Sofie
: I think I was nine when I started a bucket list—although I don’t think I knew it actually had a name. I wanted to win an Oscar, and I practiced my acceptance speech in the bathroom every night. It was always after supper and right when I was expected to clear the table and wash the dishes. I knew how long the speech should be, too. It had to be long enough that my mother tired of waiting, and I’d come out to find most of the work done for me. Now, I put more realistic things on that list like driving Caroline’s ass to this beach house. She was all freaked out about it, but I wasn’t giving up on the cause. She’s been fretting the entire time, but both Uncle Nate and I agree this can only do her a lot of good. I mean, when the hell was her last holiday, anyway? She came to Maine when she was like what, six? It’s a wrong I had to make right, and I can’t help it, either. I’m addicted to putting my nose in that girl’s business, but maybe if she just learned to live a little…
Amalia
: Eighty flawless paintbrushes of joy for my spinner—
black tubes only
and separated by sheens, of course. Seventy-two miscellaneous lipsticks in my vanity drawer and three Lady Dangers at my disposal in a precious and vintage, milky-white hobnail compote. I have to say that orange-red lips and my complexion are a match made in heaven.
Drat
. Did I slip one of my velvet patinas in the glossy section? I think I did. Well I’ll have to unload the spinner and start over. I don’t mind. I like it when Caroline’s not home. That girl is always rushing me.
Angel Mae
: This an easy job. No smelly and big, old people, or mean and never happy kids. So far I only watch Miss Amalia. She busy with make-up. She not want to go for walk, or sit outside with cold tea, and I know not why. She so beautiful. She dress up very fine and smell very nice—like roses and expensive perfume. But she only want to stay inside. Mr. Nate tell me it is okay. He say he pay for me to be companion and must follow Miss Caroline’s notebook. I don’t think Miss Caroline ever leave Miss Amalia before. I hope they like for me to stay long time.
Caroline
: I should call to check on Mom again.
Shit!
This water is
cold
.
Chapter Four
“C’mon, Caroline!” Sofie calls. “I opened another bottle.”
Sofie’s voice penetrates clearly through the raucous of the wild Atlantic, and I whirl halfway round to see her standing at the brink between our rental property line and the beach. She’s waving me in with inflated gestures as she drags a large Adirondack chair and abruptly slumps into it.
“On my way!” I holler, but I’m not sure if my voice reaches her.
The heels of my feet sink into the dense, pewter sand and disappear under a surge of glacial suds. Gazing out to the lighthouse, I realize it’s the same picture I stored in my mind’s eye when I was six. The hamlet serves as a perfect feast for my inner child, but nostalgia manages to pick up turbulence inside of me. If I try hard enough, I can repress my memories like York’s inescapable morning fog shrouding the red glow of Nubble Light. Our path from the cottage to the white tower is obstructed by secluded coves and rocky shores. They separate us from the lighthouse, but I can still make out the figure of an artist settled nearby. His presence reminds me of the strange man at Catherine’s House and our odd exchange. I take a deep, healing breath of the briny air.
Sofie’s legs are tucked under her and a Pashmina is around her shoulders. Strolling back to our temporary home, I catch a glimpse of a scarf set aside for me, too—because, to be fair, that’s also the kind of person Sofie is. I smile, noticing how much I’ve been doing that since we arrived in Maine.
“What?” Sofie asks. “Why are you smiling like an idiot?”
“Nothing, just… Oh, I don’t know,” I say. “I can’t believe this is our first trip.”
“So, you’re fine with this, now? Because I feel like I’m racing against time and that ridiculous itinerary of yours.”
I sigh heavily. “What are you talking about?” My question becomes lost at the sight of downy pastels stretching out over the noisy gulf like arms to the setting sun.
“The one with all your goals and cut-off dates,” she says. “Let’s toast.”
A proffered arm bids me another glass, and I’m alarmed that this is my third goblet today.
“To our first day back at our playground by the sea,” Sophie announces.
I raise the glass approvingly and laugh. “You know we were never actually here together.”
“That’s because Uncle Nate was smart enough to keep our mothers apart.”
I nod. “But Mara sure loves Sandrine,” I say, sipping the Chardonnay.
“Two peas in a pod.”
“It’s too bad, though. I probably could have used a partner for my sand castles.”
“Oh, I’m sure of it. Your castles must have sucked.”
I scowl, but I’m accustomed to her taunting and realize how much I would have missed Sofie’s gibes if she had gone away without me again this year.
“So,” I say, “what’s this itinerary you’re referring to?”
“You know—
engaged at twenty-eight, married at twenty-nine, babies in your thirties
. Ryan’s right on track. He’s such a good little puppy,” she utters and follows her words with a cackle.
I look at her askance.
“First of all, there has never been such a list, and second—the part about me having babies—that’s still to be determined. My genes are a little daunting, if you haven’t noticed by now.”
“Never mind. I don’t want to talk about your Mr. Rogers anymore. Let’s talk about Jay, instead. What do you think?”
I’m tempted to stand and champion Ryan, but the wine has turned my legs to goo. I abstain, melting further into the chair.
“He’s really nice,” I say. “And cute!”
“I agree,” Sofie cuts in, brimming with impatient zeal. “He’s real, you know. And he’s not boring. He’s always doing something. He knows a lot of people and sees a lot of things. Jason always has something new to tell me.”
“So, is he coming by tonight?”
“Uh huh. But later,” Sofie answers. “He has dinner reservations in Ogunquit with his Mom and her boyfriend.” She pauses. “Caroline?”
“What?”
“He’s going to stay over—a lot. That’s okay with you, right?” Sofie asks with raised brows.
Wrapping the pashmina around my upper body to buy time, I make a conscious effort not to be opinionated about a stranger in our house. Sofie looks on as if she’s expecting a disapproving remark.
“I don’t care,” I lie. “He can stay.”
When we arrived yesterday afternoon, Sofie expected Jay-the-Contractor to greet us at the entrance of town. She was rather surprised and wounded that he hadn’t. She met York’s go-to handy man and property manager last year when Jay opened up a rental unit for her. He was over a lot during her two weeks in town, and she extended her vacation by another week. To come right down to it, she moved into his place when her lease was up. Through Skype and FaceTime, they sustained the distance, and he came up to Montreal in the fall for a few nights. They stayed “in” the entire time, and Sofie returned to Maine for a weekend in the spring. Things are still unbearably fiery and ardent between them, and I get the feeling they’re both enthusiastic about staying in touch after our time here is up.
Before we lugged our weekend bags from the backseat and hauled our suitcases out from my trunk, Jay’s black and silver pick-up truck had given him away. With Scooby and Shortcake in tow, we carried our baggage gaily to the front door. Sofie was elated once again, flashing a smile at the porch floor. At the threshold, a message called out for our attention.
Welcome Back Sofie and Caroline
was spread out in rocks and sea shells like a door mat. It still makes me grin because it was so perfect and sweet.
“How about these friends you say are passing by tonight? Are they around for the season?”
“Most are. I met them last year,” Sofie explains. “If everyone shows, we’ll be a nice bunch—maybe up to a dozen people.”
“Wow,” I yelp. “I don’t even know that many people at home.”
“Please try to have fun,” Sofie says earnestly. “Besides, I’ve been talking about you.”
“Let me guess. I’m the younger, boring best friend?”
“Of course not!” she says, seemingly appalled. “You’re the younger, boring cousin.” She winks. “It’s summertime, Caroline, and for once, let’s take pleasure from it in any way we choose. That being said, I really don’t want you nagging about Jay. Deal?”
“I like the guy!” I squeal. “I just don’t think—”
“Nagging…” Sofie pipes up.
“Seriously. You scold me every chance you get.”
“Oh, c’mon! Care! Do you know what I wish? I wish I could find you a tad hung over tomorrow. Do it for me. Just once. I’ve always wanted to get you drunk. What do you say? Can you try to have fun?”
I should be more annoyed and insulted, but the wine has encumbered my responses, delaying my reactions. “You make me out to be so dreary and monotonous. Why’d you want me here if I’m so unexciting to you?” I say, pinching the top of my nose. I’m fairly certain the alcohol is finally getting the better of me. I don’t think I’ll move from this chair tonight. It’s swallowed me whole, and it’s pure bliss.
“What’s wrong, Caroline? Talk to me. I gave you twenty-four hours to settle in, but once this fire pit is lit, we’ll be on vacation mode. No more chances, do you hear me? So spill, or forever hold your peace.”
I swallow.
“It’s just that this kind of feels like the beginning to a summer that will be known as
the summer no one listened to Caroline and everything went wrong
,” I explain. “I mean, first my Dad rents us this property you’ve been going on about, so I’m forced to tag along as the third wheel on your escapade with Jay-the-Contractor, and then,” I continue, holding back a second finger, “he arranges for Angel Mae, but we both know he’s practically minding Mom while I’m away, obviously sabotaging a good thing with Sandrine. And for what? A subconscious desire to revive something that’s always been broken and can probably never be fixed. It’s crazy! And as for Ryan, well… What if I said I don’t want our parents to meet yet?”
“First, we don’t say
crazy
,” Sofie simpers.
My upper body droops with my deflating spirits.
“More than anything, I’m worried about Dad getting hurt. I mean, right now, I want to shake my father, but I still can’t bear Mom hurting him again. That man is putty in her hands, Sof. Come on! You know that,” I say and turn to the bay. A sheet of cobalt blue has begun to filter in and deepen the sky.
“Uncle Nate’s a big boy. You can’t control everything. You need to let things go.” Sofie’s green eyes look at me with exasperation. Her sleek, caramel, shoulder-length hair is tied back in a low pony tail, and her wrists exhibit almost every bracelet she owns. A silver sun rests under her neckline, and I presume it’s new to her collection because I’ve never seen it, nor her flowing, black tube dress.
“It’s like when Gemma and my brother left Maya behind at my place for the first time,” Sofie continues. “They were miserable and so God damn annoying calling all the time to check on me and their kid. But now, if they leave her for the night, they know to trust the universe.”
“Trust the universe?” I ask.
“Yeah. You’re like a walking clip board, Caroline! But even with all your checklists, shit will happen, and when it does, you just deal with that shit then. If Uncle Nate wants to risk his heart again, then he must have his reasons. And if Amalia’s still doting around him, then she has her reasons, too. As for Sandrine, well…” Sofie pauses, “well sometimes bad things happen to good people but it doesn’t mean Uncle Nate is a bad guy. You and I both know he never wanted a divorce. He was forced to move on, but sometimes when the Amalia he loves comes back into the light, he’s a moth to her flame.”
There’s a tentative smile building on Sofie’s face as I let the words sink in.
“Not bad, right?” she asks.
“Very deep,” I say.
“Well I’m not trying to be deep. I’m just trying to tell you how it is. Your parents’ marriage… or relationship, whatever… is not your business. Just like Sandrine and your dad aren’t, either.”
I stretch my arms and massage the back of my neck. I’m beginning to regret texting Dad for the umpteenth time while I was standing at the shoreline. In my defense, he and Sofie shrewdly sprung the news of this vacation only a week ago—allowing me barely any time to dispute the matter. My father always lectured me about keeping a current passport, even when I’d argued about not going anywhere, and on our drive here, I couldn’t help beaming. I pictured him filling my Golf with fuel and windshield washer. Once I accepted defeat, I finally packed under Sofie’s dictatorship, and Dad had American funds available for me—which I managed to leave in the compartment between the two front seats of his Lincoln. He’s the one who decided for us that we’d travel with my vehicle because, frankly, he doesn’t trust Sofie to maintain her car efficiently, and moreover they both knew I’d feel better about being readily available if I had to suddenly return home for Mom.
It turns out that the most distressing part of this getaway is how it specifically counts on Dad, and I’m discovering how much that concept makes me worry about Sandrine. The control freak living inside me was stirred when I was down at the shore, and I yanked my phone from the back pocket of my shorts.
I feel genuinely more relaxed after contacting him. I still think it was necessary to desist any good intentions he may have had about spending more time than required with his ex-wife. It’s not that my sympathy for Sandrine is foreign, but it’s on overdrive due to the fact that should Angel Mae or my mother require support, it’s inevitable for Dad to step in however he can while I’m away. So my compassion for my father’s girlfriend is a jumble of guilt.
I know he wants to help, and Sandrine probably does, too. Frankly, I think he’s excited to jump in and is so raring to go that the cloud of memories looming over him is barely keeping it together, threatening to spill, coldly and relentlessly, over everyone involved. He fills his voids with work, tennis, jogging, and Sandrine, and thankfully, these past years, the intervals between Mom’s manic or anxious outbreaks have been longer.
Reluctantly, I bring him up to speed on her moods and progress, and often he manages to overrun my tenacity to keep him out of it. In truth, he understands Mom more than anyone ever has, and this is a debilitating problem for all of us.
“Will you gloat if I tell you that you may be right?” I ask Sofie solemnly.
“I’ll let this one fly since you’re not being too anal about the Jason thing,” she says.
I look up peacefully, taking in the white cottage with green shutters. Its windows are swung wide open, and it’s all so staggering that I can physically feel my mind trying to reboot. I’m still grasping the reality of being here, and the fact that the Atlantic is our backyard. Ocean Avenue is at an unnerving incline, and the drop to the sea is spectacular. I’ll never fail to summon up the feeling of stepping out of my car and hearing the crunch of pulverized shells under my mint sneakers. It’s better than striding barefoot on lush blades of grass or sinking my toes in fine, powdery sand. The Town of York is infinitely abundant, and there was something instantly rewarding when we got here. I was fulfilled with gratitude, and I need to make a better go at hanging onto that feeling and momentum. I take another deep breath.
“Ha!” Sofie says, pointing a finger in my direction. “You’re tipsy.”
“Shut up. I am not,” I grumble. “And when the hell are we lighting this fire, anyway?”
“So you’re an aggressive drunk. Good to know,” she says, compressing her lips, and her forehead pleats like she’s seriously taking mental notes. “The fire is Alec’s job.”
“Alex?”
“Alec... with a C. I put him in charge last year. He lights the best ones and keeps them going all night.”
“We are still talking about a fire, right?”
Sofie’s eyes glint. “Of course. What kind of girl do you think I am?”
Our conversation gears into a less antagonistic exchange, away from the people in our lives, and we become louder and giddy.