Every Breath Page 7

  Ah, yes…the wedding. Though she hated to admit it, there was a part of her that didn’t want to go, and not only because she didn’t relish explaining that Josh had ditched her. And it wasn’t because of Ellen, either. She was genuinely happy for Ellen, and normally, she couldn’t wait to see her closest friends. They knew everything about each other, and had stayed in touch regularly after graduation. They’d also all been bridesmaids in each other’s weddings, starting with Jeannie and Linda. They’d both married a year after graduation and now had five kids between them. Sienna got married a couple years after that and now had four kids. Angie tied the knot when she was thirty, and had twin three-year-old girls. Susan had been married two years ago, and now—as of next Saturday, Ellen, too, would join the ranks of the married.

  It hadn’t surprised her when Susan had recently called to tell her that she was three months pregnant. But Ellen, too? Ellen, who’d met Colson for the first time last December? Ellen, who’d once sworn she’d never get married or have kids? Ellen, who’d lived life on the wild side until her late twenties, and used to commute to Atlantic City to spend weekends with her then-boyfriend, a cocaine dealer? Not only had Ellen been able to find someone willing to marry her—a churchgoing investment banker, no less—but two weeks ago, she’d confided to Hope that, like Susan, she was twelve weeks pregnant. Ellen and Susan would be having children at roughly the same time, and the realization made Hope suddenly feel very much on the verge of becoming an outsider in what was once the closest circle of friends. The rest of them were either in or about to enter a new phase of life, and Hope had no idea when, or even if, she’d ever join them. Especially when it came to having kids.

  That scared her. For a long time, she’d believed that the whole “ticking biological clock” thing was a myth. Not the part where age made it increasingly difficult to have children—every woman knew about that. But it wasn’t something she’d ever believed would pertain to her. Having children was one of those things she’d taken for granted, that it would simply happen when the time was right. She was wired that way and had been as long as she could remember; she couldn’t imagine a future without children of her own, and it wasn’t until college that she learned that not every woman felt the same way. When her freshman roommate Sandy told her otherwise—that she’d rather have a career than children—the concept was so foreign that she’d initially thought Sandy was kidding. Hope hadn’t spoken to Sandy since graduation, but a couple of years ago, she’d bumped into her at the mall, with her new baby in tow. Hope guessed that Sandy had no memory of the conversation they’d had in the dorm that night, and Hope hadn’t reminded her. But Hope had gone home and cried.

  How was it that Sandy had a child, but Hope didn’t? And her sisters, Robin and Joanna? And now, all of her closest friends were either already there or on their way? It made no sense to her. For as long as she could remember, she’d pictured herself pregnant, then holding her newborn infants, marveling at their growth and wondering whose traits they had inherited. Would they have her nose, or their dad’s big feet? Or the red hair she’d inherited from her grandmother? Motherhood had always seemed foreordained.

  But then, Hope had always been a planner. She’d had her life charted out by the age of fifteen: Get good grades, graduate from college, become a registered nurse by twenty-four, work hard at your job, and get your career going. Meanwhile, have some fun along the way—you’re only young once, right? Hang out with your girlfriends and date some guys, without letting anything get too serious. Then, maybe as thirty was approaching, meet the one. Date him, fall in love, and get married. After a year or two, start having children. Two would be perfect, hopefully one of each sex, though if that last part didn’t happen, she knew she wouldn’t really be disappointed. As long as she had at least one girl, that is.

  One by one, through her teens and twenties, she’d checked those things off. And then Josh came along right on schedule. In her wildest dreams, she never would have believed that six years later, she’d still be single and childless, and she had trouble figuring out exactly where the plan had gone awry. Josh had told her that he wanted marriage and children as well, so what had they been doing all this time? Where had the six years gone?

  One thing she knew for sure: Being thirty-six was a lot different than being thirty-five. She’d learned that on her birthday last April. Her family was there, Josh was there, and it should have been a happy event, but she’d taken one look at the cake and thought, Wow, that’s a LOT of candles! Blowing them out had seemed to take an inordinately long time.

  It wasn’t the age thing that had bothered her. Nor was it that she was closer to forty than to thirty. In spirit she still felt closer to twenty-five. But the following day—as if God had wanted to smack her in the face with a not-so-gentle reminder—a pregnant thirty-six-year-old had entered the emergency room after slicing her finger while cutting an onion. There was a lot of blood, followed by a local anesthetic and stitches, and the lady had joked that she wouldn’t have come in at all, except for the fact that hers was considered a geriatric pregnancy.

  Hope had heard the term before when she’d been in nursing school, but as a trauma nurse in the ER, she saw few pregnant women and had forgotten about it.

  “I hate that it’s called a geriatric pregnancy,” Hope remarked. “It’s not as if you’re old.”

  “No, but trust me. It’s a lot different than being pregnant in my twenties.” She smiled. “I have three boys, but we wanted to try for a girl.”

  “And?”

  “It’s another boy.” She rolled her eyes. “How many kids do you have?”

  “Oh,” Hope had answered. “I don’t have any. I’m not married.”

  “No worries. You still have time. How old are you? Twenty-eight?”

  Hope forced a smile, thinking again about the term geriatric pregnancy. “Close enough,” she responded.

  * * *

  Tired of her thoughts—and really, really tired of the pity party—Hope figured a distraction was in order. Since she hadn’t bothered to pick up any groceries on her drive down and needed to get out of the house for a while, she first visited a roadside vegetable stand. It was just off the island and had been around for as long as she could remember. She filled a straw basket with zucchini, squash, lettuce, tomatoes, onions, and peppers, then drove to a neighboring island, where she purchased some Spanish mackerel. By the time she got back to the cottage, though, she realized she wasn’t hungry.

  After opening the windows, she put the food away, poured herself a glass of wine, and began sorting through more boxes. She tried to be selective (while keeping both Robin and Joanna in mind), condensing down to a small pile of keepsakes that she returned to a single box she stored in the closet. She brought the rest downstairs to the garbage cans, satisfied with her day’s work. Scottie had followed her out, and she stayed with him at the front of the house, not wanting to chase him down the beach again.

  Checking the clock, she fought the urge to call Josh. He was staying at Caesars Palace, but she reminded herself that if he wanted to talk to her, he knew the number of the cottage. Instead, she thought, why not a little me time? What she really needed was a nap—the lack of sleep the night before had caught up with her. She lay down on the living room couch…and the next thing she knew, it was midafternoon. Through the open windows, she could hear the faint sounds of someone playing the guitar and singing.

  Peeking out the window, she caught a partial glimpse of Tru through the railings. She listened to the music for a few minutes while she tidied up the kitchen, and despite her gloomy thoughts of earlier, she couldn’t help but smile. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d been attracted to someone right off the bat. And then she’d gone and invited him over for coffee! She still couldn’t believe she’d done that.

  After wiping the counters, Hope decided that a long bath was in order. She enjoyed a good bubble bath, but the rush of her daily life made showering easier, so baths were somethin
g of a luxury. After filling the tub, she soaked for a long time, feeling the tension slowly ebb from her body.

  Afterward, she swaddled herself in a bathrobe and pulled a book from the shelf, an old Agatha Christie mystery. She remembered loving the books as a teenager, so why not? Taking a seat on the couch, she settled into the story. It was easy reading, but the mystery was just as good as what she found on television these days, and she got halfway through the book before finally putting it aside. By then, the sun was beginning to dip at the horizon, and she realized she was hungry. She hadn’t eaten all day, but she found she wasn’t in the mood to cook. She wanted to keep the relaxing flow of the afternoon going. Throwing on some jeans, sandals, and a sleeveless blouse, she did a quick pass with her makeup and pulled her hair back into a messy ponytail. She fed Scottie and let him out in the front yard—he was visibly disappointed when he registered that he wouldn’t be going with her—and locked the front door. Then, she left the house via the back deck, strode down the walkway, and descended the steps to the beach. Whenever their family had come to Sunset Beach, they’d always eaten at Clancy’s at least once, and keeping up the tradition felt right on a night like tonight.

  Dinner on the Deck

  Clancy’s was a few minutes’ walk past the pier, and Tru liked the place even before he climbed up to the main deck from the beach. He could hear strains of music intermingled with conversation and laughter. At the top of the stairs was a wooden arch decorated with white Christmas lights and faded lettering indicating the restaurant’s name.

  The deck was illuminated by clutches of tiki torches, the flames rippling in the breeze. Peeling bar tables and mismatched stools near the railings framed a cluster of wooden tables in the center, half of them unoccupied. The interior had more seating; the kitchen was located to the left and the sparsely populated bar area housed a jukebox, which Tru noted with interest. There was a fireplace as well with a cannonball on the mantel, and the wall surrounding it was decorated with maritime items—an ancient wooden wheel, a tribute to Blackbeard, and nautical flags. As Tru surveyed his surroundings, a waitress in her midfifties emerged through a set of swinging doors, carrying a tray of food.

  “Take a seat anywhere, inside or out,” she called out. “I’ll bring you a menu.”

  The night was too gorgeous to waste inside, so Tru took a seat at one of the bar tables near the railing, facing the ocean. The moon was hovering just over the horizon, making the water glitter, and he was struck again by the contrast between this place and the world he knew, even if there were fundamental similarities. At night, the bush was dark and mysterious, rife with hidden dangers; the sea struck him as much the same. Though he could swim during the day, the fear of doing so at night resounded within him on some elemental level.

  The waitress dropped off a menu and hustled back toward the kitchen. From the jukebox, a song came on that he didn’t recognize. He was used to that. Often, when riding with guests, he heard them referencing movies and television shows he’d never heard of, and the same went with bands and songs. He knew the Beatles—who didn’t?—and he favored their songs when playing the guitar, along with a bit of Bob Dylan, Bob Marley, Johnny Cash, Kris Kristofferson, the Eagles, and Elvis Presley mixed in whenever the mood struck. The song from the jukebox had a memorable hook, though it was a little too synthesizer-driven for his taste.

  He skimmed the menu, pleasantly surprised by the selection of seafood, in addition to the expected burgers and fries. Unfortunately, most of the seafood was deep-fried. He whittled his decision down to a choice between grilled tuna and pan-fried grouper before folding the menu and turning his attention to the ocean again.

  Minutes later, the waitress brought out a tray of drinks, stopping at some nearby tables before retreating inside without so much as a glance in his direction. He gave a mental shrug; he had nowhere to go and all night to get there.

  Sensing movement near the gate, he lifted his gaze and was surprised to see Hope stepping onto the deck. They had probably been on the beach at the same time, and for an instant, he wondered whether she’d seen him leave and followed him. He dismissed the thought quickly, wondering why it had come to him at all. He turned toward the water again, not wanting her to catch him staring, but he found himself replaying their visit earlier that morning.

  Her smile, he realized. He’d really liked the way she smiled.

  * * *

  Hope was amazed at how unchanged the place seemed. It was one of the reasons her dad liked Clancy’s so much—he used to tell her that the more the world changed, the more comfortable Clancy’s felt—but she knew he really liked to come because Clancy’s served the best lemon meringue pie in the world. Clancy’s mother had supposedly perfected the recipe decades earlier, and had won blue ribbons at six consecutive state fairs, as well as allegedly inspiring the recipe at Marie Callender’s, a restaurant chain in California. Whatever the truth, Hope had to admit that a slice of the pie was often the perfect way to end an evening at the beach. There was something about the mixture of sweet and tang that was always just right.

  She looked around the deck. In all their years coming to the place, she’d never eaten inside, and the thought didn’t occur to her now. Near the railings on the right, three of the bar tables were occupied; on the left, more were open. She started automatically in that direction, suddenly pausing when she recognized Tru.

  Seeing him alone at the table made her wonder about his reason for coming to Sunset Beach. He’d mentioned that he didn’t know the man he was supposed to meet, but the trip from Zimbabwe was a long one, and even she knew that Sunset Beach was hardly a destination for international tourists. She wondered who was important enough to make him come all this way.

  Just then, he opened his hands in greeting. She hesitated, thought, I have to at least say hello, and walked toward his table. As she drew near, she noticed again the scuffed leather bracelet and the way his shirt was unbuttoned at the top; it was easy to imagine him heading into the bush in just such attire.

  “Hi, Tru. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “Likewise.”

  She expected him to say more, but he didn’t. Instead, his eyes held hers a beat too long and she felt an unexpected twinge of nervousness. He was obviously more at ease with the silence between them than she was, and she tossed her ponytail over her shoulder, trying to exude more calm than she felt. “How was the rest of your day?” she asked.

  “Relatively uneventful. I went for a swim. You?”

  “Did a little grocery shopping and puttered around the house. I think I heard you playing the guitar earlier.”

  “I hope it wasn’t a nuisance.”

  “Not at all,” she said. “I enjoyed what you were playing.”

  “That’s good, since you’ll likely hear the same songs over and over.”

  She surveyed the other tables, then nodded at his menu. “Have you been waiting long?”

  “Not too long. The waitress seems busy.”

  “Service has always been a little slow here. Friendly, but slow. Like everything else in this part of the world.”

  “It does have its charms.” He gestured at the seat across from him. “Would you like to join me?”

  As soon as he asked, she recognized it for the telling moment it was. Offering a neighbor a cup of coffee after he’d rescued her dog was one thing; having dinner with him was something else entirely. Spontaneous or not, this had the makings of a date, and she suspected that Tru knew precisely what was going through her mind. But she didn’t answer right away. Instead, she studied him in the flickering light. She remembered their walk and their conversation on her deck; she thought about Josh and Las Vegas and the argument that had resulted in her being at the beach alone.

  “I’d like that,” she finally said, realizing how sincerely she meant it. He stood as she pulled out her stool, then helped her adjust its position. By the time he returned to his own seat, she felt like someone else entirely. The thought of what sh
e was doing left her slightly off-kilter, and she reached for the menu, as if it would ground her. “May I?”

  “By all means.”

  She opened the menu, feeling his gaze on her. “What are you having?” she asked, thinking small talk would tame her butterflies.

  “Either the tuna or the grouper. I was going to ask the waitress which one is better, but maybe you know?”

  “The tuna is always delicious. It’s what my mom orders when she comes here. They have a deal with a few of the fishermen around here, so it’s fresh every day.”

  “Tuna it is,” he concurred.

  “That’s what I should do. The crab cakes are really delicious, too. But they’re fried.”

  “So?”

  “They’re not good for me. Or my thighs.”

  “Seems to me that you don’t have anything to worry about. You look lovely.”

  She said nothing to that. Instead, she felt the blood rise in her cheeks, aware that another line had just been crossed. As flattered as she was, it definitely felt like a date now. There was no way on earth she could have foreseen any of this, and she tried to concentrate on the menu, but the words seemed to jump around. She finally set it aside.

  “I assume you decided on the crab cakes?” he asked.

  “How did you know?”