Authors: Julie Carobini
Sweet Waters (31 page)
Yelling at my father when he can't answer back doesn't bring me the closure I'm looking for, nor do I feel any sense of relief from it. Just more anger.
“And thanks a bunch, Mom, for whatever your unspoken part was in all of this.” The thought that maybe my mother suffered silently for years nudges me, but I shove it aside.
Water lands on the shore just a short distance from me, a shallow remnant passing over my feet. Staring at the water for hours as a type of therapy comes naturally to me. I sniffle.
You taught me that, Dad.
Long after we left Otter Bayâwhatever the real reasonâhis passion always seemed to be built around water: fishing, canoeing, even the three fountains he installed around our home in Missouri and tended to on his days off.
You taught me that, Dad.
Long after we left Otter Bayâwhatever the real reasonâhis passion always seemed to be built around water: fishing, canoeing, even the three fountains he installed around our home in Missouri and tended to on his days off.
Glory's revelation filters through me and yet, as I replace her words with real, breathing memories of the man who left us all too soon, all my anger dissipates. Which makes me wonder, could Eliza let go this way? And if not, why would I ever want to emulate someone like that?
Pastor Cole made a reference to “living water” in a sermon he preached recently and the phrase has lingered in my mind ever since, as if it carries with it some kind of faraway connection with my father. While he left so much undone here in Otter Bay, Dad did love God in his own way. He told us girls about Him, for one thing. Though I'm not sure of all the pastor meant by referencing that verse, I am sure of this much.
Never again thirsting for things far out of my reach sounds awfully appealing.
Chapter Thirty
Tell him I can't talk.”
Camille holds the phone receiver against her jeans. “Well, he'll know that's a lie, Tara, 'cuz everybody knows you can talk.”
I roll my eyes. It's been three long days since the wedding and, thankfully, Josh has been away, conquering fires. This is the first I've heard from him, but I could have waited longer.
Mel smirks. “You really can't come up with an excuse that's less lame?” She sighs and holds out her hand. “Give me the phone, Cam. I'll talk to him.”
I contort in a silent protest.
“Hey, Josh. Yeah, it's Mel. She can't talk right now. Uh-huh. Yeah. Okay, I'll tell her.” She sets the cordless phone onto the end table, while I plop into the couch with a suppressed grunt.
“What are you supposed to tell me?”
“He says you're to meet him at the top of the Empire State Building at midnight on Valentine's Day.”
Camille gasps. “Oh, that's so romantic of him!”
I slap her on the leg. “That's a line from a movie! Let's not talk about this anymore, okay girls? I'd rather forget the whole, ugly day.”
Camille collapses onto the floor into a cross-legged position. “Then can I ask you about something else?”
“Great. Yes. Anything.”
She pulls a curved and round swath of crocheted fabric from her bag. Turquoise, gold, and specks of red run throughout. “What do you think of this?”
I take it from her. “Well, hm, what is it?”
Her forehead wrinkles. “You mean you can't tell?”
I see Mel holding back a smile in the background. “Wait a sec. Hm. It's a coffee-mug cover. Right?”
Camille grabs the fabric from me, exasperation on her face. “It's a beanie, Tara.” She examines it again, fingering the design. “Guess I'll have to work on making that more obvious.”
“A beanieâyes, yes, I see that. It's pretty. Really.”
The phone rings again and I dart a glance at Mel, who looks up toward the ceiling and sighs. “I'll take it in the back and I get itâyou're not here.”
Across the carpet lay some of the most vibrant colors in yarn. Camille's been preoccupied lately with her crocheting hobby and it's good to see. I glance up and Mel is standing in the hall doorway, holding the phone out to me. “You need to take this.”
“Mel . . .”
“It's Mom.”
Both Camille and I dart for the phone. “Let me talk to her first!” Camille gets there before I do and wrests the receiver from Mel. “Mom, it's Camille . . . how's Europe? Did you see the Eiffel Tower? Tara thinks you're stuck in some dirty hotel, but I told her, âyou're crazy.' How's . . .”
She disappears down the hall. I look to Mel.
“I e-mailed her this phone number. About time she signed up for international service on her cell phone.”
“Did she sound happy?”
“Sickeningly so.”
“Hm. Enough said.” A brief laugh escapes me. “Wonder why she's calling and why now. I mean, I've been wanting to talk to her for a month and she's been so elusive.”
“I told her everything we'd heard. She confirmed it
all. Dad really took eight thousand bucks from that old battle-ax. She didn't want to elaborate, though.”
all. Dad really took eight thousand bucks from that old battle-ax. She didn't want to elaborate, though.”
As is Mom's way.
Quiet drapes the room. I run my index finger over and over my thumb, thinking. “I figured you'd talk to her about it. And you know what? I should have done that the minute the rumors began to fly.”
Quiet drapes the room. I run my index finger over and over my thumb, thinking. “I figured you'd talk to her about it. And you know what? I should have done that the minute the rumors began to fly.”
“Why the turnabout then?”
“I looked in the mirror.”
“What?”
“I heard more surprising news about Mom and Dad the other dayâat the wedding, of all places. And as I leaned against a bathroom counter, hiding out while trying to figure out what to think, I noticed that I look old, Mel. Why didn't you tell me how old I was beginning to look?”
Mel's face appears soft. Instead of a haughty glance, or sarcastic sigh, I see compassion in her eyes. “Well, you are my
older
sister.” She smiles and I know she's kidding with me. “Tara, like I've told you before. You're the one who always holds things together. Haven't always enjoyed that trait in you. Okay, to tell you the truth, it's the part of you that I love to hate. But lately, you've had me worried.”
older
sister.” She smiles and I know she's kidding with me. “Tara, like I've told you before. You're the one who always holds things together. Haven't always enjoyed that trait in you. Okay, to tell you the truth, it's the part of you that I love to hate. But lately, you've had me worried.”
“You, worrying about me?”
“Don't let it go to your head.” She uncrosses her arms and lets them drop to her sides. “This moveâthis brainchild of yoursâseemed so crazy at the time. And so unlike you. But you know what? It's been a good thing for all of us, even though I can't believe I'm admitting this to you.”
“You really think so?”
Mel grasps me by the elbows and her eyes bore into me. “Look at Camille. She's going back to school and she was just about to tell you about a new business idea she and Holly have.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really. And this move has helped me too. I've wanted to live in the big city for as long as I could remember, but when you all left me to come here, I lost my nerve. I've always felt like I was the one who had something to prove and then I failed.” She glances down at the floor before shoving a harsh sigh from her chest. “I think I'm almost ready now.”
“You are ready, Mel. I'm the one who's had a hard time letting you go, but I have no doubt that you can conquer whatever you set your mind to doing.”
“Thank you. Now get in there and tell Mom everything you know.”
As if on cue, Camille prances into the living room, her face flushed from talking with our continent-hopping mother.
I take the phone from her. “Mom?”
“Tara, darling! It's wonderful to hear your voice again.”
“You too. I've read your Facebook, but you don't update it often enough. We need more pictures!”
Mother laughs and the sound feels akin to warm bath water rolling over bare skin. I've missed her more than I knew.
“Camille says you are working, Tara, at an inn? Are you handling the accounting for them?”
I smile. Of course she'd think that. “Actually, Mom, I'm working the front desk. It's just part-time, but I love it. The gentleman who owns it asked me to work for him on our second day here.”
“Fabulous. I've always known you'd be good working with the public.” I revel in her praise. “This boss of yours . . . is it anyone I'd know? Your father and I lost contact with the people of that town, but it's possible, I suppose.”
“Hm. Don't think so. His family owned the place and he came here to run it after his sister died. His name is Nigel.”
There's a pause on the line. “Nigel Thorton?”
Something like heartburn drops within me. “You've heard of him?”
“Well, of course I have. Didn't Nigel tell you? He was your father's pen pal for many years. Oh, after he had reformed himself.” She laughs lightly. “For someone so proper, he was quite a troublemaker, back when we lived there . . .”
Somewhere after “pen pal” I lost her. Nigel and my father . . . friends? He's been lying to me? My temples constrict, the living room shrinking from view. He might not call it that, but isn't it true that in a court of law omission of fact can be considered a lie?
Nigel must have had a good reason for not mentioning this information. Unless he doesn't realize who my father was.
Right. Not possible.
“. . . anyway dear, I'm glad that you've been able to make peace with Otter Bay. Perhaps someday I will too.”
Her words touch me. Knowing all I do now, what must Mom really think of these changes in her daughters' lives? Surely, she's happy with Derrick, but I sense that her tone is bittersweet.
She changes the subject like a champ. “Well. It's very early here and Derrick has made plans for us to tour the North York Moors before the sun fully rises. Can you imagine me, getting up before dawn? Oh, but they say the view of heather, far as the eye can see, is simply too breathtaking to miss.”
“But Mom, I've got more to talk to you about . . .”
“Soon, darling. Derrick waits for no one.” She's the only one laughing.
Though I've got more to say, experience tells me that Mom is done for today. I can only hope that we'll have another chance to talk. And soon.
“AM I CORRECT IN my assessment that you now know?” Nigel holds his cane in front of him, both hands shaking as they lean on its slender handle.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“There are things I wanted to say to you that I didn't think you were ready to hear.”
I groan. “Why does everybody feel the need to decide when
I'm
ready to hear a little thing like the truth?”
I'm
ready to hear a little thing like the truth?”
Betty, who's reading a romance paperback, slides it upward in front of her face, but keeps it low enough to see over the top. Her bespectacled eyes don't move from me.
Nigel's eyes sag, his face filling with a downcast smile. Pity? He's got pity for me? He lowers his gaze. “I've prayed hard about when to tell you . . .”
“You've
prayed?
And God told you to just keep on lying? I admit, I don't know God all too well, but it would seem to me that the
creator of the universe
would be above telling His children to keep secrets from one another.”
prayed?
And God told you to just keep on lying? I admit, I don't know God all too well, but it would seem to me that the
creator of the universe
would be above telling His children to keep secrets from one another.”
Nigel nods. “Perhaps you are correct.” His brow, usually so even and anxiety-free, now has grooves burrowing through it. It glows from moisture.
I tried to avoid this moment, although I'm not sure why. Like my mother had done, I rose up early this morning, just as the sun began to stretch its rays. I padded down to the water and waded through briny thickness, the air heavy, like my mind and heart. Confrontation, although once an energizing event during those drab days at the auto parts company, no longer held any spark for me. Still, it could not be avoided.
Betty chews her fingernails, as if watching a horror flick. I almost laugh, but knowing how wicked it would sound I mentally make myself regroup. “You are the one person, Nigel, who could have kept my father's memory alive in a beautiful way and instead, you chose to let me hear all sorts of terrible accusations.” Bitterness stings my eyes. “Were you so desperate to fill a vacancy that you'd resort to this? To allow my family to suffer while you look the other way?”
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