That Summer of ‘79
In the depths of
my unconscious mind, I knew our paths would cross again. After my divorce, I did
the requisite thing and cleaned out the garage. Funny what one comes across;
remembrances of another time and place. Some made me angry like my ex’s smelly
sneakers which I promptly trashed. Tucked away in a corner was a box marked
college. Inside was a tattered picture of my tennis team, a red rose corsage
from my senior year sorority dance, (instinctively I raised it to my nose but
the fragrance had long since faded), and my first boyfriend’s rough draft of
“That Summer of ’79.” Clipped to the manuscript was a Polaroid snapshot of us
on the Santa Monica pier waving. Our faces were yet unlined, and untainted by
life’s frustrations and failures. At that moment it looked as though we’d be
together forever. We almost looked goofy, we were so in love. That is until I
blew it. The pic got me thinking about him, and if he still thought of me now
and then.
We were
irresistible forces. A tempest in a bottle my friends used to say. Jamie and I
met the summer before my senior year in college. He was my squeeze, though I
must admit I foolishly played with his heart. I flip onto my back on the chaise
lounge at the private Beach Club pool, and apply more sun-block. Curious as to
how he was doing and high time to set things right between us, I reached out to
him on Facebook. We exchanged pleasantries but only the barest of personal
details (including that we were both single). We finally agreed to meet today
at my club’s pool, as he was in the area checking on a real estate venture.
I turn to the
dog-eared page of my steamy romance novel. A guilty pleasure these days. I
digest a couple of pages then my iPhone lights up startling me. I cast a
distracted glance at it.
The text from
Jamie says; Helen, running late. Has it really been 30 years? At
the end of the text he places the winky face emoji. Is he joking, flirting? I
always wonder what’s the hidden meaning? But then that was always me, over
analyzing, over thinking situations rather than listening to my heart. A dark
thought crosses my mind, does Jamie want to level the score? Is that why he
agreed to meet me? To show me how much better off I would’ve been if we’d
stayed together? If I hadn’t left him for another, older man? But I digress. I
take three deep yoga breaths to calm myself.
I recently
suffered through a legalectomy better known as an “amicable
divorce.” You know where you and your ex end up fighting over who gets the
water hose. It wasn’t part of the plan that I have reluctantly found myself
back in the game, those shark-infested waters of modern dating. My age and
changing times means dating bears no resemblance to my past experience.
Sexting? C’mon, I’ll leave that for the twenty somethings. I swear, if one more
girlfriend tells me, “love will happen when you least expect it,” I will leave
town and never come back.
When I first met
Jamie in that summer of ‘79, he was lounging on the pool steps of a popular
desert resort basking in the sun. He had long dark wavy hair, a California tan,
and wore Ray-Bans. Every so often he splashed water onto his chest and checked
me out. My parents and his were sitting in pool cabanas chatting and Dad
pointed towards me. I overheard him say, “She’s a ginger like her mother.
Smart, pre-law. Sunburns easily.”
I feigned
disinterest in the matter and glided back and forth across the pool careful not
to appear too obvious. But I kept a watchful eye. Who was I kidding? I wanted
to jump Jamie’s bones. He had that thousand-watt smile. Soon we were speaking
and our thoughts seemed to flow so smoothly like I’d known him my whole life. I
didn’t know what I felt in my heart, but I knew my attraction to him was
powerful.
Now many years and
heartbreaks later, a young, pretty pool attendant wearing a sun visor and hair
pulled back into a high-pony glides over to me and says, “Your friend is here.”
I thank her and suddenly I’m hit with a bad case of nerves. “Friend?” Is that
how Jamie describes me? How does one prepare to see an old crush, one that
you’ve hurt? A whiff of danger and excitement creeps up my spine like when a
boy drives you to a secluded parking spot and you wonder what’s going to happen
next? My mind turns somersaults. Am I nostalgic? Hopeful for a connection?
Looking to right a wrong? I wonder if this was a good idea? Will dipping my
toes into the past help me understand who I am now? We all like to think we’ve
grown and changed.
Jamie’s wearing an
untucked navy polo shirt, khaki shorts, and moccasins. Still prep. I wave in a
way that even the Rose Parade Queen would be proud. And there’s that gorgeous
smile. OMG is this really happening? Suddenly like an idiot I blurt out, “Hello
handsome,” and I just want to crawl into a hole and die. I feel flushed and wet
in all the wrong places. I sip my Long Island iced tea and forget for a moment
that I’m a divorced middle-age woman with two college-age boys, a golden
retriever, and have wallowed through more boxes of tissue then I care to
reveal. I take another sip, and summon my courage.
Reality bites.
Life is so much more complicated now. Maybe Jamie and I agreed to a reunion
because we want to recapture a little of that magical time. Just hang out at
the college quad and toss the football around between classes. Giggle and tease
each other. I fret over my lost youth and what could’ve been? But I’d rather be
exiled to the Valley than be like some of my Westside girlfriends who’ve had
too much work done on their faces. Botox though is my go to. Too much time
blithely sun-worshipping in my youth, I’m afraid. A girl has to allow herself
some vices.
A moment later,
Jamie strides over looking cocky ex-lover but unnervingly like a stranger. He
still has swagger, and wears his hair cropped short and neat. I’m stunned by
the feelings that wash over me. We’ve come full circle. The past is now the
present. And I wonder if the baggage I carry shows too well?
“Hello
Helen,” he says in a voice soft, almost wistful.
He removes his
sunglasses. His eyes dance over my black two-piece swimsuit then hold my gaze.
I want to speak but no words come out. I’m experiencing some kind of time warp
that has dropped us back to where we belong. But then I remember.
“May I,” he says,
holding out his hand.
A gentleman. Instinctively
I take his hand and he helps me to my feet. “Jamie, it’s so good to see you,” I
say with a frankness and vulnerability that surprises myself. Then there’s that
momentary awkwardness. I don’t know whether I should hug him, give
him a peck on the cheek or merely shake his hand. He decides when he pulls me
close and hugs me a beat longer than being polite. I feel secure in his arms.
His masculine aroma and faint undertone of cologne, gives me a heady rush. We
sit on chairs next to my lounge under the oversized blue and white striped
umbrella. Our waitress takes his drink order.
“Quite frankly I
didn’t know what to expect when I saw you,” he says, eyes assessing me.
He looks down for
a moment, and I wonder if he’s disappointed? I feel a faint flutter in my
heart. Is it nerves or something else?
His eyes flash
back to me. “I’m really glad you reached out.”
“Can
you believe we’re here? I see your books on best-seller lists.” Jamie’s face
brightens.
“Been real
fortunate in that regard,” but his face turns away, and I let it lie. “And what
about you, Helen?”
I
inadvertently look down at my now bare ring finger, and my stomach clenches.
“It’s been interesting.”
“You’re
divorced?” He says leaning in.
“Yes,”
I try not to sound too pathetic.
“That
must be hard,” he says cupping his hands under his chin. The waitress swooshes
over and leaves his drink. He takes a gulp of an iced cappuccino. “How are you
doing?”
“Could
be better. I got the kids and we share the house until we figure out what to
do.”
“Life
is screwy, unpredictable,” he says with an ironic twist.
“Enough
about me, I want to hear about you,” I say, trying to sound cheerful.
“After
I wrote for our college paper, I got my first break at the Herald as an
investigative reporter. It seemed the stars were aligned. Broke a big story
about rising gang violence in L.A. which got a lot of attention,” he
says.
“I
seem to remember reading something about that.”
“Researching
the gangs and gaining their trust taught me how to dig deep for a story. That
segued into writing crime thrillers.”
“I’ve
read several of your novels.”
“And
thank God you did. You helped put my kids through school,” he says cracking a
grin.
I
raise my glass and we clink them together. “Glad to have helped out. Did you
close your property deal?”
“I
hope to. But I say that with reservation. My broker just discovered there’s an
issue with the easement.”
“Jamie,
I’m a real estate attorney.” My wheels start turning. “Please allow me to
handle this for you.”
“For
real?”
“Yes.
This is what I do.”
“Great,
I’ll put you in touch with my broker.”
Is
it me or did things between us just get decidedly cozier?
“When
we first met, I thought you were the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. Those
big brown eyes, freckles and fab hair.”
I do this little
thing where I slightly angle my head to the right and fondle my hair. “I’m
still a ginger,” and then I mock-whisper, “with a little help from my
colorist.”
“I like your
haircut, it’s sassy,” he says.
“Thank you.” It’s
been so long since someone’s really noticed me.
“Remember that
night we had dinner at your parent’s house and they worked me over the coals.
Then later we watched the sailboats in the marina,” he says.
“My parents
grilled you, because they were overprotective of me knowing how much I cared
for you. By the way, you passed with flying colors.”
“Poor, innocent
Helen.”
He breaks into a
wide grin, and looks devilishly into my eyes. I meet his then look away with
embarrassment remembering how later that night we searched for our secluded
beach to make love. Upon finding none, we took to a golf course and got busy
only to hear the rustling of the groundskeepers that happened upon us.
“Do you remember
that morning when you stood on your mom’s old BMW and waved goodbye to me?
“I do.” My stomach
churns.
“You were heading
off to law school.” He shakes his head. “That was tough.”
“So you think I
was an inconsiderate bitch?”
“I know you were.”
No filter there. His eyes harsh and penetrating. “My bruised ego couldn’t
accept that I was nothing more than a summer fling.”
“That’s not true I
stammered, tears making their way down my cheeks. I really, really cared for
you. All those letters I wrote you were proof of that.”
“Still I sensed
you were holding back, afraid to be vulnerable,” Jamie says.
“At the time, I
wished I could’ve put you in a little box and stored you away until the time
was more—”
“So you did put me
on the shelf?” He raises a brow teasing me then relaxes his face. His eyes are
alert and alive. “I was drawn to you by your excitement for life, your
intellect, and the sex was hot,” he says.
I can’t help but
smile, letting the memories crawl their way back into my mind. “I too was touched,
in more ways than one.” I look into his eyes and my heart is breaking all over
again.
“What is it
Helen?”
He senses my
nervousness. It’s time to set things right. I will say what I must
even if it means losing him again. “I couldn’t give you the love you deserved
at the time.” He digests those words for a long moment.
Jamie presses, and
his tone turns sharp and accusatory. “There’s more, isn’t there?”
“Real love with you
terrified me. I couldn’t allow myself to be vulnerable.”
“You were
everything in my life that had been promised but never fulfilled.” His words
pierce my heart and I bleed.
“Jamie, I must be
honest with you.” His mouth hangs open mid thought. My hands tremble.
“There was another
man, an older man that I met during our senior year. He had money, and at the
time, I foolishly thought security was all I needed. Jamie’s face darkens.
Inside I shudder knowing the pain I caused him. “I loved you but married him
for all the wrong reasons. Can you forgive me?”
He brushes off my
question and says, “So you took my love then dashed it onto the rocks?”
I channel my inner
courage while wiping a tear from my eye. “You know it wasn’t like that. We were
both so young. I truly loved you.”
The hardness in
Jamie’s eyes melts to understanding. “We can’t change the past, and with life
comes both love and loss,” he says.
I search for the
right words. “Jamie, I made a terrible mistake—”
“I get it.” His
head drops for a moment, and he chokes up, eyes moistening and I know something
heavy is coming. “You’re not the only one that’s suffered a loss. My wife died
in a car crash. It’ll be a year this October.”
It feels like the
wind’s been knocked out of me. I gather myself and reach across the table and
take his hands. I give them a squeeze. They feel comfortable in mine. “I’m so
so sorry.” Tears glisten in Jamie’s eyes, and I offer him a tissue. He takes it
from my hand. The love for his wife is written across his face. I pause and
silently take in this sensitive, beautiful man in front of me, naked and
vulnerable. He had me when he first walked over and gave me his hand. My heart
soars, and I know I’m falling again.
I throw on my
swimsuit cover-up, pay the bar bill, and we stroll out to the beach. I feel the
heat from his hand as we walk slowly on the sand looking at the sea as the sun
begins setting in a blaze of orange and purple. My skin prickles with awareness
as the cool breeze brushes across my face. Nothing seems to matter but this.
Him. Us. And all the impossible magic that happened before is happening again.
His way of cutting right to the heart of the matter is making me feel
reckless, as if I could fall into that sexy smile of his and stay there forever
this time. “Jamie, wait. I brought you a little something.”
He pauses,
shoulders square to me. “Don’t keep me waiting.”
I pull from my
purse the photograph of us on the pier from that summer of ’79 when we were
young, and everything in life was possible. And still is. I hand it to him. “I
carried a piece of us all these years.”
Jamie holds it up
to the fading light and his face breaks into a wide grin. He takes me into his arms and kisses me like I’ve never been kissed before.
James Dickman
James Dickman has been published in SCBWI
magazine, an Honorable mention in Writer’s Digest, publication in Ariel Chart
Literary Magazine among others. I’m grateful to have studied under Shirley Raye
Redmond, Stephen Mooser and grateful for fellow author friends, Susie Schnall,
Christine Merrill and Michele Wallerstein.