Whole Latte Life (34 page)

“I hear you. Like mine did, in a Manhattan restaurant two months ago.”

“Sometimes,” Michael says, “it feels like you’re talking about a death when you tell me about Sara Beth.”

“Sometimes it feels like that, too.”

“You care too much about her to let this go. ” He waits a moment. “You’ve got to try to get back what you had with her, before you turn some corner in your life and it’s too late.”

“I will,” Rachel answers, squeezing his hands and trusting him. “I promise.”

Afterward, the waves break along the dark beach. The salt air brushes his face as they walk the old boardwalk, her fingers laced through his. Leaving the bar behind, he glances back at the neon seahorse blinking in the window. There had been nights in that bar when he almost finished off what the bullet missed. Or his rage had. That seems long ago now.

But that road brought him to this. Later, beneath the bedroom window in the little cottage, that same sea breeze lifts off Long Island Sound and glances across his skin, soothing with its hint of salt water and waves and innate rhythm. That’s what it comes down to, life. Rhythms inherent in every day, every decision, the high tide and low, every day.

He inhales deeply, reassuring himself the cottage is secure, trying desperately not to get up and look out the window, check the locks, and Rachel must sense it. She reaches up and touches his face. It’s all new, this touch. And surprising. He turns to her, his fingers tangle in her hair.

“Tell me about the gift,” she murmurs.

“The gift.” He whispers back, not wanting to interrupt the rhythms, the waves and tides and moment at hand. “If I hadn’t been shot, I wouldn’t have become a Mounted, you wouldn’t have stopped me in May, you wouldn’t be here in this cottage, with me. This moment, right now,” he explains, then stops and kisses her, “would not exist without that one.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

T
om rinses his mug at the sink. Outside the kitchen window, the back yard is neatly mowed. The picnic table needs staining. Maybe he’ll do that later today, after waxing the cars. After getting to the bottom of things.

“What?” Sara Beth asks when he turns, leans against the counter, and stares at her.

“Your rings.” He’s not comfortable with their absence. Whether they’re missing or put away or sold, what matters is that he hasn’t seen them since New York. “I need to know what’s up with your wedding rings. If you can’t wear my rings, I really can’t consider looking at that house for sale. Where are they?”

She pushes her coffee cup away. “I don’t have them.”

“You don’t have them.”

Her eyes drop closed. “Listen. You must figure it happened in New York. And it did. When I rode the ferry that night and I was so sad, missing Mom and wanting to change my life back, and I didn’t know how to go about it.”

“Sara.”

Now she looks at him. “I didn’t want to tell you this because you wouldn’t understand. It’s just something I did. I started dropping parts of my self into the river, okay? So that I could rebuild me a little at a time. You know, makeup, my sunglasses, a photograph, things like that.”

“Please don’t tell me you dropped your rings into the Hudson River.”

“Tom,” she whispers. “Don’t.”

He doesn’t respond, doesn’t ask any questions, doesn’t move.

“It was dark, I was crying, okay? One thought led to another and I didn’t know what we had anymore. I couldn’t keep living the same old way. It all changed. Without my mother, well, I was really hurting. And the rings felt symbolic of what I wanted to break from.”

“From grief, or from me?” He looks long at her. “Never mind. Don’t answer.” He turns to the sink, puts his glasses on the counter, runs the cold water and scoops a handful onto his face, holding his hands over his eyes for several seconds.

“All right,” he says when he turns back to Sara Beth sitting at the table. She wears a turquoise tunic he’s never seen, with black capris, wooden bangles on her wrist. Vintage has returned to her style this summer and it reminds him of the Sara Beth he knew a long time ago. Sitting sideways on the chair, her long legs are casually crossed, showing her bare feet, a beaded ankle bracelet. He doesn’t want to lose her.

“I’ll just take a
look
at that house. After I wax the car. And stop at the mall.”

“Are there any coupon sales today? Or a discount if I put this on my credit card?” Tom looks closely at the diamond ring he’s chosen, and then at the saleswoman plucking rings from the display case and setting them on black velvet.

“There is a coupon today, actually. Fifty dollars off any fine jewelry purchase over two hundred fifty dollars.” She slides a coupon across the counter. “That particular ring is available in white gold as well. It’s very stunning. Does your fiancé have a preference? Or maybe she joined our Bridal Registry?”

“Now that’s a good idea, registering a ring. I think she only registered her china preferences.”

“Oh, too bad. But really, that ring is one of our finest.”

“You’re sure? I need to do right by the mother of my son,” he says. “Make an honest woman out of her. Now is this considered fine jewelry, for the coupon discount?” Tom asks.

“Oh yes, every piece in this case is. The fine jewelry department sets stringent standards the gems must meet. And congratulations on your wedding. I’m sure you’ll be very happy!”

And so Sara Beth has a new wedding ring. After which Tom buys a huge watch for himself. “A wedding gift for me,” he tells the saleswoman.

“Why not?” she asks, handing him the bag. “It’s a celebration! Gift Wrap is located downstairs, at Customer Service. And good luck to you both!”

“See those lights?” Michael asks. The Friday evening has grown lazy, endless. Banks of stadium lights shine down on the field. “When do you think The Yankees started playing night games?”

The Yankees’ batter dallies enough to finally pull a walk. He trots to first and Rachel considers the question. “That would be at the old stadium? Which is a twin of this one?”

“Yes, same dimensions, façade, fencing,” Michael says.

“Nothing’s different between the two stadiums?”

“This one has cup holders on the seats.”

“So they built all this for cup holders?

“And a conference center, hotel, that kind of stuff. I miss the old place. We can wager, make it interesting. Or maybe you’re afraid you’ll lose?”

They’ve been doing this bet thing since May, so she has a collection of wagers: The dinner, the time Rachel guessed right and Michael had to wash her car, the five dollar bet. “Anything in mind?” she asks.

“Not off hand.” He offers her a bite of his hot dog with mustard, relish and onions.

She chews and hands him a napkin while the runners tire the pitcher with their leads. He has too many places to eye and throws a lousy pitch. The batter pops it foul.

“How about you? Anything in particular?” Michael asks, watching the pitch and finishing the dog.

This may well be the last game she watches. The end of summer is in sight. If they can’t find a way to stay together, she needs to thank him for all he’s done since that first bowling night. “As a matter of fact, I do have something in mind.” She gives him a long look. “Dinner at Max. Tribeca. My treat.”

Michael returns her look completely. Somehow, she knows, he sees it in her eyes, the preparation for saying goodbye the same way they began, over a dinner wager landing them in a restaurant, a carafe of wine on the table, a candle’s flame flickering in a red glass globe. He turns back to the game. The pitcher studies the plate and takes too long with the pitch. Popped foul. The count stays full.

“It would be a nice way for you to meet my daughter,” he says.

She hears it. He refuses to go where her wager suggested. His new Yankees cap is on backwards, his elbows on each armrest, his hands clasped against his stomach. So you’d think he’s completely at ease, but he gives it away with the moment’s hesitation before he meets her gaze. He’s not.

“I’m not saying goodbye to you over some fancy dinner, Rachel. Not yet. As a matter of fact, not at all, sweetheart.” He takes a long breath. “It’s time for you to meet my daughter. At that dinner you’re going to owe me when you lose this bet.” He extends his hand to shake on it.

Rachel takes his hand and doesn’t let go. “So lights were not always there?”

“That’s right.” The pitcher tries to pick off second base.

“The Depression was in the thirties, so probably not then. It’s got to be either the nineteen forties or fifties.” The batter calls Time and moves from the batter’s box. Fifty thousand fans watch The Yankees do their dance. “The fifties was a family era. They’d be going to the ballpark a lot.”

“So you think night games started in the fifties?” Finally the batter swings. The ball does a slow loop high into the sky while he trots to first. The runners advance. Fifty thousand pairs of eyes stay on that ball, a white shooting star arching right over the wall. The crowd rises, a polite ovation rings. It is that kind of night.

“Well, it could have been after the war, too.” A pitching change is called. The crowd halfheartedly taunts the outgoing pitcher. Rachel studies the field, not calculating when the lights were installed, not visualizing the past. Not that past, anyway. Feeling Michael’s fingers linking through hers, she remembers instead their first night bowling, when she wanted only to find her best friend. “Nineteen fifty-three.”