No. That was something she couldn’t think.
In San Diego, Rye turned onto A Street, which Frankie could see instantly was a street full of Navy families. American flags hung from many of the porches, a few lonely yellow ribbons still fluttered from the tree branches. Most of the POWs were home, but “Tie a Yellow Ribbon” was still a radio hit. On this summer afternoon, the street was full of kids and dogs and women walking side by side pushing strollers.
He pulled up in front of a pretty Craftsman-style bungalow. The yard was a scrabble of discarded toys and roller skates and doll clothes. The poorly cut grass was brown.
Frankie pulled over to the side of the road, the engine idling as if she might come to her senses soon and drive off.
But she didn’t.
Melissa got out of the car. Holding Joey’s hand, she walked up to the house, pulling Joey inside, leaving Rye to carry their stuff.
Rye moved slowly in his wife’s wake, obviously in pain, carrying the basket and blanket. In the middle of the path to the front door, he stopped.
Frankie slunk down in her seat.
“I’ll never do this again if he doesn’t turn around,” she promised herself, and maybe God. She peered up through the window, saw him start walking, limping in a hitching, painful way. He slowly climbed the porch steps, holding on to the handrail.
At the closed front door, he stopped again, as if he didn’t want to go in, and then he opened the door and went into his house, back to his wife and child.
Frankie moved slowly back to an upright position, put the Mustang in gear, and drove forward. As she passed the house, she slowed, staring at the front door, feeling a toxic combination of longing and shame.
Rye opened the front door, stepped out onto the porch, and saw her.
She hit the gas and sped past him.
Idiot.
What had she been thinking? She was still in turmoil when she got home. A gin on the rocks did nothing to lessen her anxiety. She kept looking at the phone, thinking he’d call, wanting him to, not wanting him to. Knowing all he had to do was call information to get her number. After all these years, she was still Frances McGrath on Coronado Island.
But the phone didn’t ring.
Before the world even started to darken, she took two sleeping pills and climbed into bed.
What time did the phone ring? She wasn’t sure. Bleary-eyed, lethargic, she climbed out of bed and stumbled into the kitchen and picked up the phone. “Hello?”
It was still daylight outside. The next day or the same day?
“Frankie? It’s Geneva Stone.”
Her boss. Shit. “Hi,” she said. Was her voice slurry, were her words coming too slowly?
“You were supposed to cover Marlene Foley’s shift tonight.”
“Oh. Right,” Frankie said. “Shorry. I don’t feel well. I should have called in sick.”
There was a long pause; in it, Frankie heard both displeasure and alarm. “Okay, Frankie. I will find someone else. Get better.”
Frankie hung up, unsure the moment she heard the click of the line if she’d said goodbye.
She stumbled onto the sofa, fell sideways onto the cushions, pulled her legs up, and lay down.
Tomorrow she would get her act together. No more pills. And definitely no more stalking. She wouldn’t even think of Rye Walsh.
No more.
* * *
Frankie sat in the director of nursing’s office, stiffly upright, her hands clasped in her lap.
“So,” Mrs. Stone said, her gaze steady on Frankie’s face. “You froze in the OR. During surgery. And you missed a shift.” She waited a beat. “Were sick.”
“Yes, ma’am. But…” She stopped. What could she say?
“I know the trouble you’re having,” Mrs. Stone said gently. “I lost a child myself. As a woman, a mother, I understand, but…” She paused. “This isn’t your first incident in the OR, Frankie. Last month—”
“I know.”
“Perhaps you came back to work too quickly.”
“I need to work,” she said quietly.
Mrs. Stone nodded. “And I need to be able to count on my nurses.”
Frankie drew in a shaky breath. Her life was falling apart. No, it was exploding. Without nursing, what would she have to hang on to? “I can’t lose this.”
“It’s not lost, Frankie. You just need to take a break.”
“I’ll be more careful. I’ll be better.”
“It’s not a conversation we’re having,” Mrs. Stone said. “You are on leave, Frankie. Starting now.”
Frankie got to her feet, feeling shaky. “I’m sorry to have disappointed you.”
“Oh, honey, I’m not disappointed. I’m worried about you.”
“Yeah.” Frankie was tired of hearing that. She meant to say more, maybe apologize again, but the sad and sorry truth was that she should be sidelined. She was unreliable.
How was she supposed to put the pieces of her life back together when she kept breaking apart?
* * *
Frankie slept fitfully, unable to get Rye off her mind. A terrible, dangerous obsession had taken hold of her. Every time she closed her eyes, she thought of him, remembered him, loved him. Over and over again, she saw him standing on his porch, staring at her. The more she imagined that moment, the more she thought he’d looked sad at her driving away. Or was she lying to herself? Manufacturing a dream from the shards of a nightmare?
At just after six P.M., the phone rang and she went down to the kitchen to answer it. “Hello,” she said, picking the Princess phone off the counter, dragging the long cord over the counter so she could open the fridge.
“Hey, Frankie,” Barb said. “You said you’d call on my birthday.”
Shit. “Happy birthday, Barb. I’m sorry. Busy shift last night.” She thought about pouring herself a glass of wine, and then closed the fridge instead.
Today, she vowed. Today she would do better. “Did you have a good one?”
“I did. Met a guy.”
“A guy?” Frankie pulled the cord back over the counter. She turned on the stereo—Roberta Flack—and settled on the sofa, with the light blue phone beside her. “More, please. Salient facts.”
“Thirty-four. ACLU lawyer. Divorced. He has two kids—twin boys. Five-year-olds.”
“And?”
“We met standing in line for Shaft in Africa, if you can believe it. We sat together and then went out for drinks afterward, and, well, we haven’t stopped talking since.”
“Wow. That’s a record for you, Babs. He must be—”
“Special,” Barb said. “He is, Frankie. I was starting to think it wouldn’t happen for me, you know? That I was too … militant, too angry, too everything. But this guy—his name is Jere, by the way—he likes all of that about me. He says lots of women have soft curves. He likes my sharp edges.”
“Wow,” Frankie said again. She was about to say more, ask a question about sex, actually, when the doorbell rang. “Just a sec, Barb. Someone’s here.” She kept the phone to her ear, carried the handset with her, and went to the door, opening it.
Rye stood there, wearing his aviator sunglasses and a Seawolves’ cap pulled low over his eyes.
She started to shut the door.
He put a foot out to stop her. “Please,” he said.
She couldn’t look away. “I gotta go, Barb.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Sure,” she said evenly, surprised at how calm she sounded. “Happy birthday again. We’ll talk soon.” Frankie hung up, held the phone balanced in one hand. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“You shouldn’t have followed me home yesterday.”
“I know.”
“I saw you on the beach,” he said. “I was hoping to. It’s why I picked Coronado. By the Del. You always talked about it.”
“Did I?”
“Isn’t that where you surfed with Fin?”
She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Why are you here?”
“I know why you followed me. It means you still—”
“Don’t.”