Unintended Consequences - By Marti Green Page 0,91
the expensive stores. Eric bought each of them matching T-shirts that read, “Fabulous Hamptons.” They had lunch at a restaurant that claimed “World’s Best Hamburgers,” and Sunny thought they must be, they were so delicious. Eric was certain he’d spotted Paul McCartney ducking into a bakery, but Sunny thought it couldn’t have been him. They drove along the ocean roads gawking at the huge mansions. “We’ll live in one of those someday,” Eric said, and Sunny just laughed. Before going back to the house, they stopped for ice cream so creamy that it, too, must have been the world’s best.
Today, the last day before they had to return to the soot of Manhattan, they were going to the very tip of the island, to Montauk Point.
“Wake up, sleepyhead,” Sunny said to Eric. “Time for breakfast.”
Eric rubbed his eyes and looked at the clock—8:55. “Why’d you wake me?” he groaned. “I haven’t slept late in a lifetime. And I was having the nicest dream.”
“What about?”
Eric pulled Sunny onto the bed and put his arms around her, nuzzling his nose into her neck. “Let’s see. You were in it, of course. It couldn’t be a nice dream without you. We lived in a cozy cottage with a white picket fence around it and our very own swimming pond. And there was the most delicious odor of pancakes, blueberry pancakes, coming from the kitchen.”
Sunny punched him in the arm. “Silly, you smelled my pancakes. They’re waiting for you in the kitchen. Rachel already ate hers.”
After Eric finished breakfast, they headed along Montauk Highway to their destination. The two-lane road offering periodic glimpses of the ocean seemed worlds away from the congestion of Manhattan. For the first time, Sunny could see herself living away from Minnesota. She thought it would be lovely if Eric joined a practice in a seaside community. She and Rachel could take walks in the sand every day. They’d start a collection of seashells, all different colors and shapes. Eric could go deep-sea fishing on his days off. What a beautiful way to live.
Thirty minutes later they arrived at the Montauk lighthouse, sitting atop a bluff with the Atlantic Ocean on three sides. In the gift shop, Eric picked up a brochure. “Listen to this,” he said. “This is the oldest lighthouse in New York and the fourth-oldest active lighthouse in the entire United States. What do you think of that?”
“Wha’ ’ighthouse, Daddy?”
“See those boats out in the water? Well, it’s hard for their captains to see at night, so there’s a light at the top of this tower and it flashes every five seconds. That helps the captains see where they’re going and steer their boats.”
“I wanna see light.”
“We’ll walk all the way to the top and you’ll see it.”
They set off up the winding stairs. After just one flight, Rachel held up her arms to be carried. Once they reached the lookout point, the view was breathtaking. “I could stay here forever,” Sunny whispered to Eric. It had been a long time since she’d felt so happy, so carefree.
After a while, they made their way back down and drove to a petting farm. Rachel ran up and down the rows of baby animals. There were goats, sheep, rabbits, calves, turkeys, pigs and beautifully colored peacocks. Sunny bought a baby bottle filled with milk for Rachel to feed to the goats. Rachel laughed gaily as a goat grabbed on to the nipple and hungrily emptied the contents.
Later, they stopped at a local market and bought food for a picnic. They set up a blanket on the beach and, while they ate their lunch, watched the seagulls swoop to the sand, looking for scraps. On the way back, they stopped to pick up porterhouse steaks for dinner. By the time they returned to the house, they were all spent. As Rachel lay down for her nap, so did her parents.
When Sunny awakened, Eric was no longer by her side. She got out of bed and followed the aroma of charcoal. “Mmm, that smells delicious,” she said as she stepped onto the deck, where Eric was grilling the steaks. “It reminds me of home. Dad used to barbecue almost every night during the warm weather.”
“Funny, it seems it’s always the dad that’s barbecuing.”
“I think there’s a gene somewhere on the Y chromosome that gives men a special talent for it,” she said and laughed.