Glare?she might have echoed and added anotherseriously? Instead, humoring me, she reaches back into the car to snatch her own sunglasses from the console. They are identical to mine. We boughtthem last February in Jamaica, and while large and round is more her look than mine, they happen to offer the right amount of shade.
That quickly, she is gone off to explore. I close the door and, for an instant, leaving New York in the car, I can’t move. I’m hit by an unexpected moment, the balmy scent of my childhood is that strong around me. No, it isn’t the same at other beaches, and purity is a dodge. What’s different here is memory, which hugs me with myriad arms before I can think to raise my guard. Held in its grip, I remember the ripeness of sea-soaked bathing suits, the smell of fresh fish at the docks, the sweetness of full bellies in a delicate crust—and above it, the screech of gulls, the slap of a screen door, and always, muted or clear, the roll of the waves.
From the parking lot, I can’t see those waves over a string of dunes. But I do see things to save. Flipping the glasses to my head and the camera to my eye, I photograph the blur-of-color Joy makes as she strides past the Clam Shack’s weathered-gray siding. Distracted by that siding, I close in on its texture, then back away again to shoot shadows that sharpen as a cloud gives way to blue. Lowering the camera, I replace the shades, but as soon as I round the corner, there’s more photo bait. Glasses up, camera to eye, I take pictures of a family of four in blue BAYBLUFFT-shirts, newly bought, folds still fresh. I zoom in for close-ups of the town name, momentarily an ironicBay Buffwhen the teenage boy wearing it reaches to scratch his back. Shifting focus, I spot three dogs sitting like a trio of old men on the bench in the center of the square.
Dogs are safer than seeing people I recognize, although there haven’t been any of the latter yet. There will be. That was the danger of stopping here first and the wisdom of ball cap, glasses, and camera. I haven’t changed much in twenty years. I still wear my hair long, it’s still light brown, and the ends still frizz in ocean air. I’m still five-six, still 125 pounds—okay, before breakfast and naked, but my point stands. Twenty years isn’t that long a time.
Uh-oh, and yup, there’s the first. Deana Smith is a descendant of the granite quarrying Smiths whose historic importance is Westerlylore. Classmates like me added envy to the lore; Deanna had such a handle on guys, grades, and looks that it wasn’t fair. My camera follows her down the sidewalk until she disappears under the SMITHREALESTATEsign, which explains her skirt and blouse, formal for Bay Bluff, but make sense if she’s a realtor. Likewise, Deana herself. She was the kind of outgoing that would make for a successful broker—knew everyone and everything, and would definitely recognize me. If she does, she’ll tell whomever she meets, which won’t be good.
But she hasn’t seen me. I’m under a ball cap and behind camera and glasses, am I not?
Not chancing that she might look out her front window and find a camera aimed her way, I quickly shift focus all the way to the corner, where—whoa—a camera is focused on me. I don’t move. Turning and running would be a sure sign of guilt. Besides, do I actually know whether this guy, who is tall and narrow in loose shorts and a baggy tee, is looking at me, rather than at the parking lot behind me? Does he actually know that I’m focused on him rather than on the periwinkle-covered pergola or the ocean beyond?
I squeeze the shutter release. When he continues to keep his camera aimed at me, it becomes a contest. I’m not quite sure where my defiance is from, but I feel something proprietary for Bay Bluff. This ismytown.Heis the outsider.
Zooming in, I take another shot. Then, lowering my camera, I simply stare at him. I’m afraid he took a picture of that, too.
I’m used to people taking pictures of people. What better place for street photography than New York, where faces are nameless and diverse? The same can’t be said for Bay Bluff. I’m starting to wonder about that when he lowers his camera and studies the screen on the back. He looks to be barely thirty, which makes him younger than me, but no way is he thinking MILF thoughts. I don’t radiate sexuality. Never have.
Sure enough, he raises the camera again, focusing this time on the dogs on the bench. After taking several shots, he checks theLED screen again. Then he looks around, apparently feels he’s taken enough, adjusts the camera strap on his shoulder and heads back through the pergola toward the beach.
Dismissing him as a random tourist, I raise my own camera again and turn to the other side of the square. There my lens finds SUNNYSIDEUPwith its eponymous sign and, since it’s after two, aCLOSEDcard on the door. The shop is much as I imagined it would be, meaning yellow and fresh. It is flanked by a bookstore with as many bright toys in the window as books, and a sand-colored shell shop, both holdovers from my time here. Farther along, I see a deli, its patrons eating thick sandwiches on the patio. At the foot of the square, a beach shop hawks boogie boards, a stack of folding chairs, and blow-up toys ranging from simple rings to Wonder Woman. Next comes Smith Real Estate. And after that, oh Lord, the penny candy store, another holdover from my childhood, and wouldn’t you know, Joy is glued to its window, which is nearly as colorful as she is. How not to immortalize that? I bracket several shots, then, when I see that she sees me, lower my camera. She sprints over.
“Mom.” Her eyes are wide with excitement, her voice breathless as she grabs my hand. “You have to see this.” She pulls me down the south side of the square to a shop between the Clam Shack and Small Plates. The latter is apparently a seaside version of tapas, serving small portions of lobster salad, slaw, sliders, and skins, if the low prices on the chalkboard outside are a clue. I don’t have time to study the menu further, though, because she draws me into a store between the eateries.Jeans and Joe.
It occurs to me that Joe is the guy Anne mentioned, the one who dressed Dad when he wandered down from the bluff in his PJs. Jeans are displayed in the window, but they are way outnumbered by BAYBLUFFgear. This is where the family in blue got their shirts, but I’m stunned that my daughter wants this, rather than organic yogurt raisins or coconut smiles. She has never liked tourist gear, always considers it tacky. Before I can remind her of that, though, she slides her sunglasses to the top of her head and leads me past stacks ofbeach towels and blankets, shelves of branded mugs and picture frames, racks of T-shirts and tank tops and bathing suits. With uncanny precision, she extracts two hoodie sweatshirts, one women’s S, one M. Both are bright red with the town’s name splashed on the front in large white letters.
“Can we?” she asks, and, yes, it’s a question, though I see dire hope in her eyes, and it’s a killer.
She’s getting the sweatshirt, of course. I’m a sucker for dire hope, and this is a unique circumstance. Still, I ask, “When will you ever wear this?”
“Now. Feel the wind? And tomorrow, and the day after that? We didn’t bring anything for the cool, and besides, I’ll wear it back home.”
“You will not,” I remark. I don’t feel much wind now and, sure, wind can funnel down avenues in New York and fall comes in three months and winter after that. But once we’re back, she’ll think this tacky again.
“Iwillwear it. Ilovethis place. It’s my roots.”
“Whose roots?” I tease, thinking hers are in New York. But that isn’t really true. In the deepest sense, her roots are here. Because my roots are here. So I’m wrong.
Oh, yes, I’m wrong. No parent is perfect. When Joy was a baby, I spoiled her, the result being a nightmarish terrible twos. Getting through it was a slog that lasted until she was five, but we both emerged on the other side a little smarter. She learned that when I say certain things a certain way, that’s how it is. I learned to hold firm when it really matters and to be flexible when it does not. A stubborn parent creates a stubborn child. A parent who refuses to admit a mistake creates a child who can’t.
Gracious in victory, Joy simply smiles. And again, I feel a twinge of pride, this time that she does like the place of my birth. Distracted by the pleasure of that, I take both sweatshirts and make for the cash register.
Too late, I realize my error. Behind it stands a man I’ve definitelyseen before, and from the way he is looking at me, the recognition is mutual. I need my shades. But they’re hooked on the neck of my tee, and putting them on here, now, inside, would be a tip-off.
Since this isn’t a kid working a summer job, I’m guessing that this is Joe-the-owner. He is roughly my age and height, with an auburn man-bun and a sunburned nose. I’m struggling to place him, when he turns the same puzzled gaze on Joy, and it strikes me that he may see the family resemblance even more so in her. Joy has the same dark hair as Margo and Anne, the same forest green eyes, while mine are lighter on both counts. That said, we all have Mom’s heart-shaped face.
A name comes to me then. Joey DiMinico. He was Margo’s year in school, a fact that Anne failed to mention when she told me of the Joe who dressed Dad. Of course, he would find us familiar. He sees the twenty-years-older Anne every day.
This could be a problem, I realize. The last thing I want is for him to pick up the phone and call her before we get to the house ourselves.
“Just arrived?” he asks.
“We have,” I say with an exaggerated flourish that I hope suggests tourist glee. “How much do I owe you?” Since he hasn’t connected the final dots, I search my wallet for cash, rather than handing over my credit card with a neon ALDISSemblazoned on the front.
While Joy dives into her sweatshirt, I hand over a fifty and, leaving my hand waiting for change, half turn to watch her dance to the front of the store.
“First time?” he asks as I pocket the change.
