Riptide (18 page)

T
he figure moved swiftly through the night, closing in on her.

Christina’s breath caught high in her throat. There was no time to scream. Scrambling frantically onto all fours, she fought to keep her footing in the heavy, wet sand.

In the back of her mind, she was aware that if something horrible happened to her now, Tyler would be an orphan.

She pushed with all her might, willing her legs to sprint faster across the heavy sand.

But it was no use.

She heard panting, felt hot breath on her neck as arms swung down to catch her in a vise grip.

Time slowed the way it does in nightmares.

“Christina!”

The sound of Dan Cunningham’s voice, labored and short of breath, worked on her like a drug.

He was back. Daniel Cunningham had come to her. Relief made her giddy. All the fight went out of her. Christina stopped struggling and landed in a heap.

Swearing, Dan dropped down beside her on the wet sand. “Goddamned photographers are still there.” He was panting. “What the fuck are you doing out here?”

But he didn’t say it in an angry way. His voice was soft, his tone warm with concern. Thank God. Christina tried to explain, but words would not come. Just a wave of relief that she wasn’t alone anymore on this awful night. “Hi,” she finally managed.

“Come on,” Dan replied. “Let’s get the fuck outta the rain at least.” He stood and reached down to pull her up.

It must have been a trick of the night, with no moon and all, but he didn’t look like the Dan Cunningham she knew.

He looked for one instant like a thing with a face and black holes for eyes.

Christina stiffened, opened her mouth to scream.

He took that as his opening and leaned down to kiss her.

Dan kissed her long and deep, and, despite everything, Christina felt something stir in her solar plexus and knew that the roller-coaster ride that was Dan Cunningham was about to start up again.

The feel of his mouth, hard and deep, his lips moving against hers, transported her the way a shot of vodka would have, the shot she had been fighting all night.

Dan tasted of booze.

Christina kissed him back, felt herself grow giddy with the drug that was Dan.

It was the polar opposite of the way she had felt just a few short hours ago, calm and serene and working hard to believe Matt Wallace when he said everything would be okay.

This was easier.

Dan pulled his mouth away and smacked his lips. “I missed you, baby,” he said, his voice hoarse, and if Christina had any resolve to heed the advice she’d heard
at the AA meeting to avoid people, places, and things that might lead her back to her old ways, it evaporated in the chill rain.

They went back up to the house then, picking their way across the dunes and through the back gate.

This time, with Dan to lean on, Christina did not even glance at the pool.

Christina went into the bathroom to get towels, leaving a trail of wet sand on the floor, while Dan headed straight for the kitchen.

He was holding two highballs on ice when she came back. Ignoring the towel she offered, he pressed a glass into her hand.

It felt cold and heavy and familiar, snug against her palm.

The ice tinkled.

Christina tried to hand the glass back. It required a mighty effort.

Dan wouldn’t accept it. He tapped the rim of his glass against hers.
“Cin, cin,”
he said, his eyes glinting.

She watched, mesmerized, as he took a large swallow. “Come on,” he said, his voice still soft but commanding now, “this will do you a world of good.”

And, in one of those moments that should seem significant but felt as natural as can be, Christina raised the glass to her lips and took a sip.

Every molecule in her body came screaming to attention as the vodka flowed past her lips.

Waking up to rework itself around the alcohol.

She took another sip.

And then one more, and one more after that.

Dan smiled at her and took another sip of his drink. “To us.”

See, Christina told herself, the earth did not move. The tide did not shift. The planets did not spin out of alignment.

The humming sound inside Christina’s brain died down for the first time in what seemed like hours.

She gulped down most of it, unable to stop. She knew she should be embarrassed but couldn’t help herself.

Dan didn’t care. He smiled. “You’re back,” he said, taking her glass and setting it with his on the counter. He pulled her roughly to him as the towels tumbled from her grasp onto the floor, forgotten. He covered her mouth with his so the vodka on his tongue swirled into her, and she swallowed it greedily while he kissed her. He pulled away, taking her glass and pressing it to her lips, tipping it up high so she had no choice but to drink it down fast in one swallow. “You’re back,” he said, his voice hoarse.

And she was.

He pulled the glass away when she was out of breath and set it down on the counter with a loud clank. He pushed her onto the counter with it, pushing her legs apart and pressing himself onto her, flicking his tongue down to the top of her V-neck leaving a long wet trail across her chest. He bit her nipple through her blouse and raised his head to look at her.

Christina felt the cold tiles beneath her neck while inside the vodka burned a trail down her throat.

“Welcome back,” he whispered, smiling wide so his teeth gleamed.

Christina could not manage a reply. Her brain was fogging over, disappearing and sinking down into the old, familiar vodka haze.

“You,” he said, fumbling with the zipper on her pants, “are no fun at all when you’re not drinking.”

Warmth spread through her insides as the alcohol kicked in like jet fuel, while Dan Cunningham got down to business right there on the tiled kitchen counter, pulling her panties down over her hips and undoing his jeans while Christina Cardiff propped herself up on one elbow. Her glass was empty, so she reached for his.

The sound of the phone ringing, far off downstairs, woke her.

Christina cracked one eye open. She was hungover. Memories of last night came back. She drank. Or, in the parlance of AA, picked up. She was no longer sober.

She wanted to die.

The room was dim. The sky outside was overcast. A smattering of rain hit the windows. Surf raged on the other side of the dunes, today the color of wet cement, landing on the sand with a steady pounding.

The sea view was one she hadn’t woken up to in a long time.

They had spent the night in Jason’s room.

“The master bedroom,” Dan had corrected her.

Which was true, of course. It was the master bedroom suite, with a wall of windows facing their private stretch of beach. It had been hers as well as Jason’s until she had moved into the guest room last fall.

The room belonged to her now.

Christina stretched and her hand brushed against the sleeping form of Daniel Cunningham and it all came tumbling back. She should have driven into the city to collect her son by now.

Christina blinked and sat up too fast.

Her head pounded so she could hardly see straight.

Daniel Cunningham stretched and rolled to face her from his side of the California king. “’Morning,” he said with a sleepy smile.

Christina wished he were someplace else. “Hi.”

He moved with lightning speed to close the space between them. One of his arms shot out from beneath the covers and closed on hers, pulling her down.

Christina resisted.

“What?” He let his lips form into a sexy pout. “You don’t love me today?”

Love. They had never used that word, and even though she would have given anything to hear it up until a few days ago, now it hung between them. Wrong. Like a solitary Christmas ornament on a fir tree in July.

Dan watched her, letting his brown eyes turn soft and beseeching, like a puppy.

The phone downstairs continued to bleat.

Christina glanced at Jason’s alarm clock. Quarter past eight.

His memorial service would begin in less than two hours.

She frowned and pulled her arm away. “I need to go.” What she meant was, “You need to go.”

Dan sidled closer. “C’mon, baby, take it easy.” He reached out and began massaging one of her breasts.

Probably any day until today, Christina would have given anything to wake up this way. She had told him so lots of times after they made love, when they whispered about how it would be when they were together. She had said it again last night when, finally, Dan had half carried and half pulled her up the stairs, steering her left and not right when they reached the top.

Snatches of last night came tumbling back.

“Move over little dog,” Dan had sung. “The big ol’ dog is movin’ in.”

Christina winced. Shrugging Dan’s hand away, she climbed out of bed and stood, waiting for a wave of nausea to pass.

She wanted aspirin.

Dan rolled out of bed and followed her into the bathroom. “Nice,” he said, taking in the Jacuzzi tub and its raised tile platform. He stepped inside the floor-to-ceiling glass shower stall and turned on the hot water while she fumbled in the medicine cabinet for the Tylenol.

“We could shower together and save water,” he said playfully as the steam rose.

Trying again.

“No.” Christina gulped down three of the pills and pushed Dan’s hands away. “Jason’s memorial is at ten.”

“Oh,” Dan said, sounding wounded.

His next words did nothing to settle her stomach. “I can come to that, you know.”

“No! I’m expecting a lot of people.” Her voice trailed off as she thought of the detective, the old one. The white guy who had left a message on her machine. One of the messages she had ignored along with all the others. “Shit,” she breathed. “I think some cops will be there.”

Dan took his hands away and backed off. “I can take a shower in the other room,” he said, all business now. “I’ll just get my jeans.”

Hers had been left in a wet, sandy heap on the kitchen floor.

There were sounds from downstairs.

“Shit,” Christina exclaimed.

Dan froze. “Who the fuck is that?”

Christina saw a strange look on Dan’s face, one she had never seen before.

Fear.

“It’s just Señora Rosa and Marisol,” Christina explained. “I asked them to come help the caterers set up.”

The funeral home had released Jason’s obit with details for the memorial service to
Newsday
and had even made sure a piece would run in the brand-new edition of
Dan’s Paper,
out today.

“Right. I can skip the shower.”

The room was filling with steam.

He stepped in close and pecked her on the cheek. He kept his face there, just centimeters away from hers. “You hang tight,” he said softly, “you hear me?” He put his hands on her shoulders and squeezed.

Hard.

“Hey? You hear me?”

It was impossible to see his eyes. His heavy lids had dropped low, closing them off to her.

Christina winced. “Yeah, I got it.”

Dan released his grip and stepped back. “Good.”

Christina rubbed her shoulders and frowned.

“Call me if you need…” He paused to let out a breath and run a hand through his hair. “You know, if you need me.”

Christina nodded.

They heard a commotion from the front of the house where, judging by the sounds, the housekeepers had gone out to meet the caterers.

Dan put his finger to his lips. “I’ll let myself out the back way.”

And he was gone.

Mist swirled in his wake like smoke.

C
hristina spotted orange traffic cones and wooden barricades as her limo neared Amagansett’s First Presbyterian Church.

She had advised Sprague Funeral Home to work with local police on crowd control for Jason’s memorial service, to handle the mourners who always showed up to pay their respects at Cardiff funerals.

But there were no crowds today.

There was only a smattering of tourists clad in shorts and rain ponchos, such as you’d see on any Hamptons street on a summer morning. A little boy perched on his father’s shoulders, eating an ice-cream cone.

A group of paparazzi, clustered behind one of the barricades, trained their lenses her way.

Thank God for tinted windows. Christina smoothed her hair, which she had set in hot rollers and sprayed as protection against the humidity. Glancing around at the near-empty street and parking lot, she wondered for one awful moment if she had got the date wrong.

But Gil Stanton, waiting to deliver the eulogy as she had asked, stood oblivious to the rain that was soaking him as he waited at the entrance to the church. And she glimpsed her sister-in-law’s neon yellow Land Rover.

Nope, there was no mistake.

So, where were all the mourners?

The list of possible answers to that question made Christina queasy. She and Jason had barely spoken for months, but she had never considered she would come home to this.

Jason’s funeral.

Dan, his bare chest slick after sex, staring up at the sky with his dark eyes. “We could buy a place in Florida someday,” he’d said.

“We’d be tan all year.” Christina played along. “You could do the cooking, since I hate to cook.”

“I’d cook,” he said thoughtfully. “If you got a good settlement, I wouldn’t have to work.” His voice shifted into falsetto, imitating the housewives who were his clients. “‘I thought the finish would be lighter when it dried. Can you come back and do it over?’”

Christina giggled until Dan’s voice suddenly took on an angry edge. “I don’t want to do this shitty work until I’m old,” he’d burst.

Christina had looked away, embarrassed for Daniel Cunningham and his failed ambitions.

She squeezed her eyes shut tight against the memory now, leaning back against the headrest.

A soft rap on the limo’s back window made her jump out of her skin.

It was the funeral director from Sprague, huddling from the rain beneath an oversized golf umbrella of jet black.

“May I join you?” he mouthed.

When Christina signaled, he opened the door and slid into the seat beside her.

This sent the paparazzi into action.

She could hear the click and whir of their cameras.

“How are you doing, Mrs. Cardiff?”

Christina thought of the pint bottle she had debated bringing, deciding at the last minute not to risk it with her son close by. She had stashed it for emergency use in the downstairs powder room. The memory of the bottle’s smooth weight in her hands and its easy screw-off cap, made her break out in a cold sweat. “Fine,” she said, avoiding the undertaker’s gaze. “Did the obituaries run?”

“I’ve got copies.” He pulled news clippings from the slim leather portfolio he carried.

The clips had full details of this memorial service with the date and time, from
Long Island Newsday
and even
Dan’s Paper,
as she had instructed. Christina frowned. “Why are there so few people?”

“Your in-laws are already inside with your son,” he said helpfully. “Your family attorney is here to deliver the eulogy. The flowers are set up, and the soloist is here to perform the hymn you selected.”

Christina had envisioned a brief simple service followed by a reception at their house on Jonah’s Path where, away from the prying eyes of the crowds and media, Jason’s friends and family could commemorate him privately.

Señora Rosa and Marisol had arrived early this morning to oversee preparations, enough to accommodate several hundred guests, including an outdoor kitchen with two gas-powered generators to handle the overflow.

“But there should be a lot more people,” Christina pointed out.

The little boy on his father’s shoulders was beginning to whine. His ice-cream cone was starting to drip.

The man from Sprague cleared his throat delicately. “There may be some confusion about what appeared in the
Times.
”

Something heavy landed in the bottom of Christina’s stomach with a thunk. “What do you mean?”

“Um, there was an item that mentioned another memorial, one that will be held next week at Towne Church,” he said.

Towne Church on Manhattan’s Upper East Side had been the preferred venue to bid farewell to Cardiffs practically since they landed on the
Mayflower.

The thing in the bottom of Christina’s stomach doubled in weight, settling lower and heavier. Pulling everything inside her down along with it. “Let me see,” she demanded.

“I tried calling the
Times
to find out what the confusion was, but I couldn’t get anyone on the phone.” The man from Sprague toyed nervously with his portfolio.

Christina Cardiff had a pretty good idea.

The twisty feeling in the bottom of her stomach increased when she saw the article.

It was an entire half-page obituary devoted to Jason Cardiff, complete with a photo of him at the helm of a sailboat standing beside a very young gap-toothed Tyler. The sky was a brilliant blue. They were skimming the surface of a whitecapped sea.

The sea was Narragansett Bay.

She knew every detail about that photo. She had taken it during an afternoon sail on their last visit with Jason’s family up in Rhode Island six summers ago.

The invited guests at that night’s dinner party included Jason’s ex-girlfriend, who had recently divorced. She had been seated to Jason’s right, and spent the eve
ning fawning all over him while his mother and sister smiled to each other.

They had been in charge of the guest list.

It was the last Cardiff family reunion Christina attended.

She scanned the obituary. It was an account of Jason Cardiff’s life according to her in-laws. There was no mention of Christina, or even the fact that he had been married, unless you read all the way to the end. And there, after mentioning that Jason was survived by his beloved son Tyler, parents, sister, and her husband and brood who would always miss their beloved “Uncle Jase,” was mention of his wife, Christiane.

Christiane.

Jason’s mother had made up that name after they got engaged. Christina had corrected her once or twice before giving up, embarrassed.

Her sister-in-law, Pamela Cardiff Lofting, tipped her off. “It’s less ethnicky-sounding than Christina,” she’d said after too many cocktails.

This was no typo.

Just like there was no misunderstanding about the memorial service, which the
Times
stated would take place next week at Towne Church.

“They can’t do this!” Christina crumpled the paper into a tiny ball. Her in-laws didn’t like the funeral Christina had planned, so they had planned one of their own.

Without so much as inviting her.

The man from Sprague looked as though he wished he were someplace else.

Christina wished she had a match so she could burn the obit. “How dare they?” She stared at the funeral
director. “I mean, have you ever in your life heard of anything like this?”

“I’m very sorry, ma’am,” said the man from Sprague, turning to look out the window.

An icy little quiver of something moved through Christina, dousing her anger. “I never heard of anything like this,” she stammered, less sure of herself now.

The man from Sprague made no reply. He was busy examining the seam on his leather portfolio.

The limo driver had not looked her in the eye this morning, and neither had Señora Rosa and Marisol. Not even once.

The icy quiver in Christina’s gut broadened into something bigger, which turned her anger into unease. She frowned. “Sorry,” she said, taking a deep breath. “My son is waiting. Let’s go.”

The shouts of the paparazzi told the whole story. “Christina,” they cried. “How did your husband really die?”

The implication made her glad for the funeral director’s arm, glad for the umbrella and the rain, glad for the oversized dark glasses she had thought to wear.

“Have the police ruled his death an accident?”

“Did he OD?”

“Are you going back to rehab?”

Jesus Christ, she thought, had Tyler been subjected to this?

“That’s not a Cheetah girl,” the little boy shrieked from atop his father’s shoulders.

Disappointed, the family of tourists turned away.

Gil Stanton gave Christina his usual smooth greeting at the church entrance. “How are you, my dear?”

After the most fleeting of glances he, too, looked away.

She accepted his arm but tried not to lean on it too heavily.

Gil Stanton was the attorney of record for the Cardiff family and, by virtue of that connection, Christina as well.

But she had never trusted him.

Gil Stanton held the door.

Entering, she gasped out loud.

As churches went, the First Presbyterian Church of Amagansett was not large. It had, after all, been built 310 years ago to house a tiny congregation.

Even taking that fact into consideration, the place looked empty with only a few people seated here and there in the gleaming wooden pews.

So few, in fact, it was positively pathetic.

Her in-laws were there, stone-faced and staring straight ahead from their front pew. Matt Wallace, who caught her eye and winked. Young Jake at his side, his hair swept up in a fresh cockscomb for the occasion, flashed her a thumbs-up. Lois from AA sat in a prim black cardigan for the occasion, looking like she could last all day. Two rows back was a suntanned woman, smartly dressed in a tailored navy suit, who smiled when Christina looked her way. Without the straw hat she always wore in her garden, it was difficult to place her as Biz Brooks, the neighbor she and Jason had been poking fun at for years.

There were Marisol and Señora Rosa, dressed in their gray uniforms, sobbing loudly.

That was all.

Christina shriveled with shame against Gil Stanton’s arm. Not wanting to give him that satisfaction, she straightened up.

She’d give anything for that pint bottle now.

“Hi, Mom.” Tyler was waiting for her at the back of the church. His eyes held sadness mixed with the old uncertainty.

Christina scooped him into her arms and squeezed with all her might. “Tyler,” she whispered.

He still smelled of a mix of boy and soap and soccer fields, reminding her of the way she had sung to him when she tucked him into his crib at night.

“Mom.” His voice was muffled.

Christina had him in a vise grip and couldn’t let go.

Tyler hated public displays of affection, but Christina didn’t care.

She held him like she had when he had been her baby and she could still lift him, not towering over her like he did now. “Tyler,” she breathed, closing her eyes against everything else in the world.

“Mom,” he said in a voice that croaked and broke at the same time, and she ruffled his hair.

The tension in his narrow shoulders gave way, and he was her boy again, leaning on her.

But Christina couldn’t make this trouble go away with a dish of his favorite ice cream.

“Mom,” he said again, holding back a sob.

Christina gathered her son, if it was possible, even closer, and in that one second she remembered the fact that there was one single thing in her whole life of mistakes and missteps and messes that she had done right, and that was give birth to Tyler.

More than anything, Christina Cardiff wanted to be the mother he deserved. Reluctantly, she loosened her grip and stood back to look at him.

He had inherited his father’s refined looks, with a
mix, perhaps, of the strong jaw from her father’s side of the family. The result, in Christina’s eyes, was utter perfection.

Embarrassed to be seen crying, Tyler, ducked his head.

She might have told him things would be okay, but she did not. Her relationship with Ty was the only one she’d ever had that was honest, and she wasn’t about to start screwing it up with platitudes.

She rooted through her pocketbook, grateful there was no telltale pint bottle in it, and came up with a rumpled tissue. “Here.”

Tyler stared. “Ma, this already has boogers.”

“Ty, it’s all I have right now.”

He raised one eyebrow to make sure she knew he was annoyed by this lack of preparedness on her part.

Their eyes met in a mother-child moment that was just like a million other moments that had passed between them. There was something so normal about it, so run-of-the-mill ordinary about it that Christina didn’t want it to end. She felt okay for the first and only time on this day from hell. Something uncorked inside her chest, and she felt a hundred pounds lighter. She grinned. “It’s all you’re going to get, kiddo. So take it or leave it.”

“Gross.”

Tyler scowled, but it was a fake scowl. Christina had never been the mommy who came prepared with tissues or juice boxes or crayons. It was an old joke between them, going all the way back to the first time she volunteered to bake cookies for his nursery-school class and burned them. Tyler never held it against her. He’d been happy to slather the brown edges with extra frosting.
Tyler, like Nana, loved Christina just the way she was. He squeezed his eyes shut and gave a good long honk into the tissue, holding it out between his thumb and forefinger when he was done. “In case you want to use it again.” He couldn’t hide a smile.

“Thank you.” Christina stowed the tissue in her bag with care.

They both started to giggle.

Tyler had inherited his looks and his trust fund from his father’s side, but he got his sense of humor from her.

As always when they were together, it was easy to laugh. The combination of nerves and relentless sadness of the past few days got to her. Once Christina started, she couldn’t stop. She threw her head back and laughed until she thought her ribs would break, not caring how loud she was.