The Nest Part 22

From afar he could see Bea, still sitting where he'd left her. The straw hat was on the bench beside her; she was getting too much sun. She was wearing the old yellow dress he remembered from her first SpeakEasy photo, the picture he'd chosen for the cover, a decision that somehow ended up being credited to Leo. Like then, her face was in profile, her expression undimmed, hopeful. He walked over and handed her the drink.

"Nice and cold," she said, holding the bottle with two hands and putting it to her cheek. "What?" she said, looking up at his face. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he said, attempting to clear whatever was clouding his expression. "I was just thinking that you look really happy right now." His heart galloped, knowing what he knew and what he wanted to do with what he knew.

"I am kind of happy," she said, sounding surprised. Their ferry had arrived and its disembarking pa.s.sengers streamed out onto the dock.

"Are you ready?" Paul offered his hand to Bea and in that moment he did a quick calculation: Who was Bea with Leo and who might she be without him? Who might he be without Leo in the picture? Who might they be together? Bea placed her palm in Paul's hand and stood to face him and his answer was as clear as the easy, radiant expression on her face, which was-even given the beating sun and the smell of street food and the stink of the ocean nearby-positively transporting. Beatific. Exhilarating and emollient.

WHEN BEA PLACED her hand in Paul's, she felt an unexpected rush. It was nice. He'd been so patient, so good, so helpful and loyal and true. His ordinarily pale skin had an almost pretty glow from the sun, in spite of his incessant application of sunscreen with an SPF factor at or above 70. She'd badgered him into wearing a T-shirt and, true, it was solid navy and topped with a seersucker jacket but he still looked different to her somehow. Taller. More confident. As she stood and faced him, she saw something determined move across his face, something-she could tell-having to do with her and that made her feel safe, calm. He was, she realized, nearly handsome.

He had been deeply disappointed when she decided to put the last Archie story into a desk drawer. For good. "It's not mine," she'd told him. "It belongs to Leo and Matilda and someone who hasn't even been born yet. It's not the story I need to tell." And still, he'd been so stalwart about helping her look for Leo, she knew he'd even gone off on his own a few times.

"I liked this place," she said to him. "In spite of everything."

"I liked it, too," he said. They stood there, her hand in his, both of them looking a little giddy and a little tentative and a little sun-kissed and a little sweaty, and though she didn't understand the heady optimism moving through her (she hoped it was her new work, but maybe it was just the sway of the dock? the swell of the water? Paul?), she decided to embrace it. To bear her own joy.

"Do you know what else I like?" she said, putting a hand on each of Paul Underwood's shoulders.

FROM HIS USUAL CHAIR at the regular Friday morning bodega card game, the one facing the door, Leo had seen Paul the minute he crossed over to the drink cooler. He'd moved off to the side of the room and tried to stay calm while wondering what to do. The guys he was playing with would cover for him. He wouldn't have to explain, just tell them that Underwood was trouble and they'd clam right up. He made his way to the restroom out back and locked the door behind him, wanting to think for a minute where Paul couldn't ambush him. There were advantages to running, of course, but he was also curious, wondered who was with Paul. Bea, that seemed obvious. Paul and Bea had to be waiting for the 5:15 P.M. ferry, which was always at least fifteen minutes late. He wondered if anyone else had come looking for him. He had time to sneak over to the terminal and see who else was there. Melody maybe? Stephanie?

Or he could just walk up to Paul and ask. Man to man. Man to half man. Man to Underdog. Whatever. His siblings could find him but they couldn't force him to do anything. He'd kind of been expecting this moment. Truthfully, he was surprised it took so long. Technically, he should have been in South Vietnam right now but-he'd gotten a little lazy.

He splashed his face with some questionable water from the sink marked NONPOTABLE and stepped back into the bodega. Paul Underwood was nowhere in sight. Had he not seen Leo? Leo was sure he had. Paul never did have a poker face. Leo decided to investigate.

Across the street, from a spot inside the tiny terminal building, he saw Bea sitting on the outside pier right away. Even in a crowd of American tourists, her clothes were ridiculously colorful. She was sitting on a bench, her legs out in front of her. Her gold sandals caught the sun. A tall woman stood next to Bea; her back was to Leo but he would know that long red hair anywhere. Stephanie.

He quickly moved toward the open doorway and right before he crossed the threshold, the redhead turned toward Leo and he stopped. It wasn't Stephanie, not even close. This woman was too heavy and her face was sunburned and pudgy, almost piglike. He felt a surge of fury for this stranger who dared to look from behind like someone he now realized he'd been expecting to see. She hadn't come.

As the ferry docked and started unloading its pa.s.sengers, a few local teens began to play the steel drums, hoping to be the first recipients of the newly arrived tourists' dollars. Leo watched Bea stand and say something to Paul that made him smile as she lazily dropped her arms over his shoulders. Even from a distance, Leo swore he could see Paul blush.

"Come on, Underdog," Leo found himself silently coaxing. "Grow a pair."

Paul slid one hand along Bea's waist and pulled her closer, ran a finger along the line of her jaw and then cupped her face with his hand; right there, right in that moment, Leo watched Bea surrender. Exhale. He watched her knees collapse a bit and her elbows bend as she leaned into Paul and then they were kissing-as if they were alone, as if they were in love, as if for all time.

AFTER THE LONG AND HEADY KISS (Bea hadn't ever expected to be kissed like that again in her entire life, not after Tucker died), she and Paul stood quietly for a minute in a close embrace. Everyone was boarding the ferry now. Her eyes were still closed and she could feel how neatly her body aligned with Paul's-how her tidy b.r.e.a.s.t.s matched up with his narrow chest, how his slight potbelly fit perfectly into her slender middle, and how her chin fit just so into the crook of his shoulder. She drew back, wanting to see his face, but as she lifted her gaze, a familiar profile caught her eye. A stream of people temporarily blocked her line of sight, but when they pa.s.sed, she could see the figure walking toward her. The lowering, late-afternoon sun shone straight into her eyes and the glare made everything hazy, including the man, who was nearly a shadow. She froze. It couldn't be.

WHEN LEO STARTED TOWARD BEA, he had no plan, no idea what he was going to say, he'd just impulsively moved in her direction. When she raised her head and saw him, he stopped. As he hesitated, he watched everything about her change. She stiffened. Her face went dark with worry and confusion. She closed her eyes and lowered her chin.

BREATHE, BEA TOLD HERSELF, JUST BREATHE. She remained perfectly still, afraid to move or look up, waiting to hear his voice calling her name. Afraid to hear his voice calling her name. Paul held her a little tighter. He smelled like shampoo and sunscreen and faintly of jerk chicken. A nearby seagull squawked, sounding as if it were laughing. The ferry horn blared three times. Final boarding.

"Ready?" Paul said. She lifted her head and blinked a little. The figure was gone. She looked again, shielding her eyes. No one.

She thought she'd seen Leo a thousand times on this trip, a million times, every day, sometimes every hour. She thought she'd seen him dancing to a calypso band at their hotel, serving fish to a nearby table at a restaurant, and buying mangoes at the side of the road. She thought she'd seen him walking down the beach flip-flops in hand, in the backseat of a taxi weaving through traffic, playing pool through an open door, on countless barstools and down countless sun-drenched alleys under the swaying palms. But it had never been him. It had never been Leo.

"I'm ready," she said, retrieving her hat from the bench, placing her straw bag on her shoulder. "Let's go home."

EPILOGUE.

One Year Later.

The day of the baby's first birthday was every bit as muggy and miserable as the day of her birth. That's what everyone said to Stephanie when they arrived at the celebratory lunch. Remember? It was a day exactly like this! As if it had happened decades or centuries ago, not fifty-two measly weeks and their meteorological recall was something magical and marvelous.

"Oh, I remember," Stephanie said. How could she forget? The heat, the ice cream melting down her arm, the onset of a labor so sudden and fierce that it had a name: precipitate labor.

Lillian Plumb Palmer, called "Lila" for short (her first name was a sweet secret to Stephanie, just between her and her mantel), was born in her mother's living room exactly forty-two minutes after Stephanie's water broke. She slid into Tommy's hands as the paramedics were ringing the front doorbell. "It's a girl! It's a girl!" Tommy said over and over, forgetting that Stephanie knew she was having a girl but remembering all three times the doctor had delivered the same joyful news to him as he clutched Ronnie's hand after the final agonizing push.

And today Lila was one!

In spite of the heat, Stephanie was setting up in the yard. It wouldn't be too bad. She'd expressly asked everyone not to bring a gift. Lila'd never had a birthday before and she wouldn't know the difference and Stephanie didn't want more junk in her house, but she knew the request was pointless and, sure enough, as the Plumbs arrived most of them not only brought a gift, they were laden with gifts.

Melody and Walt arrived first. Louisa had recently moved into Stephanie's second bedroom and was preparing for the upcoming school year when she'd be studying art at Pratt, just one neighborhood over. She'd gotten a generous scholarship but not enough to cover room and board. When Stephanie heard she was thinking of commuting into Brooklyn every day, she offered Louisa a free room in exchange for the occasional weeknight or weekend babysitting. They'd only been living together for a week, but Stephanie was surprised by how much she enjoyed Louisa's company. And Lila was crazy about her big-girl cousins. Louisa-and Nora when she visited-were so good with her, happy to swing her back and forth between them as they walked the length of the yard again and again, willing to sit and amuse her with silly voices or by building towers with colorful foam blocks. Nora had brought her friend Simone today and as Stephanie and Melody stood at the kitchen window watching the girls with Lila out beneath the newly planted maple, they saw Simone lean in and give Nora a quick kiss.

"I won't lie. It's a little weird," Melody said. Her tone was affectionate, if a little melancholy.

"Do you like her?" Stephanie asked.

"Simone?" Melody said. "I guess. She's intense. I don't know what's going to happen when she's at Brown and Nora moves to Buffalo." It would be state college for Nora after all. "I kind of hope they do stay in touch. Simone pressured Nora all year to work harder, it's the reason she got into the honors college."

"Love can be an excellent motivator," Stephanie said.

When it doesn't wreck your heart, Melody wanted to say, but that would have been cruel, so she didn't. And Melody had to admit Stephanie's post-Leo life seemed far from wrecked; she seemed happy.

The doorbell rang, Jack, Bea, and Paul all arriving. More presents and ribbons and pa.s.sing around of Lila, who pulled so insistently at the collar of her party dress that Stephanie took it off and soon Lila was toddling around the backyard in a soggy diaper, red-faced and sweaty. She was wild-eyed and overstimulated and they hadn't even given her any sugar yet. Stephanie knew she'd never go down for a nap later. Oh, well.

Out back, Jack was hoping to find a bit of shade. The new tree Stephanie planted to replace the one felled during the storm was small. Jack thought she should have splurged a little to buy one that was more mature. He pulled a chair close to the trunk where it was marginally cooler. (Years later, when the tree had grown and formed the perfect canopy over the rear of the yard, Lila would marry beneath the ma.s.sive leafy boughs turning red and orange on a blindingly beautiful October afternoon. She would ask Jack to escort her down the leaf-strewn path to her partner. Jack would be good to Lila all her life, showing up whenever she was missing a father. On the day of her wedding when Lila appeared on Jack's almost-seventy-year-old arm, Stephanie would see Leo at her side and for a debilitating moment would be crushed by the enormity of everything he'd missed.) Now, sitting under the tree, keeping an eye on Lila in case she moved too fast and fell-she was still a little unsteady on her feet-Jack was also wishing for Walker, albeit with more melancholy than grief these days. Walker was the only person he could think of who would actually look forward to a baby's birthday party. He'd heard from his old friend Arthur that Walker was already living with someone new and in a way it was nice to learn that, ultimately, Walker had been the one who wasn't good at being alone. Jack was more relieved than surprised to find how very good he was at living alone. He'd fall in love many more times in his life, but he would never want another man to share his home.

Bea was corralling the group, insisting that Lila open gifts. She was crazy about Lila but she really wanted the party to be over so she could get home and back to work. She was more than halfway through her novel about an artist who has stopped painting and then, through a series of losses and loves (as she pitched to Stephanie), finds her way back to herself and her art. It wasn't quite autobiographical, but whatever Bea had loosened by turning her lens away from Leo and onto herself made it all work. Every time Stephanie got new chapters, they were better than the ones that came before. Bea didn't know the ending of the book yet, but she knew if she kept working, she'd find it; she knew it was in front of her.

"I always knew you had this in you," Stephanie told her, thrilled and relieved not to be reading about a thinly disguised Leo; she couldn't have done it. After much urging on Paul's part, Bea had finally sold her apartment, put the money in the bank, and moved in with Paul. She was writing full time. She'd brought at least five gifts for Lila.

Stephanie put Lila on her lap and let her tear pieces of wrapping paper into tiny bits while Bea tried to interest her in the parade of presents: the little red fire engine with wheels that Lila could sit on and ride down the sidewalk, propelling herself forward with her meaty legs, a teddy bear twice her size that briefly made her cry, three Marimekko dresses bought at a fancy baby boutique that would make Lila look like a mini-Bea, a multicolored plastic monstrosity called Baby's First Smart Phone from Melody (Stephanie would take the phone-and most of the other needless toys-to Goodwill the following Monday), an exquisite tiny antique bracelet from Jack, pink gold with inlaid chips of ruby, Lila's birthstone. "What a remarkably beautiful choking hazard," Melody joked as Stephanie tried to get Lila to sit still long enough to clip it around her chubby wrist; no dice.

After the presents were opened and the wrappings collected and lunch was served, they all gathered around the table in the yard and sat Lila at the head in her high chair. Lila tugged at the elastic from the sparkly party hat Melody had put on her head. She finally pulled the hat loose and flung it to the ground, legs swinging, feet banging against the rungs of the chair. She started squirming to be let down, but when a cupcake with an unlit candle was placed in front of her and everyone started singing "Happy Birthday," she quieted and stared at the joyful looming faces above her.

Stephanie knew what everyone was doing while Lila offered a rare still moment to search her resplendent face: They were looking for Leo. It was impossible not to see Leo in Lila, the way her bright eyes would narrow when she was angry, her pointed chin was his, as was her broad forehead, the elegant tapered eyebrows and overbearing mouth, all sitting below bright red curls just like Stephanie's. Leo was gone but he was right there in front of them. And as they concluded their off-key warbling and started to cheer, Lila looked up and shyly smiled and applauded herself.

"Throw a kiss, Lila," Louisa said, wanting to show off the trick she'd taught her cousin that week.

Lila brought her fleshy, sticky palm to her mouth and then flung an imaginary kiss to the crowd; she squealed as everyone pretended to catch it and threw one again, and again, flinging kisses to the left and to the right, until suddenly it was too much! Spent, she rubbed her eyes, her face crumpled. Then she raised both arms high. "Up," she said, looking desperately from one eager face to another. "Up!" She opened and closed both hands as if she were grabbing fistfuls of air. "Up!" she said again, as her family rushed toward her all at once, each of them hoping to get to her first.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.

CYNTHIA D'APRIX SWEENEY lives in Los Angeles with her husband and children. She has an MFA from the Bennington Writing Seminars.

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