Читать книгу The Oysterville Sewing Circle - Susan Wiggs, Susan Wiggs - Страница 14

Running into—literally running into—Caroline Shelby on a random foggy morning threw Will Jensen off his game.

Not that he had game, but he had athletes in training. Their morning run had been interrupted so unexpectedly that after the strange chance encounter, Will sent the team to the locker room early that morning. He offered an extra high five to Gil Stanton, the guy who had spotted the lost little girl asleep in the car.

Will tried to get his head around the idea that Caroline “I’m never having kids” Shelby had two kids. How did he not know that? How had he not heard anything through the grapevine?

One thing he did know—though not from experience—was that a missing child was every parent’s worst nightmare.

“See you in class, Coach,” said Augie Sandoval, the captain of the cross-country team.

Will drained his water bottle and headed back to the athletic compound, where his office was located. He flipped on the coffeemaker and turned on his laptop. There was a small private shower room for the coach, closer and more convenient than going back home to get ready for the day. Besides, Sierra had been up late the night before, and he didn’t want to wake her.

These days he took a lot of showers at work.

After the brutally short, not-even-lukewarm showers he’d endured during his service in the navy, a long blast of hot water was a luxury that never got old. While indulging in the morning ritual, he usually thought about his day—algebra, trig, vo-tech, office hours. After school, there would be one or more of the ubiquitous meetings—planning and development, compliance, community outreach—a couple of which he had somehow managed to be appointed to chair.

Then home to work on the house. Another consuming project, but that one was a labor of love. After his discharge following the injury, he had pursued a different dream—restoring the generations-old family home known as Water’s Edge. The rambling Carpenter Gothic had been built by his ancestor, Arne Jensen, an oysterman who made a living shipping fresh oysters to the Bay Area during the years of the Gold Rush.

Will had spent the summers of his boyhood with his grandparents in the old house on the generous green parcel, with its big barn, oyster sheds and docks, and fleet of dinghies and powerboats. Over time, the house had deteriorated, and when his grandparents had retired to Arizona, they’d deeded the place to Will. He’d always dreamed of restoring it to its former glory.

Today he had something else on his mind—Caroline Shelby. He wished he didn’t know that it had been ten years since he’d last seen her. He wished he didn’t know the exact date he’d watched her drive away, tires spitting crushed oyster shells in their wake—the day he’d married her best friend, Sierra Moore.

But he did know, and that bugged the shit out of him.

He wondered what she was doing back here. She was supposed to be living large in New York City, making her name as a famous designer. He hadn’t thought about her in years, and suddenly there she was, clearly exhausted and stressed by her two little kids—damn, two kids—and an old car crammed with baggage. Despite the circumstances, Caroline still looked like the girl he’d known for most of his life—small and intense, her mouth like a red valentine, her movements quick with agitation, her cropped, mussed hair streaked with crazy neon highlights like one of his high school kids.

The town being what it was, local gossip was bound to fill in the answers to the questions buzzing through his mind. Mainly, the kids. A girl named Addie. A boy named Flick. What the hell? Where was their dad?

Apparently, Caroline had been busy with more than her career.

With steam swirling around him, he stepped out of the shower and groped for a towel.

“Here you go.” Someone placed it in his hand.

“Jesus.” He snatched the towel and jumped back. Then he recovered, leaned forward through the dissipating steam, and kissed his wife—lightly and briefly, so she wouldn’t remind him not to muss her makeup. “Hi, babe,” he said. “You’re up early.”

“Heading down to Portland,” she said. “I stopped in to say goodbye.”

Again?

“The fall catalog shoot,” she reminded him, stepping out of the tiny cubicle.

He scrubbed his head to dry his hair. “Fall, huh?”

“In the fashion world, the seasons are reversed, remember?” She wiped the fogged shaving mirror with her sleeve and leaned in to inspect her face. “Miriam Goddard was asking me where I get my hair done. Was that a veiled insult, do you think?”

“I don’t get it. Your hair’s perfect, like the rest of you.”

Her smile was fleeting. “I’ll take your word for it. We live in a fishbowl here. I feel like everyone has an opinion about us.”

He let the towel drop and reached around behind her. “You’re always complaining about the town gossips. Let’s give them something to gossip about.”

She pushed her hand against his chest. “Very funny. You need to get to class, and I need to get on the road.”

“Let’s be late.”

“Let’s not.” She patted him lightly on the shoulder, then stepped out into the office. “You can’t get away with anything in a town like this.”

“I like small-town life,” he said, dressing quickly. “I like the slow pace, the sense of community.”

“The sense that everyone knows everyone else’s business,” she said. “Trust me, being Pastor Moore’s only daughter was no picnic. You were a navy brat. You have no idea what it’s like, having to make sure you don’t embarrass your parents.”

Sierra sometimes chafed under the scrutiny, but Will was philosophical. “Good thing we’re old enough now, and married. Nothing for folks to see here, simple as that.”

“It’s not so simple,” she said. “Some people will always find something to gossip about.”

“Could be you’re right.” He came out of the bathroom with his tie slung around his neck. “Remember that summer your dad caught us making out in the choir loft? I had my hand up your—”

“Knock it off,” she said, removing his hand. Then she stepped forward and tied his tie for him in a now-familiar ritual. “You headed back to the city, and I was left to face the consequences.”

“Come on, we had fun. Your folks are my biggest fans now.”

“Indeed. Sometimes I think they like you better than me.” She was all done up as usual, her hair gleaming, makeup airbrushed to perfection over a forehead smoothed by Botox injections she insisted she needed.

“Guess you have a busy day lined up,” he said.

“Yep. Interior and exterior shots today.” She smoothed his collar and stepped back.

“Sounds good. So you’re going to put on pretty clothes and knock ’em dead,” he said.

“Right.” Her too-smooth brow tried to frown. “The world’s oldest model.”

“Only my ninth graders think thirty-four is old.”

“News flash—the entire fashion industry thinks thirty-four is old.”

He knew better than to argue with any female about the fashion world. But damn. Despite the accident that had taken one eye, his good eye could see perfectly well that his wife was gorgeous. The kind of gorgeous that made people do a double take, the way they might when a perfect rainbow appeared in the sky. She had shiny red hair and a tall, slender body, green eyes that gleamed like rare jewels. Her face had graced ads for toothpaste, cat litter, fine perfume—anything that could be marketed alongside a pretty face.

And as incredible as she looked, she had managed to pursue the one career where her looks were not particularly striking—merely commonplace in that world.

Lately—and he knew this frustrated her—the bookings for her high-fashion modeling had tapered off. He was not going to be the one to ask the reason for this. He didn’t want to hear her say it was because she was old. He didn’t want to hear her say it was because she lived in the world’s smallest backwater, where she had to drive for two hours or more to find even a glimmer of civilization.

“Do you have time for a cup of coffee?”

She glanced at the clock over his office door. “Just a bit. Hair and makeup starts at eleven.

“Whose pretty clothes will you be wearing today?”

She hesitated. He could tell she wasn’t happy. “McCall’s,” she said briefly.

A discount store on the lower end of the spectrum, then. Not exactly Nordstrom. “They’re lucky to get you.”

She took the proffered cup of coffee and sprinkled it with a dusting of stevia, ever mindful of avoiding extra calories. “Right.”

He added a generous dollop of cream and real sugar to his cup. After the morning run, he was starving, and he didn’t have a break until third period. While loading up his messenger bag for the day, he debated with himself about whether to bring up this morning’s encounter with Caroline.

If he didn’t, Sierra would hear about the drama of the “lost, not lost” kid from someone else. She’d hear one of his athletes had found the little girl. She might wonder why he hadn’t said anything about the encounter. If he did—

“I ran into Caroline Shelby,” he said, threading a belt around his pants. “This morning.”

She perched one hip on the edge of his desk. Her eyes widened and her lips parted in surprise. “Caroline! You’re kidding. She’s been a ghost for the past ten years. Where did you see her? Here in town?”

He nodded. “During a training run with the team, super early. She was at the Bait & Switch. Seems like she’d just rolled into town, like maybe she’d been driving all night. That’s how it appeared, anyway. Did you know she was coming?”

“No. Why would I? We haven’t been in touch in years, other than the occasional wave on Facebook. What’s she doing here?”

“I didn’t ask. Like I said, it was early, and I was out with the cross-country team.” He paused. “She has two kids. Did you know that?”

Her green eyes opened even wider. “Caroline has kids?”

“Little boy and little girl.”

“Wow, I had no idea. I guess I’ll run into her at some point, then. Is she staying at her folks’ place?”

“Didn’t ask that, either.”

“Caroline Shelby. Two kids. Wow,” she said again, slowly shaking her head.

Will had thought he and Sierra would have a kid or two by now. That had always been the plan, anyway. So far no luck. Not for lack of trying, which was admittedly his favorite part of the process. He was ready for kids. He pictured them growing up here, the place where his heart had always belonged. He had been all over the world while serving in the navy. He’d been deployed with his SEAL team to places most people had never heard of. His team had been based in Coronado, and he’d seen places of magic and stunning beauty, but when he thought about where he belonged, his mind always wandered back to Oysterville, where the summers burst over the land like golden blessings, and the winters roared through with torrential abandon.

Sierra had agreed to the plan. Like Caroline, she had grown up here. Her father was still the senior pastor at Seaside Church, and her mother managed the church’s newsletter and social calendar.

Sierra glanced at the clock over the office door. “I need to hit the road.” Stepping up on tiptoe, she gave him a peck on the cheek. “Don’t hold dinner for me. I’ll probably be late. I might stay over in the city.”

That was a compromise they’d made early on. If they were going to live out on the coast, she wouldn’t always make it home after a job. “Okay, let me know. Go be gorgeous.”

“Right.” Small eye roll.

“Be safe on the road. Love you.”

And then she was gone. Love you. Of course he loved her. She was his wife. These days, their love yous were rote and reflexive, a sign they were in a settled phase of their marriage. Which wasn’t a bad thing. Yet sometimes he felt bad about it. He hoped it was his imagination, but more and more lately, his wife was showing signs of discontent. She talked constantly of the city life she’d lived while he was on deployment—L.A., Portland, Seattle. Now there were unsettling signals that their marriage was fraying at the edges. What would make her happy? He made a note to work on the cedar-lined walk-in closet he was building for her at the house. Maybe he’d finish it tonight as a surprise for when she got home.

He organized his things for the day and made his way from the athletic complex, past the administration center to the high school. Colleagues and students greeted him along the way. Although Sierra called it a fishbowl, Will liked the close-knit feel of the community, the sense of permanence of life here. Growing up a navy brat, he’d never lived in one place long enough to truly fit in, and the only place that had ever felt like home was Water’s Edge.

When he and Sierra had settled here permanently following his discharge, they were treated like small-town royalty—the preacher’s daughter and the wounded hero, a designation he was happy to shed as time went on. Now he was just Coach Jensen, settling into a job and a life that felt like the right fit for him—most of the time.

Because of his coaching duties, he didn’t have a homeroom to supervise, so he hit the staff room to check his mailbox, then the math office to log in, view his calendar, and grab some supplies. The school hallway was festooned with notices—an upcoming Tolo dance, college night, club meetings—and after announcements and the Pledge of Allegiance, it was crowded with kids slamming their lockers, talking too loud, hauling their overstuffed backpacks to class.

Will strode into his classroom just as the first period bell rang. He blinked the lights once to signal his arrival, then stood at the front of the class. “All right, you scholars and ne’er-do-wells,” he said, his customary greeting. “Let’s kick those brains into gear.”

There were the usual shuffles and a few groans and yawns. Homework out. Phone check—he took attendance by the phone parking lot, a charging station at the front table. A missing phone meant a missing student—or a forgetful one. Seat 2C was not present. “Ms. Lowry,” he said. “You’re either absent or you’re Snapchatting after first bell …”

With an elaborate sigh, May Lowry surrendered her phone to the charging station. “All present and accounted for,” he said, then turned to the whiteboard to pose the first problem of the day. “So let’s say you’re starting a car trip at nine in the morning from a point—”

“What point?” called someone in the back.

“From wherever, moron,” said the kid next to him. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I say it matters.”

“Fine,” Will interjected. “New York City. Your car trip is starting in New York City.”

“And where am I going?” asked May.

“Oysterville,” said another kid, “where else? Aren’t we the center of the universe?”

“Listen up,” Will said. “The plot thickens. You’re traveling at forty miles per hour. At ten a.m., another car started traveling from the same point at sixty miles per hour in the same direction. At what time will that car catch up and pass you?” He sketched out the problem on the board.

Jana Lassiter raised her hand. She was a cheeky girl, smart and fun to have in class. “I have a question. If I’m in New York City, why would I ever leave and come back here?”

“Yeah, good question,” someone else said.

“We’re America’s Tidewater Vacationland,” Will said, “according to the highway billboard. But that’s not the point—”

“Have you been to New York City?” Jana asked.

Will was sorry he’d brought it up.

“Mr. Jensen’s been all over the world,” said another girl, Helen Stokes. Embarrassingly, she was one of several girls who had a crush on him, which he pretended not to notice. “In the navy, right, Mr. Jensen?”

“Again, not the point. This is a rate, time, and distance problem.”

“How is this going to help us in the real world?” asked someone.

“You’re not even going to get to the real world if you don’t pass this class,” Will pointed out.

“Did you have to know this stuff to be a Navy SEAL?”

“Math was just the tip of the iceberg,” Will said.

“Is it true you got injured saving a life? Is it true you have a glass eye?”

“A prosthetic eye. I’ll tell you what’s true,” Will said, easily skirting the topic. “Detention, that’s what. And you’re about three seconds from a maximum sentence.”

Chastened, the boy slumped in his chair. “Sorry, sir.”

“So instead of trying to distract everyone, let’s work the problem, people. Let’s let D1 equal the distance of the first car, and t equals time …”

Distance, rate, and time, reduced to a neat equation. It wasn’t messy. It had one and only one solution, not a hundred possible paths and permutations. If Caroline Shelby left town at warp speed and traveled a distance of a whole continent and ten years, at what point would he quit wondering what might have been?