Stranger on the Shore (Mirabelle Harbor, Book 4) Page 5

  “I think it would be decent of you to just agree to share some of the profits from the sale of the house with me,” he said. “It’d be easier than going through the lawyers. That would cost us both extra money, and we don’t need them now anyway. I think twenty-five percent would be fair, don’t you? I mean, after all my parents did for you, can’t you finally be the one to be a little generous?”

  After his parents sold us the house and moved into a retirement condo, Donny often left me with the job of scrounging up the money for our monthly mortgage payments, and I’d supported him on and off for years while he quit one stable job after another in search of the latest get-rich-quick scheme. There was that t-shirt business he started and abandoned. There was that one delivery service he got into with another bum friend. There was the memorable year when he and Vince tried their hands at inventing the perfect marshmallow roasting stick. Then he left me and our daughter—taking every penny of our savings—to go to L.A., to live in the sun, and to sell sports cars to celebrities. Guess that didn’t turn out so well for him, huh?

  “I’ve been plenty generous with you already,” I said, my voice dropping to a whisper.

  “Oh, c’mon, Marianna,” he pleaded. “I need a little help. It’s a tough economy. I don’t want to have to chase you around with lawyers and paperwork. Fifteen percent. You owe me...and the memory of my parents...at least that.”

  For a second I considered his threat—that he’d get the lawyers involved. That I’d have to deal with him again on a regular basis until he got what he wanted. That he might really have the power to take away what little I had left.

  But, no. Damn him. No.

  The legal documents we’d signed were ironclad, which was why he was trying to guilt me into giving him the money instead of going through lawyers. He knew he wouldn’t win that way. And somewhere deep inside of him, he knew even his parents would agree that he didn’t deserve another red cent.

  Furthermore, I’d mostly played by the rules for thirty-nine years. Except for one stupid act of teenage rebellion—my “escape” into marriage, or so I’d thought at the time—I’d been a good girl growing up. Almost always reasonable. Not too demanding at home or at school. Loyal at work. I did my job and then some. I’d been a dedicated employee, wife, daughter, sister, mother.

  And still the company let me go.

  And still my parents didn’t forgive me for my single foolish, childish mistake.

  And still Donny left me.

  Well, I couldn’t get my old job back, and I wasn’t sure I really wanted it again anyway. My parents were dead. For Kathryn’s sake (the one true blessing I’d gotten out of all of this), I stayed cordial to Donny and didn’t openly bash his character in our daughter’s presence. I didn’t yell at him or swear at him, even when I thought my head and heart would explode.

  I’m almost forty, and where did this good behavior get me?

  “Screw you, Donny,” I said, enunciating very clearly. “I don’t owe you anything. And don’t you dare call or threaten me again, you lying parasitical louse.”

  Then I flipped the phone shut, buried it under Ellen’s pale blue pillow, and raced into the kitchen. My hands were shaking so violently I couldn’t pick up the milk to pour it on my dry cereal without fear of dropping the plastic bottle, so I shoved the bowl to the back of the counter and just stood there. Motionless. Listening.

  It was hard to hear over the sound of the TV and the rumbling thunder outside, but the cell phone rang a few times. It stopped. Then it rang again. I turned up the volume on the game show and paced by the sofa until my legs were tired and I ceased to hear the phone anymore.

  But I couldn’t flipping stand it. This aimlessness—like a piece of driftwood floating on the water’s surface. This frustration at feeling so helpless against the current. And waiting, waiting, always waiting for the next storm. For something bad to happen. Not being in control of anything.

  Next to the DVD player, there were books and magazines in a neat stack. I rummaged through them until a picture of a decorative dinner plate heaped with shrimp scampi caught my eye. Yum. It was a local dining guide with a list of restaurants in the vicinity. I still didn’t want to go out—least of all to a restaurant by myself—and I knew better than to splurge on pricy carryout.

  But this was a special occasion, I decided. My independence day from Donny. And I’d be wholly and completely fiscally responsible again come tomorrow morning.

  I chose the least expensive restaurant in the guide that offered delivery and dialed the number from Ellen’s landline. “Hi, I’d like to order dinner. Just for one. Your Wednesday early-bird special, please. Yes, that’s right, the lobster...”

  Chapter Five

  Man in the Mirror

  Gil sautéed half a pound of fresh shrimp and, as always, enjoyed watching the color shift in the skillet from uncooked grayish blobs to invitingly plump pink crescents.

  He smacked his lips and turned to Nancy. “I know how much you love having shrimp for dinner, my sweet,” he told her. “Yours is already waiting. We’ll eat together after I finish fixing mine, okay?” He tossed in a few handfuls of sliced red and green pepper, diced onion, and fresh Portobello mushroom. “Too bad veggies aren’t your thing. They’re so gorgeous. So colorful.”

  Nancy opened her mouth but didn’t utter a sound. A second later, she glanced away.

  “Oh, don’t worry,” he reassured her. “I’m not being judgmental.” He squirted some teriyaki sauce into the skillet and checked on the wild rice, bubbling on the back burner.

  Nancy returned her attention to him and blinked, a slight air of accusation in her gaze.

  “I’m not,” Gil insisted. “Geez, what is it with you females? Always jumping to conclusions. Seriously. Just look at the range of hues right in front of us. This pan is like a painting. It only needs a hint of...” He stirred his shrimp and veggies a few times before adding the last ingredient on his memorized recipe—drained pineapple tidbits. “Yellow,” he murmured, pointing out the cheerful addition to Nancy who was, at last, studying the skillet with interest. She took a few steps toward it.

  “Ah, no you don’t, darlin’.” He scooped her up in his palm, stroked her back from the tip of her sleek amphibious head all the way down to her long black tail, then he blew her a kiss, which she didn’t return. “I love ya, Nancy. You are the most beautiful fire-bellied newt to walk the earth. Or at least my kitchen counter.” He stroked her back again. “And one of these days you’ll tell me you love me, too, right?”

  Nancy looked dubious.

  He laughed. He loved the feel of this petite living thing strolling across his palm. The slow, graceful padding of her tiny feet stepping cautiously toward his forearm. The licorice swizzle of her textured tail swishing behind her. To Gil, proof of God lived in the existence of the world’s smallest creatures. There might not be a lot of things he believed in—lasting marriages, for one...supportive parents, for another—but he had faith in newts. And in salamanders, seahorses, and starfish.

  If there was any good in the universe, it would be found in them first.

  He lifted Nancy carefully—her red-speckled underside visible only when he gave her belly a quick look—and he gently set her back into her tank, letting her loose on a sturdy flat rock. She’d been out of the water for only ten minutes but, clearly, she reveled in being wet again. She splashed herself greedily as he reached for her specially formulated newt food. He fed Nancy her everyday pellets most of the time but, on the occasions when Gil made shrimp for himself, he gave her some of the “newt treat” shrimp flakes. It was kind of like sharing a meal with a friend.

  Then he washed his hands and fixed his own shrimp plate.

  He’d only managed a couple of bites when the phone rang. His mother.

  “Hiya, Ma.” He stifled a sigh. Calling at dinnertime was rarely a good sign. “Everything okay?”

  “What? I can only call my son when there’s a problem?” she asked, her voice that d
istinctive brand of indignant he knew so well.

  He grimaced. Now he knew for sure there was a problem. Only question was how long she’d chitchat before she’d reveal it. “Of course not,” he said. “What are you doing tonight?”

  “Watching golf on ESPN. There’s a tournament.”

  It was Florida. There was always a tournament. “Sounds great,” he managed, striving for a sliver of enthusiasm. “And you’re feeling fine? Is there anything you need me to pick up for you? Your blood-pressure medication? Some groceries? A few new books from the library?”

  She huffed. “I’m sixty-eight, not ninety. I can get my own damn books.” She paused, mumbling something about the joys of owning an eBook reader. “But, um, there is an event coming up that you could drive me to tomorrow afternoon. If, um, you’re not too busy.”

  He rolled his eyes, grateful only Nancy could see him. He loved his mother but some days... “I’ll make time, Ma. Where do you need to go?”

  “Just to Tampa for a few hours. You know I don’t like driving long distances.”

  He knew. Even though Tampa/St. Pete was just an hour away from Sarasota, driving much further than the local Publix grocery store always flustered his mother. She was very forthcoming with the location of the event (a bridal shower at Minerva’s Tea Room for her friend JoAnn, age seventy-eight, who was getting married for the third time) and the time of the event (one p.m. sharp) and tomorrow’s weather forecast (hot and sunny). Too forthcoming. Which meant there was something else she wasn’t telling him.

  “So, I’ll plan to pick you up a few minutes before noon, Ma. I’ll make sure to get you to the Tea Room on time. And then, when it’s over, you can just give me a call on my cell and I’ll—”

  His mother cleared her throat. “Well, actually, Gil...”

  Here it comes.

  “...it’s one of those couples showers. You know, both the bride and groom will be there. So, you don’t have to leave. There are going to be lots of people. Men and women. Even some younger folks your age. Why, JoAnn’s niece is going to be driving down from Tallahassee, and you know, JoAnn and I were talking about how you two both like artsy things, so you might want to meet—”

  This time Gil didn’t try to stifle his sigh. “Ma,” he interrupted. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m more than happy to drive you up to Tampa, but I don’t want to be set up with anyone. Not with JoAnn’s niece. Not with your hairdresser’s sister. Not with the daughter of the clever man who did your taxes last year.” God, she’d tried every single one of them on him and more. “I’m sure she’s very nice—”

  “Veronica,” his mother interjected.

  “I’m sure Veronica is very nice,” he said, “but I am not going to a couples shower.”

  “We could all get together for some coffee after the shower,” she suggested. “Then you wouldn’t have to actually go to the—”

  “Ma, no. But thank you for thinking of me. I’ll be in your driveway at eleven fifty tomorrow.”

  “You’re a commitment phobe,” she said, and not for the first time. “You’re forty-two years old, Gil. Who are you savin’ yourself for? Stop spending your life just observing everyone. You need to get out there and date! You need—”

  “I need to finish my dinner and get some work done tonight, Ma, so I can take off tomorrow afternoon.”

  She exhaled heavily on the line.

  “Love you,” he added before she could take another breath and continue expounding upon his, apparently, never-ending list of needs. “See you tomorrow.”

  His mother begrudgingly rang off. Not that she wouldn’t return to this particular tirade at the earliest opportunity, especially since they’d have two full hours alone together in the car the next day. He steeled himself for the fun he knew was coming.

  He poked at his now-cold shrimp as Nancy ignored him—either out of indifference or pity, he wasn’t sure. Her tail was a fascinating thing. He let its movements hypnotize him for a few moments as Nancy used it to propel herself around the tank. Her skin, too, was a kind of miracle, just porous enough to require moisture, but also water-resistant enough to allow for a semi-aquatic life.

  On more than one occasion he thought of how similar this was to being an artist. That a special type of membrane was necessary to deal with rejections of one’s work and the slings and arrows of public opinion. And yet...yet...an artist’s skin still had to be thin enough to let in new experiences, new people. To let life affect a change, when it might be beneficial, significant, constructive, and possibly even inspiring.

  Maybe—though he’d never admit this to her—his mother was right. Maybe he was too detached. He did look at life like an observer, after all. He dated a fair bit, but he did resist commitment. As a bachelor for over four decades, though, and given his observations of family life, it would take an extraordinary woman to get him to feel a real relationship was worth the risk.

  “And present company aside,” he said aloud to Nancy, who swam blithely in ignorant bliss, “I don’t have a non-related female in my life who fits the bill.”

  Chapter Six

  Under Pressure

  The second time it happened, Ellen had to rush out of an executive board meeting, effectively truncating a two-and-a-half-hour discussion on recent state-initiated tax law changes by a full twenty minutes.

  She instinctively ran to the same fifth-floor restroom stall, but had a harder time convincing herself that she was just fine, even after the episode was (mostly) over.

  When she was able to return to the boardroom, she apologized to her startled colleagues, claimed a relapse of her flu, shot a handful of rapid-fire instructions at her secretary, and didn’t even bother with the medicinal peanut M&Ms.

  No. Not this time.

  This time she drove straight to the doctor’s office in the stout gray building next to the hospital. She’d be right by the emergency room if she needed it. No wasting precious minutes with preliminary phone calls. No ordering of carryout. Apparently, she looked so dreadful, so near-zombie-like when she stumbled into the clinic, that not even the nurse or the receptionist dared to patronize her with stupid small talk.

  “I need to see Dr. Cole,” she told them. “Now.” And they believed her.

  Dr. Cole appeared within two minutes of her arrival, escorted her to a private examination room and listened attentively as she detailed her symptoms from both this episode and the last one. He even took notes. Then he fiddled around with his stethoscope for a few minutes more, checking her heartbeat and blood pressure and such, before delivering his diagnosis.

  Ellen couldn’t have been more stunned.

  “What do you mean by ‘panic’ attack?” she said, staring at Dr. Cole with as much incredulity as she could muster. “That’s for people who are scared of things. Anxious, cautious, unassertive, passive people.” People more like her sister. Ellen crossed her arms and glared harder at the doctor. “I’m not one of those types.”

  “Ms. Slater,” he began in an infuriatingly patient tone, “I’m not implying in any way that you’re weak. Panic attacks can be caused by many factors, not the least of which is cumulative stress over time.” He paused to level a significant look at her. “I know from our prior conversations that you have an intense relationship with your job, and there’s a possibility that it may be a contributing factor.”

  “What are you implying, then? That I’m a workaholic?” she asked, hearing the challenge in her tone, the defensiveness.

  “Not necessarily,” he said, consulting some papers in her medical file. “But, given that your recent lab work on May fifteenth was entirely without abnormalities,” he held up one of the lab sheets and pointed to it like it was Exhibit A in a legal investigation, “there are some causes we can already eliminate from our list. For instance, you appear to have no thyroid issues. No anemia. Those are both medical conditions that can sometimes trigger an attack.”

  “Really?”

  He nodded. “Of course, there are others, so we
need to be comprehensive. I’d like to run a few blood tests again, along with a couple of new ones. Plus, I’d like to take a chest x-ray and have my colleague, Dr. Whiteman in Cardiology, take a look at you more closely. We want to rule out any heart-related concerns.”

  “So, if this Dr. Whiteman decides that it’s not my heart then, chances are, I’m probably not dying?” Ellen asked, equal parts relieved and curious.

  “Probably not, Ms. Slater,” the imposing doctor said with an almost-smile on his pale, dry, authoritative lips. “But panic attacks can make you feel like you are. Many sufferers experience palpitations, sweating, accelerated heart rates, blurry vision, trembling, shortness of breath, nausea, dizziness, confusion, some areas of tingling or numbness—”

  “My vision was fine,” Ellen insisted. “Totally fine. The whole time. And I don’t remember any tingling or being confused.” Well, she’d been confused about what was happening to her, but not about anything else.

  Dr. Cole looked interested. “But you’re saying you had all of those other symptoms?” When she nodded curtly, he said on a sigh, “Let’s begin by just doing these other tests first. It’s standard procedure when cardiac conditions may be a factor. But, I’ll be candid with you. I suspect my initial diagnosis is correct, and I would highly suggest you consider reducing your trigger behaviors. If you’re unable to do that on your own, we can certainly look into medications later that might help you control your reaction to those triggers.”

  “What trigger behaviors?” she said. “All I was doing both times was...work.”

  Again, he sent her one of his significant glances. That annoying, know-it-all bastard.

  “That’s right, Ms. Slater. So, something at work, or something you were thinking about while you were there, may have been the trigger. Can you recall what was running through your head prior to both episodes?”

  She couldn’t.

  “Well, a few things to consider then,” he said. “Heredity, for one. Did any of your family members suffer from panic attacks or take medication for anxiety?”