Whisper Beach (33 page)

V
AN DROVE TO THE ADDRESS ON THE CARD
R
UTH HAD GIVEN
her. Parked across the street from a Craftsman-type bungalow on a modest street in one of the older blue-collar neighborhoods.

It was freshly painted white with magenta shutters—which seemed totally incongruous to Van—and a gray front porch. Pots of geraniums hung from the porch eaves.

Van looked at the address on the card. Looked at the black numbers on the curb. This was the place. Still she sat there.

Maybe they wouldn't be home, or maybe he wouldn't let her in. The front door opened, and Ruth came onto the porch. She was wearing bright blue clam diggers and an oversized purple shirt. The woman sure liked color.

She carried a watering can to the pots, watered the first, moved to the next, watered it, and the next. Then she stepped into the opening above the porch steps and looked directly at Van.

How did she know she was out here?

Or was she just wondering who was parked across the street and not getting out of the car?

She smiled. Waved Van to come. Then she stood motionless while Van deliberated on whether to accept her invitation—challenge?—or to drive away.

Van opened the car door and got out. Took the long walk across the narrow street and walked to the bottom of the steps. Looked up.

“I'm so glad you came.” Ruth stepped aside, and Van climbed the stairs. She wished she'd brought Suze with her. Suze would have some apt literary quote to put the situation in perspective.

But Van couldn't think of a thing to think or say.

Inside, the house was cool and bright. Was it possible that her father lived here? With all this color and sunshine? And strangely enough, she didn't resent the idea.

“Have a seat,” Ruth said. “Robbie is working out back. He has a studio in the garage. He'll be taking a break soon.”

Van flinched. She couldn't help herself. The idea of him coming inside and discovering her propelled a full-scale panic in her.

“He doesn't expect anything from you. Except maybe anger and recriminations. He knows he was wrong, the way he treated you and your mother.”

Van didn't want to hear excuses for him by this honey-voiced woman. She turned to say so, but what she asked was, “Were you the girl he wanted to marry? Were you the one he cheated on with my mother?”

Van thought she must have blurted those words to upset the calm that emanated from this woman.

Ruth merely said, “Yes.”

“And you forgave him?”

Ruth smiled and stepped fully into the room. “Eventually. It ruined my life, too, for a while.”

Van wanted to say
Not for as long as it ruined ours
. But she didn't know that. She didn't know what Ruth had suffered. And this was a new side of herself that she wasn't totally comfortable with.

She'd carried her perception, her hurt, for so long, nurtured it like she would have all the children she wouldn't have. It was hard to let go just because he now lived in a nice house, with a woman who seemed at peace with herself, and painted pictures of things he never even noticed when he'd been her father.

Been her father.
God help her, he was still her father and always would be. She could walk away and pretend that none of this was happening. Could let life go on with the seed of anger and pain that she could bring out and polish when she began to forget. Or she could face the reality of now.

She turned to leave.

And a reflection of light caught her eye. A glass case sitting on a table, and inside, ragged pieces of sea glass. She could see the tiny pictures painted on them, and she knew if she moved closer, she would recognize them as her own work. And she knew there would be twenty of them. Just as there had been the day she'd climbed out the window to escape his anger.

He hadn't thrown them away, but why? Why had he kept them? To remind him of what a horrible man he'd been? To remember her? To punish himself for all the harm he'd done?

Emotions were tumbling inside her so violently that Van had to fight not to be sick.

Ruth came to stand beside her. “Didn't you ever wonder what inspired you to paint?”

“I just needed money.”

“You could have gotten another part-time job. Babysat. Licked envelopes.”

“He never— never—” Van couldn't go on.

“I know.”

“I won't forgive him.”

“I don't expect you to.”

Van whirled around. He was standing there in an old white shirt with the collar torn off and covered in paint smears, paint-covered jeans, and socks.

He looked old, but handsome. And a betraying memory bubbled up from deep inside her. They were on the beach. She was only four or five, and he was in swim trunks. They sat across from each other, a big lopsided sand castle between them, and she'd said,
This is your castle, Daddy
. Because he had been like a fairy prince to her, and he'd looked sad.

Van bit her lip. Of course that was before the days she'd understood what was happening between her parents. She was not going to be beguiled by memories like that. They were probably fabricated out of her longing to be loved.

He didn't come farther into the room, but stood in the opening, half silhouetted by the shadows missed by the sun.

“I was a bad man. I mistreated you and your mother.”

“Uncle Nate told me what happened.”

He nodded once, a slight jerky movement. His hair was thick and white, though he couldn't be much over fifty. She didn't even know how old her father was.

She glanced over to Ruth, who stood there silent, but not alarmed or pained that they were talking about something that had also impacted her life. And the way she was watching Robbie Moran, Van thought she must be comfortable to live with.

Van wondered how Ruth could forgive him for all he'd done to her, but it was obvious that she had and that they were happy together.

“I can't make it up to you. I can only say I'm sorry. And I know that isn't enough.”

Van just looked at him. His face was tanned, wrinkled beyond his years, but there was a calmness there she couldn't remember ever seeing. He must never have felt that way when they'd lived together.

And suddenly she had a million questions that she knew would be better unasked.
Why couldn't you make the best of it? Why did you let yourself become eaten by rage? Why did you transfer that hatred to us? To me?

Maybe he'd been trapped into marrying her mother, but—

“A better man would have risen above what happened. I was not a better man. I am now. Though I know it's too late for us. I'm glad you're successful. I hope you're happy.”

“I am.” But was she? Really? Van felt Ruth's hand lightly touch her back. A gesture of comfort? Or a connection to her father that Ruth and Van both knew she couldn't manage on her own?

Her father smiled; his eye were shiny and bright, but Van knew he wouldn't cry, not while she was here.

“I'm glad you're painting again,” she said.

He nodded. Again quick and sharp.

“I— I never knew.”

“No,” he said.

And she could hear the regret in his voice. She couldn't forgive him. But she knew now that it wasn't all his fault.

“I always loved you, Van. Even when I didn't act like it. Even in those dark days when I forgot that I did. But I always did.”

A jagged breath escaped Van, and she looked away. This was
so not what she'd wanted to do. Ruth's hand stroked her back, calming her.

“Maybe, Van, you'd like to sit down.”

“No, thank you.” Van latched on to something real. “I'm meeting Dorie at the Blue Crab.” She glanced at her father. “I'm helping her to reorganize the kitchen.”

He nodded. This time the awkwardness was gone, like a clean wind had just blown through and left the calm again.

“Are you staying long?” Ruth asked.

“Until Saturday. But I'll probably be back—off and on—to keep the restaurant operating efficiently.” What was she saying? She couldn't really think she would be back. The whole point was closure, not reopening. She was almost there.

“I really have to go. I can't be late.” Van started toward the door. She couldn't run away. She'd done that once. Besides, her father was standing in the doorway.

“I'll walk you to the door,” Ruth said.

They walked past her father. Van stopped. Reached up and kissed him quickly on the cheek, shocking herself with a burst of love as horrifying as it was longed for.

Once on the porch, she let out her breath.

“It's fine,” Ruth said. “Small doses. Will we see you again before you leave?”

Van thought. Would the woman really wish to put them all through that again? She studied Ruth's face and realized that not only would she welcome Van, but she was looking forward to it.

“I— Maybe.”

“How about Thursday for an early dinner? We have a lovely screened porch out back.”

“I—”

Ruth smiled at her; she already knew the answer.

“Okay.”

They walked together across the street. Decided on an hour, and Van got into the car.

“Thank you,” Ruth said and stood in the street as Van drove away.

As soon as Van had driven a few blocks, she pulled to the curb to pull herself together. She wasn't sure what had just happened, she just knew she'd agreed to come to dinner. She must be going stark raving mad.

She fumbled in her bag for her phone, pressed speed dial.

“Suze?”

“That's me.”

“Can you take a break?”

“Sure. I was going over to the Crab in a bit.”

“Well, come with me now.”

“Where are we going?

“To get ice cream and then we're going to the beach.”

“H
E LOOKED LIKE
an old man, a nice old man,” Van said as she and Suze sat in her car eating triple scoops of their favorite flavors.

“He isn't really old,” Suze reminded her. “Though life has probably dealt him some premature aging blows. But nice-looking now doesn't make up for the eighteen years of misery he put you and your mother through.”

“I know it doesn't. And I told him that. Except I've started remembering the early years and times that weren't so awful. I
don't know how he felt about my mother then—from all accounts he already hated her for wrecking his life—but he did stuff with me. I think he did love me. At least at first.”

“Are you sure you're remembering correctly and not just wish-fulfilling?”

“Not entirely. And like you said, it doesn't make up for all the other times. But it's good to know there were some good times, at least between him and me.”

“And Ruth?”

“I don't know. If I met them now, I would think, what a nice couple. She's totally calm and loving, almost too calm and loving. Usually people like that you expect to cross over to the lunatic fringe and go on a rampage. But I don't know. Maybe they're just happy at last.” Van paused to eat some ice cream. “He asked me if I was happy.”

“And you said . . .”

“I said yes. Because I am.”

“You don't sound so sure of that.”

Van watched a drip of ice cream drop off Suze's plastic spoon and land . . . back in her cup. Amazing.

“I am, but being back even for a couple of weeks, even with all the angsting and hair tearing, has made we wonder how important it is to cut yourself off from your past. Even if you don't like your past very much.”

“Like the baby and the bathwater.”

“Which is exactly what I did. In my case, literally.”

“Sorry. That was a grossly inappropriate analogy.”

“True but true.” Van scraped the last of her ice cream from the cardboard dish.

“Give me that; I'll toss them in the trash.” Suze got out, deposited their ice cream dishes, and climbed back into the car.

Van gave her the once-over. “You know you managed to eat that entire dish without dropping anything down your front.”

Suze looked down at her striped tee. “Ah, but the day is still young. So are you going to dinner on Thursday?”

“I think I am. I'm feeling like I can pretty much handle anything Whisper Beach shovels up.”

“What about Joe?”

“I said ‘almost.' There's still some spark between us. Actually, it feels a little like coming home in a get-to-know-you way.”

“That is a really convoluted explanation.”

“I know, but that's what it is. We have history, mostly good history but it's ancient history. Maybe we've changed too much. Neither one of us is ready to look too deep. We're taking a wait-and-see approach.”

“That gives you three more days, if you're really leaving Saturday.”

“And I'll take them as they come. There's still the children thing to be considered. That's what's really holding me back.”