Destiny Lingers (8 page)

“Well, I guess I’d better take my happy self on back home now,” she announces. “You go on and enjoy your walk, honey.”

“You okay, Aunt Joy?” I ask, concerned at how peaked she looks.

“Oh, I’m fine—just old,” she says, panting. “You go on, kiddo. Whew! Don’t worry about me. I just want to get back to my juicy romance novel, that’s all. Go on, now.”

I give Aunt Joy a kiss on the cheek. “You sure you’ll be all right?”

“Fine as a Georgia pine!” Aunt Joy winks and turns to head back to the beach house. I watch her as she slowly waddles her way back home. For the first time, she looks small and frail against the wide stretch of our white-sand beach. Aunt Joy looks vulnerable and aged. I keep a close eye on her as she slowly disappears over the dunes.

I think about the audacity and tenacity it took for my grandparents and Aunt Joy to build our family beach house here on Topsail Island back in 1948, smack dab in the middle of the horrid Jim Crow era. At that time, there were still “colored” waiting rooms, drinking fountains, and separate swimming pools. The idea of a “summertime beachfront sanctuary” for North Carolina’s black upper-middle-class—doctors, lawyers, and funeral home directors—was indeed an unheard-of vision. I still feel my grandfather’s rooted pride as I walk the same sands he walked decades ago.

The summer sun feels amazing as its heat bakes my face. I close my eyes and inhale the ocean mist and salt air deep into my lungs. I see nothing but brilliant orange behind my closed lids. I hear the sound of the ocean waves pounding the shore. I can actually feel the earth rumble as the waves continue their mad and thunderous crashes. A little playful wave runs up the beach and zips around my ankle.

I look down and see the little sand fleas desperately digging their way back down into the sand as the water recedes back into the ocean. I had forgotten about these little insect crab-like creatures. Just when I think my whole world is gone, Mother Nature has an incredible way of making me stop, look, listen, think, and admire her awesome beauty—no matter how ugly my reality might seem. Mother Nature helps me believe in things I can’t see or gave up on or have long forgotten about—like faith and God and love. But His stupendous things—like the sun rising and setting, the continual ebb and flow of the sea, or the constellation of the stars, are all the constant things in life. Some things, God says, I can count on.

“
Ah-gaaaaa! Ah-ga
aaaa
!”

I look up and see a solo seagull soaring in the Carolina blue sky, and I smile a warm hello up to him and to the heavens. He reminds me that I am not the only solitaire being on the beach and, most important, that I am never alone. I remember when I was a child how Aunt Joy insisted I appreciate what she called “our little friends” in nature, like fireflies, butterflies, and bumblebees that would often hover right in front of our noses. Aunt Joy taught me that the bumblebee has no stinger, so she insisted I look that bumbling bee straight in the eye and instead of taking a big fat swat at him, take time instead to say good day. The bumblebee just hovers there, friendly, faithful, and unafraid. With that big, wide, hairy body, I wonder how he can even fly. I guess it’s like Aunt Joy said: “Because he doesn’t think he can’t.”

A good mile or two from home, I decide to turn around and walk back toward the beach house. The sun feels so good on my back. I see that the beach is now peppered here and there with fishermen preparing for a late-in-the-day lucky bite. The serenity found in the faces of fishermen is priceless. They look out over the ocean with a squinted once-in-a-while glance at the end of their poles in hopes of big drama and a great story to later share over a delicious fried fish meal. They stand there on the shore with their poles stuck in the sand for hours, displaying the patience of Job.

I pass one old man, and, knowing that any proud fisherman is going to open up his Styrofoam container and show off his latest catch, I ask, “Any luck today?”

The old man pops the lid, as protocol promised, and proudly points down at a few fish still flopping around in the water before becoming the fisherman’s Saturday night dinner. Four medium spots and one big blue fish cling to life, when very soon hot grease and corn meal will be clinging to their gills.

“Gon’ be good with some coleslaw, and Texas Pete, and a Pabst Blue Ribbon beer!” the old man exclaims with wide eyes and a toothless grin. “Gon’ be mighty good,” he reassures. We both laugh at the pleasure of sharing this wonderful, sacred life on the beach.

“Well, good luck!” I wave good-bye and start heading home again. Suddenly, I am frozen in my tracks by another human being on the beach. I see what looks like a vision of Adonis running toward me. In the late afternoon sun, this man looks like a dream. Orange and red sun rays beaming down on his bronzed skin and sun-bleached blond hair, make this incredibly beautiful man seem surreal. I feel as if I am watching a Coppertone commercial or witnessing a mirage in slow motion. His ripped stomach muscles glisten with sweat in the sunshine as he plows his way through the sand and surf. Big thighs; strong, shapely arms; and broad shoulders you want to cry on. He looks like a golden thoroughbred in motion.

Our eyes connect. They lock for what seems like an eternity as I continue my slow stroll, and he continues his steady run, both of us moving closer and closer, still locked in each other’s gaze. I feel something weird, like a laser searing right through me. And as uncomfortable and as unnerved as I feel, I still cannot unlock myself from his gaze, nor from the oddly familiar warmth I find in the sparkling sea-green eyes of this beautiful bronzed being on the beach.

“Afternoon,” he says with a bright smile as he pushes past me.

“Afternoon,” I reply with a brilliant smile of my own.

We pass each other, yet I can still feel his electricity. I close my eyes, wanting to remember every aspect of this sudden and uncanny encounter. I smile to myself and turn to look over my shoulder for one last glimpse of Adonis, and as I turn, so does he. As he runs and I walk, moving in opposite directions, our eyes lock once again. He smiles like he knows me. I wave like I want him to.

He continues his run down the beach.

I keep walking home as the sun, in all of her amber splendor, begins to set over our Topsail Beach, preparing for nightfall and another day.

Chapter
Ten

I
get back to the beach house, feeling guilty that another man captured my attention, but the guy was beautiful—and attentive. That one moment of exchanging glances with a stranger was rather nice and innocent enough. I wish my husband’s gaze was still that powerful. I know I should be fighting for the survival of my marriage right now, not looking over my shoulder at a beautiful bronzed boy on the beach, but for some reason, I couldn’t stop myself today—and obviously, neither could he. It seems as if I know him from somewhere. Who knows? Maybe in another life.

As I reach the beach house and make my way up the stairs, I am determined to take this pent-up sexual passion to my husband—where it belongs—for a little late-afternoon delight. I pray he’s still snuggled in bed, watching the game right now, waiting for me. I slip past my parents, both deeply engrossed in an old movie. Aunt Joy is sound asleep; her novel still nestled in her lap. I slip into our bedroom to seduce Garrett.

The lights are out. Shades drawn. Perfect. I slip out of my clothes and climb into bed with my husband, wrapping my legs around his, trying to ignite a bit of passion. My body is on fire, but Garrett just lies there, a lump of cold flesh, breathing deeply, with his back turned to me.

“Garrett,” I whisper as I rub his back. “Want to mess around a little bit?”

No answer.

“Garrett?”

My husband’s deep breathing turns into a snore. This is a long cry from the times when Garrett couldn’t keep his hands off me. The sexual energy between us was undeniable, so much power in our longing for each other. We had to restrain ourselves in public. I miss those days.

Garrett chooses to sleep through dinner. I lie and tell my folks he’s too exhausted to eat after our long drive and might be coming down with something.

We keep dinner simple. I nibble on a leftover croquette, some shrimp salad, and a piece of corn bread. My folks and I chat about the many new changes and booming real estate on our growing island. Night falls gently. The sound of chirping crickets are a pleasant change from New York City traffic. And I’ve forgotten how much I miss lightning bugs until I see them glowing against the black southern sky. I say my good nights and turn in early, climbing back into bed with my snoring husband.

I feel so small still lying here behind this big mountain of unmovable flesh, staring into the darkness, wondering where we are headed. I remember how I used to stare longingly at Garrett while he slept, feeling a sense of safety in his presence and sweetness in his slumbering soul. But I don’t feel that serenity today. I feel Garrett’s falling into slumber is yet another sign of his falling out of love with me.

I toss and turn as day turns into night, lying in this bed next to my husband, unable to rest or make love. The ocean crashes outside, and the house quakes inside. I hear the frantic brushes of the long stalks of sea grass, entwined and entangled in the ocean breeze. I wish my husband and I were entangled now.

As the sun rises over the ocean, I feel that I have finally found a friend in this vast darkness between night and day. I also feel sad, having spent another day and night alone, without Garrett, even though he’s lying right here next to me.

While everyone else continues to sleep soundly, I feel an urge to get up and out of the house. Perhaps doing something traditional will make me feel better now that I’m back home. Ever since I saw that fisherman’s fresh fish flopping around in that pail, I have had a craving for some fried spots, grits, and buttery biscuits, just like I enjoyed on so many summer mornings growing up here. I figure if I get to the fishing docks early, I can get a few fish to fry up for a big family breakfast. I know everybody—even Garrett—likes spots, and so, in hope of making peace this weekend, I’ll head to the docks on this breaking dawn.

I slip out of bed and throw on some loose linen pants, a tight tank top, and one of Garrett’s big button-down shirts. I slip into my flip-flops, being extra quiet so as not to wake Garrett or anyone else in the house. I love these early morning hours when no one else is awake, when there’s no one else’s agenda or energy to deal with—nobody but myself to please. Plus, every beach body knows that the best catches come in during the wee hours of the morning, after the fishermen have been out at sea all night. I am determined to make my husband, my family, and myself very happy this morning. And I believe frying up some fresh spotted gifts from the sea is sure to do it.

I arrive at the docks and drive up the gravel driveway. An old hound dog lying on the wooden storefront porch lifts his droopy head. Finding me not to be a threat, the old dog nestles back down into his sleeping position as I park the car under a weeping willow tree.

“Mornin’!” calls out one of the fishermen, cleaning out a large catch in an old free-standing sink. “Can I help ya today?”

“Yes, sir, looking for some spots,” I say as I crunch my way across the gravel.

“
Well
, ya might be too late for them this mornin’. Young fella inside just asked for every spot we got in the house.”

“What?” I exclaim. “Every single one of them?
All
of them? You sold them
all
to him?”

“Sure did. Fella wanted ’bout a hundred o’ them spots.”

“Can’t he share—maybe like, a dozen?” In my disappointment, I sound like a whiny little girl.

“Well, now, you’ll have to ask him that. But he’s a real nice fella. I bet he’ll share with you.” The man squinches his sun-beaten face on one side up into a long, wise wink at me and nods his head. It’s as if this old salt understands how much this is threatening my beach breakfast bliss.

“C’mon,” he says as he rinses off his hands and wipes them on his towel. “Let’s see what’s going on in the fish house.”

We walk into the fish house, which is more like an oversized ice garage. Workers are counting and wrapping up bushels and bushels of spots in brown paper and then tossing them into empty baskets before scooting them out to a waiting car—a
police car
? Why in the world are they putting all these fish in a police car?
So it’s some greedy cop nabbing all the spots, huh? Figures
. And then I notice the words stenciled on the back of the patrol car: “Surf City Police Department: To Protect and Service.”

Service
? I muse.
Shouldn’t it read “to protect and serve”?
I have to do everything I can not to burst out laughing. My cop buddies back in New York City would have a field day with this one. The fisherman notices me gawking at the police car.

“You notice anything funny about this car?” I chuckle, holding my inside joke.

“Yup,” he replies. “It’s filling up with fish.”

We laugh.

“Yeah, your spots look like they’re under arrest,” I say as a worker puts another bushel of fish in the backseat.

“Yup, well, the police chief’s the one’s buying out the store!”

“What for?” I ask.

“There he is. Why don’tcha ask him.” The old man motions over my shoulder.

I turn around, and the chief is walking toward me with his head down, his big, black patrol boots crunching through the gravel.

“You’ve got quite a lot of spots there, Chief,” I say, my friendly tease bordering on perturbed sarcasm.

The chief looks up and squints in the sun. He pushes back his police hat. I cannot believe my eyes as they slowly reconnect with his, and we both smile. It is actually him—Adonis. Dreamy Adonis running down the beach is actually the
police chief
? I wonder if he can detect how stunned I am. He smiles that Adonis smile and removes his chief’s hat.

“Mornin’.” He gently nods my way and then turns his attention to his car. “Yeah, got quite a lotta fish all right. Gonna have to ride with all my windows down, I reckon.”

“Maybe you oughta fire up your siren too so you can get there quicker,” I reply. We share a neighborly chuckle.

“The lady’s hoping you’ll sell her a couple of them spots you got there, Chief,” says the fisherman. “She looked all dreary-eyed after I done told her you done bought up every last one in the house.”

“Well, I’d be most happy to share with the lady.” The chief smiles that warm and charming smile at me again. “Better yet, why don’t you just come to our big fish fry tomorrow, and you can have all the fish you can eat there, and you won’t have to cook a one. Every year our island police department throws a big fund-raiser. Most of the money goes to our local battered women’s shelter. We’ll have hush puppies, North Carolina barbecue, baked beans, coleslaw, and plenty of fresh baked pies too.” He smiles that smile again.

“Delicious,” I say, knowing subconsciously I am referring to more than the food. “I’m a huge supporter of any efforts to fight domestic violence. Count me in.”

“Well, I
thank ya
, ma’am!” he says. I find his inflection, with the emphasis on the “thank ya,” both interesting and endearing. He seems to be such a southern gentleman. I forgot how special they are down here.

“You know something?” The chief squints those sea-green eyes at me. “You sure look darn familiar somehow. You from around here?”

“My family has a beach house here, but I live in New York.”

“Woo-wee!” the chief spurts. “New Yawk City! Ain’t that how y’all say it up there in the Big Apple?”

“Uh … yeah, well, something like that.” Even though the chief seems to be genuinely fascinated and cordial, I am still very aware of the animosity some of these southerners hold for New Yorkers, as if the Civil War is still not over. I didn’t even know “damn Yankee” was two words till I left the South.

“New York City …” the chief muses. “Now, I tell you, that is one fast place.”

“Yes, it’s nice to come home and slow down a bit.”

“Well, you sho’nuff gon’ slow down ’round here,” interjects the old fisherman. “Nothing to do but enjoy the fat of the land and the fruit of the sea.”

“You also saw me yesterday, out on the beach. You were running; I was walking …” I suddenly sound silly.

“Oh, wait a minute. Oh, yeah!” The chief suddenly remembers with a bright smile. “You were hitting up some old man on the beach for his fish too, right?”

Totally busted, I blush.

“Dag, girl, what are you? Some kind of fish-nabber?” the charming chief teases.

Even the old fisherman, standing by observing us, snickers. “You gon’ end up in his police car,” the old geezer guffaws. “He’s gon’ arrest ya and throw ya in the back of that police car with all them smelly spots!”

“Hope I’ll see you at the fish fry tomorrow,” the chief calls over his shoulder as he heads back to his patrol car. “We’ll start around four. Come comfortable and ready to eat and dance all night. Oh—and enjoy these on me.” The chief tosses me a brown-papered bundle of spots. I catch it like a football. “Leave those poor fishermen on the beach alone, will ya?” he teases.

Chief “Adonis” starts his police car engine and slowly pulls out the gravel driveway. I can barely breathe as I cradle his package of fresh-caught fish like it’s a newborn baby.
How nice
, I silently muse.

And on a cloud, I float home in my car, to enjoy my first meal on this new day.

Hail to the c
hief!