Scarred Page 8

  “You sound like a thirteen-year-old boy promising not to look at a girl when she’s changing clothes,” she said.

  He laughed. “I promise I have no other agenda other than I want you to enjoy the water.” He almost said on your skin, but stopped himself at the last second. If he was going to use her emails, he had to be careful.

  “What’s gotten into you? Why the sudden interest in me swimming?”

  “I want you to have more fun, that’s all,” he said. Could she read right through him?

  “Swimming is not my idea of fun,” she said.

  “Okay. Never mind then. It was just an idea.” He bit into his piece of bread. The fruity olive oil tasted divine, but he couldn’t enjoy it. Why did she have to be so stubborn? Now that he had more insight into the inner workings of her mind, he suspected she often glossed over her own feelings or needs. How long had she acted as if everything were fine while living an internal life of longing?

  They both added one sweetener packet and a squeeze of lemon to their tea. He pretended to be interested in the menu, even though he couldn’t care less what he ate. His mother used to say he was like a dog with a bone when an idea struck him. His current bone? He had to get Autumn into that swimming pool. The thought of her and Stone standing outside the fence of the public swimming pool was too much. If he could, he’d provide her a lifetime of swimming dates.

  She’d opened up to Art so easily. Was it that she felt safe because she thought Art was as scarred as she? Sharing the dark, shadowed secrets of the past or the longings of the present was not easy. For both of them, writing them down was clearly easier than speaking them out loud.

  Looking at Autumn from across the table, he saw a woman who from the outside appeared to have it all. With her pretty face and slender figure, she was probably the envy of every woman in the restaurant. Most men probably wished they could trade places with him.

  So many tried to convince everyone that they were better than fine with Christmas cards and social media posts that portrayed lives of esteem and perfection. People could construct an image with photos and selfies that had no real similarities to reality. If one were to scratch just beneath the surface of those photos, what would be revealed? Loneliness? Insecurity? Debt? Failing careers? Take him, for instance. Not only had he created a fake profile to try to win the heart of the woman he loved, his real life wasn’t as he presented it, either.

  For years, he’d used social media as a marketing tool to promote his business. Capturing photos of his work was the best way to show his talent. Those photos told a story of a successful business, even when it wasn’t. The years after his divorce were lean. Before he met Honor Sullivan, he’d had only a handful of clients in Cliffside Bay. In fact, business was so scarce he’d considered returning to San Francisco. But the job with Honor, decorating her remodeled house, had changed everything. She’d introduced him to Brody Mullen and subsequently his wife Kara, who fed him job after job. In partnership with the other Wolves, his finances were finally back on track.

  Before that, his photographs had told a false story. Surely he wasn’t the only one. He wondered what it would be like if everyone told the truth instead of presenting perfect pictures. I’m hurting. I’m broke. I’m afraid no one will ever love me.

  I want to feel salt water on my skin.

  “What if we went to the beach?” he asked. “At night when no one else would be there.”

  “My legs aren’t strong. The current could pull me to China.”

  “I’ll hold you.”

  “Trey.” She glared at him, then made a face. “Seriously. Let it go. I have no interest in swimming. I don’t even know what gave you that idea.”

  He put up his hands as if she were about to hurl a piece of bread at him. “Fine. I’m done.” He pretended to zip his mouth, then did his best ventriloquist imitation by speaking with his teeth clenched and barely moving his lips. “Not another word.”

  She laughed. His heart pulsed with joy at the sound.

  “Can I ask you something?” he asked.

  “I have a feeling I can’t stop you.” She raised one eyebrow and set her mouth in a firm line, as if waiting for an attack.

  “Why are you dating if you’re not ready to share your whole self with someone?”

  She stared down at the half-eaten piece of bread, limp from its bath of oil and vinegar. “I guess I always hope there’ll be someone out there who won’t mind about…everything.” She looked up at him. “I told you that when I set up my profile.”

  “I know you did. Yet you don’t ever have a second date with any of these guys. Have you so quickly disqualified them?”

  “Yes. Not because of that but because none of them have been right for me. Like you said, there is someone out there. I just haven’t found him yet.”

  I’m right here.

  He swallowed and ducked his chin, pretending to be interested in the menu to hide the pain her words caused him. How could she not see it was him?

  She reached across the narrow table to take hold of his wrist. “What’s gotten into you today? You’re so intense.”

  Trey kept his attention on the menu, going so far as to trail his finger down the list of entrées to prove just how fine he was. “Nothing. I’m not intense, just in a curious mood, that’s all. I’m trying to understand you better.”

  “Why?”

  He moved his menu to look at her. “Because you’re my friend and I care about you.”

  Her expression softened. “You’re sweet. Like really sweet.”

  “It seems like even the closest friends don’t talk about stuff beyond the surface.”

  She tilted her head and squinted her eyes. “That’s because you’re a man. Women do. All the time.”

  “I suppose that’s true.” He set aside the menu and picked up his iced tea. Slippery from condensation, the glass nearly fell from his fingers. “I’m here if you ever want to talk about anything. Even though I’m a guy.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said softly. “Right now, I’m just glad to be here with you on such a pretty day. I can’t think of a thing wrong.”

  He could. But he’d keep that to himself.

  “I think I’ll get the quail,” he said.

  “The quail?” She raised both eyebrows, clearly surprised. “I thought you’d pick the pasta special.”

  “Is that what you’re having?”

  “Yes. I thought you’d want it too.”

  The pasta dish was exactly what he’d wanted, but for some reason he’d said the quail. “You don’t know everything about me,” he said, keeping his voice blithe. “I might surprise you once in a while.”

  “Oh, really?” she asked, teasing. “What else do you have up your sleeve?”

  He couldn’t answer, because the server came back to take their orders. Although he wanted the pasta, he ordered the quail. Now that he’d made a point about it, he couldn’t back down. All those silly bird bones were sure to be a punishment for his petulance.

  After the server left, she returned to the earlier theme. “Tell me something I don’t know about you.”

  He thought for a moment. What was there he could share with her that he hadn’t before? “All through high school and college, my father thought I was gay. Really, until I met Malia and brought her home, he was under the impression that I was in the closet.”

  “Why would he think that?”

  “Because I liked art and design—things he thought were for women or gay men. Totally ridiculous.”

  “Did it bother you?” she asked.

  Had it bothered him? When he thought about his father, his body became heavy with a dull ache, like an internal injury that never quite healed. “Not because there’s anything wrong with being gay. If I had been, I certainly wouldn’t have been ashamed. I have a few good friends who came out to us in high school, and it changed exactly nothing between us. Sex and sexuality are such a small part of life, if you think about it. Most of life is about th
e other things. But to him, homosexuality is shameful, like so much else. He wanted to shame me by criticizing the way I dressed and my interest in art. Even when my firm in San Francisco was getting so much press after we were hired to decorate Ty Hughes’s house, it never impressed him.” Ty Hughes was a Silicon Valley high-tech mogul. They’d had a five-page spread and article in one of the major architectural magazines. Even that hadn’t impressed his father. He barely acknowledged his success. “My dad continues to call it my ‘little hobby.’”

  Autumn was shaking her head. “That’s terrible. I’m so sorry. What about your mom? Were you close with her?”

  “I was when I was younger. Since I moved away, we’ve drifted apart. My fault. I don’t call as much as I should. They’re in San Diego, but I hardly ever visit. I don’t want to deal with my dad. Being around him makes me feel like a failure.”

  The server arrived with their entrées. They ate in silence for a few minutes. The quail, doused in a cherry reduction, was better than anticipated and had very few bones. He didn’t want to think too closely about how they removed them or the poor soul who had to perform that task.

  Across from him, Autumn twirled angel-hair pasta into a spoon, then brought it to her mouth and made an appreciative murmur. How was it possible to love the way someone chewed?

  He let her eat in peace for a few minutes before he launched into his second agenda item of the day. “Your mom lives just outside of town, right? We could go by and see her on the way home.”

  “You mean Valerie?” She gave him a sweet, sad smile. “I don’t call her Mom.”

  “Valerie, then. Would you like to visit her on the way home?”

  “How come you’ve never asked me that before? We’ve come here a bunch of times.”

  He shrugged and placed his hand on the back of his neck, suddenly warm. Was she seeing through his act? Would she pick up on the fact that he’d narrowed in on two of the subjects she’d brought up in her emails? “I don’t know. It just occurred to me today that you might like to say hello since we’re here.”

  She seemed to consider this as she sipped from her glass of iced tea. “I haven’t seen her since Mother’s Day. She came down to Kyle and Violet’s for brunch.”

  “I remember.” He’d spent the day at the beach with Nico enjoying one of the first warm days after their obligatory phone calls to their mothers. His sister, Jamie, who’d just finished graduate school, had been at the house, cooking lunch for Mom. Jamie was always there to pick up the slack. In his defense, she lived in San Diego not far from their parents. It was easier for her to pop in to see them occasionally. “How was Mother’s Day? Less awkward than Easter?”

  “I guess. She spent most of the time with the little ones. My mom and I don’t know what to say to each other most of the time.” Autumn pushed her plate aside. A twinge of guilt flickered in her eyes. “We should stop by, since we’re here. You’re right. I’ll call her. Just to make sure she’s home. I’ll meet you out front.”

  He watched her walk toward the entrance, then motioned for the check.

  When he exited the restaurant a few minutes later, Autumn stood waiting under the shade of an oak.

  “Was she home?”

  The slight crease between her eyebrows deepened as she looked up at him. “Yes, she said to come by.”

  “What has you worried?”

  “She sounded kind of embarrassed about her apartment. ‘Don’t expect too much,’ I think she said.” She paused and looked down the street, as if she expected someone to pull up beside them. “Maybe we shouldn’t go. I don’t want her to feel bad.”

  “It’ll be fine,” he said. “I think she’d like to see you more than she’s hesitant about the apartment.”

  “She did sound excited that I called.”

  He walked over to her and put his arm around her shoulders. “Let’s go find some pretty flowers.”

  Valerie Hickman lived in a run-down apartment complex on the edge of town. Given the flat, ugly architecture, Trey guessed it was built in the late sixties. Battered by sea air, the once-blue paint had faded to a dull gray. Small dirty windows looked like square eyes of a monster.

  They walked up a set of creaky stairs to the second floor. “She said 2B,” Autumn said. “So this must be it.”

  Mold and mildew made the landing slick. There was no way this place was up to code, given the loose boards. An ashtray with two butts sat on the railing. Valerie smoked. He remembered smelling it on her at the New Year’s Eve party at Kyle and Violet’s.

  Valerie must have heard them coming, because the door to 2B swung open and she appeared in the doorway, smiling tentatively. “This is such a nice surprise.” Despite her pleasant expression, a slight shake to her voice told him she was nervous to see them.

  Autumn gave her a quick hug before motioning toward Trey. “You remember my friend Trey?”

  “Yes, of course. Come in.” She gestured for them both to come inside.

  The apartment was about the same as the outside, dreary and shabby. The front room was overly warm and stuffy, even with the windows open. An orange-and-brown-plaid couch, an old rocking chair, and a stand with a television took up the entirety of the small living room. The kitchen was an extension of the front room with orange countertops and a squatty refrigerator.

  “I have some store-bought cookies, and I made coffee,” Valerie said.

  “No, thanks. We just ate at our favorite French bistro in town,” Autumn said.

  “Oh, yes.” Valerie gripped a hand over her opposite wrist and nodded. “I’ve never eaten there, but I hear it’s very good.”

  “We go there every time we come up,” Autumn said.

  “You come up often?” Valerie asked with just a slight elevation to her pitch.

  Autumn flushed. “Not recently. When we were decorating my cottage.”

  “There’s some nice furniture shops in town.” Valerie released her grip on her wrist and glanced at her couch. “I bet you decorated your place real pretty.”

  “I love it,” Autumn said. “Trey has a wonderful eye and understood what I wanted right away.”

  “It was a fun project,” Trey said. “She has great taste, in my opinion.”

  “What does she like?” Valerie asked with such poignant curiosity that Trey’s chest ached. She didn’t know her daughter but so obviously wanted to.

  He could tell her that Autumn’s favorite color was sea-glass green. She favored simple designs and pale walls and rustic, farmhouse-style furniture. “Nothing too modern,” she’d told him. She’d picked out prints for the walls of people in ordinary life doing conventional activities: a family bicycling down a country lane; another of three little girls holding on to one another on the edge of the surf; one of a family dining alfresco around a long table, with a house in the background. Her choices had touched him. He assumed they were all pictures of events she hadn’t had as a child yet so desperately wished for. She wanted them now, too. He wanted to give them to her.

  “Trey describes my taste as beachy meets chic farmhouse,” Autumn said.

  “I’d love to see your cottage sometime,” Valerie said.

  “Sure. Next time you come down, you should swing by,” Autumn said.

  “Please, sit. Are you sure I can’t get you some coffee?” Valerie asked.

  They both declined again and settled into the couch. Valerie took the rocking chair. Like the first time he’d met her, Trey had been struck by how much older she looked than his own mother, who fought the inevitable effects of aging with fancy creams, expensive dye jobs, and Botox injections. Trey remembered Autumn saying Valerie had Kyle when she was only a teenager, which meant she’d be close to fifty, but she looked at least a decade older. She wore her white hair in an unflattering ponytail. Her face was lined with fine wrinkles and marred with sunspots.

  “What brings you two up here today?” Valerie smoothed the front of her faded sweatshirt and tucked one ankle behind the other.

  “I had
an appointment with an antiques broker,” Trey said. “To look at a piece of furniture for a client. Autumn agreed to keep me company.”

  “Was it nice?” Valerie asked. “The piece?”

  “Very much so,” Trey said. “Hopefully Sara will like it.”

  “Sara?” Valerie turned her gaze on Autumn. “Your Sara? From college, isn’t that right?”

  “That’s right,” Autumn said, sounding guarded, as if she wanted to protect her friend’s privacy.

  “Wolf Enterprises built her house,” Trey said.

  “Her mansion,” Autumn said, laughing. “You could fit eight of my cottages in there.”

  “It’s a stunner for sure,” Trey said.

  “She seemed like a nice girl,” Valerie said. “I talked with her for a few minutes at the New Year’s brunch. Terrible thing what happened with her husband.”

  “Yes, it was,” Autumn said.

  “I always figured rich people like that didn’t have problems like the rest of us,” Valerie said.

  “No one’s exempt from heartbreak,” Trey said. “No matter how much money you have.”

  “How’s your new job?” Autumn asked her mother. Valerie had moved down from Oregon to be closer to her children. She refused any kind of financial help, even though Kyle had begged her to let him buy her a place in Cliffside Bay. Instead, she’d moved to Stowaway, where apartments were easier to find and less expensive.

  “It’s fine. I miss my friends from my job back home, but that’s to be expected,” Valerie said. “I’m glad for the work.” She’d been hired as a clerk at one of the local drugstores, which is what she’d done back in Oregon. “It’s a nice store. Much fancier than the one I was used to. Just last month, I got a twenty-cent raise over minimum wage, plus an employee discount.” She said the last part with pride. “Fifteen percent off most items.” She touched her dangling earrings with her fingers. “Bought these for myself on my birthday.”

  “It was your birthday?” Autumn asked. “When?”

  “Last week,” Valerie said.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” Autumn fidgeted, then clasped her hands together over her thighs.