The Love Season (19 page)

He didn’t seem at all surprised to see her; it was as if he knew she’d follow him anywhere.

Want a bite?
he said.

Sex with Miles was over before it began, but that was okay; that was how Renata liked it. She liked it that Miles got so excited he couldn’t hold back. He was bigger than Cade, and now, as Renata moved about, she felt a dull ache between her legs. She wanted to find her suit and go for a swim, big waves or no. When Sallie was finished surfing, which Renata hoped was soon, she would make Miles take her back to Hulbert Avenue, where she would shower and nap before scurrying off to Marguerite’s house. She could, with luck, avoid Cade until the morning, and by then, she hoped, things would make more sense than they made now.

“Here you go.” Miles handed Renata her bathing suit.

“Thanks.”

“Do you regret it?” he said.

“No,” she said. “Do you?”

“No,” he said. “God, no.”

She looked at him and saw something in his eyes. Love, or what he mistakenly assumed was love. She smiled at her feet and felt triumphant. She could have him again right now, or tonight in the guest room.

“Hey!”

The voice was faint but insistent, floating up the bluff.

“Hey!”

Renata adjusted her bathing suit. Had someone seen them? She looked past Miles to the stairs. A head popped up, the overweight man from the webbed lawn chair. He was huffing and puffing as he climbed the stairs, waving his binoculars. He looked uncomfortable and agitated, like he was suffering from indigestion.

“Vo-tra-mee,” he said.

“What?” Miles said.

“Vo-tra-mee,” the man said, pointing at the water.

“He’s German or something,” Miles said. “French.”

Renata looked down at the beach. A group was gathering by the waterline—the girls from the blanket, the people from the volleyball game. They were yelling and pointing offshore. Miles scrambled over the dunes and Renata followed, the towel draped over her burning shoulders. Miles raced down the stairs and along the beach back to their stuff. Renata was thinking, vaguely,
Shark, somebody thought they saw a shark
, though what were the chances? Still, she hurried along to see what was happening; she wondered what time it was and if anyone at Vitamin Sea had realized she was gone, if Suzanne was pissed about lunch, if Cade would be able to tell when they made love that she’d been with someone else. She was so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she didn’t notice the two men in wet suits carrying a body out of the water. Or, rather, she noticed it but in a way that made it separate from herself, as though she were watching it happen on TV. The men laid the body in the sand and Miles, who had run far ahead, knelt by the body and started mouth-to-mouth. As Renata grew closer she felt her vision narrow; dread closed in.
Noooo!
she thought.
Tell me no
. She recognized the board shorts, the tattoo, the silver rings on the toes.

Renata stumbled to Miles’s side, shoving people out of the way. A girl was screaming into a cell phone. “She’s dead! She’s dead!”

The girl’s boyfriend was trying to rip the phone out of her hand. “She is not dead,” he said. “Will you please shut up?”

The hairy beast, Montrose, said, “I called nine-one-one. The EMTs will be here in ten minutes, they said. Ten minutes.”

Miles started CPR, pumping Sallie’s chest, then blowing into her mouth. He was mumbling to himself, counting. Sallie’s skin was the color of putty, grayish and goose pimpled. Her hair was plastered to her head; the mirror in her navel was dull.

Queen Bee
, Renata thought,
Sallie. A person I’ve known for an hour.
A complete stranger who accompanied me to my mother’s cross, who kissed me on the wound she inflicted with her surfboard
. The surfboard—Renata looked down the beach and saw it floating just offshore. She dashed into the water to get it, a gesture that other people might have found very beside the point, but Renata knew Sallie only well enough to know that she would want her surfboard back. This, then, became Renata’s rescue mission. She waded out, savoring the cool water on her legs. The waves were as unforgiving as they looked. Twice Renata nearly toppled over as she waded out, farther and farther, in pursuit of the surfboard. The ocean seemed to be teasing her—the surfboard would be inches from her grasp and then the waves would snatch it back. The undertow was fierce; Renata fought to keep her legs planted. If she tried to swim, she would be pulled out to sea. But she wanted the surfboard. She had known Sallie for only an hour or two, maybe, by now. Renata liked her.
Don’t go getting married while I’m gone
. Renata’s stomach churned on her beer and her guilt.
Will you keep an eye on me? Since when do you need a spotter? Since today. I’ll keep an eye out
.

Renata turned back to shore. The other people on the beach were looking at Renata with strange, fearful expressions, but nobody spoke to her. The girls were all crying and the men tried to look both strong and sympathetic; everyone on the beach was touching someone. Renata heard Miles say, “I can’t get a pulse. Where are the damned EMTs?”

Renata let a huge wave break over her head. She was knocked down and her face was filled with cold, salty water—in her mouth and her ears, up her nose, stinging her. Miles sounded panicked—and worse, he sounded guilty. If he was guilty, she was guiltier still.
She asked me. And I was up in the dunes
. Renata got to her feet and lunged for the surfboard. She got her fingers on it and a swell brought the ass end into her arms. She clung on tight, thinking she would turn it around, point it toward
shore, but it was impossibly heavy; it seemed to want to go the other way—out, to open ocean. Renata was about to let it go when she noticed blood at the top of the board. That was all it took: Renata vomited beer in one gross, powerful stream. It sullied the water. Renata spit. Dear God, no.

Renata heard shouting. She turned to see a force of men and women in black uniforms come charging down the steps to the beach. She pulled the surfboard against her hips as another wave surged, and she managed somehow, to pull herself on top of it. Then she paddled the way she’d seen Sallie do. She got the surfboard pointed toward the beach and propelled herself forward. She rode the next wave all the way in, and then she stood on wobbly legs and dragged the surfboard over to where the EMTs were gathered around Sallie, shouting numbers. They had covered her with a blanket; Renata heard a tall man with a crew cut say, “She’s in shock. But she’s breathing now. Slap a mask on her and let’s get her in. Who is she here with?”

Renata hurried over, lugging the bloody surfboard. Miles was sitting on his towel, yards away from the action, with his head in his hands.

“Me!” Renata said. “She’s here with me!”

The paramedic didn’t hear her. “Let’s take her in.” He spoke into his walkie-talkie and surveyed the beach. Renata grabbed his arm.

“She’s here with me,” Renata said. “Me and Miles, that guy over there.”

“We’re taking her to the hospital,” the paramedic said. “She received quite a blow to the head. And nearly drowned. Will you gather her personal effects, please, and bring them to the hospital? We’ll need you to give us some information.”

“Okay,” Renata said. Sallie’s personal effects consisted of the surfboard and the sunglasses. Renata snatched up her bag and nudged Miles
with her foot. “Come on,” she said. She ran toward the sound of the sirens.

3:32 P.M.

Check, check, check.

Marguerite’s list was dwindling. The tenderloin had been roasted and was resting on the stove top. The tart had been filled with goat cheese and topped with roasted red peppers. The smoked mussels, the aioli, the chocolate
pots de crème
, all in the fridge, waiting. Marguerite had slipped two champagne flutes and her copper bowl into the freezer. She softened the butter she had gotten at the Herb Farm. The asparagus still needed attention, and the baguettes and the béarnaise. Marguerite debated setting up coffee and decided against it, then changed her mind; if they didn’t drink it tonight, she’d have it in the morning. The morning: It would come, despite the fact that the day already seemed as stretched out as a piece of taffy, filled with as much activity as Marguerite engaged in in a whole year. She ferreted a wine cooler out from underneath the kitchen sink. The cooler was filled with cobwebs and mouse droppings. Marguerite washed it, then washed it again. The wine cooler was silver, sturdy, and unadorned, a leftover from the restaurant. There had been twenty such buckets and twenty iron stands, enough to post at every table, plus two spares. It was curious, Marguerite thought, the way some things survived and some did not.

The clock struck the half hour. Marguerite added items to her list, tasks that would come naturally to another person but that she, in her excitement, might forget. Shower. Hair, face, outfit. What to wear? The kimono stuck sorely in her mind like a porcupine quill. The damned ki
mono. Still, if she had a spare minute, she might try to find it. She tidied the kitchen, wiped down the countertops, rinsed the sink, cleaned the smoker, and returned it to its Styrofoam braces, closed it up in the box. This was all busywork, but Marguerite found it soothing. It allowed her to think of other things.

Since the day of Dan and Candace’s wedding, there had been talk of going to Africa. The wedding was held at the Catholic church, St. Mary’s, on Federal Street. Candace wore a strapless white satin gown with a tulle skirt and ballet slippers that laced up her calves. She was more Grace Kelly than Grace Kelly. She was captivating. Marguerite had been coaxed into preceding Candace down the aisle in a periwinkle dress with matching bolero jacket, despite her ardent pleas to sit with everyone else.

“I’m more matron than maid,” Marguerite had said. “But I’m not married, so I can’t be called matron. And no one thirty-nine years of age should be called maid. I don’t belong in this wedding, Candace.”

“I’m not willing to have anyone else.”

“I need to be at the restaurant anyway, supervising before the reception.”

“I will not have anyone else.”

Marguerite had stood at the altar, opposite Dan’s roommate from college, holding a cluster of calla lilies while Dan and Candace pledged their eternal love, while they promised to pass this love on to any children they might have, while they swore in front of a hundred-plus people to strive through good and bad, through windfall and famine. Porter had given Candace away, and he sat in the front row next to his brother Andre, in from California. On Andre’s other side was Chase, Candace’s full brother, whom Marguerite had just met that morning. Porter reveled in
the role of patriarch, leaning against the back of the pew with his arm stretched out behind his brother and half brother, his eyes dewy, a proud and resigned smile on his face. Marguerite could picture him like it was yesterday. He’d winked at her and she blushed. In the end, she had felt proud to be standing up there next to Candace, despite the dress that most closely resembled a tablecloth from a Holiday Inn banquet hall; she had felt proud that Candace would not consider asking anyone else to wear the dress, to hold the flowers and Dan’s ring, to stand by her side as she wed. Marguerite did not, however, stay for the receiving line. Instead, she negotiated the cobblestones in her inane dyed-to-match heels back to Les Parapluies, where she supervised the prep of the crab and mango canapés and the prosciutto-wrapped Gorgonzola-stuffed figs that would be offered to the wedding guests along with flutes of La grande Dame.

Marguerite had few memories of the reception. (Had she even sat to eat? Had she changed into her regular clothes? She had no recollection.) The after-reception, however, Marguerite recalled vividly. Everyone had gone home except for Marguerite and Porter, Andre, Chase, the college roommate (whose name was Gregory and who expressed, in no uncertain terms, his wanton desire for Francesca, the headwaiter), and, to Marguerite’s surprise, Dan and Candace. They were all gathered around the west banquette with cigarettes and a 1955 bottle of Taylor Fladgate. Marguerite had set a plate of chocolate caramel truffles on the table to a smattering of applause, and then finally she relaxed, amazed that Dan and Candace hadn’t beelined to the Roberts House, where they had a suite. They both seemed content to sit and drink and eat and talk, holding hands under the table.

They’re married
, Marguerite thought. There was nothing left to do but accept it. Daniel Knox would be a permanent part of their lives. He continued to irritate Marguerite—he was forever challenging her within her
area of expertise, arguing with her about the quality of American beef or a certain vintage of Chablis, as though he believed he could do a better job of running the restaurant than she did. He had tried his best to sabotage the friendship between Marguerite and Candace. He disliked it when they spent time alone; he teased Marguerite about how often she and Candace touched each other, their kisses, their hugs; he pointed out how Marguerite never failed to choose the seat closest to Candace; he badgered Candace about what the two of them talked about when they were alone—were they talking about him? A hundred times Marguerite could have murdered the man—sardonically she thought all it would have taken was a little rat poison in his polenta—but Candace worked to keep the peace. She gave one hand to Daniel and one to Marguerite. “I love you both,” she said. “I want you to love each other.” While up at the altar, Marguerite vowed to herself to try her best to get along with Daniel. It was either that or tear Candace in half.