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Authors: Lisa Jackson

Beach Season (11 page)

BOOK: Beach Season
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“We’re friends, June. I will bring you martinis and hugs for your craziness.”
“You’d be alone.”
“I won’t be alone. I’ll be with your relatives, including the shooter, the cousins who stand on each other’s heads, and Abe Lincoln. Would you ask me?”
“Ask you?”
“Yes. Formally. Invite me.”
I took a deep, deep breath. “Reece, this is going to be the bizarrest wedding ever, but if you are brave and want to come to August’s wedding, I would be happy for you to be my date.”
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
“I’ll be your date. I would love to be. I’m a date! June’s date!” He smiled, blew me a kiss.
I could hardly resist that man. Some people might say I’m rebounding, but I’m not. It’s been over two years since I left Grayson. My marriage was only two years long. The last year of the marriage was dead and I did my best to hide from it. I could fall into Reece’s smile and stay there forever.
He stood up, towering over me, and I took a step closer. He wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me in. I closed my eyes, shivered on the inside, and tilted my head back. I wanted to kiss that man so much I could hardly breathe. I felt myself relax into our sweet, hot passion ...
The stairs shook as Estelle and Leoni clambered up, Morgan’s laugh only somewhat muted by her astronaut’s helmet.
Reece held my gaze, his chest rising up and down, up and down, and I knew that he was struggling as much as I was. He had such a nice chest and I wanted to wrap my arms around him, my legs around his hips ...
I actually shuddered. What do you call a shudder like that? A lust shudder?
Oh, my friend Reece was irresistible, yes, he was.
The three burst through the door and Morgan shouted, “Four, three, two, one, liftoff!”
Estelle growled, “You can cut the passion in this studio with a pair of sewing scissors.”
Leoni piped up, “We’ve interrupted the softness of the romantic moment. Sorry, June!”
There’s a good reason for chaperones, you know.
 
 
Five Things I’m Worried About
 
1.
August’s wedding and the dresses. Will they all be done in time?
2.
Reece. What’s the point of falling in love only to be smashed by it?
3.
What if a lightning storm crackles down on August’s wedding?
4.
Morgan. Her father is such a lout.
5.
The article. What if people hate the dresses and I am laughed right off the beach?
I played online Scrabble. Again, I lost.
I spelled these words: “sexy,” “loon,” “songs.”
I had a slice of the seven-layer chocolate cake that Reece had brought me the other day. Okay, two slices. I hoped I wouldn’t eat the entire thing.
 
Over the next weeks I worked on high-speed fluster, spending maniacal hours in the studio, as did Estelle and Leoni.
I saw Reece, too, how could I resist? He was a magnetic pull yanking at me, and every single time I was with him, his strength and gentleness, his humor and wit, and his inherent goodness and honesty worked its way further into my soul. Not to mention that the barely restrained physical attraction I had for him about knocked me on my head.
He strummed his guitar and penned songs in my studio, I threw in words and phrases while I sewed at my machines or sewed by hand. We listened to classical, country, and hard rock music. We laughed as we jumped over waves, we built a sand castle, we buried each other in the sand and took photos. We walked hand in hand for miles along the shoreline and flew kites shaped like parrots.
We went searching for whole black butterfly shells, those green eyes smiling into mine like liquid emeralds.
He said, with all seriousness, “You are the most beautiful person I have ever met.”
And, “June, I’ve never been happier. All my songs are happy ... I’m supposed to write songs about broken hearts.” He winked at me. “Can’t seem to do it right now.”
And, “I love watching you sew. I think I could watch that for the rest of my life.”
And, “When your divorce is final, June, we will have our first official date. I can’t wait. You’ll definitely be getting a kiss good night. Hopefully you’ll be getting a good morning kiss, too. This has been torturous for me, waiting, trying to be patient, saintly. You know that, right?”
It’d been torture for me, too. I was so happy when I was with him,
he felt right,
we felt right, but I also felt skittish and totally unnerved. Worried, unsettled, a mite lost, as if I was being carried along on a frothing wave and had no control.
I told Estelle how I was feeling.
“That’s because, June,” she said, her voice more gentle than I’d ever heard it, “you don’t know
you
yet. You don’t trust yourself. You don’t trust your own decisions. You’ve been hurt and battered about and you’re still legally attached to someone else.” She patted my shoulder. “Sometimes the only person we need to be with is ourselves. We need to be alone because that’s the only time we can hear that teeny-tiny voice inside us talking.”
“I can hear a teeny-tiny voice in my head, but I can’t hear her loud enough. I lost June during all my years of incessant work chasing stupid stuff, and then she completely ran out the door when I was married and I haven’t put the pieces back together yet. I’m unsteady, that’s the word for it. I’m off-kilter. I’m not confident, not strong in myself. I feel like I’m half me, floundering about and scared and insecure.”
Estelle tapped me with a ruler on the shoulder. “Be in your quiet, June. Think, but don’t overthink. Don’t be afraid of love. But remember that you can’t be a healthy couple until you’re emotionally healthy. He’s not going to make you happy,
you
have to make yourself happy and whole. After that is when you can be a whole couple.”
She is a ragingly smart lady. I gave her a hug.
“Fine then, we’ll get mushy for a second if we must.” Estelle kissed my cheek. “Lovey-dovey. Huggy-wuggy. Now get your butt back to work, June, we are crushed for time.”
 
On a Thursday morning, at 6:00, not having slept at all, I packed my truck with August’s wedding dress, the bridesmaids’ dresses for September and me, and three flower girl dresses. Leoni had spent the night, along with Morgan. She and Estelle and I finished at three in the morning. August’s dress had one stitch still not done, as was Scottish tradition. On her wedding morning, she’d sew it up.
I threw my suitcase into the truck with assorted other things I needed/August needed/my mom needed. I left a map taped to Reece’s door, giving him directions to my parents’ house in Eugene.
I stood at his door for long seconds, imagining him sleeping, that long body stretched out, eyes closed, blond hair over his forehead, vulnerable and soft, warm and cozy and strong.
I teared up, then turned to leave.
I waved to the beach as I passed.
I would miss it.
C
HAPTER
9
My parents still have a VW bus. In fact, they have two. Neither is the one we puttered about in as kids wearing flowers and feathers in our hair and shark tooth necklaces, the sides painted with peace signs and flowers. No, these are newer.
Both VWs were painted by a friend of theirs, a professional, well-known artist. Across the “flower power” flowers on both sides, are the words “Hippie Chick.”
They have a huge, Craftsman-style home in the country, along a river, outside Eugene, a liberal college town. The home has wraparound decks, an outdoor pool, and a hot tub that seats twelve.
None of us, August, September, March, nor I saw this placid domesticity coming.
“This world was made for existential experiences and a spiritual connection with nature,” my mom had always said.
“To adventures I bow,” my father vowed.
“Never stop seeking, chasing down your curiosity, believing in the wonders of life,” my mom extolled to us.
“Challenge yourself to never, ever become boring, a life-killer,” my father admonished. “Do not die during your lifetime from inertia.”
We thought they would continue their traveling ways after the four of us fled the coop, or fled the VW bus, as it were, into college.
But as soon as March left for college, our parents were done traveling. Kaput. Boom. Quit.
The kids were gone, they wanted a home.
My father waxed eloquently, “We’ve traveled long and hard, rolling stones, stars shooting through the night, a family of land travelers on a quest for knowledge and enlightenment. We explored and pushed the boundaries.”
“And now we want a full kitchen,” my mom said, with impressive eagerness. “Where I can cook a proper turkey dinner, with the lace tablecloths and silver from my mother.”
“And we want a big tub for two,” my father said. “So nice on the back.”
“Space so we can breathe, and shelves for our books. Books are your friends, you know.
Your friends
.”
“A deck for gazing at the Milky Way, but radiant heat on the floor so our feet don’t get cold.
Brrrr!
”
“And air-conditioning. Anything over ninety degrees is too hot, hot, hot!”
“A gas fireplace, so when we’re cold, we flick a switch, and voila. A fire, no rubbing sticks together anymore.”
“Don’t forget our dream appliances,” my mom added. “All necessary for good health: our juicer, blender, water purifier, and espresso machine.”
The four of us would have been less surprised if they’d plucked Venus out of the sky and ate it.
They wanted a home, so they went to work. My mom used her talents as a seamstress, my father as a painter and business organizer, and together those two developed a line of Hippie Chick clothes for girls and women. They sold them out of the back of their VW bus at various Saturday markets. My father set up a website. They worked long hours, they marketed and advertised in creative ways, and hired the right people: my brother, March, also a workaholic, who handled the marketing and PR and the charity donations, and my sister September, who has an MBA.
I did all the legal work. August did the accounting and number crunching. My parents eventually sold their clothes for a high price to a high-end department store. They hired more people and treated them well. No one in the Hippie Chick company, save a mother who became pregnant with triplets, has ever quit.
They made a bundle. And another bundle. More bundles after that.
Hippie Chick bought them their house, paid for with cash. “I will be beholden in debt to no one!” my father said, pointing his finger skyward.
“No one owns us!” my mom agreed. “We are free, free!”
Aligning with the rest of their values, they saved a bunch of money from the profits and gave it away to two different charities: one donated college scholarships to underprivileged children and one helped abused/sick/homeless horses.
“We’ve always found a friendship with horses, haven’t we, honey?” my father said to my mom. “A spectacular symbol of strength, endurance, physical magic.”
“Don’t you remember watching the wild horses run on our traveling, adventuring, rolling stones days? Don’t you? Our first kiss was after horseback riding.”
“Yes, it was. I remember every minute of it, to this day. It was spectacular. Never forgot it and the kisses have only gotten better.” My father grabbed my mom and pulled her toward him.
“Love you, you old coot.” She squeezed his butt, then kissed him back.
He put his hands up her shirt and rubbed her back.
“Get a hotel, both of you, old coots,” I said.
They laughed.
But they weren’t old. You start having kids when you’re teenagers and as you get older, you realize your parents aren’t that much older than you.
And, in my case, they were a lot more fun.
When I arrived, my parents were positively beaming and tranquil. My mom, blond and brown-eyed, like me, petite, not like me, was wearing a flowing pink pantsuit. On her lithe figure, it was fabulous. My father, dark-haired, dimples, was wearing jeans and a blue jean shirt with subtle swirls, and a peace sign on the pocket that Hippie Chick Man would soon be selling. They were the picture of Boomer youth. Both were carrying crystal wands.
“Give me a morning hug, June!” My father smiled, hugging me close. “I love you, baby. We’re having the MacKenzie family Scottish breakfast, then the scavenger hunt will begin.”
“Take your wand,” my mom said, kissing me on the cheek again. “Don’t drop it during the hunt, or you lose! It must be with you at all times. Oh, how I adore you, June. You are spectacular!”
“Thanks, Mom. I think I’ll cast a spell on you now.” I waved the wand.
She opened the door to the dining room. They have the largest dining room I’ve ever seen. My parents constructed a table to seat thirty. I hugged my brother, March. He wears his silky brown hair to his shoulders and resembles our father. Women go crazy for him. “Lookin’ wonderful, sis.”
September burst into tears and hugged me hard. “Sister! I have missed you!” September is blond-haired, like August and me, but she has blue streaks in her short wedge of hair and a tattoo on her left arm with our family’s names shaping a heart.
“My Scottish clansmen and women,” my father announced, deep voice carrying to each corner. “June has arrived!” He fisted his hands high into the air.
We are so into our Scottish heritage, our kilts and tartans and family crest, but the truth is we are a multicultural group. A United Nations Scottish-American family.
My cousin Earl picked up his bagpipes and blew. He is a champion bagpipe player. His father is from Zimbabwe. Great-uncle Seamus was, indeed, dressed as Abe Lincoln. He blew me a kiss. His mother’s family is from Japan. Chuck and Duck, the circus performers, were there, too. Their father is Russian. They did handstands in greeting. Later they would put on a neat show with sticks set on fire. My cousin Marci Shinola, who shot her neighbor in the knee, grinned at me and waved. “I’m out of the slammer, June!” Her mother is from Venezuela. The twins who always dress in monster outfits have a father from Mexico. They growled at me.
My family cheered a hello.
Yes, I was home.
 
The MacKenzies have many traditions. One of them is that the women—
only women
—get together before every wedding and have a twenty-four-hour Salute to Our Heroine Geraldine. No, it is not a bachelorette party. That happens the night before the rehearsal dinner.
The Salute to Our Heroine Geraldine involves a real-life story straight from Scotland. It’s all about Great-great-great-etc.-Grandma Geraldine who started the American branch of MacKenzies. Apparently she did not want to marry the man her father had chosen. She was sixteen, and you know how those rebellious teenagers are; it’s so difficult to force them to marry someone they don’t want to marry. So, Geraldine left her clan. She walked. And walked and walked. In fact, she walked so far away that on her wedding day, though her family hunted high and low, they couldn’t find her.
There was no wedding.
Days after the wedding, she returned. Rested, refreshed, relaxed.
Family lore has it that she declared if she was forced to marry someone else, she’d leave for America. Well, in due time, her father corralled her into another marriage, but this time he had the relatives stand guard so she couldn’t take off.
It didn’t work. She managed to sneak off, this time with a bag in hand, and darned if she didn’t land in America a year later, dead poor and sick from the trip. She later married Cormac MacKenzie and had eight children. She lived to be ninety-two years old. Her father forgave her. Her ex-fiancés did not.
So, in her honor, the Salute to Our Heroine Geraldine involves all of the women going on a hike early in the morning. A looong hike, to remember the long walk that Geraldine endured to escape her wedding. Then we volunteer our time to clean something, usually it’s a women’s shelter, a soup kitchen, et cetera, to show respect for the hard work that Geraldine did as a maid to earn passage to America. We take a boat ride, with a lot of wine, to memorialize her trip to America.
After that, we Americanize the journey: We all go to the spa. Many spas. They can’t hold all of us.
“Geraldine would have wanted a spa trip if she’d had the opportunity to go to one,” my mom always said. “She would know she well and truly deserved it after all she’d been through.”
“In spirit, she’s with us, getting a hot rock massage,” Aunt Wilma declared.
“She’s with us as we get oatmeal and chocolate treatments spread all over our bodies,” my sister September said.
“At Myrna’s wedding I had the lemongrass and vanilla massage,” Cousin Darla said.
“I had the man masseuse,” my great-aunt Kaitlin said, leaning on her cane. “I saw him trying to peep at my bust. I saw him!”
That morning, at my parents’ house, we MacKenzie women met in the kitchen.
September yelled, pounding her chest, “Let me choose my own husband, or let me perish!”
“We will walk for your freedom, Geraldine, and for our own womanly freedoms!” August shouted, holding hiking boots in the air.
“We work in sisterhood with you, Geraldine!” Aunt Tobias declared, holding up two huge sponges.
“We sail in harmony with your ocean’s voyage!” Cousin Ally hollered, holding up a paddle.
“And,” my mom said ...
My mom’s mother, white-haired, fiery, crackled out, “We go to the spa for you, Geraldine!”
Together we all yelled, “For Geraldine!” and held up our orange juice glasses.
We cheered! We laughed! We toasted Geraldine!
It was a fabulous day. I hardly stopped thinking of Reece once.
 
“Whooeee! He’s on the front grass!” my aunt Belinda shouted from the deck the next afternoon. “Come and have a look-see, everyone. See! That’s June’s man! Is he a hunk or what?” She wore an Indian sari over one shoulder and a tartan over the other to respect both sets of her ancestors. “The other man was a wimp. Pimpy. Snobby ... he was a tarantula.”
Within seconds, the entire MacKenzie gang—at least a hundred of them—were out ogling Reece and me from the deck and front yard.
Most were dressed in Scottish tartans and kilts.
They held bows and arrows, swords and shields.
“This is my castle. I am the lairdette; you may enter!” my mom called, resplendent in the family tartan with blues, greens, and red.
My father held up a shield with the family crest on it. “You are welcome at our castle,” he boomed out, his voice ringing off the trees and hills surrounding the home.
“Why?” a hundred voices shouted at once.
“Because we’re the MacKenzie Scots!”
Then they burst into the family song, which started with, “Don’t bust our butts, we won’t bust yours,” and described how we’re the Clan MacKenzie, forever and ever we’ll be, we love each other, fight to the death, our swords up, our shields a defense against all our enemies.
“What do we do?” my father railed, again raising his shield.
“We stick together!”
Next, they burst into the family dance, which can be best described as an Americanized Scottish version of rap/bounce/ Scottish dancing.
They hooted, they sang off key, they’d been downing whisky like true Scotsmen.
“You’re in for an adventure,” I told Reece, putting an arm around him.
“I can see that.” He grinned. “Adventures are my specialty.”
Soon Reece was wearing a kilt.
He was a mighty fine Scott. I flipped it up.
He’d kept his boxers on.
 
Later in the evening, amidst the hoopla, Reece and I snuck out to the river, away from a cacophony of noise and MacKenzie revelry. Some of the family had stayed in hotels in town, but most had spent the night at the house, and many had pitched tents and camper trailers. A line of fancy Porta-Potties out back had been strung with Christmas lights. The night was young, the parties would go late.
BOOK: Beach Season
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