Blue Jeans and Coffee Beans (14 page)

“You should really call Eva and let her know you’re okay. She’ll be worried about you.”

“I would, but I left my phone at the cottage,” Maris says. Jason gives her his phone, and she stands off to the side and calls while he places their orders at the walk-up window of The Clam Shack. “Two large orders of clams, one strips, one bellies,” she hears him say while dialing Eva’s. “Two large fries, two lemonades and a side of coleslaw.”

They eat at a stone table near the water, swapping bellies for strips until Maris refuses Jason’s offer of another belly with a sincere “Yuck.” A sea breeze lifts off the Sound, and after eating they bring their coffees to the iron railing, looking out over the water, commenting on passing pleasure boats, imagining which one they might own. It grows dark beneath a starry sky and Jason thinks back to a night long ago, leaning on the railing at Foley’s. Maris has made a life for herself since that night. She’s built a career moving around the country identifying fashion trends, learning fabrics and designing clothes, hooking up with someone back in Chicago while she was at it. A corporate attorney, according to Eva.

But fate brought her back here this summer, to Stony Point. Standing beside her now, if he isn’t mistaken, there might be some bit of unfinished business between them. He rests his arms on the railing, the night sea unfolding before them. “There’s nothing like being at the water to put life into perspective. To help uncomplicate things?”

“Oh, if only it were that easy. Some complications run as deep as those currents out there.”

“Well, you know what they say. The sea air cures what ails you.”

“That’s what your brother used to say, all the time,” Maris says, leaning her arms on the railing too, close enough to touch his. “Neil loved the summer.”

Jason glances at her. “Did he ever. If he wasn’t on the beach, he was rowing in the lagoon, or sitting out on the porch half the night.”

“Does it ever get any easier? I mean with Neil, do you still miss him?”

“Every day.” He looks out at the choppy water. Distant harbor lights twinkle along the black horizon. “Every day.”

Maris is quiet beside him then, looking out at the Sound, too. “I hate to leave here,” she finally says, in almost a whisper, “but Madison’s been inside all afternoon.”

“That’s okay, we’ll head back. I’ve got some plans to finish up for tomorrow, too.” They walk to his SUV and Jason wonders if she feels as reluctant as he does to leave this place beneath the stars, on the water.

On the ride back, she tells him about being Saybrooks’ Senior Denim Designer. “It’s not like the old days. So much of my work is electronic now. I use a stylus to design on my tablet and I read the digital trend reports. But I still begin with paper sketches. The day I stop visiting vendors and touching the fabrics, going to shows and seeing the runway fashions is the day I pack it up.” She pauses as they near The Sand Bar. “I envy you, in a way.”

“Me?”

“Yes. You’ve kept your work personal, and
here
, of all places.”

“Not always, though. I tested the waters with corporate work.”

“And what made you come back to restoring beach homes?”

“Mostly Neil. When I worked in the city, a day would go by without a thought of him. Then another, and it felt like I was losing him all over again. Then I took a side job renovating a cottage porch and there he was. In the design. This was our gig together before he died, and it brings him back, in a way.”

“Wouldn’t he be proud.” Maris leans back and considers him. “A local architect restoring beautiful old beach homes on the shoreline. Yup, I’d say I’m a little jealous.”

“Don’t be. You’ve worked hard and done well for yourself.” He pulls into the parking lot and stops beside her car. “Are you sure you’ll be okay now? If someone’s giving you problems, I can damn well straighten them out for you.”

She squints at him, her head tipped. “You would, too, wouldn’t you?”

“You bet.”

“Thanks, Jason. For everything. I had a great time.”

He watches her fish around in her bag for her keys before opening the door. And he knows her complication, whether it is diamond-induced or not, is bad. She wouldn’t talk about it all night. “Maris, wait.”

She looks up at him. On the one hand, he wants to leave now, to go back to Stony Point alone, to check his messages and finish a preliminary drawing.

But he wants, too, to reach over, to put his arm around her neck and pull her to him. He wants to kiss her, to taste the salt air and clams, to taste summer on her. Like that night at Foley’s. One kiss.

He hesitates, though. Because where does he get off thinking that he can love a woman, can feel her kiss and touch her skin, when his brother will never have that chance again? He hasn’t deserved the entire evening.

Instead he quickly opens his door and comes around to the other side to help her out. “You let me know if you need anything,” he says, standing close and watching her.

She pauses as though to say something, then turns, opens her car door and gets inside. “Good night, Jason. Take care,” she says, waving as she drives away.

Maris holds the dvd. She can light a fire in the cottage fireplace and toss it in, never to consider its contents again. The flame would melt all evidence of it. Or she can fling it against the stone hearth, but then she’d only kneel down in tears trying to salvage the pieces. Instead she slides it into the laptop.

Understand the body first. With each design she sketches, Maris has to perceive a body’s curves beneath the clothes it wears. The body is the main structure and comes before all else. Clothes only enhance it. So she turns that eye on her mother’s body on the added beach scene and sees the full breast and swelled stomach that she missed before. She wears her clothes well. The early pregnancy is concealed beneath her tunic and loose jeans as she stands beside a nearly two-year-old Maris on the beach, her fingers fluffing her salty hair. A baby.

Her mother had given birth to another baby, probably that winter. A baby girl wearing her Christening gown. Who is this baby? What happened to it? Did it die in the car with her mother and nobody told her? She ejects the disk then and immediately Googles her mother’s name and date of death, searching for any information. She tries every variation of words, date, location. But it all happened so long ago, there is no internet record of the accident.

Upstairs in her bedroom, the white lace curtains fill with a sea breeze. Her gaze moves back and forth between the window and her bed until she grabs the foot of it and swings it around before reaching for the white-painted headboard and pulling it even. She inches the heavy bed over to the window this way, pushing and pulling until perspiration and tears cover her face, until her hair is a mess. She looks out at that sky and thinks of Jason’s words.
Every day.
He misses his brother every day. It never goes away.

She knows that feeling of missing someone. Now it seems she has missed someone more than her mother. Someone else, maybe a sister, has left a mark on her life.

Every day
, Jason said, standing in front of the sea.

The night sky over Long Island Sound bursts with stars and memories and words of the past, words about the sea and its sky and finding comfort in their enchanted presence. The constellations are a crisscrossing network of love, filled with stories as old as time, stories about love and pain, about family and home. The stars glimmer at each special connection, and she knows that one connection, somewhere over the sea, belongs to her and her sister.

.

Chapter Twelve

S
ometimes it takes years of living life to understand a situation fully. Maris doesn’t have years. She has days. The next morning, warm sea air spills in the bedroom window and glances her skin like a mother’s touch. She sits up and pulls the sheet over herself, nowhere near ready to pack and leave.

Scott will be here tomorrow. “No,” she says, “no, no, no,” before grabbing the phone from the nightstand and punching in his number. It’s early and he’ll still be asleep in Chicago, but at least she’ll catch him before he leaves for work.

She stops dialing, though, and hangs up. What would she say to him?
Oh, by the way, my parents had another baby thirty years ago. Give me a few days to find her?
He would think she was crazy, or at the very least he’d scoff at her story. The bottom line dictates Scott. Contracts and projections and negotiations.

And that’s when she knows how to buy more time. She dials the number again.

“Can’t you handle it long distance?” he asks when she makes up a story about multiple offers on her father’s house. “Your agent can fax the offers to you here. You sign off on them and fax them back. It’s legal.”

“But there could be a bidding war. It’ll be easier to handle this way. From here.”

“In this day and age, distance isn’t an issue. She can email you any details.”

“I know. But then there’s the home inspection. What if the sale is contingent on repairing some plumbing problem or patching the roof?”

“How long?” he finally asks after an uncomfortable pause.

“I’m not sure. A couple of weeks maybe?”

“Maris.”

“What?”

“Is that all it is?”

“What do you mean?”

“Selling the house. Are you sure you’re not rethinking things with us?”

“No, Scott.” She still slips the engagement ring on and off, more than once a day. “My father died. You know I have legalities to take care of. And I might head into Manhattan one day for that job I’ve been offered. They want an answer, and if I can work out of Chicago, it’s something to consider. Seriously, I’m not rethinking us.” She takes a long breath, thinking of the home movie and rethinking a different kind of love. Or maybe all love. That film has her doubt everything now. “I’ll call you when I hear something. I promise.”

“On one condition. I’ll postpone my flight, but I’m not cancelling it. I’ll reschedule it for two weeks from tomorrow. If the house is still under negotiation, it’ll push your agent to sign off on it knowing you’re leaving soon.”

“Two weeks. I think that should work.”

As she hangs up the phone, what feels a lot like relief brings tears to her eyes. Two weeks.

“What are you doing?”

Kyle jumps at the sound of Lauren’s sleepy voice. “Ironing.” He presses the iron down in a cloud of steam without looking at her.

She walks into the kitchen. “This early?”

He had opened the wall unit ironing board and spread his white apron over it. “It’s late, for me. I’ve got to be at work in twenty minutes.”

“Why so early? The diner doesn’t open until seven.”

“Two deliveries are coming. Why don’t you go back to bed?”

“I’m up now.”

He looks at her standing there in her nightshirt, her robe hanging loose, her hair sleep-mussed, then turns the apron over in silence.

“Why would you iron your apron?” she asks while plugging in the coffee pot.

His arm moves back and forth over the white fabric. “I read a book on effective management. It said image is important to show authority. You know, like keeping appearances professional makes you look confident. And that translates to authority.” He glances down at his new shoes. “I’m trying to look professional.”

“How do you check in the deliveries?”

“It’s not bad. I confirm the delivery against the requisition. If it doesn’t match up, we’ve got a problem that management has to work out.”

“Oh. And management would be you.”

Kyle folds the apron in half. “Why don’t you leave for work a little early? Stop by for a coffee?”

Lauren shakes her head. “I’m going to pack some kitchen stuff before I go in to work. Maybe when we’re on vacation and I’m not so busy.”

He unplugs the iron and drapes the pressed apron over his arm. Jerry expects the cooks to dress in black pants and shirts, with white aprons. “I’m late. Can you put away the iron?”

“Sure. Go on.” She motions him away.

They talk only because if they don’t, the silence asks that they reconsider their relationship. Which he does, in his own silence in the predawn hours, and during the ride to The Dockside, and in the minutes waiting for his morning deliveries. His chest feels heavy and driving to work, he wonders if he is having a heart attack so he takes long, deep breaths and it feels like he can keep inhaling, like the air isn’t reaching the right place.

At the diner, he leans around the packages in his arms, turns the key in the double locks, walks in and locks the door behind him. When the packages start slipping, he hoists them but doesn’t turn around. Turning around means seeing the empty room and picturing every single table full by 7:30. Instead he keeps his eyes to the floor, walks quickly past the napkin dispensers, the salt and pepper shakers, the menus standing straight at each table and heads past the kitchen to the office, where he drops his keys, notepad, the brown paper bag and a couple of library business books on the desk, before carefully hanging his white apron on a hook behind the door. Then he grabs a cloth in the kitchen and wipes down all the tabletops again. Last night, he stayed late and sprayed clean the glass doors and the inside of the windows. Anything to not screw up.

Someone raps loudly as he bends over a long table, wiping it in a sweeping motion, and he turns to see Matt on the other side of the door, dressed in full uniform.

“Hey guy,” Matt says. He comes inside and waits for Kyle to lock up the door again.

“Matt. What’s up?”

“I’m on my way home from work. Thought I’d stop in and see how it’s going.”

Kyle grabs the cleaning rag from the table. “I’m running the show today.”

Matt takes off his State Police hat. “You nervous?”

“Nah. You know. Come on, I’ll give you the grand tour.”

He walks him through the freezer, the back office and the kitchen, past spotless stovetops, and utensils lined up precisely, and tall towers of napkins.

“Have you talked to Barlow?” Kyle asks as he turns on the coffee at the front counter. The pot gurgles and coffee aroma rises from it.

“I saw him last night.” Matt sits on a stool at the counter and slowly spins around. “He stopped by to check up on the crew at my house.”

Kyle turns to see Matt eyeing the empty room, the fishing net hanging from the side wall and a small array of colorful buoys framing the doorway. “He’s okay?” he asks.

“Seemed to be. But I didn’t bring up that night with you.”

“He deals with some crazy shit sometimes. Hey, how about a coffee?”

“No way, Kyle. I’m beat. This is my sleep time.”

“That’s pretty tough, sleeping with them banging hammers at your place.”

“I close the door and tune it out.” He stands and puts his hat back on. “Listen. I wanted to tell you good luck. Eva and I’ll stop by for lunch one of these days.”

Kyle swings his hand around to shake Matt’s as the back buzzer sounds. “That’s my dairy delivery. I’ll let you out that way.” He walks Matt to the rear door while pressing his damp hand into the fabric of his pants, then turns back to stack the dairy order as the deliveryman wheels it in on a hand-truck. There is enough milk and eggs and cheese and butter to keep the place going for a couple of days. After lining it sequentially by date in the refrigerator, he goes to the office and pulls out a framed picture of his kids from the grocery bag and sets it beside the telephone. Perspiration trickles down his face and he glances at his damp hands before brushing them on his pants again. Everything needs to be laid out within easy reach. He opens his new planner to the right July week and lines it up in front of the telephone, laying a new pen diagonally across it. The calculator goes in the top desk drawer and will be used to tally the day’s numbers.

“Jesus, breathe,” he says, then gives the side window a good shove, pushing the sticking sash open and sucking in a deep breath of outside air. When he turns back to the bag, all that is left in it are five packages of black tees, each containing two shirts. He’s been so nervous lately, he can shower twice a day. Sometimes three times. He sets the stack of packages on a top wall shelf, first ripping one of them opened and unfolding a new tee, holding it in his hand as he returns to the desk chair and clicks the keys at the computer.

A large photograph of The Dockside hangs near the window so that Jerry can look at it, then gaze outside and imagine it is his boat docked on the open waters. Kyle studies it, trying not to think that the shirt he put on at home is soaked through. It would be easy to blame it on stacking the milk and cheese, going in and out the back door into the summer morning.

But that isn’t it, and he knows it. In one swift move, he pulls off his damp shirt and wipes it over his face and neck, then tosses it into the trash can and slips the new one on over his head before his staff arrives.

If illustrating fashion designs is creating an illusion of reality, Maris thinks she should be damn good at it then. Her whole life is apparently an illusion of reality. Sitting in the kitchen with a full pot of coffee, she considers the sketches spread around her on heavy-weight paper. Using markers to give a full-color reality, her hand fills in the sketched jeans and denim jackets with shades of blues and grays, using rough strokes to convey energy. The diagonal pattern she draws is evidence enough that the fabric here is denim. Just like the baby’s birth records will be evidence enough, filed in some public records, of the obvious.

It is the stuff that’s not obvious, the reasons and the mystery, that draw her. Her customers can get denim clothing anywhere. So she has to give them something more, something they need without even being aware of it. She’s needed something too, without being aware of it, all her life. Her sister. Are there international directories on the internet? Her hand rises to her necklace. Can she find the aunt who once sent her the star pendant?

Turning to her gel pens, she looks at the designs covering the countertops, the table, and even the floor, then adds the finishing gold stitches and rivets, finally establishing the need. Every denim piece in this line will feature a subtle constellation. A curve of stars running across a shoulder, or a few twinkling around a belt line. Constellations are stories in the stars, and don’t women need stories, seeking to find themselves, seeking wishes when they look skyward? Ever more aware of the body beneath the clothes now, on one last bell bottom design she creates volumes of fabric from the bend of the knee to the top of the foot, with the bell falling in folds. Her gel pen dots silver stars rising from within them. Then she picks up her stylus and adds stars to the sketches on her digital design pad as well.

If it weren’t for the knock at the door then, more designs would have spread into the living room next. She is surprised to see Jason outside, his back to the door as he waits.