A Stranger on the Beach

“I’m coming out there. Pour yourself a drink, turn on the TV, zone out. I’ll be there in an hour, unless the cops get me.”

“Thank you, sis. I love you so much.”

“Love you, too, babe. You’re not going through this alone.”

Lynn lived in the same house in Massapequa where we grew up, which was a solid hour and a half away, but she had a fast car and a lead foot. Fifty minutes later, she walked in the front door, carrying a bottle of bourbon and a big glass bowl of spaghetti and meatballs, which she shoved into the microwave. I grabbed the bottle and poured myself a good slug, but the thought of eating was beyond me.

“I can’t eat that. I feel sick,” I said, as Lynn set a plate on the kitchen table.

“Just the spaghetti. It’ll settle your stomach. We have work to do. I have calls in to friends of mine who know all the good attorneys. We’re gonna get you squared away.”

Lynn stayed the night, slept in my bed with me, stroked my head when I cried. Before she left the next morning, she forced me to make an appointment with one of the divorce lawyers, who came highly recommended by a friend of hers who’d cleaned up in her divorce settlement. I wanted Lynn to come to the appointment with me. God, I wish she had, because then I would’ve kept it. But she had to leave. Lynn and Joe own a bunch of condos down in Florida that they rent out. The condos got hit with this big storm, and she had to go down to oversee repairs. I understand, it’s their livelihood. And I’m a big girl. But damn. I can’t help thinking about how different things would be if she’d stayed in the Hamptons with me for those few days. I never would have gone to that bar. I never would have met Aidan again.

7

Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.

Aidan thought of that line the second Caroline Stark walked into the bar where he worked. It was a rainy Monday night, with the smell of woodsmoke in the air. Every time the door opened, he got a cold blast, and looked up. He recognized her right away. How could he not? She was the one who threw the party the other night. The one who built that house on Gramps’s land. She tore down their old fishing shack to build it. That place meant everything to him when he was a kid. It was imprinted on his brain—the sound of the waves, the salt in the air, the way the light slanted at the end of a summer day. Her house was the total opposite of Gramps’s old place. It was a freaking palace. He couldn’t decide if it was a nightmare or a dream, but he was dying to go inside it. He’d tried to get on the construction crew, but the site manager was a hard-ass, and wouldn’t hire him because of some bad blood that went back years. (People had long memories in this town.) So, when the bartending gig came along, with the chance to see the inside, he jumped on it. Then it turned out the bar was set up in a tent on the lawn. He couldn’t even sneak inside pretending to use the john, because they wanted the catering staff to use the facilities in the pool house. Didn’t trust ’em in the main house, apparently.

Here was the star of the show now, though, walking into the Red Anchor. The glow she gave off lit up the place, making it seem like something more than the average local bar and burger joint that it was. She carried herself like a queen. The shoulders thrown back, the tilt of her beautiful head, the thick glossy sweep of her honey-colored hair. The world should bow down. The place was deserted, and she threw a glance his way. She took off her coat. Shook it out. Took a seat at a booth along the wall. Fluffed her hair. Like she was waiting for him to come over and take her order. Did he look like a waitress? She could get her ass up here to the bar, or else wait for Nancy, who was on a cigarette break.

He pretended not to see her, turned his back, wiped down some glasses that were wet from the dishwasher. But then he changed his mind. Maybe because she was beautiful. Maybe because she lived on the land that ought to be his by rights, and he wanted to take her measure. Maybe both. Then there was the fact that the party had been a complete disaster for her. The husband’s mistress showed up and caused a scene. It was all anybody was talking about in the big tent that night, as Aidan poured their drinks. He knew what it was like to be gossiped about. People talked behind his back; had since he hit a patch of hard luck at the age of seventeen. The point was, on top of everything, he felt sorry for her. Imagine that—him feeling sorry for the likes of her. It would be funny if it wasn’t pathetic.

He mixed up a Moscow mule, walked over to the table and laid it down in front of her.

“On the house,” he said, and smiled.

Women rolled over for his smile. But she didn’t. She looked down at the drink, then back up at him, like he’d done something weird.

“I’m sorry. Have we met?” she asked.

Now, that was bullshit. She was playing games. Even if she didn’t remember him tending bar at the party, they’d met on the beach. She remembered that. He knew she did. Mind games. He didn’t need that shit.

“Yeah, we met on the beach. Then I tended bar at your house this past weekend. For the party, remember? That’s why I figured you’d like the Moscow mule, because that was the cocktail of the night.”

“Oh, right. Well, thank you. I’ll take the drink, but I’d prefer to pay.”

He nodded, feeling stung. Why should he care what she thought of him, though? Some rich bitch from the city coming out here on weekends, acting like this town and everybody in it belonged to her. They were all like that. It was nothing to him. Rolled off his back.

“Suit yourself. Give a shout if you need anything, ma’am,” he said.

She didn’t like the “ma’am,” he could tell. Probably worried he thought she looked old. Which, to him, meant she wasn’t as untouchable as she pretended. Aidan sauntered back behind the bar. He felt her watching him from the safety of her table as she sipped her drink. Time passed. He ignored her. She’d look over at him, though, every few minutes, checking him out.

She wasn’t immune.

Wayne Johnson and Mike Castro came in and sat down at one end of the bar. They worked for his brother Tommy.

“Hey, Aidan. Coupla pints,” Mike said, stripping off his police department windbreaker. Water ran off it in rivulets.

“Still raining?” Aidan asked.

“Yeah, it’s getting worse.”

Aidan drew off two pints of Guinness and set them up on the bar. The guys were talking about some warrant they had to serve for the feds. A mobster with a foreign name, wanted by the FBI, holed up in a mansion on Harbor Lane. Aidan listened a little too intently, which made them exchange glances and clam up. They could piss right off. People always had to think the worst. Aidan could sell that information for good money, but that didn’t mean he was going to. He’d been on his best behavior for ten years now, and what did it get him? People still shot him suspicious looks just for walking down the street in broad daylight, minding his own business.

Not long after the guys came in, Caroline stood up and put on her coat. That was fast. He hadn’t really noticed what she was wearing before. Tight jeans, black boots, a sexy top. Had she come in here looking for company? Had he missed his chance? She had a great body for a woman her age. For any age, really. He caught her eyes, raised an eyebrow as if to say, Leaving already? She gave a half smile and a little nod and walked out.

Nancy was busy in the dining room, so Aidan bussed the table. Cocktails were twelve bucks, and the woman had left a twenty. The big tip annoyed him somehow, like she was putting him in his place. He’d offered her a free drink, and then she pulls this? He had half a mind to follow her outside, but she might take that the wrong way. It wasn’t worth getting his boss pissed off, or having people say he was up to his old tricks. He pocketed the money and thought, what the hell, if he wanted to see her, he knew where she lived. Right?

8

On Tuesday, I drove in to the city to meet with the divorce attorney. But at the last minute, I got cold feet, and called to cancel from the street in front of her office. My marriage fell apart so fast that I hadn’t had a moment to think. Was this the right thing? Could we avoid it somehow? Jason and I had been married for twenty years. You don’t throw that away without a fight. Shouldn’t we try counseling first? Okay, he wasn’t exactly giving me that option. He wouldn’t even take my calls. You might say that was all the answer I should need, but I couldn’t accept it. Beneath my every thought was Hannah. Your average kid who’d gone off to college would be upset if their parents split, but they’d take it in stride. Hannah was fragile. And she was a Daddy’s girl. Jason was everything to her. I didn’t want to burden her with our marital problems just as she started college. But I also didn’t want her blaming me for abandoning her beloved father. That’s the truth. That’s why I didn’t meet with the lawyer. It had nothing to do with Aidan. We’d barely spoken at that point.

I canceled the appointment. I went to our apartment in the city, pulled the blinds, drank an entire bottle of red wine, and passed out on the sofa watching Gossip Girl reruns. I was hiding my head in the sand.

At midnight, the shriek of the phone woke me. I grabbed it, hoping it would be Jason. But it was the alarm company calling, to say that a motion sensor had been tripped back at the beach house. The police had been dispatched, and found no evidence of a break-in. The guy thought maybe the system wasn’t calibrated properly, which didn’t surprise me. I’d had it installed the day before, and I’d chased the technician out prematurely, so I could go sob in the bathroom.

But this meant I needed to go back out to the beach. It was raining on Wednesday morning, and traffic on the LIE was a nightmare. But I was grateful to be back in my beautiful house, even if it had been the scene of my recent humiliation. I opened the French doors and sat listening to the rain, waiting for the technician to show up. I’d canceled the appointment with the lawyer, but I was obsessing over the thought of divorce. If we split up, I’d never go back to our apartment in the city. Jason could have it. I wouldn’t want the reminders of our life together, of raising our daughter. This house would be my future. I’d live here full-time. He claimed he wanted to play nice. Fine, then. He could give me a big settlement, one I could live well on. I’d walk on the beach, get a dog, plant a garden. Divorce wouldn’t be the end of the world. I’d survive. That was the Logan in me talking. We’re survivors.

When the alarm company didn’t show, it took me hours to figure out that something was wrong. They’d given me a window of noon to two o’clock for the technician to arrive. When he wasn’t there by three, I called the alarm company and got the runaround from the receptionist. At four I called back and demanded to speak to a manager. At six, the manager finally returned my call.

“I’m afraid we’ve had an issue with the payment, so I can’t dispatch a service provider at this time,” the manager, whose name was Shelley, explained.

“Wait a minute. I was told you accept personal checks. I wrote a check for the installation fee and first year of service.”

“Yes. But that check bounced.”

“It—?”

“It bounced. It was not honored by your bank,” Shelley said loudly.

“I know what ‘bounced’ means.”

Why the hell did the check bounce? As of Monday, when I wrote it, there was plenty of money in the account to cover that payment, and more. I was absolutely certain. This woman had to be wrong.

Right?

“No need to get snippy, ma’am,” Shelley said. “As soon as we receive payment, we’ll reinstate service and dispatch the technician.”

“Reinstate service? You mean the alarm’s not working now?”

“The sensors installed in your home should still function—”

“It wasn’t functioning. It was going off for no reason.”

“It will function to the level of installation.”

“You mean it’s still broken.”