Barefoot Beach (43 page)

“You're moving in with him?” Margo's eyes, even without the mascara, were huge.

“I'll be moving out of Baltimore and looking for my own place in Bethesda. That's the preliminary plan. But let's see where the road takes me. Or,” I corrected the passive to active, “what road I take.”

It had been a busy summer. I'd saved a kid or two, a house, maybe Lon's legacy. With my call to Tess (and when I'd given her my “yes,” she'd said in her sweetest, most sincere voice, “You won't be sorry”), with that leap of faith, I might have kept the summers I loved with the friends I loved.

And now it was time to pack it up. On my feet, staring at the ocean, I said, “High tide is due in about fifteen minutes. We need to have the fire out and the place cleaned up before the tide sweeps everything out to sea. Town council rules. Let's get going.”

We got to work. Once finished, we slung our chairs over our shoulders. Trust the tide to come in on time. As we walked the sand, it vacuumed our footprints behind us, the only sign we'd been there.

I'd left the deck light on. Behind its panoramic window, the great room shone golden, and someone—guess who—had turned on all the lamps in the master bedroom. The house that I hoped would be mine for
my
forever, and Jack's after that, was a softly glowing beacon in the dark.

The small white string lights draped on the fence lining the beach path suddenly came to life. That had to be Scott's doing. He must have heard our laughter drawing near and flicked them on by remote. We passed early signs of fall along the trail: big bluestem grass, silvery in summer, beginning to shade into autumn purple; a few clumps of star asters getting
a head start; and yellowing Northwind switch grass poking through the fence posts. As the lane narrowed, we edged into single file. Me first, then Em, then Margo. The path was clear and smooth enough for us to put one foot in front of the other without losing our balance. It was an easy passage. We just followed the lights.

First, thank you to my multitalented agent, Elaine English, who has believed in me and my work through three novels under her care. Her guidance and encouragement have been invaluable and her friendship is cherished.

I'm grateful to my Penguin Random House team more than I can express, especially Ellen Edwards, who played a major role in shaping the narrative from its inception, and Tracy Bernstein, my amazing editor, who gets my sensibility and my writing at every level; she has perfect pitch and a keen eye that monitors details but never fails to see the greater vision.

This story required considerable research, and I, like Margo in
Barefoot Beach
, was fortunate to have a wide variety of experts backing me up. On the subject of dance/movement therapy, I am indebted to Sharon Chaiklin, a major figure in the field, and to Judith Fischer, one of its most notable practitioners, both of whom submitted to my interview process with patience and grace. Thank you, too, Fern Eisner, who knows the immediate world and shares her sources.

And then there are my theater people: Erica Ress-Martin of the Royal Palm Players and Rich Madzel of the Try It Out Theatre, who gave me insight into the workings on- and backstage. Toba Dobkin Barth also contributed her behind-the-scenes experiences and did double duty as
one of my two main beach mavens. She and Malynda Hawes Madzel led me on productive (and fun!) explorations of Maryland and Delaware beach towns. We watched sunsets and storms together, prowled craft festivals, and visited restaurants, shops, and secluded beaches. I used material from these excursions to weave the scrim of atmosphere for
Barefoot Beach
.

I thank my experts in all things Turkish: Hasan Ilk; Ali Ozgur Erdoğan; and Semra Tekmen. They were very generous in sharing details about their native country and culture.

For military, technical, and medical information, I am indebted to Mack Allemande, Sid Golden, Laurel Z. Ginsburg, Bernard Icore, and Benjamin Icore; and to A. E. Dees, whose unique perspective on the book and heartfelt belief in its author propelled the project from start to finish.

To those men and women of the United States Armed Forces, active and retired, who shared their stories with me in person and in online forums for wounded and amputee veterans (many of whom wished to remain anonymous): I hope I honored you in my portrayals.

I'm particularly grateful to Jon Faust for his expertise and willingness to share the skills he employs as a volunteer firefighter. He and his colleagues do remarkable lifesaving work. And I'm grateful to Baltimore's legendary TV reporter Andy Barth, my go-to guy for baseball information and material related to broadcasting.

Essential to my work are longtime writer friends who are memorable characters themselves. Among those who have dispensed advice unsparingly: Nancy Baggett; Randi DuFresne; Cronshi Englander; Ruth Glick; Connie Hay; Kathryn Kimball Johnson; Chassie West; Linda Williams; and Alan Zendell.

I must single out for their ongoing counsel and, as meaningful to me, for their cheerleading skills—they never lost faith in the story—Binnie Syril Braunstein and Joanne Settel.

Finally, but always primarily, I'm grateful to my family, who continue to provide support, love, and inspiration. Especially to my daughter, Amanda Schwartz Kennedy, who speaks her mind, lives her heart, and proves by the life she leads that she will always be my greatest creative production and most definitely her own person. It is to Amanda that this book is
dedicated.

Q. What does a typical writing day look like for you?

A. My day starts early because I tend to wake up raring to go. I'm a morning person, although once I'm well into the story I write whenever and wherever. For me, it's all about momentum. Once I've started, the endorphins kick in, and it's like a runner's high. I'll be at it for hours at a stretch, rousing myself only when I realize my tush has fallen asleep or I've skipped breakfast
and
lunch. And when I'm finished for the day, I play a trick on myself (and fall for it every time). I don't stop at the end of a chapter. I pause at an exciting point along the way so that I get a jump-start when I next pick up the narrative thread.

I do try to fit in time with friends for a power walk or a cup of coffee. Writing is an isolating experience and my theory is you need to get out in the world if you're going to write about it. Then again, I'm always writing, either on a keyboard or in my head—playing with the characters, nudging the plot along. When I'm working on a novel, I feel as if I'm living in two worlds. Half of me resides in a brick-and-mortar home in Maryland, while the other half is hanging out in a never-never land of my own making, in this case a lovely shore town named Tuckahoe Beach.

Q. Is Tuckahoe a real place, or based on a real town?

A. It's real to me and I hope to my readers, but, in truth, it's as imaginary as Shangri-La. There is no town named Tuckahoe in Maryland, though there is a Tuckahoe River and a Tuckahoe State Park on the state's Eastern Shore. Many sites in the area carry the names of Native American tribes. I chose Tuckahoe because I liked the rhythm of the word, which some scholars think is from the Algonquin language. My fantasy Tuckahoe Beach isn't based on any single place but was inspired by the resort towns along the Delmarva coast, where I spent a lot of time (poor me!) soaking in the atmosphere. Sufficiently soaked, I constructed a setting tailored to the needs of the story. And I had a wonderful time designing that beach town of my dreams. As I created it, I fell in love with it.

Q. Did the idea of the book begin with the setting or with the character?

A. I was standing on the balcony of a friend's condo. The sky was golden and the sea was mirror smooth. Ten minutes later, storm clouds rolled in. I watched transfixed as the first spatters pocked the sand below. By the time the wind had picked up and lashes of rain chased the sunbathers, I was thinking,
I want to write this.
The beach itself was already a fabulous character in my mind—beautiful, seductive, temperamental, and able to cause all kinds of havoc—and it became a character in the book. So to answer the question: both.

Q. Do you model your characters on people you know, on your own experiences? You write in first person, so how much of your protagonist is you?

A. I love a T-shirt my daughter gave me that warns, “Be careful what you say around me. You might appear in my next novel.” Funny. But not really
true. I wish I were talented enough to replicate in two dimensions some of the characters I know in three. Of course, if I
could
do that, I'd never confess to it. As for my own experiences, there's probably some of me in all of my characters, because to bring them to life I have to practically inhabit them. So, in my novels, I've been: a surgeon whose husband left her for a man, a Korean-Jewish cellist who suffers from stage fright, and now a dance therapist and owner of a ballroom and Zumba studio. Mind you, these are just the leads. Figure in the supporting players and I've been both genders, all ages, and I've worked at occupations as varied as molecular biologist and fish salesman. What an interesting life—lives!—I lead.

Q. In
Barefoot Beach
you write about dance-and-movement therapy, operating a repertory theater, owning a coffee shop, artificial insemination, wounded warriors, and military working dogs, among other topics. How do you research all these subjects?

A. The story may be fiction, the characters invented, but I firmly believe the facts should be authentic. That is a matter of respect—for the reader, for the work, for myself. When you write fiction you're casting a spell (the poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge called this compact between poet or novelist and reader “the willing suspension of disbelief”), but one false note, one breach of trust, and the spell can be broken. If the eye stops on what may be a teensy mistake but appears to the reader as a glaring blunder, she's tugged from the world I created. It's important to get it right, and research helps do that.

On a more personal level, research is a learning experience for an author and I relish it. In my first novel, Kat Greenfield, a fiber artist, employs a technique I knew nothing about. Luckily there was a talented weaver nearby willing to talk to me. More than just talk. Carol sat me down at her loom and led me through the basics. Such fun! So much information!

In
Happy Any Day Now
, my protagonist is a cellist. I don't play a note, but I learned how an orchestra operates. I interviewed musicians, gathered info on their online forums, then had performing cellists review the manuscript for accuracy. And the book, with insider details, was richer for it.

Nora Farrell is a dance therapist and teaches Zumba and ballroom because I took tap and ballet as a kid, Zumba as an adult, and have always loved to dance. But what I thought of as recreation became Nora's profession after I spoke to someone whose fine-motor coordination, damaged by a neurodegenerative disease, was being improved by dance therapy sessions. Also, in a dizzying twist of fate, I discovered—only after I'd chosen Nora's career and begun my research—that an iconic figure in the dance movement community lived a mile from my home and the national organization was located around the corner. How could I
not
have taken that for a sign? I spent hours interviewing the literal movers and shakers in the field, who shared their knowledge and experience.

Sometimes landing a great resource takes searching and a bit of persuading. Sometimes it's as quick as clipping a coupon. For the ballroom scenes, I snapped up a discount offered by a national chain of dance studios, took lessons, interviewed the instructors and the manager . . . and polished my tango.

On my research quest, I rely on the kindness of strangers, a number of whom have become friends. I'm grateful to all who generously shared with me.

Q. Readers often like to connect with authors via social media. Is that something you enjoy?

A. I do enjoy it, because I so appreciate hearing what they think and feel about my books, and about other topics. Maybe I'm slightly biased, but
they seem to be a particularly bright group. Of course, communicating in person, at appearances, signings, or book club meetings, is ideal. We can talk face-to-face and in some depth about all kinds of issues, some of which I address in my novels. But social media gives me a chance to reach out to huge numbers of readers, current and prospective, and have an immediate, sometimes instant exchange on Facebook or Twitter. I can converse one-on-one with a reader, and the world—
virtually
the world—can watch or join in. Here's to modern technology!

Q. You've written many articles. Which do you prefer, fiction or nonfiction?

A. These days, my heart belongs to fiction. In the long form, it's more challenging to bring off than a factual article or an opinion piece. The novelist has to create a universe from scratch, then keep the planets in motion and carefully track them for hundreds of pages. And yet what luxury to have the space to develop fully realized characters, play the themes throughout, and wind a plot from problematic start to satisfying ending. Besides, I get to write dialogue, which is a pleasure. Dialogue emerges more spontaneously than narrative for me, so some of my favorite lines in all novels, mine included, are uttered by characters. In
Barefoot Beach
, I'm thinking of Margo's witty and cutting ripostes, Merry's rebellious teenage slang, Jack's verbal duels with his mother.

And how's this for a fringe benefit? Because of its intricacy, its length, and its demand for the author's undivided attention, a novel, whether you're reading it or writing it, allows you to escape from your familiar environment. (Even if there's no place like home, it's fun to travel.) What other profession, with the possible exception of acting, allows its practitioners the opportunity to exist, for most of their waking hours, in a world completely different from the one that actually surrounds them? And mine, unlike the actor's, is of my own making. I write the lines. I
design the sets. I invent adventures and determine the outcomes. I run the show. Not a bad way to spend a day . . . or the greater part of a life.

Q. What are you working on now?

A. Two projects. I'm halfway through a novel about a family that welcomes an immigrant cousin into their home and the ways in which the search for his missing sister reverberates through their lives. Two settings—Brooklyn and Budapest—provide the background, and the story incorporates some of my favorite themes: mother-daughter relationships, romantic and sexual complications, the powerful bonds of female friendship, the immigrant experience, and how the past invades the present with unexpected consequences. The book is part history, part mystery, a tale of love, loss, and redemption, and, most of all, secrets—many secrets. And surprises.

But then there's the beach, which is so alluring, so sultry, whether it's Fire Island, Malibu, or Cannes. Another story currently percolating unfolds on beaches around the world as it follows my protagonist's adventures and misadventures. She . . . No, I'll stop there. I don't want to talk it out; I want to write it out.