Beach Glass (31 page)

BETHY KNOWS I’M no longer a birthday person, but this party isn’t really for me. The kids love birthdays, their own or anyone else’s, as long as there are balloons and singing and cake. My thirty-second is a good excuse for a backyard barbecue, though I suspect my sister is trying to pull me out of one of my low times. The “Dada” question didn’t go away after my talk with Amanda at the beach. It just became more refined, now
Daddy
, and direct, not as much a question as a demand.

Ray, wearing his KISS THE COOK apron, grills up a feast of burgers, hot dogs, and corn, and now he sits at the table with both Celia and Amanda on his lap.

Celia, now five, is good to her little cousin, but she’s at an age where she can be possessive. “He’s
not
your daddy, ‘Manda,” she corrects. “He’s your
uncle.
”

“Easy, now, Celia,” Ray says, “Amanda’s not even a year old yet. She doesn’t understand.”

Just as I feel tears for my daughter, knowing how she’ll ache like I did without a father, Bethy comes out of the kitchen singing “Happy Birthday.” I wipe my eyes quickly as the cake comes, and they all sing. Bethy sets the homemade chocolate cake, decorated by the kids with wild swirls of sprinkles, in front of me. Sparklers fizz and candles glow.

“Go ahead, Katy,” Bethy says, “make a wish.”

I look at Amanda. The candles are reflected in those emerald eyes, and I let myself get blissfully lost, visiting an innocent past just for a moment. Then she smiles and claps her little hands. I take a deep breath—for her, every breath, everything I do and want is for her—and wish.

AUTUMN LEAVES ARE slow to change in California. Mom says it’s a typical chilly November back in New York, but here, in Santa Monica, I just have to bring light sweaters for Amanda and me when it gets late at the park not far from Bethy’s house.

Amanda is in her glory, ruling the sandbox because all the other kids have gone home with their parents. “We’re down to our last baggie of Cheerios, kid,” I say. “You can make one more sand pie, and then we go back to Aunt Bethy’s for dinner, okay?”

Shaking her head, Amanda says her new favorite word, “No,” and grasps another fistful of damp sand with a dimple-chubby hand. I sigh, knowing I have zero clout next to a whole sandbox she doesn’t have to share.

Behind me, I hear someone calling my name, probably one of the daddies who forgot something. I turn around and see a tall man with dark hair. At first, his pace is slow and unsure. Then, when he sees me, he speeds up, hurrying toward me. As the man comes closer, my eyes tell me something I can’t believe.

It’s Daniel.

When he reaches me, he’s smiling and shaking his head. “I thought that was you, but I couldn’t believe it!” he says. “What a small world, huh?”

I stand up, taking him in, recognizing him and yet not. The maple syrup-colored eyes are the same, but I can see them now because his dark hair is cut shorter and pushed to the side. And his tall frame is filled out. His chest is broad, his arms and legs muscled and toned beneath a deep blue silk T-shirt, slate grey jeans, and a black suede jacket I know is by the rock n’ roll designer John Varvatos. And no beat up sneakers anymore, but stylishly tough motorcycle boots.

“Daniel,” I say, stunned, “is it really you? What are you doing here?”

“I’m with the Wailing Walls,” he explains. “We’re recording just a few blocks away.”

Daniel was working on the Wailing Walls’ first album when we met, and they’d become a huge top ten band since then. “You’re engineering their album?”

“No, I’m producing it,” he says, a hint of pride in his voice. He laughs at my thrilled surprise. “You always told me I could graduate from engineer to producer if I went for it. And I did.” His grin is shy, but it’s still a grin.

“Daniel, that’s amazing, congratulations!”

“Thanks,” he says. “I’m going to be out here for the next couple of months. The band’s taking a break, so I figured I’d get some air, and, wow, Katy,” he says, shaking his head again, his smile warm and joyful. “I can’t believe running into you like this.”

“It’s so random,” I say.

His smile twists wryly. “You never believed in randomness. You used to say everything was fate.”

I look away and shrug. “Yeah, well. A lot has changed.”

“I read your book,” Daniel says. “Actually, I read it five times.
Spirit
was beautiful, Katy. I’d say amazing, but I wasn’t surprised. I always knew you could do that kind of work.”

“Thank you, Daniel. That really means a lot to me.”

“It was nice of you to put me in the acknowledgements. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to. You were the one who always told me I should write and that I could.”

We smile at each other for a moment. Then Daniel asks, “You’re here visiting your sister?” I nod, and he looks at the child in the sandbox. “But
 . . .
this isn’t Celia.”

“This is Amanda,” I say. “My daughter.”

He takes a deep breath, as though what he’s about to say requires effort. “Congratulations. So, uh, you and Carson started a family.”

“Carson is—” I think of Amanda, and then say, “Carson passed away two years ago.”

Daniel looks back at me quickly, knowing he heard me but still shocked. “Katy. My God.” He touches my shoulder. “I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all right.” Nothing about it is all right, but no one wants to hear that.

“If I’d known, I would’ve
 . . .
. Oh, Katy.” Daniel takes my hand. His is so warm and feels wonderfully familiar, something from another time.

Just then, Amanda taps Daniel’s leg with her pink plastic shovel. “Daddy?” she asks, looking up at him and smiling.

I bite my lip, a little embarrassed. “You’ll have to forgive her. She sees other kids’ fathers, and she keeps asking me where hers is.”

“She doesn’t remember him?” Daniel asks.

“She never knew him,” I answer. “He died before she was born.”

Amanda drops her shovel and puts her hand on Daniel’s leg. “Daddy?” she asks again.

I’m about to tell her this isn’t Daddy when Daniel kneels down to her. “Hi, little princess,” he says, smiling. He offers his hand as if to shake hers. She takes hold of his thumb and looks at him with inquisitive eyes. Daniel looks up at me, beaming. “She looks so much like your baby pictures, Katy.” He looks back at her again. “Hi, little princess.”

Amanda, still holding Daniel’s thumb and staring at him, suddenly breaks into a big smile, as though he’s done something magical just by being here. Then she gets down to baby business. Still holding his thumb, she shows him her sand pie handiwork. He tells her she’s an artisan and asks if she’ll show him how it’s done. She tugs at him, and he sits down in the sandbox with her. Soon his jeans are covered in wet sand, but he doesn’t seem to mind. I slowly sit back down on the ledge of the sandbox and watch them, spellbound by a scene I always dreamed of and could never have imagined.

As the sun sets, Daniel continues to play with Amanda, showing her how to decorate the sand pies by making designs in them with their fingers and with some of her Cheerios. She’s very happy with this new element of sand pie production.

When Daniel’s cell phone rings, he completes a pie design for Amanda before answering. “They’re back from break? Okay, tell them to go get some dinner or rehearse that new song. I’ll be there in a while.”

When he hangs up, I ask, “Was that the band?”

Daniel nods. “They can wait,” he says, apparently deciding that a multi-platinum top ten band is less important than making a wavy crust for Amanda’s sand pie. I’d have said the same, but to see Daniel think it, too is, well, impressive.

When the park lights flicker on, it’s time to go, and Daniel helps me gather Amanda’s things. Before I can bend down to pick her up, she reaches for him, and he lifts her into his arms. “Daniel, you don’t have to do that.”

“I’m good,” he says. “We good here, princess?”

Amanda looks at him and does a baby swoon, letting her head fall to his shoulder. Daniel laughs in surprise. Then, moved by her gesture of trust, he rests his cheek against hers. When her arm curls around his neck, his eyes close for a moment.

I’ve seen people change over time. My mother, when she let herself love again. Carson’s father, when he learned what love could be. Me, when I took a chance on trusting myself. Daniel, though, hasn’t changed as much as I thought he had. I look at him now and see the man I always knew he was and could be.

It’s a shame that’s come to light too late.

The sun begins to dip into a purple horizon as the three of us walk slowly through the park. We pass an elderly couple sitting on a bench, holding hands.

As we walk by, the woman nudges the man. “Such a beautiful family,”
she says.

When we get to my SUV, I put the brake on the baby stroller. “Well, this is me.”

“Oh,” Daniel says, sounding disappointed, “okay.”

I open up the back door, and Daniel seems reluctant to let go of my sleeping child so I can put her in the car seat. He watches me intently, his hand on the door, keeping it open. “You know,” he says, “from what I’ve heard about new moms, they like a night out every now and then.”

“You know many new mothers?” I ask. I want to close the car door, but he’s still holding it open.

“Some of my friends are parents. The band brought their families with them.” A gentle, innocent smile comes to his full lips. “Would you like a night out, Katy?”

I sigh and look at the concrete sidewalk. “There’s a lot of water under this bridge, Daniel.”

“I know.” He pauses for a moment before quickly coming back with, “How about this: it’s just dinner.”

I look up at him, and because he knows my confused face, I don’t have to ask what he means before he explains. “This doesn’t have to be a big deal, Katy. Not intense, or difficult, no huge relationship rehash. Just two old friends sitting down to eat Italian food at this excellent Tuscan place I found. Come on.” His smile is difficult to resist. “What’s a little eggplant parmesan between friends?”

“I CAN’T BELIEVE you’re doing this,” Bethy says as she watches me get ready.

“What?” I ask. “Going out on a Saturday night, like a real person? Wearing a nice dress instead of yoga pants and a baby-food-stained T-shirt?”

“No, wasting your time going out with Daniel North.” She flops with exasperation on the bed in the room I stay in when Amanda and I visit. “Jeez, Katy, when I said you should think about dating again, I didn’t mean dating stupid.”

“What kind of dating did you mean?” I put on the amethyst earrings that I forgot go so perfectly with this silk teal dress I never get to wear. “The kind where I go out with a stranger and try to tell the story of the Tragic Widowed Mom without ruining the entire evening? Talk about baggage. ‘My husband is dead, bizarre surfing accident, and by the way, hope you like kids.’” I run a brush through my hair a little too hard. “Bethy, I am the dating equivalent of a lap full of ice water.”

My sister scoffs. “Like you even tried.”

“My test cases at the playground with the divorced daddies didn’t go too well,” I snap.

“Two guys!” my sister exclaims. “Okay, so you ran into two idiots who couldn’t handle the story. Not everybody’s going to be that weird, Katy.”

“Yes, maybe they’ll be weirder. At least with Daniel I’ll know what to expect.”

“Which is what, exactly?” Bethy shoots back. “Nothing at all?”

I give her a look heavy with
Shut up
. “I won’t have to say much. He’ll listen to me. He’ll feel bad for me without making me feel like I’m the most pathetic woman on the planet. And,” I add, to cut off the speech I can see Bethy preparing to make, “then he’ll go home. Same as always. No surprises, which suits me fine.”

“So you catch up on the last few years, you eat some food, and then you both go to your respective homes. Just like the good ol’ days.” Bethy rolls her eyes. “Katy, this is a total waste of your time.”

“Do you remember,” I ask Bethy, my words coming out round as I carefully line my lips, “the last time I bothered putting on makeup?”

“Then it’s a waste of time
and
lip gloss,” she mutters. “You should put on makeup for yourself, not Daniel. Freakin’ waste case.”

I burn a level gaze at her in the mirror before going to the closet and holding up two different pairs of high-heeled shoes. “Grey kitten or brown stiletto?”

“I’m not aiding and abetting this date,” she says, shaking her head stubbornly.

“It’s
not
a
date
,” I insist for the fifth or fiftieth time since I told Bethy, with now justified reluctance, about running into Daniel at the park. As pissed as I’m getting at her and as stressed as I am about running late, I feel a small spark light up again about that meeting. How incredibly random to run into Daniel, even in the same city.
Random? It’s almost impossible.

I used to believe in fate, that everything happened for a reason. Until Carson died. There can be no reason for that. None that I would ever want to know.

But that would mean my meeting with Daniel wasn’t fate, just a weird twitch of time and place. And maybe I am getting too dressed up and acting like this is a date when it’s so not. It’s just two people who used to be close and who haven’t seen each other in years catching up over dinner.

Oh God.

Still holding the two mismatched shoes, I sink into the chair in the corner of my room as a weight lands on my shoulders like a heavy shroud. It’s not that I think Bethany’s right about Daniel. The sudden sadness is the vision of what Daniel and I have become. I said yes to this dinner because I wanted to feel something of my old self and that comforting closeness we shared. I knew I could tell Daniel something bad, something terrible, because that’s what my story is, and he would understand completely, having been through something terrible himself.

But it’s not going to be that way. He’ll over-sympathize, the way people do. I’ll change the subject quickly to try to get the taint of pity off me. Then he’ll tell me how great his life is and that he’s found somebody else, because that’s what always happens when you break up with someone you thought you were going to be with forever. They get better looking and go to the gym and get an amazing job and do all the things you begged them to do when they were with you, but they do it for their new girlfriend. And they live happily ever after with someone else.

Or, it will be even worse than that. The closeness I want won’t be there, and Daniel and I will be strangers.

“Katy?” My sister sees me crying and comes over to me, kneeling in front of the chair. “Katy, what’s wrong?”

“I just wanted to be with someone who knew me from before all of this happened. I wanted, like, for just a little while,” I whisper, my chin trembling, “to be me again.”

Bethy’s eyes get bright with tears. “Katy, I’m sorry. I said all that stuff about Daniel because I didn’t want you to get hurt again. But you’re right. Go with him. Who knows?” She tries for a laugh. “He might be fun to hang out with.”