The call dropped. Cell-phone signals were iffy this low on the peninsula.
For the first time, Camille took a moment to look around the curtain area. Principal Drake Larson had shown up. Drake—her ex-boyfriend—looked utterly professional in a checked shirt and tie, knife pleats in his pants. But the rings of sweat in his armpits indicated he was anything but calm.
Drake should have been perfect for her, but not long ago, she’d admitted—first to herself, then to Drake—that their relationship was over. He still called her, though. He kept hinting that he wanted to see her again, and she didn’t want to hurt his feelings by turning him down.
She’d tried for months to find her way into loving Drake. He was a good guy, gentlemanly and kind, nice-looking, sincere. Yet despite her efforts, there was no spark, no heart-deep sense that they belonged together. With a sense of defeat, she realized she was never going to get there with him. She was ready to close that short and predictable chapter of her utterly uninteresting love life. Breaking it off with him had been an exercise in diplomacy, since he was the principal of her daughter’s high school.
“So when my daughter was being dragged out to sea in a riptide, where were you?” she demanded, pinning Coach Swanson with an accusatory glare.
“I was on the beach, running drills.”
“How did she hit her head? Did you see how it happened?”
He shuffled his feet. “Camille—”
“So that’s a no.”
“Mom,” said Julie. “I already told you, it was a stupid accident.”
“She didn’t have my permission to be in the program,” Camille said to the coach. Then she turned to Drake. “Who was in charge of verifying the permission slips?”
“Are you saying she didn’t bring one in?” Drake turned to the coach.
“We have one on file,” Swanson said.
Camille glanced at Julie, whose cheeks were now bright red above the cervical collar. She looked embarrassed, but Camille noticed something else in her eyes—a flicker of defiance.
“How long has this been going on?” she asked.
“This was our fourth session,” said the coach. “Camille, I’m so sorry. You know Julie means the world to me.”
“She is my world, and she nearly drowned,” Camille said. Then she regarded Drake. “I’ll call you about the permission slip. All I want is to get my daughter home, okay?”
“What can I do to help?” Drake asked. “Julie gave us all quite a scare.”
Camille had the ugly sense that the words tort liability and lawsuit were currently haunting Drake’s thoughts. “Look,” she said, “I’m not mad, okay? Just scared out of my mind. Julie and I will both feel better once we get home.”
Both men left after she promised to send them an update later. The discharge nurse was going down a list of precautions and procedures when Camille’s mother showed up. “The X-ray shows her lungs are completely clear,” the nurse said. “As a precaution, we’ll want to have a follow-up to make sure she doesn’t develop pneumonia.”
“Pneumonia!” Camille’s mother was in her fifties, but looked much younger. People were constantly saying Camille and Cherisse looked like sisters. Camille wasn’t sure that was a compliment to her. Did it mean she, at thirty-six, looked fifty-something? Or did it mean her fifty-something mom looked thirty-six? “My granddaughter will not come down with pneumonia. I simply won’t let it happen.” Cherisse rushed to the bed and embraced Julie. “Sweetheart, I’m so glad you’re all right.”
“Thanks, Gram,” Julie said, offering a thin, brief smile. “Don’t worry. I’m ready to go home, right?” she asked the nurse.
“Absolutely.” The nurse taped a cotton ball over the crook of her arm where the IV had been.
“Okay, sweetie,” said Camille’s mom. “Let’s get you home.”
They both helped unstick the circular white pads that had been connected to the monitors. Julie had been given a hospital gown to wear over her swimsuit. Her movements as she got dressed were furtive, almost ashamed, as she grabbed her street clothes from her gym bag. Teenagers were famously modest, Camille knew that. Julie took it to extremes. The little fairy girl who used to run around unfettered and unclothed had turned into a surly, secretive teen. “You don’t need to wait for me,” Julie announced. “I can dress myself.”
Camille motioned her mother out into the waiting area.
“I’m ready to go,” Julie said, coming out of the curtain area a few minutes later. She wore an oversized “Surf Bethany” T-shirt and a pair of jeans that had seen better days. There was a plastic bag labeled Patient Belongings that contained a towel, headgear, glasses, and a rash guard. “And just so you know, I’m not going back to school,” she added, her narrow-eyed expression daring them to contradict her.
“All right,” said Camille. “Do we need to stop there and get your stuff?”
“No,” Julie said quickly. “I mean, can I just go home and rest?”
“Sure, baby.”
“Want me to come?” asked Camille’s mother.
“That’s okay, Gram. Isn’t this your busy day at the shop?”
“Every day is busy at the shop. We’re getting ready for First Thursday Arts Walk. But I’m never too busy for you.”
“It’s okay. Swear.”
“Should I come in later and help?” asked Camille. She and her mother were partners at Ooh-La-La, a bustling home-goods boutique in the center of the village. Business was good, thanks to locals looking to indulge themselves, and well-heeled tourists from the greater D.C. area.
“The staff can handle all the prep work. The three of us could have a girls’ night in. How does that sound? We can watch a chick flick and do each other’s nails.”
“Gram. Really. I’m okay now.” Julie edged toward the exit.
Cherisse sighed. “If you say so.”
“I say so.”
Camille put her arm around Julie. “I’ll call you later, Mom. Say hi to Bart from us.”
“You can say it in person,” said a deep male voice. Camille’s stepfather strode over to them. “I came as soon as I got your message.”
“Julie’s okay.” Cherisse gave him a quick, fierce hug. “Thanks for coming.”
Camille wondered what it was like to have a person to call automatically, someone who would drop everything and rush to your side.
He gathered Julie into his arms, enfolding her in a bear hug. The salt air and sea mist still clung to him. He was an old-school waterman who had a fleet of skipjack boats, plying the waters of the Chesapeake for the world’s tastiest oysters. Tall, fair-haired, and good-looking, he’d been married to Cherisse for a quarter century. He was a few years younger than Camille’s mom, and though Camille loved him dearly, Papa owned her heart.
After the bear hug, he held Julie at arm’s length. “Now. What kind of mischief did you get yourself into?”
They walked together toward the exit. “I’m okay,” Julie said yet again.
“She got caught in a riptide,” Camille said.
“My granddaughter?” Bart scratched his head. “No. You know what a riptide is. You know how to avoid it. I’ve seen you in the water. You’ve been swimming like a blue marlin ever since you were a tadpole. They say kids born out here have webbed feet.”
“Guess my webbed feet failed me,” Julie muttered. “Thanks for coming.”
In the parking lot they parted ways. As Julie got into the car, Camille watched her mother melt against Bart, surrendering all her worries into his big, generous embrace. Seeing them caused a flicker of envy deep in her heart. She was happy for her mother, who had found such a sturdy love with this good man, yet at the same time, that happiness only served to magnify her own loneliness.
