The Eggnog Chronicles Page 19

  “Babe . . . it was so hectic at home.”

  “Uh-huh.” I untangled a strand of lights. “I know hectic. Been there, done that.” And what did he mean by calling Rhode Island home after we’d been living in the Outer Banks for almost three years?

  “You’re mad, right?”

  “Not really.” I didn’t want my moral indignation reduced to a childish snit. “Let’s just say I’m concerned about your lack of accountability, and a little alarmed at the total disconnection. I mean, not one call.”

  “Well, my cell wasn’t ringing off the hook. You didn’t call once,” he whined. I pressed my eyes closed, sure he was going to launch into a big “Nanny-nanny-foo-foo!”

  “You felt compelled to run away, and I wasn’t going to chase you down,” I told him, wondering at the truth in those words. Wasn’t this really about more than Nate seeking a divorce? It was about the tug-of-war between us, the struggle to bring our relationship to a place that was comfortable and rewarding for both of us.

  “You’re developing a thick skin,” Nate said, “and I’m not sure I like it. I guess I have those shiftless friends of yours to thank, right?”

  I shot a look over at Ben and Lola, who were helping customers. Ben had climbed on the step stool to reach a snow globe for someone, and Lola was explaining the history of one of the Christmas-carol-chiming clocks for a woman from Hatteras. “Is that a joke?” I asked. “Or have you lost your mind?”

  He laughed . . . a cold, brittle sound. I felt an unsettling distance between us, and I wished he would somehow just hang up and appear in the doorway so we could really work things out, face to face.

  “You take things so personally,” he said. “Look, I’m getting back on the road, but I should be pulling up to the cottage around six or so. We’ll talk over dinner, okay?”

  “Okay.” Hanging up, I felt a mixture of disappointment and relief as Lola carried a clock to my worktable. “Mrs. Landy would like to have this shipped,” she said.

  “No problem,” I told Mrs. Landy and started unrolling bubble wrap. I leaned close to Lola and said, “That was Nate. The cold snap is over.”

  She nodded. “Sounds like progress. Maybe you’ve reached your crossroad.”

  I smiled, thinking that would be a good thing, though there was so much going on around me that I wasn’t able to absorb the implications. I just knew that Nate was on his way, which meant I needed to see if Adena could cover the shop for the evening hours while I ran home and tidied up. And I would need to get some groceries. And while I was at it, I might as well put together a nice meal, since it’s so nice to have real food after you’ve been living on diet soda and rest-stop burgers for a few hundred miles.

  Dinner was a labor of love, and the work was shared by my Nag’s Head family, who seemed more jubilant than I felt when they learned that Nate was returning. Lola brought me some clam chowder that her husband made, Cracker donated some breadsticks from the Crusty Captain, one of Nate’s favorites, and Ben gave me some fresh flounder that one of his fisherman buddies had caught. And just before I left the store, Cracker had rushed out of the bar with a list of ingredients—his secret recipe for eggnog. “It’s all in the vanilla pudding mix and ice cream, but don’t tell Nate that. Oh, and you’ll need this,” he said, handing me a bottle of brandy. “You can get Nate good and drunk and take advantage of him.”

  That had made me laugh. “Nate will probably want the brandy straight up, but thanks,” I said. “Divulging your secret recipe. Wow. I must rate as a friend.”

  “Oh, don’t get yourself all carried away,” he’d teased, hurrying back inside from the cold.

  Now, as I dipped the fish in egg and coated it in flour, I felt a rush of gratitude. My friends had been so supportive, so helpful during this difficult week . . . which, actually, hadn’t been that difficult at all once I stopped worrying about Nate. Okay, I’d had some fun . . . but it was after six, and I needed to prepare the salad greens and saute the fish and get the chowder heated before Nate pulled up.

  I worked briskly, knowing I was running late. Fortunately, Nate was behind schedule, too, so I had time to pop the fish in the oven, fix my lipstick and open a bottle of wine before he plodded in. I flaked on the couch and relaxed for a moment, taking in the coats that still hung over the French doors. I had straightened up around them, and now it occurred to me that I had better get those things boxed and wrapped before Nate saw them. He wouldn’t understand my desire to help someone I didn’t know. He would think that I was being nosy, overstepping the boundaries between strangers. I took down Lila’s jacket, then paused as my hand touched the velvet trim. Why was I worried about Nate’s perception of this act of goodwill? Had I dwindled into a mouse?

  I plunked the coat back up onto the door and called Nate’s cell. Pacing the cottage as it rang, I padded over the thick turquoise and navy rugs that covered the pale wood floor to warm my feet by the fire. I paused at the shelf of blue glass objects I’d collected and carefully arranged, the wall of glass brick that cast interesting prisms across the room on a summer morning, the gold wreath over the fireplace, the small ceramic tree I’d brought home to take the place of a fresh tree this year. This cottage had been decorated with so much love, but now it seemed trite, like an adolescent’s dream room, overdecorated and well equipped, yet still waiting for its use to be fully discovered.

  And why wasn’t Nate answering, damn him?

  I checked the fish and the clock. Seven-fifteen and the fish was still tender. Seven-thirty, fish drying fast. Seven-forty-five, fish on verge of flopping.

  At eight I served myself fish and salad, imagining that Nate could eat while I brought him up to date on the Christmas rush at the store. The flounder was sweet and meaty, reminding me of the first time I’d had fresh fish as a kid, one evening after my grandad had a good catch on Lake Michigan. The perch he boned and fried up had been so unlike the planks of swordfish I’d watched my mother bake for herself and Dad, so alien to the tubular fish sticks Jane and I dined on with macaroni and cheese on the side. There was nothing like a fresh catch.

  I pushed the salad away and called Nate again. Had he turned his cell phone off? Or . . . possibly an accident. Sucking in my breath, I imagined the cell phone ringing in his pants pocket as emergency room doctors worked on him. One of the nurses would remove the phone and turn it off so that it didn’t disrupt the equipment, and how long would it take them to notify me? Was there any documentation to indicate that I was his unofficial next of kin?

  “Stop it,” I said aloud. This wasn’t the first time Nate had left me in the lurch, not the first time I wandered through the desperate ER scenario. And really, what was the big deal if Nate ate the dinner I made? So what if he missed it? He’d probably make some crack about how he had fish already this week.

  The teal candles on the table had burned down dangerously low, beads of hot wax creeping down over the brass ridge. I blew them out, turned off the oven, yanked the fish from the oven. Oh, well, nobody likes leftover fish. Still, my eyes teared at the way I’d artistically splayed lemon wedges around the platter. Vivid yellow, juicy lemon wedges, now warped and puckered. As I scraped the fish into the trash, I saw my feelings for Nate tumble along. Another delicately breaded fish fillet—whomp! The little cup of capers on the side—ping, ping, pong.

  I tossed in the salad greens for good measure, then kicked the can closed, sank down at the kitchen table, and sobbed.

  How did I let this happen? My hopes and dreams, now in the can.

  And with my inevitably bad timing, that was when the lights of a car illuminated the glass brick. Still, I couldn’t stop sobbing into my hands as Nate banged on the door, then keyed his way in.

  “Ricki?” He tromped in, dropped his duffel bag in the hallway, looked around curiously then frowned when he caught me crying. “What’s your deal? What, is it that time of the month?”

  I pressed my face into my hands, reminding myself not to kill him because he’d stepped into the m
iddle of my meltdown. He had some catching up to do. “You’re late,” I said, swallowing over the lump in my throat. “I cooked dinner, but now it’s too late.”

  “Really? You cooked?” He tossed his coat on the back of the couch and opened the fridge behind me. “I hit the worst traffic on 64. I mean, no reason. Just wall-to-wall cars. I was steamed.”

  “I called you,” I said tightly.

  “What are you so upset about? I’m the one who was sitting in murderous traffic. My cell phone was low on juice, and I had the charger in the trunk. Didn’t want to stop and get it.”

  “You couldn’t hop out and grab it while you were waiting in all that murderous traffic?”

  “Ricki, really, listen to yourself,” he said. “Is this any way to welcome me home?”

  That hurt—that he would criticize the grand welcome I’d planned, my big effort that had failed dreadfully.

  Or had it? I’d had everything in place—a lovely dinner, a warm cottage—I’d done my part, but Nate hadn’t arrived on cue.

  I lifted my head, tears blurring my vision. My blue glass collection, the wreath shimmering over the mantel, Nate’s duffel bag—all were just blurs of blue and gold and black. I swiped at my eyes, desperate to see the true details, longing for the clarity of vision I’d achieved earlier in the day.

  Nate cracked open a can of soda, then held out the plastic pitcher. “What the hell is this?”

  “Eggnog,” I said. “Cracker’s secret recipe.”

  He held it to his nose and winced. “You won’t catch me drinking it.” Nate hung on the fridge door, facing away from me.

  “Well,” I began, “was your trip successful?”

  “It was great,” he said. “Great to see the kids, nice to spend some time with them. I’m really tempted to go back, maybe after the divorce is final. Pack up and just go. We could stay in a hotel till we find a place. And you know who I ran into? Ted McGreavy. Can you believe it? He said he’d be willing to bring me back into the agency if I’m ever interested.”

  “What? Whoa.” I held my hands up, fingers splayed like a traffic cop. “Did you just drop two little bombs there? That your divorce still isn’t final . . . and that you want to move back to Providence?”

  “What’s the big deal? Would you put your hands down? When did you become so reactionary?”

  “When you started charting a course without me,” I said. “Keep making decisions without talking them over with me, and I have no choice but to react. What happened with the divorce?”

  “It’s ongoing. These things take time.”

  “Three years, Nate? Four? Five?”

  He slammed the soda down on the counter. “Excuse me, but am I under attack?”

  “Maybe it’s time for you to answer some questions, Nate. Are you serious about moving to Providence?”

  “Sure. You know I miss the girls, and I’ve always felt bad about dragging you down here.”

  “You didn’t drag me, Nate. It was something we were doing together. A joint effort.” Or at least, that was how I’d once envisioned it.

  “Anyway, don’t you want to go back?” He started routing around in a cupboard. “Get away from this deserted wasteland. I can’t tell you how good it felt to be back in civilization for a while. I really miss it. The sports events. Concerts and museums. Four-star restaurants.”

  “The traffic,” I said, “and the crime. Remember how our Honda kept getting stolen? How we’d have to circle for hours to get a parking space? Remember parking tickets, Nate? And your Visa bill. Some of those four-star restaurants put you over your credit limit, or did you forget about that?”

  “You’re missing the point!” He found a can of cashews and cracked open the aluminum lid. “Don’t you want to blaze a trail out of here, babe? Let’s hit the road and never look back—at least, not until we’re eating lobster in the posh back room of Agora’s.” He popped a cashew in his mouth. “Remember how you loved that place?”

  “That was a hundred years ago.” I shook my head. “Now I’m happy with a cup of chowder at the Crusty Captain. Or a dinner at Calico Jack’s. Or even frozen drinks at Kokomo Joe’s Tiki Bar. I don’t need fancy restaurants and city life. I’m happy here.”

  “Oh, really? You really like living in a place where surfboards, kites, and hammocks are big business?”

  When I just stared at him, he rolled his eyes. “You really have sunk low. And while we’re on trailer trash, this place is a mess. What’s with the merchandise hanging on the doors?” He nodded toward the French doors.

  “The coats are a gift.” I turned to look him in the eye. “For a needy family. I just need to wrap them.”

  Nate shook his head. “You got sucked into that? You actually think that family can’t afford their own coats?”

  “Actually, Nate, I know they can’t.” I took the coats down, one by one, and started folding them neatly into the gift boxes I’d bought.

  “And what about welfare or food stamps? They’re probably loaded up with government subsidies. Raking in our honest tax dollars, while you’re encouraging them with free handouts.”

  A vein pulsed in my eyelid as I stopped folding and stared across the room at him. His intense brown eyes, that dark beard stubble over his square chin. What had once seemed so attractive was now repulsive and raw, as if his moral malignancy brimmed over and showered ugliness over his skin and hair and eyes like a fountain. “You’re wrong this time, Nate. I know the family, so you can put your Republican paranoia aside.”

  “How much did you spend on all that stuff? What’d they take you for?”

  Ignoring him, I folded tissue over Joey’s coat and closed the box securely.

  “God, I’m hungry,” he said. “What’s that smell? Did you cook fish?”

  “I did, and it was delicious.”

  He routed through the fridge. “Well, where’s mine?”

  With the boxes stacked in my arms, I tromped into the kitchen and pressed my foot on the pedal of the garbage can. The lid flopped open to the aroma of fish and lemon with a hint of capers. “There’s your portion,” I said with a smile. It would have given me great satisfaction to grab a handful and slap it onto a plate for him, but my arms were full of packages.

  “That’s disgusting,” he moaned, but I was already headed out the door. I could tell Nate was shocked, off his game. “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “Just getting these out of the way.” I had decided to stow the merchandise in my trunk. Not that Nate would hurt anything, but I didn’t want him tarnishing my act of goodwill.

  “When are you coming back?” he called after me. “Your coat . . .”

  Actually, I hadn’t planned to go anywhere, but now that Nate mentioned it, escape seemed like a far better evening activity than sitting around while he moped over food and made plans that probably did not include me.

  And as I slammed the trunk shut and went back inside for my coat, I realized that was the real issue between us. Nate’s plans had never included me. Never, never. And me, fool in love that I was . . . I thought it was all about us, about our adventure together. I thought we had a shot at falling in love.

  But Nate was not a candidate for love. Not now, and not before, when he’d been with Gina. I actually felt sorry for her as I slipped on my down jacket and zipped up. She and I had more in common than I’d thought—we shared an attachment for a dark-eyed, attractive man with a mercurial temper and a penchant for self-indulgence, a man we thought we could reform and refine into a reasonable human being worthy of sharing our lives. On that point, Gina and I had both been mistaken.

  I got in my car and drove, heading toward the center of town. At the turnoff for the Crusty Captain I kept going, not really wanting to see anyone, not wanting anyone to see me in turmoil. I parked in the empty lot by City Hall and walked to the beach. The wind, such a constant at the ocean, was surprisingly mild, though it tossed my hair around my face, making it difficult to see. I scraped it back and tied it off with a sc
runchee from my pocket. There.

  And suddenly, I could see again. That clarity of vision had returned, and the velvet darkness revealed variegated lines of seaweed over the hard-packed sand just above the break where waves crashed and foamed violently. Dots of lights stretched up the coast, each one a home that stood occupied—quiet sentinels along the beach, unlike the days Ben had described when nags pulled lanterns along the shore to confuse merchant ships.

  Strange that such a desolate scene could bring me any peace, but I could see myself in those banging waves, I could see my relentless search for symbols and meanings. It hadn’t really been an open-eyed search so much as a quest to find the symbols I wanted: the path to love, to happiness which, as defined by me, would be marriage and motherhood. As my sneakers slid over sand I thought of the fluctuating temperature of my moods over the past year . . . so tied to Nate’s progress with his divorce, so tied into Nate’s shifting temperament. Nate’s desires, Nate’s sense of humor, Nate’s demands. My life was wrapped around Nate’s; I was emotionally reliant on a man who had disappeared for six days and returned without a phone call, without a kiss, without a welcoming embrace.

  And now he wanted to move north, go back, after I’d built a business here, made friends here, found a family here—none of those things were considerations for him. When had he lost track of me?

  I stopped walking and planted my sneakers firmly in the sand, lifting my face to the sky to search for the constellations Ben had shown me. Was that the Big Dipper—or just a blinking satellite? I considered wishing on a star, but felt way too sober to muster the enthusiasm. Besides, what did I want, anyway? What were my desires? As Lola had said, where did I want to be in five years?

  I wanted to stay in the Outer Banks, of course, running my little shop. I’d pictured myself married to Nate, with a baby. But how would that be?

  Well, honestly? Awful.

  I shoved my hands in the pockets of my jacket and shivered at the image of a little crying baby, me pacing the cottage with baby on shoulder, Nate pestering me about his dinner. Nate’s patience was thin now, but a baby was not going to improve his self-centered, sour disposition.