The Revolving Heart

first royalty check, and even though Amy had rejected me, I had kept it anyway. Over the years, whenever I proposed to her, I’d pull out that same ring and slide it down her finger before her hand could retract into a fist, few things saying this is not a joke better than a diamond, one full carat, marquise cut; I’d been broke a few times and tempted to sell it, but I sensed how much Amy admired that ring—even if she never accepted it—and I always suspected, even while married to Kristin, that life had curious ways of turning, and there might be a time and place for that ring to assume its long-delayed destiny on Amy’s left hand. No way could I have ever sold it for money, and so for the past few years it had lived in the safe at the Jaybird, tucked behind Uncle Dan’s first jar of homemade pizza sauce and five thousand bucks in cash.

.     .     .     .     .

Three pizzas later I walked Kelly back to the B&B, enjoying the sun and the warm almost-summer air, the familiar comfort of her hand wrapped with mine.

Ocean Avenue was still quiet, the calm before the Memorial Day storm. Live in a shore town long enough and you can feel the change in the air—not the temperature or the humidity but the charge of the soon-to-arrive crowds, almost as if Holman Beach were taking a deep breath, one last peaceful inhalation before three months of 24/7 wild.

It had been a long time since I’d experienced a Jersey summer. According to Uncle Dan, the last few years had been crazy. With the economy stagnant people stayed closer to home, and so instead of Disney or Hawaii it was load-up-the-car-and-head-to-the shore, which was good news, at least for the Jaybird and the other businesses in town. Half of them had “Help Wanted” signs hanging in their windows.

“Maybe I could get a waitress job,” Kelly said as we passed the Oceanside Bistro, the nearest Holman Beach came to fine dining. “During college, I worked at Appleby’s. I’ve told you that, right? It was hard work, but we had fun. Who knows? With tips, waitressing might beat my old salary at the school.”

I smiled, not sure if she was serious or feeling me out about her staying. I told her about the email from George I’d received earlier that morning: I read your script. Interesting. Let’s talk…Friday lunch?

“Donnie, that’s huge!’ Kelly said. “If he didn’t like it, he wouldn’t want to meet. Didn’t I tell you it was great? I should be a producer … specializing in scripts rescued from major appliances.”

“We’ll see what happens,” I said, feigning nonchalance even as my adrenaline spiked just thinking about it. Even if George didn’t like it, my back-up plan was ready—twenty pizza boxes with my next play written on them waiting in the trunk of the Honda. I needed to re-read them with a careful eye, but my gut told me they were good, maybe even special. I thought about calling George and telling him to scrap what he’d just read—there were twenty pizza boxes on the way, the best damn takeout order he’d ever get.

Back in our room, Kelly kicked off her sneakers and collapsed onto the bed, peeling off her socks as she stretched out across the comforter. “This feels so good,” she said, hugging the pillow, and I wanted so much to join her, to crawl across the bed and land inside her arms. Everything I wanted seemed clear and right in front of me.

I could have remained with her forever, but there was someplace I needed to be.

“Um, I wish I could stay, but …”

Kelly turned on her side, the pillow squeezed between her legs. “Is it her?”

I nodded, but it wasn’t what she thought. Yes, I was due to meet Amy in fifteen minutes, but Amy wasn’t the “her” I was thinking about.

“It was twenty years ago today …” I said—twenty years since Sarah Carpenter was caught by the ocean and never came back.

.     .     .     .     .

Voices from the Town: Derek L., Holman Beach Maintenance Department, June 20XX:

I’m sure they didn’t notice me—nobody pays attention to the guy who picks up the trash—but I recognized them immediately. Her I see all the time at the mall, but I hadn’t seen him since high school. I went to see his play in New York once and tried to get backstage, but they told me he wasn’t at the theater that night. I assumed the security guy was lying and I was kind of pissed. Just because you write a play that runs in New York, you’re too important to say “Hi” to an old high school friend? Hey, it’s not like I’m still mad about it. During high school, I always liked them. Senior year I was in the play that he wrote for Spring Drama. I played the Assistant, and I really nailed my three lines. Good times. After the show I thought maybe I’d go to New York and become an actor or something. That was a really bad summer around here. Well, I never became an actor, obviously, and here I am picking up the trash in the town where I grew up, but hey, I get benefits and four weeks of vacation, and my wife has a decent job at an insurance agency, so who’s complaining? When I saw them walking down the beach, I wanted to say, “Hey guys, remember me? It’s Derek!” but they looked like they weren’t in the mood for talking, you know?

.     .     .     .     .

I had no idea what to expect when I met Amy at the beach.

Would she be calm, pissed at the world, pissed at me? I tried reading her mood, but her face was inscrutable as we approached the water in our bare feet, heading toward the spot where the three of us had spread our towels