I take them both to Something Natural for lunch. The line is short, miracle of miracles, and we each order sandwiches, bags of chips, and Diet Coke—my one indulgence since getting sober—then go outside to sit at a picnic table, waiting for our name to be called. We watch families with kids play in the boat on the grass, feeling as if we are in the middle of the countryside, this field overlooking a wildflower meadow just beyond an old wooden split-rail fence.
I warn Sam and Annie about staying out of the sun, feeling suddenly like the mother of both. “Just because you spray-painted your skin dark bronze doesn’t mean you built up any protection,” I say to Sam. “You have to be careful. I think your shoulders are a fierce angry red underneath all the fake tan.”
“They are a bit sore,” he says, wincing as I press his skin to see the white mark left by my thumb. When I say white, I mean dark bronze, but a definite big change of color.
“You’re burnt to a crisp,” I say. “Why don’t we stay out of the sun for the rest of the afternoon? Maybe we should walk around town. You can buy a baseball hat to protect your face, because your cheeks are lobster red too.”
* * *
We leave Something Natural, stuffed from enormous sandwiches crammed with turkey, Swiss cheese, avocado, and fresh, juicy tomatoes, and go to town, weaving our way in and out of the stores, and I know where we are heading, I know we will eventually make our way down to the water, to the pretty little stores, in one of which sits, possibly, Julia. But the meeting this morning was the very best thing I could have done, and all of a sudden I am ready, ready to see her again, ready to say what I have to say and get on with the business of vacation.
Deep down I hope that Abigail is right. I hope this is an amends that Julia will have practically forgotten about. “Oh, we were so young!” she might say. “Aidan was a waster!” She will laugh. “You did me a favor!”
Or, “Who?”
We step onto the dock, and a wave of anxiety washes over me.
“Why don’t you take Annie for an ice cream?” I say, trying to communicate with my eyes that I need to do something important.
“Oh! Okay!” Sam says, steering Annie across the street as I walk down the dock, suddenly wishing I didn’t have to do this, knowing I have no choice.
There is her name above the shop. Julia Mayhew. It doesn’t surprise me that she has her own business, that she is probably successful. Julia struck me not only as creative but as scrappy. She was someone who could always manage to get herself out of trouble. Outside there are mannequins, pretty knitted shawls draped around their shoulders, in fine cashmere, lacy knits. I pick up one and marvel at the tiny stitches, at how beautiful and fine they are. Exquisite beaded necklaces, doubtless beaded by Julia herself, semiprecious gemstones studded with pearls, hang around the mannequins’ necks. I pick up a price tag from behind a neck, thinking I might buy one for myself, thinking how lovely it is, but it is thirteen hundred dollars, so clearly it is not destined for my neck.
The Haves and the Have Mores, I think. Good for Julia, recognizing she can charge this much, recognizing there will always be people who will pay. I look at the cashmere scarf. Nine hundred dollars. Good Lord.
The Haves and the Have Mores.
I hesitate outside, take a deep breath, and walk into the tiny shop, making eye contact with the girl behind the counter. She is not Julia. It may have been years, but this is not Julia, although in looks they are similar. This is a young girl, too young, it seems, to be working in a shop, although granted, I remember having a Saturday job in a shop when I was fourteen. She has a sweet smile, a familiar smile, as she says hello and asks if she can help.
“I was wondering if Julia Mayhew was around?” My voice catches in my throat, signaling my nerves, if only to myself.
“She’s just in the back. Let me get her for you,” she says, going to a curtain and poking her head around. I watch her move, almost unable to breathe, there is something so achingly familiar about her. “Jules? There’s someone here to see you!”
Jules. I didn’t expect that. I realize I was expecting her to say “Mom.” Of course she is familiar; she has the same hair as Annie, the same dark skin as me. But it is just coincidence. Jules. Not Mom. She is not my niece.
Julia steps out from behind the curtain, with me unable to take my eyes off her. Age has been kind to her. She is stockier than when I last saw her, and it suits her. She looks more solid, grounded. Her skin is tanned and clear, barely a line on her face. She looks fantastic, far better than I would have expected, although God knows what I expected. That she would have led a hard life, I think. A life filled with drink, maybe drugs, probably countless affairs. I expected her to have had it rough, and I expected it to show on her face.
She was with Aidan when I was here all those years ago, but she was a partier. I realize I presumed her life had followed a trajectory similar to mine, living life hard, squeezing out every last drop.
“I’m Julia,” she says, extending a hand with a warm smile, an expectant look on her face as she takes my hand, and I have no idea what to say. And as we stand there, clasping hands, forgetting to let go as we look into each other’s eyes, recognition starts to dawn, and I swear to God I watch the smile literally slide off her face as she gasps.
“Oh my God,” she says finally. “It’s you.”