Snapshots (14 page)

He dialed the cottage's phone from his cell, but Trista didn't answer either that or her cell phone. He belatedly recalled that she usually turned it off when on vacation. So he bought six drumsticks, figuring that if she didn't eat them, either he or the crabs off the end of the dock would.

2004

C
lick: Picture of a stray dog. She is the color of caramels, and her fur is matted with burrs. She's sitting beside the garbage can at Sweetwater Cottage. Her tongue is lolling and she seems to be saying, “Give me a chance. Give me a bath. Feed me!” I snapped the picture. Rick wasn't anywhere around.

After Rick left for the Bi-Lo, I vacuumed the Tolsons' room, put fresh sheets on the bed and made a big pitcher of sweetened iced tea for later. Then I clicked on the television and popped one of my favorite movies into the DVD player. I soon realized, though, that I'd left my glasses in my car and went outside to get them.

“Yo,” said a voice behind me as I made my way along the sandy walkway. I whirled to find a spindly guy ambling up the driveway with a letter carrier's bag slung over his shoulder. His skin was the rich color of weathered mahogany, and he had a twinkle in his eye. He carried a fistful of mail and looked slightly familiar.

“Yes?” I said politely.

“Are you R. E. McCulloch? I've been trying to deliver mail to you for months.”

“No, I'm not.”

“Haven't we met before? My auntie used to bring me over here in the summers, and I'd help her wash windows and drag things out to the trash pile before heading down to the beach to throw a few nets for bait. My name's Stanley Doyle.”

I moved a bit closer and peered up at him, the sun in my eyes. “You're Stanley? Queen's nephew? Why, I'm so glad to see you.” I had a flash memory of a skinny guy who loved to laugh.

“Queen's
favorite
nephew,” he corrected as he pumped my hand, his eyes lighting up.

I smiled at him. “How is Queen?” I asked.

“My aunt has gone to live with her son Bert in McLellanville. He owns a fleet of fishing boats, and she does all the bookkeeping for his business.”

Well, life moves on for everyone. I'd missed Queen around the cottage during recent summer visits, and Lilah Rose had been vague about what had happened to her. “Tell Queen I said hey. I'm Trista, and I remember her waffles.”

Stanley laughed. “So do I. They were almost as good as her biscuits. Now, who's this R. E. McCulloch? Is that the same Rick, or have you got someone new?”

“That's Rick, all right. You probably remember him.”

“Uh-huh, bright kid, great smile. How am I going to get him to put up a mailbox? Can't deliver the mail if he doesn't have one.”

“I'll give Rick the mail, if you like.”

“I can't do that. Regulations.”

“Okay, I'll make sure Rick gets a mailbox.”

“That's a good idea. Been holding mail at the post office ever since I took over as relief letter carrier while the regular gal is out on maternity leave. The U.S. Postal Service doesn't take kindly to being a warehouse for letters addressed to people who are too lazy to put up a proper receptacle.” He winked.

“I understand.”

“Okay, I'll be watching for that mailbox.” He smiled and tipped me a genial wave, then paused on his way down the path. “Hey, it occurs to me that maybe you'd be interested in that mutt over there.” He gestured toward the hedge, and in the shadows underneath, a dog was sitting with her tongue hanging. She was light brown with short hair and a long straggly tail. A small dog, only a puppy. I hadn't noticed her before.

“Is that your dog?” I asked.

“Nope, she's a stray. She pads around after me on my route, been doing that for weeks now. I pour her a drink from my water bottle and sometimes give her part of my sandwich at lunchtime. She probably survives by eating food people leave on the beach.”

My heart went out to the poor thing. “Why don't you take her home, Stanley?” I asked. When the dog noticed us studying her, she wagged her tail enthusiastically. There was something lovable about the way she cocked her head and blinked at us.

“No, I've got a couple of attack cats who wouldn't take too kindly to the intrusion.”

“That's too bad.”

“Yup, she's a sweet little old mutt, from the looks of her.”

“I'll give her water,” I promised. I couldn't bear to see an animal suffer.

Stanley grinned. “Maybe you'll want to feed her, too,” he said. He went on his way, humming a tune.

I'd been warned so many times by my mother not to feed strays, a dictum established because Mom had no use for animals. Her one aberration had been Bungie, and that only because she was under pressure from my father, who said Martine and I needed a pet; otherwise our growing-up years wouldn't be authentic. But right now, Mom wasn't here, and this was an attractive pup. My camera was just inside the house, and I went to get it, hoping to capture her sweet expression.

The dog seemed to know she was the center of attention, and her ears perked right before I snapped the shutter. Entranced, I observed her for a few moments. She lay down in the shade of the hedge, an intelligent glint sparkling in her eyes. And there was something more—a warmth, an eagerness.

I hoped she would soon find a home, but I wasn't prepared to provide it and doubted that Rick would, either. I splashed some water from the hose into an old aluminum pie plate I found under the porch and waited while she drank her fill. She gazed up at me, her eyes full of gratitude.

I stroked the soft fur between her ears but realized this might give her the wrong idea about the local hospitality. “Shoo,” I said, waving my hands at her. “Go find some rich retired people to hassle.”

Turning my back on her, I hurried back inside. Then I settled down to watch Debbie Reynolds charm Gene Kelly in
Singin' in the Rain.
I spent almost an hour absorbed in the costumes, music and plot before the phone rang. Reluctantly, I paused the video and answered the phone at the bar.

It was Lindsay. “Trista, I'm so glad it's you! Can you talk?”

Clicking the TV off, I hitched myself up on a stool. “Rick's out, so sure.”

“How's it going?”

I thought about it for a moment. Too long a moment to suit Lindsay.

“Trista? Are you going to answer, or do I have to drag it out of you?”

“I'm glad to report that Rick seems better today. So am I.” I hesitated before taking the plunge. “Listen, Lindsay, I couldn't tell you this last time we talked because Rick might have overheard, but you won't believe what I walked in on yesterday.”

“Try me.”

“Rick was asleep in my usual room.”

“So?”

“So he wasn't wearing any clothes. It was embarrassing for both of us.”

Lindsay laughed. “I guess so!”

“Rick expected all of us here today, not yesterday. Luckily, I'd stopped at Jeter's and bought enough food for dinner, because there wasn't much in the house. When I first arrived, Rick acted put-upon and uninterested, and as if he didn't want me here.”

“This is typical behavior in a depressed individual.”

“Lindsay. Too much
Oprah.
Too much
Dr. Phil.
”

“My degree is in psychology, remember? Anyway, how are you and Rick getting along?”

“I'm coping. But Lindsay, you remember how the Mc-Cullochs always kept the cottage in good repair? Well, Rick's been here over a month and he hasn't done squat.”

“What's wrong, exactly?”

She quickly outlined the problems. “Normally, Rick would have jumped right in and fixed things. I can't wait until you and Peter get here. You
are
coming, aren't you?”

“Oh, Trista, we'd like to, but Adam has a fever and hardly slept all night. We sent Peter's mom home because she was exhausted. Now Ainsley has broken out in blisters.”

“This doesn't sound promising, does it?” I felt acutely disappointed.

“I'm so sorry, Trista. I really am. But we can't leave the kids.”

My spirits spiraled downward. “I understand,” I told her.

“I suspect that you can best help Rick by getting him to open up, talk about his feelings, that sort of thing.”

I expelled a long sigh. “He's not very good at that. Never has been,” I said.

“You're long-time buddies. He'll probably emote with you before anyone else.”

“I don't think so,” I said, last night fresh in my mind.

“Listen, Trista, I've seen the two of you engrossed in earnest conversation more than once,” Lindsay said, making me suspect that she'd been watching from the porch the day Rick had told me how frustrated he was over Martine's refusal to have kids. That had been an intense conversation, all right, but no one else was supposed to know about it.

Lindsay covered the phone with her hand, but still, I overheard her admonishing Adam. “No, honey, get back in bed and I'll put on your Muppets video in a minute. And don't scratch.” To me she said, “Adam's having a miserable time.”

“I'm really going to miss you, girl, but I'd better let you get back to him.”

“Good luck with Rick, Trista.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I don't suppose you and Peter would like to adopt a stray dog,” I added hopefully.

“You've got to be kidding,” Lindsay replied I have two sick kids, a pet rabbit and a pair of goldfish. I'd say we're full up at present.”

“Just thought I'd ask,” I said. I'm sure Lindsay was still shaking her head in puzzlement when we hung up.

Having lost interest in
Singin' in the Rain,
I opened a can of Cheerwine and wandered out on the porch overlooking the beach to drink it. The day was sunny and clear, a perfect day to be outdoors, and after I'd finished my drink, I decided I didn't want to stay inside. A check of the bikes under the house proved fruitless; their tires were long flat, and the air pump that used to hang from a hook in the storage area wasn't there anymore. Needing some way to burn off my nervous energy, I decided to go for a beach walk, this time in the opposite direction from the one we had taken last night.

I glanced around, halfway hoping the dog was still lying under the oleanders, but she must have moved, because I saw no sign of her. Out in the ocean, a freighter plied its way out to sea, and several wet-suited boys on surfboards rode the swells, awaiting the perfect wave. I'd tried surfing a few times when I visited California with a boyfriend wannabe and had decided after a too-close call with a shark that it wasn't the sport for me. I'd ditched the wannabe, too, since we hadn't had much in common anyway.

Usually when we were on the island, Martine and I competed to find the best sand dollars, and out of habit I scanned the sand ahead as I walked. Alive, a sand dollar is a flat sea animal with a feltlike coating of brownish spines, in many ways similar to a sea urchin. The dead ones we found on the beach are brittle disks imprinted with a five-petaled pattern of tiny holes, bleached white by the sun and about three inches in diameter. Martine was good at spotting them and had, in fact, found several perfect ones, which had always eluded me. I missed Martine, I realized suddenly. Like any sister, she could be a pain in the rear sometimes, but she was witty and she was fun.

As I approached a scattered campfire, its users long gone, I spotted the only sand dollar on my walk so far. I leaned down to pick it up, hoping that this time, finally, I had found the perfect one, but one side of it was broken cleanly off. Still, it was pretty, a delicate souvenir of my walk, and for safekeeping, I wrapped it in a tissue I found in my pocket.

Back at the cottage, I was arranging my new find with the others in the basket on the mantel when Rick sailed in the front door, trailing the tantalizing aroma of fried chicken.

“You're going to have to put up a mailbox,” I told him without looking around.

“I don't want any mail.” He continued into the kitchen and I followed.

“Well, you're getting it, because otherwise the mailman can't deliver. Remember Stanley? Queen's nephew?”

“Tall beanpole of a guy? Used to drive a pickup truck?”

“That's the one. He's your mailman.”

“Stanley was older than us by about five years, and I was always so impressed that he could coax bait fish into his net,” Rick said.

“You'll get to reacquaint yourself with him in person once you get that mailbox up.”

“Why didn't he give my mail to you?”

“He's supposed to put it in the box,” I told him. “Postal regulations.”

“My final divorce papers are probably what he plans to deliver,” Rick said.

“Oh. He didn't mention that.” I wished Rick hadn't told me.

A long moment passed. “I'm working around to the opinion that I might as well start accepting that the marriage is finished,” he said, speaking slowly. “Has been finished, I should say. Well. Let's have lunch.” The discussion was clearly over.