People file to the exit, waiting to disembark. Paisley waits for me, grinning when I join her. “I liked watching you take it all in. I was taking pictures of you, too. For Cecily.”
My face hardens, my insecurity getting the best of me.What did I look like? Some loser who has never seen the Atlantic? Never been on a ferry?
We’re at the back of the slow moving crowd, and Paisley slips a hand over my forearm. She tugs, silently asking me to look down at her. So I do. The wind has pinkened her cheeks, tousled her hair. She’s gorgeous.
“I appreciate your openness, your willingness to let yourself feel the island’s magic.”
I allow her words to move through me, to soak in. How many times does Paisley have to make it clear she’s okay with me? With who I am, and what I do for work?
We step off the ferry, but before we can get swept up in the melee of bodies, of people finding their luggage and their way, I fasten my free hand to the hand Paisley still has on my arm. Then I give it a squeeze, attempting to give her a meaningful look in the short time we have.
Paisley smiles like she understands, moving away to seek out our bags, and her grandmother who’s scheduled to pick us up.
When we have our bags, we step out of the mostly organized chaos, finding a calmer spot off to the side.
“My grandmother said she’ll be here in a minute,” Paisley says, glancing at her phone. “A quick rundown on her: she’s funny in a way that will probably take you off-guard, my grandpa was the love of her life and she still can’t talk about his passing even though it was five years ago, she will almost certainly tell you about the time she went on The Price Is Right and kissed Bob Barker, and she dresses in a style we call ‘coastal grandma.’”
I’m fumbling with all the information Paisley tossedmy way, including this being the first time she mentioned her grandpa passing.
“Got it. Be ready to laugh, don’t mention your grandpa, let her tell me about Bob Barker, and…coastal grandma? That one needs explaining.” I spend a good portion of time studying descriptors, and clothing styles, and physical characteristics. But ‘coastal grandma’? I’m lost.
“It means she wears white and ivory and cream in cotton and linen. Flowy, unbuttoned button-ups, striped cardigans, a fisherman sweater. It says”—Paisley’s palms are pressed out, tipping back and forth—“she’s ready for all things beach. She can light a bonfire, sip white wine, prune her garden, maybe even clip hydrangeas and arrange them in a vase.”
“That was...descriptive. And effective.” I’m impressed.
A woman on a golf cart rolls up beside Paisley. “Excuse me,” she calls out in a melodic voice. “You look a bit like my granddaughter, only more beautiful.”
Paisley’s face splits into a grin before she has the chance to turn around. The woman climbs out from behind the wheel of the golf cart. She wears a navy and white striped blouse tucked into loose white linen pants. On her feet are camel-colored slides and dried sand, like she walked off the beach and onto the cart.
Paisley drops her bag, peels off her hat, and folds her grandmother in a hug. The hug continues, developing into a sway. The woman catches my eye, winks, and says, “Paisley, introduce me to your boyfriend.”
Paisley untangles herself from her grandmother’s embrace. “Grandma, this is Klein. Klein, this is Lausanne.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Lausanne.” I take her offered hand, cocooning it in both my own. Her smile is warm and welcoming, and she wears three strings of varying length delicate gold chains around her neck. She is regal, stately, carrying herself with a posture that has me correcting my own but is still somehow relaxed. If I wrote all that down on page, she might sound standoffish, but she is affable, offering me a second wink and patting my shoulder.
“Your name is unique. I’ve never heard it before.” I make quick work of our suitcases, stowing them in the third row of the golf cart.
“I’ve never met another Lausanne,” she says happily, settling behind the wheel. Paisley takes the seat beside her, and I slide into the second row. “My father served in the military, and spent some time in Switzerland when he lived in Europe. There’s a town there called Lausanne, which means Lake Geneva. So, technically, my name is Lake Geneva, but Lausanne is just fine.”
Lausanne lets off the parking brake, and the cart comes to life. We pull out onto the cart path, and while I’m trying to pay attention to the conversation happening in the front seat, it’s nearly impossible. There’s so much to look at, to understand.
Forget the palm trees, the coconuts. The trees lining the paths are huge, so tall I have to crane my neck to see their tops, but for some I can see only the canopy.
“Maritime forest,” Lausanne says, her voice traveling behind her as she winds over the path. “Live and Laurel oaks, mostly.”
Paisley looks back at me, grinning. Her tousled hairtakes a beating, wrapping around itself. Her blue-green eyes shine, a sparkle attributable to happiness.
I can see why Paisley called this her favorite place. She’s soaking it in, this special spot of hers. It’s too bad she has experienced pain here. And even sadder to think that pain is likely not yet finished.
What does the rest of the week hold for her?
CHAPTER 21
Paisley
WatchingKlein’s reaction to his introduction to Bald Head Island has only made me love it more.
He was in awe, and not afraid to show it. Not afraid to enjoy it. There was a moment, when he caught himself, and I watched the hesitance slip onto his face. Why does he do that? Why does he anticipate me finding something wrong with him?
