31. Marnie
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Marnie
For all its casual awkwardness, the ceremony has the beautiful finality of a funeral. Wren, wearing a long black cape and jeweled everything, including sparkly flecks around her eyes, shares a few monotone words about how decay is needed for growth and letting go of past pains will do the same for us that it does in nature—she’s very profound for a seventeen-year-old.
She tells us to speak or not, however our hearts guide us. Then, she releases her boat first after showing us how to fold it. It drifts into the almost stagnant water, finding a little breeze to travel on.
She lights a thick stick of sage, running the smoke clouds over herself, which she does for each of us in turn after we release our boats.
Wade goes next, saying nothing, eyes glassy with tears—he claims allergies, but we all know better. I imagine guilt over Maureen makes his list, but I hope he also includes the grudge with Mack. It’d be such a joy to bring the Tripp family back together.
Christie clears his throat and says, “I’m letting go of insecurities for having a sensitive soul and liking pretty things. My wife, Wren’s mom, would say I wasn’t ‘man enough’ for her, and that was long before I wore what I wanted. She also dressed Wren in pink hair bows and frilly dresses, so she didn’t know us at all. She could never know us or love us truly, if she refused to see us as we are.”
He pulls Wren close to his side, and she leans her head against his shoulder.
“Wren and I have been exactly ourselves since she left,” he says, “and we’re happier for it. So, goodbye, Jessie Dean, and all your hate talk and narrow-minded judgments. I will never again apologize for being myself.”
“Neither will I,” Wren says, “and that’s entirely thanks to you, Dad.”
“Love you, Moonbeam.” He sets his boat free, his long, floral kimono flapping as he wishes it away. Wren puts her black lace arm over his shoulders before cleansing him with the sage’s smoke whisper.
Roy steps into the dock’s center. “I have a statement prepared.” He sets down the paper plate of chicken wings he brought with him, still holding the drum he’s in the middle of eating. BBQ sauce covers his lips and drips into his unkempt, patchy facial hair.
“I deeply regret my actions in buying the babydoll nightie,” he says, eyeing me between glances at his paper, “and any discomfort it caused. My heart is bigger than my brain. That said, I’m letting go of certain ideas about women—Wren helped me make a comprehensive list.”
He holds up the BBQ-stained page that contains dozens of listed items.
“When I fell off the pole—the electric pole, not the stripper’s pole,” he goes on, “and had to take disability after being a lineman for twenty-five years, I felt depressed and found comfort in things that weren’t good for me. But Marnie’s helped me see that I still have a life and a purpose… although that purpose is not to get her laid.” He breezes through the chuckling. “I let go of feeling lost over what I’ve lost.”
My heart pitter-patters over his profound statement and how it’s what I need to hear, too.
He clears his throat and reads, “ Your absence has gone through me like thread through a needle. Everything I do is stitched with its color. ”
I gasp, taking in the imagery, and feel tears threatening to fall. “Oh, Roy.”
“Those aren’t my words. A guy named Merwin wrote it. But, you know, Google’s a wonderful thing.” He sticks the wing in his mouth, roughly folds his boat, and sets it, lopsided and stained, on the water, setting the chicken bones inside. Then, he pushes it away from the dock, where it mingles with the others.
That’s how I felt after the accident—lost over what I’d lost and everything shadowed by the absence. My hand goes to my stomach, missing what will never be, and my head falls softly on Grady’s shoulder, standing beside me.
His hand circles my waist, pulling me closer. Softly kissing my forehead, he whispers, “Ready?”
We say nothing as we set our boats adrift. Though it’s only paper that will soon be saturated and vanish into the murk, sending them off feels freeing and necessary—like these delicate, little objects hold the heavy weights we’ve all carried for far too long.
The tiny paper boats bobble, causing small ripples in the water underneath them and changing the surface reflection into something more unique. It’s lovely in the strangest way. One tear slips out that I quickly brush away, and Grady tugs me closer like he knows what I’m feeling.
I take in the occupants of this rickety swamp dock as we stand in silence. I’m surrounded by people who defy expectations.
Wren, for being a teenager who chooses to be herself over fitting in.
Christie, for raising Wren to be a free spirit, and showing me what a father should be.
Roy, for simply being Roy and for his big heart.
Wade, for giving me a chance at the expense of his comfort and letting me change everything.
Grady, for giving up his solitary life, his time, his everything. For me.
Now, I’m counted among them—The Queen of Lost Causes and Second Chances, spared from an expectant life for one that will be whatever I want it to be.
And Grady Tripp asked me to dinner! At his place! Eep! Every time I think about it, I feel butterfly wings in my stomach and tingles everywhere else—all those lovely things I thought were over for me. I’m flushed and flustered with excitement. To be there. To see how he lives. To meet his dogs. To eat his food. To be with him on his dock as the sun goes down on the lake. And maybe…
Nope, I can’t think about that now.
His hand brushes against mine as we stand there, watching our little boats teeter. Mine starts to tip, drifting against Grady’s. Wren’s boat seems magically pulled into the tunnel of bald cypress trees and waving moss. It’s so serene, the quiet.
A gator suddenly breaks the surface, snapping its impressive jaws over Roy’s boat, taking it and capsizing the others.
I scream, grabbing onto Grady’s shoulder. Christie and Roy jump and curse. Even Wren takes a startled step back.
“Holy fuck. Bessie’s back,” Wade says, completely still and mildly amused. “You frightened us, honey.”
“Guess she likes chicken wings,” Roy decides.
“You okay?” Grady asks.
I nod, even more flushed. “Yeah, wow, she’s a big girl.”
“Twelve feet as the day is long,” Wade says. “Comes here to have her babies. Ain’t nothing like gator watching in the spring.”
My brain fires with new ideas as Bessie chomps on the paper-covered chicken wing and disappears into the algae, taking our meager boats with her. “That’s it.”
“What’s what?” Roy asks.
“Our hook to bring in tourists,” I say. “Local products, hot dogs, and gator spotting. We’ll need signs and a new observation deck with a railing. I’ll call Peter Pike. What adventurous family on vacation wouldn’t detour a few miles for a chance to see gators? It’s perfect.”
“They’re so misunderstood,” Christie nods. “It’d be nice to give them some positive attention.”
“Oh, I could give gator talks,” Roy offers, “tell ‘em stories about playing keep-away with the babies and that time Bessie nearly killed Wade.”
He shrugs sheepishly. “We were still getting to know each other then.”
“Well, let’s keep the near kills on the down low,” I say, “but the rest, yes. We’ll win the locals with lower prices and our new, family-friendly look. But now, we’ll win the tourists, too.”
“We could sell gator gear,” Roy chimes in, “like little stuffies and toys. Kids love that shit.”
“Hell, you love that shit,” Wade laughs.
“There’s a kid in all of us, Wade,” Roy says.
I flip my notebook open and start jotting down ideas.
Grady’s hand circles my waist again as he whispers in my ear. “I’ll leave you to it. See you at six?”
“Maybe sooner because I can’t wait,” I giggle in return. As he wanders away, the rest turn to me with wide eyes and gaping expressions. I’m not sure who starts cooing first, but they all join in—a teasing chorus. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Grady hesitating at the sound before heading to The Beast anyway.
“Oh, stop,” I tell them, blushing. “It’s nothing. Just dinner. We’re friends.”
“Well then, can we come?” Roy asks.
“I’ll bring a Chardonnay,” Christie teases.
“I’ve got the love potion,” Wren adds.
“Aw, how sweet, but no,” I laugh. “Don’t worry. I’ll give you all so much homework you’ll be too busy to think about me and Grady Tripp.”
They groan and disperse quickly, as if worried I might divvy out tasks right then and there.
The day creeps by slowly. I make phone calls, arranging the billboard designs with Marigold, and construction of the gator observation deck with Peter Pike. The boys and I rearrange the cigarettes behind the counter between taking care of a slow trickle of customers, more than usual but still not enough to make up for all I’ve spent on upgrades. It’s a marathon, not a race, I tell myself.
Excited for my date with Grady, I leave earlier than usual, desperate for some me-time. I spend time with the cats, telling them and all my plants about my plans for the evening. I put on music—at first heart-pounding rap to match my excitement, but already too hyped, I soon switch it to something more low-key. The calming sounds of Norah Jones fill the house as I deliberate on my outfit. With four possibilities strewn across my bed, I take a long bath, towel-dry my hair, put on lotion and light perfume, and even paint my nails a soft pink. First dates don’t happen very often, at least not for me. Why not make it the celebration it is?
I finally decide on a silky light pink cami with lacy edges, a cute jean skirt, white sneakers, and my fuzzy pink sweater, in case I get chilly. Casual meets sexy. I top it off with a dangly gold chain with a peony charm and little gold hoop earrings. I wear my hair down and wavy and put on a touch more makeup than usual.
I stand at the mirror by the front door and ask the cats how I look. Hershey meows, Triscuit curls around my legs, and Sunkist narrows her eyes like she’s annoyed at me for disturbing her cat nap. Even so, I take it all to mean I’m not too shabby.
I take a breath, nerves rising again. I worry this might be another ride on Grady’s guilt train, with him leaving me stranded at the end.
But it’s Grady. Thinking of how he held my hands at the pier, his lone tear over what I wrote, my heart plays an erratic beat to my thoughts, and the hope that he’s finally seeing me . Not a victim of his mistake. Not an obligation. But as his Marina. Because I long for him to be my Grady.
I leave for our date, feeling giddy-hopeful and planning out my moves—an embrace at the door, for starters, with a kiss on his rough cheek. I want Grady Tripp to know that affection is allowed and encouraged. I want him to know that I’m ready for this.
For him.
For everything.