Whole Latte Life (39 page)
“Well,” Rachel whispers. “Then your mom’s up there. And I’m going to wish that she could see you right now, putting your life back together.”
“Oh Rach, stop it. You’ll make me cry.”
“That’s okay. Maybe you haven’t gotten all the tears out yet.”
“Wishes are a mystery to me. It’s like putting your hope out there, opening a part of your heart to the constellations. Imagine if those stars could talk, and the new constellations they could make with the wishes they’ve heard?”
“I wished for you from the top of the Empire State Building,” Rachel admits. “There,” she points to the west, “that star right there. That’s the one.”
“You nut. How do you know? It could be any of these
thousands
of stars!”
“Sure,” Rachel says as she stands and waits for Sara to come back with her. “Doubt me. No wonder you don’t get wishes.”
In the kitchen, Rachel fills two heaping bowls with forbidden chocolate ice cream. They sit in the living room now, the porch closed up for the night.
“What’s this for?” Sara Beth asks, taking her bowl.
“You scored some Beach Weekend points. This one’s for food. Sinful food.”
“How did I score points?”
“By living your life, Sara. By being real. It took a lot of courage.” She samples a taste. “More courage than I had. I should have seen how hard it was for you when your mom died. I could’ve even helped with your shop, to keep that going.”
Sara Beth scoops two spoonfuls into her mouth then sets the bowl on a table. She looks at the pretty cottage, smells the beach, hears the night sounds. “Look at all this. I really know now.”
Rachel digs her spoon in and takes a huge mouthful of chocolate ice cream. “Know what?”
“I know that you are my very best friend in every amazing sense of the word.” She stands and paces the room, walking around the sofa, picking up a wooden seagull and setting it back down, brushing the dust from an old book, touching a large conch shell on the fireplace mantle. “Sailors use these. Did you know that? For crossing signals. They have a beautiful rich tone.” She strokes it with her fingers, her back to Rachel. “Well. You say you could’ve helped, but I didn’t send you any signals in New York. No crossing signals, cell phone signals, nothing. And do you want to know something, Rach? The truth is that really, I am so sorry for what I put you through, and I have been every single day since then.”
“Huh,” Rachel says.
“What?”
“That feels really good.”
“My apology?”
“Well I feel a lot better now that you said it.”
“Except for one thing still completely bothering me,” Sara Beth says. “I mean, I screwed up our appointment with a
shopping
consultant!”
“Like
we
need a consultant.”
“I know. But still.”
“And anyways, I’ve got that covered.” Rachel runs into the bedroom, opening and closing drawers before walking back into the living room. “Still friends then?”
“Always were. What’s this?”
“It’s the Bergdorf part of our Beach Weekend. And my apology gift. Open it.”
“Apology?”
“The more I hear your story, the more I wish I’d been there for you. Even in little ways. More antique hunts. Or coffees on Saturday mornings.” She takes a quick breath. “More really listening. If there’s anything I can do to help now, please let me know.”
Sara Beth listens, and is quiet, because sometimes there just are no words. There is only the friendship, ever there, that current that never stops. She loosens the gold thread of a velvet bag and tips out a pair of dangling stone earrings, the stone a translucent shade of green.
“They’re sea glass. I bought them at a boutique here.” Rachel pushes back her hair and shows the same pair in her ears. “To remember all our summers at the beach, collecting seaglass from the driftline, walking and talking, wishing on stars.”
Sara Beth loops the gold wire through her ears. “They’re so beautiful.” But then, she stands and runs out of the room.
“Hey! What’s the matter?”
She comes back with the half gallon container of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream and two clean spoons. All that is between them now is the half gallon on the table. “Remember that time we picked all the cookie dough chunks out of the ice cream?”
Rachel stabs at a piece with her spoon, Sara Beth trying for the same piece. “Hey. Finders Keepers.”
Sara Beth pulls her spoon away and sits back, grinning at her friend. “God, I missed you,” she says.
“Me too.” Rachel tips the carton in her direction to let her find the next cookie dough chunk. “Me, too.”
A halo of sunlight colors the eastern sky, behind the cottages on the hill. The sandy boardwalk reaches across the beach. At the far end, they sit like they did last night, side by side, Sara Beth’s coffee mug cupped in her lap, Rachel sitting back, her cup on the seat beside her.
“I imagined a conversation with you all summer long that was straight out of a magazine, you know?
I’m facing a midlife crisis.
” Sara Beth makes air quotes. “
Can this woman be saved
?”
A bank of fog lifts out on the rocks. “Don’t feel bad,” Rachel tells her, sipping her coffee. “One time when I kept rattling around my house, I thought of the day as a Hallmark moment. The empty nest syndrome. I’ll bet they have a card for that, don’t you think?”
“Probably.”
“Then I got to thinking of
all
my Hallmark moments, and how I always had you instead of a card.”
“And now Michael.” Sara Beth drinks her coffee then runs her fingertip over the rim of her cup. “You deserve this. As sorry as I am that I hurt you, I’m really glad that Michael came from it.”
“Me too.”
It feels like there’s something else to say, like it’s too bad things happened the way they did, that life is funny and all that stuff. But Sara knows that sometimes you have to let it all go, let the balloon float up out of your hand into the sky, diminishing in the breeze.
“It’s going to be hot today,” Rachel is saying. “Tom pack a swimsuit in that bag of yours?”
“I think so.”
“How about if we sit on the beach. Afterwards, there’s this place in town that sells old cottage stuff. Maybe we can pick up something for your shop. A little treasure hunting on our Beach Weekend Out.”
The sun rises in the eastern sky, casting sparkles on Long Island Sound. “I don’t know how I can ever thank you for kidnapping me.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I know. But still.”
As the biggest star makes its way into the day, Sara Beth remembers how in all those Art History classes, she had learned to look. To find the universal human emotion in artwork. She’ll keep her eye open for a painting that says it all, something small, for her friend. In her mind, she’s jotting it down:
Mom, Do you have any ideas? I need to find Rachel a painting, something really special, that keeps us connected always. Let me know.
Love, SB
O
n a muggy Tuesday morning the following week, Michael walks Maggie down the ramp to the ground floor of the stable.
“Hey Coach,” he says to the blacksmith. “We need a pair of shoes.” The blacksmith has gone through several apprentices, trying to train someone to take his place when he retires. But temperamental kicking horses and hot burning iron and hard manual labor scare off successors.
“Michael, my man. How are ya?” Coach runs his hand along Maggie’s smooth neck, her velvet skin rippling beneath his touch. “And how’s my girl here? Okay?”
Michael holds onto the horse’s bridle as Coach crouches and picks up Maggie’s heavy hind leg, resting her foot on his thigh. He pries off the old shoe and begins trimming the thick wall of her hoof with a knife.
“Been going down to a cottage this summer. Rented a little place at Anchor Beach.”
“That right?” Coach asks, filing the wall smooth.
Michael moves beside his horse dressed in the department riding gear, the furthest thing from beach clothes: dark uniform, leather boots, the crop and helmet set on the table. Coach glances up at him, then turns the file to a rough edge on the hoof. “Nice place. Anchor Beach. Don’t suppose you been going there by your lonesome?”
“Not exactly.”
“Didn’t think so.” The blacksmith bends at the waist, Maggie’s rear hoof gripped between his knees as he files. His heavy boots are splattered black from the anvil work, serious safety glasses are strapped onto his head. “So what’s bugging you, kid?”
“Rachel.”
“Ah.” He drops Maggie’s leg and picks up a horseshoe with tongs, thrusting it into flames to soften it before moving over to the anvil and pounding the shoe flat and hammering the toe clip. “Trouble in paradise?”
Michael strokes Maggie’s mane, then picks up one of the sweet Macs kept for the horses. “No trouble.” He looks at the apple and takes a bite.
With sparks flying as he pounds the shoe, Coach yells back, “I’d like to find me a little summer paradise.” He moves back to Maggie and lifts her leg to check the fit of the shoe.
“The thing is, Rachel’s at the cottage more than she’s not. She’s got the summer off and takes the ferry from Connecticut.”
“So far, so good, guy.”
He takes another bite of the apple, notices Maggie eyeing him and gives her what’s left. “That’s half the reason I rented the place. It’s an old bungalow, not much to it. And the thing is, we agreed straight off to take the summer to see if we could make a go of this, long distance and all. It’s pretty easy to do when you’re at that place.”
“That can be close quarters, too, a little beach place like that.” Coach adjusts his leather apron. “If it weren’t meant to be, might seem more like cabin fever.” He dips the shoe into a bucket of cold water and the hot iron sizzles like bacon on a grill.
“But we’re doing pretty good. Except we’ve only got a few more weeks. Rachel’s a teacher in Connecticut. She can’t stay around here forever.”
“Why not?” Coach asks, lifting his heavy cap and wiping his brow. “Don’t they use teachers in New York?”
“What?”
“Listen, Officer. How old are you now? Forty-five, six?”