Sea la Vie

When I was 42, I wanted another baby. Not just any baby, one in particular. I’d seen him, even held him, studied his sweet face, cupped his tiny head gently in my hand, felt his downy hair. From the time I’d learned about him – still in the womb then, his birth mom just a teen, giving him up for adoption – I’d felt it was meant to be. He should be mine and I should be his. But that wasn’t how it turned out.

I blamed my husband for it. He had been such an oaf. He hadn’t meant to spoil it, but it wasn’t about his intentions. It was about the end result. The empty upstairs nursery all done up in knights and dragons – the friendly kind, of course. The rows of empty glass bottles in four and eight ounce sizes with their own shelf in the cupboard. The perfectly toned but empty arms that were crossed in front of me now as I stood at my ILVE range contemplating whether to add curry to the couscous. Sure, why not? It would go well with lamb. Was the first time I’d cooked in a while, on advice of my therapist. Get back to yourself, she’d said. Do something you like to do, something you did before…

I heard the garage door lift and felt my shoulders stiffen. I placed the spoon in its rest and took a deep breath, then a sip of my Sancerre. “Hello there,” said Ben, coming in through the kitchen. “Mmm, smells good.”

“Ready in ten,” I said.

“Where is Pearl?” he asked, looking for our little pug. She usually met him at the door and fretted and fussed all over him.

“In her bed,” I said. “She went to the vet today.”

“Why? What’s wrong with her?”

“Conjunctivitis again. Lou prescribed drops.”

Ben dropped his briefcase onto the built-in desk, shed his jacket, loosened his tie and poured himself some wine, then went to look in on Pearl. I set the table, finished mixing the salad, carefully plated the lamb and called him in for dinner. Ben took his seat, refilled his wine glass and looked around the table. “Do we have any mint sauce?”

“No.” I shook my head. “I didn’t make any. We have mint jelly, though.” I stepped into the kitchen, opened a new jar of jelly and spooned some into a dish. Ben didn’t like jars on the table. His mother hadn’t allowed them. I suddenly stopped myself, spoon midair, scooped the jelly back into its jar, took it to the dining room and plunked it onto the table. Rebellion at its peak. Ben, to his credit, made no complaint. He ladled a portion of jelly across his lamb chops, took a hefty bite and told me how good they were.

“Good, I’m glad you like them.” I buttered a dinner roll and Ben asked me about my day. “Good. I spoke to Gida.”

“Oh? How is she? Getting all settled in?” Our only child together had just left for college.

I nodded and passed the sugar snaps, then cleared my throat. “Ben, I was thinking, I’d like to get away. Spend some time at the beach.”

“Can’t right now,” he said. “Too many cases in flux. Soon, though,” he promised. There was a time when this mattered, how busy he always was.

“No, I meant just me.”

Ben raised his brows. “You never go alone.”

“No, I guess I don’t. But we haven’t been in a while. I’d like to check on the cottage.” And there’s nothing keeping me here.

“Sea la Vie?” he asked, calling the place by its name. In the town of Seaside, Florida, all the homes had names, painted in cursive black letters onto white strips of wood and nailed to the picket fencing.

“Yes, Sea la Vie. Do we have another cottage?”

“Not that I’m cognizant of.”

“Why don’t you just say aware? It means the same thing.”

“I don’t know, Kate. Why don’t you just say cognizant?” I shrugged and sipped my wine, then went back to eating. After a couple of minutes, Ben cleared his throat. He put his fork down. “Kate, I thought we could talk.”

Here we go again. “About what?” I asked.

“About the adoption.”

“There wasn’t an adoption, not for us,” I said.

“About the baby, then.”

I raised my eyes to his. “Todd,” I said. “They named the baby Todd. Just plain Todd.” Ben said nothing. “I’d have named him Joseph.” I’d always loved the name. Loved the story in the Bible about the man so full of courage, strength, brute tenacity. And he had been full of forgiveness, the thing I needed now.

“It’s a good name.”

I felt a surge of tears and had to look away.

“I’m sorry, Kate. I wanted the baby, too.” He reached to touch my hand. I moved it to my lap.

“Oh, please, Ben. You didn’t want a baby.” In addition to our daughter, Ben had two grown children from his first marriage. After our Gida was born, he’d had a vasectomy. Three was enough, he’d said.

“I wanted him for you.”

“Then why did you ruin it?” Good. Anger. It would stop the tears.

“I didn’t know they were coming. You know that, Kate.” The agent from Angel Adoptions had stopped by unannounced the evening before we were to bring the baby home. Ben had gone for drinks before coming home from work. They’d settled a huge case at the firm where he was a partner. I had sent him a text, but he hadn’t seen it. When he arrived home, he’d had too much to drink. Worse, he had been driving. This was a red flag. A big red flag. Enough to stop the process.

“Thus the word impromptu,” I reminded him.

“They’d already done that. I thought the deal was done.”

“Deal, Ben? Is that what it was?”

“You know what I mean, Kate.” His eyes implored me.

I sighed, then nodded. I did know what he meant. But what did he want from me? I couldn’t just snap out of it, go back to my old self. Truth is, I didn’t want to. “Just give me some time,” I said.

We quietly finished our meal and I stood to clear the table. Ben topped off his wine. “So, the beach,” he said, “when did you think you’d go?”

“I was thinking Friday.”

“This Friday?”

“Sure, no reason to wait. The weather looks good.”

Ben nodded and stood from the table. “Shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll clear it with Mom and Dad.”

This irked as always. “You know, Ben,” I said, screwing the lid on the jelly, “we don’t need their permission. Anna left the house to us. To you. And me.”

“Still, out of respect…” But it wasn’t out of respect. It was out of appeasement. Ben’s mother, Janine, would never get over the fact that her mother-in-law had willed the cottage to us, instead of to her and Ben’s dad.

“Suit yourself,” I shrugged. I was leaving Friday.

********

The drive from Atlanta to Seaside was the better part of six hours, and with every hour that passed, I felt a little lighter. I crossed through Alabama, then into Florida along 331 to Highway 98, and finally took a left onto Scenic 30A; a 28.5-mile corridor running parallel to the coastline from Destin to Panama City. I passed the turn-off for Grayton Beach, crossed over Western Lake, then slowed as I reached Watercolor, its upscale cottagey homes flanking the left of the highway, its beach club and inn to the right. Cozy tin lampshades with star-shaped cutouts hung from wooden posts that stood on every corner. These were so pretty at night, casting their starry lights. A long row of date palms lined a thin median covered with clumps of palmetto. Yucca plants waved hello.

Then the median ended as I rolled into Seaside. I stopped at the first crosswalk and let the beachcombers pass, smiling to myself, feeling like I had come home. That was the magic of Seaside, its gift to all who entered, the way that it felt like home. With its own school and chapel, market and restaurants, swimming pools and playgrounds, book store and novelty shops, and a tiny white box of a post office sweet as a Rockwell painting. When I had first come here with Ben, I’d known that I was hooked.

Mazes of cobblestone streets branched in every direction, with crayon-colored cottages bordered by white picket fencing and shaded with layers of live oaks, magnolias and mimosas. The trees were crowded and tangled in their little postage stamp yards, jasmine climbing the fences, joining them together. It was all picture-perfect, with everything you could ask for, and all of it next to the sea.

After the Welcome to Seaside sign, to my left across from the beach, were four residential streets, followed by Central Square, the heartbeat of the town. Contrary to its name, it wasn’t square at all, but a large semi-circle, half the size of a football field, with an amphitheatre at the center and storefronts along the perimeter. A wide circular drive flanked with parking spaces ran its circumference, between the shops and the sloping lawn leading down to the steps and stage.

Lining the highway, like a string of silver bullets, was a row of food trucks. Barefoot Barbecue followed by Beach Dogs, Gotta Have Grilled Cheese, Five Daughters Bakery and Crepes du Soleil. After the city center were another four streets. On the second was Sea la Vie, but I didn’t go there yet.

To my right were the private beach pavilions, situated adjacent to each of the primary streets of Seaside. An additional pavilion, the largest of them all, built to look like a lighthouse perched on the shore, was open for public access. I pulled into roadside parking and walked to the tall wooden structure, descended the wide wooden steps that led down to the beach, then looked out over the water. My breath caught as always at the sight of its vibrant colors – horizontal stripes of jade, deep emerald, azur, turquoise, and finally blackish blue that bordered the pale horizon.

I slipped out of my Chacos and walked toward the shore - soft, grainy sand making its way between my toes and salty sea air filling my hungry lungs. I stopped when the sand hardened and the water rushed over my feet, pulling the sand from beneath them as it retreated back to its home. I took in a deeper breath and drank in the glory of it, then to my own surprise, I stepped further toward the gulf. Smiling, I braced myself as the next rush of salty water lapped high at my thighs, soaking the hem of my denim shorts. This, I thought. This is freedom.

I took a short walk, then circled back to the pavilion and slipped my shoes back on. Then I crossed 30A on foot, headed for Modica Market, the cozy family-owned grocery that had been a part of Seaside since it began in the early eighties. The mimosas were famous here -- Prosecco with slices of kiwi and chunks of pineapple in tangy orange juice. I ordered a 16 ounce to enjoy as I unpacked.

While my drink was being prepared, I plucked a basket from the stack and did a little shopping. No room for buggies here. Weaving my way through the narrow aisles, I made my way to the beverage case for milk, creamer and juice, then to deli and produce for eggs and a wedge of gouda, mushrooms, shallots and a sweet red pepper. I felt like an omelet for dinner.

At the register, I emptied my basket, paid and picked up my bags, then crossed the street to my car and started toward the cottage. I passed East Ruskin Street, made a left onto Savannah and looked for Sea la Vie, then spotted the two-story cottage, fifth house on the right, the cutest one on the street except for the ugly color. My mother-in-law, Janine, before she knew the home would belong to Ben and me, had done some updating and chosen a shade of sienna that looked more like persimmon. It would have been alright if she had trimmed it in white, but she’d chosen a yellowy cream. Well, no matter. I had plans of my own for the place.

Pulling off the brick paved street and into the sandy drive, I shut the engine off and hopped out of my Cayenne. Digging the key from my bag, I crossed the tiny yard and then the whitewashed porch. Just as I stepped inside, I felt something under my foot and raised it to see a large insect. Squealing, I stomped three times, then saw that it was on its back. Brilliant. I’d killed an already dead bug.

I took my shoe outside and scraped the bug splat off, then slipped it back on and went back into the house. I quickly scanned the floors and didn’t see anymore bugs. The lovely old floors were one of my favorite things. Heavy planks of oak refurbished from an old hockey rink, sanded and stained to a dark, seductive color; still showing nicks and cuts from the wounds of their previous life. I knew their history because Anna had told me the story. She’d purchased the wood from salvage when the home was being built.

I walked the length of the house, checking that all was well, then to the second floor and then to the tower room - tall and hexagonal with a vaulted stick frame ceiling and windows on four of its walls. When Gida had been small, we'd spent many hours here playing and reading and working puzzles. Her hideout, she'd called it. Hanging on one of the narrow walls was a paint-by-numbers we'd done of a lighthouse when she'd been about ten. We’d returned the next summer to find it framed and on the wall. Anna. I walked to where it hung and ran my fingers over the velvet, then turned to look out of a window that held a miniscule view of the ocean, over the rooftops and across the highway. Closing my eyes, I listened. Even from this distance, I could faintly hear the waves as they crashed against the shore.

I left the room and descended the stairs, went to the car for my bags, then stowed them in the master. Next I made my omelet and ate on the covered porch. A light rain started, the droplets keeping rhythm as they pattered the tin roof. I’d planned for a nice, long walk, but that would wait for morning. I showered and put on my pj’s, slipped into the king-sized bed and pulled the covers up to my chin. Closing my eyes, I whispered prayers, first for Gida and then for Joseph. Where was he now? Was someone holding him? Was he a good sleeper? The tears started then, and I did nothing to stop them.