Chapter 5
Five
March 5
The ceiling fan is clicking and the moonlight stripes the wall next to me as I look at the boys’ picture on my phone. As much as I don’t want to interact with Ben, I hoped I could talk with Cole before the boys’ bedtime. My baby turned three today.
Nothing.
When I put down the device, it buzzes several times. I flip it over, and it’s Jack blowing up my phone.
Hey girlfriend!
What ya doin?
I’m sitting here, thinking of ya
A series of hearts follows the messages.
I smile to myself. Jack is fun—I’ll give him that. I had a great time with him and his friends, first paddling out to the reef, then tethering our kayaks to each other before submerging to see the underwater life. The crystal-clear water was illuminated by the sun, affording me views of bumpy coral, spiky urchins, and smoothly fluttering rays. I could’ve stayed there for hours.
When he dropped me off at my villa afterward, Jack confessed that when he’d excused himself at breakfast, he’d called some of the greatest troublemakers in their group and told them to be on their best behavior. No flirting , he’d said. Don’t scare her off.
The guys must really like Jack because everyone was respectful and courteous. What was that I learned about green flag behavior in those library books?
That’s sweet , I text back.
A knock at the door startles me. I guess Jack couldn’t wait for an answer and decided to ask me in person.
I open the door.
“Hi, Isa.”
“Suzanne?” I ask, surprised. “How did you find me? Why are you here?”
She steps closer to the porch light, and I think I see tear tracks on her cheeks.
“I’m not stalking you, I promise! I asked at the Westin where Jack Kendall takes his dates—other than Snorkels—and they suggested We Be Jammin’. I told the bartender we were supposed to meet up but I’d lost your address. She didn’t know where you were staying, just that you were in a villa. I’ve been knocking on doors, and you’re my fourth. Please don’t be mad.”
“So that’s how you found me, but not why you’re here. Still, I suppose you should come in.”
I stand aside and she steps past me, expensive perfume wafting in with her. I turn on the lights and can confirm she’s been crying. “Sit down.” I guide her to the small table near the kitchenette. “Can I get you some water, juice, maybe a soda? Sorry I don’t have more to offer you.”
“I’ll take some water, thank you.” Suzanne is quiet as I fill a glass of water from a bottle in the fridge.
“I don’t have anyone to talk to,” she blurts. I set the glass in front of her and sink into a chair across from her. “Henry has no time for me. We’ve only been married for two weeks. We’re still on our honeymoon, for fuck’s sake. All he does is talk on the phone. He talks to everyone but me. He’s interested in everybody except me.”
“How long are you supposed to be on your honeymoon?”
“A month.” Suzanne sobs into her glass of water. “But we’re supposed to be spending it together. We’re supposed to be in love. We’re supposed to be”—she hiccups—“happy.”
A month ? I can’t imagine a weeklong honeymoon, much less one that lasts a month. The economic difference between Suzanne and me is enormous. But, I can relate with the honeymoon that doesn’t meet expectations and the neglectful spouse.
“It’s all work stuff, I guess. But I really don’t know?” The question ends on a wail, and Suzanne turns tear-filled eyes to me.
I rise and look around the villa for tissues, finally resorting to snagging a roll of toilet paper from the bathroom. Back in the kitchenette, I hand the roll to Suzanne, who winds off a wad to blow her nose and wipe her eyes.
“I wish I knew what to tell you. You’re so lucky he’s able to travel and take that time off for so long for your honeymoon. But, maybe, there’s some sort of emergency at work?” Her sobs are slowing as I offer another perspective.
“You think so?” She looks relieved.
“Perhaps he’s under a lot of pressure trying to balance you and his company? Has he spent any time with you?” My late-night visitor visibly relaxes.
“We’ve had some good times together. He took me to this incredible restaurant on the other side of the island when we first got here, but then he disappeared into the kitchen for a while.” She laughs nervously. “Talk about awkward.”
I know awkward.
“Anyway, thanks for listening,” Suzanne says. “Wow, what are you, like a marriage counselor or something?” She wipes her nose and smiles.
“No.” I laugh to myself. I’m in no position to counsel anyone on how to be married.
“Where’s your hottie? I can’t believe you, Isa Cushing, hooked up with Jack Kendall.”
“We’re not hooking up.” I’m not sure I want to have this conversation with Suzanne. “We met a week ago; we’re just friends.”
“I just saw him over at the bar turning away women. Telling them he has a girlfriend?”
“That’s probably what he says all the time to women who throw themselves at him.”
“He has a reputation, you know. Don’t you read People ?”
“No, Suzanne, I don’t read People magazine.” I suppose I could’ve while the boys and I visited the Kennebunk Library, but I stayed too busy keeping after them and researching solutions for gardening problems like tomato blight. “I didn’t even know what Jack Kendall really looked like.” I lean in as if to tell my guest a secret. “When I met him, I thought he was some beach bum living on the island trying to avoid real life.”
“You didn’t!”
“Yep. Not kidding.”
“To be fair, the pictures they ran with the article were from his concerts, so maybe you wouldn’t have recognized him anyway. But Isa!” Now it’s Suzanne’s turn to lean in. “In the article, he said he’s thinking about quitting the music scene since he’s nearly fifty. That he’s done with his hectic schedules and just wants to be left alone. Besides, he hasn’t come out with a big hit song in a long time.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize he was that much older than me. That must explain why he’s been such a gentleman.”
“Well, you and I are what, nearly thirty? Henry’s quite a bit older than I am too. Get it, girl!” She reaches across the table for a high five, which I reluctantly give her. “But back to Jack. He’s never been married but always has a woman on his arm.” Suzanne sits up straight and looks proud of the research she’s done. “ People magazine says?—”
“I’m not sleeping with him”—it was only one time—“and I’m not his latest flavor of the week. He’s just been kind, showing me around.”
Suzanne opens her mouth as if to speak but must change her mind because she takes a drink instead. She sets the glass on the table and squares her shoulders, her gaze wary.
“We’re supposed to be here for another week or two. If Henry keeps having these work emergencies, I’ll have lots of free time. You and I could hang out and reconnect. We could become great friends!”
She wants to be friends with me? Is she really that lonely? But I’ve been where she is. I could’ve used a friend the past few years. “Sure. That sounds nice.”
“How long are you here?”
“To be honest, I have no idea. I have no real plans to head back to Maine.”
“Do you have anything else to drink?”
“Just the complementary juice and soda.”
“Want to head next door? Henry won’t miss me.”
“Sure, let me change.”
I pull on cutoffs and a clean tank,andbrush my hair. “Let’s go.”
“You aren’t going to put any makeup on?”
“Uh, no?”I don’t have any, but she doesn’t need to know that.
Suzanne shrugs. “Well, can I use your bathroom to fix mine?”
I gesture the way. “Be my guest.”
I slip my flip-flops on and step outside onto the porch to wait for Suzanne. When she comes out, she’s washed her face, and except for the redness in her eyes, she doesn’t show any signs of crying. I lock the door, and we head down the sandy, moonlit path to Jammin’. The breeze is warm and heavy, and the salt smell from the waves breaking on the beach is intoxicating.
A modernized version of Hank Williams’s “Honky Tonkin’” greets us as we near the bar. Suzanne eyes me expectantly, her eyebrows raised. “Oh, pshaw. It could be anyone playing,” I say.
“Or it could be your hot country star.”
“For goodness’ sake, Suzanne. He’s not ‘my’ country star.”
“So you’re not denying he’s hot.”
I throw my hands into the air and enter Jammin’, wiping my feet of sand as I do so. When I look up, I lock eyes with Jack, who’s finishing up honky tonkin’ around town. When the final chords die, he removes his guitar and sets it on a stand, then leans into the microphone and announces a short break. Canned music plays through the speakers overhead as he jumps from the stage and makes his way to us. All eyes in the bar that were once on Jack alone are now on Jack and me.
“I didn’t think you were coming out tonight. Did you get my texts?”
“Ah, yes. I saw you texted.” Honestly, I had forgotten about his messages what with Suzanne and all her drama. “I’m sorry I didn’t respond. Suzanne stopped by and needed to talk, then we decided to come out for a drink. I didn’t know you were playing tonight.”
Jack wraps an arm around me and kisses my cheek. “I was hoping I’d get to see ya tonight,” he whispers in my ear, his breath stirring my hair and making shivers run down my spine.
My belly heats with warmth. I don’t want a repeat of my experience with Ben, but I can’t stop my reaction to the attention of this man.
“Well, now, let’s hear some music,” I say as I pull away.
“Hiya,” Jack acknowledges Suzanne, then returns to the stage and climbs onto his stool, where he starts singing about falling in love with a stranger on a Mexican beach.
We find a couple of seats at the bar. The first thing out of Sarah’s mouth is, “He’s been waiting for you to show up all night. I’ve never seen him like this. He’s never this intent on waiting for anyone. He picks up a lot of women, but he seems pretty smitten with you.”
Huh. I swing around and look at Jack, who winks when he notices me looking at him. My body heats and I turn back to Sarah. A painkiller is just what I need tonight.
As Sarah blends Pusser’s dark rum, pineapple and orange juices, and cream of coconut, she nods at me. “Looks like you found her,” she says to Suzanne. “Everything OK now?”
Suzanne straightens up. “It is, thanks again.”
“Suzanne and I went to the same high school a long, long time ago,” I say. “We ran into each other when Jack and I were at breakfast the other morning. She and her new husband are staying on the island for a bit.”
“Where’s your husband tonight?” Sarah asks as she grates fresh nutmeg onto my drink.
“He has to work, but I texted him to join us later.”
Sarah slides the glass to me and moves away to wait on another couple across the U-shaped bar.
Up on the small wooden stage, Jack is talking into his microphone. “I only have time to play one more song. I just wrote it, and I’ve been waiting for her to be here to sing it. So here it goes. Let me know what you think.”
Jack picks a slow but catchy tune on his worn guitar. “This is called ‘Old Beaches,’” he says and starts to sing, his gaze never leaving mine:
She hides the bruises beneath her sleeves
A broken heart
Her spirit shattered,
Her dreams destroyed
Old beaches of the North
She almost lost it all
Battered and broken by the waves
She has better sands to run on
She's stronger than she knows
She was trapped
Thought she couldn’t sail
To get off theold beach
And when she found herself
And ran on glimmering sands
She’s on that better beach now
Battered and broken by the waves
She has better sands to run on
And she's stronger than she knows
She’s on a better beach now, free to grow
She could do it alone
There's a world of love
She's never even knew
The shore is long
And she’s no longer running alone
She’s on a better beach
The bar is quiet when Jack finishes, then bursts into applause.
“What do y’all think? Is it something I should record?” Jack asks.
“Sounds like your next hit, Jack!” someone at a table screams.
Jack removes his guitar and sets it in the stand again before heading my way. Mortification clings to me like a shroud. I haven’t shared my inner thoughts with anyone, at least not in that detail, and Jack not only knows, he wrote a song about them.
“How much did you read?” I stare at Jack.
“Your story was heartbreaking,” Jack says. “I wanted to give you something positive after all that.”
“You read my notes?”
“I was fidgeting with the fruit bowl while ya showered, and then the notes started to scatter, so I collected them, and one thing led to another.” He takes my hand; I’m so numb I don’t resist. “What you described—your emotion, your pain—I’m so sorry that happened to you. You’re so strong. And amazing.”
“Jack, that writing was personal.” Calmly, very calmly, I stand up and look at him. I’m hurt that he read something I wasn’t ready to share. I’m not ready to share it with anyone.
“Isa. Please,” Jack pleads. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t know what it was.”
“Then why didn’t you stop reading once you realized it was personal?”
“I wanted to get to know you better.”
Angry, upset words fill my mouth, but I hold them in. Getting angry with Ben always backfired on me. Ben screams a lot louder than I ever could. Finally, I find something safe to say.
“Did you ever think about just asking me?”
Jack seems to wilt, his muscular swimmer’s body now crumpled at the edges. “I really am sorry you’re upset, Isa. I thought you’d like the song.”
“Even if I liked it, now everyone knows something’s wrong with me, that I’m damaged.” I move past Jack, my destination the solitude of the beach, but he reaches out, grasping my wrist. I brace myself, ready to be shaken in punishment, but Jack just holds on. I dredge up courage from my weary soul and pull away—“Please leave me alone”—finally making my escape from the bar and my humiliation.
I walk back to my villa alone. No one chases after me. No one tries to stop me. No one tries to apologize to me. Jack knows I’m mad and I’m hurt. I hope he doesn’t share where he got the inspiration for his song with anyone. I don’t want my new friends to know that Isa. How could women like Sarah and Suzanne spend time with a disaster like me?
What started out being a nice evening has ended being a crappy one.
I pull on my oversized T-shirt and climb into bed.
My phone buzzes with a text message from Jack.
I’m sorry
Please forgive me
I feel bad now. Did I overreact? I did leave my notes out in the open where visitors could read them, but still he should have asked me, not written a song.
Am I being overly sensitive? This is all new to me. A disagreement without yelling. I don’t think Jack realized he violated my privacy. Ben wouldn’t have cared. Now that I have some physical distance between us, I realize Ben never cared. At least, he never apologized. Jack said he’s sorry. If I were in his shoes, I’d feel terrible. But this is my past, and it’s my decision when to deal with it. Now is not that time.
I stuff the shame and the fear and the guilt down and fall asleep, the clicking of the ceiling fan and the tune of Jack’s new song playing over and over in my head like a broken record.