Blue Jeans and Coffee Beans Read online

  ALSO BY JOANNE DEMAIO

  Whole Latte Life

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 Joanne DeMaio

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1479262773

  ISBN-13: 9781479262779

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-62346-452-3

  LCCN: 2012916696

  CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform

  North Charleston, SC

  www.joannedemaio.com

  To my daughter, Jena

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Acknowledgments

  Questions With Coffee

  About The Author

  Chapter One

  Long Island Sound’s lazy breaking waves chase her back onto the sand. She watches them carefully, believing they are truly after her. Upon the waves’ retreat, her little legs dare to step back toward them, never to quite within their reach, while never far from her mother’s reach, either. She is only a toddler, the girl in the blue and white ruffled bathing suit, her light brown hair falling with a salty fluff to just below her tanned shoulders. The last of an ice cream bar clings to its stick, melting slowly and dripping on her toes.

  The woman looks on from her low sand chair. Long, slender arms loosely hold her knees pulled up close while she glances from her daughter to the sparkling expanse of salt water before her. Deep brown eyes level that gaze from beneath a wide-brimmed straw sun hat. She looks past the horizon, connecting with an influence far beyond the sea, closing her eyes as though seeing her sister over in Europe but as close as a wish.

  Beneath the September sun, she stands and walks to her daughter, casual in loosely cuffed jeans and an embroidered tunic, a brown wooden bangle on her wrist.

  “Look at the sunshine sparkling on the water. The sparkles look like ocean stars, don’t they? Starlight in the daytime.” Ever so lightly, her fingertips rest atop her daughter’s head, moving through strands of salty hair. Life momentarily pauses in their brief seaward gazes, as though this forms the core of it. All else springs ever from this connection. She turns then, pushes her straw hat up a little and walks ankle-deep into the water. A flash of summer sunlight flares as the camera turns into the sun while her husband films her wading in the Sound. The scene flickers between washes of light and the fading woman, until a spray of dull white speckled with wavering black threads finally overcomes it.

  Maris reaches over to the old projector and stops the 8mm home movie. She has become adept at imagining the words her mother might have once said to her, dreaming up a gentle voice reaching her ear. A lifetime of longing will do that.

  And now this, another film to add to her collection. Maris has more video than memory of her mother, scenes she memorized long ago. Christmases, birthdays. But mostly, the beach. Her mother often planned seaside day trips with varying shoreline stops, a picnic lunch packed for them, sandals ready. There were rocky coastlines, dunes of beach grass, sunset walks. So this newly discovered scene seems a gift as her mother walks along a beach on a mid-September day. It brings her back to life with past images that Maris’ eyes have never seen. Is it the last film ever made of her, the last time the movie camera was pulled off a closet shelf? Is it the last bit of lightness before an invisible patch of black ice descended upon them late the next year? Is the film intended to take her thoughts off the long-ago random, quick skid that threw the car into a large oak tree? Even last week when she stopped at the damaged trunk out past the apple orchard, past the farm stand, a bouquet withered in the wind, the last of decades of bouquets her father must have tied there, maybe on her mother’s birthday.

  Tucked in an attic box for thirty long years, time has left its mark on this old reel of film that says so much, in so little, its colors fading. A quick scene, a look, a touch of her hair she can almost still feel. She knows what they mean though. A lifetime of watching silent home movies, of studying the nuances of the mother she’d lost, trained her eye. The body speaks volumes in the way it moves, listens, bends to touch a cheek. Now Maris captures the same quick feelings in her fashion sketches, the clothes covering human shapes that care, that move with feeling, that know love.

  But after two weeks of going through her childhood home, room by room, placing in storage the furniture and household items she wants to keep, commissioning to the auction house the remainder, goodbyes are due. There are no sisters or brothers with whom to debate keeping a brass lamp or a linen tablecloth or a crystal vase. No one to consider living on in the family home. There is only herself, flying in from Chicago with a leave of absence to wrap up the loose ends of her father’s estate.

  It is time to leave. So on her last day here, with the boxes all packed, she finally set up the old movie projector and screen. But watching her family one last time together in their home, she doesn’t count on the emotion. Doesn’t even realize the simple beach images of her mother move her until she comes out of the kitchen with a glass of water, ready to watch the remaining film when her doorbell rings. Even then, not until her oldest and dearest friend comments on her tears does Maris realize she’s been crying. Some longings never cease.

  “Eva?”

  “Surprise!” Eva shakes out her dripping umbrella. “Doesn’t this beat email? Face-to-face, at last.” She rushes out of the rain into the foyer, slipping off her wet trench coat. “I figured your car couldn’t possibly hold all the boxes, so I brought the truck.” She motions over her shoulder to the large SUV parked outside, then turns back to Maris. “Whoa, whoa, what’s with the tears? I knew it. I knew this would be too much for you alone.”

  “It’s not the packing. Really, Eva.”

  Taped and labeled moving cartons line the wall near the foyer. Beyond, floor to ceiling drapes still hang on the windows and a floral sofa fills the far corner. An old lamp, its shade yellowed with age, stands on an end table. Nails and light shadows remain on walls once decorated with paintings. Eva spots the movie screen and turns to her friend. “Are you seriously watching home movies? Alone? Today?”

  “It’s not what you’re thinking. Really. I found a reel of film in an attic box and wanted to see what was on it before packing it up.”

  “Just one? By itself?”

  “Honest, just one, and I’ve seen enough.” Maris closes the movie screen. “Let’s hit the road before it gets dark.”

  “Are you sure? We have time to watch the rest.”

  “Oh I’m sure. I’ve had enough emotion to last me a year at least. Your timing actually couldn’t be better.”

  “Well hey, I want you packed and at my place as soon as possible. Before you can change your mind about staying on a while. We’ve got so much catching up to do.
And you’ll have a little breather from all this, too.” She gives Maris the lone reel of film. “Hold on to that.”

  “Let me take one last walk through, okay? I’ll get the dog, poor thing. She’s upstairs still waiting for my dad to come back.”

  Eva tucks the portable screen under her arm. “Take your time, say your goodbyes. It’s okay. I’ll call Matt from the car and let him know we’re on our way.”

  Through the swishing windshield wipers and headlight beams illuminating sheets of rain, Maris considers the twelve years of time that stand between herself and her last summer at the Connecticut shore. Twelve years of building a career and maneuvering relationships as she relocated around the country.

  When she exits off the highway onto the secondary beach road, her grip on the steering wheel loosens. Chicago seems far away, her life there, and Scott, only shadows right now. She opens her window and the thick salt air fills her car. Madison snorts the air from the back seat.

  “You too, huh?” Maris asks. She wonders if her father ever took the German Shepherd to the beach, if the dog has some beach memory of him.

  The rain picks up again, bringing her focus back to the winding road. When a car pulls out in front of her, Eva stops her SUV at the curb until Maris catches up. While driving, she sees glimpses of the railroad track running along the coastline. On long-ago summer nights here, the train whistle floated through the dips and curves of the river valley and shoreline towns like a silver ribbon of sound. It is no wonder a train whistle always brings her back to her summers at the beach.

  Only one narrow lane leads into Stony Point, forking in an easy curve off the winding main road. It is nearly hidden by the railroad trestle that runs over it and by the market and secondhand bookshop that sit on the trestle’s hill before it. If you didn’t know it existed, you could drive right by, completely unaware of a world unto itself. Now she follows her best friend around the curve, through the dark tunnel under the tracks. For the first time in months, her mind feels clearer and her spirits lift.

  Someone once told her that the sea air and salt water are cleansing. They cure what ails you.

  Chapter Two

  Marry me,” Scott says.

  “What?”

  “Right away. Let’s get married. At that chapel you like. Or a Justice of the Peace. I don’t care where, just marry me. I love you and I was wrong and I want to be with you. Next week, right away.”

  “Scott, we’re not even engaged.” Maris presses the curtain aside and looks out the window, holding the cell close. The marsh spreads out past Eva’s backyard, the grasses green and soft, rising from the mist. A heron stands on the bank, glistening white in the early sun.

  “We’re not kids. It doesn’t matter. We’ll do it right away, no engagement.”

  “Wait. Wait, Scott. What are you doing? It’s not the right time. My father just died and I’m exhausted.”

  “Exactly. And you need me now. You need us together.”

  Maris turns away from the window, then turns right back.

  “I love you, Maris, and I don’t want it to come between us that I wasn’t there for the funeral. Say yes to me.”

  “Oh, Scott.” She leans against the window frame, moving closer to the sea, the salt air. “I can’t. Not yet, anyway.”

  “Of course you can. We’ve talked about it plenty.”

  She watches below as Matt walks outside to his car, his posture perfect in a state police uniform. She’s been standing at this bedroom window since before anyone in the house had woken; now they are going to work. “Tonight. I’ll call you tonight, Scott. I promise.”

  The walls grow close, the air closer. His proposal, if she’d call it that, hems her in somehow. And it makes her take a deep breath and push back by going downstairs to talk to her friend about it over a fresh cup of coffee.

  “What are you looking at so intently this morning?” Maris asks, breezing into the kitchen.

  “Pinterest.” Eva glances up from the laptop opened on the table before turning back to the screen. “I’m pinning ideas on my board.”

  “Ideas for what?” Maris finds a mug in the cabinet and pours herself a cup of coffee.

  “Decorating this place. It’s great being back in my family home, but seriously? Sometimes it feels like I’m still in high school with this old wallpaper. Want to see my pins?”

  Maris turns and leans against the counter, eyeing her friend.

  “Or not,” Eva says. She pulls a light cardigan close against the morning damp. “What’s the matter?”

  “Scott proposed.”

  “What?”

  “He did. Just now.”

  “Wait. You’re getting married?”

  Maris shrugs.

  “Whoa! Congratulations, Maris! That is awesome!” Eva rushes over and hugs her. “I’m so happy for you.”

  “Well nothing’s definite yet.” Maris takes her coffee over to the table and sits in front of the laptop. “He caught me a little off-guard with this.”

  Now Eva eyes her. “Uh-oh. This is good news, isn’t it?”

  “I guess. It just feels a little surreal. I mean, married? Me?”

  “Yes!” Eva sits across from her. “You’ll finally settle down! And Scott’s a great guy. Aren’t you happy?”

  “Well. Sure I am. It just hasn’t sunk in yet. Married!”

  “You know what you need? A ring on that finger. That’ll make it sink in.”

  Maris holds out her left hand, looking carefully at her ring finger. “I don’t know.”

  “Can’t you see it? A beautiful diamond glimmering on your hand? Listen. Just try this. Visualize it. You know, like on my Pinterest boards. Or better yet,” she says, grabbing Maris’ arm, “I have an idea.” They run together up the stairs, Eva tugging at her halfhearted resistance.

  “What are you doing now?” Maris asks when Eva lifts open the old hope chest in the upstairs hallway. Oh she can see it clearly in her eyes, that little bit of the rebel inspiring her idea, whatever it may be, as she digs into the blankets and scarves and sweaters.

  “Visualizing, my friend. Visualizing. Trust me. I’ll show you how.”

  Time moves like the sea. She always felt so. Living right at the beach, time is placid and calm, soft waves of it rolling onto the shore of her days. One day follows the other, over and over, in a comfortable and reassuring way. No matter what she is doing, at any age, that awareness of the movement of the sea, and of waves of time, keeps her grounded.

  But as volatile as the sea can be, so too is any hour, any moment. Washing ashore, overtaking her very self with its insistence, with its forward movement rushing over her so powerfully she can be knocked senseless by the force of time. Waves of the past have that way of pulling at her, leaving her gasping and struggling to get her bearings, to breathe evenly.

  Eva studied her reflection in the mirror. It was one of those days when so much happens, a day cresting with immense change. She remembered her mother’s words as she leaned close to the mirror, adding a smudge of eyeliner beneath her eyes.

  “Look what you’ve done now,” Theresa had said only weeks earlier, on a day when rain drummed steady on the house. Water streaked the windows, turning the panes fluid. “There’s absolutely no going back now. And what about college? Did you two even think of that?”

  Eva added more eyeliner almost in defiance of her mother’s words. At least she’d finished high school. And it’s not like she was the first teenager to ever get herself pregnant. But maybe what she needed was the definition of family that came with it; maybe it felt good to connect with a baby. She’d already begun whispering a few phrases, wondering if the baby could hear them. Because her baby would always know her, and its father, too. She and Matt would find some way to get married and stay together.

  But fear of that uncertain future finally won out and brought her to her mother for help. On that rainy day in the kitchen, her words to Theresa came like little riptides tugging at her heart, at her tears, at her throa
t, pulling her under and choking her up. After a graduation party at Foley’s and Usually we just hang out there, you know were followed by a gasp as she was near drowning in fear. We played cards and We were celebrating and drank a little had her wiping tears off her face, tasting the salt and closing her eyes against the unknown washing over her. Later we went to the beach, and I don’t know, it just happened she’d continued, her breathing ragged, her face wet, her insouciance drowned out by a clear reality now.

  “Well you and Matthew made a bad decision. It’s as simple as that.” Theresa’s voice dropped low. “And now your options are limited, so we’ll make your next decision right now. You and me. And you’ll stick to it, Eva. You’ll get through this. You’ll have the baby and live here. Dad and I will help you raise it, don’t worry. It’ll be okay.”

  Eva shook her head no as her mother spoke.

  “What do you mean, no? You are not getting an abortion, and you are definitely not giving that baby up for adoption, tying up another generation in knots.”

  “We’re getting married,” Eva whispered.

  “Excuse me?”

  “We are. Matt wants to.”

  “Oh no. No, no, no. You are way too young for that. Maybe in a few years, if you’re still together. It’s bad enough there’s a baby to take care of now. Marriage is out of the question.”

  “You can’t stop us.” At that point, she wasn’t sure if her mother even heard her quiet insistence fighting tears, and fighting her mother’s will. “I’m marrying Matt.”

  Theresa looked long at her, then reached forward and dabbed at Eva’s smeared eyeliner with a tissue. Eva wouldn’t break her gaze, staring straight at her, her tear-rimmed eyes unblinking. After living a life shaped by moments she knew nothing of, moments that separated her from her birth mother, she’d resolved moments wouldn’t decide anymore. She would.

  So a few weeks later, on this late August Saturday morning, Eva stood barefoot in front of her bedroom mirror in the vintage gown she’d chosen. Embroidered lace flowers covered the sheer short sleeves, a white ribbon reached around her waist to a bow in the back, while the gown fell simply into a few lace tiered layers. She accepted Theresa’s help now; she actually wanted it, desperately. The wedding would be small and simple, and she and Matt would live at home until they got their bearings. But still … still. Eva would still do some things her way, would define her own path to motherhood. Her way meant the ceremony would be on the beach she loved. And remaining barefoot in the warm sand in her vintage gown became another of her own small acts of control, of definition. Because on the beach, in the sea breezes, in the sound of the waves, didn’t other voices often carry, a whispered voice she missed all her life.