years, but this is not Julia, although in looks they are similar. This is a young girl, too young, it seems, to be working in a shop, although granted, I remember having a Saturday job in a shop when I was fourteen. She has a sweet smile, a familiar smile, as she says hello and asks if she can help.
“I was wondering if Julia Mayhew was around?” My voice catches in my throat, signaling my nerves, if only to myself.
“She’s just in the back. Let me get her for you,” she says, going to a curtain and poking her head around. I watch her move, almost unable to breathe, there is something so achingly familiar about her. “Jules? There’s someone here to see you!”
Jules. I didn’t expect that. I realize I was expecting her to say “Mom.” Of course she is familiar; she has the same hair as Annie, the same dark skin as me. But it is just coincidence. Jules. Not Mom. She is not my niece.
Julia steps out from behind the curtain, with me unable to take my eyes off her. Age has been kind to her. She is stockier than when I last saw her, and it suits her. She looks more solid, grounded. Her skin is tanned and clear, barely a line on her face. She looks fantastic, far better than I would have expected, although God knows what I expected. That she would have led a hard life, I think. A life filled with drink, maybe drugs, probably countless affairs. I expected her to have had it rough, and I expected it to show on her face.
She was with Aidan when I was here all those years ago, but she was a partier. I realize I presumed her life had followed a trajectory similar to mine, living life hard, squeezing out every last drop.
“I’m Julia,” she says, extending a hand with a warm smile, an expectant look on her face as she takes my hand, and I have no idea what to say. And as we stand there, clasping hands, forgetting to let go as we look into each other’s eyes, recognition starts to dawn, and I swear to God I watch the smile literally slide off her face as she gasps.
“Oh my God,” she says finally. “It’s you.”
Twenty-six
We walk to the end of the wharf, to Cru, where we grab a sofa in the lounge area, next to the beautiful people who have left their yachts for cocktails under the canopy.
She orders a glass of prosecco. I stick with a seltzer and lime.
“I remember this when it was Morning Glory.” She looks around. “When George and Bruce tempted you with these incredible waffles that had cream cheese frosting. I worked here a couple of summers. We had the most decadent staff parties you can imagine.”
Is this how it is going to be, I wonder? Small talk? Avoiding talking about the real stuff, keeping it light. Although she is surprisingly warm, which is not what I expected. I thought she would be cold, unforgiving, but she is smiling and sweet.
She looks around the restaurant, cranes her head to see who’s sitting in one of the great big wooden wing chairs outdoors, waves at various people across the way, gestures for the waiter, who of course knows her—everyone knows her—to refill her glass.
“You look wonderful,” I say, not because I want to flatter her into liking me, but because it’s true.
“I feel good. I’ve taken up running.” She looks me up and down, appraisingly. “You look good too.”
I take a deep breath. “Thank you.” I can’t pretend anymore, can’t sit here making small talk, can’t hold a normal conversation until I say what I came here to say. “Julia, there’s a lot I need to say, starting with I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.” She interrupts me, shaking her head and waving her hand as if it’s all irrelevant, as if I don’t need to carry on speaking. “It all happened a very long time ago. I can barely remember anything about those days. You don’t have to say anything.”
She must be uncomfortable. I would be uncomfortable if I were in her shoes, although not as uncomfortable as I am being in my own shoes right now. I remember what Maureen said, that I am not doing this for her, or to get her forgiveness, but so I can wipe my slate clean and move on with a clear conscience. “But I do, Julia. I’m an alcoholic, thankfully now