“What do you mean?” Shelly studied Daria’s face. “Why would her cheeks be red?”
“’Cause Daria has a thing for Rory,” Chloe said.
Shelly lit up at that news. “You do?” she asked.
“I don’t know what Chloe’s talking about,” Daria said.
“A new man for you!” Shelly exclaimed.
“Oh, no,” Daria protested. “No way.” She glanced over her shoulder at Chloe. “Thanks a lot,” she said.
Chloe laughed.
“I’m not interested in Rory Taylor that way at all,” Daria said to Shelly. “Chloe just remembers back when we were kids, and it’s true, I did have a crush on him then, but that was a long time ago, so don’t get your hopes up.” She knew that Shelly had been worried about her ever since Pete fell out of her life. Shelly didn’t know how much of a role she’d played in his leaving, of course, and Daria intended to keep it that way.
“I think he’s really nice,” Shelly said.
“Yes, he is,” Daria agreed. She’d been particularly touched the night before by the warm and easy way Rory had related to Shelly. That was a sure way to Daria’s heart.
St. Esther’s was packed with the summer crowd. The church had expanded physically since that day Daria and her mother had lit candles for the infant abandoned on the beach, but the atmosphere inside was the same—clean and light and filled with the scent of the sea. Daria knew she could be considered part of the summer crowd herself, since she rarely attended church any other time of year. Shelly went most weeks, either walking or riding her bike or catching a ride from a fellow parishioner. But in the summer, Daria felt a need to attend mass out of respect for Chloe. She’d somehow missed out on the devout genes that had coursed through her family for generations. Perhaps Chloe had received her share.
Communion was a problem for her this summer. Although she’d left behind church dogma and ritual, she still felt guilty about receiving communion when she had not confessed the truth about the plane crash. Yet she received it, anyway. Otherwise, Chloe would have known she was carrying around some sin in her heart. Daria told herself she had done her best the night of the crash. Everyone had done their best. No one had any intent to harm. Nevertheless, she had covered up their human failings. That was her sin.
A group of children mobbed Chloe—Sister Chloe—in front of the church after mass, badgering her with questions about what they would be doing in day camp the coming week. Daria liked watching Chloe with the kids. Her sister was animated and affectionate with them, unlike the nuns Daria remembered from her own Catholic school childhood.
Sean Macy approached them as they were walking to the car, and the three of them turned to greet him.
“Hi, Shelly, dear,” the priest said when he’d caught up to them. “Sister.” He nodded at Chloe, then looked at Daria. “Good to see you at church, Daria,” he said. He had a teasing twinkle in his eye, and Daria smiled at him. All of the Catos had a special place in their hearts for Father Macy, since he’d helped Sue and Tom Cato adopt Shelly long ago. He’d also gotten Shelly her housekeeping job at the church, and he worked side by side with Chloe in the day-camp program.
“I need a moment with Daria,” the priest said to them. He took Daria by the arm and led her away from the car, and she waited for him to speak again. “I’ve been asked to talk with you, Daria,” he said.
She raised her eyebrows. “What about?”
“About resuming your EMT duties.”
She groaned. Someone at the Emergency Medical Services must have been bending Father Macy’s ear. “Who told you to speak with me?” she asked.
“Several people, actually,” the priest said. “You are sorely missed. And the community suffers without you, you know.”
“Thanks for the guilt trip,” she said.
“Seriously, Daria.” His face lost its smile. He was handsome, his hair still that wheat-blond color, but when he didn’t smile, he looked tired. “I don’t know what demons you’re grappling with,” he said, “but I want you to know that I’m here, if you ever want to talk about it.”
“Thanks, Father,” she said. “But I really have nothing to talk about. I just needed a break for a while.”
“I can understand that,” he said. The smile was back again. “I feel that way myself sometimes.” He squeezed her hand warmly, then told her goodbye, and she turned and began walking, slowly, toward her car.
She had certainly considered counseling. That’s what she would suggest for anyone else who’d suddenly relinquished their EMT duties. But counseling wouldn’t help. She’d lie to the counselor, so what would be the point?
In the car, she found that Shelly was now in the back seat, Chloe in the front. She started the engine.
“What did Father Sean want to talk to you about?” Shelly asked.
Daria pulled out of the parking lot and turned onto the road. “He just wanted to see if I could help out with the charity auction this year,” she said.
“Oh,” Shelly said, satisfied, but Chloe gave Daria a dark look.
“With a lie like that,” she said under her breath, “you’d better go to confession before you receive communion next Sunday.”
Daria thought she was only half joking.
6
GRACE SPOONED A DOLLOP OF WHIPPED CREAM ON THE mocha latte and handed the cup across the counter to Jean Best, one of the regular customers at Beachside Café and Sundries.
“How are you doing, Grace?” Jean asked. Her eyes bore concern, and the question was sincere, but Grace busied herself cleaning the espresso machine.
“Just fine, Jean,” she said. “Thanks for asking.” She knew she should ask Jean how things were going with her elderly mother and the house she was trying to sell, but she didn’t want to engage her—or anyone, actually—in conversation.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Jean said, taking her cue from Grace’s reticence and backing away from the counter. “Thanks for the coffee.” She carried her coffee to one of the small tables near the window overlooking Pamlico Sound, and Grace was relieved to see her go.
Beachside Café and Sundries was small, cramped and popular among locals and tourists alike. She and Eddie had opened it eight years ago with money Eddie’s mother had left him. They carried a few staples, but they were most beloved for their coffee and sandwiches, which ran the gamut from avocado and cheese to Italian subs, something for everyone. The shop had been a labor of love, a reflection of love, and people used to comment on the warm, supportive relationship she and Eddie still enjoyed after twenty years of marriage. No one was commenting on it now, though.
Grace made a couple of sandwiches for a man and woman she didn’t recognize. She was more comfortable these days with the strangers, with people who didn’t know her and know all she’d endured these past few months. She didn’t want pity. She didn’t want sympathy. And most of all, she didn’t want to talk about it. Because if she talked, she would disintegrate into little pieces. And that she couldn’t afford to do.
She knew her regular customers worried about her. They worried about how much weight she’d lost and how fragile she seemed to be, both physically and emotionally. They commented about her pallor and her inability to concentrate on what anyone was saying. A few weeks earlier, she’d overheard a conversation between two of her customers, one of whom said, “Grace just isn’t herself these days.” That had become her mantra. Whenever she found herself thinking or doing something out of character for her—which was often, lately—she heard that voice inside her head: Grace just isn’t herself these days.