Snapshots (21 page)

“So do you. You're beautiful.”

It was what I wanted to hear, but I didn't feel completely dressed. We set off in Rick's car, and as we rounded the corner near Jeter's, I noticed that the store was open. “Stop!” I said suddenly. “I want to buy some pantyhose.”

Rick slowed the car, sparing an admiring glance for my bare legs. “Your legs are tanned and gorgeous.”

“I don't feel right,” I said.

“For Pete's sake, Trista, are you serious?”

I was. “Stop making this difficult, Rick McCulloch. It'll only take a minute for me to run in, and we're early for the service besides.”

Rick rolled his eyes, but he pulled up in front of Jeter's. “Thanks,” I told him, favoring him with a broad smile over my shoulder as I marched inside the store. I found the pantyhose I wanted, one size fits most, and paid one of the young girls behind the counter.

“You're Trista Barrineau, aren't you?” she asked as she sorted bills into the cash drawer. “I've seen you on TV. You're taller than you seem on television.”

Usually when I'm on the island, I'm not recognized, which is wonderful since I can't go anywhere in Columbia without people knowing who I am. Worse yet, some of them make rude remarks. My personal favorite? “You don't look as good as you do on TV.” Well,
duh.
I wear tons of makeup on-screen.

With this girl at Jeter's, I was understandably reluctant to involve myself in a long conversation, but she had an open, likable face. She might have been Goz's daughter. Rose? Ivy? I seemed to remember that his girls were named after plants.

“I want to be a reporter just like you,” she confided. “I'm going to take a journalism class in school next year.”

“That's a good start,” I said warmly, and as I left the store, I realized that providing a positive role model for young people was a worthwhile thing to do and something that I didn't often consider when embroiled in turf wars and intrigues at work.

“You look like the cat who got the cream,” Rick said as he backed out and onto the road.

I tore open the pantyhose package and told him what the girl had said and how it had made me feel good.

“That's important,” he said. “And if you—”

He stopped talking as I shimmied my dress up my thighs. “What in the world?”

“I bought these pantyhose, and now I have to put them on,” I explained patiently. I slipped one of the legs over my foot and smoothed it upward, remaining modest but mindful that Rick quickly averted his eyes.

“You're titillating as hell,” he said. “Are you doing this to turn me on?”

I halted my labors to stare at him openmouthed. “My legs aren't anything new to you,” I reminded him. I hitched the pantyhose as high as I could, then started with the other leg.

“Sweet blessed Jesus,” Rick muttered. At my disapproving glance, he darted his eyes in my direction. “That was a prayer. It
is
Easter, you know.”

“I don't understand what all the fuss is about,” I said, wishing the seat of Rick's car was more roomy so I wouldn't have so much trouble sliding the hose up over my hips.

“Context. Opportunity. And sex appeal,” he said as he wheeled in to the church parking lot. He swerved in to a parking space under a crepe myrtle tree, immediately switching off the engine and turning with his elbow propped on the steering wheel.

I twitched my skirt down and started to get out of the car, but he pulled me toward him so he could kiss the middle of my forehead. “The next thing I want to see you do is take those damn pantyhose off,” he said, his voice low in his throat.

I couldn't help laughing, and we walked into the sanctuary with our fingers lightly laced together.

The sermon, delivered by a new, young pastor we'd never met, touched on renewal and hope, which I found particularly apt. The minister shook our hands as we left the church, saying that he'd like to see us at services again. I think he believed we were married, which amused me, and later, a member of Lilah Rose's summer bridge club greeted us and told Rick that it was good to see him and his wife at the service. I waited for Rick to correct her, but he didn't. When I asked him why he hadn't, he merely shrugged.

“It's too complicated to explain,” he said briefly, and I suppose I agreed with him. Besides, it was a beautiful morning, the honey-colored stones of the church gilded with sunshine, and the sea, visible beyond the church yard, a sheet of billowing blue. I didn't want anything to spoil it.

On the way home we stopped at the park where a group of small boys were flying kites in the freshening wind. One of them had trouble launching his homemade creation, and Rick ran with it until the gusts pulled it up into the sun-washed blue sky. I sat watching from a low wall, my legs pulled up, my arms draped loosely around my knees much as I had when I'd watched Rick flying kites there years ago.

“We should go for a walk,” Rick said when he rejoined me. “That storm the other day washed up a lot of shells. If we search hard enough, you might find that perfect sand dollar you've never found.”

He'd already removed his jacket. I glanced down at my shoes and pantyhose. “Well,” I said slowly, “I guess they've served their purpose.” With that, I ducked down behind the wall and tugged them off, rolled the nylon into a ball and tucked it into the end of a drainage pipe, not caring if I ever saw them again.

We ran down to the beach, where a few families had already staked large umbrellas in the sand. Rick rolled up the legs of his borrowed pants, and I scampered in and out of the waves, as sure-footed as a marsh pony.

“You know, there doesn't need to be any more than this,” Rick said, his arms sweeping out to encompass the sea, sand and sky. The wind had blown his hair back from his forehead, and the faint scar from his long-ago fight with Hugh Barfield showed through his tan.

“That's what we always think when we're on the island, but somehow, other things intrude. Money, time, jobs, responsibilities.”

“Marriages,” Rick said soberly.

“Life,” I added.

We grew tired of walking after a while and headed back. Once, we stopped and talked with a man who was photographing arrangements of driftwood, and he offered to take a photo of us. I sat on one of the large silvery logs, and just before the shutter clicked, Rick pushed a lock of hair back over my shoulder.

“Good one!” exclaimed the man, and he wrote down my e-mail address so he could send me a copy over the Internet. I didn't think the picture in his viewfinder was perfect, since Rick's face was slightly turned away from the camera, but the photographer had caught me in a rare relaxed pose, happy and carefree.

And then I found it—the perfect sand dollar. I happened to glance down as we walked, and there it was, lying right on top of the sand as if waiting for me. I picked it up and brushed it off, a lovely souvenir of this special day.

Neither Rick nor I had given a thought to preparing the usual Easter dinner of ham and all the fixings. Instead, we defrosted steaks in the microwave and Rick grilled them outside. I set the dining-room table with Lilah Rose's elegant hand-painted china, threw potatoes into the toaster oven to bake and made a simple tossed salad.

Afterward, we watched a DVD of old
Seinfeld
episodes, shoveling popcorn into our mouths as we hadn't since we were kids. It didn't take long for us to become engaged in hearty debate about which was the best episode ever made, and Rick said that his favorite wasn't in the collection we were watching.

“In the one I like,” Rick said, “Elaine and Jerry are sitting on his couch doing this exact same thing, watching TV. And they get into a debate about whether they should sleep together. And—”

“I've seen it,” I said, all but dumping the popcorn bowl in his lap. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

“You could take it that way,” he said consideringly as he switched off the TV and leaned toward me. In the sudden quiet, my heart started to beat faster, a series of pitty-pats that echoed in my ears. Rick traced the inside of my wrist with his thumb, and the stirrings of desire uncoiled somewhere below my stomach.

“On that show,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “Jerry and Elaine find a whole lot of reasons why they should remain just friends.”

“And reasons that they should make love, too.”

“But they'd made love before, when they were boyfriend and girlfriend,” I pointed out as Rick's hand slid higher.

“They must have enjoyed it,” he said softly, “because they decided to go ahead and do it again.”

Rick's eyes searched mine, never wavering. By this time, I knew what was going to happen, and I longed for him to put his arms around me. The electricity flickering between us was extraordinary, and I felt an effervescent sense of unreality.

But I was not so mesmerized by Rick that practicalities fled my mind. “Now that you've made it clear exactly where we're going with this,” I said unsteadily, “maybe I should hit the shower. I'm still all sandy from the beach.”

“Let's take a shower together,” he said, nuzzling my temple.

“In the Lighthouse or downstairs?” I asked.

“The Lighthouse. With the dark ocean visible through the curtains and a moon path ready to take us as far as we want to go.”

“As far as we want to go,” I murmured, imagining Istanbul and Timbuktu and limitless possibilities stretching as far as we could see.

He kissed me, the kiss growing hungrier as I wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled him close. This time when we made love, Rick and I would do so as adults. Without reservation. Knowing the true meaning of our love for each other. Facing the future, whatever it might bring, together.

The doorbell rang. Rick sat up straight.

“Damn,” he said. “Who could that be?”

I disentangled myself. Frantically, I ran my fingers through my hair, bringing it back to some semblance of my usual style. “I bet it's Stanley and family, here to pick up Daria's book.”

“I'll go see who it is,” Rick said. He stroked my cheek briefly. “But let's mark the place where we left off, okay?”

I returned his smile with a quavery one of my own and hurried to get the book, which I'd left in the kitchen. I arrived at the front door just as Rick threw it open.

“Well,” said Martine, tossing back her expensively streaked hair. “Look who's here.”

2004

C
lick: I'm clutching a copy of Anne of Green Gables to my chest, and Martine is standing ready to stride into the house. Rick is holding the door open, clearly surprised. No snapshot of this moment exists, but it should.

My sister had all the right ingredients for beauty, but when she appeared at Sweetwater Cottage that Easter night, she no longer had the glow that comes from being cherished and loved. Instead, a tenuous line bisected her forehead, and I didn't recall ever seeing it there before, nor was there one on my face when I glanced into the nearby mirror. Martine was not happy. Why this made me sad, I don't know. Maybe because I care about Martine so much. Maybe because I have always loved her, no matter what.

“Your cars are parked outside, but the house was so quiet that I tried my key,” Martine said as she shoved aside the stack of photo albums on the couch and accepted a glass of scotch and soda from Rick. “It didn't work. Guess you had the locks changed, right?”

“Hal had to call a locksmith last year after some kids broke in,” Rick said tersely. “He didn't want a repeat performance.”

“I'm so glad you're back to your old self,” I said to Martine. We'd hugged after she walked in, and I was happy that she was so well recovered from her injuries.

“I'm feeling great. Oh, and you won't believe what happened just south of Orangeburg as I was driving up I-95. I got stopped by this handsome highway patrolman? And he recognized me, or thought he did. He didn't even bother with my license. He said, ‘Well, if it isn't Trista Barrineau! I watch you on the news every night, and you did a real good job reporting that story about someone trying to bribe one of my superior officers.' And then he handed back my license and said to slow down and have a nice day. I was driving kind of fast, but not too awfully. Anyway, thanks.” She beamed at me.

“I wish you'd told us you were coming,” I said. “We could have waited dinner. There's leftover steak—would you like a sandwich?”

“I ate earlier. Anyhow, I'm just passing through on my way to Maryland to deliver Steve's SUV to him. He's in Annapolis right now visiting his kids, and after we rendezvous outside Washington, D.C., we're supposed to drive around visiting historic sites for a few days before heading back to Miami.” The way she delivered this sentence was the clue that she wasn't exactly in favor of the plan.

Rick drew his brows down, clearly uncomfortable with this topic. I felt a muscle tic in my jaw.

“Anyway,” Martine went on, surely aware of the effect her words were having on Rick and me, “I thought this would be a good chance to pick up a few of my clothes that I left. I figured somebody would be here at Easter.”

I sneaked a glance at Rick, who was now regarding Martine with a blank expression.
All that police work,
I thought.
He's learned to pull a poker face.

“You're welcome to take them,” he said, and his gruff tone left no doubt that he meant that Martine should do this now and not wait.

“I hope you'll put me up for the night. There isn't a motel for miles.”

A blanket of uneasiness settled over me, and Rick seemed to summon every bit of self-control he possessed. “Martine, we're divorced. Don't you think you should have checked with Hal before you decided to stay here? Or asked me?”

She frowned at him. “You've more or less disappeared from view, Rick, and Hal never returns my calls.”

“You can stay in the room where Lindsay and Peter usually sleep,” Rick said grudgingly.

“Okay, that works for me, and as a bonus I get to visit with my twin sis. Tris, I can never thank you enough for all you did while I was in the hospital. Thanks, hon.”

Martine had begun calling people “hon” shortly after she moved to Miami. She used the term of endearment for everyone from the garbagemen to her best friend, Jane. This irritated me, but I'd never told her so.

She treated herself to a gulp of her drink. “Mmm, this tastes good. How about a walk on the beach in the morning, Tris, before I start the long drive?”

“Sure,” I said, at a loss. I wondered if she expected Rick to accompany us.

Martine yawned and stretched. “I'm exhausted,” she said, uncurling herself like a languid cat. “See you in the morning. Can't wait for that beach walk.” With studied indolence, she made her way to the hall and hefted her carryall, continuing to the spare guest room and closing the door behind her.

Rick and I stared at each other. “So much for our plans,” he said. “Who would have guessed?”

I searched his expression for any hint of discombobulation at the appearance of his ex-wife. I found none.

“I suppose I might as well turn in,” I said too brightly. As I brushed past Rick, who by this time was standing between me and the stairs, he grabbed my arm. “If I had my way,” he said, “we'd be in the shower now. Together.”

Somehow this was difficult to hear with Martine only a few rooms away. “We'll save it for later,” I said, attempting a smile.

“Let's not scrap all our plans,” he said softly. “We can manage this, for instance.” He slid his hand down my arm to my hand and pulled me onto the couch. Moodily, I settled into his lap and rested my head on his shoulder. Where my hand rested on his chest, I felt his heart beating strong and steady. I tried hard to summon the will to remain distant, to remove myself from his arms and go upstairs where I belonged. I failed utterly. Rick smelled of sun and sand, of the island and the cottage, and his bristly beard stubble rubbed against my forehead. It was bliss.

He kissed me, and I melted. I wanted to keep doing it over and over again, but there was the slight matter of his former wife, who also happened to be my sister, only yards away. No matter how I wished I could recapture our previous mood, it was futile.

His hand stole up to cup my breast, but I wriggled away. I spilled out of his lap, landed on my feet, inserted a room length between us. “We can't do this now,” I said.

“Great. I finally make progress toward getting you in the sack, and this happens.” He smiled as he said it.

“Let's establish a few ground rules,” I said. “First, no sneaking around in the night.”

“Agreed,” Rick replied, though he appeared less than happy with that restriction.

“And we reconnect after Martine is gone,” I said. “Let's make an appointment. One hour after she's out of here?”

“One minute,” Rick said, straightening his clothes.

“Make that two, and you're on.” I smiled tremulously, and he stood and swept me to him for one more kiss. I still tasted him on my lips as I ran up to the Lighthouse.

“I guess Rick's pretty mad at me,” Martine ventured as we sauntered down the beach the next morning. Rick had made himself scarce; his car was gone from its customary place under the oak when I woke up.

I said nothing but picked up my pace. The sun was barely over the horizon, and the air was chilly and damp. The incoming breakers crashed on the shore in great, noisy, foaming white waves.

“Tris?” Martine said. “What about it?”

“Probably,” I said. I had no intention of saying anything more, particularly if it would hint at the new direction of Rick's and my relationship.

“Does Rick ever talk about me? I mean, about what happened?”

“About the end of your marriage?”

Martine sighed. “Yeah. About his feelings for me.”

I selected my words carefully. “I'm sure he's disappointed that the marriage didn't work out. And hurt. And—well, I'm not comfortable with the topic. Why don't you talk with Rick?”

“I'm so far from where I was when we were married that it would be pointless. I just wondered, that's all.”

Fortunately, Dog chose that moment to run up behind us, expecting me to toss the Frisbee, but since it was so windy, I hadn't brought it. She yipped joyfully as a wave ruffled over her paws, then scampered in circles around us.

“How can you stand that stray mutt hanging around?” Martine asked irritably. She picked up a shell and lobbed it in the general direction of Dog, who veered off toward the dunes to chase gulls without appearing to take offense.

“I like her,” I said, hugging my sweatshirt tighter around me.

“She smells.”

“She does not,” I said emphatically, jumping to Dog's defense.

“Maybe you didn't get as close to her as I did this morning when I went out to the car to get my cell phone. She's rolled in some dead fish or something.”

Now that Martine had mentioned it, I did detect a rank fishy odor about Dog. “She could use a home,” I said.

“Somehow that doesn't surprise me.”

“I was hoping maybe you'd want her,” I said, optimist that I am.

“I take after Mom. I don't like animals in the house. Anyway, while I'm in post-divorce mode, I don't want to tie myself down.”

Rick had said the same thing, more or less. I let out a long sigh.

“I'm breaking up with Steve,” Martine said suddenly. “It's over, but he doesn't know it.”

“So why are you delivering his SUV to him?” I asked. As far as I knew, that's why we'd arisen at first light, forced down a dry bagel and immediately embarked on our walk. “How about that vacation you and Steve are supposed to take together?”

“After he left on this trip, I realized I'm a lot happier when he's not around. I've got plane tickets out of Dulles for Mexico City three days from now.”

“Mexico City!” I exclaimed, gawking at Martine in amazement. “Why?”

“I don't expect you to understand, Tris, but I've longed to bum around the world for ages and ages. Just me and a load of art supplies in my backpack, painting this and that and sleeping wherever and with whomever suits my fancy.” Defiance was evident in the way she planted her feet in the sand and in the firm set of her jaw.

“I'm surprised,” I murmured. “I thought you and Steve…” I let my words trail off.

“Steve was a way to leave my marriage. No more, no less. I'd wanted out for a long time. But,” she continued with a little half laugh, “he left a message on my cell phone last night that he caught the flu when he was visiting his kids. He's decided to hole up in a hotel until he feels better. I don't have to leave here today, really.”

“Oh,” I said, hoping I wasn't the one who was going to have to ask Rick if Martine could stay longer.

“The worst part about delaying my meeting with Steve is that I rehearsed the breakup speech over and over on the drive up here, and I won't even see him until day after tomorrow at the earliest.”

Distracted, I said, “Is that Standard Breakup Speech Number One? ‘It's my fault that our relationship hasn't worked, not yours, I'll always care about you and about what happens to you, and I hope we'll always be friends.'”

“I'm planning on some version of that one for sure,” Martine assured me, and we grinned at each other. “Hey,” she said. “I know my being here is awkward for Rick, so I'll talk to him about staying over an extra night.”

“Good idea,” I said.

“I may have already worn out my welcome.” Her words were rueful, and I kept my gaze focused on the sand in front of us.

I changed the subject. “I was going to invite you to Macon in May so we can celebrate Mom's birthday with Aunt Cynthia,” I said. “I guess that's out now that you're going to Mexico, right?”

“Totally. I don't have any idea where my adventures will take me, so you'll have to give them a big hug from me.” To her credit, she did sound regretful.

“I wish you luck, Martine,” I said with the utmost sincerity. “But please always keep me informed about where you are and where you're going. I'll miss you and will worry about you.”

“Of course,” she said, flinging an arm around my shoulders. I slipped mine around her waist, reassured that going away didn't mean growing away. She was still my sister, my twin, my other self.

Rick didn't come home all day, and not knowing if he'd be there for dinner or not, Martine and I fixed oysters Rockefeller, the oysters fresh from a late afternoon provisioning at Jeter's. I cooked a batch of red rice. It was one of Rick's favorite menus, but when he came in and found Martine still in residence, he went outside again before she had a chance to ask him if he minded her staying over. Clearly, he did. What Martine would do about the situation, I couldn't imagine. I stuck to my resolution to stay out of it.

During dinner, we spotted Rick on the beach tossing wood scraps and rubbish into a heap. Afterward, when it was apparent that Rick had no intention of joining us, Martine and I cleaned up the kitchen, and later she sat down to flip through Lilah Rose's photo albums. This provided a welcome diversion for both of us, and I brought more from the closet shelf where I'd relocated them. Martine pulled a white one, larger than the others, out of the stack.