After reaching the pier, instead of slowing down he maintained his pace until he got back to the hotel. For the first time in years, he finished his run feeling worse than when he’d started. He bent over, trying to catch his breath, no closer to any concrete answers. He couldn’t help feeling a sea change in his internal world since he’d arrived in town. Everything around him felt indefinably different. Not because of the dark-haired man or Ted or because Tuck had passed away. Everything felt different because of Amanda. She wasn’t simply a memory anymore; she’d suddenly become undeniably real — a vibrant, living version of the past that had never really left him. More than once, a young version of Amanda had visited him in his dreams, and he wondered whether his dreams of her would change in the future. Who would she be? He wasn’t sure. All he knew for certain was that being with Amanda made him feel complete in a way few others would ever know.
The beach had reached its quiet hour, early morning visitors heading back to their cars and vacationers yet to spread out their towels. The waves rolled in a steady rhythm, the sound hypnotic. Dawson squinted toward the water, thoughts of the future filling him with despair. No matter how much he cared for her, he had to accept that she had a husband and children. It had been hard enough to end it once; the thought of ending things again seemed suddenly unbearable. The breeze picked up, whispering to him that his time with her was running out, and he started toward the lobby, drained by the knowledge and wishing with all his heart that things could somehow be different.
The more coffee Amanda drank, the more fortified she felt to deal with her mother. They were on the back veranda, overlooking the garden. Her mom was sitting posture-perfect in a white wicker chair, dressed as though she were expecting the governor to drop by for a visit, and dissecting the events of the previous night. She seemed to delight in finding endless conspiracies and hidden judgments in the tones and words her friends had used during dinner and bridge.
Thanks to the extended bridge game, an evening that Amanda had expected to last an hour, maybe two, lasted until half past ten. Even then, Amanda sensed that none of the others really wanted to go home. Amanda had begun to yawn by that point, and she really couldn’t recollect what her mom was talking about. As far as she could tell, the conversations were no different than they’d been in the past, or than those in any other small town for that matter. Talk ran from neighbors to grandchildren, to who was teaching the latest Bible study or how to properly hang a set of curtains or the escalating price of rib roast, all seasoned with a bit of harmless gossip. The mundane, in other words, but leave it to her mother to raise the conversation to the level of national importance, no matter how misguided. Her mother could find fault or drama in her closet, and Amanda was just happy that her mom hadn’t commenced her litany of complaints until after Amanda had finished her first cup of coffee.
What made focusing even more difficult was that she couldn’t stop thinking about Dawson. She’d tried to convince herself she had everything under control, but then why did she keep visualizing the fall of his thick hair over his collar, or the way he looked in his jeans, or how natural it felt as they’d held each other in those first few moments after he’d arrived? She’d been married long enough to know that those things were less important than simple friendship and trust, forged by common interests; a few days together after more than twenty years wasn’t long enough to even begin to form those bonds. It takes a long time to grow an old friend, and trust is built a single moment at a time. Women, she sometimes thought, had a tendency to see what they wanted to see in men, at least in the beginning, and she wondered whether she was making the same mistake. Meanwhile, as she pondered these unanswerable questions, her mom was incapable of silence. She kept droning on and on—
“Are you listening to me?” her mother asked, interrupting her thoughts.
Amanda lowered her cup. “Of course I’m listening.”
“I was saying that you need to work on your bids.”
“It’s been a while since I’ve played.”
“That’s why I said you should join a club, or start one,” she prompted. “Or didn’t you hear that part?”
“I’m sorry. I’ve got a lot on my mind today.”
“Yes. The little ceremony, right?”
Amanda ignored the dig because she wasn’t in the mood to argue. Which was exactly what her mom wanted, she knew. Her mom had been working herself up all morning, using the imaginary skirmishes of the night before as justification for the inevitable invasion.
“I told you that Tuck wanted his ashes scattered,” she explained, keeping her voice steady. “His wife, Clara, was cremated as well. Maybe he saw it as a way for them to be together again.”
Her mother didn’t seem to hear her. “What would one wear to something like that? It sounds so… dirty.”
Amanda turned toward the river. “I don’t know, Mom. I haven’t thought about it.”
Her mom’s expression was as still and artificial as a mannequin’s. “And the kids? How are they?”
“I haven’t talked to Jared or Lynn this morning. But as far as I know, they’re fine.”
“And Frank?”
She took a sip of her coffee, stalling. She didn’t want to talk about him. Not after the argument they’d had last night, the same one that had become almost routine for them, the same one he would have already forgotten. Marriages, both good and bad, were defined by repetition.
“He’s okay.”
Her mom nodded, waiting for more. Amanda said nothing.
In the silence, her mom straightened the napkin in her lap before going on. “So how does this work today? You just dump the ashes where he wanted you to?”
“Something like that.”
“Do you need a permit to do something like that? I’d hate to think that people were just allowed to do it anywhere they wanted.”
“The lawyer didn’t say anything, so I’m sure it’s all worked out. I’m just honored that Tuck wanted me to be part of whatever he’d planned.”
Her mom leaned forward slightly and smirked. “Oh, that’s right,” she said. “Because you were friends.”
Amanda turned, suddenly tired of all this — her mother, Frank, all the deceptions that had come to characterize her life. “Yes, Mom, because we were friends. I enjoyed his company. He was one of the kindest people I’ve ever known.”
For the first time, her mother seemed discomfited. “Where is this ceremony supposed to take place?”
“Why do you care? It’s obvious you don’t approve.”
“I was just making conversation.” She sniffed. “There’s no reason to be rude.”
“Maybe I sound rude because I’m hurting inside. Or maybe it’s because you’ve yet to say anything supportive about any of this. Not even an, ‘I’m sorry for your loss. I know he meant a lot to you.’ It’s what people generally say when someone close passes away.”
“Perhaps I would have if I’d known about this relationship in the first place. But you’ve been lying about it all along.”
“Did you ever stop to consider that you’re the reason I had to lie in the first place?”
Her mom rolled her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. I didn’t put the words in your mouth. I wasn’t the one sneaking back here. You made the decision, not I, and every decision has consequences. You need to learn to take responsibility for the choices you make.”
“You don’t think I know that?” Amanda felt herself flush.
“I think,” her mom said, drawing the words out, “you can be a little too self-centered at times.”