The Bay at Midnight

“Of course. And either she doesn’t respond, or she says something like ‘uh-huh.’”

Ethan chuckled. Then he asked, “How often do you tell your mother you love her?”

I was taken aback. Never, I thought with a jolt. The last time had probably been when I was a child. Probably before Isabel’s death. “I show her I love her in a lot of ways,” I said.

“It’s not the same, though,” he said. “You want to hear those words from Shannon, but how can you expect her to say them to you when you don’t even say them to your own mother?”

I was quiet, thinking. How did you express those feelings after a lifetime of holding them in? I thought of calling my mother right that moment and telling her I loved her. I couldn’t do it, and I knew the reason why: I was afraid she wouldn’t be able to say the same words back to me.

The topic was a sad, difficult one, and still I liked sitting there with Ethan, talking with him about everything on our minds. It was perfect, like pillow talk without the sex. What could be better? Yet there was a very small part of me that was wondering how it would feel if our hands were resting on my thigh instead of on his. I liked this new and improved Ethan very much.

“I’m sorry I was so cold to you when we were twelve,” I said.

He laughed. “Don’t be,” he said. “I was in my own little world. I was an oddball, and a frustrated one, because I had a huge crush on you that summer.”

“You’re kidding?”

“I thought you were so cool, a tomboy but with a certain twelve-year-old feminine charm.”

I laughed as well.

“But I didn’t know how to talk to you anymore,” he said. “You’d matured beyond my reach. I wanted to go crabbing and fishing with you, like we used to. I wanted to ask if I could go out in your boat with you, but I knew you didn’t want me hanging around you anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “If I’d known you’d turn out this good, I would have let you tag along, believe me.” The words poured out easily, and I was not sorry I’d said them.

“Thank you,” he said. “That’s really nice to hear.”

A moment passed and again I found myself imagining his hand on my thigh, my belly tightening a bit at the thought.

“You had so much spirit,” Ethan said. “You were such an adventurer.”

“That girl’s gone,” I said with some sadness. “She died when Isabel did.”

“I bet she’s still in there somewhere,” he said.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Life is so good, Julie,” he said. “And it’s so short. We’ve got to take advantage of every minute we’re given.”

“Are you on antidepressants or something?”

He laughed again. “I’m just lucky,” he said. “I think I got an overabundance of serotonin when I was born. Maybe I got Ned’s share.” He sobered at that thought, growing quiet, and I let him have his silence. Then he spoke again. “I think I was influenced by my parents,” he said. “They were very positive, can-do sort of people. I always remember something my father said in one of his speeches after he lost his bid for governor. We were all there with him. It was in Trenton, and I was standing behind him with my mother and Ned, and I was about fifteen and trying not to cry because I didn’t want to look like a jerk, but I felt really sorry for my father. He’d worked so hard on his campaign and, to me, it seemed as though nothing mattered anymore. Dad did the usual sort of speech about thanking his staff and the people who’d voted for him. A reporter shouted out the question, ‘What will you do now?’ and my father waited a minute and then answered that he didn’t believe the old adage that when a door closes, a window opens. He said he believed that when a door closed, the entire world opened up to you, and that he would find other ways of serving the people. And that’s what he did. He reopened his law practice and took pro bono work. We had money, so that was never the issue. He worked quietly and tirelessly until he retired. Anyhow, his words that day stuck with me. He didn’t stay mired in his sadness.”

“He was a wise man,” I said. I was thinking, A man like that would be able to tolerate learning about his son’s guilt. He would be able to bounce back from that revelation.

Ethan must have been thinking along similar lines.

“You know what, Julie?” he asked.

“What?”

“We’re going to have to tell our parents about Ned’s letter before the cops do.”

“I know,” I said, resigned.

Ethan let go of my hand and put his arm around me. “And maybe an ‘I love you’ when you share that news with your mother might soften the blow,” he said.

CHAPTER 22

Maria

At McDonald’s this morning, I was chatting with a woman I knew from church when my young co-worker, Cordelia, came up behind me.

“Maria.” She sang my name in my ear, her Colombian accent so pretty, and there was something teasing in the sound. “You have a visitor,” she said.

“Where?” I asked, turning, and she nodded in the direction of the restaurant entrance. I think I knew who it was even before I saw him. Ross. He stood near the door, leaning on his cane, his face unsmiling. He nodded in a gentlemanly fashion when he saw me.

I tried to keep my face impassive in front of Cordelia.