Chapter Five If the Ocean Was Beer
Chapter Five
If the Ocean Was Beer
Halifax, Nova Scotia
It’s a Saturday night, and I’ve let Becky talk me into going downtown, which means—in the language of Haligonians—pub-crawling or barhopping. I haven’t had a night out in three months, and she’s been after me to take some “me time” and consider the possibility that I’ve become a workaholic.
She’s not wrong. After Jacob died, I couldn’t face a return to university, where we’d shared our lives, so I dropped out of the business school permanently and set my sights on the University of Toronto, which offered a degree program in interior design.
It had always been my end goal anyway, to learn the craft, and since my dad had been running the family business for decades without a business degree (he’d gone to community college to learn the plumbing trade and acquired management skills on the job), my parents supported my decision.
Dad promised to help me with the business side of things if, and when, the time arrived.
So here I am, seven years later, president of my own fledgling interior design business.
I have a modest office downtown on the historic Halifax Waterfront with two employees: a receptionist and bookkeeper named Gretchen, who keeps everything organized, and Jennie, my talented and creative assistant who shares my passion for decorating.
She has an incredible work ethic, and sometimes I feel like she should be a full partner, but I’m the one with all the money at risk.
It’s my name on the lease and the line of credit.
Tonight, I’m meeting Becky for dinner at Salty’s, a seafood restaurant with outdoor tables on the wharf overlooking the harbor. The hostess shows me to the table, where Becky is already seated with a glass of chilled chardonnay in front of her.
She removes her mirrored sunglasses, stands up, hugs me, and steps back to check out my outfit. “You came straight from work, didn’t you. On a Saturday, no less.”
“What gave me away?” I pull my chair out and hang my tote bag on the back of it.
“Hmm,” she says, returning to her chair. “Could it be the blazer and button-down shirt? Or is it the loafers? It wouldn’t hurt you to take your hair out of that tight ponytail every once in a while.”
“It was a crazy day,” I reply apologetically and settle into my chair. It’s a gorgeous summer evening with a light breeze, and a sailboat is cruising by, heading toward open water. The aroma of fried crab cakes reaches my nose, and I realize I’m famished.
I return my attention to Becky. “You look gorgeous.” She’s wearing an off-the-shoulder, formfitting blue dress and dangly pearl earrings.
Classy attire is one of the perks of her job managing a high-end clothing store in the Halifax Shopping Centre.
“I can’t believe how long your hair has gotten.
” It’s shiny and wavy and reaches almost to her waist.
“That just goes to show how long it’s been since we’ve seen each other.” She takes hold of my hand from across the table. “How are you?”
“I’m good, actually,” I reply with a slight frown, resenting the note of sympathy in her voice, which implies that I’m sad, lonely, and wasting away. “Something amazing happened at work,” I tell her. “I got a call from Liz Tremblay’s assistant, and she set up a time for us to chat on Tuesday.”
My heart squeezes spasmodically at just the thought of it, because Liz and her husband, a major real estate developer, are local celebrities.
They fight tirelessly for the rights of low-income homeowners and recently led a fundraising campaign to build a small apartment complex close to the children’s hospital for family members who come from far away.
The grand opening was all over the news last week.
“That sounds exciting,” Becky says. “I wonder what she wants.”
“I don’t know, but I hope it involves decorating.”
Becky reaches for her wine. “As long as you remember that there’s more to life than work.”
How can I forget when she’s always trying to remind me that my life didn’t end when Jacob died and that I still have plenty of living to do?
The problem is that her definition of living isn’t the same as mine.
She’s been in high spirits lately because she’s in a steady relationship with a guy named Mark, and she’s optimistic about her future.
I’m happy for her, of course, but I don’t need that in my life right now.
I don’t want any complications. I just want to focus on growing my business.
“I appreciate the concern, but I’m perfectly fulfilled.” I reach for my water glass and take a sip. “I wake up every morning and look forward to my day. Isn’t that what matters?”
Becky sits back and folds her arms across her chest. “It depends on how big or small your bubble is.”
The waiter’s arrival couldn’t come at a better time. He asks what I’ll have to drink, and I point at Becky’s wine. “I’ll have whatever that is.”
Becky rolls her eyes. “Seriously, do you not even care? Order what you want. They make a great cosmo here. You used to love cosmos.”
I smile with resignation at the waiter. “Fine. Bring me a cosmo.”
He disappears, and I pick up the menu. “I’m starving. What are you having?”
“The fish cakes, of course.”
I slide the menu aside. “I’ll get that too.” I don’t want to spend too much time thinking about food choices. I just want to talk to my friend about her life, not mine. “How’s Mark?”
Her eyes light up. “Great. We’re going whale watching next weekend.”
“Oh, wow. Where?”
“Brier Island. He’s had it booked for weeks. And we’re going to Fredericton the week after that for his parents’ thirtieth anniversary. His whole family’s going to be there. I haven’t met either of his brothers yet, so wish me luck.” She reaches for her wine.
“They’ll love you. Who wouldn’t? You’re wonderful.”
She laughs. “And I love you for saying that.”
We look at each other and sigh heavily, in perfect sync, and my mood takes a more serious turn. I’m not afraid to let it show, because Becky and I have always been open and honest with each other.
“I know we haven’t seen each other much over the past few years,” I say.
“I was in Toronto, and you were here, and ever since I came back, I’ve been .
. . well, you know . . . overwhelmed, trying to get the business going.
But I just want you to know how important you are to me.
You’ve been my rock ever since . . .” I lower my gaze to my lap because I can’t say it.
“I understand.” She looks toward the boats in the harbor. “We both went through hell together. But your hell was especially terrible, having been there and gone through it.” She pauses and looks at me. “You’re the only person, besides my parents, who really understands the weight of it all.”
I nod, and my drink arrives in a fancy martini glass. I run my thumb and forefinger up and down the stem. “Do you ever talk to Mark about it?”
“I have,” Becky replies. “And he’s been wonderful. Very compassionate. But he never knew Jacob, so . . .”
“It’s not something anyone can really share.”
She reaches for her wine, and I raise my glass.
“To Jacob,” she says in a somber tone. “And to us.”
“May we all find happiness,” I say.
It’s only when I take the first sip that I realize I’ve included Jacob in my toast, as if we are, all three of us, still sitting together, on the Halifax Waterfront, looking forward to the unknown trajectory of our lives.
After a delicious dinner, which has included two more cosmos for me and two glasses of chardonnay for Becky, we find ourselves at the casino bar, where drinks are cheap.
I’ve spent the evening venting about a client who can’t make up her mind about modern rustic or a throwback to art deco, and Becky has opened up about Mark’s obsession with Star Wars paraphernalia, predominantly Chewbacca but other characters as well from the original three films. Evidently, he has a small room in his basement with storage shelves and limited sunlight where he stores his dolls, though his preferred term is action figures.
Becky is convinced he’s in possession of a small fortune down there and that he should get everything insured.
Against our better judgment, Becky and I order a couple of dirty martinis, but we swear that these will be our last drinks of the night before we head home.
As the bartender slides the glasses toward us, Becky swivels on her stool, faces me, and raises her glass. “If the ocean was beer and I was a duck, I would swim to the bottom and drink myself up. But the ocean’s not beer, and I’m not a duck, so let’s drink these martinis and get totally messed up.”
I tip my head back and laugh, but I reach my hand out before she takes a sip. “Wait, wait! I’ve got one.” I raise my glass. “Pain makes you stronger. Tears make you braver. Heartbreak makes you wiser. And vodka makes you not remember any of that crap.”
Becky laughs hysterically. “I love it! Bottoms up.”
We sip our drinks, and then I slide off the barstool to hug her. “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.” I have the uneasy feeling I might be slurring my words. “We’ll be blood sisters forever. I love you so much.”
“I love you too,” she coos, and we hug cozily, swaying back and forth until her cell phone rings.
She staggers back a little and rifles through her purse.
“It must be Mark.” She finds her phone and flips it open.
“Hello? Hey, baby! You must be psychic. We just finished our drinks.” She winks at me and nods.
“Yes, we had a good time.” She pauses. “We’re at the casino bar.
Okay. Sure. Yes, now’s a good time to come.
We’ll meet you out front. Bye. I love you!
” She snaps her phone shut and gives me a goofy smile. “He’s the best.”
“I’m so glad you’re happy,” I say drunkenly, fighting an urge to cry tears of joy, or maybe not joy.
She considers this, then grabs hold of my forearms and looks me straight in the eye. I find it hard to focus.