I watched as they paddled out, a small flock of brightly plumed beach rats, disappearing abruptly behind the rising surf. I could just pick out a bright blue board weaving along the leading edge of a breaking wave. I gasped as the rushing water suddenly swallowed the boy, then relaxed when I saw his head break the surface, and he swam back to his board, paddling again toward the line-up.
For perhaps half an hour I continued to watch as they took turns racing across the hills of green water before being engulfed by the roiling froth, then paddling back to chase the next wave, over and over. It was pointless and beautiful and utterly mesmerizing.
Reluctantly I checked my watch; time to head back to the Base. I was expecting a delivery of some more of our belongings. I couldn’t be late; it wasn’t worth the ensuing argument if all was not ship-shape before David returned from the hospital.
I slipped a yellow sundress over my bikini and headed back to the car. It was super-heated of course, the air inside parched. I rolled down all the windows and drove back, singing along to Figaro’s aria on my temperamental CD player.
When I pulled up, the delivery guy was pounding on my door, frustrated by the lack of response.
“Sorry! Sorry! I’m here now.”
He glowered at me. I smiled pleasantly and offered him a cold beer.
“Well, ma’am, I wouldn’t say no to a cold soda if you’ve got one.”
He stood and poured it down his throat in one swallow, wiping sweat from his glowing face. Then he happily deposited two large crates in the garage and drove away.
I stared sourly at the boxes, wondering if my withering gaze would force them to unpack themselves. But no.
Three hours later, dirty and sweaty, and with aching muscles, I admitted defeat with one-and-a half crates still left to unpack. Tomorrow would have to do, although I knew it would mean a fight. But I just didn’t have the energy.
At 6 pm David drove up in his pride and joy—a newly purchased silver Camaro, vivid symbol of his promotion. He frowned at the unpacked crates, and I waited for the dissection of my day—where had I been, what had I done, who had I seen. But instead he tapped his watch, a habitual gesture of irritation.
“We’re due at the Vorstadts’ in an hour, and you’re not dressed.”
“Who?”
“Captain Vorstadt has invited us for drinks.”
“You didn’t say.”
“I put it on the calendar, Caroline. Didn’t you check the schedule?”
No, sir. Sorry, sir.
“I thought you might have mentioned it, that’s all, David.”
“I want to leave at 1850. Wear the green cocktail dress.”
I hated it when he ordered me around—which was most of the time, admittedly. But it was really grating on me.
“I’m tired, David. I’ve been unpacking crates for the last three hours—it’s exhausting.”
“Making life and death decisions all day is exhausting, Caroline. For once, could you just do something to support me? I don’t ask for much, considering the lifestyle I give you.”
I bit back the retort that sprang forward. What was the point? We’d been here before. I’d never won an argument with him yet. It was so damn tiring to even try.
“Fine. I’ll go shower.”
I dressed quickly, applied a little eyeliner, mascara and some clear lipstick: the minimum makeup I could get away with. David liked women ‘to look like women’—that meant heels and make-up. Not really my look, inasmuch as I had one. He wore his favorite sports jacket and an open-necked shirt. He still looked handsome, I suppose.
“What did you do today?” he said, breaking the silence as we drove the short distance to the party.
“Before I spent three hours unpacking crates?”
“Just half a crate, I noticed.”
Pedantic ass.
“I read a book at the beach. Before the crates were delivered. Oh, I bumped into Sebastian.”
“Who?”
“The Hunters’ boy. You know, from last time we were here.”
He grunted, which could mean anything, but I suspect it meant he didn’t remember. David wasn’t good at remembering people; something of a handicap for a doctor. It gave the impression he was cold.
“Who’s going to be there tonight?”
“I wasn’t given the guest list, Caroline.”
Jeez, I was only asking.
Mrs. Vorstadt met us at the door of her townhouse.
“David, how lovely. And you must be Caroline. I’m Donna.”
Donna was a strong-looking, attractive woman in her fifties. She kissed me on the cheek. Her breath smelled of gin and tonic.
“Do come in.”
The room was crowded and noisy, people spilling out into the large yard at the rear of the house. A barbecue was spitting away under an awning—men gathered in little groups drinking beer from bottles and laughing loudly; women huddled together sipping Manhattans, their high heels sinking into the recently watered turf. I was glad I’d worn my flats, despite David’s frown of disapproval.