Miramar Bay

When Sylvie returned downstairs, the empty space on the wall was mirrored by the void at heart level. She found Rick and Marcela and Aubrey and their stand-in waitress, clustered around the bar. They straightened at her approach, and must have seen something in her face because Rick demanded, “What’s the matter?”

She knew she couldn’t tell them without bawling. That she was going to sell her favorite painting, the only one worth real money, in order to pay for a lawyer to protect her from going to jail for a crime she didn’t commit.

But she was also not going to lie to them. These were her friends. They were as close to family as she had these days. They deserved to know.

“More of the same,” was all she said. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not go into details.”

“Sure thing,” Rick said. “Where’s the painting of the bay?”

“I moved it upstairs. Just temporarily.” That was most certainly true. “What were you talking about when I came in?”

“We’ve invited Estelle for dinner,” Marcela replied.

“What? Here?”

Now that the news was out, they seemed genuinely thrilled by the prospect of Estelle coming for a meal. Sylvie found herself unable to process their reaction. She endured their chatter as long as she could, then excused herself. She walked to her hostess station, gripped the sides of her podium, and inspected the night’s bookings. Sure enough, there it was. A reservation for one, booked by Marcela, with the note that she wanted Estelle to have her finest table.

Throughout that busy Friday evening, Sylvie grew increasingly certain that she was the clientele’s primary topic of conversation. She felt eyes track her every time she passed through the restaurant. She saw half-hidden smiles and heard discussions quickly stifled at her approach.

Then Estelle appeared, standing in the doorway. Sylvie thought she had prepared herself. Even so, crossing the floor required a special effort. “Welcome to Castaways.”

“Thank you so much.” Estelle was dressed in a pleated skirt and jacket of pale gray with narrow lavender stripes so subtle they were almost invisible in the restaurant’s lighting. “This is such a thrill. I can’t tell you how delighted I was to hear you wanted me to dine here. I’ve so wanted to see what you’ve created.”

Sylvie was still digesting the news that Marcela had included her in the invitation, when the waitress rushed over and embraced the older woman. “You’re here! Great! I’ve got an order waiting. See you!” And she was gone, leaving Sylvie to follow with an embrace of her own. Then she picked up a leather-bound menu and started to lead Estelle through the restaurant.

Only to be halted by yet another surprise.

Everyone seemed either to know Estelle or know about her. Table after table rose and introduced themselves. Time and again, Sylvie saw groups of locals smile and invite Estelle to join them. Sylvie realized the subtle excitement was rising up now, revealing itself. She had no idea how involved Estelle had become in this community.

Sylvie felt distinctly threatened by this realization. Miramar was her town. Her home.

By the time she seated Estelle by the window, Sylvie felt as though the power of choice had been taken from her.

She stood and smiled as Marcela went through the night’s specials. Estelle then said, “You decide. They all sound wonderful.”

Sylvie said, “The fish is especially nice.”

“I would love that.”

“What about some wine?”

“Just a glass, please.”

Sylvie went to the bar and returned with something, she had no idea what, a glass of the first open white she had seen. She then stepped back as Rick stopped by Estelle’s table. Sylvie returned to her hostess station and watched Aubrey go over and shake Estelle’s hand. Then Marcela returned with a starter. The three of them laughed over something.

Sylvie’s resentment grew steadily as the night progressed. Why did Estelle have to come to Miramar, now of all times? Sylvie had spent her entire life building a home for herself here. And now these people all assumed she would make room for the woman who had abandoned her? This was her decision. Not theirs. And certainly not Estelle’s.

Sylvie did her best to suppress the evening’s hidden tempest. Every time Sylvie returned to Estelle’s table, Rick or Marcela or Aubrey was already there, chatting away like old friends. This was good in a way, as it allowed Sylvie to stand beside them, poised and smiling, humming little notes in response to a conversation she could not hear over the noise in her head.

As closing hour approached, Estelle rose from her table. Sylvie walked over and asked, “Are you sure you won’t have dessert?”

“No, thank you. I’m not one for sweets.” She turned and surveyed the restaurant. “Sylvie, this place of yours is simply marvelous.”

“You’re very kind.” As Estelle was granted a final round of farewells from her staff and the few remaining customers, Sylvie held to her smile and waited. Finally she walked Estelle through the main doors and out into the night. When they were alone, Sylvie asked, “So what are your plans?”

The night shattered.

Sylvie could almost hear the sound of crystal breaking. She saw the broken shards appear in Estelle’s gaze. “I just meant . . .”

“I know what you meant.” Estelle’s voice had resumed the soft sorrow it had held on that first awful meeting. “I’ll leave Tuesday. In four days. If that’s acceptable.”

“Stay as long as you like,” Sylvie said feebly.

“Thank you. That is very kind. I think Tuesday.” Estelle’s voice strengthened with each word. Only now it carried a flat, metallic note. “That way you have one less distraction going into the trial, yes?”

“Whatever you think is best.”

“Good night, Sylvie.”

She stood and watched Estelle climb the hill. Logic told Sylvie she’d done the right thing at the right time. But she was chased back inside by an echoing refrain. How much she wished she could take back what she had said.

Only when she locked up for the night did Sylvie realize that she was the only person Estelle had not embraced in farewell.