Barefoot Beach (14 page)

At the memorial service he told me, “At first, he'd been excited about how the writing was going. But half or maybe three-quarters in, he hit a wall. Until then, he said it was the best he'd written. My feeling is he'd have jumped that wall eventually. So sad.”

Nate, who had the chops to drive a hard bargain, had always been sweet with me. He'd waited a seemly time before asking to see the manuscript.

“If it's as good as he thought it was, it deserves to see the light of day.”

“You mean it should be published?” I'd asked.

“Possibly.”

“It's not finished, Nate. And he was struggling terribly with it.”

“Lon always outlined in detail. I'm sure there were notes. Get a fresh pair of eyes to review them, someone objective and talented, and I'll bet we could work it through. Finish a book Lon would be proud of.”

“So you're saying that someone else, like a ghostwriter, would take over?”

“I'm not saying, Nora; I'm asking, and all I'm asking”—his voice was actually on the edge of begging—“is for you to let me take a look at it. Let's start there and see where we go.”

No way. There was no way I was going to send the manuscript on to
Nate without reading it first myself. Lon had been confident enough in his third book to let it be published. He'd been too close to see the flaws. It was my responsibility as his widow to protect him and his reputation, and that meant reading it, and I couldn't.

Just looking at his final photograph—the one sent to me by the conference organizer, taken as Lon stood at the podium speaking about savagery in
White Fang
—was almost too much to bear.

Now I reached into the desk's bottom drawer for the strongbox he never bothered to lock, slid my hand under its only tenant, a rubber-banded stack of paper, and shifted it to my lap. Was it a betrayal to read it? I wondered as I scanned the cover page. And the book itself, was it his last gasp? Or a stroke of genius?

What I was hoping was that Lon would come back to me through the words and after that maybe I'd be able to keep him close and at the same time set him free.

The working title,
Thunder Hill Road
, was underlined and centered on the cover. I read the first sentence: “At the end of the path that led down to the beach, the boy found a veined boulder, polished by wind and carved by tidal water into a chair of stone, perfect for a seven-year-old who perched on it as if he were captaining a pirate ship.”

Beach, not mountain. Here, not there. Oh, Mother of God, could I get through it? And was it good enough for what I knew at that moment I wanted to do?
Needed
to do.

I took it up to the bedroom, slipped it under the quilt when I heard Jack's tread on the stairs; then, after he said good night, I began to read.

“The younger one—what's her name, Sara—is a tad Hobbity, but give her a few more years and three inches in height and I see Audrey Hepburn in
Sabrina
,” Margo said.

We were at the Driftwood Playhouse, dead center in the last row of orchestra seats, and she was peering at my iPhone photo of Jack's half sisters. Onstage, the set blazed with the colors of Siam—scarlet, cobalt, and gold. The actress playing the “I” in
The King and I
—the role of tutor to the children of the ruler of Siam—was running through “Getting to Know You” with piano accompaniment for the fourth time. Margo had zoomed the photo and now she edged her reading glasses higher on her nose. “The older one, Jessica?”

“Jennifer. Jen,” I corrected.

“Jen looks like Jack in drag.” When I sniffed, she said, “Oh, don't get your knickers in a twist. Jack's good-looking. I meant it as a compliment. I assume the boy is thrilled, and you are . . . ?” She flashed me an appraising look. “You don't know yet. Right. Too early. You'll figure it out in a few years.”

She handed me back my iPhone and called out in her director's voice, “Lydia, a touch more sweetness in the voice when you squat down for the eye-to-eye with the kids.” She scribbled some words on her clipboard and turned back to me. “You haven't told me how the Scott situation panned out Tuesday night.”

I'd avoided phoning Margo over the last two days, deciding I'd deal with the subject of Scott in person after Friday morning Zumba, when she'd be too wrung out to be on top of her gossip game. But she hadn't shown up that morning, and when I checked I'd discovered Margo had dropped the summer class. She'd told Em that with so much going on at the theater and some personal issues to deal with, she didn't have the time or, frankly, the inclination to dance. But for a woman who thought “private” started with “pry” for a reason, there was always time for inappropriate questions.

“The handsome colonel still make your heart go pitty-pat?” she asked now. When I gave her nothing with a warning glance, she switched gears. “And Bunny? Cackle, cackle. Did she fly over for the occasion or did she leave her broom at home?”

So I spilled the divorce story, a highly condensed version, filling in the source but leaving out the location where I heard it, skipping the entire “Scott and Nora at Coneheads” episode. Why give her more ways to torture me? In fact, at the mention of the Goddards' split, her pupils dilated to black caviar beads. “Well, well, he broke the spell,” she chanted. “Finally. And now the door is open for the beautiful princess to sweep through, dance off with the handsome prince, and live happily ever after. Mazel tov!”

My face must have registered skepticism, because she added, “Oh, I get it. Now that the moral coast is clear, and the bitchy ship has sailed, you're what . . . scared your daydreams, wet dreams, or whatever will come true?” Her tone flipped to soothing. “Ah, this is about Lon, of course. The blithe spirit.”

That was close enough to the truth to make me shiver. The ghost in the wings.

“Lon's gone, Norrie. And that's a damn shame. But you're here. You've been through the seven or twenty-seven phases of grief, and I know I'm not supposed to tell you”—as if she hadn't a hundred times over—“but you're
past due to let it go. Let the poor man's spirit rest in peace and get on with your life. Please. Do that.”

An arpeggio resounded through the hall. There was a flurry up front and Margo let me go to announce, “Okay. Owen, Lydia, we're going to run through the ‘Shall We Dance?' number. Let's try”—she cast a meaningful glance at me—“not to trip ourselves up this time.”

Emine Haydar slipped into the seat next to me as Anna and the King of Siam swung into their waltz. Once a week, Margo's largesse extended to providing a catered midday meal for the cast and crew, and Em had just laid out lunch. The café was less than a five-minute drive from the playhouse so the gyro sandwiches—filled with heavenly spiced meatballs called
kofte
, succulent lamb, and chicken—were still warm and their fragrance drifted into the theater from the greenroom.

Em had been around for two previous rehearsals, but this was the first time she'd seen the players in costume.

“I was twelve when I saw the film in Turkey,” she whispered, watching the dancers take their positions. “We got the American movies late, sometimes decades later.
The King and I
was my favorite. I had a mad crush on Yul Brynner and clipped photos of him from the fan magazines.” I could feel her glowing in the semidarkness. “Oh, look at her hoop skirt when she turns. Beautiful.” Em's applause after they twirled to a perfect finish echoed through the nearly empty theater. She stopped clapping when a call vibrated on her cell phone.

It was from Adnan, and it wasn't good news.

Merry had been fired from her job at Clean on Board. What had begun as an argument between her and a coworker, angry words flung across the bed they were making, had turned into a shoving match. According to
the only eyewitness, Merry shoved first and the other girl pushed back. By the time a supervisor intervened, he was dealing with a slap fight. After he separated the two, Merry took off. Grabbed her backpack and dashed out the door of the house in the Surfside Villas development west of town. “They have no idea where she went,” Emine said. “But she was wild when she ran away. They used that word, Adnan said. Wild.”

I didn't have to close my eyes to imagine. I'd witnessed a few of her tantrums.

“She didn't answer when they called to tell her they would mail her the last check for working, so they called the café. Two hours ago this happened, and they only contact the parents now. Adnan is out in the streets looking for her.”

“Of course he tried her cell.”

“No answer.” Em punched in the speed dial, then speakerphone.

I heard, “Yo, it's Merry. Say what you have to say and if it's interesting I'll get back to you. Maybe.” A giggle at the end.

Em shook her head in frustration. Then she said, “Meryem, I just heard from the cleaning people about the trouble and I am worried where you are. Please call me as soon as possible.”

She mumbled to me, “Most of the times she doesn't. I'm not interesting enough.”

“Maybe
I
am.”

I held out my hand for the phone. I wanted to shake the girl, but I muted my voice to a purr. “Merry, it's Aunt Norrie. Sweetheart, we need to know you're safe. That you weren't injured. We want you to tell us what happened. Your side of the story. I'm with your mom at the Driftwood, Aunt Margo's theater. If you'd rather talk to me, you have my number. Get back to one of us. Soon, Merry. Please.

“Does she have a special place to go when she wants to calm herself?” I asked Em, thinking about Jack and Mooncussers Rock.

Emine frowned. “She used to visit the crazy cat lady.”

Merry was obsessed with cats—Adnan wouldn't allow her to keep one so close to where food was prepared—and she'd liked to visit the informal refuge for strays Miss Hazel Henlopen had maintained in her large, dilapidated house surrounded by woods. After Miss Hazel died in April, apparently while trying to heft a fifty-pound bag of kitty litter, the place had been locked up, scheduled for demolition in the fall.

“Some of the cats ran off. Some were taken away. Without the cats, there is no reason for Merry to go there anymore,” Em said.

“Can you think of other places she'd hang out?”

“Where she goes these days, she doesn't tell me. She could be hitchhiking home.” Em's voice rose perilously. “Or walking on the side of the road, and if the cars swerve . . .”

I squeezed her hand and ground out a smile. “I'll bet right now she's drinking a milkshake in McDonald's and bragging to her friends about how she decked some girl who dissed her. Maybe if you checked around with some of them . . .”

Em stared at me as if I'd just discovered a new planet. “So smart, Nora. Her friends. Yes, I'll call the ones I have numbers for.”

None of them had seen or heard from Merry, knew anything, had any idea about where she might be, and, yeah, sure they'd get back in touch if . . .

“They keep their chums' secrets, teenagers,” Em said after she'd exhausted her address book and we were in the lobby heading toward the greenroom and life-giving caffeine. “You know she makes me a dragon in their eyes. So they will think it is snitching. Is nothing worse than a snitch, Meryem tells me. When she finds out I spoke to her friends, she will be furious.”

“She has no right to be anything but sorry,” I griped.

A boom of thunder rolled through the building, followed by a flash of lightning that lit the sky beyond the lobby's glass doors, which were
etched with a stylized depiction of driftwood. Within seconds, the rain swelled from a shower to a battering deluge.

“She'll be caught in this.” Em was rocking back and forth, worry propelling her.

“Merry's in McDonald's or Starbucks or she'll duck into one. Damn! My car windows are down.” I grabbed an umbrella from a stand near the box office and called behind me to Em as I dashed out, “Margo keeps brandy in the greenroom. Pour yourself a shot. I'll be back in a sec.”

The umbrella was wind whipped to uselessness, so I was soaked when five minutes later I pushed open the lobby door and came face-to-face with Meryem Haydar. Her hair was drenched and flattened and her mascara streaked dark blue rivulets down her cheeks.

“Aunt Norrie,” she said, “oh my God.” She made for my arms, then backed off. “Sorry. I'm a mess. I don't want to get you wet . . .” We stared at each other, dripping, grotesque, then both started laughing.
Inappropriate,
I thought.
I should be livid.
What she had put her mother through! But the relief at seeing her safe flooded out my anger for the moment. I couldn't tell if she was wiping rain or tears from her eyes before I moved to enfold her. Against my neck, she whimpered, “I am so in trouble, right?”

“Yup,” I answered. “
So
in trouble.”