Good Harbor
“Don’t worry, Joyce,” Kathleen said gently. “It’s just a stage. You’ll grow out of it. And then she’ll go to college.”
“And then what do I do?” Joyce asked, her voice suddenly pinched.
Kathleen faced out at the ocean and chose her words carefully. “There’s work. Reading. New interests. Hobbies. You start talking to your husband about things besides the kids. It’s good. It’s never the same, but it’s good. And it fills you up, pretty much. In time, it really does fill in. A lot of people seem to take music lessons. And then someday, maybe you get grandchildren.”
“Nina is twelve! I don’t want to see grandchildren for a long time, thank you very much.”
“I’ve been ready for grandchildren for ages, but my sons don’t seem to be anywhere near it. In the meantime, I took up daylilies. Sounds prissy, but they are the love of my life.” Kathleen smiled. “Don’t tell Buddy I said that, okay?”
Joyce held up a hand in the “Scout’s honor” position.
“I knew nothing about plants until the year Jack left for college,” Kathleen said. “I took one of those garden tours and met a woman, a bit of a kook really, who had three hundred varieties of daylilies in a wonderful rock garden. Now I have, oh, probably thirty kinds myself. Seeing which ones are blooming is one of the great joys of summer for me.”
They were already in front of the red motel, which marked the end of the beach when the tide was this high.
“I suppose I could take a drawing class,” Joyce said.
“If that’s something you’re interested in.”
“Not really. It’s a generic kind of fantasy. I don’t have any talent for it. Besides, it doesn’t solve my work problem. I’m not sure I can fake a shred of interest in school bus safety, which is my next big assignment.”
“But, Joyce, you have to go back to Magnolia and tell what happened next.”
“Oh, my God, you read it! And you’re still willing to be seen in public with me?”
“Come on. It’s good. How did they let you get away with it?”
“With what?”
“The politics, I guess you’d call it. The race politics. A black woman and a white landowner is hardly the usual romance formula, is it? Isn’t the man supposed to be older and more experienced? Isn’t the girl
supposed to tame the man? Jordan was so restrained, and she’s such a, well, hussy sounds so politically incorrect, but, heavens.” Kathleen put her hand to her heart in mock shock.
“There are so many issues: literacy, race, secrets. The sex is only one part of it. Though the racy parts are plenty racy. All that black and white skin. It makes one wonder,” Kathleen said, arching an eyebrow.
“The imagination is a wonderful muscle,” said Joyce. “At first, I thought all I was doing was writing something commercial that would allow me to buy a house up here. The means to an end. But I really got into her, into Magnolia, and the story. And the historical period. I’m glad you saw the politics.”
“You must have done a lot of research. Where did you find out the little details like how they starched the petticoats, and where they got ice?”
A high-pitched voice interrupted Joyce’s answer.
“Mrs. Levine.” The girl on top of the lifeguard stand was on her feet, with a megaphone to her mouth. “Mrs. Levine, up here. It’s me, Krista!”
Kathleen waved and walked toward her. Joyce followed.
“Krista! How are you?” Kathleen asked, holding on to her hat as she looked up at the big, blond girl above them.
“I’m good. And you?”
“On a beautiful day like this, how could I be anything but fine,” Kathleen said brightly. “This is my friend, Joyce Tabachnik.”
“Hello, Mrs. Tabachnik.”
“What are your plans for the fall?” Kathleen asked.
“Salem State.”
“Oh, good for you. I’m so proud of you.”