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thirty
“You’re a friend?” Rhett’s mother had a barely there Southern accent, like good perfume. She was around six feet tall, had smooth skin that belied her age, dark hair streaked with gray and green eyes that reminded Constance of the moss that grew on ancient stones lying in the crooks of fertile hills. It was the same green Rhett had in his eyes.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Call me Meara.”
“Meara.”
“Hmm.” She tapped her chin with a forefinger. “My son is a master of brevity. So, when he walks in and says, ‘Hey. This is my friend, Constance,’ I just assume that Rhett is being Rhett. But you can tell me the truth.” She whipped her kitchen towel over her shoulder and smiled. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
“We’re friends,” Constance repeated, which wasn’t a lie. That didn’t change the fact that Constance felt like she was being stared down by a hungry tiger. A strikingly attractive hungry tiger, but a tiger nonetheless.
“You’re uncomfortable there.” Meara tapped her chin again as she observed Constance. “Let’s move to the back deck.” She didn’t wait for an answer, but collected both cups of tea, walked by Constance’s perch at the dining table and tilted her head to follow.
Constance rose a little too quickly and slammed her knee into the neighboring chair. “Ow.” She clutched at it, but Meara hadn’t slowed down. She was already using her foot to push open the screen door that separated the dining area from the deck. “Let me help you.” Constance scrambled for the door, but it was too late.
Meara had already settled both cups on a wooden table that was connected to two chairs, one on each side. She reached behind Constance and slid the screen shut.
The Outer Banks breeze was cool and welcoming. “Wow.” Constance could see the ocean, rolling beneath the orange ball of the setting sun. It looked like a clementine floating in a golden pool of dying sunlight. The sound of the surf washed over her as the salt air bathed her skin. To her left, a long set of stairs led to the sand below. All the houses out here were elevated well above sea level. On the drive in, Constance had seen more than one beach house whose stairs had been washed away by last year’s hurricane winds and roaring waves.
Meara joined her against the deck rail and stared out at the ocean. “It never gets old.”
“It’s so beautiful.” Constance went quiet after that, unable to speak as she watched the dusk happen before her eyes. In the wake of their quiet, punctuated only by the sound of the lapping surf, she could hear soft male chatter coming from the deck below, which sat outside Rhett’s bedroom. He’d shown it to her after they arrived, had said, “Put your stuff in here. It’s got a bigger bed. I’ll sleep in Mel’s room,” and left her to the cozy space that sported a queen-size bed, simple wooden dresser and bookshelves and an adjoining bath. Constance couldn’t make out any of their words, but eventually realized the reason for that was because they were speaking Spanish.
Rhett and his father. Every once in a while, they’d break into laughter, then would pick back up again in the language they both seemed most comfortable sharing. Listening to Rhett speak Spanish was like listening to another person altogether, but with the same deep baritone. His words rolled together, musical and light. Goose bumps rose over her skin. Constance blamed it on the North Carolina wind.
“Those two.” Meara held up her first two fingers, crossed. “It’s funny because Rhett is way more like me than he is his father. Tall. Persistent. Some would say bullish. We don’t back down and we like to have things our way. Domingo, he’s more soft-spoken. Conciliatory. Got the biggest heart of any person I’ve ever met in my life.” Meara’s face glowed in the darkening sunset.
Constance understood. Domingo, who had given her the biggest hug she’d ever received in her life from a father figure, had a heartbreaking smile and a personality that accepted you immediately. He seemed like the kind of person who liked you by default, and saw the best in everyone. Standing at around five feet seven, he was still taller than Constance but well shorter than his wife or son. “My sister, Mel, got the small person genes,” Rhett had said with a grin, and Domingo had laughed harder than anyone.
“Rhett and I are too much alike, maybe,” Meara continued, “to be as close as that. He and his father have always been inseparable. Did everything together, though I was the sportier of the two. I would push Rhett hard at soccer practice or cross-country training and Domingo would say, ‘Ah, it’s just a game,mijo.’” Meara waved a hand. “Just a game. When is anything just a game?” She gave Constance a knowing smile.
Constance figured that between Rhett’s insistence on pushing people out of their comfort zones and his proud acceptance of any performance that was given with full effort, he’d gotten the best of both of his parents. “I was a cheerleader,” Constance said, then wondered why she’d led with that. “Not just at games but we’d travel and compete. I was actually pretty good.”
Meara glanced down. “You got the quads for it.”
Constance followed her gaze and ran a palm over her bare thigh. “Thanks. I think.”
“Yeah, it was a compliment. Who wants skinny legs?”
Constance didn’t say,Me, most of my life. She actually liked her legs now.
Meara reached out and tucked a windblown strand of hair behind Constance’s ear. “Constance Morrigan,” she said. “An Irish girl, then.”
“Dad’s side. My mother’s people were Russian.”
“That explains the eyes. Pretty.” Meara turned back to the ocean. She opened her arms. “Our house has been here ages. Long before all these beach rentals that have a thousand rooms. I understand why people do it, but I like my little space.”
“Your home is lovely.”
“Thanks. Rhett told me you’re a massage therapist.”
“Yes. I’ve been helping him with his leg.”
Meara chuckled. “Oh, no.” She waved a hand at Constance’s startled expression. “I’m not laughing at your profession. I’m a physical therapist myself. I was just thinking that you’re about as chatty as my son. You two must have a lot of wild conversations.” She snorted with soft sarcasm. “Do you both wait for the other to start talking?”
Constance giggled. “Sometimes,” she said. “I guess I’m kind of quiet. My father raised me, after my mother died, and he was legally deaf. He lost his hearing in Vietnam. He could still talk, because he wasn’t born deaf. But he rarely did. He liked silence.”
