A Stranger on the Beach. Michele Campbell
of hold on you?”
From the look on his face, I’d hit the nail on the head.
“Jason, answer me, is she pregnant?”
He pressed his lips together, ignoring my question.
“We have to get a divorce,” he said. “I won’t contest anything. You take everything. The apartment, the beach house, all the money. I want you to.”
Divorce. Maybe at the party I was imagining getting a lawyer and taking him for everything he had. But that was not the outcome I wanted for my marriage. Even after everything that had happened in the past forty-eight hours, I still loved him. We’d been together twenty years. We had Hannah. And the apartment, and the house, and a life we’d built up from nothing, together. We were happy. Strike that, we were content. Okay, maybe we were treading water, but it was possible that with counseling and effort, we could’ve been happy again. But he had to go and bring that woman home and completely blindside me.
“Twenty years, and this is how you end it?” I was choking on my tears.
Jason’s face was pale, and his eyes burned dark. He made a choking noise in his throat, like he couldn’t get the words out.
“It’s the only plan I have.”
“You don’t have to do this.”
He grabbed my hands. “Yes, I do. But please know, I love you, and I’m truly sorry.”
Then he leapt up and walked out of the room. I heard his car start outside, and he was gone.
I staggered around the house, going from room to room, so dazed with shock that I could barely see what was in front of me. Maybe I cried, but I was too numb to notice. I had no clue how to get through the next hours, the next days—the rest of my life—without him. Or without the stability and continuity he represented. I walked out onto the lawn and listened to the waves crashing on the beach. And I thought, I could go down there and—And what? End it? No. That wasn’t me. I wasn’t a quitter. And screw him, that would make things too easy for him. I knew I had to get a grip on myself. I ran back inside and called Lynn’s cell.
“Jason left me,” I blurted, the second Lynn picked up.
Silence.
“Lynn?”
“I can’t believe he’s that big of an idiot.”
“He is. He did. Not five minutes ago. He told me to find a divorce lawyer.”
Lynn paused. “Stay there. I’m coming.”
“You’re coming—?”
“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