major chicken hawk.”

The three of them sighed simultaneously.

“Anyway,” Riley said. “Who cares about all that ancient history?” She held up her empty wine cup. “I think I need a refill.”

“Wait!” Billy protested. “What happened to Nate? Did you ever speak to him again?”

“He called me about a dozen times the next day.”

“But she wouldn't come to the phone,” Parrish said. “He wrote her letters.”

“Which I tore up.”

“He even sent roses.”

“Which I threw in the Dumpster.”

Just as Riley stood up, Maggy and her friends came flying up the stairs. The five kids raced to the bow and hung over the side. “Look! Right there! See it? See it?” shouted one of the boys, a redhead who Riley recognized as yet another of the Billingsley clan.

“I see it, I see it,” Maggy cried, leaning so far over the rail that Riley automatically stepped forward, intending to grab her daughter and haul her to safety. Until Parrish yanked her backward.

“Don't.” Parrish mouthed the word.

“What are you kids looking at?” Parrish asked casually.

“It's a shark!” the Billingsley kid said, pointing down at the surface of the bay.

“Two sharks!” another redhead added.

“I'll bet it's a hammerhead,” a tall blond girl said, standing a little back, but still craning her neck to see.

“No, stupid, look how big they are. That's a great white,” the Billingsley kid corrected.

Riley and Parrish leaned over the rail to take a look.

Sure enough, they spotted two side-by-side dorsal fins cutting through the anemic waves. And then a third, smaller fin joined the first two. And then a sheen of curved dark gray backs as the creatures dipped and resurfaced.

“Sorry, guys,” Parrish said. “Those are dolphins.”

“Whaaat?” the Billingsley kid said, turning a disbelieving eye to the adult.

“Dolphins. A whole pod of 'em,” Parrish repeated.

“You don't know nuthin' about sharks,” the kid muttered under his breath.

Parrish regarded the boy silently for a moment. “What's your name?”

The kid smirked. “Dylan. What's yours?”

“I think you mean, ‘what's yours, ma'am,' right, Dylan?”

“Whatever.”

“Well, Dylan. It happens that I do know how to tell the difference between a shark and a dolphin. For one thing, that fin you see, sticking up above the water? That's a dorsal fin. Now, a dolphin's dorsal fin is curved, backward, while a shark's dorsal fin sticks straight up. Wait just a minute, and tell me what you see the next time that dolphin surfaces.”

Six pairs of eyes were trained on the water. Nine, if you counted the adults.

“It's curved!” one of the younger redheads said, pointing.

“That's because that's a dolphin,” Parrish said. “I'll tell you something else, too. Dolphins and sharks both have second, smaller sets of dorsal fins, but the dolphin's is usually not visible above the waterline, while a shark's is. You know what you do if you're in the water and you see two sets of fins coming at you?”

“Kiss your sweet ass good-bye,” Billy whispered.

“Stab it in the eye with your knife!” Dylan Billingsley said.

Parrish shook her head. “I give up.”

“I know what you're supposed to do,” Maggy said. “I saw it on the History Channel. You stay really still, because you don't want the shark to think you're bait.”

“Very good, Maggy,” Parrish said approvingly.

*   *   *

“Who's the smart-ass ginger?” Parrish asked, after the youngsters drifted to the other side of the deck in search of another shark sighting.

“Yet another of the Billingsley clan. The parents have that huge house on Driftwood Lane, the one with all the golf carts. I think they live in Charlotte and he's something big with Wells Fargo. They have five kids, including two sets of twins,” Riley said. “The oldest one is a juvenile delinquent in the making.”

Parrish winced. “Poor woman.”

More and more passengers were making their way to the top deck. Riley glanced at her watch and called to Maggy, who'd drifted away from her friends.

“Honey, we should be docking pretty soon. Wonder who'll see Big Belle first?”

Maggy rolled her eyes. “I can't believe you expect me to play that stupid game.”

Billy swatted at his niece, but she danced out of distance. “Hey! I'll have you know I invented that game when your mama and I were younger than you. And it's not stupid. It's genius.”

“What's the game?” Parrish asked. “I'll play.”

“Oh yeah, duh, it's a really tough game,” Maggy said.

“It's called ‘I Spy,'” Billy said, ignoring the girl. “It's elegant in its simplicity. The first one to spot the Belle Isle lighthouse wins the game.”

“I'm in. What's the prize? A case of Moët & Chandon?”

“Two scoops of ice cream at the Mercantile,” Maggy said. “But they always let me win.”

“Not this year,” Riley said sharply. “Not since you got too big for your britches.”

“Fine.” Maggy took a few steps away and made a show of turning her back to the horizon—and the looming appearance of Big Belle.

“It's gonna be a looong summer,” Riley murmured. “And she's not even a teenager—until October.”

“I love that child, but it does make me glad that I had a son—and that he's already nineteen and out of my house,” Parrish said.

A few minutes passed. And then Big Belle's black-, green-, and white-striped column loomed on the horizon.

“I see it! I see it. I win, I win, I win!” Parrish chanted.

Maggy edged over to her mother and gave her a discreet nudge. “Um, Mom? Speaking of I Spy? That lady over there has totally been staring at you for the last ten minutes. Don't look!”

Which prompted all three of them to turn in the direction in which Maggy had nodded.

A middle-aged woman in ill-fitting khaki slacks and a navy-blue windbreaker stood by the railing. She had a frizzy blond perm and wore mirrored sunglasses and ugly black lace-up shoes.

“I was just thinking the same thing,” Parrish whispered. “She hasn't even looked at the water. She just stares at Riley whenever she thinks we're not watching.”

“Probably a fan,” Riley said. “It's been six months, but people are still pissed at me for quitting the show.”

“Still?” Parrish asked. “It was just a cheesy morning TV magazine show. No offense,” she added.

“You don't even know,” Maggy said. “Some crazy woman cornered her in the bathroom at the Cracker Barrel on the way down from Raleigh today. Mom was trying to pee and this lady was all, like, how Mom ruined her mornings because
Wake Up, Carolina
isn't on WRAL anymore.”

“People hate change,” Riley said. She gave Parrish a rueful smile. “Some people actually like a dose of cheese with their morning coffee.”

As they watched, the woman began making a determined march in their direction, a piece of paper clutched in her hand.

“Ohmygod. She's coming over here,” Maggy said. “I bet she's, like, some crazy stalker fangirl that followed us down here.”

“Oooh. Like in
Misery
! Maybe she plans to abduct you and tie you to a bed until you agree to go back on the air and do rescue puppy adoption features and interview third-rate sitcom actresses,” Parrish said, getting into the moment.

“No, no, no,” Billy said. “She's a big-deal New York talent agent, sis, and she wants to hire you to take over Katie Couric's slot on the
Today
show.”

Before Riley had time to fill her brother in on current events, she felt a tenuous tap on her shoulder. She turned around to find Nate Milas, holding out a single-serving bottle of pinot grigio, with an upturned plastic cup on top.

“Um, Riley?”

Billy and Parrish leaned in to eavesdrop.

Riley looked up into Nate's face. It was flushed with embarrassment. And he'd tucked his baseball hat into the pocket of his shorts. It struck Riley, reminded her, actually, that Nate's face was an honest face.

Back in the day when she'd been a real reporter, she'd learned a little about reading people's expressions and body language. Politicians blinked a lot, looked away, dissembled. Criminals, real criminals, were much harder to read. So many were sociopaths who felt no remorse for doing whatever they thought necessary to further their agenda. But Nate's face was open, guileless, and obviously guilt-stricken.

“Look, it's been a long time, but I still feel bad about, you know, that deb thing. I know you hate me, and you have every right to hate me, but I just wanted to tell you … I mean, it's not an excuse. It's not because I wasn't into you. I was into you. But…”

“Excuse me!”

The stalker woman's voice was shrill and loud. Very loud. She was standing directly beside Riley, brandishing the piece of paper, actually shaking it at her. Now that she was close, Riley could see she had a laminated ID tag with some sort of gold shield worn on a lanyard around her neck.

Every head on the top deck of the
Carolina Queen
seemed to swivel in their direction.

“Hi,” Riley said, trying to be kind. She'd always been kind to fans, appreciated them, since, after all, they were the reason she'd had such a long television career, such as it was. But there had to be boundaries.

“I'll be with you in a minute,” Riley said quietly. “But I'm with my family and friends right now. Private time, you understand? I don't usually sign autographs like this.”

The woman was not to be deterred. She thrust the paper into Riley's hands, closed both Riley's own hands over it.

“I don't want an autograph. I just need to serve you with this document. So consider yourself served.”

 

5

For a moment, things went perfectly silent. Riley couldn't hear the ferry's diesel engines, the cries of seagulls, the excited voices of the other passengers anticipating landing at the dock on Belle Isle.

What she did hear was the thudding of her heart in her chest. She felt every set of eyes on the upper deck of the
Carolina Queen
glued to her face.

Riley stared down at the paper in her hands. The print was fuzzy. It was a legal document of some kind. Her mind froze for a second, and then the awful, inescapable truth dawned.

She felt boiling blood rush to her face and spill out through her mouth.

Wendell. This was all Wendell. He hadn't made the ferry today because he'd never intended to make it. Every promise he'd made her, every tearful declaration of his love for his family—all lies. He'd taken the coward's way out, and now he was having her served with divorce papers—in front of their daughter, her closest friends, that fucking busybody Andrea Payne, and half the residents of Belle Isle. Even the last man who'd broken her heart got to be a witness to this fresh humiliation.

“No!” Riley cried in a hoarse whisper. “Oh no, you don't get to serve me divorce papers.”

The woman blinked but didn't move. She'd been at this job a long time.

Parrish tugged at her friend's arm. “Come on, Riley. Let it go. We'll figure it out. Just let it go.” She looked up at the sheriff's deputy. “Never mind, Officer. Er, Deputy.”

Riley glanced over at her daughter. Maggy stood, frozen in place, with one hand on the deck rail. Her mouth was open, her eyes wide, her cheeks stained red. A second later, she dashed down the stairs.