Whole Latte Life (27 page)

“I won’t leave. Promise.” Sara Beth says with a guilty smile. “Then we’ll seriously shop. And talk more. Like old times.”

Sara Beth comes to the dressing area and taps on the outside entrance. “Rach?”

Rachel steps out barefoot and slightly tanned wearing a plain black sleeveless sheath, her blonde hair tucked back straight behind her ears.

“The perfect l-b-d,” Sara Beth says. “You look smashing.”

Rachel steps on a carpeted pedestal and turns in front of the three-way mirror. “I don’t know.” What she’s doing is harboring thoughts of summer in Manhattan, of needing the perfect dress for dinners in the city.

“Uh huh,” Sara smiles. “All dressed up with nowhere to go?”

“Oh, Sara.” She eyes her friend’s reflection in the mirror, wishing she could easily tell her about Michael and New York. That the words would tumble out about this guy and his horse and his ways. That they’d laugh and wink and raise an eyebrow. That she could voice her doubts, too, about his protectiveness, how it’s seeming like an insecurity. Instead she turns to her own reflection.

Sara Beth crosses her arms in front of her and leans against the doorjamb.

And the silence, Rachel notices, becomes one of them, a third reflection in the mirror. She picks at a thread on the dress seam.

“I thought the note was enough.” Sara Beth speaks softly and it makes Rachel raise her eyes to her reflection. “But I screwed up.”

“What do you mean?” Their reflected eyes lock, so damn anxious to fix this.

“I gave you the note in the restaurant so that you
wouldn’t
worry. I
thought
it would work. I should have told you clearly that I’d be back, but I didn’t even know what to do. I just had to go. To get out of my own skin, to figure my life out, to stop dying of sadness. I never meant to hurt you. Don’t you understand?”

“I’m beginning to.”

“I was afraid. Since my mom died, I just fell apart. I lost her and a lot of myself too.”

“Sara. I could’ve helped you.”

“How, really? It’s up to me to put myself back together. To remake myself. It’s what I’m still trying to do, little by little.”

Little by little. Rachel thinks that Sara Beth has this, then: the carriage house, pursuit of a dream, including Owen in her days, communicating this to her husband and girls while trying to say goodbye to her mom, and mending the fence of a friendship. Her plate is full. “But didn’t you see it coming? These things don’t just happen, and you never said a word. Nothing.”

Sara Beth’s cell phone rings and she reaches into her handbag. “Jen, Jen. Slow down,” she says, bending into the call. “Where’s Dad? Okay. Put some ice on it, okay? I’ll be right home.” She turns back to Rachel.

“Family crisis?”

“Katherine fell off her bike and her arm’s swelling. Tom’s out with Owen. Guess I’m going to the Emergency Room.”

“Oh boy! You better get going.”

She tucks her phone away. “Can we try this another time?”

“Sure,” Rachel says, stepping off the pedestal. What she would like is to go with her. Or to baby-sit Owen so Tom could go, too. Or maybe sit in the hospital with all of them, like she would have in the past.

Sara Beth doesn’t ask, though. She quickly leaves and Rachel returns the black dress to the rack, thumbing through a few more. So much of their morning was the same as always. The small talk, the slow walk, the browsing. But the important stuff, the easiness evaded them until the end. Then the call came.

“Rachel?”

She turns around and Sara Beth is behind her, breathless. Her sunglasses are on, car keys in her hand. “After my coffee, well…” She holds out the Felucca’s bag. “This is for you.”

“Me? A boat?”

“You liked them when we walked past the window. Maybe you can use it in your beach room?” She takes the mahogany ship from the bag, pulling it from the puffs of tissue. “This is what you and I need. Some time on a boat.”

“A boat? I don’t know if that’ll do it.”

“No, really. It would.” She glances at her watch and hesitates. “On a boat, with all that water, we couldn’t get away from each other. No cell phones, no dressing rooms, no cars, no emergency rooms. A boat would be the perfect thing.” She puts the ship back in the bag. “Please take it.” She hands Rachel the bag.

“This town’s feeling way too small for me.”

“The shopping didn’t work?” Michael asks. He had finished mowing the lawn under the noonday sun and opens a bottled water.

“It started to, but there was a family emergency. Is it too late for me to come there?”

“I’ll come to Addison. I don’t want you on the road.”

“No, no.” She walks outside with her cordless, closing the slider behind her. “I need a change of scenery. I’ll be fine driving.”

“When?”

“Two hours, one if I floor it.”

“Very funny. I’ve got a double shift tomorrow. It’ll be an early night.”

“I need to see you.”

“Okay, then. But take your time. I’ll be here,” he says. “Be sure to fill your gas tank.”

“I will,” Rachel replies.

“Good. And make sure to leave a light on a timer. Maybe check your oil before you head out.”

“Michael. Please.”

He doesn’t say anything, just takes a long breath.

“I have to pack an overnight bag. Do I need anything? A change of clothes for dinner or a club?”

“Casual, Rachel. Dress casual.”

“What a perfect surprise this is. I thought I’d be spending the weekend in the city.”

They stop at the boardwalk before driving to the cottage. “Someone I met once told me salt air is the perfect remedy to any worries,” Michael says. “Try it.”

So Rachel does, inhaling deeply. They sit at the end of the boardwalk, a sandy beach and Long Island Sound spread before them like a watercolor painting. The waves break along the beach, the sun sits low over the western jetty.

“Listen,” Rachel says, holding still.

He tips his head to concentrate on the beach noises and Rachel kisses his cheek, then gently turns his head so that he hears the comforting noise behind them. Rising and falling lightly against their moorings, the subtle pull of the current in the boat basin brings the secured boats to life. They creak and sigh against the pilings, like the sound of a huge ocean fish.

“Boat talk,” Michael says.

She glances over at him. Even though his dark hair is cut short, it can’t fight the salt air and a natural wave emerges. His face is tanned from being outdoors on the job, but it looks weathered, too, faint scars showing through the tan, as though he is a fisherman back from the sea instead of a Manhattan mounted police officer.

“I’ve missed this,” she tells him. “I was so busy getting Ashley ready for college last year, we never made it to the beach. Instead it was dorm shopping and student orientation.”

“Do you miss her today?”

“Oh my gosh, do I ever. She seemed pretty chill with us, don’t you think?”

Michael nods. “I’m glad I met her.”

“She loves the beach too. She says that she learned an important lesson from our summers at the beach.”

“What’s that?”

“There are two kinds of people in this world. Beach people and lake people. Whoever she ends up marrying will have to be a beach person.”

“Ashley’s all right.”

Michael is a beach person; anyone could see that in him. He knows about the mystical healing power of the salt air and appreciates the language of the boats behind them. He skims a mean stone on the Sound’s choppy water and the very first thing he did this afternoon was splash a handful of salt water on his face and neck, then run his wet, salty fingers through his hair.

“Why don’t we go to the cottage? I’m not sure what we’ll find. You might not like it, I don’t know.”

“I still can’t believe you rented one. I told you you’re spontaneous.”

“Believe me, it was spur of the moment. Want to check it out?”

“In a minute, okay?” The late sun warms her skin. But there’s more, in this one moment. There are waves lapping at the shore, a sea breeze touches her, the salty scent of the ocean rises. One moment, and all this.

They pass cottages freshly painted beach colors of white and creamy yellow and pale blue. Pots of red geraniums sit on front steps, tall shrubs of beach grass grow like natural fountains.

“There. On the right.” Michael points through the windshield, scrawled directions gripped beneath his hand on the wheel. The pale gray cottage sits on a hill not far from the beach. It is an old bungalow with a big enclosed front porch. Errant branches sprout from the shrubs and brittle curls of paint peel from the wood siding.

“Goodness gracious!” Rachel leans forward in the seat. “It is so pretty.” She rushes up and unlatches the old hooks and pushes open the porch lattice windows, stiff on their hinges. Breaths of summer surprise the sunny room.
Oh!
it seems to say, and it brightens and the wooden gulls and vases of sea glass stand up straighter. Michael shoulders open the inside door because his arms are holding two bags of groceries. The summer air spilling inside the dank cottage works its magic. Drab living room furniture transforms as Rachel opens the window blinds and hefts up the sticking windows. Lumpy couches and chairs become comfortable and overstuffed, slip covered in sun faded stripes and soft plaids. Golden light paints the rickety end tables a distressed white. Tabletop clutter morphs into wooden seagulls, delicious novels and clear glass lamps filled with seaglass and shells.