Restless Waters

  “You’re used to Hawaii and Tahiti and whatever, huh? Will you survive boring San Diego?”

  He laughs. “I’m excited to be here. This is a great city.”

  “Thank you for doing this, Chris.”

  “We stay together,” he says firmly. “If this is where Sabin is for the holidays, this is where we are. No question. It’s important to me, but I know it’s also important to you. You guys are very close, and you’ve missed him a lot.”

  “I feel like he’s been so busy that we haven’t talked as much recently,” I say.

  When Sabin first moved out here, we logged hours and hours video-chatting and talking on the phone, but as the weeks and months have gone on, it’s been harder to find time, I guess. While we’re out here, I plan on getting in lots of quality Sabin love, and of course, with everyone else, too. Estelle, Eric, and James get in the day after tomorrow and will drive up in another car.

  “Sabin’s been working hard. Have you gone on the company’s website?” Chris asks. “They’ve got tons of pictures with really incredible structures, and I’m assuming that he’s been learning a lot. This is good for him, really good for him.”

  I’m not sure if Chris is trying to convince me or himself.

  We make the drive north to La Jolla, making a quick stop at a supermarket to start stocking up the house. In typical Christopher Shepherd fashion, he won’t let me pay, and I promise myself that I’m going to sneak out of the house for the next grocery run and return with pricey steaks as payback.

  It is only when we pull up to the house that I realize any grocery shopping I attempt will not come close to payback. “Jesus Christ, what did you do?”

  “What?” he asks, feigning innocence. “It’s La Jolla. What do you want?”

  “Christopher Shepherd!” I shout, flabbergasted.

  The house is more mansion than house, and it’s smack on the water. I can’t even form words right now. Just looking at the outside of this modern…compound…tells me that it is incomprehensibly luxurious inside.

  “Christopher Shepherd!” I say again.

  He laughs. “We need a house big enough to hold all of us. And who knows where James and Estelle will be sleeping? I didn’t know if they needed one room or two—”

  “This…this!” I stammer. “This must have cost a not-at-all-small fortune. It’s way too much money to spend.”

  He shrugs and turns more serious. “I don’t know if you really understand how much money we have.”

  I look at him. “I’m starting to.”

  “It’s just money. And I have very mixed feelings about it.” Although the car is parked, he grips the wheel and stares through the windshield.

  “Part of me just wants to blow it all, so there’s nothing left of my father. And part of me wants to use it for good, whether that’s making sure everyone has the best education they can or taking crazy vacations. That money represents a shitty past, but maybe it also represents…you know, that we’re all still here. I want to enjoy that. And I want the people I love, my family, to enjoy that. It’s just a little spoiling on occasion. Besides,” he says, turning to me now, “you know I’m happy anywhere. We all are. Look at Sabin. He won’t take any money, and he’s living in a tree house. We don’t require luxury. It’s just fun.”

  Chris has a point. While the Shepherds do tend to vacation in high-end spots, they’re not a snobby bunch. Hell, they all waded through knee-deep muddy low tides, searching for clams, more times than I could count, and everyone worked like dogs on the house. This is not a family afraid of dirt and toil.

  I open the car door. “So, let’s go run around the house and play before everyone gets here.”

  The massive white boxy mansion sprawls over the property, and even Chris fumbles with the keys while letting us in.

  He stands frozen when the door swings open, revealing a monstrous first floor with floor-to-ceiling windows that give us clear views of the Pacific Ocean. “Fine, I might have gone a little overboard.”

  We spend twenty minutes investigating. We drop our luggage when we find a bedroom with an ocean view and a skylight, and then we unload the groceries into the kitchen. While the kitchen we have in Maine is oversized, this one has such high-end appliances that I’m almost afraid to touch anything in here.

  Chris rummages for glasses. “Drink?”

  I nod. “Dirty martini. A hundred olives.”

  “Ah, a drink drink.” He tosses a bag of chips at me. “Then, we have to eat, or we’ll be on the floor.”

  The avocados we bought are perfectly ripe and creamy and a shade of green that is far more enticing than the dull hue I can get at home. I mix up the most delicious guacamole I’ve ever had. We stretch out on lounge chairs on the deck and eat mouthfuls of chips and dip as we stare, transfixed, at the ocean view.

  “This is already the best Christmas ever,” I say.

  “I’m glad you’re happy.”

  I call Sabin, but it goes to voice mail, so I text him and tell him to get over here.

  “He’s probably already on his way,” Chris says. “Let’s hope that fifty-year-old car he bought makes it.”

  My stomach is all fluttery, and my body is full of anticipation while I wait for Sabin to get here. The martini does little to settle me down, and I nervously eat half of the bag of tortilla chips while I keep checking the clock.

  Chris falls asleep in his chair, and I spend the next two hours getting increasingly annoyed with Sabin. I call him three more times and text him a picture of me frowning.

  Nothing.

  I change my clothes and leave Chris to sleep while I walk down to the water. I wade and dig my feet into the sand. We must have a private beach here because it’s beautifully quiet and soothing. There’s no way that Sabin won’t show up soon.

  I call James and tell him how amazing the house is, and then I text Estelle and Eric pictures from my vantage point on the beach. This beach is totally different from the rocky shores of Maine, and it’s easy for me to get dreamy and euphoric as I lie in the sand, not caring that I’m getting wet. The water is not warm by any means, but I have my bathing suit on under my sundress, so I rip off the dress and dunk myself in. The shock of the cold kills any jet lag I was feeling, and I let out a jubilant yell when I break through the surface.

  “You kook!” I hear from the deck above.

  I whip my head around, expecting to see Sabin, but it’s Chris leaning over the railing.

  “There’s a swimming pool here, you know!” he calls down.

  “It’s not the same. I wanted real California ocean!” But I am shivering, so I run through the small waves and grab my dress from the sand. I check my phone.

  Nothing.

  I shield my eyes and look up at Chris. “Do you have a message from Sabin?”

  He shakes his head. “No. It’s pretty weird.”

  I take the wide steps back up to the house and wrap up in a towel. “Have you called him?”

  “Doing it right now,” he says. “Want another drink?”

  I nod and wipe away salt water from dripping into my eyes. I brighten when I hear Chris talking in the kitchen. He must have finally reached his brother, so my heart lifts. Then, I realize the tone of the conversation is more serious than jovial.

  I knot the towel over my bathing suit and poke my head inside. Chris has his back to me and is shaking a silver drink mixer with more force than necessary, slamming ice cubes and causing an echo through the cavernous first floor.

  “Are you fucking kidding me? She’s done nothing but talk about seeing you since you left Maine, and you can’t get your ass up here? I don’t care if you’re busy. You knew we were getting in today, and you swore up and down that you had days off. It’s Blythe, for fuck’s sake. Why are you acting like she’s an imposition?” He cracks the shaker against the counter. “No, I’m not telling her shit. You talk to her and tell her yourself.”

  “Chris,” I say calmly. Despite my now dashed hopes of seeing Sabin today
, I don’t like to hear Chris spat with his brother.

  He pivots and leans against the counter, throwing me an apologetic look.

  “It’s okay.” I reach for his phone. “Sabe, you’re not coming over?”

  “Listen, I’ve just got so much to do. Really crazy right now.”

  Chris is staring at me, waiting to see how I’m going to react.

  “If you can’t, you can’t,” I say. “It’s just that I talked to you earlier, and you didn’t say anything about not seeing us today. I’ve been calling you all day.”

  “Yeah, I’m sorry. Sort of last minute, love. I had to run out and pick up some lumber for one of our projects. Now, I’ve got to help Pearce chop down a tree and haul it into their house. You must be jet-lagged anyway, right?” he asks.

  “Right. Totally. So, tomorrow for sure?”

  “Of course. Talk to you la—”

  “Wait, Sabin!” I practically roll my eyes. “What time? Do you want to meet here?”

  “Oh, right. What do you want?”

  I take the martini Chris hands me and eat two olives before answering, “Maybe we can come see your tree house? Ten o’clock?”

  “Perfect! Bring me sixty-eight blueberry bagels and a non-fat, no-whip decaf vegan mocha cappuccino with a foot-shaped cinnamon imprint.”

  I laugh, and Chris looks relieved.

  “Ask, and ye shall receive.”

  “Welcome to California! The land of complicated and trendy ordering. See you tomorrow.”

  “See you tomorrow.”

  Chris takes his phone back and shakes another martini for himself. “I’m sorry. Sabin is being a prick for some reason,” he says above the rattling.

  I don’t know what to say. I’m a bit embarrassed that I seem more eager to see Sabin than he does me, but he did say that he was busy.

  It’s very possible that it’s true.

  It’s also possible that it’s not.

  There’s a chenille blanket draped over one of the white leather couches, and it looks perfect for snuggling, so I grab it, and Chris follows me back to the deck.

  “Let’s just sit here and watch the sun set as we drink.” I need a minute to regroup because this day has been more than and also less than I expected.

  Chris sits, and I take my usual spot, lounging between his legs with my head leaning back against him. His body is rigid, and I know the exchange he had with his brother is bothering him, but we don’t talk. We breathe, and we concentrate on the orange and pink colors that start to flood the sky.

  When the water takes on the colors of the sunset, I feel more at ease—well, and more martini’d up. “We should get a tree tomorrow. A ginormous one. And we’ll put a crazy red bow on top. And I’ll hang up everyone’s stockings. Oh, we have to get wrapping paper. Do we have more shopping to do? I can’t remember.”

  “A few things,” he says. “We’ll bring Sabe back with us tomorrow and get the house ready.”

  “You can be my elves!” I suggest happily.

  “Oh God, what are we in for?” But he hugs me in close. “How about we go out for sushi? It’s a good West Coast thing to do, don’t you think?”

  “Can we get rolls with too many ingredients?”

  “Yes.”

  “And can I drink too much sake and let you take advantage of me before jet lag kicks my ass, and I pass out on that beautiful king bed upstairs?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then, sushi it is.”

  “And Sabin it is tomorrow,” Chris says. Then, he’s quiet for a moment. “You know what? Drive down by yourself, and I’ll stay here. Take the whole day with him.”

  “Without you? I don’t know.”

  He puts his mouth by my ear. “Take the whole day with him.”

  The sun drops halfway into the water.

  “Okay.”

  The thirty-minute drive north to Olivenhain is rather nerve-wracking, but I grip the wheel and manage not to get killed on the freeway. So, that’s a good start to the day.

  I feel a little bad for stranding Chris at the house with no car, but he’s not exactly locked in a hobbit-sized hovel, and he seemed fairly happy to sit by the pool and read. Besides, I have to be able to drive a car by myself. Obviously, I drive at home all the time, but it’s on quiet roads for the most part. From what I can tell, it’s impossible to go anywhere in California without having to hop on a convoluted freeway system with lanes designated for certain passes or carpools or exits. It’s confusing. The nav system is the only reason I know what I’m doing at all.

  But I don’t die, and that seems to be my marker for success.

  The name Olivenhain sounds quaint and cute to me, but as I cross the city line, it becomes clear that this is not a simple town. There is money here. It’s more rural than I realized, but there is mountainous red-clay terrain that gives more of a desert feel. Properties are sprawling, many with wood fences marking the lines.

  It’s when I begin the drive up the winding dirt road to reach Sabin that I realize I’m on a farm of sorts. Or a ranch maybe? My experience with whatever kind of land I’m on is limited to what I’ve seen in movies or read in books, so I’m not sure what this is, but I know I like it.

  Everything about California is giving me a bit of a culture shock, and I haven’t been here for even twenty-four hours. The architecture, the weather, the way stores are all set up in strip malls—everything is new to me. And, my God, the palm trees! They really are everywhere, and I’ve already fallen in love with them. And while it might take some acclimating to handle the more urban aspects of this area, there’s a beauty here in this place that Sabin now calls home, out of the congestion of the traffic, and I can see why he likes it.

  He told me to take the dirt road past the main house on the left, and I admire the single-level tan stucco house. I continue past what I think might be fruit trees of some kind, and then I pass four horses roaming in a large pen.

  Horses?

  Sabin never mentioned horses, but I find this all rather exciting.

  I’m almost tearing up now that I’m a few minutes from seeing him, and I park the car next to a wooden shed, as he told me to do. I take the tray of to-go coffee cups and the paper bag from the floor by the passenger seat and make my way ahead. A path starts with an arched bridge that runs over a man-made pond filled with ducks, and I’m utterly charmed that Sabin has such a magical entrance to where he lives.

  The path continues between leafy plants that remind me of something more prehistoric than of this age, and I emerge in a field spotted with much larger trees. I look up and smile. There is Sabin’s tree house, seemingly impossibly suspended so high up with supports running from under the house to the wraparound deck before lodging against the solid trunk. The wood is beautiful, with lots of texture and color patterns, and I am enchanted to see shutters and shingles.

  It’s a real house! Just…not on the ground.

  Because I’ve never been a guest at a tree house, this feels totally bizarre, and I’m suddenly unsure how one enters a tree house. Do I climb the winding stairs and just knock on the door? I don’t know. It’s not a traditional house, so perhaps one does not make a traditional approach. I don’t know if I expect to be airlifted by some kind of rope-and-platform system or what, so I decide that I’ll just cup my hands to my mouth and scream out his name. I figure it’s kind of a jungle call, which seems appropriate.

  I’m about to yell up when I notice movement ahead. Then, I freeze. Someone is coming down the steps, but it’s not Sabin.

  It’s a girl—and a skanky one at that, if I’m going to go with my gut and be judgmental—with rich brown hair tousled around her face, a skintight pink dress, and sunglasses so big that they’re almost comical.

  Except that I don’t find anything the least bit funny about this.

  Nausea tears through me, and I hear Christopher’s words in my head.

  “It’s Blythe, for fuck’s sake. Why are you acting like she’s an imposition?”

&nb
sp; The answer seems to be because I am an imposition. Getting laid last night took precedence over seeing Chris and me. While I understand the lure of good sex, I have a feeling the girl in the pink dress is not exactly the great love of Sabin’s life, and I wonder whether his hooker joke yesterday was really a joke.

  The other thing that I cannot deny is a distinct and painful feeling of jealousy. Not that I want to be stumbling out of a tree house, looking like a cheap whore, but I am jealous.

  She walks past me and gives a little wave, as though there is nothing fucking creepy about this at all.

  I stand, unmoving, for ten minutes while I get my emotions under control. There’s something humiliating about being ditched for a cheap lay. When my heart stops pounding, I try to grow the hell up and push aside the fact that this reunion so far has not gone as I envisioned.

  Despite my now shitty mood, I’m struck by how unique it is to take stairs surrounded by leafy limbs. Because my hands are full, I have to kick the door to knock, and then I kick again after he doesn’t answer.

  “Sabin!” I yell as I keep kicking.

  The door whips open, and I find myself facing a shirtless Sabin.

  “Jesus Christ, what?” His black hair is in messy waves that practically hit his shoulders, and he’s got at least three days’ worth of facial hair darkening his face.

  “Really?” I shove the bag into his hands. “Here are your fucking blueberry bagels. Good thing I only got you a fraction of what you asked for because, based on the size of your belly, you don’t need more carbs.”

  His face registers shock. “Oh God, Blythe. Shit, what time is it? I forgot you were…I mean…fuck!” The bag crinkles in his hand, and he looks at me with a mix of embarrassment and apology. “I’m so sorry.”

  I put the coffee tray on the floor of the deck and turn to go back down the stairs. “You suck, Sabin.”

  He grabs me by the arm and pulls me against him, forcing me into a hug. I try to shove him away, but he won’t let me.

  “Fuck! I’m so sorry. I’m an asswipe! A total jerk! Tie me up, and eat all the bagels in front of me in a form of weird but possibly titillating torture.” He lifts me off my feet and squeezes harder. “Please forgive me!”