A revised Chapter 3


Robbie Ray Stewart played the piano with keyed-up intensity, anticipating his children's arrival at any minute.

The piano was located in a small alcove off the small living room of the beachside bungalow he now called home. Behind him were items that represented his personal history. It wasn't much. Aside from the piano, Susan had been able to pack his belongings into a single box, and it had taken less than half an hour to put everything in place. There was a snapshot of him with his father and mother when he was young, another photo of him playing the piano as a teen. They were mounted between both of the degrees he'd received, one from Chapel Hill and the other from Boston University, and below it was a certificate of appreciation from Juilliard after he'd taught for fifteen years. Near the window were three framed schedules outlining his tour dates. Most important, though, were half a dozen photographs of Jackson and Miley, some tacked to the walls or framed and sitting atop the piano, and whenever he looked at them, he was reminded of the fact that despite his best intentions, nothing had turned out the way he expected.

The late afternoon sun was slanting through the windows, making the interior of the house stuffy, and Robbie Ray could feel beads of sweat beginning to form. Thankfully, the pain in his stomach had lessened since the morning, but he'd been nervous for days, and he knew it would come back. He'd always had a weak stomach; in his twenties, he'd had an ulcer and was hospitalized for diverticulitis; in his thirties, he'd had his appendix removed after it had burst while Susan was pregnant with Jackson. He ate Rolaids like candy, he'd been on Nexium for years, and though he knew he could probably eat better and exercise more, he doubted that either would have helped. Stomach problems ran in his family.

His father's death six years ago had changed him, and since the funeral, he'd felt as though he'd been on a countdown of sorts. In a way, he supposed he had. Five years ago, he'd quit his position at Juilliard, and a year after that, he decided to try his luck as a concert pianist. Three years ago, he and Susan decided to divorce; less than twelve months later, the tour dates began drying up, until they finally ended completely. Last year, he'd moved back here, to the town where he'd grown up, a place he never thought he'd see again. Now he was about to spend the summer with his children, and though he tried to imagine what the fall would bring once Miley and Jackson were back in New York, he knew only the leaves would yellow before turning to red and that in the mornings his breaths would come out in little puffs. He'd long since given up trying to predict the future.

This didn't bother him. He knew predictions were pointless, and besides, he could barely understand the past. These days, all he could say for sure was that he was ordinary in a world that loved the extraordinary, and the realization left him with a vague feeling of disappointment at the life he'd led. But what could he do? Unlike Susan, who'd been outgoing and gregarious, he'd always been more reticent and blended into crowds. Though he had certain talents as a musician and composer, he lacked the charisma or showmanship or whatever it was that made a performer stand out. At times, even he admitted that he'd been more an observer of the world than a participant in it, and in moments of painful honesty, he sometimes believed he was a failure in all that was important. He was forty-eight years old. His marriage had ended, his daughter avoided him, and his son was growing up without him. Thinking back, he knew he had no one to blame but himself, and more than anything, this was what he wanted to know: Was it still possible for someone like him to experience the presence of God?

Ten years ago, he could never have imagined wondering about such a thing. Two years, even. But middle age, he sometimes thought, had made him as reflective as a mirror. Though he'd once believed that the answer lay somehow in the music he created, he suspected now that he'd been mistaken. The more he thought about it, the more he'd come to realize that for him, music had always been a movement away from reality rather than a means of living in it more deeply. He might have experienced passion and catharsis in the works of Tchaikovsky or felt a sense of accomplishment when he'd written sonatas of his own, but he now knew that burying himself in music had less to do with God than a selfish desire to escape.

He now believed that the real answer lay somewhere in the nexus of love he felt for his children, in the ache he experienced when he woke in the quiet house and realized they weren't here. But even then, he knew there was something more. And somehow, he hoped his children would help him find it.

A few minutes later, Robbie Ray noticed the sun reflecting off the windshield of a dusty station wagon outside. He and Susan had purchased it years ago for weekend outings to Costco and family getaways. He wondered in passing if she'd remembered to change the oil before she'd driven down, or even since he'd left. Probably not, he decided. Susan had never been good at things like that, which was why he'd always taken care of them. But that part of his life was over now.

Robbie Ray rose from his seat, and by the time he stepped onto the porch, Jackson was already out of the car and rushing toward him. His hair hadn't been combed, his glasses crooked, and his arms and legs were as skinny as pencils. Robbie Ray felt his throat tighten, reminded again of how much he'd missed in the past three years.

"Dad!"

"Jackson!" Robbie Ray shouted back as he crossed the rocky sand that constituted his yard. When Jackson jumped into his arms, it was all he could do to remain upright. "You've gotten so big," he said.

"And you've gotten smaller!" Jackson said. "You're skinny now."

Robbie Ray hugged his son tight before putting him down. "I'm glad you're here."

"I am, too. Mom and Miley fought the whole time."

"That's no fun."

"It's okay. I ignored it. Except when I egged them on."

"Ah," Robbie Ray responded. Jackson pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"Why didn't mom let us fly?"

"Did you ask her?"

"No."

"Maybe you should."

"It's not important. I was just wondering." Robbie Ray smiled. He'd forgotten how talkative his son could be.

"Hey, is this your house?"

"That's it."

"This place is awesome!"

Robbie Ray wondered if Jackson was serious. The house was anything but awesome. The bungalow was easily the oldest property on Wrightsville Beach and sandwiched between two massive homes that had gone up within the last ten years, making it seem even more diminutive. The paint was peeling, the roof was missing numerous shingles, and the porch was rotting; it wouldn't surprise him if the next decent storm blew it over, which would no doubt please the neighbors. Since he'd moved in, neither family had ever spoken to him.

"You think so?" he said.

"Hello? It's right on the beach. What else could you want?" He motioned toward the ocean. "Can I go check it out?"

"Sure. But be careful. And stay behind the house. Don't wander off."

"Deal."

Robbie Ray watched him jog off before turning to see Susan approaching. Miley had just stepped out of the car as well but was still lingering near it.

"Hi, Susan," he said.

"Robbie Ray." She leaned in to give him a brief hug. "You doing okay?" she asked. "You look thin."

"I'm okay."

Behind her, Robbie Ray noticed Miley slowly making her way toward them. He was struck by how much she had changed since the last photo Susan had e-mailed. Gone was the all-American girl he remembered, and in her place was a young woman with a purple streak in her long brown hair, black fingernail polish, and dark clothing. Despite the obvious signs of teenage rebellion, he thought again how much she resembled her mother. Good thing, too. She was, he thought, as lovely as ever.

He cleared his throat. "Hi, sweetie. It's good to see you."

When Miley didn't answer, Susan scowled at her. "Don't be rude. Your father is talking to you. Say something."

Miley crossed her arms. "All right. How about this? I'm not going to play the piano for you."

"Miley!" Robbie Ray could hear Susan's exasperation.

"What?" She tossed her head. "I thought I'd get that out of the way early."

Before Susan could respond, Robbie Ray shook his head. The last thing he wanted was an argument. "It's okay, Susan."

"Yeah, mom. It's okay," Miley said, pouncing. "I need to stretch my legs. I'm going for a walk."

As she stomped away, Robbie Ray watched Susan struggle with the impulse to call her back. In the end, though, she said nothing.

"Long drive?" he asked, trying to lighten the mood.

"You can't even imagine it." He smiled, thinking that for just an instant, it was easy to imagine they were still married, both of them on the same team, both of them still in love. Except, of course, that they weren't.

After unloading the bags, Robbie Ray went to the kitchen, where he tapped ice cubes from the old-fashioned tray and dropped them into the mismatched glasses that had come with the place. Behind him, he heard Susan enter the kitchen. He reached for a pitcher of sweet tea, poured two glasses, and handed one to her. Outside, Jackson was alternately chasing, and being chased by, the waves as seagulls fluttered overhead.

"It looks like Jackson's having fun," he said.

Susan took a step toward the window. "He's been excited about coming for weeks." She hesitated. "He misses you."

"I've missed him."

"I know," she said. She took a drink of her tea before glancing around the kitchen. "So this is the place, huh? It's got... character."

"By character, I assume you've noticed the leaky roof and lack of air-conditioning." Susan flashed a brief smile, caught. "I know it's not much. But it's quiet. And I can watch the sun come up."

"And the church is letting you stay here for free?"

Robbie Ray nodded. "It belonged to Carson Johnson. He was a local artist, and when he passed away, he left the house to the church. Pastor Harris is letting me stay until they are ready to sell."

"So what's it like living back home? I mean, your parents used to live, what? Three blocks from here?"

Seven, actually. Close. "It's all right." he shrugged. "It's so crowded now. The place has really changed since the last time I was here."

"Everything changes," he said. He leaned against the counter, crossing one leg over the other. "So when's the big day?" he asked, changing the subject. "For you and Brian?"

"Robbie... about that."

"It's okay," he said raising a hand. "I'm glad you found someone."

Susan stared at him, clearly wondering whether to accept his words at face value or plunge into sensitive territory. "In January," she finally said. "And I want you to know with the kids... Brian doesn't pretend to be someone he isn't. You'd like him."

"I'm sure I would," he said, taking a sip of his tea. He set the glass back down. "How do the kids feel about him?"

"Jackson seems to like him, but Jackson likes everyone."

"And Miley?"

"She gets along with him about as well as she gets along with you." He laughed before noting her worried expression. "How's she really doing?"

"I don't know." she sighed. "And I don't think she does, either. She's in a dark, moody phase. She ignores her curfew, and half the time I can't more than a whatever when I try to talk to her. I try to write it off as typical teenage stuff, because I remember what it was like... but..." she shook her head. "You saw the way she was dressed, right? And her hair and that god awful mascara?"

"Mmm."

"And?"

"It could be worse."

Susan opened her mouth to say something, but when nothing came out, Robbie knew he was right. Whatever stage she was going through, whatever Susan's fears, Miley was still Miley. "I guess," she conceded, before shaking her head. "No, I know your right. It's just been so difficult with her lately. There are times she's still sweet as ever. Like with Jackson. Even though they fight like cats and dogs, she still brings him to the park every weekend. And when he is having trouble in math, she tutored him every night. Which is strange, because she is barely passing any of her classes. And I haven't told you this, but I made her take the SATs in February. She missed every single question. Do you know how smart you have to be to miss every single question?" When Robbie laughed, Susan frowned. "It's not funny."

"It's kind of funny."

"You haven't had to deal with her these last three years."

He paused, chastened. "You're right. I'm sorry." He reached for his glass again. "What did the judge say about her shoplifting?"

"Just what I told you on the phone," she said with a resigned expression. "If she doesn't get into anymore trouble, it'll be expunged from her record. If she does it again, though..." she trailed off.

"You're worried about this," he started.

Susan turned away. "It's not the first time, which is the problem," she confessed. "She admitted to stealing the bracelet last year, but this time, she said she was buying a bunch of stuff at the drugstore and couldn't hold it all, so she tucked the lipstick in her pocket. She paid for everything else, and when you see the video, it seems to be an honest mistake, but..."

"But you're not sure." When Susan didn't answer, Robbie shook his head. "She's not on her way to being profiled on America's Most Wanted. She made a mistake. And she has a good heart."

"That doesn't mean she is telling the truth now."

"And it doesn't mean she lied, either."

"So you believe her?" Her expression was mixture of hope and skepticism. He sifted through his feelings about the incident, as he had a dozen times since Susan had first told him.

"Yeah," he said. "I believe her."

"Why?"

"Because she's a good kid."

"How do you know?" she demanded. For the first time, she sounded angry. "The last time you spent any time with her, she was finishing middle school." She turned away from him then, crossing her arms as she gazed out the window. Her voice was bitter when she went on. "You could have come back, you know. You could have taught in New York again. You didn't have to travel around the country, you didn't have to move here... you could have stayed part of their lives."

Her words stung him, and he knew she was right. But it hadn't been that simple, for reasons they both understood, though neither would acknowledge them. The charged silence passed when Robbie eventually cleared his throat. "I was just trying to say that Miley knows right from wrong. As much as she asserts her independence, I still believe she's the same person she always was. In the ways that really matter, she hasn't changed." Before Susan could figure out how or if she should respond to his comment, Jackson burst through the front door, his cheeks flushed.

"Dad! I found a really cool workshop! C'mon! I want to show you!" Susan raised an eyebrow.

"It's out back," Robbie said. "Do you want to see it?"

"It's awesome, mom!"

Susan turned from Robbie to Jackson and back again. "No, that's okay," she said. "That sounds like more of a father and son thing. And besides, I should really be going."

"Already?" Jackson asked. Robbie knew how hard this was gonna be for Susan, and he answered for her.

"Your mom has a long drive back. And besides, I wanted to take you to the carnival tonight. Could we do that instead?" Robbie watched Jackson's shoulders sink a fraction.

"I guess that's okay," he said.

After Jackson said good-bye to his mom—with Miley still nowhere in sight and, according to Susan, unlikely to return soon—Robbie and Jackson strolled over to the workshop, a leaning, tin-roofed outbuilding that had come with the property. For the last three months, Robbie had spent most afternoons here, surrounded by assorted junk and small sheets of stained-glass that Jackson was now exploring. In the center of the workshop was a large worktable with beginnings of a stained-glass window, but Jackson seemed far more interested in the weird taxidermy pieces perched on the shelves, the previous owner's specialty. It was hard not to b e mesmerized by the half-squirrel/half-bass creature or the opossum's head grafted onto the body of a chicken.

"What is this stuff?" Jackson asked.

"It's supposed to be art."

"I thought art was like painting and stuff."

"It is. But sometimes art is other things, too."

Jackson wrinkled his nose, staring at the half-rabbit/half-snake. "It doesn't look like art." When Robbie smiled, Jackson motioned to the stained-glass window on the work table. "Was this his, too?" he asked.

"Actually, that's mine. I'm making it for the church down the street. It burned last year, and the original window was destroyed in the fire."

"I didn't know you could make windows."

"Believe it or not, the artist who used to live here taught me how."

"The guy who did the animals?"

"The same one."

"And you knew him?" Robbie joined his son at the table.

"When I was a kid, I'd sneak over here when I was supposed to be in Bible study. He made the stained-glass windows for most of the churches around here. See the picture on the wall?" Robbie pointed to a small photograph of the Risen Christ tacked to one of the shelves, easy to miss in the chaos. "Hopefully, it'll look just like that when it's finished."

"Awesome," Jackson said, and Robbie smiled. It was obviously Jackson's new favorite word, and he wondered how many times he'd hear it this summer.

"Do you want to help?"

"Can I?"

"I was counting on it." Robbie gave him a gentle nudge. "I need a good assistant."

"Is it hard?"

"I was your age when I started, so I'm sure you'll be able to handle it." Jackson gingerly picked up a piece of the glass and examined it, holding it up to the light, his expression serious.

"I'm pretty sure I can handle it, too." Robbie smiled.

"Are you still going to church?" he asked.

"Yeah. But it's not the same one we went to. It's the one where Brian likes to go. And Miley doesn't always come with us. She locks herself in her room and refuses to come out, but as soon as we leave, she goes over to Starbucks to hang out with her friends. It makes mom furious."

"That happens when kids become teenagers. They test their parents." Jackson put the glass back on the table. "I won't," he said. "I'm always going to be good. But I don't like the new church very much. It's boring. So I might not go to that one."

"Fair enough." He paused. "I hear you're not playing soccer this fall."

"I'm not very good at it."

"So what? It's fun, right?"

"Not when other kids make fun of you."

"They make fun of you?"

"It's okay. It doesn't bother me."

"Ah," Robbie said. Jackson shuffled his feet, something obviously on his mind. "Miley didn't read and of the letters you sent her, dad. And she won't play the piano anymore, either."

"I know," Robbie answered. "Mom says it's because she has PMS." Robbie almost choked but composed himself quickly.

"Do you even know what that means?"

Jackson pushed his glasses up. "I'm not a little kid anymore. It means pissed-at-men syndrome."

Robbie laughed, ruffling Jackson's hair. "How about we go find your sister? I think I saw her heading toward the festival."

"Can we ride the Ferris wheel?"

"Whatever you want."

"Awesome."

The fair was crowded. Or rather, Miley corrected herself, the Wrightsville Beach Seafood Festival was crowded. As she paid for a soda from one of the concession stands, she could see cars parked bumper to bumper along both roads leading to the pier and even noted a few enterprising teenagers renting out their driveways near the action. So far, though, the action was boring. She supposed she'd been hoping that the Ferris wheel was a permanent fixture and that pier offered shops and stores like the boardwalk in Atlantic City. In other words, she hoped it would be the kind of place she could see herself hanging out in the summer. No such luck. The festival was temporarily located in the parking lot at the head of the pier, and it mostly resembled a small country fair. The rickety rides were part of the traveling carnival, and the parking lot was lined with overpriced game booths and greasy food concessions. The whole place was kind of... gross.

Not that anyone else seemed to share her opinion. The place was packed. Old and young, families, groups of middle-schoolers ogling one another. No matter which way she went, she always seemed to be fighting against the tide of bodies. Sweaty bodies. Big, sweaty bodies, two of whom were squashing her between them as the crowd came to an inexplicable stop. No doubt they'd had both the fried hot dog and fried Snickers bar she'd seen at the concession stand. She wrinkled her nose. So gross. Spying an opening, she slipped away from the rides and carnival game booths and headed toward the pier. Fortunately, the crowd continued to thin as she moved down the pier, past booths offering homemade crafts for sale. Nothing she could ever imagine herself buying... who on earth would want a gnome constructed entirely from seashells? But obviously someone was buying the stuff or the booths wouldn't exist. Distracted, she bumped into a table manned by an elderly woman seated on a folding chair. Wearing a shirt emblazoned with the logo SPCA, she had white hair and an open, cheerful face—the type of grandmother who probably spent all day baking cookies before Christmas Eve, Miley guessed. On the table in front of her were pamphlets and a donations jar, along with a large cardboard box. Inside the box were four gray puppies, one of which hopped up on its hind legs to peer over the side at her.

"Hi, little guy," she said.

There elderly woman smiled. "Do you want to hold him? He's the fun one. I call him Seinfeld." The puppy gave a high-pitched whine.

"No, that's okay." He was cute, though. Really cute, even if she didn't think the name suited him. And she did sort of want to hold him, but she knew she wouldn't want to put him down if she did. She was a sucker for animals in general, especially abandoned ones. Like these little guys. "They're going to be okay, right? You're not going to have to put them to sleep, are you?"

"They'll be fine," the woman answered. "That's why we set up the table. So people would adopt them. Last year, we found homes for over thirty animals, and these four have already been claimed. I'm just waiting for the new owners to pick them up on their way out. But there are more at the shelter if you are interested."

"I'm only visiting," Miley answered, just as a roar erupted from the beach. She craned her neck, trying to see. "What's going on? A concert?"

The woman shook her head. "Beach volleyball. They've been playing for hours—some kind of tournament. You should go watch. I've heard the cheering all day, so the games must be pretty exciting."

Miley thought about it, figuring, why not? It couldn't be any worse than what was happening up here. She threw a couple of dollars into the donation jar before heading toward the steps. The sun was descending, giving the ocean a sheen like liquid gold. On the beach, a few remaining families were congregated on towels near the water, along with a couple of sand castles about to be swept away in the rising tide. Terns darted in and out, hunting for crabs.

It didn't take long to reach the source of the action. As she inched her way to the edge of the court, she noticed that the other people in the audience seemed fixated on the two players on the right. No surprise there. A girl and a guy—her age? older?—were the kind that her friend Joannie routinely described as "eye candy." Though neither of them were was exactly Miley's type, it was impossible not to admire their lanky, muscular physiques and the fluid way they moved through the sand. Especially the taller one, with long blonde hair and the macramé bracelet on her wrist. Joannie would have definitely zeroed in on her—she always went for the tall ones—in the same way the bikini-clad brunette across the court was obviously zeroing in on the blonde haired girl. Miley noticed the brunette and her friend right away. They were both thin and pretty, with blindingly white teeth, and obviously used to being the center of attention and having people drool all over them. They held themselves apart from the crowd and cheered daintily, probably so they wouldn't mess up their hair. They might as well have been billboards proclaiming it was ok to admire them from a distance, but don't get too close. Miley didn't know them, but she already didn't like them.

She turned her attention back to the game just as the cute girl scored another point. And then another. And still another. She didn't know what the score was, but they were obviously the better team. And yet, as she watched, she silently began to root for the other guys. It had less to do with the fact that she always rooted for the underdog—which she did—and more to do with the fact that the winning pair reminded her of the spoiled private school types she sometimes ran into at the clubs. She'd seen enough of the so-called privileged crowd to recognize a member when she saw one, and she'd bet her life that those two were definitely part of the popular crowd around here. Her suspicions were confirmed after the next point when the blonde-haired girl's partner winked at the brunette's tanned, Barbie-doll friend as he got ready to serve. In this town, the pretty people clearly all knew one another.

Why wasn't she surprised by that?

The game suddenly seemed less interesting, and she turned to leave just as another serve sailed over the net. She vaguely heard someone shouting as the opposing team returned the serve, but before she had taken more than a couple of steps, she felt the spectators around her beginning to jostle one another, knocking her off balance for just an instant. An instant too long.

She turned just in time to see one of the players rushing toward her at full speed, her head craning to catch sight of the wayward ball. She didn't have time to react before she slammed into her. Miley felt her grab her shoulders in a simultaneous attempt to stop her momentum and prevent Miley from falling. She felt her arm jerk on impact and watched almost in fascination as the lid flew off the Styrofoam cup, soda arching through the air before drenching her face and shirt. And then, just like that, it was over. Up close, she saw the blonde haired player staring at her, her eyes wide with shock.

"Are you okay?" She panted. She could feel the soda dripping down her face and soaking through her shirt. Vaguely, she heard someone in the crowd begin to laugh. And why shouldn't someone laugh? It had been such a fantastic day already.

"I'm fine," she snapped.

"Are you sure?" the girl gasped. For what it was worth, she seemed genuinely contrite. "I ran into you kind of hard."

"Just... let me go," she said through clenched teeth. The girl hadn't seemed to realize she was still gripping her shoulders, and her hands instantly released their pressure. She took a quick step back and automatically reached for her bracelet. She rotated it almost absently. "I'm really sorry about that. I was going for the ball and..."

"I know what you were doing," she said. "I survived, okay?" With that, she turned away, wanting nothing more than to get as far away from here as possible.

Behind her, she heard someone call out, "C'mon, Lilly! Let's get back to the game!"

But as she pushed her way through the crowd, she was conscious somehow of her continuing gaze until she vanished from sight.