The Ocean Between Us (12 page)

At least the woman wasn’t here lamenting a lost loved one. “Does your husband fly?” she asked gently.

“No, thank goodness. He works in ordnance.”

Grace decided not to point out that some of the memorial plaques were for enlisted personnel.

“I probably shouldn’t be looking at this,” the woman said, “but I was curious. Michael—that’s my husband—says most men don’t come here.”

“Aviators have a lot of superstitions,” Grace said. “My husband never flies without his St. Christopher medal.” She smiled and stuck out her hand. “Grace Bennett.”

The woman frowned. “Bennett, as in Captain Steve Bennett?”

“That’s right.”

“Patricia Rivera. I just got here. It’s an amazing place.”

“Where do you live, Patricia?”

“We’re staying at the Navy Lodge until our household arrives. But these days, I tell people I’m living in a state of confusion. I can’t imagine how I’m going to get everything done.”

Grace smiled, filled with understanding. She still remembered the jittery young bride she’d been, full of dreams that had quickly been eclipsed by life in the military.

“Welcome to the club,” she said. “Just take things one task at a time and enjoy the ride.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Bennett.”

“I hope you’ll call me Grace.”

“All right…Grace. You know, I’m the oldest of five kids. My mama worked, and I practically raised them all, so I thought I was ready for anything. But nothing prepared me for the Navy. I thought I knew what I was signing on for. I mean, Michael told me as honestly as he could what to expect, but…”

“How long have you been married?”

“Less than a month, and the first week of that was a honeymoon in Ixtapa. I thought moving to a new place would be fun, and it is. Then last night he asked me to sign a power of attorney.”

“Everyone does that,” Grace assured her. “We need to be able to conduct business ourselves and in their names while they’re gone.”

“I know, but it just hit me so hard. My husband is leaving me.”

“He’s going to work,” Grace said. “He works because he loves you and wants to serve his country.” Here she was, dispensing advice as though she knew what she was doing. For a long time she’d felt like a fraud, playing a role for an audience of one. But somewhere along the way, the unexpected happened—she became good at what she did. Good at juggling the demands of husband, home and family. Good at being a Navy wife.

They fell in step and left the memorial, walking in silence for a while. Grace thought about when she first met Steve. Their love
had been so palpable, a live thing, close to the surface. She kept checking on it, the same way she used to check on her new engagement ring. She remembered waking up at night, turning on the light to see that the diamond solitaire was still there, that it still belonged to her. Mainly, she had to assure herself that Steve Bennett wanted to marry her, Grace McAllen, the unhappiest woman in Edenville, Texas. It seemed too good to be true.

Funny. She hadn’t thought of that in a long time. The simplicity of their newborn love had grown and changed over the years. When she first met him, a brash junior officer in pilot training, his motivation had been as sharp and pure as his clean-shaven jaw. He wanted a job that mattered, that challenged his deep reserves of courage and skill, that satisfied his lust for adventure as well as his desire to serve the country he loved. In the early nineties, he’d flown in combat. That was when she’d seen a side to him she hadn’t known existed.

Yet as the years passed, ambition to advance through the ranks narrowed his focus to the next rung on the ladder. Perversely, his world grew smaller when it should have expanded.

She knew it would not be helpful in the least to share these thoughts with Patricia, who was disconcertingly close in age to Emma.

“You’re where I was nearly twenty years ago,” Grace told her. “Steve’s gone to sea so many times, I guess you could consider me an expert at being left by my husband.”

“How do you cope when he’s gone?”

“You fill your days with things that don’t require his presence,” said Grace. “You’d be surprised at how much that encompasses. When we were first married, I had a job as an administrative assistant for a shipping company.” She smiled. “Some people think that sounds awful, but it was a great job. I was good at it.”

“Having a job isn’t the same as having a husband.”

“True. But having a life shouldn’t depend on the man you marry.”

“I know.” Patricia offered a shy smile. “But it does.”

Her candor caused a lurch of emotion in Grace’s heart. “Only if you let it,” she felt compelled to say.
Like I did.

They passed the Navy Exchange and the commissary, more rows of hangars and long, low buildings surrounding the airstrip. The runways were busy as always, this morning with the fat, gray bodies of P-C3 Orions in training exercises. They were not the sleek birds of combat aviation, but their brains were the biggest in the Navy, as their purpose was surveillance and antisubmarine warfare.

“All right.” Patricia quickened her pace. “Enough whining. So, do you still have that job?”

“I gave it up when the twins came along,” she said.

“Wow—twins. That must be fun.”

“Never a dull moment. They’re seniors in high school now. Still fun, but they don’t need their mom so much. Their sister, Katie, just started ninth grade. She’s getting pretty independent, too.” She felt a quick dart of guilt. “Don’t get me wrong, my husband and kids are great. I don’t know what I’d do without them. But I’ll admit, sometimes I don’t know what to do
with
them. My youngest, Katie, is trying out for marching band. She plays the clarinet like a dream. But last night she got cold feet and cried for an hour.”

“How old is Katie?”

“Almost fifteen.”

Patricia smiled. “Then her behavior makes perfect sense. It sounds like everything’s going great. We’re already trying for a baby, but sometimes I get so scared, wondering if I’ll be a good mother.”

“I wondered the same thing. Still do. Sometimes you depend solely on instinct, and all you can do is pray you don’t crash and burn. Steve always complained about flying blind, but he had a landing signal officer in his ear telling him what to do. Every once in a while, I wish I had that.”

“You must be doing something right if you’re still married after twenty years.”

Grace sometimes suspected it was what she was not doing more than any action she’d taken. She simply followed Steve’s career, looking after the children along the way, seldom stopping to wonder if she was on the right track—until lately.

She and Patricia stopped to browse through a garage sale hosted
by three squadron wives preparing for their next move. “Baby things?” she suggested to Patricia.

“Not quite yet.” Patricia picked up an ashtray in the shape of a baseball mitt that probably hadn’t been used in ten years. “Look at all this stuff.”

“You know, once I actually bought, sold and rebought the same chicken-shaped pitcher at a garage sale.”

“Now, that sounds like a treasure.”

Grace smiled, remembering. “When we first got married, we lived in Pensacola, and I bought this strange-looking pitcher at a neighborhood garage sale. It was so homely that it was charming. Then, a year later, we were sent to Pax River, Maryland and, honestly, I had to rethink my commitment to the chicken pitcher. I sold it at our garage sale and didn’t give it another thought. A few years after that, we were transferred to Pensacola again, and I spotted that same damned pitcher at a yard sale in the same neighborhood we lived in as newlyweds.”

“And you bought it again,” said Patricia.

“Yep. Still have it, too.” Some things in life were like that, Grace reflected. You kept them longer than you needed them, because it was easier than letting go.

She briefly touched Patricia’s arm, feeling an affinity for her even though they had just met. Navy wives tended to bond quickly, knowing their time together was limited. Sometimes Grace thought her friendships with women were what kept her going through the difficult times.

“Can you join me for a cup of coffee?” she asked.

“Thanks, but no. I need to get back to the motel and shower. I have a job interview later this morning.” She held up a hand. “Don’t look so impressed. We’re talking about waitressing at IHOP.”

“They’ll be lucky to get you.”

“I guess.”

“Why IHOP?”

“We need the money to make ends meet. IHOP works out because it’s a national chain. If I keep at it, I’ll earn seniority and
qualify for benefits.” She raked a hand through her glossy dark hair. “There’s so much to do, I don’t know where to start. I wish getting moved and settled in didn’t seem so impossible.”

“If you’d like some help with your relocation, give me a call. I might not have all the answers to being married to a Navy guy, but I do when it comes to moving.”

The look of relief on Patricia’s face filled her with a peculiar and satisfying warmth. It was a small thing, she told herself as they traded phone numbers and made plans to meet later. But its power was undeniable. She had a gift for helping people in very specific ways. That gift was separate from the Grace who was the officer’s wife or the mother of three, the school volunteer or the purveyor of afternoon teas for Navy spouses. This talent for organizing and helping belonged to her and her alone.

As she walked home, her step felt lighter and more assured. For whole moments at a time, she managed to put out of her mind the fact that it was the first day of school, that Katie had been trembling with nervousness this morning, that she and Steve had unfinished business. She even managed to forget he was going away. That was nothing new.

What was new was the sense that something was subtly wrong. They were “having problems.” She couldn’t figure out when the trouble had started; it had probably been brewing for a long time. The house was not the cause. It was the line she’d drawn in the sand.

He didn’t want to buy the house. He’d made that clear. He didn’t want her to have a career, either. It wasn’t in their plan. At some point they had been in complete accord. Early on, when being a Navy family was the ultimate adventure, they told each other that a house was a burden, a ball and chain. They might consider it one day when they could see beyond the life the Navy gave them.

Steve didn’t get it. She’d been able to see beyond that life for a long time.

In the grief recovery group, they advised Lauren Stanton to prepare herself a gourmet meal at least twice a week. She was supposed to shop for herself as though for company, fix a perfect meal for one and serve it to herself on her best china and silver, along with a crystal goblet of excellent wine.

After two years of eating Froot Loops or key-lime yogurt for supper, she was willing to consider a change. It seemed pointless to go to so much trouble just for herself, but that, claimed the experienced members of the group, was the wrong way to look at things. You are the most important person in your life, they told her with earnest compassion. Treat yourself that way.

Lauren embraced the idea. Why the heck not? Since Gil died, she’d done nothing but work and…well, work. Her life had shrunk. That was it, pure and simple. If she didn’t do something soon, she’d disappear.

That was why she found herself out at the mussel beds of Penn Cove in the middle of a sunny Saturday afternoon. Gil had hated seafood and found shellfish particularly offensive. It was probably due to his white-bread upbringing in South Dakota. Lauren, an island girl, adored fresh mussels and found the idea of eating some
thing cultivated in the dark, cold depths of the ocean uniquely appealing. That made this afternoon’s foray all the more personal.

Being alone is good for you, they said in the group. It is your opportunity to regain a sense of yourself as a strong person. They urged her not to canonize Gil, but to keep a realistic sense of their marriage in her heart. They cautioned her not to push into a relationship too soon, but not to wait too long, either, because that carried its own kind of risk. Sometimes a widow could become so set in her ways that her life couldn’t expand to include someone new. At twenty-six, Lauren had best leave room for someone else.

Gil had been sixteen years her senior. She’d adored him, and the greatest heartache of their marriage was that she’d never had a child. His death sent her spiraling into blackness. Then she dragged herself out of the depths, bringing three life lessons with her: diet and exercise can save a failing heart, a childless couple face special challenges and it’s too emotionally risky to fall in love.

She was getting better, she told herself as she headed out to Haglund’s dock. From there, she’d row a dinghy to the rafts where islanders had grown the tender mussels for generations. Old Ollie Haglund sold his harvest to Puget Sound’s finest restaurants, but he didn’t mind surrendering a pound or two to friends and neighbors.

Backed up to Ollie’s bobbing shed on the rickety floating dock, a boxy brown UPS van looked incongruous. Lauren caught Ollie’s eye and waved at him. With his flat-topped hat and a pipe clenched between his teeth, he resembled the Norwegian fisherman his grandfather had been.

Mid-September was the hottest time of year on the island. The sun felt warm and strong on her bare shoulders and thighs, which she’d coated liberally with sunscreen. It was a perfect day, crisp as her white denim shorts and blue as her sleeveless midriff blouse. Wearing bleached Keds over bare feet, she felt completely at home on the water. She had grown up amid the salt marshes and forested uplands, watched over by a fond mother and doted on by the locals. Outwardly, she had changed a great deal from that insecure girl—on the outside. Inside, she was still ruled by caution and timidity.

She edged around the UPS truck. “Hey, Ollie.”

“Hey yourself, young lady.”

“I’m here to make a trade,” she said, holding out a white plastic bucket. “My tomatoes for your mussels.”

“My mussels are free,” Ollie said with a wink. He turned to the UPS guy, who was loading crates into the truck and simultaneously checking out Lauren’s legs. “Only to beautiful women who bring me tomatoes, so that counts you out, pal.”

The buzz of an engine drowned out his reply. A maniac sped past on a Jet Ski that threw up a rainbow arc of spray in its wake. On the seat behind the driver rode two skinny children. Their shrieks of delight were barely discernible over the nasal whine of the engine. Lauren shaded her eyes and for a moment she was caught up in the sheer physical exuberance of the trio on the Jet Ski. Even from a distance she could see the simple joy of a thrilling ride across the calm water.

Not that the maniac on the Jet Ski seemed to notice the beauty of the day, she thought as the bare-chested man and shrieking boys crisscrossed the mouth of the cove.

“Probably another goddamn Navy guy,” said Ollie, “you’ll pardon my French.”

“Hey, those Navy guys were my husband’s clients,” she pointed out. Gil had been a civilian contractor.

“Your Gil didn’t ride his Jet Ski across my shellfish beds,” Ollie pointed out.

True. Gil would never do that. Caution was his middle name, a fact that tainted his death with painful irony.

Lauren lowered her white plastic bucket to the dinghy as the Jet Ski sped past again. That was when she heard it—a wolf whistle, distinctly coming from the suntanned man.

“At least that one’s got good taste,” said Ollie.

A flicker of the old laughter sparked inside her, but she crushed it quickly and went about her business. “For Pete’s sake,” she muttered. “What a terrible example to set for those kids.”

“To admire a beautiful woman is terrible?”

“It is if you’re married with children.”

“Ah. So you know this one.”

“I’m just assuming,” she said, climbing down into the boat. She’d leave it to someone else to tell the guy the Stone Age was over. Yet despite her outrage, an unexpected feeling crept over her, fiery as a schoolgirl’s blush. She caught herself sneaking glances at the Jet Ski guy as she took up the oars.

She struck out for the floating platforms. The drops of water that splashed from her oars were icy cold. The idiot on the Jet Ski was going to give his kids pneumonia.

She tied up at the mussel raft and rummaged around in the hull for a pair of thick rubber gloves. The mussels grew on long, weed-bearded socks suspended from the platform. She worked happily for a while, indulging in fond memories of childhood when she and her sister Carolyn would pick mussels for their mother’s cioppino.

She was hauling in a waterlogged rope when she noticed the Jet Ski plowing up to the platform.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, shading her eyes.

“Just visiting.”

“I think you took a wrong turn.” She tried not to stare. His chest and shoulders were polished oak, beaded with water droplets. He had dark hair, cut short, devastating blue eyes and a mouth that seemed to be on the verge of laughter. No wedding ring.

“I never make a wrong turn.”

Dear God. He had a Southern accent. She adored Southern accents.

He nudged the kid behind him and put on a serious expression. “Bond,” he said. “James Bond.”

The kids, a pair of skinny, shivering brothers in board shorts, snickered appreciatively. They were maybe six and eight years old, the perfect audience for this clown.

“What’s your name?” the little one asked her.

The stranger’s experienced gaze slipped over her with shocking frankness. “I’m guessing Malibu Barbie.”

For the briefest second, she felt a keen forbidden thrill. But just as quickly, she scrubbed away the feeling and invoked a little common sense. “I’m actually busy,” she explained. “So if you’ll excuse me—”

“What are you doing?” The younger boy was missing one lower tooth and had cowlicks all over his head. The oversize orange life vest fit him like a spongy tube, atop which sat his bright-eyed, freckled face.

“Harvesting mussels.”

The kids looked at each other with wide eyes.

“Show the nice lady your muscles, guys,” the hunk said.

They obeyed immediately, cocking up their fists with fierce pride. Lauren bit her lip to hold in laughter. “Wow,” she said. “Double wow.”

The boys giggled as only little boys can do, a sound that gave her no choice but to smile.

“Show her your muscles, Josh,” the older one said.

“Show her, Josh, show her,” echoed the little one.

They called him Josh, not Dad.

“Josh has giant muscles,” said the little one.

“Massive,” said his brother.

She grinned. “I’ll take your word for it. But actually, I’m picking this kind of mussel.” She hauled up a rope heavy with shining black shells.

“Yuck,” said the little one.

“Cool,” said the other one.

“I’m going to fix them for dinner,” said Lauren.

“Eew.” They reacted in unison. “Are you going to make your kids eat them?”

“I don’t have kids. But you can eat some, if you want.”

They clung to the hunk and writhed in disgust.

“Whoa, pardners,” he said, “that’s no way to reply to an invitation.”

They straightened up immediately and said together, “No, thank you, ma’am.”

At the same time, the hunk named Josh grinned straight at her. “I’d love to.”

She nearly dropped the bucket. She meant to say, “You’re not invited.” Instead, she said, “I’m Lauren Stanton.”

“Josh Lamont, ma’am. And these hooligans are Danny and Andrew.”

Ma’am. Definitely Navy, then. Which meant he was not her type. Here on the island, she had met her share of Navy men. Some of her girlfriends from high school had dated them; a few had even married them. To Lauren’s knowledge, none of those relationships had worked out. Navy men were like cotton candy, deliciously sweet while they lasted, but insubstantial and quickly gone, leaving hunger unsatisfied.

“Josh made a date,” Danny said to Andrew. They giggled like munchkins.

“Be quiet,” he said. “I’m not finished. Where and when?” he asked Lauren.

She looked down at the bucket’s shiny black harvest. This was supposed to be her therapy. Treating herself well was an important step in grief recovery. Then she remembered that her last attempt to fix herself an elegant dinner had resulted in her polishing off the bottle of wine and falling asleep in her BCBG dress.

“My place,” she said. “Seven o’clock.” She pointed at the cottages and bungalows on the bluff overlooking the cove. “You can see my house from here. It’s the green one with the row of sunflowers across the front.”

He never took his eyes off her as he addressed the boys. “Now that, sailors, is a date.”

At five minutes to seven, Lauren stood in front of the stereo, programming a few hours’ worth of background music. She didn’t want anything overtly sexy. Just something to fill the awkward pauses in the conversation. No Dixie Chicks—that had been one of Gil’s favorites. She ruled out Dave Matthews, too, and eventually settled on an anthology her sister had sent her.
Most of the selections were neutral, inoffensive. Practically elevator music.

At exactly seven, the doorbell rang, and she jumped. Punctual to the last second.

The heels of her sandals clicked on the tiles as she went to the door. She paused at a shelf in the hall that held a photo of Gil and whispered, “I have no idea what I’m doing here. But wish me luck.”

As she put her hand on the doorknob, a sweet Love Riot ballad drifted from the stereo. Oops, that wasn’t elevator music but wildly suggestive. Maybe he wouldn’t notice.

She pulled the door open.

“Good song,” he said, smiling at her.

She felt as though she had tumbled into a dream. He was a cliché, standing there—perfectly groomed, a bottle of wine in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other. The only thing slightly out of place was the eggplant-colored minivan parked in the drive. Navy guys, especially single Navy guys, drove Harleys or muscle cars, not minivans. Didn’t they?

“Wow,” he said to Lauren. “You look terrific.”

My thoughts exactly.
“Thanks,” she said. “Come on in.”

He filled her small, excruciatingly neat house. It wasn’t just his size—he was probably six foot, built like an Olympic athlete—but his energy seemed to take up space, to move in uninvited.

“I have a confession to make,” he said.

Uh-oh. Wife, girlfriend, sexual orientation… The possibilities spilled through her mind. “Yes?”

“I’m a goner when it comes to a woman with short red hair.”

The stale line should have put her off. But in spite of herself, she felt an absurd thrill of attraction. She ducked her head to hide the swift blush burning her cheeks, and took the flowers and wine. It was a bottle of Provence Rosé, Domain Tempier Bandol.

“Is the wine all right?” he asked.

“It’s the perfect accompaniment for mussels. So you’re classy, too.”

“I like to think so, but I cannot tell a lie. I looked it up on the Internet.”

“Well, thank you again,” she said. “I’ll put the flowers in water.”

He scanned the room, which had cut flowers in jars and vases on every surface. “Looks like I brought coals to Newcastle.”

“I love flowers,” she called from the kitchen, filling a flared vase with water at the sink. “These are all from my garden.”

When she came out to set the vase on the table, he was standing at the sliding glass doors, looking at the view. “Multitalented, then,” he said. “She fixes mussels, grows flowers—”

“And tomatoes,” she added. “Best tomatoes on Whidbey Island.”

“What else do you do?” he asked without turning around.

She forgot to answer. She was staring at his butt, and was suddenly pounded by a wave of lust that nearly knocked her over.

He swung back to face her and she prayed he couldn’t read the expression on her face. “Do you grow your own mussels, too?”

“My friend, Ollie Haglund, runs that outfit. It’s an old family business.” She smiled, trying to tamp down the lust with a mental image of Mr. Haglund.

“So should we keep playing twenty questions, or do you want to tell me all the basics?”

“I haven’t played twenty questions in years.”

“Okay, hometown?”

“Right here on Whidbey Island. You?”

“Atlanta, Georgia. What’s your favorite carnival ride?”

“Merry-go-round,” she said, slightly surprised, because she’d never really considered it before. “Yours is the roller coaster, of course.”

He looked amazed. “How did you guess?”

She couldn’t keep in a laugh. “It wasn’t a guess. I saw how you rode that Jet Ski. So when you left Atlanta…?”