Firefly Summer (18 page)

C
HAPTER
38

R
emy stepped out onto the porch with a cup of green tea in her hand—which she'd recently read was the rock star of antioxidant and nutrient-rich beverages—and her book,
Gift from the Sea,
under her arm. She was determined to focus her tired, old brain on reading again, but as soon as she sat down, Edison appeared from around the corner, padded softly across the porch, and hopped onto her lap.

“How'm I going to read with you sitting there?” she asked, stroking his soft fur, but he just curled up, pretended not to hear her, and started to purr. Remy shook her head, took a sip of her tea, and propped the little book on the far side of him. She opened to where her bookmark was tucked and smiled—she was on one of her favorite chapters—the one in which the author compared the lovely moon shell to an island, and then went on to muse about the solitude of man and the idea that all men were essentially alone—that all men were islands in a common sea. The chapter celebrated solitude . . . and whenever she read it, it made her feel less alone.

With renewed determination, she started to read, but before she was halfway down the second page, her mind wandered off and latched on to her worries about the upcoming weekend. She looked up at the sun-dappled leaves dancing in the breeze and tried to quell her anxiety, but it was hopeless. She wished, with all her heart, that she'd never said yes to going to the reunion. . . and worse, that she'd never mentioned it to John—
what
in the world had she been thinking?!

She closed her eyes and let out a long sigh. She'd spent all of the previous day trying to find something to wear. She'd even gone down to Chatham to look in the shops. Finally, she'd settled on a blue and white linen sundress that, when she'd tried it on, the saleslady had said looked
fabulous
—but that was her job so she obviously couldn't be trusted. And then, she'd found matching shoes at the Shoe Salon—but she still wasn't convinced the dress was right for the occasion . . . or that it even looked good on her. She shook her head—
I trust a car salesman, but I don't trust the lady at the dress shop.

She'd already tried the outfit on three times since she'd brought it home, and each time, she'd studied her reflection from every angle and then carefully slipped it off, hung it back on its hanger, draped the garment bag back over it, and hung it up, wondering if she could still return it. Oh, if she could only get out of the whole thing and just stay home! She'd rather spend the weekend under a rock than drive all the way to Vermont to see people she couldn't give two figs about! And then there was John—what in the world were they going to talk about for five and a half hours in the car, never mind all weekend, which would include at least a half a dozen meals? Maybe she should just call him and tell him she wasn't feeling well. She could assure him that it was nothing that required a doctor's appointment—she just wasn't herself and had no energy. She groaned. Why did the one person she'd unintentionally invited to her college reunion have to be her doctor? When she'd asked him, she'd really just been kidding—she'd never expected him to say yes. And then to find out he loved Vermont!

And what if she did end up going? What kind of questions would her classmates ask?
And
how would she answer them? Yes, she and John were old friends; yes, he was single; no, he'd never married; yes, he was a doctor; no, they'd never dated; yes, he was good-looking; no, she wasn't attracted to him . . .
Or was she?
Lord, help her! Was she attracted to him?!

Remy looked up at the sunlight filtering through the trees and decided right then and there she was
not
going. She picked up her phone and started to dial Sailor's number but then stopped and wondered if she should tell Piper instead. Which sister would give her the least grief? Birdie probably couldn't care less, although she had seemed a little curious about the whole affair—wrong word!—and she was probably expecting her to bail out anyway. She was still staring at her phone, trying to decide, and berating herself for being so indecisive, when the phone suddenly started to ring, startling her.

“Hello? . . . Oh, hi, Dr. Sanders! Yes,” she said, laughing. “I guess I will have to call you John. My classmates
will
think it's odd if I introduce you as Dr. Sanders.” She paused, listening. “Well, I was thinking we should leave fairly early and plan to stop and have lunch somewhere along the way. I think registration starts around two and then there's a reception and cocktail hour, so we should allow time to check in to our hotel.” She hesitated, then took a deep breath. “Are you sure you still want to go?” She nodded. “Okay. Yes, I'm really looking forward to it, too.... That sounds good. I'll expect to see you here around eight, then.” She smiled, but after she hung up she let out a loud “Ahhh!” startling Edison—who looked up in alarm and then hopped off her lap and scooted around the corner of the house. “So much for staying home!”

C
HAPTER
39

B
irdie was staring stonily out the kitchen window when David came back into the house. “Are you sure you don't want to come along?” he asked.

“Yes,” she answered coolly.

“I thought you wanted to see her being set free.... and I thought we could go to that French restaurant in Mashpee that you like. What's the name of it?”

“Bleu.”

“Yes, Bleu—they have that scallop dish you're always raving about.”

Birdie shook her head indifferently. “No, thanks.”

He shrugged. “Do you want me to pick up something for dinner, then?”

“No.”

“Do you have something you're planning to make?”

“I don't know.”

He sighed. “All right. I'll see you later, then.”

“See you later.”

Birdie listened as his car pulled away and felt her shoulders relax. It had been a long week—staying mad at someone took a lot of energy. Ordinarily, she would've
loved
watching the young barred owl fly back to freedom ... and she would've
loved
going to her favorite French restaurant. The scallop dish with the yummy maple grapefruit glaze was to die for—her mouth watered just thinking about it—and they could've ordered a bottle of Château de Candale. It could've been a really nice evening . . .
if
David hadn't ruined everything.

She stared glumly out the window. She just couldn't seem to put the last couple of weeks behind her—David's insensitivity at the Beachcomber; his implication that she drank too much; his habit of tallying the wine bottles in the recycling bin; and his unwillingness to do anything about the lack of intimacy in their bedroom. It was all more than she could take. She'd had it with being married . . . and everything that went along with it .. . like figuring out what to make for dinner. And she definitely didn't need him looking over her shoulder for the rest of her life!

She opened a bottle of wine and poured a glass. “C'mon, Bay,” she said, “let's go outside.” The old black Lab pulled herself up, followed Birdie outside, and sank down in the last rays of the late-day sunshine.

Birdie set the bottle on the table, settled into her favorite chair, and took a long sip. She leaned back to watch a pair of cardinals fluttering back and forth to the feeder and took another sip.
After all these years, you'd think David would understand. Every year, he takes that damn picture of us . . . and he doesn't even realize that someone's missing. It will never be complete. There will always be an empty space . . . a face that should've grown old beside us.
She took another sip, realized her glass was almost empty, refilled it, and tried to imagine how Easton would look now.
He would be handsome,
she thought wistfully,
with those sparkling blue eyes of his . . . and he'd probably have silver hair . . . just like the rest of us
. She took another sip of her wine, studied the amount that was left in the bottle, and wondered whether it would fit in her glass. She poured it slowly until it reached the very top, and then brought the bottle to her lips and finished it. She leaned over, took a sip from her glass so it wouldn't spill, glanced at the time on her phone, and tried to remember what time David had left. Her mind seemed a little foggy as she tried to calculate how long it would take him to get to Mashpee, free the owl, and drive back home. She stood up, swaying slightly, and carried the empty bottle inside. She carefully rinsed it, took it out to the garage, and slid it gingerly under the orange juice bottles and milk jugs. Then she went back inside, reached for another bottle, and focused intently on making her hands and mind work together to screw the corkscrew in straight.

This is perfect,
she thought as she pulled out the cork.
David will never know.

She carried the bottle outside, along with her laptop, and sank into her chair, feeling decidedly lusty . . . or lushy . . . whichever. Forgetting Sailor's warning to avoid going on Facebook when you'd been drinking, she clicked on her page and began to scroll through her newsfeed, suddenly feeling very fond of her “Friends” and liking almost every post—from a college acquaintance's daughter's engagement photo—even though they hadn't been in touch in years—“Good for her!”—to a sweet story about two old dogs who'd been missing for five days, and when they were finally found, it was determined that one of the dogs had fallen into a shallow well and the other one had stayed right by his friend's side, keeping watch. It was such a good story, she even shared it, typing the comment: “Dogs are more loyal than humans!”

She swirled the burgundy liquid in her glass and watched it catch the sunlight. Entranced by the sparkle, she swirled it again—with a little more vigor this time—and a wave of red sloshed over the top and splashed onto her white slacks. “Cra-parooni,” she muttered, brushing the stain with her hand and taking another sip.

She looked back at her laptop and noticed that the edges of the screen seemed a little blurry and dark. She tapped the brightening button on the keyboard but the screen was already on the brightest setting. “What the hell?” she muttered. “I better not have to take this damn thing back to Apple again.” She stared at it, suddenly remembered something she'd been meaning to look up, and typed “
Viagra side effects
” in the search box. She clicked the Enter button, and a bazillion drug-related websites popped up. She clicked on the top one and saw everything from bladder pain to chest pain. “Geez-freakin'-Louise,” she muttered. “How in the world do so many men take it, then? The company must list all these side effects because they have to cover their bloody arses.” She sighed. “Whatever. People take it anyway—the sex lives of old people is a freaking million-dollar industry.”

David wouldn't take it, though—he didn't take any pills, not even a vitamin—which she could certainly understand—she didn't like taking pills, either, but you'd think, once a month . . . or even once every
two
months, he could take it just to keep their love life interesting. She shook her head. There was a time in their marriage when she would've loved being left alone, but now that she didn't have a freaking choice in the matter, it left her feeling neglected, unattractive
and
unloved. David still reached for her hand at night and he still wrapped his arms around her . . . but it just wasn't the same.

Birdie set her laptop on the table, drained her glass, and refilled it. “Whatever,” she mumbled. “Life sucksanthen yadie, right, Bay?” The old Lab, hearing her name, pulled herself up, moseyed over to rest her head on Birdie's lap, and gazed at her with worried eyes. “Donworry, sweeie,” Birdie said, stroking her head. “Mommysfine. No bigdeal.” She lightly touched the white fur around Bailey's muzzle, and as she looked into her cloudy eyes, she was suddenly overwhelmed by the realization that her beloved dog was getting old. “Idon knowha I'llmanag-withow ya,” she whispered, tears filling her eyes. She leaned down to rest her cheek on Bailey's head. “Promismeyouwon-everleeme.”

Bailey swished her tail tentatively and anxiously licked Birdie's salty cheeks. “Iloveyootoo,” she whispered, wiping her eyes and suddenly realizing her nose was running. “Ineetagetatishoo,” she said, lurching forward as she tried to stand. She grabbed the table to get her balance, bumped it, and then watched in horror as her wine glass rocked back and forth. Finally, in seemingly slow motion, it tipped over, splashing its contents across her laptop. “Damn!” she blurted, trying to reach for the glass, but for some reason, her hand seemed to have a mind of its own, and at the very same moment, Bailey, startled by Birdie's sudden outburst and odd behavior, scrambled to her feet, bumped the table again, and sent the bottle flying, spilling more precious wine just as the glass hit the floor and shattered. “FUDGE!” Birdie shouted, causing poor Bailey to scamper off the porch with her tail between her legs.

Birdie stood up straighter, trying to focus on the mess. Then she closed her eyes and tried to stop swaying. She held on to the back of the chair for support and then walked slowly and purposefully toward the house. Moments later, she came back with a dustpan and a towel. She knelt down, picked up the wine bottle, and holding it up to the light, saw there was a little left. She wiped off the outside of the bottle, set it aside, and began picking up the shards from the broken wine glass. There were hundreds of pieces, though—all swimming in the puddle of wine—and she couldn't decide what the best way was to pick them up—sweep through the wine with the broom or wipe up the puddle with the towel? She sat down on the porch, considering her two options, and then got on her knees and started sopping up the mess with the towel. The towel, however, quickly became heavy with the red liquid, and when she folded it over and started to wipe again, a piece of glass sliced into her palm. She cried out in pain and tried to stand up, but she couldn't seem to get her balance so she crawled across the wooden floor and when she got to the door, tried again. This time she was able to stand, but as she walked across the kitchen, she had to hold on to the counter to keep from falling.

She rinsed out the cut, made sure the glass wasn't embedded in her palm, and stuck a Band-Aid on it. Then, remembering she needed a garbage bag, she reached under the sink. She went back outside, finished wiping up the puddle, and dropped the glass-filled towel into the garbage bag. She placed the rest of the broken glass on top of it, looked down and realized the knees of her white slacks were now burgundy and gray—not to mention there were burgundy splatters
everywhere
. She unbuttoned them—they were getting too tight anyway—and clumsily stepped out of them, almost falling over in the process, and then dropped them into the bag, too.

Now, what to do with the bag?
She heard a car pull onto the road and, in a sudden, sobering panic, picked up the wine bottle, dumped the remaining liquid over the railing, dropped the bottle into the bag, grabbed her laptop, and hurried into the house. She heaved herself up the stairs, stuffed the bag and her laptop in the back of her closet, and pulled on a pair of old shorts, almost falling over again. Then she blinked at her flushed reflection in the mirror, and hearing footfalls on the porch, headed back down the stairs, holding tightly to the railing, but when she walked in the kitchen, she immediately sensed that something was wrong. Did David know? Had she missed something?

“What's the matter?” she asked, her heart pounding.

He gave her a puzzled look. “Where's Bailey?”

She swallowed, her heart pounding even faster. “She was just outside. . . .”