“Not an image that squares with your reality?”
“Not at this point.”
“Try this on for an image, then.” He removes his T-shirt, tossing it onto the sand beside me. “He’s even more gorgeous out of that wet suit than he is in it.”
Studying Casey’s own sculpted, fit physique, it’s not hard to fill in what I couldn’t see of Michael moments ago. “Oh, my.” I blow out a slow, dreamy sigh. Surfer boys sure do age gracefully.
“Yeah, thought you’d like that one.” Grabbing his board, he warns, “I’ll get you out there yet, O’Neill.”
Back at Casey’s, I find Andrea lazing on the sofa with a book—not outside with Olivia on the beach where she belongs. So I implement a plan of action, and explain that I’m going out to fly one or two of my kites. That I’d love for her to tag along. With Michael in the shower, I figure now is a good time to make headway with her. She declines politely, but I give an upbeat smile.
Walking down the steps to the beach, I find an open area right in front of the house with plenty of good room to launch a kite. My choice is an easy one—the butterfly.
After a stuttering start, the kite zigzags into the open sky, flapping like a piece of paper caught in a floor fan. Holding the string tightly within my hand, I unfurl another few feet. The butterfly nosedives sharply, but then catches air and sails high again. Carefully, I ease down, sitting on my towel.
Behind me, I hear muffled footsteps on the sand—small steps—and I know that like my own tiny minnow, Andrea has answered the pull of my lure. It’s only a matter of time until she’s hooked completely.
“How come you brought kites?” she asks, standing behind me.
Never taking my eyes off my airborne creature, I answer, “Because kites are fun.”
“But they’re for kids.”
“Who says?” The kite ascends even higher. Pressing my hand to my forehead, I shield my eyes against the hazy, late afternoon sun.
“They just are,” she answers, settling beside me on the warm sand. She’s wearing a giant straw hat that’s sunk low down her forehead. I can barely see her eyes.
“Want to help me?” I ask, offering the ball of string to her, but she shakes her head. I’ve learned enough about precious Andrea, how she opens to me on her own terms.
For a long while, we sit together in silence, the gulls overhead competing with our kite’s peaceful performance. I envy both, watching them fly free, unencumbered. Beside me, Andrea digs her toes around, dislodging dark sand from below; it’s cooler underneath, she tells me after a while. Not like the sand we’re sitting on.
“I don’t want to surf,” she says, reaching for the string still held tight within my hands.
“Be careful,” I caution gently, “or it will get away from us.” She takes the twine from me with confidence, gripping it like an expert. The kite lurches slightly overhead as we make the pass off, but then sails boldly again.
“Michael wants me to surf,” she continues, pushing her hat back so she can see over the low brim. “It’s a big deal to him. But I don’t want to.”
“Then don’t.”
“But he wants me to.”
“Well, he can surf,” I say. “Casey can surf. I can even surf, maybe. But I don’t see why you should, not if you don’t want to.”
“It’s something we did with Daddy,” she explains, auburn eyebrows furrowing sharply together. “It was always Daddy’s thing. That’s why he’s making such a big deal out of it. He’s trying to make it like it’s something we do together, but it isn’t.”
“You know, could be he just likes to surf,” I suggest, trying not to push too hard. Trying not to remind her that even she has told me how the three of them surfed together; that it was never only something she did with Alex. Memory serves the mind in many ways: sometimes self-deception furthers the healing.
“No, he definitely likes it,” she agrees with surprising ease. “But mostly it makes him think of Daddy. That’s why he’s always in the surfboard room.” I shake my head, not sure what she means. “He goes in there all the time, when I’m in bed. I think he even sleeps in there sometimes. He really misses Daddy.”
My heartbeat quickens, but I remain on track for her. This moment isn’t about me, or my sense of competition with a dead man. It’s about a lost little girl, one who needs me desperately. “So, if it’s something y’all used to do as a family,” I try, “then why not help him out with that? You know? He does miss your daddy. You miss him, too, so you could maybe just give it a go?”
“You know I can’t.” She begins to tug the kite back in, slowly winding the string around the ball.
“I don’t understand, sweetie.”
“But you know why.” She stares at the sky, away from me. “I told you.”