Barefoot Beach (37 page)

Which was probably why, during my first conversation with Flip, when I'd asked her to keep our call confidential, she'd replied, “Real estate agents are like doctors and lawyers. We observe a professional code of confidentiality. I don't tell Margo Manolis and you don't tell her. Deal?”

A thank-God deal. Margo would have eviscerated me on the spot had she known about Flip and me. But she didn't know, would never know.

We parted ways—with a double kiss on the cheek from her—at the
sculptor's tent. Just in time, too. I was alone, approaching my car, when my cell phone rang. It was Flip to tell me the darling couple thought the house was adorable, absolutely charming, but with only three bedrooms and no pool, not quite for them.

That was, without a doubt, the whitewashed version of their reaction. They'd probably thrown up over the deck into my hydrangea bush and had a good laugh about the twenty-year-old wallpaper in the second-floor bathroom, which was mustard color and flocked with fleur-de-lis.

I'd never hired her, but that afternoon, I fired Flip Tarlow.

In the days before Dirk's second visit, Jack had been incessantly whistling his anthem, “Here Comes the Sun/Son,” and, as obedient as one of his Sea Spot Run canine clients, a golden disk rose in a cloudless sky on Saturday morning.

Jack bounded down the stairs and into the kitchen, reading aloud from his iPhone. “Head-high SSE medium period swell with occasional one- to two-foot overhead high sets. Oh yeah. Perfect conditions.”

He and Dirk had plans to surf off the beach at Rehoboth. I wasn't thrilled with the idea. I whisked eggs in a bowl. “You're not pushing him to do this, right?” I asked.

“Me? No way!” Jack swigged orange juice straight from the container. “It was his idea.”

I could see Dirk in the white doc's jacket, the rep tie, the fancy watch, but not so much in palm-tree-printed board shorts. “It just seems strange,” I said. “A forty-eight-year-old man riding the waves. Late forties are already heart attack territory.”

“Mom, there's a guy down at the Spindrift who's gotta be eighty and he's still going strong. If you're in decent shape you can go on forever.”

The pan was hot, butter sizzling. I poured the eggs and started to scramble.

“Besides, Dirk's a cardiologist so he knows that territory. He wouldn't risk his life. Jen says he's a fitness fanatic. He's a runner and he goes to the gym before work. On weekends he cycles the mountains. He'll probably make me look like a measly wimp.”

I stopped scrambling to wave a spatula at him, “Listen, I want you to be careful. No showing off for him, you understand?”

Jack swiped his mouth with the bottom of his T-shirt. “I'm not into hotdogging. That's just dumb.” He ambled over to pat my arm. “Come on, Mom, relax. I'm nineteen, and I started lessons when I was seven. Remember what Dad used to say? ‘First in his class at boarding school.'”

Lon loved the daredevil in his son. When I'd expressed fear at Jack's lack of fear, Lon had shot back, “I'd rather the kid break his neck than we break his spirit.” I hadn't liked the choices.

“Dirk's really experienced,” Jack said, reassuring me. “He says that South Beach near San Francisco is incredible in the fall. They get these crazy currents from the Golden Gate Bridge that make for some wild rides. November is the best month.”

Also Thanksgiving vacation. Would there be an invitation for a trip out west to get to know the DeHaven sisters over turkey and stuffing? Would all those genetically linked Californians—Jack carrying the daring chromosomes—be off to the beach to ride unpredictable waves to who knew what shore?

Twenty minutes later, I heard Jack yell from the front hall, “Mom, I'm leaving. We'll be home around five.”

I answered, sounding so laid-back I gave myself a gold star for good mother. Josh would have been pleased. “Give my regards to Dirk. And have a super day. Oh, and what time are dinner reservations?”

Jack had made them. “Six thirty at a new place, the Flying Jib. It's on Teal Duck Creek. I thought it would be a change for him from the ocean view, and the food's supposed to be great. Heavy on the seafood.”

I hadn't told him I'd already been there. With Scott. Eating mussels, calamari, and crab cakes. And I didn't mention it now. Good thing, too, or my front door would have slammed harder than it did.

I also spent the afternoon riding waves. Metaphorically.

My destination had been the opposite—total calm. Marely's Cove, an elbow of beach, was off the tourist track. The dunes were high and they slanted deep shadows, so the area didn't attract sun worshippers. Brambles, craggy rocks, driftwood obstacles, and shell-paved sand made the place inhospitable to kids and tender adults. In high summer, algae that collected in the tidal pools gave off a stink. I liked the marshy smell. The cove was perfect for what I had in mind. Which was nothing. Absolutely nothing. I carried an oversized towel and a plastic bottle of what had started out as ice water. No books. No music. It was pretty much me and my mantra. Though I hardly meditated anymore, I knew I could reach back for it when I needed a sweet piece of peace.

Margo and I had met in a college class called Meditation and the Soul of Performance. The first token of our friendship had been sharing our mantras. Mine was
sita ram
, which was supposed to open the heart to love. Hers was
so hum
, a phrase she'd chosen because it sounded like a Jewish mother's affectionate instruction. “As in,” she liked to say, “so hum already, darling.”

I laughed as I walked down the path to the beach. A man seated nearby didn't lift his eyes from the
Wall Street Journal
. A crab skittering toward the water ignored me, and a great egret, its elegant head turned away, stood motionless on a half-submerged rock, intent upon searching out a fish dinner. I cleared a spot on the sand, spread my towel, lay back, closed my eyes, and synchronized my breathing to the pulse of the surf, and soon everything washed away—the past, the future, even the moment. I drifted down into my own internal ocean. I didn't know or care how long I was under. At
some point, a secret signal prompted what should have been a gradual rise to the surface. But halfway there, the cell phone I thought I'd turned to silent before leaning it against the water bottle vibrated with a
clickety-click
, jolting me up. I gasped and grabbed for it. I could have turned it off. Then I saw the ID, Nate Greenberg, and I couldn't.

“Hey, Nora. Sorry to disturb you on a Saturday. I hope I'm not interrupting anything important.”

“Just an afternoon on the beach.”

“Lucky you. Okay, I'll make this quick. Yesterday I had lunch with a fiction editor at Marquis and Company, one of the big five publishers. We were meeting to discuss a totally different project and in passing I happened to mention
Thunder Hill Road
. Honestly, I was bowled over by Zach's reaction. Growing up, he'd read
Canyon of Time
and he'd been hooked, a major Lon Farrell fan, though he found the last two books disappointing. Especially
Wild Mountain
. He thought the pace was slow and the plot somewhat stale. I hope you don't take this personally.”

“No,” I said. “That was the consensus among the reviewers, the pace part.”

“Right, so I didn't argue the point. And the ‘stale' comment was a perfect opening for relating how we brought this new young talent on board and how Hector's freshness and vibrant approach to telling this powerful story fused with Lon's mastery of the genre. That got Zach's attention. Bottom line, he'd like to take a look at what we have so far. I gave you my word that I'd run everything by you.” There was a nervous tapping on the other end. “So, are you okay with this?”

“Yes. Fine. Sure,” I said, trying to keep my enthusiasm tamped down, but Nate picked up on it.

“Nora, I don't want you to make too much of this. It's a nibble, that's all. Even if the Marquis people pick it up, I don't see it as a blockbuster. It's a prestige thing for them, having Lon Farrell as one of their authors. So no big bucks in sight. But you're not doing this for the money, anyway.”

No, I thought, but I wouldn't have turned it away had it come flooding in.

“What we're going for here is to honor one of the outstanding writers of his generation. Reacquaint the American reader with his writing. That would be the marketing angle. Resurrecting Lon—sorry, bad choice of words—cementing his legacy is a great story. The problem is that doing book tours, interviews, TV appearances without the author is going to be a push. Lon was a media darling with the Irish twinkle and the quick wit. Imagine him with Jimmy Kimmel.” He sighed. “Even if they'll have Hector, he's no Lon. He doesn't have the looks or the charm to play well on the small screen. Anyway, we'll cross that bridge when, God willing, we come to it. Meanwhile, I'll get that manuscript to Zach. And keep you in the loop, of course. What's the weather like there?”

Suddenly sunny. The dunes hadn't shifted, but I had. I latched onto the possibility of a new book that would reach a new audience and I held on to it for dear life. Mine. Because if I could help create this living memorial to Lon, I might be able to move on. As Nate and I chatted about the weather, I walked to the water's edge, which was bathed in a noon glow. The wind was picking up. Over in Dewey Beach, Jack and Dirk must have been riding high. Everyplace I looked, the horizon was bright.

After Nate signed off, I had maybe twenty seconds to bask in his announcement before Margo rang with her news. Whatever Pete was doing for the Orioles—PR, player relations—he was obviously knocking it out of the park. Yesterday, the O's had matched the TV station's offer, and when Pete asked for time to consider, they upped it and added a re-sign bonus. Pete was out surf fishing at the moment, which was his version of meditating. He wanted to talk his decision through with her tomorrow.

First I'd heard about it, but Margo had a project of her own, a secret (even from me) dream she'd put on hold, and now, with the raise and the bonus, there was money to make it happen. She knew Pete was going to
tell her to go full speed ahead. He really was a wonderful man. They really had a wonderful marriage. Life. He'd stay where he was, in the O's front office where the testosterone was so pure and potent that a woman could grow hair on her chest just breathing the air. Margo would stay where she was too. She'd cancel the private investigator's retainer and the meeting with her lawyer the shark. Case closed.

It never would be, I thought. Not for her. Not as long as Pete and women existed on the same planet. But for now, at least, she was happy.

By ten past six, I was fretting at the time—we had dinner reservations for six thirty—and over what looked like the beginnings of a storm stirring the sky out my kitchen window. Where the hell were they—still on the water? Was that thunder? Or maybe it was the garage door I heard, rumbling open and shut. After a moment, the side door slammed and Jack called, “We're here.”

I put my pen down. I'd just signed Sal Zito's contract renewing my studio lease with the increase. Sal's terms included a ninety-day kick-out clause, and I knew I could come up with three months' rent, and we'd see after that. Emine and I were still exchanging emails about our plan for drumming up business, which looked promising. Besides, I couldn't let the masseuse Sal had waiting in the wings muscle me out of the space. Probably most of what we were operating on was hope, but there were worse things to keep you going.

“Mom, where are you?”

“Kitchen,” I called back.

Jack rock and rolled in on a swagger, with Dirk behind him, marching to his own quick step.

I gave them an approving once-over. “You're all cleaned up.” I'd stacked towels in the guest bathroom upstairs just in case.

“We showered at the Spindrift,” my son informed me. “Tony says hi, by the way.” His favorite teacher at his old “boarding” school.