I seriously consider getting all teen-like with yes, I’ll be mad. We won’t be friends anymore.
“I’m not, hon. Just call your mother and tell her.”
“We’re not on speaking terms.”
“Then call Jordan’s mom. Ask her to call your mom.”
“Can’t! She’s still mad about the gin, doesn’t want to hear from me. Maybe I’ll move in with Brian.”
I breathe in.
This, clearly, is a no win. Even if I wrestle Kelly to my car, Brian will still be there for her at the beach. I lean back and shut my eyes. What to do?
Handsome, dark-haired Brian Hall is eighteen and has anger issues: a poor boy in a rich town. He’s also hard working and very bright. Kelly had a crush on him long before he’d speak to her; she was one of the “spoiled kids.” His deceased father had been a carpenter, and his mother, a former nurse, has rheumatoid arthritis. Trying to help her, he never had time for after-school sports; instead worked at odd jobs and carpentry and then studied hard until late. “It’s a shit ugly world,” he cried to me once. He’d been drinking.
Hurting attracts hurting. He and Kelly loved each other most of last year, but his problems worsened and she broke it off in February.
“…paying him more,” I hear her say.
“What?” I open my eyes to an amber-glinting marina dotted with sailboats coming in from the Sound.
“The Kirkleys are paying him more than last year.”
“Oh?”
When Brian is home from UConn – via scholarship – he’s a rich family’s boat boy and carpenter, and lives part time in their boathouse loft. John Kirkley, philanthropist, takes a particular interest in him since his own youth involved similar struggle. Last February, when I got Brian off on an unfair assault charge, Kirkley himself came to my office to check that the charge was expunged. He’s handsome, mid-forties, full of charm…
“Their dock and boathouse roof still need repairs.” Kelly’s tone seeks approval. “And Brian thinks he can fix the sloop’s mast and John’s old Chris Craft. Something about rebuilding the engine and water pump.”
“He’s going to do all that?” I try for a tone that won’t hurt. “How’s his, uh, booze problem?”
“Much better.”
“Ha,” Jordan scoffs, looking back from the view. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
She starts to plead with Kelly, insists that she really does like Brian but he’s just too troubled. Who gets into fights at truck stops instead of heading back to school?
“Two guys were picking on an old vet in a man bun!” Kelly protests.
“He got arrested! It’s why you finally broke up with him. If Mia hadn’t gotten him off-”
“Then I missed him.” Kelly fights tears. “I was so happy when he called.”
Jordan’s face stiffens. She gives Kelly a long, penetrating look, and seems almost fearful of her next words. “This is dangerous,” she says tightly. “You’re too wrecked for this back in your life.”
“Wrong!” Kelly’s lower lip quivers. “We’ll help each other.”
And I think: odd. Twice Jordan used the word this instead of the name Brian.
They keep it up past more marinas and salt water marshes and woods; then the train pulls into Grand Cove, the affluent commuter town I’ve called home for eight months. Clients here often have lives half in the city: business, second homes, new spouses, new batch of kids, no end of complications. I found myself driving back and forth for them, and then decided to settle here. It’s a really pretty town, and I was struggling after the loss of my husband. The people I met not going through trouble were nice. I saw families fishing or on the beach or boating, and I thought here…here…maybe I could rebuild my life, find some sense of belonging.
Things suddenly start happening too fast. There’s a movement of track kids and commuters picking up their stuff, heading for the doors. We spill out onto the platform amid talk of who’s driving whom, and Kelly gets another text; reads it excitedly bleating “Brian!” as we head for the steps to the parking lot.
It’s jammed with vehicles not yet claimed by those still in the city. Taxis and cars with engines running crowd the pick-up line. Kelly shields her eyes, and squints across to trees lining the edge.
“I think I see him!” she says, as a gray-haired man in a canvas hat jostles me.
“Nooo,” Jordan pleads, tugging her arm. “Stay away from that…mess.”