Was she being unreasonable? Even in hindsight, Cece can’tbe entirely sure. Jonathan’s proposal a few weeks ago had suddenly put everything in perspective, and imagined or not, she was staring down the barrel of a marriage tinged with quiet desperation. “I think you just like the idea of me, Jonathan,” she said, and opened the door to leave. “You say all that crap about supporting my career, but you don’t mean it, not really. You’d rather just throw money at the problem.”
If Cece’s intention was to make him angry, she was successful. “Just for reference, Cece,” Jonathan said bitterly, retreating into their apartment, “things like families, like homes…traditions…you know, happiness…those are things that normal people want. Money’s got nothing to do with it.”
At first, the walk around their neighborhood was only meant to clear her head; Cece had every intention of returning home and apologizing to Jonathan. She was being unfair. Through the prism of their engagement, everything had suddenly appeared permanent and immovable. She’d panicked, but the feeling would pass. Jonathan would understand. If anything, Jonathan was understanding!
Raindrops spattered the wind as sidewalks turned to dirt paths. Birds, atwitter, rose from the reeds, and Cece realized she’d walked far from the apartment, through Kosciuszko Park, where she stood at the water’s edge. Scrambling over the darkened rocks, she moved closer, until the Sound lapped the tips of her shoes. She felt the chilled water soaking her socks. Someone called from the path for her to “watch out,” and Cece stepped back, but not before slipping the ring from her finger and burying it in her jacket pocket. She would go back, but only to pack her things and tell Jonathan it was over.
“What did yousay was in that stuff?” Cece says. The women are taking another well-earned break after their second battle with the Japanese wineberry. Cece’s lying on a lounge chair, her thighs pushing through the bottom where it’s missing the plastic bands.
Lorraine, sun hat nudged back on her forehead, offers the jar again. “A little sugar, black tea, yeast, and bacteria culture.”
“Never mind. I thought I’d changed my mind.”
Lorraine shoves off her Crocs and begins to unclip her overalls. “I’m going for a dip.”
Cece does her best to hide her alarm.
“Relax,” Lorraine says, jettisoning a sock with a flick of her foot. “I’ve got shorts on underneath.”
“I wasn’t worried.”
“Sure,” Lorraine says, lumbering to the shallow end, where she lowers herself in with a grunt, grime-smeared shirt and all. “Where did you end up finding a job? Or do I need to worry about you making rent this month?”
Cece remembers what the bartender told her last night, about the neighborhood tearing each other apart over Rayburn Oyster’s planned expansion. Lorraine’s a scientist; surely, she knows all about the ecological benefits of oysters, and it’s not like her house overlooks the cove. Still, Cece treads carefully. “Sure did. At an oyster farm nearby.”
“As long as it’s not with Richie Rayburn, you’re good in my book.”
“Never heard of him,” Cece says quietly.
“Lucky for you. He’s a real SOB. Thinks he can just bully his way into our community. But we’re organizing.” Thankfully, Lorraine doesn’t seem interested in expounding on her hatred for Cece’s current employer. First Morgan, now Richie. Some luck Cece’s got.
“You really aren’t coming in?” Lorraine asks as she bobs in the water. “It’s touching ninety already.”
Cece shakes her head. She hasn’t so much as dipped a toe in a pool since blowing out her shoulder (for the third time) her junior year during a tournament in Albany. It’s not the injury that stops Cece; it’s the memory of her father, calling her a quitter for refusing to get another surgery, the look on her mother’s face while he berated her, passive and indifferent. It’s also the extra loans she’d had to take out after quitting the swim team and losing her athletic scholarship. It’s a lot of things, but Lorraine doesn’t need to know all that.
Back inside, Cece decides she can’t ignore Wynonna’s phone calls anymore. By her count, there are at least four she hasn’t returned. Since the breakup, her sister has made a habit of checking in on her, a gesture Cece finds herself simultaneously appreciating and resenting. She’s the older sister; shouldn’t the roles be reversed?
The sound of shrieking children fills the background when Wynonna picks up.
“Just returning your calls,” Cece says, “but you sound busy.”
There’s some shuffling and muffled castigating. “I’m always busy. I can’t believe Devin talked me into a second kid. It’s madness…How’s…Where are you again?”
“New London.”
“What’s in New London?”
Cece resents these simple questions that lay bare the inadequacy of her plan. “Nothing. I just had to get out of Stamford.”
“Do you have a job up there or something?”
“Kind of.”
“What’s that mean?”
“I’m working on an oyster farm.”
“Are you okay?”
