Making Waves (40 page)

“I'm sure Prince Charming was working the room, kissing ass all over the place, just like he was doing a few minutes ago at the coffee shop.”

“Even worse,” Rye says in disgust. “With Dory back by his side, he was beaming like he'd just scored the winning touchdown in an Alabama—Auburn game. He held on to Dory's arm and didn't let her out of his sight all night.”

“Hovering over Dory? That's so unlike Son,” I say sarcastically.

“When I approached their table to welcome them back, he did something that really surprised me.”

“Told you that scientists have discovered someone with a lower IQ than he has?”

Rye sighs in exasperation before telling me, “He jumped to his feet and hugged me like a long-lost brother.”

“Oh, please!” I groan. “Thank God I wasn't there. A performance like that would gag a maggot.”

He regards me with a troubled expression. “I know how disappointed you were when they got back together. Both of us were.”

“After the last stunt Son pulled, I thought for sure that she was through with him. Dory may be perfect in every other way, but her taste in men leaves something to be desired.”

“You expect too much of people, my dear. Of all of us. You always have.” Rye says it casually, without censure, but it stings anyway.

“Maybe I do,” I reply weakly.

We avoid each other's eyes until I say, “Listen, I've
got
to go. Dory's coming to the group tomorrow morning, and I'll let you know how it goes, okay?” Before putting an arm around his shoulder and kissing him goodbye, I add with real regret, “If only she'd had the good sense to marry you, instead of Son, when she had the chance! You wouldn't still be looking for the one who got away, and Dory would've had a good man instead of a pain in the butt like Son.”

With a seemingly nonchalant smile, Rye shrugs. “You're right about one thing: I've spent my life searching for the right woman.” We fall silent, then he says wistfully, “Why don't you change your mind and come to the party with me tonight? Be good for you.”

“I wouldn't do that to you,” I say breezily. “Think what it'd do to your social life to be seen with Fairhope's most notorious home-wrecker.”

“It'd be worth it.”

“I'm busy tonight and couldn't go even if I wanted to. Which I don't.”

He takes me by the arm as though to lead me to one of the wrought-iron tables of the outdoor café. “Let's sit down,” he says. “I need a smoke bad.” At my expression, he flinches. “No lectures, sweetheart. Eventually I'll honor my promise to quit, but not now. Smoking calms my nerves.”

“You've been saying that for years, Rye! You ought to have the calmest nerves in the state of Alabama. I'll put that on your tombstone: ‘He died of calm nerves.'”

“Okay, okay. I won't have a cigarette, then—we'll get a glass of sherry instead.”

“I can't. I've
got
to get home.” Twisting my wrist sideways, I look down at my watch. “Oh, Jesus, I'm running late as it is.”

He eyes me suspiciously, tilting his head. “You're two-timing me, aren't you, Clare? Running off with your new boyfriend, that Yankee sea captain. He's the real reason you won't go with me tonight, isn't he?”

“I told you why I didn't want to go,” I say flippantly. “If I had to get all dressed up, then make small talk with that snooty crowd you hang around, I'd jump off the municipal pier.”

“You're not only heartless, you have no manners, either.” Following my lead, Rye goes back to his playful bantering. “It's rude to say that you don't want to go. You should make up an excuse that won't hurt my feelings.”

Leaning over, I brush his cheek with my lips, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Oh, phooey. Nobody in their right mind
likes
going to cocktail parties. Well, except you, maybe.”

Returning my kiss, he smells delicious, his shaving lotion like rare spices. Holding me close for a minute, he whispers in my ear before releasing me, “You're not fooling me, you know. On my way into town, I drove by your house. Your sea captain is already there. That god-awful vehicle he drives is parked out front.”

“Good.We're going to the Landing, and as you well know, we'll need the Jeep. I'm leaving now, my friend. Have a good time at your snotty party tonight. Oh—and by the way, you don't fool me, either. I'm sure you won't be going to the party alone.”

“Anytime I'm not with you, my dear girl, I might as well be alone.” He says it with that devastating smile of his, the one that's left a trail of broken hearts all across the South.

“Oh, God,” I groan. “With that corny line, I'm definitely leaving. See you later, okay?”

At the corner of the alley leading out of the French Quarter, I turn to wave goodbye. Rye's still standing on the sidewalk, his hands thrust into the pockets of his straw-colored trousers as he watches me leave. When I wave, he mouths, “Two-timer,” and I chuckle, rolling my eyes before turning onto Church Street, toward my house.

On my walk home, I avoid the sidewalks and walk the shady little alleyways, thinking I'll be less likely to run into anyone I know. I've had a couple of calls this morning about the letter to the editor, but too many things are vying for my attention for me to worry about it. I wonder if Dory's seen it yet, and if she's been trying to reach me. She knows I'll fret over it a while, then blow it off, if I practice what I'm always preaching about troublesome things like that. I tell my clients that three of the most important and powerful words in the English language are “Let it go.” Pick your battles, decide which are worth putting your energy into fighting and which aren't. Seeing Son at the coffee shop, the letter to the editor … those are things I have to let go before I get home. My days are always full, but today even more so. The next thing on my agenda is the all-important trip out to the Landing with Lex; if I hurry home, we'll have time for a few leisurely moments, maybe even a glass of wine beforehand.

Walking the alleyways was a good decision: I don't see anyone, and I've escaped the tourists. Although I dutifully join in the complaints against them, in truth I can't blame anyone for coming here. I fell in love with this little town the first time I saw it exactly twenty-five years ago this summer, when I came here with my new fiancé to meet his family. Fairhope has a way of casting its spell on everyone who spends any time here. It's such a quaint and picturesque town, with its historic waterfront and beach, but the beauty is only part of it. Seeing it initially, I was enchanted with the quiet, unpaved streets meandering under overhanging limbs of towering oaks and huge magnolias. Almost all the little cottages and stately old homes are hidden from view, which makes them seem sheltered and safe, as though nothing bad could happen to anyone fortunate enough to live in them. A foolish illusion, of course, as I know better than anyone.

The unique, even mythical history of the town is as much a part of its appeal as its beauty, and I'm still astonished that such a place exists in Alabama. Fairhope was founded around the turn of the twentieth century by a group of idealists who dreamed of creating a utopia. Even the name reflects their ideal: The story goes that one of the founders remarked that their project had a “fair hope” of succeeding. I'm surprised they gave it that much of a chance, actually. A group of Midwestern idealists establishing a freethinking colony founded on the principles of social and economic justice in the middle of the Deep South is a pretty radical idea even now, but especially for that day and age. The founders left their comfortable lives and homes to venture into the unknown, putting everything they had into building a new and perfect society. When I first started conducting the retreats, the idea hit me to draw an analogy between that adventure and the journey of the participants. It's still one of the most popular parts of the retreats. Handing out material on the history of Fairhope, I compare the way the colony was established to the way each of them will be beginning her new life. Like the first settlers of this community, each newly divorced woman is charting an unfamiliar course, setting out for the unknown.

To reach my home, I have to pass the stuccoed, tile-roofed cottage that houses my practice. Because it is not only the home of a therapy practice but also Spanish in style and decor, the locals have nicknamed it Casa Loco. At first I was unamused, but over time the whimsical epithet has served me well. Everyone in town knows its location, and new clients who are directed to Casa Loco almost always arrive smiling. I stand outside it now and wonder if I should go in and get the casework I didn't complete this morning. Then I scoff at myself. Even if I had it with me, when would I have time to work on it? I take a few steps away, then pause. Maybe I should check my messages. Won't take but a minute, and one of my really distraught clients might have called. But no. No, no, no! I pick up my pace and refuse to look back at Casa Loco. Like Lot's wife, I'm liable to be turned into something horrible if I do, and it won't be a pillar of salt. More likely it will be a stack of paperwork.

Going around the curve and arriving at my house, I see that Rye wasn't joking—Lex's beat-up old Jeep is indeed out front. I'm getting here later than I'd told him to expect me, but he would've made himself at home. Over the past few weeks, he's gotten more comfortable about coming and going in my house. It started even before, in mid-July, when I gave him a key so he could keep an eye on things while I was out of town for a conference. On returning, I asked if he'd keep the key in case I needed him again. There are times when neither Etta nor I can free ourselves from work, and I don't mind calling Lex and asking if he'll stop by the house while he's out and let in the plumber or whatever. Unlike me, trapped in Casa Loco seeing clients all day, Lex is constantly coming into town from the marina, making regular runs to the hardware store or post office or bank.

Funny, me having two men in my life now. I'm equally fond of both Rye and Lex and often find myself juggling my time between them. Our choice of friends can reveal our needs, I think, and that's proved true with those two. I give Rye credit for introducing me to the joys of dancing, since he takes me out dancing whenever I need a mental-health break, which is fairly frequent in my business. Then Lex was the one who insisted that I get my work obsession under control. When we first became friends, he was appalled at my hours, not believing that I often stayed at my office for hours after my last client left. One day this summer he barged in and demanded I get a
life
, for Christ's sake.

Lex and I met on an unforgettable night at the beginning of the summer and hit it off instantly. I enjoy his company in much the same way I've always enjoyed Rye's, though I wouldn't put it that way to either of them, since each teases me about the other. No two men could be any more opposite in personality, temperament, and appearance than Lex Yarbrough and Rye Ballenger. Rye is witty, glib, and urbane, while Lex is playful, outgoing, and full of mischief. With his looks, charm, and courtliness, Rye is adored by women and envied by men. Being neither seductive nor flirtatious, Lex cares nothing for adoration or envy. What you see is what you get with him. He's blunt and no-nonsense, yet he has more sheer magnetism than any man I've ever met.

I'm aware that everyone in Fairhope assumes Lex and I are lovers, but I'm used to that; people have made the same assumption about me and Rye for quite a while now. Pushing open the door of my house, which feels blissfully cool after the long walk from town, I find myself chuckling. Well, if certain people think my job is coaching women on the fine art of leaving their husbands and destroying their families, it's not much of a stretch to see me as a woman who'd sleep with two men at once. How disappointed they'd be to know the truth! Setting my purse and the cake box on the table in the foyer, I see that Lex brought in the mail and stacked it neatly on the table. The only piece separate is
The Fairhoper
, and since it's refolded in a crooked manner, I know he's read it. I wonder what his reaction will be. Although laid-back and easygoing to a fault, Lex is not a man I'd want to cross.

“Hey, where are you, Lex?” I call out, heading toward the back of the house. One thing for sure, he will be in either the kitchen or the backyard, his two favorite hangouts here. Not finding him in the kitchen, I lean over the sink and look out the double windows. Yep, he's in the herb garden, knee-deep in thyme. I wonder why it is that the sight of him tending a garden never fails to surprise me. I can't help myself; seeing a man like Lex Yarbrough in my garden makes me think of a story I loved as a child, one about a bull who would rather smell flowers than fight the matador. What was his name, Ferdinand? Kicking off my low-heeled sandals, I push open the back door. It's been a stressful day thus far, but I've learned one thing in my business: Never, ever assume that things can't get worse.

Cassandra King has published numerous short stories, articles, and essays, as well as three other novels,
The Sunday Wife, The Same Sweet Girls
, and
Queen of Broken Hearts
. She has taught college writing classes; conducted corporate writing seminars; worked as a human-interest reporter; and published an article on her second-favorite pastime, cooking, in
Cooking Light magazine
. A native of L.A. (Lower Alabama), she now lives in the low country of South Carolina with her husband, novelist Pat Conroy.